Chronicles of Oklahoma
Volume 9, No. 1
Thomas A. Edwards
The log house stands on the treeless hill,
With sway-hacked roof and rotting sill;
Two low rooms a hall between.
The doors have fallen, the chimneys lean.
The oldest settler cannot guess,
Who cleared this site in the wilderness.
The chinking mortar has washed away,
And fungus moss tells of decay;
Briers cling to the mouldy wall,
Where scorpions hide and earwigs crawl.
The oldest settler cannot say,
Who squared the logs and mixed the clay.
The riven clapboards lined so tine,
Are weathered away, the rain beats through,
On puncheon floor, heart of oak,
Adze smothered with many a patient stroke.
The oldest settler does not know,
Who wielded adze or used the frow.
O'er caved-in well the jimpsons bow,
The garden has only fennel now,
The gnarled snag of an apple tree,
Shows where the orchard used to be.
The oldest settler cannot tell,
Who planted the tree or digged the well.
THOMAS A. EDWARDS
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