The children tucked away,
His hearthside bright and still,
The farmer’s frowns are all that say
The day has brought him ill.
The wife—her work is done—
Moves cheerly here and there;
The comforts gather, one by one,
Around the easy chair.
Now, as a sunny brook
Will woo the moody shore,
She nears the gloomy chimney nook;
She hardly ventures more.
If he but lift his face—
The hearth-flames quicken, spring;
A yielding smile, his old embrace,
And wife and kettle sing.
by John Vance Cheney
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