Sometime in the winter holiday, when we are accustomed to gather our
families together, old times have come back again, and our thoughts
have been set to the tune of "Auld Lang Syne." The old folks were so
busy at such times in making us happy, and perhaps on less resource
made their sons and daughters happier than you on larger resource are
able to make your sons and daughters happy. The snow lay two feet
above their graves, but they shook off the white blankets and mingled
in the holiday festivities--the same wrinkles, the same stoop of
shoulder under the weight of age, the same old style of dress or coat,
the same smile, the same tones of voice. I hope you remember them
before they went away. If not, I hope there are those who have recited
to you what they were, and that there may be in your house some
article of dress or furniture with which you associate their memories.
I want to arouse the most sacred memories of your heart while I make
the impassioned interrogatory in regard to your pedigree: "Whose son
art thou, thou young man?"