Dear to my heart are the ancestral dwellings
of America,
Dearer than if they were haunted by ghosts of
royal splendour;
These are the homes that were built by the brave
beginners of a nation,
They are simple enough to be great, and full of
a friendly dignity.
I love the old white farmhouses nestled in New
England valleys,
Ample and long and low, with elm-trees feather-
ing over them:
Borders of box in the yard, and lilacs, and old-
fashioned flowers,
A fan-light above the door, and little square panes
in the windows,
The wood-shed piled with maple and birch and
hickory ready for winter,
The gambrel-roof with its garret crowded with
household relics,--
All the tokens of prudent thrift and the spirit of
self-reliance.
I love the look of the shingled houses that front
the ocean;
Their backs are bowed, and their lichened sides
are weather-beaten;
Soft in their colour as grey pearls, they are full
of patience and courage.
They seem to grow out of the rocks, there is
something indomitable about them:
Pacing the briny wind in a lonely land they stand
undaunted,
While the thin blue line of smoke from the
square-built chimney rises,
Telling of shelter for man, with room for a hearth
and a cradle.
I love the stately southern mansions with their
tall white columns,
They look through avenues of trees, over fields
where the cotton is growing;
I can see the flutter of white frocks along their
shady porches,
Music and laughter float from the windows, the
yards are full of hounds and horses.
They have all ridden away, yet the houses have
not forgotten,
They are proud of their name and place, and
their doors are always open,
For the thing they remember best is the pride
of their ancient hospitality.
In the towns I love the discreet and tranquil
Quaker dwellings,
With their demure brick faces and immaculate
white-stone doorsteps;
And the gabled houses of the Dutch, with their
high stoops and iron railings,
(I can see their little brass knobs shining in the
morning sunlight);
And the solid houses of the descendants of the
Puritans,
Fronting the street with their narrow doors and
dormer-windows;
And the triple-galleried, many-pillared mansions
of Charleston,
Standing sideways in their gardens full of roses
and magnolias.
Yes, they are all dear to my heart, and in my
eyes they are beautiful;
For under their roofs were nourished the thoughts
that have made the nation;
The glory and strength of America came from
her ancestral dwellings.