THE OLD DAGUERREOTYPES

Up in the attic I found them, locked in the cedar chest,

Where the flowered gowns lie folded, which once were brave as the best;

And like the queer old jackets and the waistcoats gay with stripes,

They tell of a worn-out fashion — these old daguerreotypes.

Quaint little folding cases fastened with tiny hook,

Seemingly made to tempt one to lift up the latch and look;

Linings of purple velvet, odd little frames of gold,

Circling the faded faces brought from the days of old.

Grandpa and grandma, taken ever so long ago,

Grandma's bonnet a marvel, grandpa's collar a show,

Mother, a tiny toddler, with rings on her baby hands

Painted — lest none should notice — in glittering, gilded bands.

Aunts and uncles and cousins, a starchy and stiff array,

Lovers and brides, then blooming,— now so wrinkled and gray:

Out through the misty glasses they gaze at me, sitting here

Opening the quaint old cases with a smile that is half a tear.

I will smile no more, little pictures, for heartless it was, in truth,

To drag to the cruel daylight these ghosts of a vanished youth;

Go back to your cedar chamber, your gowns and your lavender,

And dream,‘ mid their bygone graces, of the wonderful days that were.