Explore "The Old Carryall" by Joseph C. Lincoln on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
It's alone in the dark of the old wagon-shed, / Where the spider-webs swing from the beams overhead, / And the sun, siftin' in through the dirt and the mold / Of the winder's dim pane, specks it over with gold. / Its curtains are tattered, its cushions are worn, / It's a kind of a ghost of a carriage, forlorn, / And the dust from the roof settles down like a pall / On the sorrowin' shape of the old carryall.
It was built long ago, when the world seemed ter be / A heaven, jest made up for Mary and me, / And my mind wanders back to that first happy ride / When she sat beside me, -- my beauty and bride. / Ah, them were the days when the village was new / And folks took time to live, as God meant 'em ter do; / And there's many a huskin' and quiltin' and ball / That we drove to and back in the old carryall.