'Twas not so many years ago,
Say, twenty-two or three,
When zero weather or below Held many a thrill for me.
Then in my icy room I slept A youngster's sweet repose,
And always on my form I kept My flannel underclothes.
Then I was roused by sudden shock Though still to sleep I strove,
I knew that it was seven o'clock When father shook the stove.
I never heard him quit his bed Or his alarm clock ring;
I never heard his gentle tread,
Or his attempts to sing;
The sun that found my window pane On me was wholly lost,
Though many a sunbeam tried in vain To penetrate the frost.
To human voice I never stirred,
But deeper down I dove Beneath the covers, when I heard My father shake the stove.
To-day it all comes back to me And I can hear it still;
He seemed to take a special glee In shaking with a will.
He flung the noisy dampers back,
Then rattled steel on steel,
Until the force of his attack The building seemed to feel.
Though I'd a youngster's heavy eyes All sleep from them he drove;
It seemed to me the dead must rise When father shook the stove.
Now radiators thump and pound And every room is warm,
And modern men new ways have found To shield us from the storm.
The window panes are seldom glossed The way they used to be;
The pictures left by old Jack Frost Our children never see.
And now that he has gone to rest In God's great slumber grove,
I often think those days were best When father shook the stove.
