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FTER dear old grandma died,

Hunting through an oaken chest

In the attic, we espied

What repaid our childish quest;

'T was a homely little slate,

Seemingly of ancient date.

On its quaint and battered face

Was the picture of a cart,

Drawn with all that awkward grace

Which betokens childish art;

But what meant this legend, pray:

"Homer drew this yesterday"?

Mother recollected then

What the years were fain to hide—

She was but a baby when

Little Homer lived and died;

Forty years, so mother said,

Little Homer had been dead.