Say it is folly, and deem me weak,  

   While the scalding tears drop down my cheek:  

   But I love it, I love it, and cannot tear  

   My soul from a mother's old arm-chair.  

 

 

 

[Transcribers Note: The poem appears twice in the original, as reproduced here; once without interruption, once with illustrations interspersed.] 

 Prev. P 5/5