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