Lewisburg chronicle. [volume] (Lewisburg, Pa.) 1850-1859, 1851-08-13
A Country Renaissance.
BY MARIE ROSEAU.

Were you born in the country, and did
you spend the days Of your childhood
there ? Ah, then, you have an advantage
over me- ! can not leok back to chasing
the "butterfy DER beds Of blooming flow
ers" in the home of my infancy, nor does
memory re-ccho in my ear the warbling
of birds, the hum of bees, and the murmur
of the waterfall, No-my earliest recol-
lections are connected with long ranges Of
red brick houses, from whose chimney tops
l often thought, if l were ever so fortu-
nate as to gain so sublime summit,
l might get in among the stars and clouds,
and, from the elevated position | would
then hold, find out what kind of trees and
flowers they had in the moon. The sound
of milling carts over rough paving stones,
and the shrill tones of the monkey -atten-
ded hand-organs, with the voices Of fish
and fruit venders, not to mention the
songs of the sweep boys, and the dismal
whine of the little match sellers, were my
first instrumental and vocal outdoor ac-
quaintances Yet my childish sympathies
were all with the country. / thought it a
robbery of Nature, which deserved to be
punished by the judges of the land, to ex-
tract the small blades of grass that scould
spring up between the bricks composing
the sidewalks Oh, how envied the old
woman and her daughter, who occupied a
forlorn, tumble-down old frame house,
standing considerably back from the side
walk, and so possessing the delightful ac-
compartment of space of pavement un-
trodden by passcrs-by, and undisturbed by
broom or scrubbing brush, almost entirely
overgrown by grass, intermixed with the
proper quantity of white clover and plan
tain leaves, with here and there bright
dandelion shining out in bold relief.
Still, have some very distinct and
pleasant "reminiscences of the country, for
1 have spent much tine there. lam now
rusticating. and similarity of scene brings
some of them quite vividly to my recollec-
ton. 1 can see plainly before me the
little winding stream where, during my
visits, with praiscworthy perseverance, We
went to gather fowcr-yines for the purpose
of transplanting into our miniature gar
dens, although we could never keep them
in existence longer than a day OR two the
woods, where l could sit and read for
hours at time, and the pond where
George Pearson, Amy Turner and myself,
went boating in an ex-dough-treugh of
immense proportions. The said George
Pearson was clever fellow, and as good
natured as his mischievous propensities
would allow. He was always ready to
attend US on our walking Or boating ex-
cursions, but then if our dolls partook of
the amusement, they were sure to arrive
home drenchcd, from a sly upset in the
pond. If he had but little affection for
our dolls, he had much less for our books.
This made but little difference to Amy, but
to me, who coulG think of nothing more
delightful than to pore over one of Miss
Edgeworth's stories, or to enjoy the more
womanly delight Of reading love tale,
with nothing but nature near-within
hearing of no other sound than that of
water, bird, or insect, this was a serious
Inconvenience. In vain would I seek new
places to enjoy my narrative reading-he
was sure to find me, and always just as l
was at the most tender and touching pass
ages, when my whole soul seemed to be
dissolving itself through my eyes. How
he would laugh at my tears, and read out
some of the words which 1 held as most
sacred, in style so ludicrous as almost to
J force a smile from my anxious counten-