Muscatine journal. [volume] (Bloomington, Iowa) 1849-185?, 1853-06-24
ORIGINAL.
Home.

-~.~-e~-~~~.-yS,------
Home.
Home is fruitful theme upon which to
discourse. No word in the Anglo Saxon
tongue is moro euphonious. USros and
HOME are mellow words; we delight to dwell
upon them, and to speak of the peace and
prosperity arising from one, and the happi.
ness and pleasure emanating from the 9TH
er. Who that has been absent from his
own happy home for long long years does
not love to talk of the tea thousand pleas-
ing "reminiscences which crowd thick and
fast around him when longing look or a
mournful sigh, brings to his imagination
the happy faces assembled around the fire.
side at home. Who does not love to think
OF the home of his youth, where his father
and mother, brothers and sisters, are con-
gregated around the domestic hearth, and
no matter how far-soever he may be from
the loved spot, yet eyer and anon some gen.
tie breeze will watt to his listening ears, the
still soft and gentle words of mother and
sisters. In the soft stiffness of the night,
when the world slumbers, he sees their lovely
forms bending over his couch, and his sister
in childish glee, embrace him with kiss,
and talks to him of home, when, suddenly,
he awakes and finds tbs all dream.
Glad dreams. as when the spirit of our youth
Returns in Sleep sparkling with all the truth
And innocence once ours aud leads us back
n mr. no tha elin n,ru trac
OF our young life, and points out every ray
o. hope and peace we've lost upon the way
No, no, not dream, but,some lovely an-
gel, just from fairy land, has assumed the
form of that dear sister; has watched over
your silent slumbers and whispered into
your ears soothing and consoling words.
You dream away long years of absence
from that consecrated spot called home, and
at last fate who has so long separated you
from its enjoyments, unfettors your hands
and bids you go free. You hasten with the
speed Of the wind, with a ight and buoyant
heart, to the happy friends and embrace
those that have long looked for your com
ing. All, it is happy meeting. Earth knows
none happier, and heaven will afford none
such. You find that ase-fell destroyer OF
worlds has in his devastating march, drop
ped a few white blossoms upon the honor
ed head of your father; that single wrin-
alc has found its way upon the fair white
brow Of your fond mother; that your little
brother has grown from happy boyhood to
youthful manhood, and your dear sisters,
more changed than all the rest, is far low
licr than ever before.
The excitement attendant upon your arri-
val being over. accompanied by your sister,
who scees nothing in the future but your
happiness, you look around your home and
descry the wondrous changes that have been
made. You go up the stairs, which you
have trudged up thousand times before,
and which now brings to mind sundry bumps
and bruises of which they were the innocent
cause; you enter the bedroom, where in the
little trundlc- bed you slept from your ear
/ iiest remembrance, to the day that so cru
ely separated you from home. There Sc.
/ fore you is the same room. How many re-
collections Of your youth now rush to your
( fererel brain; there is the little window
through which you have gazed fora whole
rainy Sunday, apd counted the carriages
and people passing to and fro. You now
look through its clear white panes and the
same beautiful scenery meets your gaze, az
was wont, when you in all your childish
| glee, surveyed the same many years bye
gone there upon its newly white washed
walls you find Inscribed, s'this is brother s
room," and inadvertently you turn and
snatch kiss from the flushed cheek Of the
fair companion by your side. You pass
out into the open airs The same sun still
shines from the same heavens upon the
same fertile fields; but trivial changes are
visible upon the little farm. The servants
extend their brawny hands, as you pass
through the farm yard, which you eagerly
grasp, and with tears rolling down
their carcworn checks, they tell you of
happy scenes in your boyhood days, when
they themselves took part. All! look yon-
der. There is that little brook meandering
along inits snaky path, beside whose yer
dant banks you have many times played
sruent; skipping pebbles over its smooth
surface, and with your home made line of
mothers linen thread and bent up pin hook,
you have tarried to catch the tiny speckled
trout, until the hour for school has passed +,
and you Il be late;. then comes the exercise
OF youths potent reasoning powers, land say
you, 'tis now so late, pll play till school is
out, and no argument being adduced to the
contrary, you consent. You remain bask-
ing in the sun, throwing pebbles, fishing,
running and jumping, and at last, wien
school 10 out, you meet your little "sis"
and coax her to keep "mum." At the sight
OF the brook you remember all this, and a
thousand times more. Down below little
distance on its bank is the group Of slender
alder bushes, from which cluster you oft
have felled your "wooden horse'', and
mounting HIM, have felt as proud as did the
ancients, when with their gigantic "wooden
horse" they smuggled the soldiory into the
enemy's camp, who battered down the walls
Of Troy.