The Perrysburg journal. [volume] (Perrysburg, Ohio) 1853-1861, 1856-09-11
GEM oFRARE BEAUTY.

CULTIvAToR MARY, the genuine working
girl, who keeps the books for Col. Harris, the
talented, jovial, and bearded editor of the
Ohio Cultivotor, has been on a visit to the
place of her nativity, among the old hills and
sparkling brooks of New England. At sight
of the hallowed scenes of childhood, her heart
filled with poetry, and she wrote to the Col.
one of the finest letters We have ever read
Below we make an extract from it, MARY is
an honor to her sex and an ornament to the
literary circle in which she moves and yet
she is not too proud, neither is she too lazy to
work, for from early morn until the king OF
day withdraws his last faint ray Of light, she
is writing on wrappers, putting the names Of
new subscribers on the books, &C., &c, in the
Cultivator office. Would that the world con-
tanned more CULTIvAToR Marys!.
"Haverhill ! my birth place, my own ma
tive home How perfectly 1t was daguerreo-
typed on my heart as l left it sxyears ago.,
and had hoped to find it slightly changed
by time, and those old haunts, almost sacred
by childish associations, familiar as in other
days. Eagerly | scanned every face and OBJ
jec, for recognition and remembrance, as after
the close Of sultry day l crossed the Haver-
hill bridge from the Bradford side, and enter
ed the place that memory ever holds as
" Home, sweet home" By the entrance of
the bridge on the Bradford side stands the
depot of the Newburyport Railroad, lately
constructed. Remembering little cottage,
occupied by an old man and woman, close by,
l crossed the street, supposing it had been
removed to give place to the track. But no,
the green willows still waved over the little
brown roof, shielding it almost wholly from
view. Time has been more sparing than
Death, thought I, for doubtless the old folks
are both sleeping in their graves. A sharp,
quick cough arrested my attention, and step
ping forward looked still farther down, and
beheld white cap glimmering in the moon.
light; for by the window sal the pale, old
lady, her head resting on her hand in
thoughtful attitude, while now and then thu
painful cough broke on the stiffness, and then
all was silence again. Were her tn 'ughts
with the past, dwelling on its beautiful but
vanished joys, with the weakness and dark
Tess of the present, or was her soul gathering
strength and youth in the prospect of that
eternal rest, beyond deaths cold stream
Peace he thine, aged one, was my hearts
mute prayer, as l turned softly away and left
her to her silent communings.
"Reaching Haverhil, was surprised to
find the streets so narrow. l remembered
them as they seemed to me in childhood, but
now they compare unfavorably with the broad
ones of our own capital city. The trees on
the common are much larger, and the branch
es have longer sweep. Time has left few
traces Of decay, but his course is marked by
progression. Old buildings have given away
TO splendid blocks, others refitted and i'm
proved, aud fields and woods that were the
scene OF many childish sports, as May parties
and pic MICS, are laid out in streets and filed
with elegant residences. / was particularly
struck with the beauty of Mt. Washington
A few years ago it lowered up great barren
hill, its primeval features rock and sand. 1t
is now covered with splendid dwellings and
tasteful gardens. FIom its summit we have
fine view of Haverhill, Bradford and the
surrounding country, with the bright Merri-
mac looks like band of silver woven among
the green fields and trees, away to the south,
until the distant hills obscure it from view.
at was with feelings of sadness that l
looked on the dear old homestead, where my
grandmother moved in her bridal days, where
my mother was born and married, and where
the first years of my oAH lie were spent
Those old familiar walls echo strange voices
now, and strange children occupy the play
ground. The little, low window oveI which
Aunt Marys tasteful hand trained the creep
ers and morning glolies, is now bare and des
olate. But the old apple tree remains, and
Il 4
with handful Of salt, trying to catch some
beautiful little warbler; for innocenlly be-
cved the old story, that salt would facnate
the bird if once safely on his feathers. Down
at the foot Of the garden flows the M.rrimac,