True American. [volume] (Steubenville [Ohio]) 1855-1861, 1858-07-07
The Old Homestead.
BY JENNIE LANE.

If there is home which is ever dear,
and home forever, is is the spot where
our eyes first opened upon the shifting
panorama of human existence where the
first words framed by our unskiled or.
gans of speech we're uttered; where
we tottered around upon the greensward,
a kind maternal hand aiding our helples.
ness, learning little by little the mysteries
OF Life-the exuberant gaities of child
hood, the hopes and aspirations Of youth,
and il we linger long enough, the strength
and fortitude of mature years. We may
think of The old homestead but seldom
when prosperity leads us by the hand in
fiowery paths and meath the cooling shade
but when adversely scatters thorns
amid The flowers, and wilhers with its
Upas breath the leaves that famed our
6rows. and disappointment checks the
fountain of joy that guShed from heart to
eye, and lip and brow, beautifying all
things, then,we sigh for the calm morning
Of life, that dawned so brightly upon us
in the old homestead, and quiet rest at
our mothers knee.
Would that it had ever been morning,
never midday, is the sigh tha: goes up
from many troubled breast, weary of
toll. OF strife, of unrest. Vain wish for
the innocence of childhood, the hopeful.
ness of youth. shall return to glad the
weary nevermore.
Well DO | remember one who came
back to US from the busy world, full Of
WEAKNESS, and heart sore. But a few
years before he had gone forth in all The
pride and strength Of early manhood !;
ambition nerved his arm, and love his
heart. Now how changed! The angel
OF Death had come in an unlocked for
hour, and had taken her who had for a
lew short seasons slept upon his bo-
som; whose pure and iervent love had
been the sunshine of life; and now,
while the sod was fresh upon her new
made grave, he had come back 10 the
home of his childhood, as if there yet
could be found a panacea for the ills of
life. But no; the last buoyant feeling
Time preserved fresh from childhood, is
buried in the tomb where sleeps the loved
and lost heart treasures--n lost, but
gone before. 1t was beauteous Sabbath
eve of May; remember how he came
IN from lonely walk laid in my lap a
few sweet May flowers from the wood,
a bunch of the soft "pussy willow" buds
that grew beside the messy rock in the
large pasture, and handful of pebbles
from the noisy brook that gamboled by
the door. Often in happier days had my
little apron been filled with like gifts from
his boyish hands, and my voice rang ou,
a gleeful demonstration of my gratitude
for his bro,herly kindness. But now |
did not laugh; | could only close my
eyes to keep back The tears that would
come, and sigh that life contained in
store no more May days for him.
Memory goes back to spacious old
farm house, of antique style large and
roomy, warmed by huge freplaces where.
in burn uncut logs of Winter evening,
in the light Of whose blaze sat three gen.
erations. | remember them all, from the
aged grandparents who sat in the warm
est nook, down to the tabby cat that pur-
red on the warm hearth rug at their feet,
who, with myself, composed the family
pets. see her now, that old grandma.
ther, seated in her arm chair, playing the
shining knitting needles with all the vigor
of youth, though the locks that escape
from her neat cap are scarcely less white
than the snowy muslin. And Grandfa.
ther, too, with one eyed spectacles aslride
his nose, reading from the we'll worn
family bible, or with little one upon his
knee, telling tales Of the Revolution and
thrilling adventures Of early life in the
wilderness. or singing with trsmulous
voice, some ballad that memory has kept