Glasgow weekly times. (Glasgow, Mo.) 1848-1861, 1858-07-08
THE OLD HOMESTEAD
By JENNIE LANE.


Ii there is a home which is ever dear,
and home forever, il is the spot where our
eyes first opened upon the shifting pano-
rama Of human existence; where the first
words framed by our unskilled organs Of
speech were uttered, where we tottered
around upon the green sward, a kind ma
ternal hand aiding our helplessness, learn.
ing, little by little, the mysteries Of life
The exhuberant gayety Of childhood. the
hopes and aspirations Of youth, and, if we
linger long enough. the strength and fOrti-
tude Of mature years. We may think Of
the old homestead but seldom when prosper
ity leads US BY the hand in flowery paths
and meath the cooling shade, but when ad-
versity scatters lhorhs amid the flowers,
and withers with its Upas breath the leaves
that famed our brows, and disappointment
checks the fountain ofjoy that gushed from
the heart to the eye, and lip, and brow.
beautifying all things, then we sigh for the
calm morning OF life, that dawned SO bright
ly 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 that goes up
from many troubled breast, weary Of toll,
of strife, of unrest. Vain wish! for the in
nocence of childhood, the hopefulness Of
youth, shall return 10 glad the weary new
ermore. -.-. ..
Well do remember one who came back
10 us from the busy world, full OF weari-
ness, and heart-sore. But few years be-
fore he had gone forth in all The pride and
strength Of early manhood; ambition neryed
his hand, and love his heart. Now how
changed! The angel of Death had come in
an unlooked-for hour, and taken her who
for few joyous seasons had slept upon his
bosom; whose pure and fervent 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 child
hood, as if there yet could be found pana-
cea 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
not lost, but gone before. 1t was beau
teous Sabbath eve Of May; l remember
how he came in from lonely walk and laid
in my lap few sweet May flowers from
the wood, bunch of the soft ''pussy will
low" buds that grew beside the messy rock
IN the large pasture, and a handful of peb-
bles from the noisy brook that gamboled by
the door. Often in happier days had my
little apron been filed with like gifts from
his boyish hands, and my voice rang out
gleeful demonstration Of my gratitude for
his brotherly kindness. But now l did not
laugh; conld 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 cid farm
house, of antique style, large and roomy,
warmed by huge frePlacss wherein burn
uncut logs Of winter evening, in the light
of whose blaze sat three generations. re-
member them all, from the aged grand pa
rents who sal in The warmest nook, down
to the tabby.cat that purred on the warm
hearth rug at their feet, who, with myself,
the family pets. 1 see her now,
that old grandmother, seated in her arm
chair, plying the shining knilting-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 grandfather, too, with one-eyed specta-
cIes sstride his nose, reading from the well
worn family Bible, or with little one upon
his knee, telling tales Of the Revolution and
thrilling adventures Of early life in the will
dernsss, or singing, with tremulous veice,
some ballad that memory has kept from
boyhood, an echo from the dawn Of life BY