Cincinnati daily press. [volume] (Cincinnati [Ohio]) 1860-1862, 1861-01-29
The Poetry of nn Old Thoroushfare.

The Poetry of an Old ThOroughfHre.
Benjamin f. Taylor, of the Chicago EVen-
ing Journal writes:
Every old region has an old and disused
road, that like line of poetry forgotten and
dim only old fashioned people pore over.
You have seen such thoroughfare. We have
one in mind at this moment. Straight over
the hill and straight through the big timber,
and plump into the swamp, and bounce over
the corduroy" went the old road. Its long
bridges are broken and messy now, and the
brown birds in white waistcoats build nests
beneath them, undisturbed by the rumble of
wheels over head. Nobody goes that way,
not even the boys en- route to school; for ever
SO many years ago, in November day, they
haye heard a stranger went down by the old
mill-you can see the rim of its old dry wheel
from here-aDd was never seen again. Years
after, among the hemlocks human bones were
found, and to this day, on windy nights,
groans come out of the gulf, and the troubled
ghost is thought to be walking still.
Over yonder, is a broad dsked sunhower
and heap of stone. The latter was once a
hearth, for house stood there and after the
stranger disappeared the tenant grew sud-
dtnly rich, as the times went, and showed
gold with unknown words upon it, that
none of the neighbors could make out, and
pretty soon, he took all that he had and went
West; as some said, to the "GeneseeC Country,
and others, 10 ''the Ohio" which was yet
more like dream than the Genesee. After
that, nobody would live in the house, and it
grew ruinous and was haunted and people
saw light there in dark nights, or thought
they did and the children Stunned it, except
in the brightest of mornings when the sun
was shining and the birds were singing and
the cows went lowing, Indian file, to the pas
ture; and after while, the old house tumbled
down and crumbled away.
Such stories thrive along old roads, even
as the May weed, and the thistles, that no.
body ever cuts down, and on whose pink
e ps, the yellow birds rock up and down,
Ike little boats at anchor, till the fall winds
whistle away the golden birds and the white
down.
Even the brooks that used to tinkle across
the track and under the little bridges, have
somehow run dry, or gone another way, and
you will see an old trough, dusty and
bleached, by the road side, the strips of bark
that brought the water from the hills, broken
and scattered, and the earth worn hard ahd
smooth with the trampling of many feet
Very long ago, a tin cup used to hang there,
tethered with string, for the sake ofthirsty
travellers. We like TO stand by the deserted
watering-place, where only broken thread
of ice-cold water trickles its way down to
the roadside, and fancy how eagerly, in the
long summer days, the horses painting
through the heavy sand and up the rocky
hills, thrust their noses deep into the over
flowing trough of crystal GOODNESS, while
ever and anon, the cautious drivers pulled
up their heads with jerk, until the long
drawn breath of inarticulate content.
We like to think how the dripping cup
was borne to bearded lips, that were eloquent
and true Of old, and lips, perchance Of
beauty, that are dusty; how bees, from the
shimmering fields came bugling thither,
and crept, with dainty feet along the trough's
damp edge; how birds sat there and drank,
and frendered their little thanks, and rode
away upon the billowy air; how, now and
then a squirrel, red and sleek, with snowy
throat, flashed chattering along the devious
rails thereto, and flashed away again; or
a gray rabbit with little noiseless leaps
and listening ears, took hurried draughts
and squatted along the alders till the pant
ing dog had Tapped the nectar of the way-side
spring.
There, where the maple wears its crown,
lazy gate is swinging in the wind, sole
relic of fence that struggled round home
of which the weedy, tangled hollow alone
gives proof 1t may have been, some Rachel
dwelt therein who met a second Jacob al
the spring, and Fancy listens for the words
she said-the maid matron, and the matron
dead
And then, strolling thoughtfully along,
where the track grows dim, and loses itself
in the grass, we come to the beeches, where
to, we like to think, glad children once made
pilgrimage. That chafed and sturdy limb
Just there, has borne weigh: more precious
than its leaves. Upon that stout, old arm
swayed to and fro, like canaries in a ring
swung clusters of laughing girls and boys
and in long rows and hand in hand, made
bows and "courtesies" to the passing travel.
er, while tattered hats OF straw and wool
tossed here and there, proclaimed the COM
ing stage.
Ali those were days, when ever the old
road, ran the yellow, mud stained coach
laboTing up its hills, and pitching along itl
log ways, and lurehing in its deep-worn
tracks, and rafting down its sleeps, and
splashing through its brooks And there
even there, in that roofess dwelling, whose
clap boards rattle in the wind, behold "thC
stage house of the elder time. Day aftel
day, from the neighboring hill, the driver
horn blown sharp and shrill, proclaimed his
coming how gailantly he brought TO- before
that low-bToWed stOOp, through whosC
broken floor weeds are growing. What q
rafting Of bolts and aXles, and jingling o
chains there were as he drew up and with
what a professional air, he gathered the rib
bons in one hand, and the Alexandrine lasl
slipped noiselessly through his fingers, anC
exploded like witch's laugh between tn
two ears the of. leader.
This was the route of them, perhaps VIII
founded cities in the brave, young West; il
future sinews and its coming men yof Rewl
welded pairs bound for the later Canaan; G
murdeIers Fastening from the hue and CRY
Across its beaten track, the deer have dashed
the Indians nOiseless stole, the forest shadow
fallen at high noon. Westward it went,
some great lake, they said, where fields a
ready for the ploW grew green TO th
water's edge where Springs came early an
golden Autumns fingered late.
Like very old memory, in the heart,
it, and all forget it but the year. Spring T
members il, and borders it with green al
sprinkles it with the gold coin of the dand
lion, and the little stars of the May-wee
Summer sends the bees thither to bug
among the thistle-blows, and the grouI
sparrows TO build in its margins, and Il
faded ribbon Of yellow sand grows bright
its glowing sun. TIE winds watt the brea
Of the morning over its desolate way, al
the rains beat out the old footprints il b
borne. Autumn signs as 1t follows
through the ravine and among the hemloel
and the drifts that Winter heaps, are u
broken and stainless.
No belder feet, old road, ever left thI
impress on other path nc truer hearts tn
hasteDed on thy rugged way, have eV
painted for ''the better land" If there we
ever those whose laugh was music, then Il
woods have heard iii the daughters Of