The weekly north Iowa times. [volume] (McGregor, Iowa) 1857-1867, 1861-09-18
Our village.

| our V1lagcs
Have you villagcs Did you ever have,
u yillagcg If 50, then Our word, however
you have wandered-however you think
you may be welded to the city, you often
think OF it with halfway regret, that you
ever left it, that it isn't just what it used
to be. And what sort Of place was it ?.
Was 1t a wee bit Of thing, where the ring
Of the blacksmith's hammer upon the anvil.
was the orly bell in all the country around:
Where the Westinghouse was school,
house and the school.house logs! Whero
the store was the post Office, and the post
Office cup board. And had it passed ::'the,
hateful age" for villages like children have
an era Of that sort2 When everybody
knows how every body lives, what every.
body does What luxury it was, to know.
for dead certainty, what everybody had
for dinner, and how they cooked ito
know the name of every child in town, ahd
| all about it even to the color Of it's eyes,
and the curve Of it's nose-to feel that YOU
in turn were subject to the watchcarc Of
your five and forty neighbors, "all in t
row." on that one street of theirs
May be our village was older and better
behaved-one Of these quiet home like
places hewcd out of the great woods, and =
wonderful way from anywhere. THINK
back twenty years if you are old enough
and fancy yourself nestled down once moro
''in the cot where you were born" Let US
restore if We can the dim old picture = Nan.
der through the "north room," with their
four windows and their little green panes.
Here were you born-herc, as they told
you, the angels brought the new sistcr-at
that white ceiling did you use to look for d
Sir or IL r. l. a. LIT =
its winged bearers could come-and there.
covered, like chicken beneath its lBftirt
kindred, is the veritablc trundc- bed where
in you dreamed your. fist dreams. That
mirror, magnificent once, how has it dwin.
with golden bows and green sails that dec
grated that little glass. Thcrcit hangs yet,
"a painted ship upon painted ocmn."-
over us all have never reached that sea oF
glass. Smooth and unrufilcd is it, as that
sea God poured around the throne
There beneath the meadows, stands tic
bureau, with one false drawer; and It's pair
%s sfP qnsca aIhs 81 e RTass handles are some
lift the lid The till. The mysterious fil1
You had quite forgotten it-forgotten how,
mounted upon a chair, you strove t. ftacli
it, but your arm, like Destlcmona's hand
kcrchicf, was too "little" But now you
remember what treasures were deposited
therein. You remember the heir loom, the
string Of old '''goold' beads, that yotf,
grandmother used to wear, and the tresses'
of hair, under the shadow and out in the
sun; some was flaxcn and some was silver
gray. How many times you have beard
the story of the wcarcrs-some were beau
ttul, all were dear, and all were dead, and
you wondered If it made them die to loyI
them, and you have since almost believed
that it did, and trrmblcd for the great love
you have had for this and that, lest they too
should pass forever away:
You turn from the till, so like an old
heart full of memories, and there, careened
in a corner, is the old cradle-rcd once
wherein, successfully, the young navigators
on the sea of life. took passagc-the little
pilot boat Of humanity. You have rocked
since then, on wider seas, and your upward
gaze has met cloudicr sky than the clear
heaven Of mothers eye, bending so lot.
ingly and gently ovlr you, as you lay.
You pass out into the hail. you pause
at the door Of the parlor, and remember
the glory of its carpets and the magnifi-
cence of its mirror, and its old side board;
eclipscd by the closed shutters. You re-
member the days, the festal days, when
that room was opened to the light; whena
host Of little fires glittcred in the BRASS
andirons, and friends were gathered and
the laugh went round. You remember
when little brother died and the parlor was
opened then, and the pale little form lay
extended upon little table, and the voices
were all hushed. You remember stealing
softly in, am! seeing a stray sunbeam that
had ventured through haf closed shutter,
into the presence of the dead, and played
over the flowers upon the carpet as if they
were living and breathing, and as if the
baby were living too. You remember how
you pcoplcd that mysterious room with
spirits, and how sigh in winter nights as
you passed the door. hastcned the footsteps
up stairs to bed. What shapes were hid,
den in the shadowy corners, who could
tell? You pass to the sitting room. You
stand by the sold arm chair" faded and
vacant now, but there rises in it that form
of all forms-that face of all faces under
the sun, and there comes from those shad-
owy lips tone-''my daughter! my SOM,
'The voice in your dreaming ear melted
away" and the pilgrimage of the heart was
ended Chicago Journal.