The St. Cloud journal. [volume] (St. Cloud, Minn.) 1866-1876, 1869-04-01

to Swissvalo Station, eight miles east Of
this city, I visited the spot which, if
republics DO not ungrateful, tho future
historian will mark as that whcro, some
twenty-five years ago, tho eyes of Car.
roty-faccd, strong-lungcd fragment of
humanity first took in tho light. A
half mile from the little station, it is
reached from any direction only by
coming down the side of steep hill.
Guarded by these lofty sentiuels, whose
wooded tops cast long morning and
evening shadows. stands the old house,
looking as it did just ms far back as
memory reaches. Built about the time
of Braddock's Defeat, it has bravely
withstood tho rain aud storms that for
a century have beaten upon it. Close
by the door flows tho brook which,
turned from its course, little further
on fills the buckets of the great wheel
in the mill. For fifty years has the
old-fas:lioned "up.and-down" saw work.
ed its way leisurely and lazily through
the oaken logs rolled on tho carriage
on which we little ones thought it
great sport to ride, too. The most mod
crn thing IN sight, is tn. little circular
saw, which fairly shrieks as it tears
through the hardwood boards. The
old wheel, covered arms, axle, buckets
and all with moss that had accumulated
year after year, has been made to give
place to new one, and I find it hard
to pardon the change claimed as a ne
cessity. While the stiffness of the lit
tie valley is disturbed by tho noise Of
the saws-but one of which is used at
time-and by the plash Of the water
as it falls from the numbering wheel in
to the race below, the only evidence Of
life at the mill is the one solitary per-
son who is owner, sawyer and turner.
Across the road from the house
stands the stone barn, which has now
filled up the measure of three score
and ten years. Below it In the mead
ow, near tho mill, is the lower orchard
where ten years ago was the cider press,
from which flowed the delicious juice
Of the crushed apples, as the "old gray
mare tugged the long arm around
The cider never tasted quite so good
as when lying prone on couple Of bar:
rels I used to imbibe it through straw
inserted in the bung-hole Of another
freshly filled barrel. But this too has
been taken away, and is something tt
be remembered. Cliuging to the hill
side above the creek is the upper or
chard. Many Of the old trees, failln!
to "bripg forth good fruit" have bec1
t'hewn down and cast into the fire,
and their places given to vigorous youn
trees.
Inside the old house looks just as
did dozen years ago: the coal fire
glow in the CRATES, the southeast col
ner Of the dining room is still occupie
by the huge clock which reaches fro,
floor to ceiling and " hose pendulum
swings slowly back and forward with
, solemn tick, tick, gathering In til
hours, days and weeks with the past
has known SO long, and all seems III
changed. The mistress OF the estal
lishment is eighty~seyen years of az
but retains wonderful use of 81 gh
hearing aud limbs. (She is a CRANE
mother of Judge McKelvy, of S
. Cloud.)
Everything seems to speak Of yea
gone by. The mill, the barn, the hou'
are older than most Of those who no
look upon them, and every nook is fl
ed with some of childhood's pleasan
est recollections. From this old hous
which rests like as in the hollow
your hand, I Chamber again up Il
sides OF the hills, along,
"Nany path beloved of yore, and we'll remember
= walk"
!, Here was the coveted w1ntergree
is with its fragrant leaves and bright be
: ~. The huckleberry also rewarde
g though scantily, the patient scare
l. From the damp, rocky hillside, owe
t. hanging the brook, the spreading leav
{, Of the fern tempted to special efol
IT And in the clear water beneath how {
e ten had hour after hour been spent
j. watching the fortunes Of the bait
hook at which the minnows 50 shy
n nibbled. Climbing to one hilltop b
IS showed another still higher beyon
It and I thought that not very far off Il
4 trees must surely touch the blue 81
Q which they slut out from view. 4
IS seems as though I had been here b
9 yesterday, and I could linger to turn
- 1.-THE leaves of Memory's sketch book, dreaming
& Old Summer pictures of the quiet hills
n Andhuman life, as quiet at their feet."
RI W. B. NJ.