Daily Kennebec journal. [microfilm reel] (Augusta, Me.) 1870-1975, 1872-09-07
THE OLD HOMESTEAD.

There are few places so dear to us as
the scenes of our childhood. Around the
associations of our early years our hearts
best affections have entwined themselves,
and though we roam over the dark sea-
foam, or wander in far distant lands, yet
we will often fly back on memory's swift
pinions to the golden moments of life's
morning, and iondly linger around the
sights and scenes of our juvenile rambles.
Emotions swell the heart and tears fill
the eye as we think of the old house at
home. The old house may not have been
palatial structure, with its magnificent
dome and gorgeous surroundings; 1t may
have been humble cot in which poverty
had left its footprints, and where grim
want stared out from wall and floor and
bed of straw. No matter how humble,
still how dear to our heart is that old
house at home. No,
Twas not for its splendor that dwelling was dear;
Twas not that The y and the noble were near;
o er the porch the wild rose and the woodbine en-
And the sweetscented jessamine waved in the wind
But dearer to me than proud turret or dome
We're the halls of my father-the old house at
home"
We love that old building, and our at
tachment to it increases as the years roll
on. We may dwell in palace of golden
brightness, the steeple of which may pene-
citrate the very clouds, and millions of
earth's richest treasures may lie in our
Golfers; still our heart never changes for
the old house at home.
Did you ever visit the home OF your
childhood after years of absencep What
gush of recollection comes throhbing
through the heart! Every place and almost
every object that merits our gaze has some
association with our childhood days. The
very gurgling of the curr, Mt seems famil-
lar.
"This brook wherein, when a stripping wild
| bahed my burning brow,
II rapidly ran when | was child,
And it runs rapidly now.'
Here, In this brook we had our dock
ward, and here we sailed our mimic fleet.
There stands the "old oak tree" under
which we conned our boyish task. From
this point we had rolled stones down the
steep hillside and watched them disappear
in the clear waters below on that grassy
knoll we had stood at sunset and had
gazed upon the golden tinted clouds which
so gracefully slumbered on the bosom of
the western sky.
The fields and lanes and trees are so
familiar, recalling old memories and
scenes. O'tI inc ncaluS We ndu wall
dered forth with brothers and sisters in
merry mood to gather wild flowers. Un-
der this tree we have gathered nuts there
have we plucked blackberries from the
brambes; through yoAder meadow we
have wandered in childish glee in search
of the fresh sprung mushroom. Little did
we know of the cares and perplexities of
life.
The old log school house is gone-a
new one has taken its place. The cluster
of trees is still there. Here is our on
play ground, upon which we have sPorted
in those halcyon days of old. we almost
fancy that we can hear the shriii voices
of schoolmates. subdued by the distance,
horne upon the breeze, but, no these
voices can never reach us again. Where
ore our schoolfellows9 Ask time and
change! Ask sickness and sword and
boundless ocean. Ask accident and death!
For ali these have been at work. What q
dream is the past
But what emotions arise in the heart as
we stand and gaze upon the old house
.where my father dwelt, and where a
rcoScIrpED on FOURTH pAcE.1