The Rutland daily globe. [volume] (Rutland, Vt.) 1873-1877, 1873-07-15
Vermont Twenty-Five Years Ago.

vermont IWchty-hNe Nears ago.
One of the best known newspaper writers
in the West is Dick" Richardson, the
founder and editor of the Davenport Qowa)
Daily Democrat During the summer he
has been revisiting his old home in Orange,
in this State and writes thus happily con-
corning it to the Demacrat, a perusal of
which proves him to be true Vermontcr,
as well as an interesting writer
The old place is dozen miles from Gro
ton, my summer headquarters, and to take
good look at it once more, one day last
week hitched up and drove over the hills
for that purpose. The road is an old, mar
row, and solid one following along by the
rushing brooks, winding in and out among
the hills and valleys, affording mountain
and valley glimpses of marvellous beauty
views more rich and more varied-more de-
lightful than / have ever known or thought
before, even though had driven the same
way hundred times. The lofty wooded
hills, the wide pasture ranges with their
thickly scattered rocks, boulders, lodges,
and lovely clumps of maple, ash, and elm
trees; the nimble little brooks, hurrying
along down the hill sides, over the stones
and under the shadows of the dark lcaved
alders the messy old stone walls, and
messy rooted houses-houses with low
posts and queer little window panes-
dwellings of the forefathers, innocent of
paint, with sunken roof trees, dilapidated
yards-all looking old, tired, wanting to
sink to rest, yet old and queer-interesting
pictures after all.
There were villages on the way, the same
houses of years ago, no more-perhaps
less the same old stores where in youth,
many a time we used to regale boyish eyes
upon bright colors we might not wear
upon canded sweets we might not taste.
Now and then an old mill, here and there
moderate improvement all the way a
thousand scenes-more welcome than ever
before.
The road lays by Gordon nights, a
thousand feet and more above the sea,
where overarching forests of hard wood
shade the way then down through long
stretch of rocky unproliic farm lands to
the old village of Topsham, where one or
two hundred people have lived longer than
/ can remember. A saw mill, grist mill
and tannery are about the sum of manu-
featuring enterprise the latter business
having been conducted for the past forty
years by Oramel III. Watson, whose name
sake and nephew was a'member of the
well-known firm of Griggs, Watson &
Day, of Davenport. Topsham streets
were asleep and almost audibly snoring the
bright afternoon we passed through-the
neat white houses standing guard, the
bright timed roof of the old meeting
house shimmering in the sun--all round
about, on either sides quiet, languid and ex-
cessiyely comfortable in unbroken repose
Happy, dreamy Topsham! No steam
charged whistle to startle its ears
no smoke of coal settles upon its neat
cottage roofs, no rumbling of wheels, rush
ing of saws, changing of steel or crunchng
of iron disturbs its every day delicious SOM
nolency. Years ago, it was principal
point on the old stage route from Boston to
Burlington, but the sharp crack of the dri-
vers' whip rings out over the ears of the
FESTIVE six in hand no more the portly
form of old Jack Jenness is not now seen
upon his hotel steps; those who have ac-
quired wealth try to enjoy it those who
have not and those who have, quietly plod
on, a happy, peaceful, contented people.
They enjoy themselves no doubt so, in
poetic language; whats the odds, so
you're happy? ?"
Let the horse walk on not a step faster
There is the old black cherry tree the old
spring, the birch and maple clump on the
hill, and the red cherry and the willow
trees; the same old stoue wall, and Squire
Perley's orchard and elms, and the old
bridge, the old church and the little red
schoolhouse- well-crowds of recol-
lections flow in, overwhelm, confuse me ;
go on, Bonner Boy. A halt is soon made
not at a Woodworking of the sort at
East Orange, but at the long granite door
step of an old friend who was once neigh
Dor.
1t was my native village-yet not rela-
tive there. A mile away was the old
Monochrome no more parents, brothers,
sisters, relatives there no more
In the morning, with old friends, Peter
M. Dickey, En-. Colby and Chef Dickey,
/ started on pilgrimage to the old home
first alluded to in this letter. Up the old
road SO often trod unwillingly to school,
up through the old woods again, cross lots
over the hills and lodges, across the brooks,
and stone walls, through the gates and bars
to the old Sanborn farm, where spent my
latter days of boynood, into the old orch
ard, the old barn; down to the maple
shaded spring and then upon the maple
groved "ledge" into the old house, look
about, welcome, glass of cider from the
old orchard fruit, and off again up through
the old sugar woods to the old house be-
You'd. How familiar the old woods had
tapped every tree around me and drank
their sweets for days and days, sap pals
in hand had wallowed through the deep
snow or with lighter step trOd the deep
snow-crust gathering the sweet water from
the hundreds of buckets-my brothers and