The Somerset press. [volume] (Somerset, Ohio) 1873-1977, 1874-03-13
MISCELLANY.
"Farm for Sale.'

/ From Hearth and Home.
/ \ sweet home place, and | turned to
I look again. An old farm cottage among
the trees, the hazy hush of summer af-
/ ternoon over all; the golden sunlight
drifting through the leaves, resting in
cleaning patches on the grass and bios
soming clover, tossing the shadows hitf-
er and thither A sweet-voiced bird
chirped in the maple by the gate as We
passed, and the pale lips of locust bios
SONS peered forth from leafy nests. In
the distance springing grain waved in
tiny billows Ike the peaceful flow OF
tiny seas, and the dancing footsteps of a
little stream left a cleaning line across
the low green meadow. A beautiful
home farm.
EARN FOR SALE"
Yes, these were the words in rough
chalk letters above the gate, Farm for
sale" Why sell the farm? Have hands
grown tired Of plough and sickle and
the hoe, hearts wearied with oft return
ing seed time and harvest? Has ambi-
tion cast her apple of diseord in the
midst Of your sweet content, whis-
perings of riches and honOrs and splen-
dors Jared in upon the heart-music?
Have visions of yellow gold and the
worlds proud shows shadowed with their
delusive wings the simple hopes, the
every day happiness which blesses at
the little farm?
Why sell the farm? Have dancing
feet that made the music strayed up in
to life, and one by one passed out at the
little gate, to come no more as of old?
Has even the baby-the last darling
twined the womanhood upon her brow,
and taken the blessing of her love and
presence to adorn and sanctify another
home, passing like the rest up the path
leaning on another arm, bearing the
blessing, yet leaving the old house SO
very desolate, with only the haunting
memory pacing up and down through
the lonely aisles of the heart?
Why sell the farm? All? Is there a
grave, has Death cut deep down through
the blossoming sod, ploughing mp a
grave so deep, so chill, so dark, that
from its shadow your heart can be lifted
never more? Has she-the dearest, most
| blessed-even the home mother lain
down to rest? Has the light gone out
from those gentle eyes-the light of that
soul, the embodiment of love and peace
and faith and patience-has it passed
on to the awaiting glory? Is it thy des-
olation, oh! Death, that has compelled
the ''Farm for Sale?"
All! how many "Farms for Sale" and
with what longings will hearts that &C
out from these farm homes crowned
with joy, turn back from the summit o.
many years to look upon the dead face
of that old-time joyousness, wondering
at the strange happiness of the farm
child; wondering that never more is sky
so blue, never sunshine so gorgeou.
never earth so full of music as before
that "Farm for Sale" How will tired
feet pause, mid the dust of life's high
ways, aching to press the whispering
grass beneath the locusts, and hands hare
with counting gold pine to pull agair
the violets down by the valley spring
How will heads girdled by thorns o
care, rest again in dreams on the sof
moss, swept so oft by child curls in th
long ago, and hearts, tceaiy hearts, ant
longing souls will pause in the grea
world strife TO catch again the far-ot
laughter of those waters in the meadows
and the singing of the birdlings in tn
naples! And how will eyes grow tear
dimmed in this far-seeing, as visiol
sweeps by, revealing above the iittl
gate, EARN for Sale"