Alpena weekly argus. [volume] (Alpena, Mich.) 1871-1893, 1876-11-22
The Footprints Of Time.


The Footprints Of Time.
Time is relentless. The pendu-
lum swings back and forth mark
ing the steady fight of the mo-
ments. The ticking Of the clock
is the blended music about the
cradle and the dirge about the
grave. Birth-death, is the lang
mage Of the time piece on the man.
tie. Amidst the laughing glow Of
the mornings bushes and the soft
shadows Of the evening twilight,
amidst the bloom and fragrance Of
Springtime, and the solemn slum-
Der of the Winter, over the alter
and the bier, the pendulum vi
trates with the same solemn stead
iness-the clock ticks off the life
Of the seconds-time moves swiftly
into the past and we move swiftly
towards the future. The clock
will not always tick-the pendu-
lum will not always swing; its con-
slant friction against the past and
present will wear it out. By-and-
by we will listen for its salutation
to the coming moments, but it will
speak not. Dumb and motionless
as death Like the heart OF the
dead the pendulum sleeps-sleeps
in wakeless slumber like the
tomb, the old clock is speechless
and the abode of unending silence;
like the stringless harp upon the
wall, its labors are ended-its mus
ic is hushed-hushed forever.
But the fight of time goes on
the same. 1t comes with its gray
hairs, and scatters their through
the raven locks Of youth-with its
graves and open caskets-
with its funeral trains and tear
floods-its disappointments and
It leaves its foot
prints on the hearthstone, the gar
len, the homestead, the heart, the
cheek. Mother looks into the
.radle, but baby is not there +; she
istens for its merry prattle-she
,ears it-smiles-then weeps-she
,ears only the echo Of the darling's
oice-the echo which never dies
q q mothers heart. Time laid the
title bud in the cradle-time bore
to the little grave among the
overs; time thrust piognard in
o the mothers heart, and the
round will never heal. In the sill
nee Of the night it aches and
leeds as the mother dreams Of her
leeping pet, and while the hands
,ove in search Of the absent one,
be lips part and in sweet, tender
ones she sighs: "Baby." The old
ian goes back to the home Of his
He left it but yester-
ay, but oh, how changed. The
inc that crept over the trellise at
he door is dead the treliise is
one. The arbor in the garden is
shapeless, uninviting mass Of
ubbish. There is the spot whore
he village pastor and the mother
melt forty years ago to ask God to
less the innocent boy who was
Ding out into the world, from the
nnshine OF mothers love into the
old companionship Of strangers,
.om among the flowers into the
,idst OF brambles, from safety into
anger. That boy comes back to-
ay. With wrinkled cheek and
rosted brow he sits down upon the
door-sill, and weeps.
dother is not there to greet him
he Is dead. The old pastor Is not
here to shake him by the hand
% Is dead. Fathers voice Is not
card among the hills; he Is dead.
he old man rises, and half forget
ing that he Is old, goes down to
he banks OF the stream that mur-
nors at the foot Of the mountain,
o "meet the boys" They are not
here; they are dead. He goes
,ack to the old house, reclines up
m the wellworn cot to rest, the
ight begins to flicker in his breast
his eyes grows dim--his pulse
rows weak-he goes to "meet the
,oys," to see mother, father. and
he old village pastor. Time does
I all. IL touches our lives and
hey 90 out; 1t touches the flowers