Claiborne guardian. [volume] (Homer, La.) 1877-188?, 1878-01-02
Written for the Claiborne Guardian.
THE HOME OF OUR BIRTH.

After an absence of ten or twelve
years from the land of our birth, BY
what varied feelings are we influ.
enced; a sadness mingling with the
sweet happy "reminiscences of gone.
by days, as we take a retrospective
view through the kaleidoscope of
memory back through the vista of
fast-receding years. as We loiter on
the threshold of an old homestead,
now metamorphosed beyond recog.
milton, once as familiar to ms as our
own reflected image, though the i'm.
preston of what it once was is still
as wildly and indelibly fixed upon
the memory as if hieroglyphed there
with pen of iron, never to be Oh
liberated whilst reason maintains its
throne. 1t seems as if it were yester.
day only, we strolled midst the
overhanging boughs of the wide
spreading shrubs and culled the
flowers for a wreath, or to decorate
play house. We have no very
strong attachment for but one home,
the one where our earliest recollec-
tions of infancy were spent, at the
age when our minds are most facile
of the ineradicable impressions made
around our mothers knee, listening
to stories, mending broken toys, and
anon unconsciously drift into dream
land, by her low sweet chants of
lullaby songs. Twas there we re.
ceived our first lessons of religion
and morals, where our infant lips
lisped their first prayer, and felt 80
accomplished when we spelt our first
words of three letters. Then dawn.
cd childhood, the time of castle
building son the sand,- and to dis
cuss our future greatness and hap
piness that we then felt so confident
was in store for us. Too ignorant to
know of obstacles or disappoint-
ments-all the world seemed bright,
knowing nothing of its evils, we had
over confidence in the benevolence,
charity and philanthropy of man
kind at large. How credulous, sym.
pathetic and unselfish ARE children,
in this their golden age Of Juno
cence. We listen in vain for the
once familiar footsteps. The foot
fall and the voices of dear loved |
ones are hushed forever. The few
remaining ones scattered far away
over distant lands. Where are the
hopes of fond parents, who, in their
blind affection for the pride of their
hearts, thought so promising' We
see around us only few common
place grownup people.
AS we glance over the yard, 80
long delightful play ground, and
beyond to the paths which once led
to the orchards, our hearts ache to
see it furrowed with the pillow. We
look for the sheltering boughs of the
old oaks-they are gone. We feel
as if we could have stayed the wood
mans axe by the old plea of "spare |
that tree We look in vain for the |
old well, longing for a cooling
draught from the sold oaken buck
etn-alas, no trace of it remains.
a short time ago, the writer was
at such q place, and wandered to
the old school yard, and whilst pom
dering on the days of "Auld Lang
Sync," the words of the old pathetic
song, "Just twenty years ago." in
voluntarily sprang to mind. The
place was suggestive of many little
incidents that were amusing and
gratifying to our mischievous ma
lures at that time, with playmates
that have passed away from the
arena Of life's actions. Some are
laid in tho chnrcb. ward nthera scat- |