Mower County transcript. [volume] (Lansing, Minn.) 1868-1915, 1883-03-21

| IL "ae rainy QaY and we climbed two
flights OF stairs, and at last stood in the
garrett, whittier we had come in search
OF amusement. The house was an old
one, which had been handed down from
father to son for three generations, and
the garnet Was large, low, and full of
curious things that dust, cobwebs. and
dlsuse made seem almost sacred; and we
walked stealthily about as if we bad en-
tered treasure-house of the dead and
might come at any moment upon some
CHASTITY sentinel who silently guarded
the secrets of the dead from the living
and curious. As our eyes became &C
customed to the dim light and no
sheeted form appeared or bony hand was
LAID detalningly upon our arm, our spir-
it's rose and We began to examine the
things around us.
Against the wall, dripping with dust as
rose drips with dew, hung an old silk
dress, the deep red faded in streaks and
patches to dull gray, and a bunch of
something that had once been fragrant
flowers fastened at the throat, and the
dusty lace that used to be soft and white
as the hand it caressed still ornamenting
| the sleeves. Those flowers were the gift
of lover who has lain forgotten long
ago; and the hands that received them
and the lips that pressed them have
crumbled to dust years agone. And the
old dress and flowers hang there dusty,
| lonely,-a solemn reminder of the Joy
GUS life that had faded from sight and
memory like a star that falls shining
down the midnight sky for one moment
and the next is forgotten. We replaced
the folds gently with shudder; in lit
| tie while we too shall have entered the
bark that waits for each of us, and is
even now anchored floating on the un-
| fathomed mystic sea of eternity
We turn over pile of old books,
moth-eaten, cob-webbed things, and we
smile at the poor earthly ambition that
prompted the writer's, and The vain glory
that faded perhaps even in the hour OF
their birth; aud we open them one after
another and look in as you would look
into grave, but we ind no corruption,
no curling locks growing on dead skulls,
| no bleacbed bones-but instead on the
aged yellowish pages we see glowing
| thoughts and sentiments stamped with
immortal beauty and eternal life,
and we close them reverentia]]y and
with thrill OF hope. Though the hand
that penned those words lies lifeless and
cofined, can it be that the brain that
gave them birth can die while its
thoughts live on forever? Who dares
say?.
Over there stands rocking horse,
battered and worn, riderless and lonely.
| One day handsome youth, putting away
childish things and laughing careless]y,
carried the old horse up into the garrett,
| and with the fire of hope and youth in
his eyes and the blood surging riotously
in his veins looked out to the world and
sighed impatiently to mingle in the tur-
moil and the strife. And in after years,
crowned with success, his thoughts re-
verted to the old garnet and his favorite
plaything, and he longed to be a boy
once more. But the vanished years
come back to no map, and relentless
time hurried him on to certain grave.
Here is an old trunk from which the
dust falls and rises in curling, foamy
cloud as we lift string Of sleigh bells,
but almost drop them as they ring out
merrily in that lonely, gloomy place.
What if their music should call back the
spirits whose laughter chimel with the
melody of old! We lay them cautiously
on the floor, looking stealthily over our
shoulder for the shadow forms that,
though invisible, we feel are near us.
Next we find package of letters, tied
with blue ribbon. We know-every-
body krows-what that means. Love
letters! Senselese, foolish things to
every person but the one to whom they
are addressed and the one who penned
them. We know all about them, and
that the man and woman have gone out
into the world and forgotten their very
existence, forgotten they ever were read
or written. And there they lie yellow
and silent, mutely teaching that though
love is beautiful as the sunset it changes
like its clouds.
Beside the letters nestles pair of tiny
shoes, and we take them in our hands,
but they tell no tales. They do not
whisper whether the dimpled girlish
feet they once pressed have walked ever
the rough places or rested in the cool
shadows; whether they have found the
pleasant highways or stumbled through
the dark alleys of life; or whether they
passed. courageously and steadfastly
through temptations; or, alas! weak and
tired with their burden, faltered in the
paths of sin. We cannot follow their
course, but the little shoes remind us
that, dead or alive, whatever their way
is, or has been, once they were fair with
the Wilderness and innocence of youth.
And it is pleasant thought.
Between the shoes and letters we see
some buttons shining on q blue ground.
lis soldiers coat, and that one glance
has touched the secret spring OF tears
and stirred dead hopes and sad memories
that we would not have awakened; and
we rice hastily, close the lid, and turn to
other things. AS the light fades and the
shadows deepen we see beneath pile Of
rubbish something that glitters like gold
touched by stripes as red as blood AMI
blue as the ocean, and we remove the
rubbish and drag it to the light. is q
battle-aag with many bullet-hole in It's
siiken folds and the stains of human
blood on its gay gilt fringe. We almos,
recoil at the sight, and then we touch
carestingly the gold flag. and memory
goes back and resurrects its dead, clasps
the hand that has moldered to dust long
ago, sees the light of eyes that have faded
forever, and kisses the lips that have
laughed their last laugh and uttered
their last prayer.
And we felt that the place was full of
misty forms-or was it the trembling
shadows? The air seemed filled with the
measured tread of unseen soldiers
marching on the silent floor; we felt that
invisible tents were pitched around us,
unheard voices were singing battle
hymns and giving martial orders, and
there was silent stacking Of arms in a
distant corner. And as we hurried rap
idly yet cautiously, with bated breath
toward the stairs, and turned a moment
at the top, we thought the old flag was
lifted and floated on the breathless air,
and we seemed to hear the rustic of
grave-clothes near us, and felt the touch
of a cold hand on our arm and chill
breath on our cheek, and perhaps We
did. Who can tell?
An Ancient Landmark.
The Penn National Rank If Philade1,