The Arkansaw traveler. (Little Rock, Ark.) 1882-1???, 1885-03-07
THE LOG CABIN WHERE I WAS
BORN.
IL. e. Huddle, in Through Mail

| I1' %s AAoOAASB n ukOuku hn2lA.t
| visited it last week for the first time
in lol these many years-the old cabir
in which was born. It's degraded tc
base uses. No longer the dwelling place
OF man, it has fallen to the humble posi-
ton Of store.room for the improved
machinery used by the man who owns il
and all the land over which I roamed
when boy, chasing the gaudy butterfly
even as have chased bright but heetinG
hopes thousand times since I am
grown.
There, in the corner where NV cradle
stood, fascinating in its new red pain
and glisteniug varnish, there, where INV
mother so often kneeled by it and prayed
heavens choicest blessings on me, her
first-born, there, where she sang those
sweet old lullabies when was restless
and sleepless, and soothed me to quiet
and restful slumber with her sweet and
gentle voice-there, in that mouldy old
corner whose rough, oaken floor and
every knot and gnarl are sacred to the
fondest memories Of all my life, lies a
pile of broken castings and scraps of iron
and steel of every kind and character.
Cold, rust-eaten and broken are they-ft
symbols Of the things that were but are
no more again forever. And here-here
ia this little room where the great bed
onch stood with its high, turned syca
more posts and heavy foot-rail-here
where saw my dear old mother lie week
after week, struggling to live for my sake
and the sake of my brothers and sisters
here where kneeled when larger grown
and bowed my head upon the pillo VS. be-
side hers, while she laid her soft and ten
der hand upon my head and prayed that
heaven might smooth my pathway
through life-here where stood weeping
as she sweetly smiled upon me and asked
of me premise-one too sacred to be
named-here in this hallowed spot where
that good mother died-where her SOM
bre coffin stood, chilling my heart and
opening the fountain of my grief on the
following day-here lies a heap of bar
ley. 1t is fit emblem of the harvest of
Joy she reaped in heaven for her noble
sowing here on earth.
And these old walls, once pearly white,
are smoked and dingy, and the ceiling /
once thought SO high, is low and humble
humble as every sense Of pride in my
heart, as stand here thinking of her that
gave me birth and of how much | lost
and how much heaven gained when she
died. Every stone in the old chimney ::
every scar on the whitewashed logs every
niche in the oaken floor every single
on the crazy old roof, is dear to meSa
treasure would be glad to carry away
with me and keep in sight so long as
shall live; but it belongs to another.
These priceless possessions have been
sold from hand to hand with the farm,
and they added nothing to its price !;
with busy memory, it seems to me that
they alone have value.
There are holes in the roof, through
which the snow sits in every storm, and
through which the sun shines when it is
calm. The walls are misshapen and
have settled and rotted until it totters
like decrepit old man, and yet, how
dear to me is that old cabin, wherein
lite was given to me and love taken away
o, Time, spare these decaying walls;
spare this old chimney that shed so much
OF light and warmth upon the days of my
childhood deal gently o, Father Time,
with all these relics of my happiest days,
and heap the harshness you have in store
for them, on mel am alone with men,
DRY here, and as the shadows gather, /
hear again the pattering of childish feet
the laughter of childish voices breaks
upon my ear, and my heart throbs with
the old fever Of youth. hear low,
sweet voice speaking from among the
pillows where lies the aching head Of one
! love. calling me by that tender name |
have not known for years on years. No
fawning " sir )" NO cringing, patronizing
Mister my own name-the name
she gave and loved to speak, with the
soft terminal a mothers love always
gives it.
"Come my boy-my darling SON !;
come to your mothers side. My head
aches, FTeeman-so bad, and you are all
so noisy. Come, tell your mother you
love her; put your arms about her neck
and kiss her, then run to your brothers
and sisters and play with them, but play
softly, so can just hear you, for, If it
were still, could not live. love to
hear my babies play; but play softly, my
boy, so you viii not make your mothers
poor head ache so !"
"Motherl Sweet motherl I cry-but
the shadows have thickened into darkness,
and the voice heard was from ont the
portals within which angels dwell as
another mothers soul passed through
the gates.
~