Connecticut western news., 1889-09-04

Falls Village, in the old house still standing, built before the Revolution, by Asahel Beebe, his grandfather, and mine. Asahel Beebe was large landed proprietor, and commisary in the war of the Revolution. It is fact, now not generally known. that part of Bur- goyne's army, after their surrender, on their march to Boston, passed through Canaan and encamped for one night on Beebe Hill, their tents reaching from the foot of the hill, south, to the old Barrack road, now discontinued, nearly mile. I have heard my mother say that the officers danced that evening in the Beebe ihouse, but their band did not play |" Yankee Doodle" They had enough of that at Saratoga. s. s. ROBBINS. Lakeville, Aug. IT, 1889. REMINISCENT. know rugged and broken lard, Where granite crops through the scanty soil, Where fruits are yielded with niggard hand, To the farmers most persistent toll. In early manhood wandered thence, And severed the ties which bound me there; Since then I have gathered experience In various climes and in lands more fair. I've dwe.t where the palm and orange thrive Where perennial perfumes ever rise, Where glories of 'tropic verdure strive To render the land a paradise.
 I've dwelt where the prairies. fertile and wide, Ask but the rudest culture be made, To pour their treasures with copious tide Into the grooming gamers of trade. But my heart goes back to childhood's home, To pleasant shades in that cherished spot, To the rugged hill with wood crowned dome, To the time stained roof and humble cot. The choicest vintage of sunny climes, I've pressed to my lips fragrant thing; But a sweeter draught, think, sometimes Was that from the crystal mountain spring. The gurgling Till long sedgy track Once led me on to it's messy brink; Its glassy surface reflected back
 My sunburned face as stopped to drink. sometimes to my mirror now
 To catch glimpse of that boyish face,
 
 And careworn wrinkles reward my gaze. | The locks which I saw in the crystal pool When the raven tufts by the wind were tossed, | When slacked my thirst on the waters cool, | Are silvered over with autumn's frost. The resources of cuisine skill
 The lavish supply and reckless waste Have pampered my appetite until Tba axio dc | My thoughts go back to my boyish days When home rolicking troupe led, And kindness repaid our boistrous ways With feast of gingerbread. | Here, in parenthesis, I wish to say
 That, after reflection most profound, think the art has gone to decay
 Of making that glorious, grand compound. | Where now do my young companions stray, | The factors which formed that merry band? Some are tottering the downward way, But most have gone to the unknown land. Closed are the eyes whose radiance shown Calmly and soft as the evening star; | Silent the voice whose remembered tone Sent its cadence down through years afar. The solemn ministers of other lands,
 The twilight aisles and gargoyled caves, The frescos traced by immortal hands
 Of the bleeding Christ twixt dying thieves. The triumphs of medieval art,
 The sculptured throes of the deathless mind, The passionate cry of the yearning heart, Frozen, as it were, on the stagnant winds. These speak language grave and sublime, Of beauty, and love, and majestyi
 But kneel, in my dreams, at shrine
 Far away over the western sea.
 I see, in the vale, the slender spire
 Of the quaint old church that nestled there; I hear the notes of the old time choir
 The earnest and fervent words of prayer. I turn from the world with pious trust, To grassy mounds in the graveyard near, Where calmly repose the sacred dust,
 Of those whom in life I held most dear Sainted mother and reverend sire,
 Brothers and sisters, all except one;
 We laid them down in their white attire, When their tasks were ended, their work was | done. III. s. Bee6e.