The Ohio Democrat. (Logan, O. [Ohio]) 1886-1906, 1889-02-23
THE OLD HOMESTEAD.
A Pleasant Picture OF Genuine Now En-
Hlnnh Cnuntry IIfn

the "Merchant Of Venice" and the
"Gunmaker of Moscow" without having
sojourned in Italy or Russia, 1t is fair
to assume that the Italians and Rus
SLAMS who have never been in New
England would go wild with delight
over the "Old Homestead" But to
people who have visited and are famil-
lar with that corner of the United
States, the play is something not to be
forgotten. The chief beauty of it is its
trueness to life and character in New
England; and 1t Is doubtful If the ex-
New Englander can look at it without
becoming so enthusiastic that his ac-
tions will betray the place of his birth.
We all have been there. We remem-
Der the old hogshead out of which we
dipped water, and sometimes ice, in
the old tin hand-basin; and how we put
1t on bench, and washed our hands
with common soap that took off the
dirt, skin and all.
And we remember the long, sloping
meadow--full of bobolinks-that filled
the air with hay-scent that thrilled
us with joy, and which many perfume
manufacturer has tried in vain to catch,
for you can't bottle the spirit of New
England meadow. Under the haystack
was jug of switched, that made labor
sweeter-sweeter than it would have
been without it. And, looking at old
Joshua Whitcomb, we fancy we again
hear the dinner-horn, and in response
head for the old farmhouse for q din
ner of roast apples, apple sauce and
apple pie washed down with tea that
tasted as though painted green.
Those were dear old days that
Joshua Whitcomb brings back to us,
when we sat and watched our old
grandfather sharpen his razor on the
same palm that he used when perform
ing that Office for the scythe. His
hand was so hard that he could crush
walnuts by closing it on them, and he
could hold a red-hot plate longer than
any woman in the land. We remember
how he kept one eye on his face when
he shaved. and he used the other to
see that the oxen didn't wander into
the orchard opposite. 1t is long
time since we have seen him; but he
comes back to us with his peaceful old
smile, and we see him at table wanting
a piece of pie, and fearing to take it on
account of his dyspepsia, yet wanting a
piece all the same.
We see the old sitting-room, with
the hair-covered sofa that no one would
dare fall asleep upon for fear of falling
off. 1t was so slippery that when you
burst into a hearty laugh you had to
take firm hold to keep from sliding
off on the floor. 1t would be impos-
sible to remain on it during chill, un-
less tied.
The frames around this room con-
tanned pictures, but the pictures were
not works of art, either in spirit or ex-
ecution. The chrome of the bald
headed infant sucking the muzzle of a
revolver, and Washington at Home"
still hang in our memory. And the
nights of corn-popping before the open
fire! How we kept one hand over our
face to keep off the intense heat, and
held the old spider over the logs with
the other, is thing never to be for
gotten. Our hair almost singed, and
our knuckles popped like the corn, for
the corn actually popped.
Then there were the hourly trips
out through the snow for an armful of
wood. The wood was always so thickly
crusted with ice and snow that it al
most put the fire out, and froze our
fingers so stiff that we were afraid to
warm them at the fire for fear they
would melt.
The rag carpet is still on the floor,
and every member of the family can
wander back for years in it, because it
is made up of wedding dresses, army
uniforms, Sunday clothes, overcoats
and sbawls. 1t is carpet of biogra-
phies, and every strip represents a
We still see the old hole in it
near the door, in which the visitors
foot might catch and toss him into the
bosom of the family head-frst.
We again climb up the rickety old
stairs to the garret bedrooms with the
green paper curtains, the corn-husk
bed, and the chest of drawers, filed
with apples. The room is 80 cold that
we jump under the comfortahles with
our clothes on, and undress in bed after
we have warmed it. And when tho
wind shakes the house in the night, it
comes in through the broken pane and
plays weird melodies in the punches of
sage and red peppers suspended over
our heads.
Again we go head-first into the swim
ming hole and drift about among the
lily pads in quest Of pickerel. And in
5he green and fragrant spring we climb
among the blossoms to rob birds nests;
Ind we make wry faces as we gulp the
unpleasant picra. All the green fields.
md old-fashioned flowers, and crystal
and shady orchards we ever
snew come back, and seem brighter
han ever with sunshine, and lovelier
With song, as we watch those shifting
scenes of the "Old Homestead;" and
he squeaking of the fiddle and the
,atter of happy feet make us think
ourselves back in the heart of New
England, and not in the hurly-burly Of
reet.-Puck.
~
Georges Timely interruption.