Pittsburg dispatch. [volume] (Pittsburg [Pa.]) 1880-1923, 1890-10-27
SNAP SHOTS IN SEASON.
A THOUGHT is worth nothing until you q
press it.

A THOUGHT is worth nothing until you ex-
press it.
DID you spend your boyhood OF your girl
| hood in the village or the city? Was your
youth unfettered, your playground boundless,
! your wants few, your sports unlimited, your
clothes homespun? Or were you in the care
less days tethered to the cord of caste. your
plays selected, your grounds bounded by
poverty and wealth on two sides, by religion
and social status on the others-formng hol-
low square SO narrow that you could not run
without stubbing your precious tender little
toes on the corners; so high that you could not
get glimpse of the little folk on the outside,
SO select that you had to be clad in purple and
fine linen before you entered it; so lonely, JOY
less, laughless heartless that you tired early in
the game-sobbed when you should have
smiled-got peep of the bitter beyond when
the bright young eye should have rested alone
on the perfect present o, boy of the stony
streets, walled ways. smoke-hiu sun-youth of
the fenced-in frollcs, carpet children. parlor
pets, nursery nabobs-the village lad can
laugh at or pity you. No imaginary
line marks his romping region; no
caste, no care, no social or religious law
hampers his long limbs and tireiess feet-free,
joyful, strong, he rolls in the green fields of
youth and chases the sunbeams down the days
that lead-where? q p with the birds he's off
with Bill, Bob, Will, Molly, Meg, Sal, Kit, to
the wood or the school, the meadow or the
common. the bro ok or the berry field, the snow
or the ice-always going, going-where? They
see not the seamy side, they of the old
fashioned, quiet, humdrum, Van Wlnklish
village-the village that sleeps but laughs. the
village that dies but lives, the village that is
pulseless but throbs. No vice trails in the
grass-grown streets, no crime stains the village
history. the page of which is never turned; no
hunger. no gold, no dross-wants few. tastes
simple, tiny worldlesS world. The village
schoolmaster is the Gar, the village doctor is
the magician, the village preacher Is the saint,
the village blacksmith is the giant-a simple
honest quartette. Every kind-faced matron is
your mother, every maid your aunt
every miss your cousin, every little
pet in pinafores your sister-fathers, brothers
all. Is it overdrswn? l know Just such a
"Sleepy Hollow" 1t stands between two long,
long hilIs-high, steep, tiresome in the long
ago; only mere hillocks now. for time, you
know, lowers the mountains your young eyes
measured and lessons the miles your little feet
trod. A wide, shady street ended in dusty
roads which trailed slowly up both hills losing
each end in the green woods on their brows.
A swift singing river ran between, its laughing
waters dancing over, upon and under busy
wheels on its way to the pretty bay. No Jail,
no lookup, no barred windows, not even
court house there-only the church and the
village school, only one bell to call you to
prayers and to books. All were mothers,
fathers, sisters, aunts. cousins, brothers. Open
doors co every home and vacant chairs at every
board-warm hearts, ready hands at every fire.
side. And this village stands there still-sleep-
ing but not snoring; silent, slothful. peaceful.
The plaintive bleat of the sheep mjngles with
the music of the smiths anvil. The swish of
the scythe Kisses through the laughter of the
children. The song of the mother browns the
cry of the babe. May it never change. Sleep
on. Come, CO. lads and lasses of the village
Where?
THE man who applies an invention deserves
as much credit as the man who designs it.