Waterbury evening Democrat., 1891-07-24
TO THE CITY.
And tho Sad Homecoming OF q
Wayward Boy.

"Good-by to the old farml'
Glow so, my SOM" asked the grizzly
father. as the young man hung the |
scythe on the Toulouse rack.
81 say good-by to pillow and furrow, |
| hills, rocks, long hours of hard work
and poor pay. l have chopped my last
stick of cord wood, husked my last
bushel of corn. hang up the scythe
now forever. The great city shall give
me living"
"But, my boy, tho farm shall be
yours tomorrow. Only give mother
and me our bread, and that, too, not
| for long"
81 don't want it. Sell it, give it
away. I'm DONE" holly exclaimed the
young man, as he wiped his beady fore
head with his tawny hand
John, listen to reason. 1t has been
| a scorching summer but we have near
| ly finished it. You think these people
who roll by here in the mountain stages
every day have things easier than we.
But this is their vacation. All these
| fine gentlemen work like slaves the
rest of the year, and the city girls with
gay dresses and white hands"
81 tell you, father, I'm done Don't
argue it."
but to leave the farm because destiny
calls, because one is fitted by education,
| by nature for other avocations or be-
cause one sees an opening is well
enough. To go to the city, however,
| for the mere sake of going to the city
| john, you are fool. What will you
do for breadP 1t doesn't grow on street
lamps"
1t was all in vain to add words. The
| having was over; the limit Of endur-
auce the young scamp had fixed in
| mind all summer through, as many an
evening he had climbed the stone wall,
musing in the dust Of passing coaches
whose laughter peeled forth upon him
like a song of sirens, or sullenly an
swering the frolicsome pedestrians who
| paused upon their alpen-stockS to ask
how much farther to the T1p-top house.
| 1t was not far, and of evenings when
the air was still, down through the
great hemlocks came strains of be-
witching music, startling the sheep in
this high pasture, and yearlings from
their browsing, and startling the heir
of all these herds as we'll.
lt'was not so last year, this strange
discomfort; it was never so with him
before; though born under yonder red,
low-roofed, old dwelling, as were all
his fathers; though the window of his
birth chamber looked out upon the
mountain caravansary, whose cool
splendors thousands yearly came to see.
But he was eighteen now. 1t is step
ping into a new world to become
eighteen years old.
lie was eighteen, and the only child
alive; generous, willful, pampered, of
robust health, and by no means an Ar
L, I'll,
called innocent country hills. AS he
reclined upon the roadside wall, there
was yet something about him very en-
gaging. The open countenance blush
ing in the settling sunbeams, the full
brow and quick, dark eye, the broad
chest and stout limbs of a perfectly
formed and handsome animal. But the
human animal can dream, picture, plan
3 and ponder with powers of mind that
t no other animal possesses John was
the last fellow who should have gone
to the great town. Of warm affections,
conscience, he had none. What pleas
ures and qualifications did his vivid i'm
agination sketch upon the evening sky,
away southwark, whitherward lay the
vast city, miles and miles down?
p Farewell the broad rough uplands,
g with familiar stone heaps dotted over;
o the upper barn where he had broken
: many wild colt and called it his own;
the white gable of his neighbor width
er the path across lots ran, trodden
by his bare feet almost since their
first steps; farewell the schoolhouse
at four corners, the sweep and stretch
of fairest landscape under the sky, sci
in the distance with the spires of vii
lagc churches far down the valley. The
home of many blessings, and a shad
\ owed face at the window leaning on III
old hand in the twilight cleaning; fol
father had been in and told the story
and the two old ones were powerles!
against the young, imperious resolu
ton. lie in reverie, they In bordering
deep; not how they shall coax living
from the old farm, for they would
rather the time had come to die, anC
cease the strife of life rent with gap
- ing graves into which strong sons haS
sunk one by one and left them onl.
one, and he more crnel than their othe
sorrows; bordering how to prevent thu
ills of passions never yet controlled b.
their Saviour's strong and gentle hand
foreseeing much and fearing more; TO
they were ignorant of the city, too
He in rcveric, building gaudy castles o
q good time coming, and he free t.
drink to his fill; in reverie till the star
came out above tho mountain pines
They in prayer together for him, in tn
chamber where he was born; and wha