Ellsworth American. [volume] (Ellsworth, Me.) 1855-current, 1893-12-14

/
There's Light In the Window.
| How cozy the old farmhouse appears
on wintry evening. the bright light shin
Ing through Its unshaded windows In
trast to the cold uninviting aspect of
tAe weather without.
remember when boy of returning
home to just such an old New England
farm house perhaps after an evenings
enjoyment coasting. or a party In some
neighboring farm house; and as l nesred
my fathers house. how the CHEEKY aspect
OF that house with It's pleasant associa-
| tions comes family over the long interven-
Ing years like 8 halfforgotten strain OF
some sweet music.
There, through the snow fringed win
dows of that quaint little sitting-room
CLEANS the ruddy light. Near the blazing
hearth sits my father telling to my little
sister some pleasing story, and their united
laughter Is borne out on the stiffness Of the
evening air. The other children are
grouped around the table. with intense ex-
element depicted upon every feature as
lucky move is made by one of the players
in their childish game
My mother sits busy with her knitting;
occasionally she goes TO the window,
shades her eyes with her hand, and peers
out into the darkness, to see If her boy Is
coming. All, would that this scene might
never end
-tu,t ~ ~ a L.. tE.-t.t
still CLEANS, but on different scene 1t is
the marriage feast Of the younges. One
by one they have left the home nest. In
stead of the children We last saw, are now
matured men and women. some with fam
lilies of their own.
My father, with mingled pleasure and
pain, looks upon the happy little bride
who it seems but yesterday he rode upon
his knee telling little childish stories. His
hair has grown gray with the snow of
many winters, and his form bowed under
the care of years. We realize perhaps for
the first time that father is growing old.
Now the light shines from the window,
and shows US father and mother all alone
Father is nodding in his accustomed chair
by the chimney corner. His old bible lies
open upon the stand beside him. Mother
! is sitting in her old rocker. She has un-
consciously let her knitting work slip to
! the floor, while she is thinking-she is al
ways thinking now of her little children who
have grown to manhood and womanhood,
and remembers their joys and sorrows.
These events have been her whole life.
Hand in hand they go down the slope Of
age, but the narrow path is now made
palmer to their dim vision by light ce-
lestial, which seems to beam from the
eternal wisdom upon their lonely heads.
The last scene The light shines dimly
on casket. Mother is dead The chill
dren are again gathered at the old home,
| their faces lately SO free from care, now
wet with tears. They do not realize that
without mother 1t can be home no more.
Gently and lovingly she is laid beside my
father in the church-yard. While their
| deeds in life will be unknown to fame,
they will ever rest lovingly in the hearts
| of their children.
"Let not ambition mock their useful toll,
Their homely joys their destiny obscure;
Nor grandeur hear with disdainful smile
The short and simple annals of the poor"
Years afterward we ride past the same
old home. long since passed into strangers
hands. The light still brightly shines, but
! upon new faces; and new voices are
heard. Oh, how sadly we leave it behind,
perhaps for the last time. What sweet,
sad memories come trooping into our
minds as the Pickering light fades from
| our sight and is seen no more!
| WANDERER