The Anderson intelligencer. [volume] (Anderson Court House, S.C.) 1860-1914, 1896-12-23
SARGE PLUNKETT.
A Trip Through an Interesting Part of
Middle Georgia.
atlanta Constitution.

atlanta Constitution.
No matter how old we may grow nor
how far away we may wander, there
will always be ycarning IN the heart
for the scenes of the past.
"Tske me home, let me see what is left
that I know.
Can it be that the cid house is gone?
| The dear friends of my childhood indeed
must be few,
And I must lament all alone"
This good old song must have been
inspired by return of the author to
the scenes of his early days. There
is something so sadly sweet IN one OF
these return trips-so many changes
and so many strangers that can well
understand why poetic heart would
feel that it must ''lament all alone.
Brown and I have just returned from
trip down through Pike, Coweta,
Meriwether and Clayton, and the
| memories that would swell up in our
hearts at every turn brought feelings
that no tongue could speak, no pen
| could write The old must try the
| experiment and the young must wait
till they have wandered away and
| grown old themselves before they can
feel as we have felt on this journey Of
week. The camping place Of our
first night out was full Of suggestions
for refreshing our memories. We had
not intended it, but it so happened
that We struck camp on the first night
right under a tree where thirty years
ago we had buried a young soldier.
It would be foolish to undertake to
write of all that came back to US
around the fire after supper was over
and our pipes were lit One thing I
will mention in the hope of finding the
mother of the soldier that we buried
here just after the battle of Jones'
boro. A solid Testament was kept by
us in the hope that it might some day
be returned. I have written of this
Testament before, but found no re-
cognition. Pasted to the inside Of the
back there are what seem to be three
verses written in woman's hand.
The writing is so besmeared with
blood and faded from having been wet
that only few lines can be read.
These lines seem to be the first verse
of three, and, as near as we can deci-
pher them, read thus:
"In this little book there's promise that's
precious,
And but for that promise my poor heart
would break;
I give it to you and know you will keep it,
And read it and heed It for dear mothers
sake"
For two nights we camped right
upon the banks of Flint River. We
could have got plenty of places to stay
indoors, but we preferred to camp and
sleep in our wagon; but there was
mighty little sleeping done, for the
memories welled up so fast that both
of us were slow to stop talking. These
thoughts and our conversation might
not interest others put down in type,
but if any of you will return in the
same way over the ground you knew
so we'll in the long ago, am sure that
you will not wonder at our interest.
One day I resolved to say nothing.
I just felt like laying back on the fod-
der and being left omy own thoughts,
but it was through the section from
Beek's old mill to Flat Shoals, where
Brown had spent his youthful days,
and there was no use in trying to keep
him silent on the passing scenes.
''Here Here! Look at this, that
and the other thing. I saw there was
no keeping quiet, and SO, when he
lifted up the sheet and mentioned
what change had come over the old
place that we had known in the long
past, I looked, and this set us to talk
ing, and memory after memory crowd
ed up as we jolted along. This place,
with its changes, will answer for many
other places as contrast between
now and the days when Brown and I
were young and romped over this same
ground. Where we had known dou-
bic log house with a row of negro
cabins in the background there now
looms fine two-story mansion and
great barns in the background. We
both scratched our heads at the won
derful signs of prosperity, for Brown
always is slow to admit that anything
has been improved by progress. We
can only speak of our trip in general
way, but when we learned the owner
of this fine estate and memories
brought back his past itinterested us,
and we think that it might interest
others, or, at least, impress them that
it is useless to be fixing folks up.
We can never know what mans
going to be till he dies, as [ have said
many times before.
George Jackson is the owner of this
fine estate, and if anyone had said
when George was boy that he would
be SO rich and live in such a house he
would have been fool. His father
was worthless, and spent all of his
time around stillhouses, then numer-
Gus in this section. Georges father
never did own a thing but gun and
dogs, and his folks never saw him
pass over the hills leaving home but
that they expected to sec him return
in the evening staggering drunk.
When George was a good-sized plow-
boy he was anything but promising.
Slow, gawky people said he was just
like his father and that was anything