The Republican journal., 1897-03-25
The Old Home.
Tread before the Denver New England So
nj tv |

Read before the Denver New England So
cety, December, 1896.
Dear is this noble land we call our own,
No fairer does the sun look down upon
AS the old earth, turning to meet his rays,
Warns her cold shoulders in the cheerful
Where Callfornia's vines and orchards lie
Rosy and gold beneath the glowing sky,
w here miser mountains yield their treasure
old,
Reluctant still to share the boarded gold,
Or where the prairie's broad and fertile
plain
Feeds hungry nations with abundant grain,
Where Pennsy lvania stores the warmth and
light
Of bygone ages in her anthracite,
Or the warm South generous harvest
yields
OF cotton snowdrifts from her sunny fields
North, South or West, we mark on every
hand
The peace and plenty of our smiling land.
We love it all; yet in our heart we hide
One corner dearer than all else beside.
Brothers and sisters eastward let US roam
In thought tonight, and talk awhile of
Our childhood's home Perhaps the wei
come thought
A different picture to each mind has brought
To one a nook among New Hampshire hills
49, 't.AAN'SNoE'S
When borrowing the ancient psalmist's
word,
"The trees of the wood rejoice before the
Lord
The blue Connecticut flows down between,
And the Green Mountains frame the lovely
Another sees old Boston's busiest street;
Its narrow sidewalk filled with hurrying
feet,
Where the policeman like Moses stands
Staying the tide with his uplifted hands,
While busy shoppers passing to and fro
Upon their errands safely come and go.
Or Park Street Church, standing W it'll feet of
stone,
Holds birthstone Corner for its very own.
Close by its side there lie the stored dead
Long its time laid in the narrow bed.
Their elder brothers farther up the street
Again the message "duSt to dust repeat.
Needless of them their eager children strive
| To crowd within the street cars teemng
And wend their way BY harnessed light
ning's aid
To homes their fathers knew as forest
shade.
vision fair the words have brought to me
"dear old town that's seated by the sea =
A quiet, grassy bordered village street
Ger which the dropping elm trees bend and
meet,
L tread the narrow wooden walk once more;
| enter at each once familiar door;
l hear the words of welcome they would
speak
And press a kiss on many well-known
cheek;
/ see dear faces framed in locks of white
| should not see if | were there tonight.
An old brown house before me stands once
more,
With lilac bushes growing by the door;
Along narrow footpath as | pass,
I brush AGAINST a huDch of Striped prass
Four plum trees, under which used to play
An old board fence, half-fallen to decay,
The Balm of acknowledgement now as then,
| seem to smell its vanished buds again
Tangled rosebushes in a ragged row,
Cinnamon roses-out of fashion now;
A narrow brooklet runs along beside,
And paper boats adown its current glide.
The meeting house, such as you all must
know,
Barn-lke and bare, windows in double row
Save as we look at it through memory's haze
Little it wears of comeiness grace.
Its steps the sexton mounted thrice each day,
Punctual as the sun, old, bent and gray
With both hands pulled the heavy bell-rope
Rang out the hour to all the listening town.
Each night at nine o'clock the warning sped,
And then our day was done; we went to bed.
There is the shipyard that loved 50 WE'LL
With each familiar sight, and sound, and
smell.
Fragrance of oak and pine, and boiling tar,
And wet brown seaweed while from near
and far
Strokes of the adze and mallet mingle still
With the loud purring Of the busy mill,
And liquid voices of the rising tide
Singing in undertone on every side.
The weather beaten schooners, old and gray,
That took our chowder parties down the
bay
The Yankee Adams and the Morning Star, |
These We're their names-I wonder where |
they are?
Gone where the spirits of good schooners
dwell
Green be their memory! We loved them
we'll.
One playmate [ should find unchanged to-
day,
The never-resting waters of the bay.
Thine writes no wrinkles on its azure
brow
In the cold moonlight it is sparkling now.
Your patience do 1 tire? Yet bear with me-
Are we not children of one family?
Have not met to tell how dear we hold
Our common mother and the homestead old ?
What wonder if the words crowd thick and
fast
Recount;ng thus the treasures of the past?
But all things end, pleasure as well as pain
And we must turn our faces west again.
Cover the glowing Goals; put out the hight.
1.-The bell is ringing nine" Good nigh t.
good night
lREBECCA PALFREY UTTER