Oxford Democrat. [volume] (Paris, Me.) 1833-1933, 1901-02-05

Fl. A. Irish and Timothy Lunt are out
often with the pride of their households
their year-old colts.
Ellis Cole of Turner has lately visited
his grandparents, E. G. Cole and wife.
And now come patent medicine ads
under the head Of personals. Our wrath
has often been kindled more than little
by being run into an ad by some scare
head, but now-well-
MOSQUITO POINT.
We received to-day typewriter let
ter from Secretary Long, which we copy
in part: 81 have just read In the Oxford
Democrat some very sweet verses, SAID
to be written by Mrs. Abbie Chase Hol-
brook and sent to you. II | knew her
address would write her and tell her
how much pleasure have taken In read
ing what she has so charmingly written,
describing so we'll not only the scene Of
the old school house, which remember,
but better still, the sentiments, feelings
and dreams of the girls and boys who
were her schoolmates. In telling the
story of them she has told the story OF
us all as we look back to the early New
England country life, and the school
boy days, and the happy and hopeful
sunrise o. life. | like them too because
they are 10 simple and unpretentious."
She sent them to me several years ago
and | have read them many times, and
they have never lost their charm. They
cannot, until the old days lose their
charm. The old, old time Is magnet
that draws. At our stage of life we often
find ourselves looking back over
| 1.-THE wide abyss
That parts that far.off time from this"
I am not so sure but the looking back
has a saving influence upon US. If we
never recalled the days of childhood-a
happy childhood-we might sink down
into hardened old reprobates. AS 1t Is
we are more charitable toward the boys
in their escapades, remembering that we
have been there ourselves, that we toe
once had the heart Of boy and a pre-
objection for scrapes, and that 1t was
oftentimes difficult to keep our "bub.
bling spirits down."
To-day we also received letter from
a cousin--Mrs. j. G. Record-of whom
we had lost trace for years. The letter
was dated at San Jacinto, Cal. She seems
to be charmed with her home In that
sunny cline. She says: "The fields are
green, the orange groves are loaded with
fruit, also the lemon groves. They are
a beautiful sight. Roses and lots OF
other flowers all the year. Words can
give but faint idea; you have to see
and taste and smell to realize what it Is
like. We have very fine artesian well
that our two boys put down and have a
machine of our own, 80 we can have as
many wells as we like. This Is one OF
the finest artesian belts in California or
anywhere else. Had to 60 only 24O feet
to get a 16-inch flow, so we can get all
the water we want, and when you get
that in this country everything will
grow, and when the wet years come
things will grow without irrigating
This valley has been wet enough until
the last rhree years. One man near here
has in 1900 acres of grain. Wish you
could have some of the oranges that are
kicking around here" Lucilva.
Now, look here, cousin. Don't you
know that it would take thoroughly
artistic angel to portray the beauties OF
Paradise to make US dissatisfied with
this gray old earth! Very well, then.
You needn't hope to picture the beauties
Of your sun-baked, kiln-dried land in
such way that we will be dissatisfied
with staid and steady old Maine. We
have loved it for more than sixty years,
and we don't 20 back on it worth cent.
We are established. We are ''sot."
Suck your old oranges, while we eat
bellflowers. Oranges all taste about
alike, but what an infinite variety Of
apples thrive and blush on the sun
kissed, wind-swept hills of old New
England. 1 fancy that you would leave
an orange half sucked for the core Of
this Baldwin.
| "The apples Of New England!
How they hang their loaded boughs
| Over the gray stone fences,
In reach Of the dappled cows;
| Oh! every red checked Baldwin
Hath merry song to sing
OF some old moss.r0ofed cottage,
Where the farmer Is king.
"Oh! the apples of New England!
They are famous in every land;
And they sleep In silver baskets,
Or blush In jeweled hand;
They melt In delicious dreaming
On beautiful crimson lip,
And taste Of the nectared blisses
No lover has dared to sip.
"They go to the southern islands,
They 70 to the western wild,
And they tell of their glorious birthplace
To every frolicking child;
OF the home where men are noble,
And women as good az fair
Oh! the apples of New England,
They are welcome everywhere"
PAT MALoY.