River Falls journal. [volume] (River Falls, Pierce County, Wis.) 1872-2019, 1902-08-14
DOun to the Old
Marsh Farm ~
BY Z. X. WOohEY.

THE Cynical Optimist reposed upon
the front steps and smoked the
pipe Of peace.
The Little Woman sat enthroned in
O rattan rocker and valiantIy fought
mosquitoes.
The gleeful shouts Of playing chill
dren came through the evening air.
The drone Of a ceaseless and heavy
bass voice sounded from neighboring
porch. In the distance brassy toned
photograph held sway.
The Cynical Optimist and the Little
Woman were enjoying their after
dinner siesta in the fashion Of all good
Americans on warm evening.
"My!' exclaimed the Little Woman.
"Aren't the mosquitoes awful to-
night?"
The Cynical Optimist swatted his
brow with mighty swat, and gazed
refectively at the fattened remains of
large and juicy specimen.
Fierce" he assented. Does that
man ever stop talking?" he added, re-
ferring to the bass-voiced one afore-
mentioned.
That's Mr.. Rosenbaum," explained
the Little Woman. Hes a widower.' .
'I'm not surprised" replied the Gym
ical Optimist "Pd die too if had to
stand that al the time!"
Again the silence prevailed, laden
with the laughter of the children, the
growl Of the Rosenbaum and the tor
tureful strains of the photograph.
"If we were down on old Marsh
farm now" began the Cynical Optim-
list, wed hear the katydids singing to
beat the band-and the frogs down in
the creek bottom!
''I'd like to start tomorrow on the
four-hour, cindery, sunshiny railroad
ride that it takes to get there. Some
folks think ride on the train is a
bore | don't. / like the humming
motion, the undulating telegraph
wires, the hurried march of the fields
rushing by, the crash of the passed
stations, the novel on my knee that [
forget to read, the anticipation of
what's waiting for me at my partic-
ular little red-painted station, the
growing hunger for the good things
that I'll soon be slowing away in my
longing interior.
IT'S just about five o'clock in the
afternoon when you descend the car
steps, with an uncertain sensation in
your knees, whizzy feeling in the
soles of your feet, and bundle of
wraps over your arm. Bert Marsh is
waiting there with a hospitable grin
and the double-seated wagon. You
recognize old Jumbo in the shafts and
remember the time you painfully rode
him to town on a ploW-horse trot.
Jumbo looks around and winks a
knowing eye.
you hunt around for your trunk,
which you find ANONYMOUSLY left on
the end of the platform. You never
know what an enormous, ancient
relic that trunk is until you see it at
the end of that platform. You resolve
upon new one next year if you can
afford it.
''Then for the four-mile trip out to
the farm!
"Oh, that four-mile, quiet, scented
ride through the country twilight!
You don't want to talk. You lean
back in your seat and breathe deep,
and just exist. It's the time of year
for primroses to be blooming. They
line the road with their beauty and
fragrance. You sneeze, and Bert
turns around to say that you'll be
having rose fever if you don't look
out.
Now we strike the old corduroy
road. Your teeth r-r-r-r-r and you be-
come conscious of your spinal column
while the wagon wheels grind over it.
On each side is the marshland fiaunt-
ing bouyant-hued blossoms and many
colored grasses, with a CLINT of water
shining here and there.
Here is a quick turn and the horses
feet thud over an ancient and pic
turesque bridge. Then for the valley
of the shadow-a hopeful and restful
valley of the shadow-roofed by the
whispering branches of many trees,
lined with berry bushes and climbing
vines and tall grasses, and the pink
and yellow roses. Streaks of the low
sun come glancing through, and you
think in all the world there can be no
happier spot than this.
But here's the home turn! The
horses prick up their ears and strike
a faster trot. There's the house, and
there's Al at the front gate, and Pa
Marsh-and coming down the walk,
white-aproned and of a generous