The Colfax chronicle. [volume] (Colfax, Grant Parish, La.) 1877-1981, 1902-11-08
Doun to the Old
Marsh Farm y
BY 3. K. WoohEY.

THE Cynical Optimist reposed upon
the front steps and smoked the
pipe of peace.
The Little Woman sat enthroned in
a rattan rocker and valiantly fought
mosquitoes.
The gleeful shouts of playing chill
dren came through the evening air.
The drone of ceaseiess 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 a 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
refiectively at the fiattened 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. "He's widower."
I'm not surprised" replied the Gym
ical Optimist. I'D die too if ] had to
stand that all 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's
farm~now," began the Cynical Optim-
list, "we'd 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. l 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.
Its just about five o'clock in the
afternoon when you descend the cal
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 hospitable grin
and the double-seated wagon. Yor
recognize old Jumbo in the shafts ant
remember the time you painfully rode
him to town on plow-horse trot
Jumbo looks around and winks q
knowing eye.
"You hunt around for your trunk
which you find ignominiously left OF
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 resolv,
upon new one next year if you car
afford it.
''Then for the four-mile trip out t.
the farm!
"Oh, that four-mile, quiet, scented
ride through the country twilight!
You don't want to talk. You lear
back in your seat and breathe deep
and just exist. It's the time of veal
for primroses to be blooming. The,
line the road. with their beauty ant
fragrance. You sneeze, and Ber-
turns around to say that you'll b,
having rose fever if you don't lool
out.
sNow we strike the old corduro,
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, flaunt
ing bouyant-hued blossoms and many
colored grasses, with CLINT of waite
shining here and there.
"Here is a quick turn and the horses
feet thud over an ancient and pic
turesque bridge. Then for the vale
of the shadows hopeful and restfu
valley of the shadow-roofed by tn
whispering branches of many tree.
lined with berry bushes and climbing
vines and tall grasses, and the pin
and yellow roses. Streaks of the 10,
sun come glancing through, and yo
think in all the world there can be n
happier spot than this.
But here's the home turn! Tn
horses prick up their ears and strik
faster trot. There's the house, an
there's AL at the front gate, and Pa
Marsh-and coming down the wall
white-aproned and of generoq