Goldsboro weekly argus. [volume] (Goldsboro, N.C.) 1885-1909, 1903-04-30
NATURE IN HER OWN HOME.
Springtime In the Country Unravels
the Wool OF Memory.

Willy LII Uk10 OOuuUTN OuTdV0l
the Wool OF Memory.
The woods are again beautiful will
greening trees and the dogwood il
bloom, redolent with the perfume O
the jasmine and honeysuckIe, re
sonant with the song of birds anC
the hum of bees-an inspiration ano
aspiration to all whose souls are at.
tuned in harmony with nature.
AS Jerome K. Jerome says: "In
her own home, the country, ma
ture is sweet in all her moods;
and Oh, how dainty is spring-na-
ture at sweet eighteenth
And so to us who have older
grown in years and experience, but
who have not grown old in heart.
the return of spring unravels the
wool of memory, and we live over
again the ~springtime of our own
lives; but without recalling 'tthe
h~eartaches or the sleepless nights, or
the hot dryness of our Threats, when
she said she could never be anything
to us but a sister-as if any man
wanted more sisters"
He is poor sort of boy and worse
sort Of man who has not felt the dear
atf1iction Of loves wild lunacy. The
JOY of a young lover bids him to
thunder passionately at the very
gates of heaven; his deep dispair
leads him to seek the companionship
Of all the devils which Imagination
can call forth from the deeps OF the
sea Of shadows. He trails the clouds
of glory that emblazon the Junetime
sky, or limps across the dead sward
OF the December mdurnfully defect
ed. He reveals many things and in
spires many emotions. He is the
dawn, the hope of the fulflment Of
the prophecies; He is the living
poem-all the rest are dead. Stands
he at the opening of the daffodil
way, and some maid of the songful
years beckons him to loiter or to
speed. She is the light of undimmed
radiance forever worshipful. He is
the incarnation of things she compre-
hends not, nor seeks to know: He
is father to the man about to be. He
filings his hands above his sunny
head and claims the world to be his
own. She wonders and loves, and
loves and wonders, whilst her knight
of the sparrow's plume commands
all the earth to heed and obey. All,
youth, ali, maiden of the daffodil
way! Oh, beautiful madness!
All boy, ali maiden fair, cherish
loves young dream while it lasts,
remembering the words of the poet
Tom Moore
"There's nothing half so sweet in
life !
AS loves young dream.
The burden Of years rests heavily
upon the heart that loves not youth
because it is youth; that bows not to
beauty because it is beauty. He is
sinful who would rob either of an
hour of joy. Ring the bells, sound
the music. Throw flowers to the
young. Heap the violets and the
81 about them, and clasp them to
thy soul as something precious be-
You'd all the wit of man to surpass!
Love with them-laugh, shout,
dance, grow mad in the intoxication
of innocent companionship. They
will lift your burdens and cast them
aside, holding you as a cherished
playfellow, these lovers Of the young
years. An old woman is beautiful
when she loves beauty, an old man
youthful when he loves youth. To
wound the young, to grieve their
hearts, is a sin for which there is no
power of pardon in the statutes of
humanity. The love Of the young
weighs more in the balance of God
than all the treasures ever mined I
from the deeps of the earth.
GOULD ON CROPS.