Gloucester County Democrat. (Woodbury, N.J.) 1878-1932, 1903-10-08

County, on a by-road leading down
through the picturesque valley of Raccoon
creek. an affluent of the Delaware river,
known formerly by the native Indian
rovers of it's shores by the more romantic
name Of Narriticon. If it be still the same
inviting home which l knew in boyhood
with its fertile fields, its orchards Of plen-
teous fruitage, its towering vines of clus-
tering grapes and garden of old time flow
ers, then, that would indeed be happy
day that would lead my footsteps back
again to the holy shrine of my heart.
Though so many years have passed since l
was a happy dweller there and so many
and varied have been the phases of my life,
turn to it ever as the roof tree and keep
it in sweet remembrance still.
In the halcyon times Of my boyhood the
pretty stream of Raccoon had fully twice
the volume of water pouring down its bed
as nowadays, for the forests which shaded
its main sources miles away, between the
river and the sea and kept them perennial
! from year to year, had not been hewn
down by the axeman. All the grist and
saw mills then had plenty of water to turn
their wheels and the angler always found
good fishing in the streams clear depths
under the dense branches of the elms,
naples and willows which overhung the
banks and its well kept meadows yielded
always ample returns of the best hay and
pastures in the summers. Alb how this
last mentioned reminds me that haymak-
ing then had tinge of romance about it
which never invests it now The moving
machine had not come The mowers were
the sturdy sons of the farmers and their
hired hands. I can see them now as look
back through the long vista. There they
go, swinging their well hung, keenly
whetted scythes, turning the flush growth
of red top and white clover into even
swaths behind them as they cut over the
clean, level grounds, keeping regular step
like company of troops, one with another
from beginning to cid. Then followed the
spreaders, tossing with their forks the
serried swaths to and fro in the July airs
and sunshine, till they gave forth frag-
rance which filled the whole meadow with
an incense purer and sweeter than any
which ever rose amid priestly chantings in
great cathedral aisles
The well-flled basket Of luncheon came
to the hands at 10 o'clock, and how eagerly
it was welcomed from the hand of the
rosy-cheeked lassie who brought it, trip
ping over the green sward merrily. You
may talk to me about your Hebes-why.
one of those healthy, comedy, country girls
was worth tribe of the Grecian damsels
Then, the college mania had not taken
hold of the farmers daughters, to turn
their heads city and fashionward, and set
them against all d nestle employments.
Their lives were more simple and natural
than now. They had but little learning
beyond the three Rs. They could not
play operatic airs at the piano, nor make
pictures in oil and pastel, nor were they
experts in golf, tennis and whist, but they
could work a spinning wheel, make gar
ments and knit stockings for the house
holds They were adopts in the arts of
cooking and baking aud the care of house.
They could harness and drive horse, milk
tho ooxuc a++and +o tho do+ailc Of +bo do;r,,
and help their brothers and fathers out
doors on the farm. love to think of their
excellences and delight to honor them, now
that they have passed.
But the luncheon-ah! Appetizing bread
of wheat or rye, golden butter and cheese
not the spurious butter, nor the tallowy
cheese of this later day of frauds and
adulturations which have almost entirely
taken the places of the pure, wholesome
articles made by our grandmothers. With
this rural repast, the drink was Jug of
cold milk from the farm house cellar or a
pail Of pure cold water from the bubbling
hillside spring; and while the black bird
above and around them the workmen en-
ioyed it with zest which the unsatisged
votary of appetite in the cities might have
envied The luncheon gave new strength
to the mowers arms, and they held out
well through the sultry hours till the noon
day repast.
All, yes Hay making and harvesting
have well nigh lost their old time poetic
significance; for the old time scythe and
sickle and cradle have fallen into disuse.
Moving grass with scythe and reaping
grains with sickle or cradle are among the
lost arts. The musical ring of the old
'quinnobog' milestone has died away
forever from field and meadow and stream
and hillside. Not one of thousand farmer
boys nowadays knows how to whet
scvthe nor 11sa one For the farnaarie hox,