The semi-weekly messenger., 1904-06-24
THE OLD SOUTH.
A Day at an Old Upper Cape Fear
Country House-Fun Of Charms and
Memories-Out-of-i Munitions OF

Memories-Out-of-d Munitions OF
War.
For The Messenger:
A short time ago 1t was my good for
tune 20 spend a day at an old country
homestead OF the upper Cape Fear
section II Is an unpretentious house.
the abode of unpretentious peopae--
Scotch-Irish from the skin in to the
bone-but one feels entirely, he
crosses the threshold. that he has set
foot on the little domain OF signing
woods and smiling fields OF rugged but
! honest folks. The head of the family
died years back. his life ebbing out In
a terrible hemorrhage as he sat in his
chair. knew him as a southern SOL
dier. true to the core, and afterwards
as no less loyal Southern citizen.
winning the hardearne6 victories OF
peace" through all the terrible era OF
reconstruction.
The old roof-tree still shelters the
widows bowed heao and whitened
hair, and about the hearrhstone moves
the son in sturdy strength and the
daughter in the graceful step of maid
grandmother came from Scotland, di-
rect TO this spot where their descen-
dants lead their quiet and Industrious
lives. They have been long asleep out
there On the brow Of that hill, where
the sough of the wind in the pines
overhead Is a lullaby at midday. and
the great trees cast their long and SOM
bre shadows as evening comes.
But they are not forgotten. The
daughter Of the house holds sacred
every relic OF the past, when the
grandsire, in his lusty, Scotch vigor.
felled oak and pine, and beech, and
maple for his settlement, and cleared
space in this grand wilderness of ma
ture for his family altar and household
goods. 1t was to her deft hands and
ready skill that owed the good dinner
to which 1 received such genuine wei
come. After she had "redd up the
house. to use a homely Scotch phrase,
she joined me in the broad hall and was
quick to show me her treasures with
girlish pride-the grandfather's Sunday
coat, all collar and tails, and no waist
set well up in the back; the good wife's
immense poke bonnet, in which she
came from Scotland and doubt
less it framed bonny face, for this Is
a handsome race I write about; a pair
Of broad antlers, trophies Of the hunts
IildH > pTOWeSS III DySOne Gays.
This country girl impressed me deep
ly, as she gave me scraps of history Of
her house. She wore some neat but
common stuff, suited to household pur-
suits. She has no drawing-room
graces, but, far better, the innate re-
fnement of southern womanhoOd; and
her voice is as soft and musical as the
homestead 6Oor-stone that, away in
the night, one can hear it ripping
along, and tapping with cool. tender
touch the white sand of the
shelving bank. Through the doorway
of the sitting room, / saw the widow
engrossed with her knitting, and across
the fields saw the son at a gallop on
lanky bay colt-off after some miss
ing hogs.
After ALL" thought, ''may not this
be the better life-these days OF homely
toll, those nights of deep repose. this
lot, close up to nature, grand, kindly.
beneficent mother? 1t is true, there
comes to their ears, only as a strange,
distant mufmer the city's roar; and
the worlds fullness, and wealth and
splendor, and the gauds Of success, and
baubles of ambition, are bid away down
behind their borizOn-but envy, and uu-
charita bleness, and jealousy, here new
er crossed this threshold: theirs is the
abode of peace. Love will some day
my side; nay, it may be that ere now
some stalwart Pygmalion CT the plow
has awakened this blushing sylvan
Galatea. God bless bless this pure, un-
affected, sweet, modest country girl!'
Are there in any other country on
earth such homes as were the homes
of the old South-se full of charm, so
mellow with memories so replete with
endeariAg associations! Time ana
change have not buried them AL in
ruins even yet. The new South has
built itself up around them-and
noble South it is, too. manly, selfreliant
and alert-but now and then, like an
old, rare Jewel in setting OF burnish-
ed gold, one comes across one Of those
old Southern homes, the sacred temple
of vanished life. The old-fashioned
gate hangs crooked, the paint is of
the Misunderstanding, s=d plank is
loose~on the piazza steps; there is
skillful patch on the old horse hair So
IA, and two OF the rollers have Sided
away for good from the feet of the
time-stained mahogany side-board.
But there are treasures in the old
house-treasures that not all the mil
lions Of Andrew Carnegie or PferpOnt
Morgan could buy; the quaint portrait
of Caledonian Sire, Mac, who knew
Rob Roy McGregor in the old country,
and perhaps tried a fall with him on
the fragrant heath; the sword of his
grandson. which flashed at the Wilder
ness, and was brought home with the
lifeless form; priceless mementoes Of
youth, and grace, and beauty, tenderly
folded away in chest and trunktsuch
things as the Laird Of Dumbiedikes
told Jennie Deems about in Scott's
Heart of Midlothian" on the morn
ing she started to walk to London, and
beg King George II. for her sister
Effie's pardon: MY mither's ward
robe and my grandmither's, forby-
silk gowns wad stand on their ends,
their pearlin lace as fine as spiders
webs, and rings and earrings to the
boot of a. that-they are a. in the
chamber of dais-oh, Jeanie, gang up
the stair, and look at them!"
Mr.. Walter Watson. The hardware
and gun dealer on South Hay street,
Fayetteville, is an Engiishman, with
all the sterling qualities Of the upright,
downright, hearty Briton. He has been