The Ocala banner. (Ocala, Marion County, Fla.) 1883-194?, 1905-10-13
WOULDN'T YOU like TO BE A
BOY AGAIN?

Call up memory.
Telephone back to boyhood days,
if you would brush away the dark
shadow OF business cares from your
brow for a moment.
Turn the pages backward. Don't
stop to pine over one that might have
been blurred with a sad incident
turn them swiftly and eagerly until
the brilliant pages of boyhood are
reached-a lad of ten, twelve or pos
sibly fourteen summers. Draw the
scenes of your old home close into
your imagination until, within an
hour, you have lived a whole year
back yonder where life was sunshine
and roses.
The scene is laid in the big red hills
where the chestnuts swing in hauhty
defiance high up in the tOp-most
boughs of the tall, tall trees. Where
the Old colonial fence rows are mark
ed with long straight rows of chin
kapin groves.
A boy bounds out of bed as the first
rays of daylight plays across an
October sky, and with happy delight
halls the first white frosty morning
of the season. In the long hallway he
is fondly greeted by a faithful old dog
which follows him closely through the
kitchen, wagging it's tail in happy
anticipation of the good times coming.
Here the boy engages "Old Nanny"
in a sharp argument; comes out mas
ter of the situation by filling his
pockets with fresh, sweet biscuits
and warm, Grip doughnuts, then he
makes his way into the back yard
amid familiar shouts of negro dialect
and broken sentences of reproof.
Bootless and barelegged he braves
the brisk morning air and brushes
aside the frost from the long grasses
with his brown feet. Down through
the old apple orchard he flies away
until out of sight of 'Old Many"
he stops to divide lunch with the dog
and warm his toes in the sandy bed
where the calves have lain.
The foliage of the apple trees is
sparkling with thousand bright en-
eralds-Jack Frost's diamonds of an
October day break; and here and there
big red apple-mellow, sweet and
juicy, hangs temptingly just out of
ordinary reach.
But this boy is not hunting apples.
Provided with Il cotton picker's bag
which swings from his shoulder and
almost drags upon the ground, he
leaps the feace at a single bound and
hurries toward Z grove OF trees in the
woods pasture
Chinkapins! Ny, oh! Did you ev-
er see the like, He gives each tree d
heavy shaking and the ground is COW
cred with the beautiful black spark
ling nuts. That's fine! NOVEMBER
mind the burs, they wont stick this
boys feet. Oh, no. He rakes and
picks up and blows the trash and
leaves from every handful. Now and
then he catches up the cotton pick
er's old bag in both hands and sizes
up the contents. Each time his face
grows brighter. Well, now. That's
most of 'em. He'll leave the balance
to the pigs.
But hold! There's some beauties
sure! Goes back, pulls limb down
and adds few more to his store. He
starts again, but not without looking
back several times in authorization of
another early visit there.
Cold? No, no! This boys heart is
too warm in the rich wine of life to
shiver in the frost. However, as he
turns his bright face toward the dear
old home and secs the dark bfua
smoke curling from the chimneys,
as the delicious flavor of the morn
ing's meal is borne to him on the lad
ing sweetness of the melting FROST
he quickens his footstep.
4 few minutes later the scene is