The Baltimore County union. [volume] (Towsontown, Md.) 1865-1909, 1908-09-05
WRITTEN FOR THE UNION"
ALONG THE GREEN LANES OF THE PAST.
BY GEORGE e. TACK.

A sandy road, marked by the wheel
of farm wagons, and in the middle c
the road a narrow strip of sand burrs
between which and the wheel track
are the imprints of horses hoofs. T
the left, flowing softly as the win,
sweeps over it in a leisurely manner
a field of rye glimmers in the mellow
sunlight, and above this pale greei
sea of grain brightly glows the rel
roof of an cid farm house. And |
happy little song-sparrow, perched II
the top of a young cherry tree, bub
bles over with the sweetest of low
notes. A little beyond rugged hill
slopes bravely up toward the whit,
mountains of the sky, flashed By
the sun into a dazzling brightness
Between the glittering ranges a mo
tionless deep blne lake is revealed
Along the top of the hill big pine
trees rear their gnarled shapes, and
seem to wave their rugged limbs in
reckless defiance to the winds thai
blow from the northern world of ice
and snow.
From the far off dense woods a
boisteTous stream leaps and trmbles
and foams its way over the green
stones and logs, and seems to babble
to the dropping trees along Its banks
the news of the little towns up the vale!
The road goes its way up to the
entrance of field and slips under the
bars and follows a worm fence, border
ed with chinquapin bushes and black
berry briars. Now and then the de-
serted nest of an indigo bird may be
seen, or perhaps that of catbird,
with three or four thinly-clad little
"catties, whose yellow edged mouths
spring wide open as if for contribu-
tions from the passerby.
Now I follow the course of the lane
with a quiet Joy, for today I am
treading the same lanes wandered
over when boy. Then I was not
alone for there were other boys to
share with me the dewy freshness of
the air, laden with the faint, sweet
perfume of my favorite flower, the
wild rose, that ever fingers in the
memory like the clinging caresses of
one greatly beloved.
Now I see little red squirrel run
along the top rail of the worm fence,
and after a bit he stops and looks
back at me as if he would like to have
a chat. Sorry, old chap, but I don't
know your language. However, I
can admire your nimble ways and
pretty coat, and I promise not to
throw stone at you as l did your
ancestors years back.
From the edge of the woods comes
a rattling call, the song of the locust.
1t carries my mind back to the day
when as a boy I roamed about the
country and found now and then one
as the slxajshed1uetal WiuQedinsaata
to them as they called, or I fancied
they called, "Pharoah, Pharoah," as
if their tribes had had handed down
to them from generation to genera
tion the name of the king upon whom
their far. r.of ancestors once paid an
unwelcome visit with their families.
The sumacs along the hedges lift
their green leaves today in peaceful
array. A little later and they will be
stained with the blood of the dying
year. Then there are the shoots OF
the paradise trees, which don't smell
to me like Paradise. When a school
boy 1 would run over to the grove
during the noon recess and get an
armful of them. My schoolmates
would do the same, and we would
have battle royal, throwing them
like spears at each other and yelling
like Indians. How very fair the
world appears today. From this hill
1 can look far down the river and be-
hold the sparkling waters of the
Chesapeake bay. The white sails
CLEAN in the sunlight and wing theil
flight across the white capped wave:
like graceful wild birds of the ocean
And above, far away, the sky seem:
to be a land of gold, washed by ar
opal sea, with islands and peninsula:
that run far ont into the tranquil deep
their shores flaming with the gorgeou:
colors of that wizard artist, the sun
How cool the woods look this morn
ing, and how exceeding fair is the
green and gold carpet spread along
the fragrant corridors for my feet tt
tread upon. There are invisible or
chestras up in the leaf-screened gar
dens, and the soft, pleading tones o
the flute and oboe almost WOO me int
their recesses, to wander about from
column to column, where the grap'
vines weave such refreshing canopie'
to shield one from the heat and th'
rain.
Now my thoughts wander back t.
the curtained past, with its memorie
and shattered dreams. And remem
Der that my dear little mother woult
tell her friends that was out in th'
woods under tree looking at the sky
Within my heart was cherished thei
a love for nature and NATURES God
whose voice whispered so softl.
through the dim forest aisles, befor
which all other loves have dwindle'
and perished save the love for tn
pure and the true. And have learn
ed that there is but one unfailin,
source of love-tbe author of love
the Man of Calvary, who loved m
and gave Himself for me, creature c
the dust. Before Him bow in adora
ton, and cast all I have at His feet
for He is worthy of all one ca
bestow.
There is subtle influence abroa
in these wales and fields that can hol
me like the presence of one beloved
Even when away from their presenc
nv heart goes back to them wher
the stream and whispering woods ca
for their wandering one.
Now the vast sky glows with COZ