The independent-reporter. [volume] (Skowhegan, Me.) 1909-1955, 1912-11-14
REC0LEECTIONS OF THE OLD
HOME
Written by II Former SkOHhegan Resi-
dent Now Located in Michigan.

/
There is no word in the English
! language so pregnant with meaning
as the word home" The typical
! country home is not a place for costly
structures which adorn the city
streets, and the place | would describe
is familiar to nearly all
! 1t is on old-fashioned dwelling and
stands back from the road, that winds
over hill and dale, through sweet
smelling forests and beside babllirg
brooks until it is lost in the distance.
1t is a country home and the scene
must have a summer setting.
There was house full of children.
The old home swarmed with boys and
girls How we used to run and jump
in the breeze full of life and spirit,
throwing ourselves down in the sweet
grass while the wind went ripping
F., through the leaves bringing down
showers of apple blossoms. Do you
tiit ilOuio We io5 "RtNh' n
the blue sky and the fleecy clouds as
they moved slowly by and took on fan
tastic shapes filling us with ave.
The very birds, the Whispering
breeze. the trees, and the whole ami
NAL creation, told of the glory of
nature and neither caring or under
IL ELL 10
glory DO you remember the old barn
with it's wide open door the inviting
hay mows and the cool cellar where
the Baldwins and Greetings we1c
kept? Could man ever forget such a
home? And there was the brook that
dubbed and foamed through the end
of the farm. How sweet was the
sound as it rushed over the shining
pebbles to join the mother stream =
mile away. How many happy hours
we spent by the side of that little
winding brook; we tished for minnows
and waded laughing as the little fish
poked their noses against our bare
legs. Then there was the old swim
ing pool just through the woods anl
how often we raced to the cool spot,
undressing as we ran for YOU rem
ember who ever undressed first YVES
best. How we sported in the water,
the mud like little animals, but always
keeping an eye on the Devils Darn
ing-needle" for we believed he would
sew up our eyes.
The cave was in the hillside just
below the old orchard of apple trees
that was planted many years ago by
some pioneer long since gathered to
his Father The trunks were crook
ed, the boughs untrimmed and the ap-
pies were knotty but no fruit ever
tasted sweeter to a boys palate.
In the springtime when the tender
grass was springing up how sweet
the fragrance of those apple blossoms.
Those we're happy days never to be
forgotten. We have lived them over
and over again in memory. But We
went back, you and I, mistake that II
was for We longed for the days of old.
and the scenes of our childhood. Our
heads were frosted and we did not
realize that things to the old are act
what they seem to the young.
The cares of life and the weight
of years so change the nature o. man
that only in memory can he turn back
the pages of The Great Book OF Life.
We thought of the old home, tho old
scenes, the old faces. the apple bios
SONS and thirty years vanished into
the past.
On the hillside were little grassy
mounds, perhaps fathers or mothers.
The old cemetery looked desolate, and
the wind that shook the great trees
sang a mournful song over the City OF
the dead, even the graves looked mar
row and the little granite slabs, cheap
and mean, but the storms of many
winters had nearly obliterated the
simple words from the stone that
marked the last resting place, and sad
dened we passed to the brook where
together we had passed so many
peaceful hours and we found no pleas
ure there The old home was desolate
and empty and as we came away we
were silent. There was a dull pain In
nnr breasts and tears stood in our