The Dawson news. (Dawson, Ga.) 1889-current, 1912-07-03

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back to childhood and hoyhoou DAYS
playing in the brook as the cows
| came from the meadow, ana Wnere
we would stroll through the thlcKet
listening to the musical murmur ol
the bees, and the harmonious tW1tteI
| of the birds, and the Tustllng or the
leaves. and the song of the little
| brook and the whippoorwill as ne
sends out his keen mellow notes upon
the night air, and the big green frogs
with their bass voice at the rushy
pond hard by. So many happy assocl-
atoms cluster about those good old
davs and the dear friends that have
long since gone to the great beyond,
the stately oaks that once shaded US
from the heat still stand as sentinels
of the past All these things call
up untold melody-the sound OF we'll
known footsteps, the suggestion OF
boyhood and girlhood days, and the
shadow of tender sorrows and the re-
Elections of ten thousand fond mem
cries; the school days and their
trials, the boyish struggles with hard
problems, all Of which ask remem-
brance. These things are but memo
ries now-dreams of the past-but
thew are bright dreams. THE old
oaken bucket, the moss covered
bucket still hangs in the well. The
tooth of time and the finger of decay
has been felt at the dear old home,
where thirteen children were reared,
nine sons and four daughters. But
in 1851 the blighting hand of war
spread it's cold inky fingers over this
fair land, and stirred up the eagles
nest at the Oaks; and as the bugler
sounded the alarm nine brothers at
the Oaks answered the call. Three
were left on the battlefield; three
were badly wounded, and three went
through unhurt; three died last year,
and three are living, carrying bullet
scars, which are letters of nobility.
These three are visiting the old home
this week at the Oaks. A mans home
is where he places his single and
bakes his bread, but l still call the
place of my birth home. l love the
house with its hallowed memories
and holy associations; l love every
nail in the walls; I love every tree,
and shrub, and flower, and blade of
grass that grows there in field and in
forest; yes, | still call the dear old
place home" How sweet is that
word, what beautiful associations
cluster there. "Home!" That word
quickens the pulse, warns the heart,
stirs the soul to its depths; it makes
age feel young again; it rOuses apa-
thy into energy; it sustains the sail
or on his midnight watch; it inspires
the soldier with courage on the bat
tlef1eld, and imparts patient endur-
ance to the worn-down sons of toll!
The thought of home has proved
seven-foId shield to virtue; the name
of it has been spell to call back
the wanderer from sin and vice.
Whenever l see the word home" 1t
seems to rise and sparkle, and weep
and whisper, and thunder and pray.
1t wrinkles like star, it springs up
like a fountain, it thrills like a song,
it leaps like a flame, it glOws like a
sunset, it sings like an angel; and if
some photographer urged on by a
spirit from beneath should seek to
cast forth that word from the Ian
guage the children would come forth
and cover it up with garlands of wild
flowers, and the wealthy would come
forth to hide it under their diamonds
and pearls, and kings would hide it
under their crowns, and after Herod
had hunted it's life from Bethlehem
to Egypt and utterly given up all
search some bright day It would flash
from among the gems and breathe
from among the flowers, and toss
from among the crowns, and the
world would read it bright and fair
and beautiful. Home, home, sweet
home!"
My Mother at the Gate.
There's many a lovely picture on
memory's silent wall;
There's many cherished image that
l tenderly recall.
The sweet home of my childhood
It's singing brooks and birds,
The friends who grew up around me,
Their loving looks and words;
But the sweetest, dearest image
That fancy can create
Is the image of my mother
Ny mother at the gate.
hear her parting blessing,
The lapse Of many years;
look through all my sorrows
At her own silent tears.
All, midst the darkest trials
That mingle with my fate
turn to that dear old image
My mother at the gate.
No Borrowing thought can reach thee,
No grief is thine today;
God gives the joy for mourning,
He wipes the tears away!
Thou'rt waiting in that city,
Where holy angels wait,
And when l cross the river
I'll see mother at the gate.
J. RUSSELL WRIGHT.
TObncfon 9 n