The mirror. (Stillwater, Minn.) 1894-1925, 1913-03-06

Ordor OF the fertile land, to our eyes |
comes the sight of rich pastures, of
whose freshness and greeness all the
world has heard. Every field, every |
tree, every building brings back to
us welcome memories. Every per-
son that we meet on the road has a |
word of cheer, a greeting and a
smile. 1t matters not if you are
personally unknown; their father
has known your father, their mother.
as girl played with your mother;
that is enough, in this land of faith
full friendship. to secure you the
warmest and heartiest of welcomes,
because, in the land that / am TAX
ing you to today, friendship is not
the matter of an hour but is life
long bond, not lightly entered into,
but once formed exests forever. It
is not matter of wealth or success
but is just as strong in the time Of
failure or defeat: once your friend
always your friend, and they aid
there's would do or dare anything in
your service, even to giving their
last meal to help you in your need.
But l am wandering away, we
were driving down the road between
the hedges and soon to our sight
comes the village that is our journ-
les end. Village, I hear you ask; is
that little collection of cottages and
novels what you call a village, why
there are only about dozen dwell
ings altogether, clustered round the
village green, a few poor cottages
and little old out-of-repair church,
surrounded by its churchyard. Yes
This is where l have brought you to-
day and even here we have the same
voices as have come to us from the
crowded cities of the world. We
have the village shop, bacon and
lollipops, calico and tea and they
are doing the same kind of business
as they are doing in the large de-
partment stores of the cities, only
doing it in different way. They
are actuated by the same motive; the
making of money, but they have a
different creed, they want to make a
living but at the same time you are
their friend and neighbor, they sell
honest goods and give you a pleas
ant word. Then as in the cities we
find the saloon, not the gilded gin
palace, but the humble pub" with
its one guest room and its low black
ceilinged bar. No cocktails here
but good honest wiskey, with the
twang of smoke upon it, and not a
headache in the whole jug. This is
the villags club, the meeting place
of all and does its business in the
open. Across the street we see cot
tage set in it's own garden and in
the cottage door plump, bright
faced matron surrounded by swarm
of children. 1t makes us feel old
indeed when we recognize in her a
little Miss that we used to kiss in
the days gone by. Then on little
further the church; yes. surely that
is the old father walking up and
down between the graves stopping
now and then to pull weed. Time
has whitened his hair, and bent his
figure, out the same CHEEKY greeting
still meets us, the same old blessing
the same honest hearty hand grip.
We walk with him and revisit the
spots where loved ones lie. Think
of all that have gone before, See the
resting place of kindred and friends,
and with dampened eye, kneel and
Whisper prayer for those that have
gone before. Then on to the village
end, and here we come to our journ-
les end-an old ramshackle farm
house, low rough stone walls, huge
old black oak joists. straw thatch,