Edgefield advertiser. [volume] (Edgefield, S.C.) 1836-current, 1913-02-12
Back Again at the Oaks.

ures mingled with a great degree of
sadness was my visit at the Oaks to
dining ON the last day of the old
year. This is where l first saw the
light. The kind friends who now
own the dear old home gave all lib
erty through all the apartments.
This is where my mother tlrst
taught me how to pray, and father
first set me tha example of godli-
ness. This is where / remember
my first Christmas and Santa Claus,
and as 7 wandered here and there,
occasionally / would stop and let
my memory run back to childhood
and boyhood days, playing In the
brook as the COWS came from the
meadow, and where we strolled
through the thicket listening to the
musical murmur of the bees, and
harmonious twitter Of birds, and the
song of the little brook, and the
whippoorwill as he sent out his keen
mellow notes upon the night air,
and the big green frogs with their
bass voices at the pond hard by. So
many happy associations cluster
about those good old days 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 sounds of
we'll known footsteps, the sugges-
tion of boyhood and girlhood days
and the shadow of tender sorrows,
and the reflection of ten thousand
fond memories; the school days and
their trials and struggles with nard
problems. These things are but
memories now-dreams of the past
but they are bright dreams. The
tooth of time and the finger of de-
cay have been left at the old home
where thirteen children were reared,
nine sons and four daughters. But
in 1861 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
when the bugler sounded the alarm
my brothers at the Oaks answered
the call. Three were killed IN
battle, three wounded, three wen
through unhurt, three died over a
year ago, and three are living in
different states carrying bullet scars
which are letters of nobility.
A mans home is where he places
his shingle and bakes his bread,
but still call the place of my birth
home. I love the house with its
hallowed memories sand holy ssso-
Citations; 1 love every nail in its
walls; l love every tree, and shrub,
and flower, and blade of grass that
grows there In field and forest. Yes,
I still call the dear old place home.
How sweet that word-what beau
tiful associations cluster there.
Home! That " Word quickeps the
pulse, warns the heart, stirs the
soul to its depths! 1t makes age
feel young again. 1t rouses apathy
into energy. It sustains the sailor
on his midnight watch. 1t inspires
the soldier with courage on the bat
tle6eld, and imparts patient endu-
rance to the worn-down sons of toll.
The thought Of home has proved
seven-fold shield to virtue. The
name of it has called back the wand
erer from sin and vice. When /
see the word home it seems to
rise and sparkle, and weep, and
whisper, and thunder and pray. 1t
wrinkles like star, it springs up
like a fountain, it glows like sun
set, it sings like an angel. And if
a Herod would seek from Hethle-
hem to Egypt, to cast forth that
word from the language the child
ren would come forth and cover it
up with flowers, and the wealthy
would come forth to hide it :nder
their diamonds and pearls, and
kings would hide it under their
crowns, and some bright day it
would flash from among the gems,
and breathe from among the flow
ers, and toss from among the
crowns, and the world would read
it bright and fair and beautiful,
Home, sweet home!"