New Britain herald., 1914-07-11
Going Back to the old Town.
Cincinnati Enduirer.)

When the longing for the summer vacation bears down insupportabiy- and it invariably comes with a rush you think of the little village of your youth. Tailholts perhaps, or Possum Trot, or Mineral Springs. Any one will do. for they are all alike when the call arrives, and you feel that you can stand asphalt and brick walls no longer. You forget to re- member that much that you anti cipated for last time never mater ialized-that one-third of the plea sure was in looking forward before hand, and the remaining two-thirds in looking backward. It'n be diff ferent this time. You are assured of that. Anyhow, the spell Is on. The desire comes plunging with crash and a scream, just as No. 6 used to go through the way station
 "a weaving, rhythmic motion a few moments before, then blur and roar and once more the poetry of motion in the receding distance.
 But you make ready and go. And the "Missus" goes. too. You haven't yet reached the point where you can appreciate the jest of your friend that one whom your better-half cor- dially detests-who asks whether you're going for a good time. or in- tend to take your wife. She's never been to the old home. You've told her all about 1t, however, and now you propose to show her.
 The twain arrive, and the evening and the morning are another day. Where are the glories. and the mys- teries? What has become of the greatness of it all? It's fine wind ing road, all right. only-ahem-- pretty dusty, eh? Yep, pretty dusty. sure enough! And the old ''crick" how she has shrunk-used to be the boy who could throw across her was a Jim Dandy, but now you, can wade at the low places without wet ting your shoe heels scarcely. And the big spring isn't so all-fired bis.i either. And the pasture field is smaller than it once was, and the buttermilk tastes of ragweed. And the hot biscuits-Oh, mother ,gets her bread from the bakery now And the little sugar pies she used to bake but she's lost her hand" she saya. and the baker makes flrst-rate pies. also. And-Oh, shucks!
 still, you stirred the old girl once. That was when you walked throughl the beech woods, and she spied the initials on the scared bark, "P. B. they were, and "A. F. H." with al double e-headed arrow running through them. The first were yours. Why I never heard you speak of any A., F. H." says your wife. Who is she?" How in the world did "she" know she was a "her?" But that's the way with the woods--can't touch, em without hitting primitive in- and jealousy, and that sort of thing.
 But when night came-one of those soft, velvety kind of nights known only to Southern Ohio highlands-- you sat together on the old porch. -rickets chirped. Down at the hem house the chickens huddled closer to- yether, making auerulous little sounds. The flash of the firefy could be seen in the damp meadow be. vond. Myriads of insect voices blend ed in droning murmur. Starlight lrenched the leaves of fir and pop. ar. The sad plaint of the whippoor- will was heard far away Her hand steals into yours. Today didn't she is saying, "but to- 1ight I do." And then she went onf like this kindly nightfalI. 1as plotted out for you all that was 1ot and garish and unlovable in the fife you then knew, leaving only that which is good and beautiful to re- member in an evening that is cooU md restful."
 Vacations-in the country--ar~ pretty. good things, after all; aren.t hey?