The Republican journal., 1915-05-13
The Song of the Hermit
Thrush.
Spring Time Memories at Citypoint.
There's No Place Like Home"


set stood in the doorway of my home
and looked out into the wonderful world
of springtime. Looked out across the
river. to the hills and the bluff and the
bay beyond. The same scene has greet
ed my eyes year after year, ever since
they opened upon this mundane exist
ence, and tonight as peace stole over my
aggravated spirit, Owe had the grip,
you know and the purple shadows, laden
with memories of the past EMBODIED me,
l was conscious that grip or no grip, this
was the longed for moment-the time of
all others, and the place, to which my
heart had been turning all through those
days in Florida. A moment later into
my range of vision came Telemachus,
walking slowly with bent head, and on
his face the rapt expression of one who
listens to the music dearest to his soul.
81 never heard SO many hermit thrushes
singing all together-all at one time, -
he said; and as we listened it seemed as
though all the hillside had burst forth
into glorious jubilee of bird song-ioy-
GUS and full of gladstone welcome. We
smiled at each other Understandings,
contentment filling our hearts. Some
friend has asked me within year the
reason of my devotion to Citypoint. Right
here, my friend, would have been your
answer, had you stood at my side tonight
at sunset. Not all the dangers of the
Jericho Road-and we all of us poor hui
mar wayfarers travel the Jericho Road,
do we not?-could hold me back from
travelling down to this place with its
springtime sunsets, its old associations
and memories-and it's song of the her
nit thrush. Citypoint is to me, as it has
always been, the most beautiful spot on
earth, the most ideally situated and fas
cinatingly attractive in its natural
charm of any place it has ever been my
lot to know; but Citypoint as growing
social center bewilders and confuses me-
Progress comes stalking up the valleys
and down the hills clad in strange and I'M
familiar attire, and l, who am conserva-
tive and oldfashioned, shrink away from
it into the world of wonderful spring.
time beauties and the song Of the her
NIT thrush.
Once tried to follow the intricacies
of social life for season as local re-
porter for Maine newspaper. Who is
,b,{ ie hot triaI faith
fully to chronicle as did ever the society
editor.of the New York Times or the Phil
adelphia Ledger. Only for q few short
weeks-at the end of that time pitched
my tent in remote corner of our farm,
under our own scrub pines, and sat down
to rest my head. For several consecu-
tive days l sat there in quiet and harm
less meditation, like Josiah Allen at the
Sunday school picnic. This, mind you, was
a remote corner of our own farmland
there recovered small portion of my
mental poise; but even there the exigen-
cies of social life sought and found me
or rather found my tent. One dark night
the tent was removed from the scrub
pines and was set up artistically in the
schoo!house yard. This was of course
joke, and one which society appreciated
To be sure it savored little of aboriginal
days when, as one might say, one mans
property was as good as anothers-yes
sir, and a good sight better-but could
easily excuse what was so obviously the
outcome of those social intricacies, the
mere consideration of which had driven
me to very verge of some similar wild
escapade.
We are all travelling down the Jericho
Road together, and we all expect to
crowd and be crowded little. Lucky
for US if we occasionally find on the road
a "neighbor' who understands our
ideals, and who sympathzes with our as
pirations and aims-and loves, too, the
springtime's purple shadows and the
song of the hermit thrush. Munchausen
says that l made a fool of myself over
that tent-but we all know Munchausen;
this, like many other things he says is
mos all wind" | did not make fool
of myself l had not recovered .suffici-
ent nerve to make fool of myself over
anything. | simply "forgot it, "and all
else connected with the stress and strain
of social life. Later, as the tent was
not returned, the proper official of our
township was requested to attend to it at
his convenience; one morning it was
found laying on our doorstep, collapsed
and wilted trophy-and nobody has ever
claimed a reward-not even Munchau-
sen.
Over on the hill tonight, across the
river, the slender white birches CLEAN
and their leaves are just beginning to
unfold; higher up, the dark fir trees
stand out against the sky ;all around, the
tender green grass is starting and the
brown fields are waking into life. 1t
seems strange to me that after all the
glory of southern foliage and bloom,
this tender springtime green should be
SO welcome and so restful to the eye; but
so it is; the white birches and the fir
trees and the elms are to me much more