The Birmingham age-herald., 1915-03-07

And the old house is mine Actually nine I feel the thrill of possession and the pride of ownership. But, as hold the huge iron key in my hand it seems to cast a spell of sadness upon me, and a flood of emotion fills my heart. My mind flies back across the years to my childhood, and 'how memories cluster and cling,'
 1 smell the perfume of the little Star Jessamine as in the long ago I see the ly the east window. And there in the ccrner near the garden stands, twisted and old, the horse-apple tree I climbed iii ehildhoods happy hour.
 am startled by a chorus of bird trills end up near the gables, silhouetted against the sky, a flock of swallows circle and wheel in the fading light; and, "a swallows blithe notes have opened wide the gates of the long ago."
 l see again the tall chinaberry trees with their scented purple blooms, and hear the drowsy hum of bees among the clover blossoms in the meadow. My childish feet have covered every inch of ground about this dear old home stead, and l know every decayed gate
 
 were wont 10 build their nests. Never cid I disturb them, for the birds and flowers were the dearest friends with whom 1 communed in that fairyland time of life.
 I learned just when the feathered song sters were due to arrive in the spring. and eagerly awaited their coming. When the first heart leaves and violets pushed through the frozen ground, I listened Con fidently for the gay whistle of the blue bird. A few days more and l would be awakened by the rolliclling notes of the moeking bird. After this I began % watch the syringa bushes for glimpse of the impudent noisy blue jay. He all ways looked there for a home site. These were followed by the cardinals, flickers. robins and wrens until ere the butter crps nodded their golden heads and the peach buds opened their soft pink petals, the whole orchard and garden rang with one mad merry medley of spring song. How often in the waning afternoon l have sat on the broad low step of the back piazza and watched the sun. crim- sen ball of fire, sink to rest in the fringe of pines that crowned the summit of the hills, and listened to the whip-poor- will $ call to his mate. To this day, l cannot bear the call of a whippoorwill. I al ways associate it with lonely pines and setting suns. How my childish fancy
 
 oyer that mysterious mountain, and I longed to go over and beyond and ex- rlore for myself an unknown land of probable beauties and wonderful possibili- ties. But grandmother kept us close. To her sweet puritan mind, "Home-keep- ing hearts are happiest." And she was right. Still that tiny seed of wander lust grew in my heart and I made a VOW that as soon as I was grown, my first trip would be over that mountain. I did go over, and I found-a railroad station. sawmill and S6 acres of crawfish land stretching away silent and dreary. NO wonder the sun went to sleep and the wbippoorwills moaned. So much for the castles and illusions of childhood.
 The mountain with it's fringe of pines is still in it's place, but to me full grown ] know it has been but a hill all the time
 With what giant perspective the eye Of childhood sees. The rooms in which one played as a child, the yard, the trees and the spring all dwndle perceptibly when viewed once more by the same eyes grown up and worldwide.
 As I sit leaning my head against one of the square door posts, my gaze wanders down across the wheat fields to a dense grove in varying stages of green, bor- dered and dotted here and there with white dogwood and elder. In it's cool
  the roar of the waterfall down near the opening by the pasture gate. In the long ago, that spring seemed as large as a room IS feet square. I fell in once. send ing the frightened minnows scampering under the rocks, and soaring both my black Nanny and myself half to death; for I could see myself perishing young in a watery grave. But Nanny jerked me out and ran with me in her arms grumbing all the while-to the house. where I was put to bed after a second bath, a hot one this time, and made to drink cup of steaming sassafras tea. How I hated sassafras tea,
 Dear old Nanny is in Heaven but I did not allow her to suffer from ennui in my childhood.
 I have just been down to that spring. It is now only about five feet square. Nature must have been filling it up all these years. And the old spring house where long rows of milk Jars. cider jugs. butter crooks and watermelons reposed in the icy branch running through. is now but a skeleton. A big black spider has his home there. and a bright blue lizard ran up one of the moss covered posts blinked his beady eyes at me and scampered away.
 But the lovelest spot about the old homestead was the orchard. How l loved it! It seemed to have a hundred per- fumes.
 'The orchard lands of long ago
 Oh, drowsy winds awake and blow The snowy blossoms back to me
 And all the buds that used to me-
 This wonderful orchard was grand fathers pride. He grafted and sprayed pruned and petted the trees as though they were human, and they responded to his tender care with human apprecfa- ton.
 Near the fence by the garden was the long row of Chinese clngs which