We
were glad to note the whitewashed cabins, well kept yards with
roses at the gate, patches of marigolds under the window, and
the ever present birdhouse and adjacent orchard. How at the
sight one's memory goes back to other days with a wealth of
emotion as refreshing as falling dew to thirsty flowers. One
considers how to these people their humble homes may be
priceless in their wealth of associations. They may be indeed
far richer than the owner of some palatial residence where every
luxury abounds and love is not. How often these tillers of the
soil must sit beneath their doorway, watching the outlines of
far hills clothed in dim blue haze; how often, too, they must
have watched the sinking sun as they ate their evening meal of
bread and milk and looked far away over the rolling landscape
with the air of a king. The old home has grown into their lives,
giving them more than wealth. If the soil is not adapted for the
finest crops it may produce better thinkers.
As we journeyed on we thought of John Dyer's lines on Gronger
Hill:
Ever charming, ever new,
When will the landscape tire the view?
We answered his question by saying, "Never." A quiet seemed to
creep over the hot landscape. The great chestnut and basswood
trees seemed to be taking their noon rest; only the buzzing of
myriads of bees filled the air with their sound; a robin settled
near us with open mouth and drooping wings; the maple leaves
hung limp and silent, showing their silver linings; only the
warbling vireo sang her medley among its branches.
Pages:
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52