. The New England magazine . e, of the slave ship,and the capture of innocent Africans, andthe chasing and capture of the slaver by aman-o-war. It recalls the dark scenesso truthfully depicted by that wonderfulpainting of Turners, The Slave Ship. The village was once of much greaterimportance than now, for it was the finan-cial, as well as the political centre of thecounty, but when the Grand Trunk Rail-way was built up the little Androscogginvalley, the commercial spirit departed, andwent down the hill to found the enter-prising villages of South Paris and Nor-way. There are two thoroughfares
. The New England magazine . e, of the slave ship,and the capture of innocent Africans, andthe chasing and capture of the slaver by aman-o-war. It recalls the dark scenesso truthfully depicted by that wonderfulpainting of Turners, The Slave Ship. The village was once of much greaterimportance than now, for it was the finan-cial, as well as the political centre of thecounty, but when the Grand Trunk Rail-way was built up the little Androscogginvalley, the commercial spirit departed, andwent down the hill to found the enter-prising villages of South Paris and Nor-way. There are two thoroughfares to thesouth village, — one directly down thehill, and the other through the stonybrook valley. This stream is rightlynamed, for although there are occasion-ally quiet pools which mirror the darkforests or towering hill, as a whole, it isone continual dash from rock to rock, fill-ing the eye with delight, and the air withmusic. It is pre-eminently, a scene foran artist, and is a fitting finale to a visit to the hills. ,*^-. OUR NEIGHBOR. By Mrs. J. T. Bayne. HE sits at his door at close of day,Our strange, sad neighbor over the way,No one of his own with him to stay ;So alone he dwells, alone alway. In a house that was built in days of yore. With a high pitched roof and a carved front door. The ceaseless flight of our tennis ball To the lithe young players merry call. Sweet songs of the biads at even-fall. The laughter of children through it all,—He heeds not, hears not, a long day spedIs present to him, he lives with the dead. Is it not pleasant, oh, neighbor mine To sit at your door in sweet sunshine ? The grape blossom scent is poured like wine. Was ever a June before so fine? Dark are the days to me, dreary and I ought to have died long years ago. 734 OUR NEIGHBOR. For life grows bitter, and hope weary, weary the sunset davs,Yea, owls and dragons, the Good Book saysShall dwell in their pleasant palaces. But your long life surely some good has seen? F
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