New England bygones . with its unsafecurb and sweep (how foolish I am !), for the trout little Bennydropped there more than forty years ago. I see nothing savegreen, slimv rocks and the shadow of my own face. I say little Benny, because dead children never grow old. Wetalk of wdiat thev might have been, but we possess only whatthey were. Little Benny died more than forty years ago,—abeautiful, precocious l)oy. Had he lived, he might have l)eena famous man. He is only remembered as the loving, lovablechild, and as such I go back to meet him. Very few are thelasting impressions of the forms and
New England bygones . with its unsafecurb and sweep (how foolish I am !), for the trout little Bennydropped there more than forty years ago. I see nothing savegreen, slimv rocks and the shadow of my own face. I say little Benny, because dead children never grow old. Wetalk of wdiat thev might have been, but we possess only whatthey were. Little Benny died more than forty years ago,—abeautiful, precocious l)oy. Had he lived, he might have l)eena famous man. He is only remembered as the loving, lovablechild, and as such I go back to meet him. Very few are thelasting impressions of the forms and features of lost ones. Someintensity of word or look or action glorifies a moment of a 52 TAir KXGLAXD BYGONES. childs life, and makes its expression an inijierishable thing ofmemory. jMarion, hrown-eyed Marion, rosy, radiant, flinging back herhair with careless abandon, Ijursts into mv room. By that oneattitude and expression I best remember her. You can neverknow what unwitting posture of your child is to become a. treasure to vou. If it dies, you will lose hold of its heart-rending reality, and will be consoled by the ideal suggestivenessof its occasional as[)ects. This is the healing which time, andtime alone, brings to your sorrows. Thus talks the old well to me, treading cautiously upon itsrickety platform. High up dangles the rusty bucket-handle; THE FARM. 53 the balance weight is gone; the sweep and Ixam aio rottenand ready to fall. A spasm of tenderness seizes me; thingstake life. Summer days come back to me, and with them beau-tiful rural pictures of tired men and patient animals slakingtheir thirst. I shut my eyes and the yard is alive again. Oxenare lapping cool water from the trough; laborers are graspino-the dripping bucket, poised on the edge of the curb; upon thedoorstep sits my grandfather, his wliite hair streaming over hisshoulders. How clear-cut the whole scene is,—this |)ictnie ofcommon farm-life ! The oxen lift their heads and blink theireyes, and then
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Keywords: ., bookcentury1800, bookdecade1880, bookpublisherphila, bookyear1883
