furnace at Bellefonte, ten miles away; or 5-7 cigars down, 7-9
back, according to the roads, as Prex used to say. There’s the
line of the pike, there by the half-way house. Can you see the
old ‘ ‘ Alabama ’ ’ as she careens along ? Ha 1 ha I how Ben would
laugh at that! “g’lang there! the mail’s wery heavy to-day.”
And do you mind the day when little Tom Jimson came riding
up on his bay mare, calling out, “ Abe Lincoln’s dead, boys, Abe
Lincoln's dead,” while he galloped on to carry the news to Pine
Grove ? The eye ranges west again over the sombre shadows of
the barrens. That’s about the spot where the best of the
” Wielandite ” was found. Wonder what “Rastus” is up to
now? Pushing something, no doubt. Success to him. What’s
that light there at the barn ? Some more ‘ ‘ spontaneous combus
tion?” Oh, no! that’s only the light in the boiler room. The
Beaver field ! How plain its outlines are ! And yet plainer still
is the old diamond without stand, without track. ’Twas there
that “ Monte ” took his first lessons, there his curving genius first
displayed. What a character he was ! Bright, active, a great
head on a lithe body. He made a grand score on one field; he is
able to make as great in another. I have faith that he will.
These buildings how many an old landmark they have displaced !
Right there was where we had that skirmish line, along the
old stone wall. A trifle only to that side is where the cannon ran
over “ Glub’s ’ ’ foot. Confound it ! why didn’t I take another
day in San Francisco and go out to the Presidio to see him ?
He is a first lieutenant now, you know, and well up in the line
for promotion. Nearer still, Ah, there’s the purple beech and the
clumps of shrubbery, all that are left to mark the old-time dwell
ing place of him to whom, as boy and man, I owe so much. Peace
to his memory. A slight turn to the right, the little copse where
on that hot Sunday in September we laid poor Bdrault. Poor?
The preacher said he was rich. Memory becomes a little clouded,
the mind confused: faith and hope rise. After all “ the Present,
the Present is all thou hast for thy sure possessing; like the patri
arch’s angel hold it fast till it gives its blessing.” The breeze is
rising and shifting to the west, Its growing cooler—better go.
Tightening my coat my eyes sweep backward and forward again
and again over the peaceful scene. All is harmony, and not a
discordant note breaks the delicious stillness. Yes! Yes! "then
of what is to be and of what is done why queriest thou ? the past
and time to be are one, and both are now. ’ ’
The Free Lance.
[November,