Withered Leaves from Memory's Garland. Abigail Stanley Hanna
realize it is the same form that used to impress this spot with childish footprints. This trunk was then a beautiful, stately tree, bearing its leafy honors thick upon it, and laden with delicious golden fruit. But the glory of the orchard has departed, and why should we linger any longer in its confines, as it only awakens sad memories, and says in an audible voice,
"Chance and change are busy ever."
The carriage road that passes through it, almost blinding us with dust, was formerly a well beaten foot-path for the accommodation of the neighborhood as they walked from one part of it to the other. Let us follow the road up this steep aclivity, and enter the large capacious door-yard which contained several rods of land, and was surrounded by an old fashioned stone wall, which has been beaten by at least seventy-five winters' storms; and the thick covering of green moss upon it bespeaks its age.
The west end was crossed by a fence containing a small strip of land for the purpose of raising early summer vegetables. Here now is erected the splendid dwelling house of one of the wealthiest citizens of the village, and the garden is converted into front yard, building spot and back yard, containing all the usual necessary appendages to a dwelling place, so that here all traces of former days have passed from the spot, and only live inscribed upon the retentive tablet of Memory. On the east end was another small enclosure where we used to spend our leisure hours in the cultivation of flowers and medicinal plants. Here the tall lilac waved its graceful head beneath our bed-room window, and the morning sun, as he parted the rosy curtains of the eastern sky and came forth rejoicing to run his glad race, and pour a flood of golden light upon the earth, shot his first crimson rays upon the thick curtains of morning glories that hung clustering over our window, fragrant with their verdant leaves, and rich purple blossoms, and causing the dew-drops to glisten like sparkling diamonds, while the sweet odors of many scented flowers were borne upon every passing breeze. But could we now recognize this spot? oh no! the destroyer has been there, and there remains no trace of herb or flower; an ell has been built on to that end of the house, and the barn has been moved, so that our beautiful garden has been transformed into a door yard, and all traces of beauty are obliterated. Crossing the garden you next entered upon a large level lot covered with the richest grass that annually used to fall before the sythe of the mower, and descended by sloping hills to the above mentioned luxuriant meadow; through which ran a quiet winding stream that used to afford us an abundance of speckled trout and shining pickerel, to say nothing about the many play hours spent upon its margin; but now the stream is lost beneath the vast reservoir, and has washed away all traces of flowers, strawberries and verdant grass that used to mark its serpentine wanderings, by assuming a deeper green.
The west end of this enclosure was intersected by what used to be called Virginia fence, then crossed into two separate places dividing one into a sheep-pasture, the other into a large garden for the cultivation of winter vegetables. In the pasture used to graze a large flock of sheep, and the snowy lambs sported over the rocks and ran down the hillside; does this remain the same?
The rocks have been removed out of their places, and in their stead dwelling houses have been erected, and the busy hum of active life there resounds, and the prattling of children is heard instead of the bleating of lambs.
Crossing the stream upon the remains of an old dam, and passing the extent of meadow, we entered upon a rich clover field, adjoining which was the corn field, that in autumn used to be laden with yellow corn and golden pumpkins. Contiguous to this was a delightful grove composed of thrifty walnut trees, carefully cleared from under brush and covered with verdant grass, and ornamented here and there with a grassy hillock, that rendered it a pleasant retreat from the scorching rays of the summer sun. The air was filled with the notes of the feathered songsters that built their nests and warbled in their branches, mingling their music with the rustling leaves and the murmur of the distant spring that rippled near, for a gradual descent brought us down to the spring lot, which, with the grove and the swamp that lay below, was used for pasturage. But let us pause and take a survey of its present appearances. The beautiful trees have all fallen before the woodman's axe, not one remaining as a link with their past history; the old fence has been removed that divided it from the cornfield, and surrounded by a new and beautiful one, it now forms a part of a commodious Cemetery, is laid out into tasteful lots as the last resting place of the dead.
Sweet spot; methinks it is meet for the weary children of earth to slumber in this quiet place.
At its foot gurgles the quiet winding stream, and far away comes the din and hum of active life, thronged with the busy crowd whose restless feet are bearing them swiftly on to the end of life's journey, where they must resign the cumbrous load and "join the pale caravan in the realms of shade."
Descending from the grove on the western side, was a low, swampy piece of ground, that had never yielded to cultivation, where we sometimes used to jump from one hillock to another in search of swamp pinks and cheeses which were to be found there in great abundance.
It was ever covered with low brush, of natural growth, and apparently no change had passed over it from its creation, save the natural springing up and decaying of its productions. And so, almost fifty years ago, we left it, but how does it meet us upon our return? Art has touched it with her handy work. It has been drained; the brush cut from its surface, rich loam carted upon it, and now it presents the appearance of a well cultivated garden, is covered with luxuriant grass, and staked out into yards for the accommodation of families who wish to lie down side by side, in the sleep of death. Many, already, are beautified with flowers and shrubbery; and in some, already arises the marble slab, pointing to the place where some weary pilgrim reposes, free from all the earth calls good or great; for this, too, is enclosed in the Cemetery.
But passing the entrance into the Cemetery, we will pass back by a circuitous route, to the dear old home. The road, the hills, the rocks, the trees, and many of the buildings are the same; but, oh, how many and varied are the changes that strike the eye, and awaken in the breast ten thousand bewildering remembrances. Truly has the human heart been compared to a many stringed instrument, giving diversity of sound as it is swept by different winds.
One of the most conspicuous changes, is the withdrawal of a large pond of water that had been pent up by a high dam, over which the water fell, over the bridge we are now crossing, roaring, casting up spray, and then foaming and dancing off, into the meadow below.
Many of the buildings have changed their old fashioned coats of red for the more modern one of white, which is the case with our own old homestead. Opposite the house, or across the way, as we used to call it (for the road was between), stood, what was ever called, the woods. Here, in their season, we gathered the largest whortleberries, the best walnuts, and the nicest black birch that were to be found all the country round. And when we had wearied our limbs, and filled our baskets, how often have we pulled over the tops of the smaller trees, and seating ourselves upon some slender branch, enjoyed a real juvenile ride upon horseback, each one having a particular tree designated by the name of a horse.
Immediately opposite the house, stood a high hill, composed of jagged rocks, behind which the sun ever sank to his cosy bed in the west, and where I have watched the forked lightning play as the blackened cloud gathered together, ominous of a portending storm, while the distant thunder murmured behind their eternal summit. This stands the same, and as you glance down the other side, you see the broad, black river, still rolling at its base. But the woods--the bright green woods--where are they? Echo answers, "where?" Supplanting the place is a young thrifty orchard, and at the base of the hill is a finely cultivated piece of land, and there is nothing but the everlasting hills to tell us of the dear spot where we wandered in the halcyon days of childhood; we cannot even exclaim with Cowper--
"I sat on the trees under which I had played."
Dear old trees! methinks, even now, I can hear your music, when fanned by the summer breeze, or see you toss your surging branches, when rocked by the autumnal gale. Well do I remember your cooling shade as I walked beneath it to the district school house, which was situated in one corner of the dear old orchard. There, too, has been a change; the rocks upon which we used to play have been blown to atoms, and the habitations of men occupy their places. Truly, all things are passing away!
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