The old house, and other stories

The Old House And Other Stories
by Blanche Sellers Ortmann
Published By the Author CHICAGO — MDCCCCX
Copyright, 1910, By Blanche Sellers Ortmann
These stories were written for little Rosanne, with the hope that they may turn her thoughts to the soul in nature, and teach her to love the simplicities in life by keeping her in step with its great scheme, and to recognize and answer the good in all. For through nature and its works the soul of man will reach God.
“ Tante Blanche. ”
THE OLD HOUSE
FOR a hundred years the old House has been weathering the mountain storms or basking in the lovely Virginia sunshine, proud of the fact that its red bricks were made on the place, from the red clay which lies so plentiful all about it, coloring the hilltops and making the roads look like red ribbons tying the mountains to the valleys. The blinds, great green eyelids, reflect the life of the inmates, in the morning spreading wide in a spirit of up-and-about-ness, during the afternoon nap time drowsily shutting in the cool rooms, at sundown opening again for the afternoon tea and visiting hour. The whole House, with its air of quiet dignity and breeding, seems to say: “Why rush or hurry? There is time for all.”
Bless its old heart, if we could count years as it can, we too might be peaceful and restful. But our lives are so short, we come and go so fast, no wonder at times the old House seems looking down on us with sadness; for surely the graveyard in the meadow near by tells the story of man’s short existence. The happy, merry people whose voices once made the walls of the old House ring rest there under the myrtle and boxwood, watched over by the nightingale and whip-poor-will. The old headstones, moss and ivy covered, lean down toward their dead lovingly, as though wishing to get nearer to them.
But what must the old House think, now that it has telephones on each floor, and flaring gas where soft candlelight used to flicker, making exaggerated shadows on the low ceilings. And horror of horrors, a rushing, snorting whirlwind of an automobile rushes up to the old horse block! Ghosts of horsemen can fairly be seen riding hurriedly in every direction, indignant at such intrusion, while the red brick walk, with its border of boxwood, scorns the noisy intruder with its brass lamps all a-shining, and tells of the days when the stately coach with its load of pretty maids and matrons all a-flutter passed by on its weekly trip to town. Now with this new, swiftly-moving, malodorous machine, the trip is made daily, and who can say if the maids be pretty or not, so much like animated sacks of wool do they look in their cloaks, hoods, and goggles.