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!