It is in the evening, when the crescent moon hangs low, that the old House talks to the oaks, living over the days when it held its first young couple, rejoicing with them at the stork’s coming, caring for the little ones as they toddle about the great white-pillared porches, which shade them from too much sun, watching them grow into manhood and womanhood, and finally sending the sons to war with pride and high hope, though deploring the cruel and unnecessary strife between brothers that should have been settled without bloodshed. Because of the spirit of dissension still harbored in the hearts of our people, for many years the South has been crippled and disheartened and North and South have been divided. Time alone can heal these differences and make us one again.
This the old House foresaw, and it opened wide its portals to welcome a Northern family. Being all-wise, it knew that all men are brothers and that between them, God’s finest handiwork, there should be no dissension. This should be left for the dwellers of the under-worlds, that are not so high on the ladder of life as is man.
Never does the old House hold its head quite so high as when the pink-coated horsemen gather with their hounds and thoroughbreds for a cross-country run. Returning to the hunt breakfast, they are greeted with the hospitable groaning of the table laden with the weight of its goodies—great Virginia hams, freshly roasted and melting under the knife; the Brunswick stew, for which the housewife has been preparing many days, sending negroes to hunt squirrels and to select the special corn and tomatoes that go to the making of the world’s best breakfast dish; and from the kitchen at the end of the gallery, steaming hot beaten biscuits to be eaten with gold-sweet butter. The mint juleps are drunk beside crackling fires, and “sport” and “good cheer” are the watchwords. The old House looks down approvingly on the happy company, for it has come into its own, sheltering in these later days kind, cheery people that respect its past glories and love its present homelike spirit, for to them its every stick and stone spell Home.
We drink your health, dear old House. May the future hold as much for you as the past. May you continue to sleep peacefully under the oaks, dreaming happy dreams, and understanding life as only one of your great age can.
THE BOXWOOD FLATS
THE BOXWOOD FLATS
I LOOK up from my book and the cool corner of the veranda, conscious of a very busy, noisy life in the great boxwood trees at either side of the brick walk. For many bird families live among the comfortable, shady branches; and I am reminded of a tenement house in the East End, as all the bird families are large and the making of their living is uppermost in their little heads.