In all this we seemed to forget ourselves, with the fifty years of ups and down on Life's tempestuous waves, and in friendly glee we were back again in that fair morning, dreamily anticipating Life's strange journey, so unlike the reality fond memory now reveals.
Together we all visited the cemeteries on the hill at the north, where the rippling waves of old Wabbaquassett click along the shore so near the feet of those whose voices we do not hear, but whose sweet smiles seem to reflect back to us their beauty as our earthly vision grows dim.
Soon the stranger will pause to read and say: "Who were all these Richardsons, Newells, Aborns and Dimocks?" In the silence reason seems to whisper: They came forth in the dawn; enjoyed a brief day; and returned to the silence of an endless Eternity.
"Now dear to my heart are the scenes of my childhood,
When fond recollections present them to view;
The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wildwood,
And every loved spot which my infancy knew.
The wide-spreading Pond, and the Mill that stood by it,
The Bridge and the Rock where the cataract fell;
The Cot of my Father, the dairy-house nigh it,