There I sat in the old familiar woods and dreamed of the happy long ago, until a gang of blackbirds, spluttering in a neighboring treetop woke me. And when I rose from the log and threw myself into the shape of an interrogation point, and touched the trigger, at the crack of my rifle old bullfrogg shot into the pond; the hoot-owl "scooted" into his castle in the trunk of an old hollow tree; the blackbirds cut the "asymptote of a hyperbolical curve" in the air; the squirrel fell to the ground at my feet, with a bullet through his brain, and there was silence—silence in the frog pond; silence in the trees; silence in "Sleepy Hollow;" silence all around me.
I shouldered my rifle and wended my way back to the old homestead on the bank of the river and silence was there. The voices of the happy long ago were hushed. The old time darkies were sleeping on the hill, close by the spot where my father sleeps. The moss-covered bucket was gone from the well. The old barn sheds had "creeled." The old house where I was born was silent and deserted.
As I looked upon these scenes of my earliest recollection, I was softened and subdued into a sweet pensive sorrow, which only the happiest and holiest associations of by-gone years can call into being. There are times in our lives when grief lies heaviest on the soul; when memory weeps; when gathering clouds of mournful melancholy pour out their floods and drown the heart in tears.
Oh, beautiful isle of memory, lighted by the morning star of life! where the roses bloom by the door, where the robins sing among the apple blossoms, where bright waters ripple in eternal melody! There are echoes of songs that are sung no more; tender words spoken by lips that are dust; blessings from hearts that are still. There's a useless cradle, and a broken doll; a sunny tress, and an empty garment folded away; there's a lock of silvered hair, and an unforgotten prayer, and mother is sleeping there!
DREAMS OF THE YEARS TO COME.
AMBITION'S DREAM.