I pant for liberty—
Freedom to see my treasure,
To hush its cries, and rest
My infant daughter, yet unnursed
Upon her father’s breast.
CONDY O’NEAL.
“Welcome to Wheatland!” cried I, one fine autumnal evening, seeing my old friend, Captain Evans, approaching my door. “You are a bad paymaster in the article of visits,” I continued, handing him an arm-chair. “Here have I been living fifteen years, visiting you half a dozen times a year, and receiving nothing but fruitless promises of a return for my civilities: but here you are at last, and right welcome to your ancient hall.”
“Aye, aye,” replied the Captain. “Every year, and every month, since leaving this, have I determined that you should have me for your guest; but, I know not how it happened, that each day seemed to bring forth a trouble, or an occupation, at least, sufficient for itself. But here I am at last; and, as Tom is at length out of the way, I mean to be at my ease here, and billet myself upon you for a month at the least.”
Captain Evans was a hardy old “revolutioner,” nearly seventy years of age, but hale and stout, and as active as most men of forty. The farm on which I resided had been the property of his father, and the Captain had passed the greater portion of his life upon it. Inheriting the farm upon the death of his father, the Captain continued to reside on it until the time of my purchasing it from him. His only daughter having been left a widow, with four sons, as yet young, he, at her request, sold the farm, and went to reside with her in another part of the country, devoting himself to the care of his grandchildren and the management of his daughter’s estate. Here I had frequently visited him, and received many an unfulfilled promise of a return in kind to my visits. He had at length taken the opportunity, when the youngest of his grandsons was sent to college, to pay me the long deferred visit.
On the morning following his arrival my guest was, according to his wont, astir very early, and before breakfast was announced we had rambled over the greater part of the farm; each well-remembered spot eliciting its anecdote from my communicative friend.