California Agriculturist and Live Stock Journal 



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Tom's Come Kome, 



BY T. J. TROWBRIDGE. 



j, ITHJits heavily rocking, swinging load, 

 The stage coach rolls up the mountain 



road. 

 The mowers lean on their scythes and 



say, 

 "HuUol -what brings Big George this 

 way?" 



The children climb the slats, and wait 

 To see him drive past the door-yard gate; 

 When, four in hand, nedate and grand. 

 He brings the old craft like a ship to land, 

 At the window, mild giimdmotherly eyes 

 Beam from the glasses with quaint surprise, 

 Grow wide with wonder, and guess, and doubt; 

 Then a quick, halt-stifled voice shrieks out, 

 "Tom! Tom's come homel" 



The face at the casement disappears, 

 To shine at the door, all joy and tears, 

 As a traveler, dusty and bearded and brown, 

 Over the wheel steps lightly down. 

 "Well, mother!" "My sou!" And to his breast 

 A forward-tottering form is pressed 

 Sbe lies there, and cries there; now at arras- 

 length 

 Admires hie manly size and strength 

 (While be winks hard one misty eye) ; 

 Then calls to the youngsters staring nigh, 

 "Quick! go for your gran'therl run, boys, run! 

 Tell him your uncle— tell him bis son— 

 Our Tom's come homel" 



The Btnge coach waits; but little cares she 

 What faces pleasantly smile to see 

 Her jostled glasses and tumbled cap. 

 Big George's hand the trunk unstrap 

 And bear it in; while two light-heeled 

 Young Mercuries fly to the mowing field. 

 And shriek and beckon, aud meet half-way 

 The old cran'tber, lame and gaunt and gray. 

 Coat on arm, half in alarm. 

 Striding over the stony farm. 

 The good news clears his cloudy face, 

 And he ci;ie6, as ho quickens his anxious pace, 

 "Tom ? Tom come home ?" 



With twitching cheek and quivering lid 

 (A soft heart under the hard lines hid). 

 And "Tom. how d'e do?" in a husky voice, 

 He grasps with rough, strong baud the boy's^ 

 A boy's no more. "I shouldn't have known 

 That beard." While Tom's fine baritone 

 Eolls out from his deep chest cheerily, 

 "You're hale as ever, I'm glad to see." 

 la the low back porch the mother stands. 

 And rubs her glasses with trembling hands. 

 And, smiling with eyes that bleer aud blink, 

 Chimes in, "I never!" and "Only thinki 

 Our Tom's come home!" 



With question and joke and anecdote, 

 He brushes Uis bat, they dust his coat, 

 While all the household gathers near— 

 Ta,nned urchins, eager to see and hear, 

 And.large-eyed, daikeyed, shy young mother. 

 Widow of Tom's unlucky brother, 

 Who turned out ill. and was drowned at the mill 

 The stiickea old people mourn bim still, 

 And theTiope of their lives in him undone: 

 But grief for the dissolute, ruined sou— 

 Their best-beloved and oldest boy- 

 Is all forgotten or turned to joy. 



Now Tom's come home. 



Yet Tom was never ilie favored child, 

 Tbongh Tom was steady, and Will was wild; 

 But often bis own and liis brother's share 

 Of blows or blame he was forced to bear; 

 Till at last he said, "Here is no room 

 For both— I go!" Now he to whom 

 Scant grace was shown hag proved the one 

 Large-hearted, upright, trusty sim; 

 And well may the old folks joy to find 

 His brow so frank and his eye so kmd. 

 No shadow of all the past allowed 

 To trouble the present hour, or cloud 

 His welcome home. 



His trunk unlocked, the lid be lifts, 

 And lays out curious, costly gifts; 

 For Tom has prospered since he went 

 Into his long self-banishment. 

 Each youngster's glee, as be hugs his sharo, 

 The widow's surprise, the old folks' air 

 Of affectionate pride in a sun so good. 

 Thrill bim with generous gratitiide. 

 And he thinks, "Am I that lonely lad 

 Who went off friendless, poor and sad 

 Tbat disiual day from my father's door?" 

 And can it be true he is here once more, 

 In his childhood's "home ? 



'Tis bard to think of his brother dead, 

 And a widow and orphans here in bis stead — 

 Ho little seems changed since they were youngi 

 The row of pegs where tlie hats were hung; 

 The checkered chimney and hearth of bricks; 

 The sober old clock with its lonesome tu-ks 

 Aud shrill, loud chime for the flying time; 

 The stairs the bare feet used to climb, 

 Tnm chasing his wild bedfellow Will; 

 And there is the small, low bedroom still. 



And the table ho had wj^en a little lad: 

 Ah, Tom, does it make you sad or glad, 

 This coming home? 



Tom's heart is moved. "Now don't mind mo; 



I am no stranger guest," cries he. 



"And, father, I say,"— with the old-time laugh — 



"Don't kill for me any fatted calf! 



But go now and show me the sheep and swino 



.\nd the cattle- where is that colt of mine? — 



.\nd the tarm and croijs- is harvewt over ? 



I'd like a chance at the oats and cloverl 



I can mow, you'll find, and cradle aud bind, 



IjOad bay, stow away, pitch, rake behind; 



Fur I know a scythe from a well-sweep yet. 



In an hour I'll make you quite forget 



That I've been from home." 



He plucked from its peg an old farm hat. 

 And with cordial chat upon this and that, 

 Tom walks with his father about the place. 

 There's a pensive grace in bis line young face 

 As they loiter under the orchard trees. 

 As he breathes oiu'o more tlio mountain breeze. 

 And looks from the hill-side far away, 

 Over pasture and faUow and tield of liay, 

 To the hazy peaks of the azure range. 

 Which change torover. yet never change. 

 The wild sweet winds his welcome blow; 

 Even old Monadnock seems to know 

 That Tom's come home. 



The old man stammers and speaks at last; 

 "You notice your mother is failng fast. 

 Though she can't see it. Poor Will's disgrace 

 And debts, aud the mortgage on the place; 

 His sudden death— 'twas a dreadful blow; 

 She couldn't bear up like a man, you know. 

 She's talked of you since the trouble came; 

 Some things in the past she seems to blame 

 Herself for; what, it is hard to tell. 

 I marvel how she keeps round so well, 

 For often all night she lies awake. 

 I'm thankful, if only for her sake, 



That you've come home." 



Th?y visit the field: Tom mows with the men; 

 And now they come round to the porch again. 

 The mother draws Tom aside; let8_.6ink 

 Her voice to a whisper, and, what do you think? 

 "You see," says she, "be is broken quite. 

 Sometimes he tosses and groans all night. 

 And— Tom, it is hard, it is hard indeed! 

 The mortgage, and so many mouths to feed! 

 But tell him he must not worry so, 

 And work so hard, for he don't know 

 That he hasn't the strength of a younger man. 

 Counsel him, comfort him, all you can, 

 While you're at home." 



Tom's heart is full: he moves away. 



And ponders what ho will do and say. 



And now at evening all are met. 



The tea is drawn, the table set; 



But when the old man, with bended head, 



In reverent, fervent tones has said 



The opening phrase of his simple grace. 



He falters, the tears come down his face, 



For the words aeem cold, and the sense of the 



old 

 Set form is too weak his joy to hold; 

 And broken accents best express 

 The upheaved heart's deep thankfulness, 

 Now Tom's come home. 



The supper done. Tom has his say: 

 "I heai'd of some matters first to-day; 

 And I call it a shame— you're both to blame- 

 That a son who has only to sign his name, 

 To lift the mortgage and clear the score, 

 Should never have had that chance before. 

 From this time forth you are free from care; 

 Your troubles I share; your burdens I bear. 

 So promise to quit bard work, aud say 

 That you'll give yourself a holiday. 

 Now, father! now, mother! you can't refuse; 

 For what's a eon for, and what's the use 

 Of his coming home?" 



And so there is cheer in the house to-night. 



It can hardly hold so much delight. 



Tom wanders forth aoross the lot, 



And under the stars (though Tom is not 



So pious as boys sumetiuies have been) 



Thanks Heaven, that turned his thoughts from 



sin, 

 And blessed him and brought him home once 



more. 

 And now he knocks at a cottage door. 

 For one who has waited many a year 

 In hope that thiilling" sound to hear. 

 Who, happy as other htarts may be. 

 Knows well there is none so ghul as she 

 That Tom's come home. 

 —[Harper's Magazine for September. 



1^1 



Slow and Sure. 



Upon tho oiL'hard r:iin must fall. 



Ami S'lak friirn every bramh to root; 

 And bloHSonis bloom aud fall withal 



Befurc tbu truit is fruit. 



The farmer needs must sow and till, 

 And wait the whi-aten bread. 



Then cradle, thresh, and go to mill. 

 Before the broad is bread. 



Swift heel may pet the early shout. 



But, spite of all the din, 

 It is the piitieut holding out 



That maltes the winner win. 



To a Grasshopper. 



Tiny, pea-prcen harlequin I 



What of wonder can descrllw 

 All your odd. gymuastic tribe, 



To the kangaroo akin ? 



Unless Darwin Roes amiss, 

 With his queer hypothesis, 



ChirpinK ehimer, clover climber, 

 Insect atlilelel never stumbling. 

 In your ground and lofty tumbling. 

 StrauKe it is a thlug so frat^ile. 

 Should be so extremely agile. 



Go it, then, spasmodic leaper! 



Seize your pleasure while you may; 



Blow your horn and have your day; 



When the primrose days are over, 



Aiul all dead are vines and clover, 

 TIkiI austere, remorseless reaper. 



Time, will turn us all to hay I 



When October, 

 Ijiko a varlet, 

 nobs the woodland's summer driss: 

 Aud the majjle. blushing scarlet. 

 As the rutllau winds disrobe her, 

 Bhriuks in timorous distress: 



When no longer leans the lily 

 By the mill-pond's mossy edge, 



And an inlluenco damp and chilly 

 Blasts tho rose aud dalfodilly. 

 And the vines along the ledge — 

 When the cricket 

 Leaves the thicket 

 To creep under kitchen rugs; 

 Then, O montebank of bugs. 

 Unique acrobatic vaulter. 

 Your frail powers will fail and falter; 

 And some cliill, autumnal morning. 

 Lying, dying. 

 Without warning. 

 You will ttnd it useless trying 

 Leaping, creeping, singing. Hying: 

 With some early robin waiting. 

 Cool and calm, and aggravating. 

 Like some grim and hungry wizard, 



Obviously deliberating 

 Wheu to pop you in his gizzard. 

 Farewell bniterflies and clover. 

 Death is fate the wide world over. 



— [Golden Uulo. 



A Hundred Vears Ago. 



IJY NATHAN D. UBNEn. 



While aIn:ost every day, just now. 



Some great event we celebrate, 

 Tbat surged ai>out the quivering prow 



Of freedom's infant ship of state — 

 Thruugh lire and smoke aud glad huzzas, 



Thrnugh cannon's crash and bonfires glow, 

 A vision springs of men and things 

 A hundred years ago. 



They had not then the railroad speed. 

 The lightning interchange of thought. 



Nor half tho meed, nor h;ilf the greed. 

 That with the present age have wrought; 



But news was news, though slower sped. 

 No headlong haste they cared to go. 



And ruder hands fed men's demands, 

 • A hundred years ago. 



No might}' cities reared their spires. 

 No proud, palatial homes were theirs. 



They had not then our grand desires. 

 Our railway stocks aud steamer shares; 



But they had'thrilty towns and homes. 

 Had hearths with health aud faith aglow. 



And earnest toil brought goodly spoil 

 A hundred years ago. 



Our ago cau theirs with ease surpass 

 For air and steam, and other powers; 



They lacked the gas aud glass and brass 

 That mark this rapid ago of ours; 



But they had eyes as keen and bright. 

 And faculties as rare. I know. 



And wholesome rests, and manly breasts, 

 A hundred years ago. 



And if they gave us not the rim, 

 'I'he dash and polish we have gained; 



If life with them was liull and dim. 

 Of humbler hopes and tastes restrained. 



The mighty land which is our pride. 

 Our nation's birth, to them we owo 



Who lived aud thought and wrought and (ought 

 A hundred years ago. 



Now. while our glad centennial fires 

 '1 hrough all our country blaze afar, 



God bless our strong, heroic sires 

 Who molded us to what we arc! 



Nor Shall their glory Iw forgot 

 Wiiile pa riot blood shall course and flow 



As filled the veins and flred the brains 

 A hundred years ago. 



A MOTHER told her seven-year old boy, 

 never to p>it otV till to-morrow anything 

 he oould do to day. The bttle urchin 

 replied, "then, mother, let's eat the rest 

 of the plum pudding to night. 



SEASONABLE RECIPES. 



Original, or Such an Have Been 



ProTfd GooU by Trial. 



EFFECT OF LIGHT ON CA>1!ED TO- 

 ^f). MATOEB. 



^[■.T will he interesting to every house- 

 jl- keeper to know that tomatoes will 

 31' not keep if put up in glass jars, 

 •^ since the exposure to light causes 

 *t2 them to ferment, but if sealed neatly 

 in bright tin cans will keep perfectly 

 sweet. Yeast is effected by light in the 

 same manner. Anyone troubled with 

 having bread turn sour should be careful 

 to keep their yeast in a stone jug. If in 

 glass, it should be placed in a dark clos- 

 et. HOUBEKKEPKB. 



[Would it not be just as well to put 

 tomatoes in glass and irrap each jar in 

 paper so that the light cannot get to the 

 fruit? .Unless the tin is neu;, the acid 

 from the tomatoes •will be likely to cor- 

 rode the metul and poison the tomatoes. 

 We prefer glass for all kinds of tart 

 fruits. Tin should not be used the sec- 

 ond time, if used at all, is -^hat our good 

 wife says,— Ed.] 



FRICASSEED TOMATOES. 



Place the tomatoes in a stone jar, and 

 pnt it into a steamer. Wheu they are 

 tender, beat them to a pulp and put into 

 a stew-pan with a little onion (which has 

 been minced and stewed in butter until 

 it is tender), a seasoning of pepper and 

 salt, and some chopped parsley; simmer 

 the mixture for a few minutes, and serve 

 it very hot. It is good either alone or 

 served in the dish with chops, or other 

 meat, sausages or fish of any kind. To- 

 matoes and sausages are capital. Fry 

 the sausages and arrange them in the 

 dish in front of the fire. Cut the toma- 

 toes into slices with some onion thinly 

 sliced; fry them, season them with pep- 

 per and salt, place them among the saus- 

 ages, aud serve them hot. In the same 

 manner they are excellent with anything 

 warmed a second time — chicken, rabbit, 

 game or poultry, cold meat in slices, or 

 fish of any kind. 



TOIIATO SACCE. 



To four quarts of bruised tomatoes add 

 half a pound of salt, and allow to stand 

 for three days, then express the juice. 

 To each half-gallon on juice add 4 oz, of 

 shallots, and U oz. black pepper; boil 

 for an liour; strain and add mace, all- 

 spice, ginger, nntmeg, of each % oz., 

 coriander (and, if desired to impart col- 

 or, cochineal) of each % oz. Simmer 

 gently for half an hour, strain, and, 

 when cold, bottle it. 



TOilATO PIES. 



Take ripe tomatoes, peel and slice. 

 Sprinkle over a little salt, and let them 

 stand a few minutes; pour ofif the juice, 

 and add sugar, half a cup of cream, one 

 e^g, nutmeg, and cover with a rich paste, 

 and bake in a moderate oven over half 

 an hour. This makes an excellent and 

 much approved pie. 



DRYING CORN. 



Corn, when at its best for eating, will 

 shrink little when boiled, and when cold 

 will shell easily with the hand. Boil fif- 

 teen minutes; cool, or ne.irly cool it; 

 shell it from the cob; mingle a large 

 quantity of fine salt, the moisture from 

 the corn will dissolve it; place in a shal- 

 tow pan; the salt extracts the water from 

 Ihe com, it shrinks, and a short time in 

 the sun finishes it. Hang it in paper 

 ba<^. When used, wash off the salt, and 



