MISCELLANEOUS, 243 



life as is usually given to men to see in the same period. 

 Fortune has smiled and frowned upon me by turns, but even 

 under the influence of her brightest smiles I have never for- 

 gotten the humble home, the old log cot, wherein were spent 

 as many happy days as were ever allotted to any human being 

 in a like number of years, no matter with what luxuries he 

 may have been surrounded. From the splendors of capitals, 

 of fashionable salons; from amid brilliant circles of gay 

 friends ; from the banquet table, my thoughts have oft turned 

 toward the old, old homestead, and with the poet I have sung: 

 " Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home." 



I have often sighed for a look at the old home, the hills, 

 the rocks, the trees, the little brook, and the many objects 

 whose images are so indelibly stamped upon my memory, but 

 never until now have my longings been gratified. 



After an absence of more than twenty years, I find myself 

 standing on the platform at the railroad depot which is nearest 

 to my old home. The train has moved away, and I turn to a 

 stranger who stands near, and inquire for certain of my old 

 friends and neighbors. To my great delight I learn that 

 many of them still live in the neighborhood, and I start at 

 once in search of them. I choose to go across fields and 

 through woods, in order to examine well remembered objects 

 and localities, and see if they still have the familiar look they 

 had when last I saw them. 



I am told that about a mile from the station three of my 

 old schoolmates, the "Barrett boys," are living on adjoining 

 farms, and thitherward I wend my way. First I find little 

 Harry, the happy, genial lad of bygone days, and always one 

 of the favorites of the school, with both the teacher and the 

 pupils. Now he has grown to manhood, is a well-to-do 

 farmer, married, and has several children growing up around 

 him. But he is the same bright, cheerful, agreeable Harry 



