50 IN WINTER. 



the old hay-mow bears testimony to his one-time 

 presence here. Flinging open the heavy shutter 

 of the south window, I glanced at the shining 

 oaken sill and frame. Both were covered with 

 rudely carved letters, initials of many a lad long 

 since grown to manhood, and not one of them 

 now living. How closely I was linked to a long- 

 gone past ! In the bright sunshine of this Janu- 

 ary day there was no trace of winter in the land- 

 scape. From my outlook I saw nothing of the 

 familiar fields and distant river so dear to my 

 own boyhood, but that wilder valley and more 

 rugged fields that were the pet theme of my 

 father's stories when he charmed his hearers 

 telling of his youth. How tame is the present 

 when compared with what has been ! What 

 though the world has wonderfully advanced, 

 there is not for me, for one and I voice many 

 another aught in the present, or aught that 

 imagination conjures up as the possible future, 

 that can charm as does the sweet calling back 

 of days gone by. 



