AN ABANDONED FARM HOUSE AND WHAT WE MADE 



OF IT. 



* ' There are no ways like the old ways. ' 



It was an old house, stretching its gray 

 length from out of an old orchard. The 

 weatherboards in the sunlight had a sheen 

 of silver, while the shadowed end was 

 of deep, cool violet. 



The doors swung free, and dusky open- 

 ings showed where had once been win- 

 dows. 



It was very warm that August day 

 when we drove over the hill and saw 

 for the first time this old, deserted house. 

 We went up the lane from the highway 

 to get a better view, and I was delighted 

 to find that there were low, wide rooms ; 

 and in three of these were fire places, 

 deep and broad. 



The house bewitched me. It seemed 

 to extend to us who had no real home, 

 a most cordial and hospitable welcome. 

 Later on we bought it and a bit of land, 

 and began the reclaiming of this aban- 

 doned farm. But it was not until the 

 next April when the soft, clinging wet- 

 ness of springtime was everywhere ; 

 when the blackberry bushes were taking 

 on rose color, rich and deep, and patches 

 of vivid green were appearing in hol- 

 lows and under hedgerows, and the dead 

 weeds were giving a gray-brown, yellow 

 tinge tO' the landscape, and the buds were 

 just showing in the fruit trees, that we 

 went over the hill to take possession of 

 our own "The Old House." 



It required some outlay of money; a 

 good deal of hard work and patience and 

 time to establish ourselves in comfort. 

 But the happy days passed under the 

 patched roof have been a recompense, and 

 we have a summer home, quaint, restful, 

 and with a beauty of its own, gained from 

 the long years of sunshine beating upon 

 its unpainted sides, and the washings of 

 the rain storms, and the touches of the 

 snow and wind of many winters. 



Our hearts were filled with the glad- 

 ness of spring in those first days, aud our 

 love for nature gave us courage to under- 

 take great deeds. It was then that tam- 

 arack trees. were cut and shaped, and a 

 rustic porch built where we set out the 

 wild clematis brought fro^m a nearby 

 stream and which soon covered the 

 crudeness of our work. Hollyhocks were 

 planted to bloom at a later time 

 into great pink and red masses 

 about the kitchen door and one old 

 chimney, while the sunflowers were 

 glorious that first summer. An old-fash- 

 ioned garden was platted at the side of 

 the yard, and the currant bushes formed 

 a hedge. The apple trees were trimmed 

 and the brush pile left for a nesting 

 place ; a pair of brown thrashers took the 

 hint and raised their family among its 

 protective intricacies. And oh, how glad 

 we were that we did not allow one gaunt, 

 dead limb at the front of the house to 

 be severed, for some bluebirds selected a 

 woodpecker's hole in its side and set up 

 housekeeping there, but were obliged to 

 fight frequent battles with the sparrows 

 for its possession. The morel mushrooms 

 grew thick in our orchard that first 

 spring, but never again. Why? 



We found later, in our front yard, a 

 dainty bed of the fairy ring mushrooms. 

 This has increased in size each year un- 

 til now the diameter of the ring must be 

 at least nine feet. I think Dame Nature 

 learned of our disappointment over the 

 disappearance of those other mushrooms 

 and planted these most delicate of fungi 

 as a solace to our grief. This old mother 

 is so very kind to those who love her and 

 her works, and tries in many ways to 

 cover up defects and make beautiful the 

 rough places. Before our time she had 

 wreathed the garden fence and rickety 



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