THE TURNPIKE ROAD. 



I HAVE rambled along the Turnpike road so often, 

 the experiences have become so blended together, 

 that now, to think over them is like the remem- 

 brance of a year. Time has rounded it all, and woven 

 and interwoven the scenes. Here and there a bright 

 colored bird perches on the trees, or an unknown moth 

 hovers over the blackberry blossoms in June, and the day 

 is vividly recalled, for it is most often the occasional, the 

 unexpected, that plows deepest furrows in the memory. 

 And then there are sunny hours that shine forth, though 

 they do not differ from the common passing ones by any 

 outward sign, yet their memory is ensured, for it is some- 

 times the glow within us, and not always external happen- 

 ings, that leaves a lasting impression. Thus there is a 

 Turnpike of memory that is not the same as the actual 

 road, and is different to each one of us. It is a gradual 

 growth, an accumulation of experiences and those memory 

 pictures that are never repeated in all of their details. If 

 we ramble along the highway we not only see what is 

 there to-day, but not being free to leave the past behind, 

 an array of trivialities and more weighty reminiscences, 

 come trooping by our side, for we have traveled before 

 with them on the Turnpike road. 



