St Johns College - Yearbook (Annapolis, MD)

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Gbe Mb lbomeateab. T XV.-XS a bright morning in early November. I had started out immediately after breakfast for a tramp across the country, taking with me gun and dog, in the prospect of seeing game. I had met with my usual ill success at gunning, but Was not in the least dis- heartened. The reason will be apparent to all lovers of nature. I inhaled with exuberant spirits the clear, blue air. cool and crisp with the frostg and the rugged scenery of the country through which I was passing made me oblivious to the discomforts of jumping branches, climb- ing fences and forcing my way through tangled briars. In fact. I did not care much Whether game was abundant or scarce, as I had plenty to occupy my attention and to prevent me from becoming weary. I found pleasure in the rustling of the forest leaves and the tinkling of covv- bells in a distant meadow g and then I enjoyed Watching the frisl-:ing of the small birds and squirrels among the branches of a gigantic oak. Vnder such circumstances as these, with nature at her best, I could easily imagine the sentiment which prompted Cowper to sigh, O, for a lodge in 501116 vast I Wilderness! But there was more yet to be seen. I soon arrived at a spot which, for its picturesque scenery as Well as for the signs of desolation and desertion exist- ing there, might well have been sufficient to inspire a Goldsmith to write his Deserted Village. I sat upon the fence-top in order more fully to absorb the scene. I was on a hill overlooking a narrow, irregular valley, hemnied in on all sides by a thick belt of Woodland. What once might have been a prosperous farm was be- fore my eyes, but it was novv naught but ruin and deso- lation. Coarse weeds, waist high, had taken the place of the golden Wheat and corn, and briars with their sharp thorns clutched at the passer-by, and seemed to warn the intruder from the sacred sight of the old home- stead. The barn was now simply a pile of rotted logs fallen upon its stone foundation, and of the house scarcely a vestige was left save a dilapidated portion of the stone chimney. Down the hill from the house was a rippling brooklet, issuing from a spring beneath the roots of an enormous maple, and there Was also a slight trace of a Wagon road leading in the direction of the public thor-

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the jfoot JBaIl Girl. PASSED my arm around her waist She started with a feigned surprise And d1eW her to my side My lips touched hers so red,- Claspmg hei close in eager h'1ste She, smiling from her pretty eyes, Well tackled su I ' she c11ed A touch-down ! slyly said. Five yards to make' she cried. At twelve he met me in the hall And sternly at me glaredg Striking the pavement in my fall, A drop kick I she declared. OSBORNE I. YELLOTT, ,QI

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.if ii i s fi Wt li oughfare. There was not even a sound of life, save the whistling of birds and the barking of squirrels in the woods, with the silence broken now and then by the loud cawing of crows flying overhead. I permitted the dog to wander where he would, and sat for a long time musing, when at length I heard a rus- tling among the leaves, and then I espied on my left the sparrows along abroken-down fence ily away, as if fright- ened by the approach of something or someone, and it was not long before I saw emerge into View among the tall weeds a little old man, who seemed to have a pecu- liar interest in the scenes I had been enjoying. The iiight of time had left its traces in the furrowed, care- worn Visage of the stranger, and he sadly shook his head, as if from the force of peculiar experiences, or at least, strange recollections grouped about this hallowed spot. I He had not yet noticed me, but as soon as he heard my dog thrashing about in the underbrush, he looked up as if startled. This expression, however, was only mo- mentary, and as soon as he saw me his cheery f'Good morning l caused me to feel that whatever of care or sorrow had left its sting upon his life, he yet possessed the most kindly feelings towards his fellow men. I ap- proached him, and after a little preliminary talk, our conversation turned to the panorama spread out before us. I was rejoiced to find that he was not only willing to talk upon the subject, but as might be surmised from his mysterious head-shaking, he was also possessed of 150 an accurate knowledge of the circumstances which had transformed the old homestead into an utter wilderness. Said he, H I love to wander about this site, for every breath I breathe upon these dreary hills seems to be laden with recollections from the history of a sad and misspent life, yet recollections which bring to me many a lesson 5 for I have not been untouched by the hand of sorrow, and it is always a help and comfort to me to think that my lot in life is easy as compared with that of other poor suffering mortals. I think it is bad discipline to be con- tinually bemoaning one's own hard lot, without thinking of the trials of human creatures besides one's self, and I also think that what has proved to be such a benefit to me might equally prove a source of benefit to others 3 so if you are inclined to listen, I will try to relate the prin- cipal incidents connected with the history of the ruin be- fore us. Of course I jumped at the proposal, and after seating ourselves upon a log by the edge of the woods, there in the heart of nature herself, uninterrupted by the noise of busy occupation, and with a chipmunk on the fence as our only observer, he related such a tale of human yicis- situdes and woes, yet withal blooming with rich moral blossoms, that I have ever looked upon that beautiful November 11101'Ill11g as furnishing one of the richest ex- periences of my life. The substance of the story, told as nearly as possible in his own words, is as follows :- I think it was in the Summer of i 52 when my