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STORIES OF
little romantic woodland pass not far from Bloomingdale. 'Your object?5 inquired I. ' Merely to look once more at an old tree planted by my grandfather, near a cottage that was once my father's.' 'The place is yours, then,' said I. ' No, my poor mother sold it;' and I observed a slight quiver of the lip at the recollection. ' Dear mother/ resumed my com-panion, ' we passed many happy, happy days in that old cottage; but it is nothing to me now— father, mother, sisters, cottage, all are gone!' and a paleness overspread his countenance, and a moisture came to his eyes as he spoke. After a moment's pause, he added, ' Don't think me foolish. I don't know how it is, but I never ride out but I turn down this lane to look at the old tree. I have a thousand recollections about it, and I always greet it as a familiar and well-remembered friend. In the bygone summer-time it was a friend indeed. Under its branches I often listened to the good counsel of my parents, and had such gambols with my sisters! Its leaves are all off now, so you won't see it to advantage, for it is a glorious old fellow in summer; but I like it just as well in winter. There it is !'
" Near the tree stood an old man with his coat off, sharpening an axe. He was the occu-214 |
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