Oh! Time! Time! the
wrecks that lie scattered in thy pathway! That little brooklet, and
the peepers, the fountain, the maples, and the meadow, are all gone.
The brave old oak was riven by the lightning. The fields have crept up
to the very summit of the hills, and even the stream that came down
from the mountain has vanished away, save when the rains, or the
melting snows send it in a freshet over the rocks where, when I was a
boy, it was cascading always. That beautiful meadow, too, is gone, and
the streets of a modern village, with blocks of houses, and stores,
and shops, occupy the place where I swung my first scythe. The old
log-house vanished years and years ago. A steamboat ploughs its way
through that beautiful lake, and the things of my boyhood are but
visions of memory, called up from the long, long past. Not one
landmark of the olden time remains. Oh! Time! Time!"
CHAPTER XXIII.
THE CRICKET IN THE WALL--THE MINISTER'S ILLUSTRATION--OLD MEMORIES.
We spent the following day in drifting quietly around the lake,
floating lazily in the little bays, under the shadow of the tall
trees, and lounging upon small islands, gathering the low-bush
whortleberries which grew in abundance upon them. We filled our tin
pails with this delicious fruit for a dessert for our evening meal.
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