THE OLD HOUSE
THE OLD HOUSE
THE OLD HOUSE
F
FOR a hundred years the old House has been weathering the mountain storms or basking in the lovely Virginia sunshine, proud of the fact that its red bricks were made on the place, from the red clay which lies so plentiful all about it, coloring the hilltops and making the roads look like red ribbons tying the mountains to the valleys. The blinds, great green eyelids, reflect the life of the inmates, in the morning spreading wide in a spirit of up-and-about-ness, during the afternoon nap time drowsily shutting in the cool rooms, at sundown opening again for theafternoon tea and visiting hour. The whole House, with its air of quiet dignity and breeding, seems to say: “Why rush or hurry? There is time for all.”
Bless its old heart, if we could count years as it can, we too might be peaceful and restful. But our lives are so short, we come and go so fast, no wonder at times the old House seems looking down on us with sadness; for surely the graveyard in the meadow near by tells the story of man’s short existence. The happy, merry people whose voices once made the walls of the old House ring rest there under the myrtle and boxwood, watched over by the nightingale and whip-poor-will. The old headstones, moss and ivy covered, lean down toward their dead lovingly, as though wishing to get nearer to them.
But what must the old House think, now that it has telephones on each floor, and flaring gas where soft candlelight used to flicker, making exaggerated shadows on the low ceilings. And horror of horrors, a rushing, snorting whirlwind of an automobile rushes up to the old horse block! Ghosts of horsemen can fairly be seen riding hurriedly in every direction, indignant at such intrusion, while the red brick walk, with its border of boxwood, scorns the noisy intruder with its brass lamps all a-shining, and tells of the days when the stately coach with its load of pretty maids and matrons all a-flutter passed by on its weekly trip to town. Now with this new, swiftly-moving, malodorous machine, the trip is made daily, and who can say if themaids be pretty or not, so much like animated sacks of wool do they look in their cloaks, hoods, and goggles.
It is in the evening, when the crescent moon hangs low, that the old House talks to the oaks, living over the days when it held its first young couple, rejoicing with them at the stork’s coming, caring for the little ones as they toddle about the great white-pillared porches, which shade them from too much sun, watching them grow into manhood and womanhood, and finally sending the sons to war with pride and high hope, though deploring the cruel and unnecessary strife between brothers that should have been settled without bloodshed. Because of the spirit of dissension still harbored in the hearts of our people, for many years the Southhas been crippled and disheartened and North and South have been divided. Time alone can heal these differences and make us one again.
This the old House foresaw, and it opened wide its portals to welcome a Northern family. Being all-wise, it knew that all men are brothers and that between them, God’s finest handiwork, there should be no dissension. This should be left for the dwellers of the under-worlds, that are not so high on the ladder of life as is man.
Never does the old House hold its head quite so high as when the pink-coated horsemen gather with their hounds and thoroughbreds for a cross-country run. Returning to the hunt breakfast, they are greeted with the hospitable groaning of the table ladenwith the weight of its goodies—great Virginia hams, freshly roasted and melting under the knife; the Brunswick stew, for which the housewife has been preparing many days, sending negroes to hunt squirrels and to select the special corn and tomatoes that go to the making of the world’s best breakfast dish; and from the kitchen at the end of the gallery, steaming hot beaten biscuits to be eaten with gold-sweet butter. The mint juleps are drunk beside crackling fires, and “sport” and “good cheer” are the watchwords. The old House looks down approvingly on the happy company, for it has come into its own, sheltering in these later days kind, cheery people that respect its past glories and love its present homelike spirit, for to them its every stick and stone spell Home.
We drink your health, dear old House. May the future hold as much for you as the past. May you continue to sleep peacefully under the oaks, dreaming happy dreams, and understanding life as only one of your great age can.