Annals of our ancestors; one hundred and fifty years of history in the ...

OUR SPRINGTIME 127
ment, for she was impetuous in all that touched her heart, and
love and loyalty dwelt there then as now.
The petals of the springtime fell and lay in fragrant drifts
in our orchards; the gooseberry and currant bushes began to
show their little spheres of emerald down in the eastside garden
that sister says has so often, through the years, come back to
her in her dreams; the leaves of summer were showing brightest
green and childhood, too, was swiftly passing. We were outgrowing
the trundle-bed where little sister and I slept; drawn
out each night from underneath mother's "big, high bed,"
the little resting-place was warm and comfortable and near
to the dear parents — a place of safety the like of which has
never returned. Only in feigning was little sister rocked to
sleep in mother's arms or carried to the trundle-bed, and only
in thought can the days of life's springtime come back; but
we are thankful for the memory of a dear home and wise and
loving parents, so we will not regret the budding time, for the
seasons of flower and fruit come with the flying months.
Here in the late autumn of life I have tarried long with
"story spring." I who write am recalling memories more
than sixty years old. When I was seeing again so clearly the
woods and fields about our old home I wrote to the "Cummings
girls" and asked about the landscape of our childhood. They
wrote me that Cook's Woods with its grand old shade had
passed away, and with it the anemones, spring beauties, and
harebells. The haunts of our springtime have entirely changed
— not a tree nor a woodland bird remains. "You could not
obtain a cord of wood for love or money," wrote our old play-
mates. Walnut Tree Farm has changed its tenant; no one is
there to meet and greet Phoebe bird's spring call; there is no
sugar bush nor woodland path to the old meeting-house; the
little sisters who were lost in that shade which falls no more
are far apart. Their heads are white with the frosts of many
winters. For all the springtimes she made me happier, her
one sister thanks her. She has written on my memory but
sweet and tender recollections, fragrant as the orchards in
life's spring. I would keep the memory of those days green
until we too pass on, as all the rest have done.