I know not
which are the more touching,--such old empty houses, or the
homes of the masters' sons. Sad and bitter tales lie hidden
back of those white doors,--tales of poverty, of struggle, of
disappointment. A revolution such as that of '63 is a terrible
thing; they that rose rich in the morning often slept in pau-
pers' beds. Beggars and vulgar speculators rose to rule over
them, and their children went astray. See yonder sad-colored
house, with its cabins and fences and glad crops! It is not
glad within; last month the prodigal son of the struggling
father wrote home from the city for money. Money! Where
was it to come from? And so the son rose in the night and
killed his baby, and killed his wife, and shot himself dead.
And the world passed on.
I remember wheeling around a bend in the road beside a
graceful bit of forest and a singing brook. A long low house
faced us, with porch and flying pillars, great oaken door, and
a broad lawn shining in the evening sun. But the window-
panes were gone, the pillars were worm-eaten, and the moss-
grown roof was falling in. Half curiously I peered through the
unhinged door, and saw where, on the wall across the hall,
was written in once gay letters a faded "Welcome.
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