ing as mistress of the house, to
feel that harmony reigned in the kitchen.
_October 5_.
Our last day in dear Chappaqua; we go down to the city to-morrow
morning. How dread is the thought of leaving the poetic quiet of our
country home, to return to the confusion and excitement of city life;
that city, too, that will be fraught with such sad memories for us
during the last days of October and November.
How quickly it has gone, this long, sweet summer. I cannot realize
that near five months have passed since that bright May morning that we
arrived here, and found dear Chappaqua in all her tender spring
freshness. Imperceptibly the days have flown; the delicate hues of
leafy May have deepened and gone; the summer is over, and autumn with
her glowing tints has stolen upon us. Now in vain do we hunt for
daisies to pull apart petal by petal with the old French rhyme that
every schoolgirl knows,
"Il m'aime un peu--beaucoup,
Passionement,--pas du tout!"
The daisies have gone with the sweet double violets and roses, and the
fragrant heliotrope and mignonette, of which we used to make bouquets
to dress the table and adorn the rooms; whilst brilliant, scentless
flowers now fill our garden beds, and the maples with their aureolas of
flame color and molten cold tell the same sad story--summer has fled.
For the last time I have walked up to the pine grove, and have taken
leave of that spot where dear uncle's feet have so often trodden, and
said farewell, too, to the forest trees whose trunks still bear the
impress of the axe once wielded by that hand now forever at rest; I
have drunk once more from the spring that Aunt Mary so dearly loved,
and which is far sweeter to me than the vaunted waters of Trevi, and
entered for the last time her loved home in the woods over whose
threshold her weary feet will never pass again.
"Tempo passato, perche non ritorni a me?"
Adieu to Chappaqua and to my journal. My daintily bound volume, so
large that I feared not easily to fill its pages, is closely covered,
and only a few blank lines remain whereon to take leave of it forever.
Adieus are always saddening, and I close it with the words unspoken.
And for dear, dear Chappaqua, I can find no words more fitting to
express my love than those verses written, it is true, in honor of
another Westchester Home, but so appropriate that I will insert them
here, trusting their author, Mr. JOHN SAVAGE, will pardon me for so
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