nd cross the little brook that bubbles on forever
in the same monotonous sound, requiring but one smooth round stepping
stone for a bridge, we sigh and feel that the change of years is upon
us, for here almost every thing speaks of decay. True the hills, the
ponds, the rocks (and I had almost said the speckled tortoise that has
crawled up to sun itself on their summit), remain the same.

Sit down on this dilapidated trunk, for the burden of years is upon
us; and as I glance upon this frame, I can scarcely realize it is the
same form that used to impress this spot with childish footprints.
This trunk was then a beautiful, stately tree, bearing its leafy
honors thick upon it, and laden with delicious golden fruit. But the
glory of the orchard has departed, and why should we linger any longer
in its confines, as it only awakens sad memories, and says in an
audible voice,

"Chance and change are busy ever."

The carriage road that passes through it, almost blinding us with
dust, was formerly a well beaten foot-path for the accommodation of
the neighborhood as they walked from one part of it to the other.
Let us follow the road up this steep aclivity, and enter the large
capacious door-yard which contained several rods of land, and was
surrounded by an old fashioned stone wall, which has been beaten by at
least seventy-five winters' storms; and the thick covering of green
moss upon it bespeaks its age.

The west end was crossed by a fence containing a small strip of land
for the purpose of raising early summer vegetables. Here now is
erected the splendid dwelling house of one of the wealthiest citizens
of the village, and the garden is converted into front yard, building
spot and back yard, containing all the usual necessary appendages to
a dwelling place, so that here all traces of former days have passed
from the spot, and only live inscribed upon the retentive tablet of
Memory. On the east end was another small enclosure where we used to
spend our leisure hours in the cultivation of flowers and medicinal
plants. Here the tall lilac waved its graceful head beneath our
bed-room window, and the morning sun, as he parted the rosy curtains
of the eastern sky and came forth rejoicing to run his glad race, and
pour a flood of golden light upon the earth, shot his first crimson
rays upon the thick curtains of morning glories that hung clustering
over our window, fragrant with their verdant leaves, and rich purple
blossoms,