But home lives only in memory with some; its only existence is in the past. The cottage where we were born has been swept away, and a statelier edifice rises on the spot; the dear friends of our youth are dead, and their bones lie in the old churchyard, and we seldom go back to that old spot. This hook is designed to be the memorial of the home which has faded away, and the homestead which is now demolished or acquired by another; to call up old faces, and hang them like portraits on the walls of our active, busy lives; to sketch like the landscape the well with the old oaken bucket, the brook along which we often wandered, the meadow with its furrows, and the distant mountain with its misty drapery.
Some one draws a picture of a laborer returning at night to his home: "He has borne the heat and burden of the day, the descending sun has released him of his toil, and he is hastening home to enjoy repose. Half way down the lane, by the side of which stands his cottage, his children run to meet him. One he carries, and one he leads. The companion of his humble life is ready to furnish him with his plain repast. See his toil-worn countenance assume an air of cheerfulness! His hardships are forgotten; fatigue vanishes; he eats, and is satisfied.
