The Long Ago

The Long Ago, by Jacob William
Wright

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Title: The Long Ago
Author: Jacob William Wright
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The Long Ago

by Jacob William Wright

1 The Garden 2 The River 3 Christmas 4 Butter, Eggs, Ducks, Geese 5
The Sugar Barrels 6 Jimmy, the Lamplighter 7 Flies 8 The Autumn
Leaves 9 Getting in the Wood 10 The Rain 11 Grandmother 12 When
Day is Done

Then said he unto me, Go thy way, Weigh me the weight of the fire, Or
measure me the blast of the wind, Or call me again the day that is past.
II Esdras IV:5

The day is done, and yet we linger here at the window of the private
office, alone, in the early evening. Street sounds come surging up to us
- the hoarse Voice of the City - a confused blur of noise - clanging

trolley-cars, rumbling wagons, and familiar cries - all the varied
commotion of the home-going hour when the city's buildings are
pouring forth their human tide of laborers into the clogged arteries.
We lean against the window-frame, looking across and beyond the
myriad roofs, and listening. The world-weariness has touched our
temples with gray, and the heaviness of the day's concerns and tumult
presses in, presses in . . . . presses in . . . .
Yet as we look into the gentle twilight, the throbbing street below
slowly changes to a winding country road . . . . the tall buildings fade in
the sunset glow until they become only huge elm-trees overtopping a
dusty lane . . . . the trolley-bells are softened so that they are but the
distant tinkle of the homeward herd on the hills . . . . and you and I in
matchless freedom are once more trudging the Old Dear Road side by
side, answering the call of the wondrous Voice of Boyhood sounding
through the years.

The Garden

It was the spirit of the garden that crept into my boy-heart and left its
fragrance, to endure through the years. What the garden stood for -
what it expressed - left a mysterious but certain impress. Grandmother's
touch hallowed it and made it a thing apart, and the rare soul of her
seemed to be reflected in the Lilies of the Valley that bloomed sweetly
year by year in the shady plot under her favorite window in the
sitting-room. Because the garden was her special province, it expressed
her own sturdy, kindly nature. Little wonder, then, that we cherished it;
that I loved to roam idly there feeling the enfoldment of that same
protection and loving-kindness which drew me to the shelter of her
gingham-aproned lap when the griefs of Boyhood pressed too hard
upon me; and that we walked in it so contentedly in the cool of the
evening, after the Four O'clocks had folded their purple petals for the
night.

Grandmother's garden, like all real gardens, wasn't just flowers and
fragrance.
There was a brick walk leading from the front gate to the sitting-room
entrance - red brick, all moss-grown, and with the tiny weeds and
grasses pushing up between the bricks. In the garden proper the paths
were of earth, bordered and well-defined by inch-wide boards that
provided jolly tight-rope practice until grandmother came anxiously out
with her oft-repeated: "Willie don't walk on those boards; you'll, break
them down." And just after the warm spring showers these earthwalks
always held tiny mud-puddles where the rain-bleached worms
congregated until the robins came that way.