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The Commoner.
JULY 30, 1909
13
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Old Homo Day
(Verses read at the "Old Home
Day" celebration in Oregon, Mo.,
Tuesday, July 27, 1909.)
From thy fold long since departed,
wand'ring far from sea to sea,
Yet in all our far-flung journeys,
back our hearts have turned to
thee.
Unto thee, O old home city, nestling
'twixt thy hills green-walled,
And we hastened back to answer
when the Old Home's voices called.
Back to scenes of youth and play
time; back to memories sublime,
Throwing from our ageing shoulders
burdens laid by passing time.
As the child heart turns to mother,
so our hearts turn unto thee
"When we hear your sweet tones call-
. ing, "Come, my children, back to
me!"
From the flower-decked prairies,
from the busy market place,
We have hurried at thy summons
with glad smiles upon each face.
Plow, and pen, and plane, and ham
mer for a time are given rest
While we, tired and wand'rlng child
ren, lay our heads upon thy breast.
Old Home Day! And all thy children
gathered 'neath the old roof-tree,
Singing songs of sweet home coming,
paying homage unto thee.
And the years are all forgotten, while
the now fades into then
Till we grown-up men and women are
but boys and girls again.
Hark! The old school bell is calling,
k grasp thy books and haste away;
Laughing, singing, happy children;
back again to yesterday.
Memory sweeps aside Time's curtain,
waves aloft her magic wand,
"And we trip o'er Russell's pasture,
wander down to Kunkel's pond.
Light of heart, care free and happy,
once again we gaily go
O'er the hills and through the valleys
to the Big Tark's muddy flow.
Through the hansel patch we wander,
on beneath the walnut trees,
While the echoes of our laughter
freight the far-flung summer
breeze.
Home again! And all the strivings
of "the ldng years are forgot
As we join in glad reunion 'round the
Old Home's sacred spot.
Hand clasps hand, and friendly
greeting bids the years' long cycle
turn
Back to other days where altars of
our youth's fires brightly burn.
Home again! O scenes' of playtime!
Memories sweet of days long dead!
Back to thee, O dear home city, gath
ered in thy arms outspread.
And where'er the future calls us,
over land or over sea,
We shall hear thy loved voice calling,
deaT Old Oregon, to thee!
wrinkles that were not there in the
old days, and there were streaks of
silver in hair and beard. As a mat
ter of fact, some of the boys didn't
have any hair left worth mention
ing. But it was the youngest, jol
liest, happiest crowd that ever gath
ered in the old haunts. Actually wo
wouldn't have noticed the flight of
time if the trees hadn't been so much
fully injured by being hit by a flying
sled, and wo walked homo in silence
and sorrow thinking that one of the
favorite girls of the old crowd was
about to loavo us forever. But bless
your soul, Ann was at the homo com
ing celebration, as young as over,
and with her came a Btalwart son
older than she was tho night she
was hurt.
And, of course, some one filled
with humor had to remind the crowd
of tho young fellow who was sus
pended by Professor Hill, and whoso
father compelled him to walk three
miles to Forest City every morning
and attend school undor Professor
Anderson. It was real mean of that
fellow to recall that particular inci
dent and two or three more rolat-
bigger, the court house so much moro I ing to the same part.
weatherbeaten and the old hack lino
from Forest City pushed into ob
scurity by a real railroad running in
to the old town.
Tho committee in charge of the
celebration had an eye to the eternal
fitness of things when It selected
"Deacon" Dobyns to deliver the ad
dress of welcome to the returned
wanderers. Tho "Deacon" he is
called that because he Is so different
has been editor of the Sentinel In
Oregon for upwards of forty years,
and his pen had chronicled the birth
of a goodly share of those who con
fronted him when he arose to speak.
That pen had chronicled their mar
riages, the birth of their children,
and their many wanderings to and
fro over the face of the earth. But
the committee "stuttered" a bit when
it selected the wanderer who respond
ed to the address of welcome, for
the response was delivered by the
writer who, thirty years ago learned
the printer's trade In the old Sentinel
office under the tutelage of "Deacon"
Dobyns; who played "hookey" from
the old school house on the hill, and
who had engaged In enough boyish
pranks in the precincts of the old
town to warrant the prediction that
sooner or later he would meet up
with court and jury.
Fortunately for the people there
assembled the gray-haired youth who
responded to the "Deacon's" eloquent
words of welcome was utterly un
able to give voice to all his heart
felt, for if he had been able to do
so, and had essayed the task, he
would have been speaking yet.
But we didn't go back to the old
town for the purpose of listening to
speeches. We went back to slap
each other on the back, to "tell tales
out of school," to shake hands, to
eat good old Missouri fried chicken,
to climb the old school house hill,
to wander down through Russell's
pasture, to loaf along the banks of
the Big Tark, to skip stones over the
glassy surface of Kunkel's pond and
forget that something like a quarter
of a century had slipped into the
eternity of the past since we were
boys and girls together in the old
home town. And we succeeded, too.
The only thing that marred the pleas
ure of the day was that it only had
twenty-four hours in it.
flesh thoy wero still with us and of
us.
If ovor you hear tho voico of your
old homo calling you back to a
"Homing Coming Day," you just tako
tho advice of ono who has enjoyed
tho experience, nnd hlko back, no
matter how diillciilt tho task of
preparation may be. It's tho boot
medicino for ago and spirits that ever
was devised.
WILL M. MAUPIN.
3-STROKE SELF-FEED HAY PRESS.'
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We talked about tho "taffy pulls"
wo used to have about every Friday
night during the winter. We had
'em on Friday night because Bon
HaTrig, tho school house janitor,
didn't ring tho Btudy bell Friday
night at 9 o'clock. It happened be
fore our time, but wo talked of that
awful night when lightning struck
tho old Masonic block, and of how
tho bolt set Are to the clothing of
one of a party of poker players in
tho third story, and of how he ran,
with clothing ablaze, clear down to
tho creek and jumped in, and lived
to tell the tale. It reminded us of
the time when that poker story was
dinned into our ears to convince us
of tho horrible fate that awaited all
gamblers.
Of course wo boys had to recall,
tho organization known as tho "Ore
gon Zouaves," captained by "Deacon"
Dobyns, and we smiled when we
thought of those baggy red trousers,
thoso blue jackets and those dinky
little caps perched so jauntily upon
the sides of our boyish heads. We
couldn't realize that tho first appear
ance of that martial brigade was on
the Fourth of July more than a quar
ter of a century ago.
But what's tho use of trying to
write of all we recalled at that re
union? It would take a volume of
The Commoner.
But one thing is sure the mem
ory of that day will live In tho minds
of those who wero present as long
as life shall last. The echoes of the
old songs we sung will ring in our
ears until tho eternal silence falls.
The shouts of laughter will be a
benison until the sun sinks into the
west for the last time, and the Bmiles
upon the faces of the old chums will
In God's good time fade away for a
moment, only to grow brighter on
the other side.
We wouldn't have missed that day
for any dozen days we can recall,
barring one or two, of course. Bless
you, we went down there with tho
weight of well nigh a half-century
on our shoulders, and here we are
ready to start back with doubt in
our minds whether we'll be old
enough to vote at this fall's election.
That's what an "Old Home Day" cel
ebration like this one does for a
fellow, and we leave it to you if it
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Oregon. Mo.. July 28. Big doings
In the old home town yesterday. It
was "Old Home Day," and the way
the wanderers of the years came
flocking hack to the little city nest
ling in the Missouri hills testified to
the love they hore it. Same hoys
and girls of yesterday, too. The
years hadn't made any difference in
the youth of their hearts, although it
must he confessed that it was differ
ent with faces and hair. Faces bore
My, my! wnat a nost 01 memo- Isn.t wortn while
rles were called up during the day. .
There was the time John Philhrick
gave "OP Reuh" the drink of whisky
made thick with cayenne pepper, and
we yelled with glee when we recalled
how "OP Reub" drank It, blinked
his bleary eyes and murmured, "Dat
was sho' pretty wahm likker, Mistah
Philbrick." Then there was the time
Tom Hinde cut the hole in the top
of "D" Gardner's new plug hat on a
bet of a dollar that he could do it
and then put the piece back so no
body could tell it had ever been cut
out. Then we fairly rolled over in
glee when we recalled how disgusted
"D" looked when Tom admitted tnat
he had forgotten how to do the
trick. It was hot just hot enough
to remind us of that cold winter night
on the long hill when Ann was fear-
Measured by population Oregon
isn't much of a city, but measured
by the recollection of boyhood pleas
ures it's bigger than New York or
Chicago. Its corporate limits are
narrow compared with some of the
cities the wanderers have visited in
the years ago'ne, but its hospitality
has no bounds.
Of course there were some sad
features about tho occasion. We
missed some of the old, familiar
faces. Not all of them personally
answered "Here", when the roll was
called, but from the jungles of Cuba
and the Philippines, from the fast
ness of the Rockies and from the
prairies of the west the summer
breezes bore the spirit answer, and
we knew that though absent in the
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