It is late Fall, the wind scurries through the bare treetops chasing the leaves down the dusty main street on which the house faces. The season’s work is all but done on the farm and in the barnyard back of the house a dozen stacks of cornstalks stand regimented in the moonlight like ghostly sentinels ready for the onslaught of approaching winter.
Tuesday, September 24, 2013
lost. page from An Old Sea Chest
A log smoldering in its ample bed of glowing embers reflected in the brass andirons, throws a genial heat into the small low ceilinged white washed room where two bewhiskered old men sit in Boston rockers exchanging reminiscences of youthful days. A boy of seven trained to be seen and not heard listens intently from his stool in the corner.