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222
A New England Girlhood, Outlined from Memory (Beverly, MA)
·
Lucy Larcom
24
The
cars
rush
into
the
station
now,
right
over
our
riverside
playground.
I
can
often
hear
the
mirthful
shout
of
boys
and
girls
under
the
shriek
of
the
steam
whistle.
No
dream
of
a
railroad
had
then
come
to
the
quiet
old
town,
but
it
was
a
wild
train
of
children
that
ran
homeward
in
the
twilight
up
the
narrow
lane,
with
wind-shod
feet,
and
hair
flying
like
the
manes
of
young
colts,
and
light
hearts
bounding
to
their
own
footsteps.
How
good
and
dear
our
plain,
two-story
dwelling-house
looked
to
us
as
we
came
in
sight
of
it,
and
what
sweet
odors
stole
out
to
meet
us
from
the
white-fenced
inclosure
of
our
small
garden,--from
peach-trees
and
lilac-bushes
in
bloom,
from
bergamot
and
balm
and
beds
of
camomile!
Sometimes
we
would
find
the
pathetic
figure
of
white-haired
Larkin
Moore,
the
insane
preacher,
his
two
canes
lain
aside,
waiting,
in
our
dooryard
for
any
audience
that
he
could
gather:
boys
and
girls
were
as
welcome
as
anybody.
He
would
seat
us
in
a
row
on
the
green
slope,
and
give
us
a
half
hour
or
so
of
incoherent
exhortation,
to
which
we
attended
respectfully,
if
not
reverently;
for
his
whole
manner
showed
that,
though
demented,
he
was
deeply
in
earnest.
He
seemed
there
in
the
twilight
like
a
dazed
angel
who
had
lost
his
way,
and
had
half
forgotten
his
errand,
which
yet
he
must
try
to
tell
to
anybody
who
would
listen.
I
have
heard
my
mother
say
that
sometimes
he
would
ask
if
he
might
take
her
baby
in
his
arms
and
sing
to
it;
and
that
though
she
was
half
afraid
herself,
the
baby--I
like
to
fancy
I
was
that
baby--seemed
to
enjoy
it,
and
played
gleefully
with
the
old
man's
flowing
gray
locks.
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