Beneath yon large reservoir of water that flashes in the sun beams as the summer winds heave its troubled bosom, formerly stretched out an extensive meadow, where we used to stroll for amusement; or to gather the rich, ripe strawberries that lay concealed beneath the thick, tall grass that sighed before the breeze like the bosom of the ocean, fanned by the winds of heaven.  Here, too, we gathered sweet blue violets, yellow buttercups, Ladies’ traces and London pride, with all the beautiful variety of simple meadow flowers, and entwined them into pretty wreaths, or fragrant boquets.  But the touch of time has rested upon this spot, and his finger has left a deep impress upon it.  The sloping hills that surround it remain the same.  The trees bear some traces of decay, but here stand the thorn bushes that used to scatter their showers of white blossoms around us like descending snow-flakes, still filled with green leaves and small red apples, surrounded by the prickly thorns that to all appearances are the same that we grasped fifty years ago.

The sand-hills where the juvenile part of the neighborhood used to congregate to celebrate the happy twilight hour in merry sports, have literally passed away; having been shovelled up and transported to the various places for many miles around, where the multiplicity of chimnies mark the increasing population of the village, that passing years have added to it.

As we pass the antiquated moss-covered bars that admit us into the dear old orchard, and cross the little brook that bubbles on forever in the same monotonous sound, requiring but one smooth round stepping stone for a bridge, we sigh and feel that the change of years is upon us, for here almost every thing speaks of decay.  True the hills, the ponds, the rocks (and I had almost said the speckled tortoise that has crawled up to sun itself on their summit), remain the same.

Sit down on this dilapidated trunk, for the burden of years is upon us; and as I glance upon this frame, I can scarcely realize it is the same form that used to impress this spot with childish footprints.  This trunk was then a beautiful, stately tree, bearing its leafy honors thick upon it, and laden with delicious golden fruit.  But the glory of the orchard has departed, and why should we linger any longer in its confines, as it only awakens sad memories, and says in an audible voice,

  “Chance and change are busy ever.”

The carriage road that passes through it, almost blinding us with dust, was formerly a well beaten foot-path for the accommodation of the neighborhood as they walked from one part of it to the other.  Let us follow the road up this steep aclivity, and enter the large capacious door-yard which contained several rods of land, and was surrounded by an old fashioned stone wall, which has been beaten by at least seventy-five winters’ storms; and the thick covering of green moss upon it bespeaks its age.