Descending from the grove on the western side, was a low, swampy piece
of ground, that had never yielded to cultivation, where we sometimes
used to jump from one hillock to another in search of swamp pinks and
cheeses which were to be found there in great abundance.

It was ever covered with low brush, of natural growth, and apparently
no change had passed over it from its creation, save the natural
springing up and decaying of its productions. And so, almost fifty
years ago, we left it, but how does it meet us upon our return? Art
has touched it with her handy work. It has been drained; the brush cut
from its surface, rich loam carted upon it, and now it presents the
appearance of a well cultivated garden, is covered with luxuriant
grass, and staked out into yards for the accommodation of families who
wish to lie down side by side, in the sleep of death. Many, already,
are beautified with flowers and shrubbery; and in some, already arises
the marble slab, pointing to the place where some weary pilgrim
reposes, free from all the earth calls good or great; for this, too,
is enclosed in the Cemetery.

But passing the entrance into the Cemetery, we will pass back by a
circuitous route, to the dear old home. The road, the hills, the
rocks, the trees, and many of the buildings are the same; but, oh, how
many and varied are the changes that strike the eye, and awaken in
the breast ten thousand bewildering remembrances. Truly has the human
heart been compared to a many stringed instrument, giving diversity of
sound as it is swept by different winds.

One of the most conspicuous changes, is the withdrawal of a large pond
of water that had been pent up by a high dam, over which the water
fell, over the bridge we are now crossing, roaring, casting up spray,