" They have
been placed in the Boston City Library by the death and last testament
of the later proprietor. The flowers I had watered and tended passed
into the hands and greenhouse of the translator of "Consuelo." Those
who owned any private effects or furniture took them away.
The Pilgrim House, never beautiful, and barren in its immediate
surroundings, was entirely deserted. The Hive was my home; and when the
warm sun, looking through the barren grape vine into the dining room
window, melted the light snow of early spring, and awoke the tender
grass into new growth and verdancy, and the remaining poultry warmed
themselves by its rays, nestling together by the doorways, as the
melting snow dripped drop by drop from the house top--the farm looked
beautiful still.
In some of our young hearts, with the coming of early summer, awoke a
yearning for one more meeting at the old place; and so we gathered the
young people from far and near for one more good time, for one more
communion. With what pleasure I recall those few hours. How happy we
were! How social and loving and dear we were to one another! In the
many years passed since then, there is no red-letter day like that one.
We were about twenty in number.
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