![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP0jjefYjtU5oAIZts0W_R4EXWHFdvnxHJmewTapU3xvgjDW24CFHOfkXdDK9UswnqWgLfyuXh6yWiDLIBQ33x3wHxPTAbYNp0syrl-WNehCMNhoBW-la-1qg7VKSf2WKWWiUiVm_cUKk4/s400/farmhouse4.jpg)
![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6Lv5F_1yzlWm7JnR-ecYw5q7R_7vwS3aTa8XHyhIRDyrOiYZkEcBFnvWaSAWy3N3COQyM64GY88ptYXsPcRO1btxEZSMUKJXbgCLVtmRwu0lbXwHgO5ynOg7dlqAoAT9poDBlkyIZaGlf/s400/farmhouse.jpg)
Yesterday morning I was out in the rural countryside of western Itawamba County and driving around a bend in the road I came upon a side view of a huge old abandoned homestead standing majestically like a sentinel overlooking the nearby road in the cold November landscape. Looking at this scene, a verse from a poem entitled The Old Homestead by Alice Cary comes to mind:
And when the winds moan wildly,
When the woods are bare and brown
And when the swallow’s clay-built nest
From the rafter crumbles down;
When all the untrod garden-paths
Are heaped with frozen leaves,
And icicles, like silver spikes,
Are set along the eaves;Verse from:
The Old Homestead by Alice Cary, From
Friends’ Intelligencer, Volume XXV, Philadelphia, 1869.
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