I oft think of West Thompson
The way it used to be,
The memories that it holds,
Are such a joy to me.
The church upon the hill
Is first to come to mind,
Each time I'd go to service,
My God I'd sure to find.
Rev. Miller was the pastor,
And even to this day,
The influence of his words
Are in my heart to stay.
Mabel Young was at the organ,
And I'd hear John Perrin's bass,
As he sang the hymns we used
With the love-light in his face.
The grammar school was quite near
And it holds some memories sweet,
The babbling brook, across the way
Had cooling waters for our feet.
I well remember Mrs. Case,
Where I would go for mail.
I usually saw the March's,
Or the Bigelow's without fail.
I'd pass the William's home,
And in one corner of the lot,
I'd stop to see the grave
Where lie buried their pet "spot".
Vincelette had a blacksmith shop,
A horse with the string-halt too,
Flanagan's had the postal service,
Whice gave them much to do.
I always felt a certain awe,
Passing the house on the corner,
It stood so large and empty,
It then belonged to Warner.
I'd hurry past it down the road,
Till I'd come to Hickey's spring,
And there I'd find a rusty can,
And I'd fill it to the brim.
Daniel Hickey had a bake-shop,
With oh, some odors grand,
But when we'd open up the door,
The flies would meet us in a band.
I can just about remember
When the Case girls lived in town,
Their place now belongs to Herrick's
And very fine neighbors we found.
So many of the ones I knew
Have a long time since passed on,
Dan Perrin's went out west,
And the Sandstrom's sold their farm.
The Ramsdell's still stayed on,
And some of the Johnson's too,
And then we have the Brayton's,
But that just numbers a few.
Tatem's business moved to Putnam,
And the mill has been torn down,
But a fire-station standing there
Is a protection for the town.
The Perrin homestead has burned down,
And sonte of the family called home.
The Coville's bought the Warner
So it no longer stands alone.
As I set in my chair each day,
And ponder upon the past,
A feeling of sadness comes o'er me,
But somehow it doesn't last.
We read somewhere in the Good
The old must make room for the
Life must go on to its ultimate end,
And then we'll old friendships renew.
* This poem was given for the Bicentennial Book by
Eleanor Brayton Tompkins, the granddaughter of Mrs. Case. * Courtesy of the Thompson Historical Society.