Long years ago, when this country was still an unbroken wilderness inhabited only by wild beasts and Indians, and rivers were the only highways of travel, there stood upon the southern shore of the swiftly flowing James a fine brick mansion belonging to Major George Burwell, a planter of old Virginia. His great estate of Honeywood stretched from the river-bank southward across many acres of cleared land deep into a virgin forest of immense cedars, pines, and water oaks.
Where once the only roads were dangerous forest paths, highways and railroads now weave a pattern across the length and breadth of the land, bringing the very ends of the earth nearer together than were adjoining plantations in that early day. Yet a little apart from its changed world the stately old mansion of Honeywood still stands among its ancient groves of cedar, water oaks, and pines, and still the muddy waters of the James flow swiftly by it to the sea.
Still the yellow primroses border the garden paths which lead from the river-bank to its white-columned portico; still the mockingbirds and cardinals flit about its box hedges and fill the air with music; and still the happy voices of children wake the echoes, just as they did in the year 1676 when Tom and Beatrix Burwell lived there.
United States