The Weber Literary Journal Reminiscences of My Home Town Josephine Rhees HE other day I heard a man give a lecture on his boyhood town. That lecture brought back memories of my home town that exceptional little village at the foot of Ben Lomond. Yes, it was not like the ordinary country village it was more aristocratic, more cultured. It has advanced since then; it has become like all other city suburbs. The culture is still there more of it, perhaps, but many of the rural pleasures that made it such a delightful little village have died away. The little town of View was situated near a thriving city, back against the mountains where the inhabitants might enjoy the advantages of the city combined with the pleasures of the country. A remarkable place indeed, and one that even the most high might envy. The advantages which had spread from the city into the country were not slight nor few. Electricity was used, both for light and heat; a telephone service had grown up in the town; a cement road, connecting it more closely with the adjacent city, had made possible a free delivery of newspapers, magazines, meat, groceries and laundry. It enjoyed, in addition, a daily mail and an hourly car service. While the advantages were those of the city the appearance of the village was like that of other country towns. It was sparsely settled, with its few houses set in large lots that seemed almost small farms in themselves. One might have called it a "string town," for the people lived on each side of the main highway and practically nowhere else. This arrangement gave almost all the settlers the dignity and satisfaction of living on "main street." The pastimes, too, were of the country. I wish you who have always lived in a populous city might have gone with me when I went for strolls over the hills into the mountains. Those were the most invigorating and delightful journeys I 10 The Weber Literary Journal have ever experienced. To be near nature, to watch her workings, to drink in her beauty, to partake of her purity; these are the delights of a mountain stroll. I recall one afternoon in May when, with a group of girls, I set out for a ride to a nearby canyon. After a long, hot journey we at last came in sight of the small lake just beyond the hill. It was a matter of habit for everyone who chanced to be passing that way to stop for a drink at the inlet of that lake. After spending a few minutes at the spring we rode on again in silence. About an hour later we heard a shout from the leaders of the party, signifying that they had gained the top of the ridge and could see water. Stopping to listen, we too were able to hear, in the canyon beyond the ridge, the roaring of a stream. We set out single file up the steep foothill until we reached the top. The river was far below us at this point. There was no way of reaching it except by making our way along the ledge until the path reached the level of the stream. After many shrieks and imaginings of someone falling off the ledge our precarious journey was ended and we were again safe on level ground, feeling almost as Napoleon must have done after he crossed the Alps. How refreshing that water was and how cold as it splashed down over the rocks from the melting snow further up the canyon! After resting on the grass for an hour or more, taking pictures of the canyon and eating our lunch we started for home, just as the sun was sinking low in the west. As we rounded the hill that had seemed so hot a few hours earlier, a cool, crisp breeze met us and seemed to give us new life. Directly below us lay the peaceful valley, the farmlands showing their first painting of green. Off to the west the Great Salt Lake stretched an arm up around the hill, and far in the distance out across the water, a train was making its way over the cutoff. To the south was the city with its heavy black smoke cloud hanging over it. Emerging from the smoke into the clearer atmosphere of the country just below us was an auto creeping like a tiny ant over the road to View. Other favorite delights were meadow rambles. How jolly they were! How often in the spring my cousin and I 11