Where once stood great hardwood forests,
Home of Indians and wild game;
Stands the village of Arcola,
And it bears an Indian name.

If we pause and just look backward
Through the veil of changing years,
We can almost hear the echoes
Of the stalwart pioneers.

We can see the clustered cabins
With the candlelights agleam
Just as real, and just as vivid,
As an early settler’s dream.

Those were days of toil and hardship
When roads followed Indian trails;
As the forests changed to cornfields,
And each farm was fenced with rails.

But, let’s picture old Arcola
As it was in days of yore
With its Stave Mill, and its Smithy,
Its old Barber Shop, and Store.

And there was that old Cider Mill
Where the kids stopped after school
And would drink a glass of cider
Oh! so sweet, and fresh, and cool.

Oh! it’s fun just to remember
How it always was a thrill
During winter days when skating
On the pond near the Tile Mill.

The livery stable, the wagon shop,
The horses all have gone;
Yet the frame church stands there on the hill,
And the willowed creek flows on.

The two-room school has vanished,
Only memories now remain
Of the days at the Depot
When folks waited for a train.

Folks remember when the cornshocks
Stood like teepees in the gloom,
And how summer winds brought fragrance
Of the clover fields in bloom.

We pay homage to Arcola,
Knowing changes never cease;
Its history gave it honor,
And its heritage is … peace.


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