e of haunting, sweetly-sad recollections,
and all the speeches were filled with allusions to the days when deer on
the hills and grouse in the meadows gave zest to life upon the farms.

How peaceful, how secure, how abundant my native valley appeared to me,
after those gloomy toilsome months in the cold, green forests of British
Columbia--and how incredible my story must have seemed to my mother as I
told her of my journey eastward by boat and train, bringing my saddle
horse across four thousand miles of wood and wave, in order that he
might spend his final years with me in the oat-filled, sheltered valley
of Neshonoc. "His courage and faithfulness made it impossible for me to
leave him up there," I explained.

He had arrived on the train which preceded me, and was still in the car.
At the urgent request of my Uncle Frank I unloaded him, saddled him, and
rode him down to the fair-ground, wearing my travel-scarred sombrero, my
faded trailer's suit and my leggings, a mild exhibition of vanity which
I trust the reader will overlook, for in doing this I not only gave keen
joy to my relatives, but furnished another "Feature" to the show.

My friend, Samuel McKee, the Presbyterian minister in the village, being
from Kentucky, came nearer to understanding the value of my horse than
any other spectator. "I don't wonder you brought him back," he said,
after careful study. "He is a beauty. There's a strain of Arabian in
him."

My mother's joy over my safe return was quite as wordless as her sorrow
at our parting (in April) had been. To have me close beside her, to lay
her hand upon my arm, filled her with inexpressible content. She could
not imagine the hundredth part of the hardships I had endured, and I
made no special effort to enlighten her--I merely said, "You needn't
worry, mother, one such experience is enough. I shall never leave you
for so many months again," and I meant it.

With a shy smile and a hesitant voice, she reverted to a subject which
was of increasing interest to her. "What about my new daughter? When am
I to see her? I hope now you'll begin to think of a wife. First thing
you know you'll be too old."

My reply was vaguely jocular. "Be patient a little while longer. I shall
seriously set to work and see what I can find for you by way of a
daughter-in-law."

"Choose a nice one," she persisted. "One that will like the old
house--and me. Don't get one who will be too stylish to live here with
us."

In