very man of them covertly longed for it, dimly perceiving its value as
an altar of memory, unconsciously acknowledging its poignant youthful
associations. The beauty of vanished faces, the forms of the buried past
drew near, and in the golden light of reminiscent dream, each grizzled
head took on a softer, nobler outline. The prosaic was forgot. The
poetry of their lives was restored.

Father was at his best, hospitable, reminiscent, jocund. His pride in
me was expressed in his faith in my ability to keep this fire going.

"Hamlin don't mind a little expense like this chimney," he said. "He put
it in just to amuse the baby,--so he says and I believe him. He can
afford it--so I'm not saying a word, in fact I like an open fire so well
I'm thinking of putting one into my own house."

To this several replied by saying, "We'd have a riot in our house if we
put in such an extravagance." Others declared, "It's all a question of
dirt. Our wives would never stand the ashes."

We had provided apples and nuts, doughnuts, cider and other
characteristic refreshments of the older day, but alas! most of our
guests no longer took coffee at night, and only one or two had teeth for
popcorn or stomach for doughnuts. As a feast our evening was a failure.

"I used to eat anything at any time," Lottridge explained, "probably
that is the reason why I can't do it now. In those days we didn't know
anything about 'calories' or 'balanced rations.' We et what was set
before us and darn glad to get it."

Shane with quiet humor recalled the days when buckwheat cakes and
sausages swimming in pork fat and covered with maple syrup, formed his
notion of a good breakfast. "Just one such meal would finish me now," he
added with a rueful smile.

These were the men who had been the tireless reapers, the skilled
wood-choppers, the husky threshers of the olden time, and as they
talked, each of them reverting to significant events in those heroic
days, I sobered with a sense of irreparable loss. Pathos and humor
mingled in their talk of those far days!

Shane said, "Remember the time I 'bushed' you over in Dunlap's meadow?"
To this my father scornfully replied, "You bushed me! I can see you,
now, sitting there under that oak tree mopping your red face. I had you
'petered' before ten o'clock."

It all came back as they talked,--that buoyant world of the reaper and
the binder, when harvesting was a kind of Homeric game in which, with
rake and scythe, t