sleepily chirping and the wind playing with the leaves in the
maples. To Connie's sensitive ears the rustle suggested stealthy feet
and passing wings--but to me came visions of endless rivers of helmeted
soldiers flowing steadily remorselessly through Belgium, and Mary Isabel
said, "Papa, don't you think of going to war. I won't let you."

"They wouldn't take me anyway," I replied, "I'm too old. You needn't
worry."

I could not conceal from myself the fact that my father's work was
almost done. That he was failing was sorrowfully evident. He weeded the
garden no more. Content to sit in a chair on the back porch or to lie in
a hammock under the maples, he spent long hours with me or with Zulime,
recalling the battles of the Civil War, or relating incidents of the
early history of the valley.

He still went to his club each night after supper, but the walk was
getting to be more and more of a task, and he rejoiced when we found
time to organize a game of cinch at home. This we very often did, and
sometimes, even in the middle of the afternoon I called him in to play
with me; for with a great deal of time on his hands he was restless. "I
can't read all the time," he said, "and most of the fellows are busy
during the middle of the day."

Each morning regular as the clock he went to the post-office to get his
paper, and at lunch he was ready to discuss the news of the battles
which had taken place. After his meal he went for a little work in the
garden, for his hatred of weeds was bitter. He could not endure to have
them overrun his crops. They were his Huns, his menacing invaders.

In this fashion he approached his eighty-fourth birthday. His manner was
tranquil, but I knew that he was a little troubled by some outstanding
notes which he had signed in order to purchase a house for my brother in
Oklahoma, and to cure this I bought up these papers, canceled them and
put them under his breakfast plate. "I want him to start his
eighty-fifth year absolutely clear of debt," I said to Zulime.

He was much affected by the discovery of these papers. It pleased him to
think that I had the money to spare. It was another evidence of my
prosperity.

Nearly half of _A Son of the Middle Border_ had now been printed and
while he had read it he was shy about discussing it. Something almost
sacred colored the pictures which my story called up. Its songs and
sayings vibrated deep, searching the foundation chords of his life. They
tol