was a century and a quarter ago! Here they have lived
for generations. The Cousin Jennie has gone, but the tall bright-eyed
man who married her is still hale and hearty, with snowy hair and beard.

Yes, it is all New York up to Kingsbridge. There are many historic
spots, and several old manor houses still standing. But it has a city
aspect in spite of some wildness. They go around to Fordham; the old
house perched on the hill is there, though it has been enlarged, and the
street widened and straightened. Up on the old porch grandmamma sat and
read; and it still hangs out with a tempting aspect, just as when she
watched the pedestrians and the reverend fathers, who yet go up and
down. And here is the little old Poe Cottage, about which such a flavor
of romance lingers, though the place has been modernised into a
"Terrace," and built about with city pretentiousness. It is still the
same little low place, not a bit changed since she sat there on the
door-sill and talked over her heroes with the poet. She can still see
the tall spare figure of Mrs. Clemm in her rocking-chair doing her bit
of mending and casting anxious glances at the son of her love, about
whom so much has been written in later days. People still quote the
"Raven" and "Ullalume," but all she cares to remember is "Annabel Lee,"
and the weird stories are not to her taste.

The old Odell house at West Farms was swept away long ago; Janey is a
grandmother on a big farm that is crowded with summer boarders. Polly
is in Oregon, her sons coming up with the country. And up a short
distance, Jerome Park used to be thronged by the beauty and fashion of
the city on racing days. And that has gone, too.

A little to the eastward is the beautiful Bronx Park, that is going to
tread closely on its down-town rival. Oh, is Central Park really
down-town? There are woods and wilds, ravines and the leisurely stream,
trees that have been brought from everywhere, walks and drives, hills
clothed with verdure, and the old Lorillard mansion still grand, with
its legend of love and tragedy. Its gardens have changed indeed.
Grandmamma remembers the small old man, who used to gather his rose
leaves day by day from the fragrant beds,--Lorillard's rose-snuff was a
great thing two generations ago.

"Did they really take snuff?" asks Ethel, in disgust. "How queer!"

"And you know," says Rose, "that Uncle Herman told us of a man who
declined to take snuff, because if nature had intende