House one evening, he refused to start off for
home alone--the bold ranger of a thousand midnights--and his indulgent
girl hostesses telephoned for a carriage, so that Sigurd came proudly
driving up to his front door in a hack. He so enjoyed the extra petting
that came with any mischance that he affected, when it occurred to him,
this terror long after it had faded out, just as he would in running
tuck up an injured foot, when he happened to think of it, weeks after
it was healed, and hop plaintively on three legs until the sight of a
cat or a squirrel made him forget all about it.

Sigurd had several promising sons in the village, and one of these we
would gladly have adopted had not our delight in its puppy graces
nearly broken his jealous old heart. So we let it go to other admirers
and presently lost all trace of his golden scions. But one day, when I
was walking with him, a winsome little lad came up and, touching his
cap, asked shyly if he might stroke Sigurd, "for he's the papa of my
dog Trusty that died." Poor Trusty was a victim of distemper, and the
child softly told us all about it, his arms about the neck of Sigurd,
who put on an appropriate expression of bereavement.

The burden of the years brought its own compensation. Instead of the
darkling escapades that used to distract and worry us, Sigurd became
the best of company, in the depths of a winter night. Joy-of-Life was
the lark of the household, and I the owl, so our self-appointed
caretaker, after seeing her early to bed, would come downstairs again
to lie close against my feet, inviting confidences. When I became too
absorbed in my task to answer his remarks, he would still hold forth in
a broken conversational grumble, contented, for reply, with the
crackling of the fire and the scratching of a pen.

Nor was Sigurd the only one of our blithe fellowship for whom Time was
quietly setting up milestones along the changing road. He was still in
his prime when, on a date of gleaming memory, the Dryad gave at
Norumbega Hall a birthday party for my mother, a party musical with our
Poet's own sweet and roguish songs, not only in honor of

"her who graciously
With each soft year younger grows,
As the earth with every rose,"

but in merry greeting of each of the other guests. The white-crowned
mother of Joy-of-Life was there, and the mother of the College
Reconciler,

"Who, over and over
(The Lady from Dover),
Turns th