the beginning of the party and
another at the end. He had a high respect for the skill of my Uncle
David and was grateful to him and other better musicians for their
non-interference with his professional engagements.

The school-house which was to be the center of our social life stood on
the bare prairie about a mile to the southwest and like thousands of
other similar buildings in the west, had not a leaf to shade it in
summer nor a branch to break the winds of savage winter. "There's been a
good deal of talk about setting out a wind-break," neighbor Button
explained to us, "but nothing has as yet been done." It was merely a
square pine box painted a glaring white on the outside and a desolate
drab within; at least drab was the original color, but the benches were
mainly so greasy and hacked that original intentions were obscured. It
had two doors on the eastern end and three windows on each side.

A long square stove (standing on slender legs in a puddle of bricks), a
wooden chair, and a rude table in one corner, for the use of the
teacher, completed the movable furniture. The walls were roughly
plastered and the windows had no curtains.

It was a barren temple of the arts even to the residents of Dry Run, and
Harriet and I, stealing across the prairie one Sunday morning to look
in, came away vaguely depressed. We were fond of school and never missed
a day if we could help it, but this neighborhood center seemed small and
bleak and poor.

With what fear, what excitement we approached the door on that first
day, I can only faintly indicate. All the scholars were strange to me
except Albert and Cyrus Button, and I was prepared for rough treatment.
However, the experience was not so harsh as I had feared. True, Rangely
Field did throw me down and wash my face in snow, and Jack Sweet tripped
me up once or twice, but I bore these indignities with such grace and
could command, and soon made a place for myself among the boys.

Burton Babcock was my seat-mate, and at once became my chum. You will
hear much of him in this chronicle. He was two years older than I and
though pale and slim was unusually swift and strong for his age. He was
a silent lad, curiously timid in his classes and not at ease with his
teachers.

I cannot recover much of that first winter of school. It was not an
experience to remember for its charm. Not one line of grace, not one
touch of color relieved the room's bare walls or softened its harsh