n is probably a voicing of his
regret that he has lost his zeal for the fun and frolic of youth. If
he could but drink a few copious drafts from the Fountain of Youth,
the books of the present might not seem so inferior after all. The
bread and apple-butter stage of our hero's career may seem to dim the
lustre of the later porterhouse steak, but with all the glory of the
halcyon days of yore it is to be noted that he rides in an automobile
and not in an ox-cart, and prefers electricity to the good old
oil-lamp.

I concede with enthusiasm the joys of bygone days, and would be glad
to repeat those experiences with sundry very specific reservations
and exceptions. That thick bread with its generous anointing of
apple butter discounted all the nectar and ambrosia of the books and
left its marks upon the character as well as the features of the
recipient. The mouth waters even now as I recall the bill of fare
plus the appetite. But if I were going back to the good old days I'd
like to take some of the modern improvements along with me. It
thrills me to consider the modern school credits for home work with
all the "57 varieties" as an integral feature of the good old days.
Alas, how much we missed by not knowing about all this! What
miracles might have been wrought had we and our teachers only known!
Poor, ignorant teachers! Little did they dream that such wondrous
things could ever be. Life might have been made a glad, sweet song
for us had it been supplied with these modern attachments. I spent
many weary hours over partial payments in Ray's Third Part, when I
might have been brushing my teeth or combing my hair instead. Then,
instead of threading the mazes of Greene's Analysis and parsing
"Thanatopsis," I might just as well have been asleep in the haymow,
where ventilation was super-abundant. How proudly could I have
produced the home certificate as to my haymow experience and received
an exhilarating grade in grammar!

Just here I interrupt myself to let the imagination follow me
homeward on the days when grades were issued. The triumphal
processions of the Romans would have been mild by comparison. The
arch look upon my face, the martial mien, and the flashing eye all
betoken the real hero. Then the pride of that home, the sumptuous
feast of chicken and angel-food cake, and the parental acclaim--all
befitting the stanch upholder of the family honor. Of course,
nothing like this ever really happened, wh