art o' town that ain't changed, though.
Most o' the old folks is gone, too, and the young uns, like you chaps,
all git ambitious fer the cities. I give up cuttin' hair 'bout three
year back--got kinder onsteady an' cut too many ears."

A sudden smile broke over Old Hundred's face. "Clarkie," he said, "you
were always up on such things--is it rats or warts that you write a
note to when you want 'em to go away?"

"Yes, it's rats, isn't it?" I cried, also reminded, for the first
time, of our real quest.

"Why," said Clarkie, "you must be sure to make the note very
partic'lar perlite, and tell 'em whar to go. Don't fergit that."

"Yes, yes," said we, "but is it warts or rats?"

"Well," said Clarkie, "it's both."

We looked one at the other, and grinned rather sheepishly.

"Only thar's a better way fer warts," Clarkie went on. "I knew a boy
once who sold his. That's the best way. Yer don't have actually to
sell 'em. Just git another feller to say, 'I'll give yer five cents
fer yer warts,' and you say, 'All right, they're yourn,' and then they
go. Fact."

We thanked him, and moved down to the road, declining his invitation
to come into the house. Westward, the sun had gone down and left the
sky a glowing amber and rose. The fields rolled their young green like
a checkered carpet over the low hills--the sweet, familiar hills. For
an instant, in the hush of gathering twilight, we stood there silent
and bridged the years; wiping out the strife, the toil, the ambitions,
we were boys again.

"Hark!" said Old Hundred, softly. Down through the orchard we heard
the thin, sweet tinkle of a cow-bell. "There's a boy behind, with the
peeled switch," he added, "looking dreamily up at the first star, and
wishing on it--wishing for a lot of things he'll never get. But I'm
sure he isn't barefoot. Let's go."

As we passed down the turnpike, between the rows of cheap frame
houses, we saw, in the increasing dusk, the ruins of a lane, and the
corner of a small, back-yard potato patch, that had been Kingman's
field. We hastened through the noisy, treeless village, and boarded
the Boston train, rather cross for want of supper.

"I wonder," said Old Hundred, as we moved out of the station, "whether
we'd better go to Young's or the Parker House?"

[Illustration]

_Mumblety-peg and Middle Age_

Old Hundred and I were taking our Saturday afternoon walk in the
country--that is,