gement of Nancy. A switch of her tail and a laying back of her
ears showed that she understood. If a letter must be written, it was
done after meeting. Uncle Lyman seldom touched pen and paper except when
an item was to be set down in his account book. Paper was scarce and
costly and postage six good cents; and the pen, a quill, was usually
dried up, and the nib opened too wide to hold the ink, and had to be
soaked a good while before it would write. There was always some excuse
for not answering a letter. But nothing pleased him more than to receive
one. It was read slowly and with great attention, stuck behind the clock
and reread for a week. The Sabbath ended with an early supper and early
sleep, for Monday was always a busy day. Corn and potatoes did not rest
on the Sabbath, neither did weeds.

At last for Uncle Lyman there came the eternal Sabbath day. He lifted
the latch of his house door for the last time, smoked his last pipe, and
laid down willingly to sleep. Other feet now traverse his lands; there
is new paint over the ancient red house walls, and new labor saving
tools; they and hired menials do the work, but no more than his two
hands in proud industrious independence were wont to accomplish. He is
forgotten by those who now possess what he made worth possessing. But I
have not forgotten him, and little do the present owners of his houses
and lands imagine that there is a title back of theirs, registered in
the court of memory which no mere occupation and ownership can
invalidate.

THE ANCIENT NEW ENGLAND FARMER

How pleasant o'er the still autumnal vale
From his great timbered barn's wide open door
The muffled sound of his unresting flail
In rhythmic swing upon the threshing floor!

How straight their tasselled tops his corn upreared!
Straight were the rows, no weed dared raise its head;
How golden gleamed their opening sheaths well eared
Whose inner husks stuffed out his bulging bed!

Full many a field of dewy grass breast-high
His long sharp scythe ere breakfast time did lay;
Full many a hurrying shower came by,
But to the mow still faster went the hay.

To him as inward fires were ice and snow,
They urged his pulse with warm vivacious blood;
How made his furrowed cheeks in winter glow
With ruddy health and iron hardihood!

Superfluous to him was coat or vest,
Let blow hot or cold or stormiest wea