he front serving the country's cause, cries of "Burn his
house! Burn his house!" came to the distracted ears of wife and daughter.

But all that has gone now. In fact, denial that calumny was ever offered
to the name of Seward springs quickly to the lips of Auburn men, as they
point with pride to that beautiful old home where he lived, and where now
his son resides; and then they lead you, with a reverence that nearly
uncovers, to the stately bronze standing on the spot that was once his
garden--now a park belonging to the people.

Time marks wondrous changes; and the city where William Lloyd Garrison
lived in "a rat-hole," as reported by Boston's Mayor, now honors
Commonwealth Avenue with his statue. And so the sons of Seward's enemies
have devoted willing dollars to preserving "that classic face and
spindling form" in deathless bronze.

And they do well, for Seward's name and fame are Auburn's glory.

* * * * *

I may be mistaken, but it seems to me that all the worry of the world is
quite useless. And on no subject affecting mortals is there so much worry
as on that of (no, not love!) parents' ambitions for their children. When
the dimpled darling toddles and lisps and chatters, the satisfaction he
gives is unalloyed; for he is so small and insignificant, his demands so
imperious, that the entire household dance attendance on the wee tyrant,
and count it joy. But by and by the things at which we used to laugh
become presumptuous, and that which was once funny is now perverse. And
the more practical a man is, the larger his stock of Connecticut
commonsense, the greater his disillusionment as his children grow to
manhood. When he beholds dawdling inanity and dowdy vanity growing lush as
jimson, where yesterday, with strained prophetic vision, he saw budding
excellence and worth, his soul is wrung by a worry that knows no peace.
The matter is so poignantly personal that he dare not share it with
another in confessional, and so he hugs his grief to his heart, and tries
to hide it even from himself.

And thus does many a mother scrub the kitchen-floor on her knees, rather
than face the irony of maternity and ask the assistance of the
seventeen-year-old pert chit with bangs, who strums a mandolin in the
little front parlor, gay with its paper flowers, six plush-covered chairs
and a "company" sofa.

The late Commodore Vanderbilt is reported to have said, "I have over a
dozen sons, and n