other, "There's Doc Philipps, planting another tree."

Up in the big, prim old Howe house sits Madam Howe. She is called Madam
to distinguish her from her daughter-in-law, Mrs. George Howe. She is a
regal old lady of eighty-three and spends most of her time in her room
up-stairs where are gathered the wonderful heirlooms,--older, far older
than she.

There is the mellow brown spinning wheel, and armchairs nearly two
hundred years old and a walnut table that was mixed up in countless
weddings and a beautifully carved old chest and a brocade-covered settee.
There are old, old books and family portraits and there is the wonderful
Madam herself, regal and silver-haired. If she likes you she will take
you to her great room and tell you about the Revolutionary War as it
happened in and to her family; and about her great ride westward in the
prairie schooner; about the Indians and the babyhood of great cities, and
the lovely wild flowers of the virgin prairie; about the wild animals,
the snakes, the pioneer men and women of what is now only the Middle West.

She will take from out that age-darkened, beautiful chest dresses and
bits of lace and samplers like the one that hangs framed above her
writing desk and tells how it was stitched by one,

ABIGAIL WINSLOW PAGE,
Age 13.

There is one thing you must always remember if you wish to stand in
Madam's good graces. You must never sit down on the brocade-covered
settee with the beautiful rose wreath hand-carved on its gracefully
curving walnut back. Some day when she gets to know you very well she
will tell you of the wonderful love stories that were enacted on that
settee. She will begin away, away back with some great-great-grandmother
or some great-grand-aunt and come gradually down to her own time and
history; and as she tells of the young years of her life, her eyes will
go dreaming off into the past and she will forget you entirely. And you
will slip away from that great room and leave her sitting there, regal
and silver haired, her face mellow and sweet with the golden memories of
far, by-gone days.

You can wander in this happy, aimless fashion all about Green Valley, go
in and out its deep-rooted old homes, stroll through its tree-guarded old
streets, and at every turn taste romance and adventure, revel in beauty
of some sort. Even the old, red-brick creamery, ugly in itself, is a
thing of beauty when seen against a sunset sky.

The people