One summer night of the distant past, three of us, father, brother Cecil, five years old, and I, two years younger, got off the train at Wallingford, Vermont. All was darkness except as it was broken by the flickering light of a lantern held by a tall man I had never seen before. On the delicate film of my consciousness the scene was etched so deep and clear that it can not be obliterated or dimmed while life lasts.

The tall man took my clenched fist in his warm, strong hand which was ever so much larger than father’s, with enormous thumbs which made excellent handles for little boys to hold to when going over rough places and so we walked up the street, father and Cecil following. This tall man was my grandfather. It was a solemn procession and the solemnity was emphasized by the awesome stillness and darkness of the night.

Grandfather, father, Cecil and I turned north at the first corner, crossed the road and grandfather opened a gate and we entered a yard. As we approached the side veranda of a comfortable looking house, a door opened and a dark-eyed elderly lady stepped out into the darkness holding a kerosene lamp above her head and peering out into the night. She was father’s mother and was destined to be mine as well. Grandmother weighed precisely eighty-nine pounds; never more; never less. It is said that fine goods come wrapped in small packages and grandmother was certainly fine goods.

On that summer night she greeted her son and his two children affectionately but quietly. We gathered in the dining room and grandmother and father talked matters over. I was not conscious of what they were saying but I can plainly see them through the mists which have been slowly gathering for more than seventy years.

Eventually grandmother arose and went into a big pantry, (buttery, she called it) adjoining the dining room and soon re turned with three yellow earthen bowls, a large one for father and smaller ones for Cecil and me. A generous loaf of bread, possessed of virtues beyond any I had ever tasted, soon made its appearance together with a pitcher of sweet, rich milk fresh from the udders of the benevolent old family cow, with which I was soon to become acquainted. Oh yes I nearly forgot the heaping dish of blueberries plucked from tangled bushes which lifted their heads between the rocks on mountain sides, triumphantly offering to hungry humans the luscious harvest which they, in spite of long cold winters, had succeeded in extracting from sour and sterile soil.

Three chairs were drawn to the table; one, a high-chair, survivor of previous generations, was manifestly intended for me, and the feast began. Father and grandmother continued their conversation as we ate while grandfather listened. We boys were hungry and had but one matter to attend to—the matter of filling up.

The banjo clock, hanging on the north wall was amazed at the unusual happenings and pointed its long, scrawny finger warningly at the passing numerals until it finally succeeded in attracting grandmother’s attention, with the result that she arose suddenly and said, “For the Land Sake, Pa Harris, it’s nearly twelve o’clock!” The banjo clock was in no way responsible for the remission; being both deaf and dumb, it could do nothing further than to point its warning fingers and that duty, as heretofore related, it performed.

There was another clock hanging above the mantel-piece in the adjoining sitting-room. It also was deaf but it was not dumb. While the best that the banjo clock could do in the way of giving audible expression to its thoughts was to emit an entirely meaningless tick-tock, the sitting-room clock could make itself heard throughout the house and it unhesitatingly did so whenever it had The truth was that grandmother had been preoccupied with the distressing troubles of her son, my father, and in the multitudinous problems which confronted her as a result of them. After her startled announcement, we boys were taken to a bedroom henceforth to be known as our own.

The most conspicuous object which confronted us in our new quarters was an enormous something which had the appearance of a very sick and swollen bed. After having been undressed and put into clean nighties, one after the other, we were lifted high and launched smack into the middle of the distended stomach of the very sick bed and the next thing we knew it was morning and we were wondering how to get out of the predicament in which we found ourselves, almost submerged in the yielding folds of the mattress which, in honor of our coming, had been stuffed with clean, fresh straw, sufficient to provide restful and cooling comfort until the cold nights of autumn would proclaim the coming of winter and the necessity of providing the amazing bed with an entirely new stomach, composed of downy, homegrown feathers to keep us warm during the long, cold nights when winter winds would be howling like wolves around the corner.

How it happened that we three, father, Cecil and I, had so disturbed the serenity of the home life of our early-to-bed paternal grandparents, and how it happened that the most important personage of all young families, our mother, was not of the group, calls for explanation. To satisfy those interested, I will state that economic considerations had made it necessary to divide our family. In other words, father, having failed in business in the West, had taken us boys to his paternal home as a refuge, just as thousands of fathers bad done, and still do, during periods of financial extremity. As our sister, Nina May, was still an infant in arms, our mother felt that it would be too much of an imposition on our grandparents were she to come along. She preferred to carry on as best she could in Racine, a beautiful little Wisconsin city on the shores of Lake Michigan, where we children were born. Mother was a Bryan and the Bryans were proud.

Father had been given a drug store and a house of his own by grandfather Harris, a thrifty New Englander, whose indulgence of his son was one of the reasons why my father found it so difficult to keep income up and expenses down. Having been given so vigorous a boost at the beginning, it was quite natural for father to assume that other boosts would follow as a matter of course. They did for a time, but eventually, grandfather found it necessary to liquidate father’s business and to establish a new base nearer his own home where the books could be frequently audited by one familiar with “double-entry” bookkeeping—grandfather himself. His books, such as they were, were always in balance. No entries ever had to be made in red.

Little as our elders realized it at the time, all of the events above related, even including the liquidation and closing of father’s drug store, proved to be fortunate for us boys. Cecil was to realize temporary benefits and I was to have the benefit of a well regulated, permanent home where nothing was ever either over- or underdone; where ideals were of the highest and education the supreme objective.

While some of the Bryans were disposed to view grandfather Harris’ family from what they were pleased to consider a higher plane, they would, I fancy, have freely admitted that there was not the slightest danger that grandfather Harris would ever convert his possessions into cash, leave his family to shift for itself, and fly away to parts unknown in search of gold, pearls, diamonds or other so called valuables as my maternal grandfather had done. It may also as well be stated that it was my frugal, hard-working New England grandfather Harris who made the last days of my more brilliant but less provident grandfather Bryan and his self-sacrificing wife comfortable; and that it was this same grandfather Harris, who, encouraged by his own sympathetic and hard-working helpmeet, Pamela Rustin Harris, spread his mantle of helpfulness over the needy of all his descendants. Even to this day the estate of grandmother still stands open in the records of Rutland county’s probate court, one of our family still being a beneficiary of the small remaining income.

There must have been great doings, much confusion and some weeping when our family broke up housekeeping in Racine. It is always a sad piece of business to break up housekeeping, even in cases where the gloom is not deepened by a sense of defeat. In the case of our family, the grief must have been particularly poignant. Everything had been done for my parents and still they had failed. The future held no bright promise; there was nothing to fall back upon except the supporting hands of grandfather and grandmother Harris. It must have been especially humiliating to my father to return to his native village vanquished and with only dim hopes to sustain his drooping spirits.

Father, Cecil and I constituted the vanguard of the refugees; the other members of the family were to come to Vermont after suitable provision had been made for them.

The incidents above related were beyond the understanding of Brother Cecil and myself. No defeatism tortured our souls. So long as we were fed, clothed, kept comfortable and permitted to do very much as we pleased, all was well.

However, we were now in our new home, and sad to relate mutiny broke out the very next morning. She, who soon proved to be Skipper-in-chief, happened at the moment to be lacing my shoes. Not knowing her exalted position in the family, I naturally sup posed her to be one of the crew and refused to do her bidding when she told me to lift my foot. Thinking it high time to put her where she belonged, I said, “You are not my Mamma and I won’t mind you.” The Skipper forthwith called my father to straighten things out which he did with lasting effect, and I did not question further the authority of the little elderly lady who, after all, seemed to have matters well in hand.

Cecil and I promptly and industriously proceeded to explore the wonders of our new home. What I discovered and experienced as the days, months and years went by will appear in the chapters which follow.

Soon after our arrival in Wallingford, grandmother saw that the clothes we were wearing were not suitable for the lives we were to lead and the family seamstress, Margaret McConnell, was soon at work on a hurry-up order. Margaret was the personification of patience, otherwise she would never have succeeded in inducing wriggling, squirming boys to stand still long enough to have their clothes “tried on.”

The entire outfit for everyday summer wear consisted of waists and pants which were neither long nor short; how far the latter extended below the knee depended on how much material there was on hand; the idea being that if they didn’t fit this year, maybe they would next when, presumably, our legs would be longer. Half way between knee and ankle was considered a safe place to leave off, high enough to allow for wading in mud and long enough to bag at the knee according to the prevailing mode. To make suitable allowance for the fact that next year’s boy might be anatomically different from this year’s boy, called for something in the nature of prophetic vision, and that quality of mind Margaret undoubtedly possessed. Only once did she fail. On that occasion the extension of my legs was shocking and the expansion was also considerable. Had I ever succeeded in getting into Margaret McConnell’s creation, nothing but a corkscrew would have pulled me out again.

Our summertime costume of those days included, in addition to our waists and our nondescript panties, broad-brimmed, some times badly torn straw hats. Shoes there were none nor should there have been. I pity the small boy to whom the joy of wading in mud puddles and twisting his toes in the long, cool grass in the early morning hours is unknown. Grandmother knew these things and forthwith emancipated us from the restrictions of city life. Every evening, of course, we had to have our feet bathed in hot water before we were permitted to insert them between the clean, crisp sheets of our beds but that was a small price to pay for the infinite satisfaction of being bare-foot boys.

Whittier must have had a warm spot in his heart for such boys else how could he have written: Blessings on thee, little man Barefoot boy, with cheeks of tan, With thy turned up pantaloons And thy merry whistled tunes.

Chapter 3 - Our 14 Room House

Although Grandfather's house was not large, there were fourteen rooms in it beside pantries and sundry nondescript ells used mostly for storage and a large attic. Of the fourteen rooms only seven were in regular use. There were four guest chambers, three of which were seldom occupied; the fourth, to my knowledge, never. The south parlor was used when we had guests; the north parlor being thrown open but twice during the eighteen years I lived in the house. The first opening occurred during the visit of distinguished relatives from the West, and the second, for grandfather’s funeral.

Evidences of good housekeeping were to be seen everywhere about our house. The table linen was always spotlessly clean, and here and there on the surface, a neatly laid patch was to be seen, mute but eloquent testimony to New England thrift and loving care. I never see such patches on table linens without an accompanying flood of tender recollections. They are indicative of the presence of the spirit that counts; the memory of which, cannot be obliterated by the passage of years.

Even staunchly built New England houses may disappear as a result of storm, flood or fire, but memories of homes where love abides, are imperishable. When one looks back over a long period of years, much which once seemed important, fades into insignificance, while other things grow into such commanding importance that one may in truth say, “Nothing else matters.” Sacrifice, devotion, honor, truth, sincerity, love—these are the homely virtues characteristic of good, old-fashioned homes.

Grandmother’s kitchen was like the works of a clock; the engine of a motor vehicle; the heart of a human being. In the kitchen, the power which controlled the domestic affairs of the house was generated. The kitchen was a hive of industry.

Monday was an especially busy day; all the machinery was put in mesh; even grandfather had his part. He kept the fire under the stationary boiler burning briskly, using only white birch wood which fired quickly and produced a high degree of heat at precisely the right time. Grandfather also kept the reservoir on the back of the stove full of water available for the wash tubs or the boiler as Delia might need. Soft water only was considered fit for washing dishes, for washing clothes on Mondays, or for our tub baths on Saturday nights. Soft water, homemade soft soap, and soft wood fires under the boiler were an unbeatable combination in the war against uncleanliness. The pump at the sink in the kitchen never failed to yield the needed supply of soft water from the cistern and the spout in the summer kitchen was equally faithful in its undertaking to supply all needs of cold hard water for drinking, cooking, refrigeration and sewage disposal purposes.

The kitchen was versatile indeed; it could turn its talents to service as a bakery on bake days, a dairy on butter making days, a butcher shop during sausage making, trying out lard and salting meats. The duties of the kitchen also included a hundred and one unclassified services such as canning fruit, rag rug making, etc., etc.

Of course the kitchen had the summer kitchen to fall back on when its own resources were overtaxed. The summer kitchen was supplied with a sink of its own in which dishes could be washed in case the kitchen sink was being used for other purposes. All the churning was done in the summer kitchen, grandfather supplying what Mr. Jerome Hilliard might have designated as “elbow grease.”

The summer kitchen was the repository of the rag bag into which all surplus rags were put and held for the coming of the ragman. The rag bag played an important part in our domestic economy as it paid for all brooms, dusters, tin ware and other odds and ends.

The summer kitchen was provided with a coal bin and space for neat piles of wood sufficient for immediate needs. There was, as I know, never any jealousy between the kitchen and the summer kitchen. The kitchen knew that it was the hub of our little universe and the summer kitchen was content to play a subordinate role.

The kitchen was also blessed with two butteries (pantries), the larger of the two opening into the dining room, thus saving many steps. The dishes, all except chinaware, were also kept in the larger of the two butteries; there were also three barrels, one of which contained wheat flour, one buckwheat flour, and the third sugar. Kitchen utensils, eggs and many other household utilities, were kept in the larger of the two butteries.

The small buttery was reserved for milk, cooked meats, fruit and other food which needed to be kept cool. This small buttery was protected all the year round against even the most penetrating rays of the sun. Winter accumulations of snow along the outer wall of this small buttery remained late in the spring after it had disappeared elsewhere, except perhaps from the top of Killington Peak. To grandmother, the larger buttery was always the “south buttery” and the smaller one the “north buttery,” but by what process of reasoning I have never known, as both butteries had been wisely located on the north side of the house.

Of course the kitchen could not have played its stellar role so successfully had it not been for the huge, three-roomed deep cellar which kept bulky vegetables and fruits extra cool even in the summer months. The potatoes of course had to be sprouted when the warm days served notice that the sun had issued its annual proclamation to all living things to come out and get warm.

Our great box refrigeration through which the cold spring water Incessantly flowed on its way to the lavatory played an especially Important part during the period when we had our cow. The butter was made in the summer kitchen, after which it was stored in big earthen crocks and placed in the great box where it was kept cool by the constantly flowing water.

Vermont farmers, who were fortunate enough to have springs near their houses, frequently built small houses over them and within their walls the dairy operations were conducted and the dairy products stored for use by the family or for sale when accumulated in sufficient quantities. Butter and eggs were sold at the store where the family traded, or, in some cases, exchanged for needed commodities. Cool spring houses with their odors of fresh cream and butter were about the sweetest places there were on old-fashioned farms and how refreshing it was to step into the spring house on hot days in summer.

The water from the spring was generally carried through pump logs to the barnyard where hot, thirsty horses, coming in from the fields, could refresh themselves in contentment and where all other farm animals could enjoy the cool, flowing water. Modem electric refrigerators may be more efficient but they never can match the sweetness of the old-fashioned spring houses of mountain farms.

In the old days many farm women made cheese as well as butter but that practice ceased when the cheese factories came. Vermont green cheese, sometimes called sage cheese, gained an enviable reputation throughout the state and throughout New England. I can still see our cheese maker, Martin Williams, with his mortar and pestle preparing his sage for use in his great vats of curds. It was his custom to mix tender clover leaves with the sage so that it would not taste too strong. Alas! the cheese making industry in Vermont was short lived as it was replaced by the famous Herkimer County New York State cheese long before Wisconsin became the cheese making state of America.

Creameries were the next in order. Cheese factories were turned into creameries and Vermont farmers brought their whole milk and took away the skimmed milk to be fed to their pigs just as before.

The cream was separated from the milk, cooled and placed in large cans which were put into heavy stuffed jackets and shipped by fast trains to Boston or New York where it arrived in time for breakfast. This practice with some refinements still continues and doubtless will continue until the aeroplane changes the present order. Most thrifty Vermont farmers have their own cream separators now.

As compared with many New England houses our house is not old, even now being only one hundred years old or thereabouts; that is to say that it is only about as old as the city of Chicago where houses quickly come and go. It is as staunch to-day as when built and, if no untoward circumstances disturb the serenity of its mounting years, it is doubtless destined to be really old, even In the New England sense, sometime in the centuries to come.

To passing automobiles on the Ethan Allen Highway, it is distinguishable by two large letters “H.H.” worked out in the pattern of its imperishable roof of slate. The letters stand for Howard Harris, my benefactor and grandfather. The house is now owned by Mr. and Mrs. R. C. Taft who have raised a fine family in it.

How the house happened to be built so recently was due to a misfortune which at the time seemed calamitous. The original residence was destroyed by fire one Christmas night. The fire began in grandfather’s store which, for convenience, had been built near the house.

Of the days of the reconstruction of the house, I have never learned anything except the fact that the versatile carpenter employed his spare hours, when the weather interfered with his building operations, in making grandfather a pair of fine boots. In conformity with the prevailing fashion they were made to reach nearly to the knees, although shoes would have been far more comfortable and equally serviceable.

These boots were light in weight, very soft and pliable and they served him as best boots for nearly forty years. During that period, they were worn every Sunday and when grandfather was traveling; in fact, on all special occasions and, when he was finally laid away, his weary feet were tenderly placed in the soft, pliable top boots made by the versatile carpenter.

Chapter 7 - Buttercup, Queen of the Pasture

Brother Cecil was eventually set up in business of his own; that of driving our old cow Buttercup to and from the pasture. He went at his task bravely. If I were asked to name the most outstanding characteristic of my brother Cecil, I would unhesitatingly answer, courage. His courage never failed him. He took life as it came ex­tracting from each day's experiences the maximum of sweetness and never quailing in the face of danger or disaster.Many years after the events here recorded, Cecil, suffering bodily ailments painfully manifest to relatives and friends, invariably stoutly insisted that all was well. If he knew what fear was, he never admitted it. One of the last things he said to me as his sun was about to set was, "Whatever else may be said of me, no one will ever be able to say truthfully that I didn't enjoy life while it lasted." True to the last word and syllable, my brother!

Of all my many sins the one I most regret was the one of strik­ing you, my dear brother. One summer day in Wallingford, in a burst of anger I shot my fist out through the battered hat you were wearing and landed a full blow on your face. You were both hurt and humiliated and your eyes filled with tears but you did not strike me back. I was ashamed and would have given all my small pos­sessions to be able to take back the cruel blow. Thousands of times the scene has come to my memory always with a feeling of sorrow.

So Cecil took the business of driving Buttercup to pasture in his customary stride, although all he had learned of cows during our brief residence in the West was what was delivered at the back door by the milkman, and of that there had never been too much.

Eventually Cecil took to himself a junior partner in the business of driving the cow to and from the pasture. Why he did so I do not know unless it were for the sake of company. In any event, I was given the honor though my faith in the good intentions of cows was shaken by the fact that they had been equipped with formidable horns, a fact not easily reconcilable with the ideals of peace on earth, good will toward little boys.

The results of our first day of driving Buttercup to pasture were not reassuring. Buttercup, with other cows belonging to our neigh­bors opened warfare in the lane leading to the pasture and it seemed for a time as if bedlam had been turned loose. By interposition of Providence, someone had left a capacious drygoods box in the lane —a refuge in time of need. I stood not upon the order of going but into the drygoods box I scrambled, leaving Cecil and the boys of the neighborhood either to carry on or else find drygoods boxes of their own. From within my fortress, I viewed the clash of horns and heads with a somewhat limited degree of composure, but did not relinquish the strategic advantage of my position until Cecil and the other boys assured me that the war was over; that the belligerents had been driven into the pasture and the bars put up to prevent egress to the lane. If they had further disputes to settle they would have to settle them in the pasture behind five feet of sturdy bars.

With this seeming inauspicious beginning, my education in the manners of cows continued until I came to an understanding of them, and so, to love them. To me cows are reminiscent of my child­hood days. Pastoral paintings arouse something altogether agreeable in me.

Buttercup was a Hereford, of a breed imported from England and reputed to be more productive of meat than of milk; however, our cow managed to be productive of both. She was larger than any other cow in the pasture, even larger than Jimmy Conley's cow which stood next in order. The cows of other neighbors recog­nized the priority rights of Buttercup and stood aside while the bars were being let down, giving her the right of way in going in and out of the pasture.

When Buttercup was fresh having given birth to a calf, she used to yield two big pails of rich, foaming milk. Her breath was wondrous sweet; no victim of halitosis she, and she had other good qualities too numerous to mention, most important of which perhaps was that she was truly our own, good faithful Buttercup. Had there been a '"Who's who" in cowdom, I am sure her name would have been given a place at the top of the list. Her soft mooing was sweet music in my ears and had it not been for the outbreak of temper the time she cleaned Jimmy Conley's cow up in a battle for the supremacy of the pasture, I would always thought of her as a true Christian cow. Not that I thought any worse of her for having stood up for her rights; in fact, I gloated over the victory if memory serves me right and I may even have egged her on a bit.

I used to think that Buttercup must have been terribly lonely, pent up as she was in a small stall during the long cold winter months with only one small window to look through and only snow to look at when she did peek out. She did, however, have the satis­faction of knowing that her stall was on the south side of the barn and that the icy winds from the North Pole had thick walls and several tiers of neatly piled wood to sift through before they could touch her thick old hide. The hens and their male escort the rooster were under the same roof and the hens cackled whenever they laid their eggs and the rooster was the best kind of an alarm clock when it came time for announcing the coming of day.

Grandfather also was a regular visitor both morning and eve­ning, bringing generous portions of cornmeal in exchange for what­ever quantities of milk Buttercup might yield. High days and holidays meant nothing to her; she kept right on feeding, giving milk and chewing her cud. She may also have lived over again in dreams the happy days of summer spent in the pasture with other lady cows and one gentleman cow, big, brown and sleek. She may, in fact, have treasured memories of her friends very much as I treasured memories of our summer visitors, especially the sweet girls. She must have had a comforting philosophy of life

Buttercup had a very good time peeking through her tiny window. One of my own most interesting distractions during extra stormy days in winter, was to kneel on the floor in front of one of the sitting room windows, with my nose flattened against the pane, looking out at the falling snow, noticing especially the big flakes. Some of them were of gigantic proportions, completely over­shadowing their comrades of the air. How varied their shapes and how lazily they drifted down from somewhere. God only knew where, how silent they were in their flight and their landing and how wondrously clean and white.

When the flakes were falling by the thousands, I used to won­der how long it would take for them to bury us all but when grand­mother glanced out of the window, she used to say, "This storm will not last long; big flakes are too lazy to do much damage; it is the small flakes one has to look out for; small flakes haven't much sense; they sometimes pile themselves on top of each other, day in and day out, until nothing short of snow ploughs can dig the roads out." Another one of grandmother's sayings was, "It's a mighty cold day when the bright sunshine can't set the eaves-spouts a-dripping."

Grandfather did the milking as a rule at our home but he was not expert. He could milk with one hand only and his performance was not more impressive than a one-handed piano player. He never used to bury his forehead in the flank of Buttercup as more experienced milkers would have done but sat bolt upright, balanced precariously on his one-legged stool, and holding the pail in his left hand. His position was in no respect impregnable as it left him entirely exposed to the swishing tail, which, in fly time not infrequently wrapped itself around his neck. This interlude, however well intended, was annoying to grandfather though a source of considerable pleasure to the audience of two small boys.

Our barn was the scene of many a performance worthy of a place on the vaudeville stage. One night when tall grandfather was trying to induce, cajole, push or pull Jason, a half-grown calf, son of Betty, Buttercup's daughter, into the barn yard through a very low door, a drama was enacted. Jason, after long having resisted every blandishment grandfather had to offer, suddenly changed his mind and bolted through the door, dragging grandfather in his wake. Had he been a well-intentioned calf he might have seen that it would be difficult for grandfather to negotiate the low door on high but Jason was either unconcerned or else he did not care a fig what happened to grandfather; manifestly he had resolved to throw off all responsibility in that regard. Anyhow grandfather did his part like the true New England gentleman that he was; at just the right moment he ducked as skillfully as any boxer could have ducked the blow of an adversary and both Jason and grandfather came through. Having accomplished his purpose, Jason stopped as precipitately as he had begun and he and grandfather, both with legs spread wide as a safeguard against any eventuality, looked each other over. They had never seen each other in just that light before.

The following morning. Cook, the butcher, led Jason out of the yard; henceforth he would be spoken of as veal; he had been too individualistic for grandfather.

My love of bovine creatures once lured me to the Channel Islands of the British seas, Jersey, Guernsey and Aldemey, in order that I might see the aristocrats of cowdom feeding on their native hills. While on those islands, I learned that in order to get back to the real origin of the species one must cross from the islands to the coast of Brittany where two priestly Orders each developed its own pure and distinct breed of cattle. I learned that when the monks were banished from France, they took their domestic animals with them; one order to the nearest island, Jersey, and the other to Guern­sey; still others went to the Island of Aldemey.

The cow population of Guernsey numbers six thousand only but there are hundreds of thousands of Guernseys scattered through­out the world, most of them in the United States. It may be grati­fying to my fellow New Englanders to know that Peterborough of the State of New Hampshire is the center of learning in regard to Guernseys and that the Guernsey publication issued in that small city is considered authoritative throughout the world, even includ­ing the island from which the animals migrated.

It has always been a source of wonderment to me why it is that only farmers and dairymen appear to be interested in cows. Much has been written of the admirable qualities of dogs and horses, but little attention has been given to the characteristics and person­alities of cows. The only book I ever read on the subject designed to be read by laymen, was a story entitled, "The Stalled Ox", by a New England writer who describes some of the laws and regulations recognized as rules of conduct (codes of ethics, if you please) in the relationship of one bovine with another.

During the course of an automobile trip through Wisconsin, I spent a night at the home of a well-to-do farmer, who had a fine herd of Guernseys. He was the son of German immigrants and he loved his cows. It was his custom to take his morning shower bath and shave in a compartment of the bam adjoining the immaculate cow stables. One day he had a radio installed that he might listen to music while performing his ablutions. This he did without having any idea that early morning concerts would be enjoyed by any other creature than himself but it seems that the radio went wrong one night with the result that in the morning the concert had to be omitted. He was aggravated and annoyed, the more so when he dis­covered that his cows were nervous and fretful and that not until morning music had been resumed did they become contented and willing to let down a full flow of milk.

I might have doubted the story of the German farmer had I not once heard in a lovely pastoral district in Switzerland that on farms where cows are accustomed to whistling milkers, those who have not acquired the knack of whistling need not apply.

Once upon a time, I spent a happy afternoon in the hinterland of Montreux on Lake Geneva, only half a mile from the busy tour­ist center. It was like stepping back from the twentieth century to the peace and quiet of past generations. Tiny villages where old folks could sit in comfortable chairs near a little center by the vil­lage pump where farmers brought their cows and work horses. A half mile further along, there was a tiny village with a milk store where farmers operating the small farms brought their milk in large cans and customers came for it with pitchers.

Not far distant a hay crop was being harvested on a half-acre plot by a man, a boy and a friendly ox. The air was full of the fra­grance of new-mown hay and men, women and children were doing things in a leisurely manner seemingly enjoying their work and breathing in the serenity of it all. Peace is traditional in Switzerland and why should it not be? There is nothing more peaceful than a Swiss countryside dotted with big, brown Swiss cows.

An American friend of mine whose business it is to buy and sell cows tells me that cows transferred from one farm to another fre­quently let down in their production of milk. One Guernsey cow which he had recently sold at a fancy price, had to be returned to the farm from whence she had come. Prior to the sale she had been producing fifty pounds of milk per day, but after the sale she produced twelve pounds only, so the buyer was only too happy to return her to the seller at the purchase price. Upon being re­turned to her former stall her appetite returned at once and normal production of milk followed. The farmer was glad to get his cow back and declared that he would never sell her again that if she loved her home that much she was entitled to remain in it for the rest of her life.

The sentiment expressed by the American farmer did not differ greatly from that of the Hindoo farmer who cares for his aged and decrepit cows as long as they live and gives them decent burial when death comes. Oh, the Hindoo idea of the sacredness of the cow is pure superstition, you say. Well, as for myself, I have never been able to define clearly where superstition leaves off and some­thing else begins. As for our old Buttercup, she possessed attributes which folks of our faith designate as purely Christian, as for in­stance who better than she demonstrated the doctrine that it is better to give than to receive; her milk was almost a complete food in itself. From her own body Buttercup nourished me as a mother nourishes a child; my bone and my flesh was of her munificence.

What did she get in return? A measure of corn meal, green grass from the pasture, hay from our orchard, and a warm stall in which to pass the days and nights of winter; that was all.

For a picture of tranquility and contentment, I know of nothing to compare with cows in pasture enjoying their noontime siesta, lying in the shade of trees bordering on the brook from which they have drunk their fill of clear, cold water. In their own sweet Elysium, with eyes half closed, they rest during the heat of the day with nothing more serious to think about than horseflies and the agreeable pastime of chewing their cud.

When I at times have thought that my feeling towards cows as a symbol of tranquility may perhaps have been overtender, the fol­lowing words of John Burroughs, America's most loved naturalist, bolster my faltering faith:

"All the ways and doings of cattle are pleasant to look upon, whether grazing in the pasture or browsing in the woods, or rumi­nating under the trees, or feeding in the stall, or reposing upon the knolls. There is virtue in the cow; she is full of goodness; a whole' some odor exhales from her; the whole landscape looks out of her soft eyes; the quality and the aroma of miles of meadow and pas­ture lands are in her presence and products. I would rather have the care of cows than to be the keeper of the great seal of the na­tion. Where the cow is, there is Arcadia. So far as her influence pre­vails, there is contentment, humility and sweet homely life/'

I know nothing whatever of the sacredness of cows but I do know that it would give me a homey feeling if grandfather, grand­mother and our old Buttercup were to meet me at the gates of gold.

Chapter 15 - The Last Day of School

In my boyhood, we did not have to depend entirely upon imported talent for entertainment; some of it was home-grown and of the best; Caleb Pennypacker for instance. Caleb was the son of Jonas Pennypacker, a hard working man who never smiled. Caleb was nothing that his father was and everything that his father was not; he never worked and he always grinned; in fact, his face was wreathed in grins from morning until night and his grin begot grins on the faces of others. He enjoyed the distinction of being the "grinniest" and the naughtiest boy in town. There was little room for melancholy in Wallingford as long as Caleb lived there. He viewed the world as a huge joke and all he had to do was to unleash it and that duty he gladly performed.

To us younger fry perhaps the most conspicuous of Caleb's varied skills and accomplishments was the knack he had of converting himself into a sore-eyed old man through the simple expedient of turning the upper lids of his eyes inside out where they would remain until he willed it otherwise. This amazing transformation, he could accomplish in a twinkling and folks who saw it for the first time never knew whether to laugh or to cry. The exercise of this remarkable faculty was an excellent way of relieving the tedium of school life. Whenever the teacher became too serious, Caleb could relieve the tension by turning his upper eyelids inside out. For this voluntary contribution, he was frequently ferruled but he was never cured of it. Naturally all of the boys envied him and did their best to follow his noble example but none succeeded. When Caleb left school turning eyelids inside out became a lost art.

Naturally there were other boys who made contributions of an extra curricular nature to school life. George Marsh could make his ears wag as a horse wags his ears in fly time. It was a grand accomplishment and always brought down the house. "Inky" Ballou could make his knuckles crack like a pistol shot. Such contributions are entitled to honorable mention but the only one to really shed lustre on the Wallingford school was Caleb in his inimitable performance of turning his upper eyelids inside out.

When school was in session, some of the trustees made unexpected calls in order to inform themselves of the progress being made. When Trustee Charles Congdon called, he was generally expected to make a speech and he always lived up to expectations. He invariably closed his remarks with a poem which he considered appropriate. I heard it so often, I remember it now:

"As I walked by myself I talked to myself, and myself said unto me:

'Beware of thyself, take care of thyself, for no one will care for thee'."

Whenever I saw him coming into the room I had difficulty in restraining myself from arising and greeting him with the words of this poem.

Mr. Congdon was, however, a fine old gentleman. Among other things, he rented saddle horses at twenty-five cents per hour to those who could afford that luxury. I enjoyed the inestimable privilege of hiring a saddle horse from Mr. Congdon once upon a time. Where I got the necessary twenty-five cents, I do not remember, though so important an event should have stamped itself upon my memory as did the experience of finding a silver ten cent piece in a pile of rubbish back of Ben Crapo's store. The fact that I found the ten-cent piece was not the wonder; the wonder was that some Vermonter must have lost it without publicizing his calamity; he may, of course, have gotten it dishonestly. Sometimes boys served as temporary hitching posts for farmers with business to transact at the grocery stores; it was easier to throw the reins to a boy than to hitch and unhitch. On taking up the reins again, he would say, "Thank you, boy; some day I'll give you a quarter, the first one I find rolling up hill." That was the nearest I ever came to earning a quarter as a hitching post.

On the first day of May it was customary for the school teachers to take their charges into the woods to gather May flowers and trailing arbutus and to welcome the migratory birds to their northern homes. Once a Maypole was erected in the school yard and we danced and frolicked around it in the manner of another age.

Decoration Day was another celebration which took place at end of May. We decorated the graves of the soldiers, who had died in the Civil War, with spring flowers and we placed a small flag upon each grave. Civil War Veterans dressed in full regalia, led the procession to the cemetery where patriotic speeches were made. Our veterans made a very brave showing; Harlon Strong, our Sunday School Superintendent, Martin Williams, the cheese-maker, Mr. Thomas, the paper-hanger, all looked particularly well in their uniforms and our hearts swelled nearly to the bursting point when the Congregational church quartette sang, "We deck their graves alike to-day with springtime's fairest flowers," and again when the Hartsboro drum corps played. "John Brown's body lies mouldering in the grave "Yankee Doodle" and other patriotic airs. Deaf as I have become to many shallow forms of emotional appeal, my toes have tingled and tears have come welling into my eyes when our few remaining Civil War Veterans came limping by in recent years.

Joy bells surely rang in our hearts in the springtime; like frisky lambs we cavorted and, like tumblebugs, we turned somersaults and handsprings without regard for life or limb. One day Fay's father, who had been watching us from a distance, shouted, "Remember, Boy, your neck isn't long enough to splice."

Early in June came the long awaited "last day of school." The air in the school house is heavy with the perfume of gorgeous red, pink and white peonies. The girls are arrayed in new summer finery; the boys stiff and uncomfortable in their best Sunday clothes. Grand orations have been carefully committed to memory during long evening hours at home and nothing except the dread bugaboo, "old man stagefright," is likely to interfere with their delivery. There is no getting away from the fact that "old man stagefright" is a factor to be reckoned with. He begins his work early; long before the great occasion. During the quiet hours of the night he is on hand to prod his helpless victim. Can anyone imagine worse fortune than waiting for his name to be called on the program of the 'last day of school?" One after the other, earlier victims have been called upon; they have taken their place on the platform, tremblingly waged battle with the "old man," and returned to their respective seats either in victory or defeat.

Then comes the last name on the program. There is nothing to sustain the victim except the thought that it will be over soon, and the glorious long vacation that appears like a beacon-light ahead. A cold sweat stands in beads upon his brow; from somewhere in the distance a voice is heard. What is it that it says? "Paul Harris will now recite 'The Polish Boy'." I arise and step forward, "old man" close by my side. Soon another voice is heard, loud and brave- whose is it? Great Scott, my own! I have a vague feeling that the three of us, "The Polish Boy," "old man stagefright" and I are making quite a job of it but I am not sure of that fact. A lady in the front seat is having considerable trouble with her new hat and seems little concerned with the stirring events taking place on the platform; Thank God, she doesn't have to be reckoned with! I wish they all had new hats to fuss with; anything to take their minds off me.

Eventually the last word rings through the packed schoolroom and Paul Harris returns to his desk amidst salvos of applause. The Polish boy is forgotten and the "old man" buried, not to be resurrected until one year hence, when in due course of events there will be another 'last day of school."

The professor closes proceedings with appropriate remarks; touches his desk bell for the last time, and I slither away through the jam of mothers, fathers, sisters, and brothers, out of the suffocating atmosphere of the peony-scented room, out, out, where I can get a breath of uncontaminated air; and hasten to the swimming hole; oh, the swimming hole; glorious, carefree vacation time has begun.

Oh, for boyhood's time of June
Crowding years in one brief moon
When all things I heard or saw
Me, their master, waited for.
-John Greenleaf Whittier.

Vacation days were anxious days for grandfather. One day he asked me to go with him to the barn. Arriving there we seated ourselves, he in the wheelbarrow and I in the swing and then he said:

"Paul, I want to talk with you about your future. It is a matter of great concern to me. I wonder at times if I am doing right by you. It is my observation that growing boys should have daily work to do and I feel that boys who are taught to work have a great advantage over boys who have nothing to do except play. You do nothing but race from morning till night, Paul. Now there is not much work about this place except what I do myself but what I want you to do is to study a part of each vacation day and the best time to begin is right now."

He drew from his pocket an ancient spelling book, yellow with age, and began to pronounce words for me to spell. This experience was repeated several times during the summer and upon such occasions it was my custom to dawdle lazily in the swing, which had been dedicated to other purposes, and to spell as best I could, although I fear I did so with unconcealed resentment. The swimming hole cried out its invitation to a plunge and my mind was tortured with fears lest the gang break up before I could report for business. If such a thing happened, my day would be ruined; nothing could compensate; nothing perhaps except a fight, a flood, a fire or a circus. I did not, however, forget grandfather's words.

The thirst for learning is a New England characteristic. From New England it was extended throughout the United States. Senator Justin S. Morrill, the father of the land grant bill, was a Vermonter. By virtue of his efforts agricultural colleges were established in every state in the Union.

I had no objection to reading assuming that the reading be something sensible; I did not consider Pilgrim's Progress nor Plutarch's Lives in that category. Indian Pete and similar stories in the Youths Companion fired my imagination and let to further explorations in the field of literature. However explanations in nature's great out-of-doors were more attractive.

Living among mountains as I did, most naturally mountain climbing was in my line. White Rocks, near Wallingford and Killington Peak not far from Rutland challenged my attention. My experience in climbing these two heights inspired me in later years to greater undertakings in the Rockies.

The ascent of White Rocks began over boulders which had been wrested by storm, frost and perhaps earthquakes, from the perpendicular face of the mountain above them. Some of the lichen-covered rocks were fifteen or more feet in diameter and the surfaces of many of them bore the graven initials of generations of visitors, some of them distinguished in business or the professions. J. T. Trowbridge, the writer of boys' stories, once lived in Walling-ford and his initials appeared among others.

After the boulder region had been passed, the climb up the precipitous face of the mountain began. It would not be considered even worthy of mention by an Alpine climber, but to the tyro it was a climb. I know of but few who have undertaken it but to me it was one of the things that had to be done. I think that I experienced more satisfaction the first time I climbed White Rocks than I did from climbing Pike's Peak years later. I had looked forward to it since the day grandmother decided that I was too young to accompany a certain old gentleman on an expedition to White Rocks which he intended to make for the purpose of gathering rare specimens of lichen. Some day, I hoped, I would be big enough and strong enough to do the job. The top of White Rocks had a romantic interest not shared by other spots of the Green Mountains and one reason why I wanted to climb to the top was because it was there that Captain Kidd was supposed to have buried his chest of gold. How Captain Kidd happened to be in the vicinity of White Rocks calls for more explanation than I am able to make.

Still another reason why I was anxious to make the climb was to obtain the unsurpassed view of my valley. In the summer time, nothing was to be seen of the houses in the village from the top of White Rocks as they were hidden in the foliage, nor could more than a brief glimpse be had of the winding creek. However, beyond the village and nestling at the foot of West Mountain, Fox Pond (excuse me, Elfin Lake) could be seen sparkling in the sun. Hot and perspiring as I was, it seemed to cry out to me. I never failed to resolve to go to the lake for a refreshing plunge immediately upon my return to the village but I do not recall ever having carried out this resolution; by the time I arrived home the coolness of the evening made the water seem less attractive and besides I was tired and I had a lot of miscellaneous business to attend to when the gang gathered for the evening's tryst.

How inviting the swimming hole was on hot afternoons as we got our first glimpse of it through the woods. Some unregenerate youngster yells, "Last one in is a... [[ etc., etc.," and off we start at high speed, stripping our clothes off as we run and into the water we plunge like so many bull frogs. Happy Days! Happy Days!

There are many other spring-fed ponds set like gems in the hills and mountains surrounding Wallingford; Shrewsbury Pond, Tinmouth Pond, and the two Sugar Hill Ponds, sometimes called Spectacle Pond because of their resemblance to a pair of gigantic spectacles. Griffin Pond was high up in the mountains east of Danby and its waters were cold enough to be inviting to brook trout which, because of the depth of the water, were of a high color ranging from pale pink to salmon.

There were also the much larger lakes, Bomoseen, St. Catherine and Dunmore, and, in a longer radius Lake Champlain and beautiful Lake George. No one objected to the term 'Lake" being applied to these larger bodies of water except a few die-hards who continued to speak of Lake Bomoseen as "Castleton Pond."

Anyone desiring a broad view of the surrounding mountains and hills, lakes and ponds, would do well to climb Rattlesnake Mountain near Lake Dunmore, select the highest tree and from its topmost branches survey the county as far north as the Canadian border.

Chapter 30 - Farewell to Grandmother

After the passing of grandfather, I finished the year at Princeton and then returned to spend the summer in the home with grandmother. As might be expected, she was pensive at times. I knew that she was terribly lonely but I did not know it from anything she said; it was more from the things she did; she wandered about the house at times as if in a maze.

On occasions she would ask me to walk with her in the orchard as the sun was sinking low; grandmother always loved to see the sun as it sank behind West Hill; she spoke of the changing colors of the clouds from pearl to pink, to roseate hue and then, to fiery red.

"That's a grand panorama, Paul. Could anything be more majestic? It's the work of a kindly and omnipotent hand. Sunsets always give me a feeling of comfort, repose and confidence. Nothing ill can come from the hand of one who loves beauty so and brings it to his children."

She seldom spoke of grandfather though I knew that over and above all of her words was the ever-present consciousness of him. On one occasion she did speak of him as we were walking down the path in the orchard together. As near as I can remember, her words were:

"I feel that I have been fortunate, Paul, far beyond my due in having had the unwavering love of your grandfather for more than sixty years. No woman can be blessed by anything to compare with the love of a good husband, the father of her children. Our lives haven't been easy; in fact, it has been a constant struggle from beginning to end and we have had our full share of sorrow. We lost three children and they were all very dear to us. We used to wonder at times whether anything in life was worth while but there were still duties and tasks to do; there were the living as well as the dead. There can never be anyone so near to a woman as her husband. My thoughts have been Pa's thoughts and his have been mine. It seems to me that part of me is living and part of me is dead."

"Paul, I wonder at times if you realize how much you meant to Pa. At times, it used to seem to him that his life had been a failure. As you know, he had high hopes for your father. He spent money freely for his education and his disappointment almost broke his heart. And then you came to us quite providentially and Pa fastened all his hopes on you. Paul, you must not fail him. Work hard and live honorably for your grandfather's sake."

After another lingering look at the fast fading color in the west, grandmother turned and I followed her down the hallowed pathway to our house.

This is not primarily a story of grandfather and grandmother except as it serves to illustrate the character of the folks who lived in New England during the days of my boyhood, and, to a considerable extent, the character of the folks who live there still. It is not primarily an autobiography, though the facts revealed were seen through my eyes. The eyes of most of the companions of my boyhood have long been closed in death.

Instead of returning to Princeton in the autumn, I began a year's employment in the office of the Sheldon Marble Company in West Rutland. All I had to do was to get up at 5:00 AM., breakfast, walk a mile to the office, attend to all the stoves, sweep and dust in readiness for the arrival of the officials and office men, and then do my day's work with the others-and find things to do when not told. Before the year closed I graduated from office boy to more important positions. It was a valuable experience. After that it was grandmother's decision that her grandson should go west to study law.

During my last days in the valley, I had a feeling that I was standing on the threshold of life and that the future was all uncertainty. Would I be able to cope with the destitution and privation which I must inevitably encounter or would I be driven back, bruised and beaten as my father had been?

There was this difference between my father's case and mine; there was still a home in which my father could find shelter; in my case, there soon would be none. The old home, sacred to the memory of grandfather and grandmother, was before long to be closed never to be opened again as a home for our family. Grandmother was to spend the remaining days of her life in the comfortable home of her daughter, Aunt Mellie Fox, Uncle George and their family.

My father was dependent on the trust created by grandfather and such further assistance as might be given him by grandmother. Quite clearly the time was not far distant when I would be on my own.

Perhaps the saving clause in my grandfather's will was that which left me to my own resources, except for some little help from grandmother. I did not regret it; my life was to be an adventure; what more could a live, energetic boy have asked. I have always felt considerable pride in the fact that grandfather felt I would be able to take care of myself. My inheritance was far more enduring than money could have been; the munificence of my hard-working, self-sacrificing grandparents gave me the advantage of a formal education in preparatory schools, college and the university but far more important they gave me the advantage of their example in their well-ordered home where love abode.

I think I inherited something of grandfather's broad spirit of tolerance. Grandfather was an ambassador of good-will in the eyes of the youngster who sat at his table during his impressionable years; he never spoke evil of any man nor of any man's religion or politics.

My year of work passed quickly and the day so long anticipated came at last. Grandmother and I were entirely alone except for the presence of an elderly woman who had taken most of the housekeeping cares from the worn and weary shoulders of grandmother. For one reason and another, it had been planned that grandmother and I were to spend these last few hours together, possibly because Aunt Mellie and Uncle George knew that grandmother would prefer it that way. They were to drive to Wallingford later in the day, lock up the house and take grandmother with them to return no more.

It was early in the month of September and the morning was bright and cheerful although our hearts were heavy-laden. The parting hours were spent in the dining room; grandmother and I sat on the horsehair sofa facing the table, where for years we all had eaten good wholesome food, and where, long before my time, father had eaten his meals.

The banjo clock hung on the north wall where it had been for at least three generations and we were within hearing of the sitting room clock not far away. In fact there had been no change in the dining room since the night of the feast of bread and milk and blueberries, served to father, Cecil and me years ago.

While the kitchen was the center of the house so far as activities were concerned, and the sitting room the place for rest, reading and reflection, it was the dining room where important discussions took place; the dining room was the scene of the alpha and omega of my New England home life.

When grandmother could control her emotion, she said:

"This seems not new to me, Paul; I have lived it over and over again. I have even thought of what my last words should be but they have all gone from me now. I must not, however, talk about myself; it is of Pa and his high hopes for you that I must talk. You do know, Paul, how Pa's thoughts centered on you, don't you?"

I answered, "Yes, I am conscious of it and I hope that I shall not prove entirely unworthy of his trust but he has set a high mark to live up to."

"It is indeed a high mark," she resumed, "but you are capable of living up to it; you must, Paul. I know how anxious you are to see the world. Pa and I talked that over and he was not opposed to it if you can accomplish it without neglecting your studies. Where there's a will, there's a way, Paul, and you will have to work it out.

It won't be easy but it can be done. The night you and Cecil and your father entered this house is still as fresh in my mind as if it were yesterday. Some folks said that we were making a great mistake in assuming the responsibility of raising you, Paul. We were getting along in years and had already raised a family. You may have heard some such talk, Paul," looking at me inquiringly.

I answered, "Indeed I have, Grandma, indeed I have and I thought that it was probably true."

"There's not a word of truth in it, Paul. Banish it from your mind; instead of shortening our lives, I think it has lengthened them. Folks who have raised families and seen their children go out into the world are generally pretty lonely. When the fountains of love dry up there isn't much to live for so your coming to us seems now to have been Providential; we had to have someone to lavish affection upon; there were worries enough, of course, but that is life. I have thought sometimes that it may have been an injustice to you to have been tied up here with two old folks; children need brothers and sisters to round out their lives; however you soon found companions of your own selection and that helped some.

With these words grandmother had told me all that had been pent up in her heart.

Glancing up at the banjo clock, I was alarmed to note that the hands pointed to eleven o'clock; I had fifteen minutes only to catch my train. When I arose to go, grandmother, for the first time in her life, so far as I knew, burst into a flood of tears. I threw my arms about her frail body and said, "Never mind, Grandma, I shall be back to see you soon." Her answer was a shake of her head; she spoke no words.

On my way past the home of Judge Button, I stopped to tell Ellen to please go in and comfort grandmother and that service she was more than glad to render.

Around the corner, down Depot street and alongside the white fence where the shadows of grandfather's lantern had danced in fantastic figures, down to the railway station, prim and tidy as it had always been, I made my way. There was the usual flurry of excitement as the eleven-fifteen train came in and went out. As I went with it my heart was tumultuously beating as familiar objects faded in the distance. I was alone and terribly lonely. Grandmother was the last guard; the key would soon be turned in the door.

I received frequent letters from grandmother, all of which have been carefully preserved. She kept me posted as to the events in her new home. For instance; Cousin Mattie was enjoying a trip to Europe in the company of good friends and the incidents of her travels were of great interest to grandmother; it was wonderful to have a granddaughter in Europe; grandmother had never thought of such a thing and Mattie would never be the same girl again after having had a trip to Europe. She wrote also of the kind thoughtfulness of other members of the family; everything was being done for her comfort.

One year and one month from the date of my departure from the old home, I, then a student in the law department of the University of Iowa, received a telegram from Uncle George stating that the spirit of grandmother had flown in the night. There had been nothing to indicate that the time was near; grandmother simply went to sleep and did not awake.

I did not return for the funeral but father, mother and other members of the family were present. According to the current issue of the Rutland Herald:

"A small funeral party drove down the Creek Road to Wallingford with the mortal remains of Pamela Harris, widow of the late Howard Harris of Wallingford and mother of Mrs. George Fox of this city. The attendance was limited to members of the family and near relatives. No more beautiful day could have been selected; the colors of the mountainsides had arrived at the point of perfection as the funeral party wound its way along the valley of Otter Creek to Green Hill cemetery in Wallingford where the remains were laid beside the body of the husband of the deceased.

The Herald extends sympathy to Mrs. George Fox and her family and such felicitations as may seem proper because of the fact that the closing chapter of the long and beautiful life of her mother was written on one of Vermont's most beautiful autumn days."

So grandmother was returned to the soil from which she sprang; it would have seemed a desecration to have laid the bodies of grandfather and grandmother anywhere else, All of her life and the best part of grandfather's life had been spent in the valley. Their children were born and brought up there and there three of their children had died. During the days of her childhood grandmother had tramped over the hills in and above Green Hill cemetery; she had picked buttercups, daisies and spring violets on Cemetery Hill and in its protecting soil the bodies of generations of loved ones had been laid.

The small family lot lies on the hillside not so far up as to be beyond hearing of the tinkle of water as it falls from the ever-flowing fountain in Cemetery Pond. In this lot, the bodies of Frances number one and Frances number two, as well as the bodies of the eldest daughter, Mary Reed and her husband, had been laid.

Grandmother seldom spoke of past bereavements; possibly I never would have known of Frances number one and Frances number two had it not been for their graves in the cemetery lot and two tiny leather shoes which I discovered in a drawer of the kitchen table; grandmother's thoughts were mostly centered on her every day duties.

On all sides of the Harris lot there were the lots of our neighbors, the Martindales, Buttons, Munsons, Childs, Batchellers, Scribners, Hills, Kents, Ballous, Ainsworths, Marshes, Millers, Townsends, Newtons, Coles, Staffords and scores of others whose names were well known in our valley. Yes, Green Hill cemetery had a rightful claim to the bodies of grandfather and grandmother; to have turned deaf ears to it would have seemed unjust. Our valley was grandmother's idea of Paradise.

Grandmother believed in the resurrection and, it always having been difficult for her to meet strangers, it would be a great blessing to be surrounded by home folks when the horn of Gabriel sounded. A most welcome sight to grandmother on the morning of resurrection day would be Judge Button with his little gray shawl thrown over his shoulders and his customary salutation, "Good morning, Mrs. Harris; this is going to be a fine day."

I have frequently tried to picture to my mind the events of that October day. The funeral procession moving slowly down the valley, along lazy, winding Otter Creek, lit up by the flaming colors of the hillsides and mountains. I have recalled the last view which our folks had of the mortal remains of grandmother almost as vividly as though I had been present. I could see grandmother's worn hands lying on her breast and the never-to-be-forgotten swollen bone of her lame wrist, her supreme badge of honor. Nothing which manicurists and beauticians have ever been able to accomplish with the hands of mothers and grandmothers has ever seemed comparable in beauty with the artistry of love and duty as wrought on grandmother's worn hands and lame wrist. Of the eighty-nine pounds which composed grandmother, every pound and every ounce was dedicated to loving service, the ingredient which makes home life sublime.

For more than fifty years the warm spring suns have brought back to life the grass and wild flowers in the little cemetery lot; summer suns have brought them to maturity and autumn winds have in due course directed to the graves of grandmother and grandfather myriads of maple leaves which also had spent their life courses and needed only a quiet place to lie down and rest. The icy blasts of more than a half-century of winters have sent snowflakes by the millions to form downy blankets to protect the graves of grandfather and grandmother.

More than sixty years the aged couple had carried their rugged cross together; so long, in fact, they could not have done without it; they did not loathe it, they loved it. A merciful Providence had arranged that grandmother was to be the one to bring up the rear guard; there were so many little things to be done and grandmother was the one to do them. Grandfather would have been helpless without her and I doubt whether he would have lived the year out. Scores of times during each day he would have reached his trembling hand out for her, forgetful of the fact that she had gone, and scores of times each day the wound would have been reopened. No, it was a blessing that big, strong grandfather went on ahead and that little frail grandmother remained to finish up the odds and ends that had to be attended to.

When Thoreau saw the woodsman's axe destroying the forest, he exclaimed:

"Thank God, they cannot cut down the clouds!

"There are some eternal things that the destructive powers of men, in all their fury, cannot destroy. To think on these things is to achieve an inward quiet and peace even in a war-torn world. The stars still shine. The sun still rises and sets. The mountains are not moved, Birds sing. Little streams dance merrily on their way. Flowers bloom and give off their perfume. The world goes right on being an everlastingly beautiful place."

There are indestructible qualities of human spirit, too. Mother love is immortal and though crushed to earth it will rise again. Courage and sacrifice glow with a new light in the midst of the black-outs of hope. Faith gallantly rides the whirlwind sweeping the earth.

"You cannot cut down the clouds! The spirit of man cannot be destroyed! The finest things of life are immortal . . . they will survive!" - Friendly Adventurer

Chapter 31 - Five Years of Folly

As I sadly went on with my university studies, awaiting news of grandmother's funeral and reflecting upon the scenes and events of my boyhood, I felt homesickness as few of my age would have felt it. I longed for the quiet orderly home in the valley and the loving solicitude of my grandparents. I dreamed of my Vermont mountains, and when I eventually saw those of the West tears welled to my eyes.

"I am homesick for my mountains
My heroic mother hills,
And the longing that is on me
No solace ever stills."
-Bliss Carman

While enroute to Iowa a year earlier the boy from a Vermont village had spent a week in Chicago where the unrest and wickedness of the bustling Western City possessed him with a weird fascination. It was all so different from his Valley. But he sensed something vital in it all. It was a place to study the ways of men. Was there some place to which men flocked? If so, what was the attraction? What were the underlying motives which influenced the lives of men? Why were some good and other bad? Why did some make sacrifices? Did they pay? If so, how? Why were others wasteful in their physical, mental, and moral resources? What did they get out of it? Was there wisdom in grandfather's precepts-or was he simply a well-meaning but deluded old fogey?

During his first year in Iowa the boy read law in the office of St. John, Stevenson and Whisenand in Des Moines; but when the summer months came he spent them at Lake Okaboja where be fished and enjoyed outdoor life in general, reading law when there were no more urgent demands upon his time,

In the autumn he entered the law department of the State University in Iowa City and graduated in June of the year 1891. In the Iowa University he encountered conditions quite different from any he had met before. The students were older than those in the University of Vermont and at Princeton. Most of them came from Iowa farms and many had taught school as a means of raising the money necessary' to the completion of their education. They were earnest men who had, for the most part, passed their play period. The atmosphere was wholesome and groups of law students frequently spent their evenings in their rooms, conducting quizzes and discussing the theory and practice of law.

As the writer now looks back at his experiences in the various educational institutions, he is prone to question himself as to what, if anything, he got out of them; what, if anything, was there to justify his grandfather's sacrifices and hopes? Was it worthwhile?

The best thing that the writer got from his experiences in educational institutions came from his contacts with other students. In scholastics he cannot lay claim to have gotten much except, perhaps, a love of good books by writers of many lands.

During his last days at the University of Iowa the boy had one absorbing interest and that was to know the ways of men; those of his own country first and then the ways of the men of other countries. But could he accomplish his purpose? In his heart of hearts he knew it was a mad adventure. It would be a serious matter to violate the rules of conventionality. All of the other members of his class would be sane and sensible. Every one of them would be practicing law in a town of his choice within sixty days of graduation. Folks back home would think that he had gone stark crazy.

At that juncture an incident occurred to bolster his faith. One of the lecturers on the commencement program of his graduating class, a practicing lawyer who had graduated from the University ten years earlier, stated that it might be a wise plan for each graduate to go first to some small town and make a fool of himself for five years, after which he could go to the city of his choice and really begin his practice.

This advice resolved all doubts in the mind of the boy; he would set aside five years to make a fool of himself, not in any small community but in all parts of the world to which he could manage to make his way. What an adventure! After having had his fling, he would hang up his shingle in some great city, Chicago perhaps, and settle down and be regular. So the boy embarked on his fool's errand and never once turned back. His sustaining hope was that his absorbing interest in folks at home and abroad would carry him through.

Why did races of men differ so in their ways of life? He had read much literature in university libraries by English, French, German, Russian, and Scandinavian writers but his curiosity was whetted merely. Only visits to foreign lands could satisfy his desires to know the ways of men.

In the accomplishment of his ambition it was necessary for the boy to accept any and all forms of service, whether of hand or brain. He walked many hundreds of miles in the mountains and he tramped the streets of great cities. He slept in the open country and in cheap city quarters, and even went hungry at times. Thousands of times his thoughts drifted back to his Valley and the comforts of his grandparents' home. When hungry, what in good conscience did he think of most frequently? It was not the buckwheat cakes smeared with butter and maple syrup, nor ham and eggs, nor New England pork and beans . . it was something he really thought very little of in his boyhood days . . it was his grandmother's "riz" doughnuts. Sometimes, when ill in distant lands, it was grandmother's catnip tea or hot foot baths and her tender solicitude that haunted him.

While his few remaining dollars lasted hunting and fishing in the northwest was a grand vacation. Before long he arrived in San Francisco, his money spent. He was on his own at last. A college friend doing newspaper work on The Chronicle, owned by M. H. De Young, got him a job as a reporter on that paper with payment only for what one could produce but times were hard and competition was keen. Another reporter also near the bottom of the list on The Chronicle was Harry C. Pulliam from Louisville, who later became president of the National Baseball League.

Harry and Paul became chums and decided to work their way through the state of California. Within three days they were doing manual labor on a fruit ranch in Vaca Valley. After making a "stake" there, they set out from the Calaveras big trees on a three hundred mile hike across the Trailless Mountain ranges. They explored now famous but then little known Yosemite Valley. Their next engagement was in the raisin-packing industry in Fresno. Finally they landed in Los Angeles where Paul became a teacher in the L. A. Business College.

After nine months in California Paul's next location was Denver, Colorado, where he demonstrated his versatility by "play-acting" in a stock company at the Old Fifteenth Street Theater. This adventure attracted more publicity than he desired. He received letters from old friends who were sure he had "gone wrong." He climbed Pike's Peak and convinced himself that the stride, which he had developed in the Green Mountains and tried out in the Sierra Nevadas, would also work in the Rockies. He got a position on the reportorial staff of the Rocky Mountain News where he remained until he got a chance to try the life of a cowboy on a ranch near Platteville, riding the range alone frequently for days searching for stray cattle. Returning to Denver he worked on The Republican where he encountered some of his San Francisco newspaper friends drifting back eastward.

Florida was another land of romance which appealed to Paul and as the fortunate beneficiary of a railroad pass he landed in Jacksonville and became night clerk at the St. James, the best tourist hotel in Jacksonville at that time. He found the hotel business prosaic and soon left it to become a traveling salesman through Florida for George W. Clark who dealt in marble and granite, a business of which Paul had gained a slight knowledge while working for the Sheldon Marble Company in Vermont. George Clark was a great influence in the life of the vagabond. Employer and employee soon became fast friends. Years later George organized and became the first president of the Jacksonville Rotary Club.

In March 1893 Paul departed for Washington to observe the inauguration of Grover Cleveland as President of the United States. While there he had a temporary job on The Washington Star. From there he went to Louisville to which Harry Pulliam had returned, hoping Harry could get him on The Courier or The Commercial. This hope was dashed. So Paul got a position with another marble and granite house which gave him the opportunity to travel through Kentucky, Tennessee, Georgia, and Virginia.

On arrival at Norfolk, Virginia, he resigned his position and took the boat for Philadelphia. From the period when Tom Brown of Rugby had first won his admiration down through the days when the pen-folks of Dickens, Thackeray and Scott had held him captive, Paul had longed for a sight of the British Isles. For this he was willing to endure any hardship. In the want-ad column of a Philadelphia newspaper he found a notice that cattlemen were wanted by a Baltimore house making a shipment to England. Before dawn the following day a ship was plowing the seas and the young man who aspired to learn something of the practical side of life was on board. It was a rough voyage. The privation and suffering on that ship were unbelievable. The food scarcely deserved to be called that. The crew and the cattlemen included some of the most depraved and vicious characters one could imagine. It was a most trying experience.

Liverpool and its suburbs were all Paul got to see before he had to return on another ship of the same line. Great was his disappointment at not being able to see London and he resolved to endure again even such hardships that he might visit the British metropolis. The return voyage was not so bad-but no mattresses, blankets or eating utensils for the cattlemen. "Scouse" composed mostly of potato and water, with sometimes small fragments of meat, and mouldy sea biscuits constituted the principal food. Vermin were plentiful. Immersions in cold sea water were frequent.

While waiting at Baltimore for another and better ship Paul walked to Ellicott City and soon found opportunity to exercise his muscles in a hayfield. It was heavy work for him. He did the best he could at it but soon shifted to chores around the farmhouse in exchange for his board and lodging. A job in a corn-canning factory paid him $1.50 a day. While on this job he learned to his delight that another cattleship of a better line was soon to sail. Returning to Baltimore he got a job as sub-foreman on the "Michigan" whose destination was the Tillhury docks in the Thames about thirty miles from London. Oh happy day!

Paul and a friend he had made on board were soon walking the streets of London gazing at the Houses of Parliament and all the famous places of history and fiction. However, the best accommodation they could afford was a cheap boarding-house in the Whitechapel district although this was a locality of exceptional interest to the embryonic sociologist from Vermont. As the ship returned via Swansea for cargo Paul improved the chance to see something of Wales.

Arriving back in the United States Paul immediately took the train to visit the 1893 World's Fair in Chicago. Enjoyment of that beautiful Columbian Exposition was a happy interlude in his vagabondage. There he found confirmation of his faith in the future possibilities of that fascinating metropolis. He had enough money for train fare and no more. He found and became the guest of a college friend who was working at the Fair. One day when entering the Vermont building to his astonishment he observed his cousins, Ed and Mattie Fox of Rutland, inspecting the exhibits. Instantly Paul turned on his heel and left the building. The impecunious young man was in no mood to reveal himself to his relatives.

One city of all American cities was alluring; it was New Orleans, differing in so many respects from other American cities. How to get there was the question. It might be stated at this point that throughout his travels Paul stole no rides; he either paid his fare or worked his way and he always carried luggage. He was always willing to undertake any kind of work by which he could earn a livelihood and he always gave the best that was in him and if he failed it was because of physical or mental limitations and not because of indifference. Borrowed money was always repaid.

A loan from his college friend in Chicago got him to New Orleans. While there he discovered a want-ad for "a dozen men to pick and pack oranges in Plaquemine parish." The next day a gang of men including Paul, crossed the Mississippi river and were on their way to the grove and warehouse of S. Pizatti in the delta not far from where the Father-of-Waters empties into the sea. The business of picking, packing, boxing and shipping proceeded satisfactorily for several days. But suddenly a storm blew up. It became a hurricane and a tidal wave. Paul and his fellow orange-pickers in the darkness of the night waded and swam through the swirling waters carrying women and children from their homes to the one place of safety-the Pizatti warehouse. Then with axes and crowbars thcy endeavored to cut the dike to let the waters into the river. When the storm subsided the top of the levce was covered with dead horses, cows, hogs, hens and birds. That coast storm of 1893 took hundreds of lives and the property loss was enormous. Although many years have elapsed the horror and suffering of that episode still remain in the memory.

A return was made to New Orleans. Efforts to find employment on newspapers was fruitless. There was much to see and study in that historic city but the avidity of the traveler's longing for adventure had somewhat slackened. His thoughts turned to the cordial hospitality of his friends in Florida,

Paul's old position with the marble company in Jacksonville was still open to him and he returned to it. George Clark gave him territory over which he had not yet traveled. He covered the Southern States, Cuba and the Bahamas Islands. His visits at the home of the Clarks in Jacksonville were truly high times. The employer and his salesman were most intimate of chums. After a twelve month period Paul notified George of his intended departure. George said; "Is there nowhere else you care to go?" Paul answered: 'Yes, there is one more place but I doubt your willingness to send me." "Where is it?" inquired George. "Europe," said Paul. Two weeks later the wanderer was once again on the high seas, under orders of his employer-chum to visit the granite-producing regions of Scotland and the marble-producing regions of Ireland, Belgium and Italy for the purpose of making arrangements for buying the products of foreign quarries.

The writer could enjoyably consume a great deal of space in the relation of wonderful months spent in Great Britain, Ireland, France, Switzerland, Italy, Austria, Germany, Belgium, and Holland. As a visitor in the home of S. A. McFarland of Carrara, Italy, Paul was the recipient of courtesies little to be expected from comparative strangers. Among other things Mr. and Mrs. McFarland insisted on lending him funds with which to extend his travels on the Continent. The loan was accepted, and repaid in due course.

Upon his return to his native land the vagabond spent several months in helping George Clark in a subdividing and building project near Jacksonville and then turned his sights northward to Chicago. George pleaded with him to remain in Jacksonville, saying among other things: "Whatever the advantages of settling in Chicago may be, I am satisfied you will make more money if you remain with me." To this Paul replied: "I am sure you are right but I am not going to Chicago for the purpose of making money; I am going for the purpose of living a life."

Paul knew little of New York City and desired to learn something of the great eastern metropolis before settling down in Chicago. George made one more manifestation of his friendship by recalling his New York manager to Jacksonville and putting Paul in temporary charge of the New York office.

You were a real friend, George Clark, a grand and generous friend!

Chapter 32 - A Shingle is Hung

THREE MONTHS SHORT of the period of five years allotted to his fool's errand the vagabond arrived in Chicago ready to take up the practice of law. His boyhood was past. Travel and work are maturing experiences. Frequently after men have turned their backs on every other opportunity of gaining wisdom they gain it through toiling over the stony, tortuous, uphill pathway of experience.

At last my life settled down in earnest during the early spring of 1896 when the sap was in the maple trees back in my valley.

The vision of a world-wide fellowship of business and professional men had not yet come; there were experiences of a different nature yet to be had; but a wonderful foundation had been laid. Is it any wonder that an impressionable mind which had found so much good in the midst of evil, so much friendliness in places that might have been barren, so much reason for confidence and faith in business men, should be receptive to such a vision?

Chicago was experiencing hard times. I had anticipated hard times but I could not see how they could be harder than the period of my vagrancy; I considered myself a specialist in dealing with hard times. I made my meager resources stretch as far as I could but to get started in the practice of law was more difficult than I had expected it to be. To "hang up my shingle" was a simple matter and while I had not expected it to attract many, on the other hand I had not thought that it would be completely ignored; so far as I can remember, the immediate results were zero.

I spent considerable time about the Courts in order to familiarize myself with their practices and I read law cases and precedents into the late hours of the night but as for clients, there continued to be none. I conferred with other young lawyers but learned little of benefit to myself; some of them had means of their own; some had influential relatives and friends and others, like myself, were struggling. How I managed to get a small law practice started, which eventually grew into a partnership and later other partnerships of which I was always the head, is a long story and I need not go into it here, but, in course of time the wheels began to turn, at first slowly then more rapidly. In due course I became a member of the Bar Association, the Press Club, the Bohemian Club, and was active in the Association of Commerce.

However, after five years of folly it was difficult at first for the boy, now a young man, to settle down and become wise. He was dreadfully lonesome particularly on holidays and Sundays. He pondered the question of finding a way to increase his acquaintance with young men who had come to Chicago from farms and colleges, who knew the joys of friendliness and neighborliness without form or ceremony but it took a long while for his thinking to produce results.

The impulse to review the scenes of his boyhood became pressing and I finally set a day for my departure. Uncle George, to whom I owed so much, met me at the railway station in Rutland and drove me to his home in a phaeton drawn by a successor of bay Billy. Uncle George was still continuing his practice but his heyday had passed; he was taking things easier at last. The impressive enclosed station had burned and in its place had been built an unimpressive open station. The voices of the porters of the three leading hotels, the Bates House, the Berwick and the Bardwell, extolling the merits of their respective hostelries in stentorian tones and bewildering jargons, were conspicuous in their absence and Merchants Row and Center Street were like streets of Goldsmith's deserted village to the young man from Chicago.

Cottage Street where Uncle George's house, three storied with mansard roof, was located was not nearly so wide as I had pictured it. The welcome extended me by Aunt Mellie and Cousin Mattie was genuine though subdued. Many changes had taken place in the Fox family; the ring of laughter was no longer heard and most of the children had gone out from the family roof. Uncle George spent hours on the side veranda away from the street apparently indulging in meditation; he was as kind as ever but seldom spoke except in response to remarks of others.

When I mentioned bay Billy, however, he did show interest and said, "I have owned many a horse in my day, Paul, and I can't recall ever having had a bad one but the nearest thing to a human being I have ever seen in horseflesh, was Billy. He had as much affection as any child and much more obedience; he had ideas of his own but he was not headstrong. He would follow my orders even though he knew they were wrong but not without manifesting his disapproval. It was not difficult for me to read his mind, though not so easily as he read mine. Eventually I got to the point of taking his judgment in preference to my own unless there were some facts in the case which he didn't know. I wouldn't trust Billy to treat any patients of mine, but as for matters within his jurisdiction, he was generally the final word."

Cousin Mattie and I drove to Wallingford the day following my arrival in Rutland. We took the Creek Road and every turn of it was reminiscent of days of long ago. It was the same road over which the family funeral party had taken the remains of grandmother that October day; the same road I had tramped frequently. As we approached Wallingford landmarks became more and more frequent. We passed the Jay Newton, the Robert Marsh and the Hudson farms, the fork factory, the fair grounds, the Catholic church, the Hull farm house, the Stafford house, and finally drew up before the old home, the beloved home of my boyhood. Of course we visited the cemetery next and spent reverential moments by the graves of our grandparents.

Within a day or two I had taken up quarters in the Inn at Wallingford and was renewing my acquaintance with old friends and familiar places. My Sabbath School teacher, Anna Laurie Cole, was my most efficient and available assistant in my efforts to build a bridge between the pulsating present and the dreamy past; happily she still lives and still constitutes my connecting link between the two periods.

One after another I visited favorite spots. The swimming hole in Otter Creek near the covered bridge where naked youngsters had disported themselves within plain sight of passing vehicles, plunging from the rocks into the creek, not so much from a modest desire to cover their nakedness as from a more immodest desire to impress passing home folks with the belief that they were imps of Satan turned loose. I was sorry to note that new growths of underbrush had intruded themselves in places, which in other days had been reserved for the use of the feet of graceless youngsters. In other respects, Otter Creek had not changed.

Next in order was Fox Pond of the glamorous past. In summer, autumn, winter or spring, Fox Pond was the piece de resistance, except when it had to give way to the even more romantic charms of Little Pond.

The "ice bed," Childs' brook, hillsides and mountains all were visited in turn. During the days of my visit to the valley of my heart's desire, I had ample opportunity to bring back to memory incidents of my boyhood which had been obscured by the turbulent events of the years which followed. In moments of quiet reflection on hillside and mountain, I looked down into the valley through which Otter Creek flows so peacefully and during such tranquil moments, I was astonished at my resemblance to the boy out of whom I had grown; amazed at times in the realization of the fact, how few changes had taken place. Fundamentally, I was the same. The two old folks whose bones were resting peacefully beneath the soil of the cemetery down in the valley, had fashioned me as definitely as an artist could fashion clay. Their ideals had become my ideals and the process had come about so gradually and so naturally that neither grandparents nor grandchild were aware of it. Surely I had fallen far short of living up to these ideals but the ideals were still there. The principles of my grandparents had been made crystal clear; they could not have been made more clear if the words integrity, frugality, tolerance and unselfishness had been carved in gargantuan letters on the bare face of majestic White Rocks.

There were moments while indulging myself in daydreams on the mountainside when my conscience rebuked me for not being up and doing; so many things needed to be done in this busy world and there was so little time in which to do them, and then the thought came to me that perhaps men had to dream and where could there have been a more lovely dreamland than this very mountainside.

One day while resting from my climb on the top of a stone and rail fence which separated two pastures, I looked down the mountain, beyond pasturelands where cows were grazing, to the meadowland along the creek where the hay crop was being harvested. The click of the mowing machine was sweet music to my ears. The frugal farmer was rhythmically swinging his scythe along the borders and in the corners to save the few remaining wisps of timothy and clover with voluntary crops of daisies and buttercups thrown in. The hired men were loading cured hay of previous cuttings on hayricks for transfer to barn lofts for use during the long winter months when deep snow would blanket the meadows and bring nitrogen to the soil to maintain its fertility. I was too far up the mountainside to enjoy the exquisite odor of the new mown hay but I drank in the peace and tranquility of the scene and stored it up in my museum of happy memories.

I recalled the fact that somehow many of my dreams had come true. I had visited the land of Tom Brown of Rugby and Oxford; the land of Shakespeare and Dickens; Burns and Scott; I had realized the witchery of the Lakes of Killarney, the glory of the sunset on the Alpine Mountains and the soft shading of Italian skies.

These and many other wonders in many countries I had been privileged to see, without the aid of grandfather but at the cost of years of unstinted toil, danger and even hunger at times. Perhaps dreaming is not so bad if one dreams good dreams and makes them come true; all too soon my vacation would be ended and I would be back in the grind again.

Purchase The Road to Rotary from R. I.