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smile, I will contend. What do you think about it?
You're still on earth, aren't you? You'll last the month out, anyhow,
won't you? Not at all ready to be laid on the shelf? What do you think
of the relative importance of Love, Courtship, and Marriage? One or
two other things in life just about as interesting, aren't there? Take
getting a living, for instance. That 's worthy of one's attention, to a
certain extent. When our young ones ask us: "Pop, what did you say to
Mom when you courted her?" they feel provoked at us for taking it so
lightly and so frivolously. It vexes them for us to reply: "Law, child! I
don't remember. Why, I says to her: 'Will you have me?" And she says:
'Why, yes, and jump at the chance.'" What difference does it make what
we said, or whether we said anything at all? Why should we charge our
memories with the recollections of those few and foolish months of
mere instinctive sex-attraction when all that really counts came after,
the years wherein low passion blossomed into lofty Love, the dear
companionship in joy and sorrow, and in that which is more, far more
than either joy or sorrow, "the daily round, the common task?" All that
is wonderful to think of in our courtship is the marvel, for which we
should never cease to thank the Almighty God, that with so little
judgment at our disposal we should have chosen so wisely.
If you, Gentle Reader, found your first gray hair day before yesterday
morning, if you can remember, 'way, 'way back ten or fifteen years
ago . . . er . . . er . . . or more, come with me. Let us go "Back Home."
Here's your transportation, all made out to you, and in your hand. It is
no use my reminding you that no railroad goes to the old home place. It
isn't there any more, even in outward seeming. Cummins's woods,
where you had your robbers' cave, is all cleared off and cut up into
building lots. The cool and echoing covered bridge, plastered with
notices of dead and forgotten Strawberry Festivals and Public Vendues,
has long ago been torn down to be replaced by a smart, red iron bridge.
The Volunteer Firemen's Engine-house, whose brick wall used to
flutter with the gay rags of circus-bills, is gone as if it never were at all.
Where the Union Schoolhouse was is all torn up now. They are putting
up a new magnificent structure, with all the modern improvements,
exposed plumbing, and spankless discipline. The quiet leafy streets
echo to the hissing snarl of trolley cars, and the power-house is right by

the Old Swimming-hole above the dam. The meeting-house, where we
attended Sabbath-school, and marveled at the Greek temple frescoed on
the wall behind the pulpit, is now a church with a big organ, and
stained-glass windows, and folding opera-chairs on a slanting floor.
There isn't any "Amen Corner," any more, and in these calm and
well-bred times nobody ever gets "shouting happy."
But even when "the loved spots that our infancy knew" are physically
the same, a change has come upon them more saddening than words
can tell. They have shrunken and grown shabbier. They are not nearly
so spacious and so splendid as once they were.
Some one comes up to you and calls you by your name. His voice
echoes in the chambers of your memory. You hold his hand in yours
and try to peer through the false-face he has on, the mask of a beard or
spectacles, or a changed expression of the countenance. He says he is
So-and-so. Why, he used to sit with you in Miss Crutcher's room, don't
you remember? There was a time when you and he walked together,
your arms upon each other's shoulders. But this is some other one than
he. The boy you knew had freckles, and could spit between his teeth,
ever and ever so far.
They don't have the same things to eat they used to have, or, if they do,
it all tastes different. Do you remember the old well, with the windlass
and the chain fastened to the rope just above the bucket, the chain that
used to cluck-cluck when the dripping bucket came within reach to be
swung upon the well-curb? How cold the water used to be, right out of
the northwest corner of the well! It made the roof of your mouth ache
when you drank. Everybody said it was such splendid water. It isn't so
very cold these days, and I think it has a sort of funny taste to it.
Ah, Gentle Reader, this is not really "Back Home" we gaze upon when
we go