gate leading to the orchard with a wealth 

 of wild grape vine, a part of which 

 climb high into the nearest tree, from 

 one of whose boughs was suspended a 

 gray lace, pensile nest of our orchard po- 

 liceman, the Baltimore oriole. Always 

 something new to see and to learn in an 

 orchard wilderness. And the blossoms, 

 oh, such masses of pink and white, and 

 the orange and black, uniformed sentinel 

 calling and flitting each spring, in the 

 midst of all the glory. How we learned 

 to watch for his first high, clear call, and 

 his arrival marked a red-letter day in our 

 calendar. 



Frequently we were driven indoors bv 

 rain and cold, and once by a snow storm 

 so severe that for days we were literally 

 "snow bound." It was at that time that 

 the robin who had built early in the 

 crotch of a quince bush by the sitting- 

 room window sat through one night of 

 freezing sleet and cold upon her nest, try- 

 ing to protect her very young fledglings. 

 But the next day she flew away. Her ef- 

 forts had been in vain ; the nest was cov- 

 ered with a sheet of ice. Twice during 

 the storm I saw some robins flying about 

 the house, but they did not approach the 

 quince tree. 



One morning, a week later, I was for- 

 tunate in observing a robin flying olT 

 with something quite large in its mouth. 

 In a few moments it returned and went 

 to the nest, picked up what I saw to be 

 a small, dead bird, and with it in its 

 beak disappeared. Again this was re- 

 peated. I supposed that the bereaved 

 [parents would once more set up house- 

 keeping in the nest that had so lately 

 been the scene of a bird-land tragedy. 

 Not so. It remained tenantless. But 

 there was a robin family raised to ma- 

 turity in another part of the yard, and 

 I hope it belonged to that pair of early 

 comers. 



During bad weather we painted and 

 papered our rooms in simple, old-time 

 style; read and basked in the glow from 

 the fireplaces, in one of which were the 

 polished andirons from mv grandfath- 

 er's house. A slidinsf window was cut 

 in the side of my dining-room, to give 

 to it an added beauty and light, and with 

 its drawn, white curtains, and a jug of 

 jonquils or later of red poppies on its 



ledge, and the sunlight shining through, 

 it served its double purpose. In this 

 room which had been the one room of 

 the original house was the biggest fire- 

 place of all, and here hung the crane 

 upon which was cooked the first meal, 

 by the first bride of the little home, sev- 

 enty years before. She was living when 

 we bought the place, and by special in- 

 vitation came and spent the day with 

 me. She was old, old, like the surround- 

 ings, and her face was so wrinkled that 

 it had the appearance of a network of 

 canals. Her sight was poor, and I do 

 not think that she saw anything as it now 

 exists. To her it was the place in which 

 her children were born, where later 

 her good man was brought home, mor- 

 tally wounded, and where had stood the 

 cradle in which her third baby died on 

 the day with its father. Oh, the lonely, 

 lonely years that stretched between that 

 time and now. As she went away, 

 crossing my threshold, which haid first 

 been hers, for the last time, I thought : 

 There will come a year, the date of which 

 no man can tell, when one of us, now 

 living in the "Old House," will have 

 gone on a long journey, and the other, 

 will it be "he" or "she?" will find the 

 place so filled by the echoes of vanished 

 joys that "he" or "she" will close the 

 door and pass on — alone. But the rip- 

 pling, bubbling laughter of a pretty 

 neighbor girl and her sweetheart, com- 

 ing from the lane, displaced these gloomv 

 thoughts, and I went out to rejoice with 

 them, in the joy and fullness of the pres- 

 ent life. 



For my house furnishings I explored 

 the attics of my mother and her 

 friends, and was surprised at the harvest 

 of old-fashioned things which they yield- 

 ed. In the large, cool bedroom with the 

 rafted ceiling, is the English-carved bed- 

 stead, found in a log house, among some 

 rubbish. It has a pineapple on the top 

 of each high post, and I show it with 

 pride to all interested visitors. Here, 

 too, is a "grandfather's clock," or, speak- 

 ing literally, a clock case, for, alas! I am 

 still seeking for the works. However. 

 I have the eflfect if not the time, and in 

 the dining-room a tall eight-dav clock 

 tells off the hours. A flax wheel, splint 

 and rush bottomed chairs, old, wooden 



