FARM ECHOES. 21 



tional Society attended service in the church on the one 

 hundredth anniversary of his birth. The pews were then 

 so arranged that the congregation faced the door, and as 

 he entered all rose as a mark of respect, and remained 

 standing until he was seated in his pew. 



I recently visited a lady residing about four miles from 

 me, who is more than a hundred years old, having been 

 born February 12, 1780. Although suffering from the 

 effects of a cold which had troubled her for several weeks, 

 she bore none of those signs of extreme old age which are 

 so distressing to behold. For eighty years she has occupied 

 the house in which she now lives. In early youth, if not 

 in childhood, she became "a child of God," and seems to 

 have had great enjoyment in her religious experience. 

 When I dwelt upon the many years she had been spared 

 to test the power of religion, and asked if she had ever 

 had cause to regret the choice she made in early life, sho 

 answered most emphatically, "No, indeed." At the re- 

 quest of her grandson (himself the head of a family), 

 she sang a hymn for me, and I was impressed by the 

 selection she made : 



"O when shall I see Jesus?" 



No wonder this aged pilgrim, longing for her eternal 

 home, was prompted to ask this question in sacred song. 



The dryness of the atmosphere in this region of country 

 is remarkable. Though the thermometer registers a lower 

 temperature than in New York, or Philadelphia, for in- 

 stance, the winter's cold is not felt so much as in those 

 cities. There is no such dampness here as there, piercing 

 one through and through. 



The history of LitchGeld is too well and too favorably 



