MEMORIES OF THE 



hill milking-yard, with the big rock near the plum tree, on 

 which old Neuch always stood to be milked; the long rows of 

 swallows' nests under the eaves of the barns and sheds; the 

 horse-barn, with its wide-open doors and its well-known occu- 

 pants — blind Dick, the reliable veteran; balky Bill, the terror; 

 runaway Doll, the fox; colicky Prince, with his innumerable 

 bottles of medicine, and knee-sprung Dick, the reminder of a 

 clerical horse deal; the little, red, "bear dog," Getty, who 

 would sit in the middle of the dooryard and bark all night at the 

 man in the moon; the ugly, gray watchdog. Tiger, who chal- 

 lenged every tramp or suspicious looking character that passed 

 or stirred at night, and who finally made the mistake of tackling 

 the presiding elder as a suspect and was only called off by a 

 club with which John ended his over-zealous life; the useless, 

 yellow dog. Rover, who had no standing or character whatever 

 until, like Tray, he fell into bad company and, on suspicion, 

 was condemned as a sheep thief; the ditch and the mill-pond 

 where we went to swim, and the creek with its bed of huge 

 boulders, where it came splashing down between the rocks into 

 the deep trout pool under the bridge; the old sawmill and the 

 mill-yard, with its high piles of logs and lumber, among which 

 the school-children played; the old, weather-beaten school-house 

 on the corner, cut and carved by the knives of two generations, 

 with its pleasant memories of teachers and schoolmates; with 

 the burying-ground beyond, so venerable and solemn, where 

 peacefully rest our ancestors, beside the other pioneers who 

 here labored to subdue the forests and found homes, under their 

 moss-covered tablets, which tell the story of a century. These 

 and many other things in retrospect I see around the old home- 

 stead, all as clearl}^ as when they first crossed my vision. 



This old red house has withstood the winds and rains of sum- 



i8o 



