At the Farm 
The evening, the scene, were steeped in so 
tranquil a look of prosperity as to call up rich 
memories of other days. Involuntarily we began 
talking of the old Farnborough home. My 
uncle’s recollections of it were as vivid, he said, 
as if it were actually before us. He could see 
it all ‘‘as clear as I can see the cow-stalls there 
now.” Every post, every door-latch and hasp— 
he had them all in his memory. He could not, 
he said, get the things of to-day so fixed. Take 
him through Farnborough Park, which had lately 
been cut up into building plots, and he would 
be lost. 
The state of his memory seemed analogous 
to that of his sight. Far across the fields he 
could see now—farther than ever before. Ata 
great distance he could make out the actions 
and identify the species of the wild birds. But 
not so well as before could he distinguish near 
things. Although he could write a letter, he 
could not afterwards see what he had written. 
He himself, to tell the truth, was growing old, 
while his farming was getting out of date. He 
didn’t speak of it, but I felt it all the rest of that 
evening. When I came away he walked out as 
far as to the road with me; and as he returned 
alone through his garden I could not help noticing 
how grey his head looked in the twilight. 
IOI 
