1897. 



THE AMERICAN BEE KEEPER. 



9a 



him, did not know him at first, and in- 

 deed Hardesty would have passed the 

 other a thousand times before recogniz- 

 ing in his brown mustache and glossy 

 collar any semblance to the patched and 

 freckled boy who had helped him to rob 

 Frank Stone's historic melon patch. 

 The agent introduced his wife and said 

 Hardesty would remember her, but 

 Hardesty would have done nothing of 

 the sort, except for the fact that he had 

 learned from correspondence that his 

 friend had married little Eda Stone, 

 daughter of the sovereign of the melon 

 patch. 



They talked, after dinner, about 

 business and about the improvement in 

 the city — it had been a village in the 

 old days — and about the advisability of 

 Hardesty selling his property. 



"Really," said Hardesty, "I don't 

 know that I care to sell. You see, the 

 old homestead has been in the family 

 for generatioiiH, and it seems almost a 

 sacrilege to dispose of it. Why, I was 

 born in that house. I used to look over 

 the fence there at the gooseberry bushes 

 in Gallagher's place and wond — by the 

 way, are the Gallaghers living there 

 yet?" 



"Oh, no ! They moved away long ago, 

 and a fine, big, stone public school has 

 been built there." 



"A stone public school? Why, Henry, 

 when we were boys, a one room frame 

 house did us pretty well. Do you remem- 

 ber how we used to revile the boys who 

 attended th^ academy and call them 

 'academy rats,' because the academy 

 had two rooms, and consequently two 

 stoves?" 



"Yes, and they called us 'district 



»a.ts,' and we fought about it," said" 

 Henry. "By the way, Dr. Culver lived 

 on the other side, didn't he? Well, there 

 is a whisky cure institute there now — a 

 big one — the thirrl in the state. " 



The next laoi-iing Hardesty started 

 out to view the property before finally 

 deciding not to sell. He declared that it 

 was hardly worth while, as he had no 

 pressing need for money, and it waa al- 

 ways pleasant to think of the old times, 

 and the old place, and the old home. 



"When we get to that comer, "he 

 Baid, proud to show that he still remem- 

 bered things, "we will tui 1 and cross 

 the common, passing by old Mrs. Uai-- 



vin's cottage and swinging to the right 

 by Hen G^ttle's hothouse. " 



"I'm afraid we can't, " saidtiie agent 

 and friend. "You mean to cross the 

 common, don't you, as we used to in 

 making the short cut for the river when 

 we went fishing? Well, ' ' as Hardesty 

 nodded in a delighted affirmative, "we 

 can't do it, for it is all built up now. 

 Mrs. Marvin's cottage site is taken up 

 by the residence of the mayor, and Hen 

 Gettle's home is now his home no lon- 

 ger, but is a three story hotel. You see 

 the town has been progressing in 17 

 years. ' ' 



Hardesty looked at his friend in won- 

 der and not altogether in i->leasure. 



"On the way," he said, "I should 

 like to pass the old one room school 

 where Lo Ellenwood used to teach, and 

 out of the window of which I leaped 17 

 years ago. It is down this way, isn't it?' ' 



' 'It has been moved back in the lot, 

 and a big grocery has been built on the 

 front — the playground, you know, where 

 we used to play foot and a half and sail- 

 ors' Bombay. The old school has been 

 converted into a stable for the horses of 

 the man who runs tlie grocery. We 

 abandoned it as a school ten years ago 

 and erected a pressed brick stinicture 

 down in the nest block. We have been 

 progressing materially. ' ' 



"You don't mean to tell me the old 

 school is used as a stable?" cried Har- 

 desty. "And that playground gone too? 

 Why, the happiest moments of my life 

 and yours were passed there listening to 

 half witted Billy Mendenall imitating 

 bird songs and skinning the cat on the 

 horizontal bar, which we bought by a 

 popular subscription of old iron and 

 rags. ' ' 



' ' Yes, it was in the way of improve- 

 ment. ' ' 



As they talked they walked. Hardesty 

 hardly knew himself for the changes in 

 the old town — the dear old town back 

 to which he had looked so fondly. Off 

 there in Chicago he had been in the 

 habit of passing opinion on men and 

 saying: "Ah, you poor, hustling, de- 

 luded mortals, you are entirely different 

 from Squire Lo Stone and Ott Templar 

 and the other quiet, tranquil souls in 

 that other town where my old home is. 

 I am glad I have that dear place. It 

 will be like an anchorage to me in this 

 stormy sea. " And now, and now — why. 



