A TOWN OF CHURCHES. 1 5 



ceeds, while his experimenting instructor is 

 carrying his yearly account to the debit of 

 profit and loss. 



Passing through the town of North Salem, 

 five miles beyond, the apparently religious 

 character of the people made a deep impres- 

 sion upon me. Inquiring of a farmer who was 

 driving along in a wagon by my side, he said 

 that in a population of twenty-five hundred, 

 there were eight different sects, each of course 

 considering itself in the only straight and 

 narrow path to heaven. *' But," added my 

 informant, " such a quarrelsome set of cusses 

 you never did see. I guess the trouble is that 

 religion is cut up into such small junks that 

 nobody gets enough of it to do 'em any 

 good." 



The border line is not well defined, but I 

 knew that I was now in Connecticut, and that 

 after riding half a dozen miles further, I should 

 come to the village of Ridgefield, the home of 

 my old friend and schoolmate, Dan Adams, 

 where a hearty welcome awaited me. 



Dan is a retired physician — not that cele- 

 brated advertiser " whose sands of life have 

 nearly run out." I hope there is much sand 

 yet left in the time-glass of my friend. He is 



