THE OLD ROAD. 59 



more at the time or when he came home. He 

 merely went with him to the tree where the 

 mare was tied, unhitched her, tied her behind 

 his chaise, and drove off. 



Leisurely and sadly two little boys walked 

 home from school, and ever afterwards, going 

 and coming, they walked. 



Fanny and I again went over the road that 

 the two school-boys had so often travelled 

 sixty-six years ago, down through the village, 

 across the bridge, and up the hill. In all this 

 time there has scarcely been a change. Boston 

 has spread itself everywhere but here. There 

 by the roadside is the cemetery, the "■ burying- 

 ground, " as it is still called. There lie the 

 early settlers, and should they rise from their 

 graves to-day, they would recognize the sur- 

 roundlnofs. There are few new houses in 

 Milton Lower Mills village ; the amber-colored 

 water pours over the dam with the same cease- 

 less music to meet the salt tide of the Nepon- 

 set that flows to its base ; the same odor of 

 fresh water brought from its course above, and 

 of the chocolate ground at the mills, pervades 

 the air, for memory treasures the fond associa- 

 tions of all our senses. What country child 

 grown to old age does not remembjer the sweet 



