MY VINEYARD. 23 



up the memories of other days. There is the glowing fire 

 before us, and the noisy wind without, but they seem less 

 real than the memories of earlier years. Shadowy in- 

 deed, but once more with us, the boy companions of the 

 long ago. Over the hills in our boyish sport, and through 

 the groves to the clear waters of the little brook. And 

 the old school-house, with its happy hours, and its irksome 

 tasks, and its rewards for truant deeds. And the old 

 church bell, now ringing out its merry peal, and now toll- 

 ing, tolling. And other forms are seen, venerable ancl 

 bowed with age ; but these are gone to the other shore, 

 leaving a pang which time does not effiice. — 



" This shall be the home-room," exclaimed my wife on 

 surveying the room I have described ; " the library, and 

 parlor, and sitting-room, all in one. Here is just the place 

 for the book-case, there for the lounge, and the walls will 

 accommodate all of our favorite pictures. And this cor- 

 ner between the book case and the fire looks as though 

 designed expressly for your old arm chair." And to this 



m 



ordering of the " home room " I did not in the least de- 

 mur. 



The house needed but few repairs. A little additional 

 mortar between the logs, newly papering all the rooms 

 and painting the wood- work, a few repairs in windows and 

 doors, were tasks easily performed, and we were comfort- 

 ably and cosily settled in our new home. Those were 

 happy years which we spent in the old log house. When 



