My Neighbor's Wood-Shed 209 



ments pass, pass, pass, and the bare faft that 

 I have added to my store of knowledge this 

 hour is that I am older than when I entered 

 the shed ; but this is no serious matter. Is 

 there not such a thing as knowing too much ? 

 True or not, I covet certain pleasures more 

 than a brand-new faft, as I proved to myself 

 to-day, when I lived over again the good old 

 times of early youth and had converse with 

 the sturdy folk that made this world brighter 

 to my young eyes than it has ever been 

 since I have wandered without their guidance. 

 Such an hour as this is worth walking miles 

 to spend, if so be your nearest neighbor's 

 wood-shed is so far away. 



Covered as is every cord-wood stick with 

 suggestiveness from bark to innermost splin- 

 ter, there is less to be conjured up by one of 

 them than by the odd bits of old furniture 

 that occasionally are brought to the wood- 

 shed to be reduced to kindling. What a 

 train of thought can be touched off by the 

 leg of an old table, the arm of a chair, or 

 the claw-foot of a bureau ! To discard 

 old furniture is much like throwing away a 

 badge of respectability. Even though past 

 all usefulness, its bones should be sacred. 



