50 THE FALL OF THE YEAR 



But wood and warmth and sweet smells were not 

 all. There was music also, the music of life, of young 

 life and of old life — grandparents, grandchildren 

 (about twenty-eight of the latter). There were seven 

 of us alone — a girl at each end of the seven and 

 one in the middle. Thanksgiving always found us 

 all at Grandfather's and brimming full of thanks. 



That, of course, was long, long ago. Things are 

 different nowadays. There are as many grandfathers, 

 I suppose, as ever ; but they don't make brooms in 

 the winter and live on farms. 



They live in flats. The old farm with its open acres 

 has become a city street ; the generous old farmhouse 

 has become a speaking-tube, kitchenette, and bath — 

 all the " modern conveniences " ; the cows have evapo- 

 rated into convenient cans of condensed "milk" ; the 

 ten-barrel box of potatoes has changed into a conven- 

 ient ten-pound bag, the wood-pile into a convenient 

 five-cent bundle of blocks tied up with a tarred string, 

 the fireplace ink) a convenient gas log, the seven 

 children into one or none, or into a little bull-terrier 



Pup- 

 But is it so ? No, it is not so — not so of a million 



homes. For there is many an old-fashioned farm- 

 house still in the country, and many a new-fashioned 

 city house where there are more human children than 

 little bull-terrier pups. 



And it is not so in my home, which is neither a 

 real farm nor yet a city home. For here are some 



