eems like it was Oswego. Some'eres out West like that."

"Wisht all the town 'u'd quit traipsin' over here," said Pliny. "Never
see sich curiosity. They needn't to think they're goin' to git a look at
the critter while he's a-cookin'. No, siree. Nobody but this here
committee sees him till he's took out final, ready fer eatin'."

All that day visitors arrived in town. They drove in, came by train and
by stage--and walked. There was no house whose ready hospitality was not
taxed to its capacity, and the ladies in charge of the restaurant in
Masonic Hall became frantic and sent out hysterical messengers for more
food and more help. Every house was dressed in flags and bunting. Even
Deacon Pettybone, reputed to be the "nearest" inhabitant of the village,
flew one small cotton flag, reputed to have cost fifteen cents, from his
front stoop. The bridge was so covered with red, white, and blue as to
quite lose its identity as a bridge and to become one of the wonders of
the world, to be talked about for a decade. As one looked up the street
a similarity of motion, almost machinelike, was apparent. It was an
endless shaking of hands as old friend met old friend joyously.

"Bet ye don't know who I be?"

"I'd 'a' know'd you in Chiny. You're Mort Whittaker's wife--her that was
Ida Janes. Hair hain't so red as what it was."

"You've took on flesh some, but otherwise--'Member the time you took me
to the dance at Tupper Falls--"

"An' we got mired crossin'--"

"An' Sam Kettleman come in a plug hat."

This conversation, or its counterpart, was repeated wherever resident
and visitor met. Old days lived again. Ancient men became middle-aged,
and middle-aged women became girls. The past was brought to life and
lived again. Sometimes it was brought to life a bit tediously, as when
old Jethro Hammond, postmaster of Coldriver twenty years ago, made a
speech seventy minutes long, which consisted in naming and locating
every house that existed in his day, and describing with minute detail
who lived in it and what part they played in the affairs of the
community. But the audience forgave him, because it knew what a good
time he was having.... Houses were invaded by perfect strangers who
insisted in pointing out the rooms in which they were born and in which
they had been married, and in telling the present proprietors how
fortunate they were to live in dwellings thus blessed.

The band arrived and met with universal satisfaction, thou