y shacks clear
from the Blacksmith Shop to the river!--Hope they _choke_!"

"Oh my dear--my dear!" said my Mother.

The Old Doctor looked a little funny.

"Oh I admit it's worth something," he said, "to have you call me your
'dear.'--But I'm mad I tell you clear through. And when you've got as
much '_through_' to you as I have, that's _some mad_!--W-hew!"
he said. "When I think of our village,--our precious, clean,
decent, simple little All-American village--turned into a
cheap--racketty--crowd-you-off-the-sidewalk Saturday Night Hell
Hole...?"

"Oh--Oh--OH!" cried my Mother.

"Quick! Get him some raspberry shrub," cried my Father.

"Maybe he'd like to play the Children's new Game!" cried my Mother.

"It isn't a Game," I explained. "It's a Book!"

My Mother ran to get the Raspberry Shrub. She brought a whole pitcher.
It tinkled with ice. It sounded nice. When the Old Doctor had drunken it
he seemed cooled quite a little. He put the glass down on the table. He
saw the Book. He looked surprised.

"Lanos--Bryant? Accounts?" he read. He looked at the date. He looked at
my Father. "What you trying to do, Man?" he said. "Reconstruct a
financial picture of our village as it was a generation ago? Or trace
your son Carol's very palpable distaste for a brush, back to his
grandfather's somewhat avid devotion to pork chops?" He picked up the
book. He opened the first pages. He read the names written at the tops
of the pages. Some of the names were pretty faded.--"Alden, Hoppin,
Weymoth, Dun Vorlees," he read. He put on his glasses. He scrunched his
eyes. He grunted his throat. "W-hew!" he said. "A hundred pounds of
beans in one month?--Is it any wonder that young Alden ran away to
sea--and sunk clear to the bottom in his first shipwreck?--'Roast
Beef'?--'Roast Beef'?--'Malt and Hops'?--'Malt and Hops'?--'Roast
Beef'?--'Malt and Hops'?--Is _that_ where Old Man Weymoth got his
rheumatism?--And Young Weymoth--his blood pressure?--Dun Vorlees?--Dun
Vorlees?--_What?_ No meat at all from November to February?--No
fruit?--Only three pounds of sugar?--Great Gastronomics! Back of all
that arrogance,--that insulting aloofness,--was _real_ Hunger gnawing at
the Dun Vorlees vitals?--Was _that_ the reason why--?--Merciful
Heavens!" cried the Old Doctor. "This book is worth twenty dollars to
me--this very minute in my Practice! The light it sheds on the Village
Stomach,--the Village Nerves,--the--"

"Please, Sir," I said. "The Book