and eye and
pouting lip were young and lovely. Still these memories awoke out of
this meeting, and, for hours, I forgot that I was wrinkled, old, and
gray.

I wonder how many's history I am writing now? The history of the heart,
at last, is all the endearing history of waning life. Recur as we may
to every success, to every sorrow, and they whisper a chapter of the
heart. We struggle to make happy those we love. The gratifications of
wealth, ambition, and feeling, all refer to the heart. There could be
no pleasure from these memories if those we loved had not participated
in them. We build a home for her we love, and those who sprout around
us. We win wealth and a name for these, and but for them, all that is
innate would be only alloy. They must reflect the bliss it brings, or
it has no sweetness. Can there be a soul so sordid as to riot in
pleasure and triumphs all alone--to shun companionship, and hate
participation in the joys that come of successful life?

I am in the midst of the scenes of my childhood, with here and there
one friend left, who shared with me the school-hours, Saturday rambles,
and sports of early boyhood. With these the memories come fresh and
vigorous of the then occurring incidents--the fishings, the
Saturday-night raccoon hunts, the forays upon orchards and
melon-patches, and the rides to and from the old, country church on the
Sabbath; the practical jokes of which I was so fond, and from which
even my own father was not exempt. Kind reader, indulge the garrulity
of age, and allow me to recount one of these. There are a few who will
remember it; for they have laughed at it for fifty years. I never knew
my father to tell a fib but upon one occasion in my life. Under the
circumstances, I am sure the kindly nature will, at least, allow it to
be a white one.

I am near the old mill my father built, and, if I remember all
connected with my boyhood there, I trust there will be few or none to
sneer or blame. The flouring-mill, or mill for grinding grain, and the
saw-mill were united under the same roof; and it was the business of
father to give his attention, as overseer, not only to the mills, but
to his planting interest. He employed a North Carolina Scotchman--that
is, a man descended of Scotch parents, but born in North Carolina--to
superintend his saw-mill, who had all the industry, saving
propensities, and superstitions of his ancestry. He was a firm believer
in spells, second-sights, and g