somebody's definition of
dirt, is one of the most hospitable and cordial things I ever meet in
the houses of my friends. A room with evidences of being lived in by the
family invites me to share the intimacy of that life for the time being;
but a too carefully garnished room, which my host occupies only while a
guest is present, relegates me to my proper place--a stranger within the
gates. It was with difficulty the family could be driven into the
sitting room in the evening. The men preferred to stretch out on the
settle and smoke another pipe; the boys had a little more whittling to
do and loved to hear their elders talk. Rarely was an outer garment put
on by men during the week days of winter except on Sundays when riding
cloaks were the common wear for women, surtouts for men. These were hand
woven, or if purchased, were of camlet. It was said of a certain family
that a drop of its blood was as good as a great coat, so hardy and
healthy were its sons.

Among such farmers and manners and customs was I born, in a red house
under the great elm. In its shade the old doctor waited and talked with
the expectant father until called into the house by the women who
presided at such functions in the neighborhood. My memory does not reach
back to the "trailing clouds of glory", but doubtless it was these which
obscured the April sun that afternoon, so that the new baby could be
carried out under the elm tree and there rocked to his first sleep. My
next excursion, so the family traditions aver, was to Uncle Peter's, the
nearest neighbor, the oracle of the community for all signs, omens and
country folk-lore, who, taking me in his arms, carried me to the attic
of his house and touched my head to the ridgepole: "What did you do that
for?" my mother asked. "Oh, that's the way to make him a great man
sometime. I does it to all the boy babies. There's luck in it." In those
days there were great hopes, and prophecies had not ceased. Many a sweet
sleep did I have under the elm tree's shade later on; and many a
tiresome hour turning the grindstone for the long bladed sythes. In the
trunk of the tree were stuck many worn out blades, their points imbedded
by the tree's growth from year to year. Thus they became tallies marking
the past seasons of haying. Under the tree was the afternoon parlor of
the family throughout the summer; there all the feminine industries went
on, braiding straw, knitting and mending, or a letter was added to the