on very good terms with John Quincy Adams, knew him well and had often
seen him come here to collect rent. He told me that during his
recollection the Adams place had been occupied by full forty families. But
now, thanks to "Bill Spear," it is no longer for rent.

The house has been raised from the ground, new sills placed under it, and
while every part--scantling, rafter, joist, crossbeam, lath and
weatherboard--of the original house has been retained, it has been put in
such order that it is no longer going to ruin.

From the ample stores of his various antiquarian depositories Mr. Spear
has refurnished it; and with a ripe knowledge and rare good taste and
restraining imagination, the cottage is now shown to us as a Colonial
farmhouse of the year Seventeen Hundred Fifty. The wonder to me is that
Mr. Spear, being human, did not move his "secondhand-shop" down here and
make of the place a curiosity-shop. But he has done better.

As you step across the doorsill and pass from the little entry into the
"living-room," you pause and murmur, "Excuse me." For there is a fire on
the hearth, the tea-kettle sings softly, and on the back of a chair hangs
a sunbonnet. And over there on the table is an open Bible, and on the open
page is a pair of spectacles and a red, crumpled handkerchief. Yes, the
folks are at home: they have just stepped into the next room--perhaps are
eating dinner. And so you sit down in an old hickory chair, or in the high
settle that stands against the wall by the fireplace, and wait, expecting
every moment that the kitchen-door will creak on its wooden hinges, and
Abigail, smiling and gentle, will enter to greet you. Mr. Spear
understands, and, disappearing, leaves you to your thoughts--and June's.

John and Abigail were lovers their lifetime through. Their published
letters show a oneness of thought and sentiment that, viewed across the
years, moves us to tears to think that such as they should at last feebly
totter, and then turn to dust. But here they came in the joyous springtime
of their lives; upon this floor you tread the ways their feet have trod;
these walls have echoed to their singing voices, listened to their
counsels, and seen love's caress.

There is no surplus furniture nor display nor setting forth of useless
things. Every article you see has its use. The little shelf of books,
well-thumbed, displays no "Trilby" nor "Quest of the Golden Girl"--not an
anachronism any where. Curtains, cha