with silver buckles, and several suits
of every-day clothes, showing wear and patches.

On up to the garret we groped, and bumped our heads against the rafters.
The light was dim, but we could make out more apples on strings, and roots
and herbs in bunches hung from the peak. Here was a three-legged chair and
a broken spinning-wheel, and the junk that is too valuable to throw away,
yet not good enough to keep, but "some day may be needed."

Down the narrow stairway we went, and in the little kitchen, Sammy, the
artist, and Mr. Spear, the custodian, were busy at the fireplace preparing
dinner. There is no stove in the house, and none is needed. The crane and
brick oven and long-handled skillets suffice. Sammy is an expert
camp-cook, and swears there is death in the chafing-dish, and grows
profane if you mention one. His skill in turning flapjacks by a simple
manipulation of the long-handled griddle means more to his true ego than
the finest canvas.

June offered to set the table, but Sammy said she could never do it alone,
so together they brought out the blue china dishes and the pewter plates.
Then they drew water at the stone-curbed well with the great sweep,
carrying the leather-baled bucket between them.

I was feeling quite useless and asked, "Can't I do something to help?"

"There is the lye-leach--you might bring out some ashes and make some soft
soap," said June pointing to the ancient leach and soap-kettle in the
yard, the joys of Mr. Spear's heart.

Sammy stood at the back door and pounded on the dishpan with a wooden
spoon to announce that dinner was ready. It was quite a sumptuous meal:
potatoes baked in the ashes, beans baked in the brick oven, coffee made on
the hearth, fish cooked in the skillet, and pancakes made on a griddle
with a handle three feet long.

Mr. Spear had aspirations toward an apple-pie and had made violent efforts
in that direction, but the product being dough on top and charcoal on the
bottom we declined the nomination with thanks.

June suggested that pies should be baked in an oven and not cooked on a
pancake griddle. The custodian thought there might be something in it--a
suggestion he would have scorned and scouted had it come from me.

To change the rather painful subject, Mr. Spear began to talk about John
and Abigail Adams, and to quote from their "Letters," a volume he seems to
have by heart.

"Do you know why their love was so very steadfast, and why they stimulated