and marveled at the Greek temple frescoed on the wall
behind the pulpit, is now a church with a big organ, and stained-glass
windows, and folding opera-chairs on a slanting floor. There isn't any
"Amen Corner," any more, and in these calm and well-bred times nobody
ever gets "shouting happy."

But even when "the loved spots that our infancy knew" are physically the
same, a change has come upon them more saddening than words can tell.
They have shrunken and grown shabbier. They are not nearly so spacious
and so splendid as once they were.

Some one comes up to you and calls you by your name. His voice echoes in
the chambers of your memory. You hold his hand in yours and try to peer
through the false-face he has on, the mask of a beard or spectacles, or
a changed expression of the countenance. He says he is So-and-so. Why,
he used to sit with you in Miss Crutcher's room, don't you remember?
There was a time when you and he walked together, your arms upon each
other's shoulders. But this is some other one than he. The boy you knew
had freckles, and could spit between his teeth, ever and ever so far.

They don't have the same things to eat they used to have, or, if they
do, it all tastes different. Do you remember the old well, with the
windlass and the chain fastened to the rope just above the bucket, the
chain that used to cluck-cluck when the dripping bucket came within
reach to be swung upon the well-curb? How cold the water used to be,
right out of the northwest corner of the well! It made the roof of your
mouth ache when you drank. Everybody said it was such splendid water. It
isn't so very cold these days, and I think it has a sort of funny taste
to it.

Ah, Gentle Reader, this is not really "Back Home" we gaze upon when
we go there by the train. It is a last year's bird's nest. The nest is
there; the birds are flown, the birds of youth, and noisy health, and
ravenous appetite, and inexperience. You cannot go "Back Home" by train,
but here is the magic wishing-carpet, and here is your transportation in
your hand all made out to you. You and I will make the journey together.
Let us in heart and mind thither ascend.

I went to the Old Red School-house with you. Don't you remember me? I
was learning to swim when you could go clear across the river without
once "letting down." I saw you at the County Fair, and bought a slab
of ice-cream candy just before you did. I was in the infant-class in
Sabbath-school when you