h out,
anyhow, won't you? Not at all ready to be laid on the shelf? What do you
think of the relative importance of Love, Courtship, and Marriage? One
or two other things in life just about as interesting, aren't there?
Take getting a living, for instance. That 's worthy of one's attention,
to a certain extent. When our young ones ask us: "Pop, what did you say
to Mom when you courted her?" they feel provoked at us for taking it so
lightly and so frivolously. It vexes them for us to reply: "Law, child!
I don't remember. Why, I says to her: 'Will you have me?' And she says:
'Why, yes, and jump at the chance.' What difference does it make what
we said, or whether we said anything at all? Why should we charge our
memories with the recollections of those few and foolish months of mere
instinctive sex-attraction when all that really counts came after,
the years wherein low passion blossomed into lofty Love, the dear
companionship in joy and sorrow, and in that which is more, far more
than either joy or sorrow, 'the daily round, the common task?'" All that
is wonderful to think of in our courtship is the marvel, for which
we should never cease to thank the Almighty God, that with so little
judgment at our disposal we should have chosen so wisely.

If you, Gentle Reader, found your first gray hair day before yesterday
morning, if you can remember, 'way, 'way back ten or fifteen years
ago... er... er... or more, come with me. Let us go "Back Home." Here's
your transportation, all made out to you, and in your hand. It is no use
my reminding you that no railroad goes to the old home place. It isn't
there any more, even in outward seeming. Cummins's woods, where you had
your robbers' cave, is all cleared off and cut up into building lots.
The cool and echoing covered bridge, plastered with notices of dead and
forgotten Strawberry Festivals and Public Vendues, has long ago been
torn down to be replaced by a smart, red iron bridge. The Volunteer
Firemen's Engine-house, whose brick wall used to flutter with the gay
rags of circus-bills, is gone as if it never were at all. Where the
Union Schoolhouse was is all torn up now. They are putting up a new
magnificent structure, with all the modern improvements, exposed
plumbing, and spankless discipline. The quiet leafy streets echo to the
hissing snarl of trolley cars, and the power-house is right by the
Old Swimming-hole above the dam. The meeting-house, where we attended
Sabbath-school,