Yonder up in the hills are men and women, white-haired, who love to
tell of that time when the woods came to the door-step and God's
cattle fed on the growing corn. Where, long ago, they sowed their
youth and strength, they see their sons reaping, but now, bent with
age, they have ceased to gather save in the far fields of memory.
Every day they go down the long, well-trodden path and come back
with hearts full. They are as children plucking the meadows of
June. Sit with them awhile, and they will gather for you the
unfading flowers of joy and love--good sir! the world is full of
them. And should they mention Trove or a certain clock tinker that
travelled from door to door in the olden time, send your horse to
the stable and God-speed them!--it is a long tale, and you may
listen far into the night.
"See the big pines there in the dale yonder?" some one will ask.
"Well, Theron Allen lived there, an' across the pond, that's where
the moss trail came out and where you see the cow-path--that's near
the track of the little red sleigh."
Then--the tale and its odd procession coming out of the far past.
I