pleasant farm lands and the grave, sweet river.

Smaller and poorer the world has grown since then. Now, behind those
hills lie naught but smoky towns and dingy villages; but then they
screened a land of wonder where princesses dwelt in castles, where the
cities were of gold. Now the ocean is but six days' journey wide,
ending at the New York Custom House. Then, had one set one's sail
upon it, one would have travelled far and far, beyond the golden
moonlight, beyond the gate of clouds; to the magic land of the blood
red shore, t'other side o' the sun. I never dreamt in those days a
world could be so small.

Upon the topmost platform a wooden seat ran round within the parapet,
and sitting there hand in hand, sheltered from the wind which ever
blew about the tower, my mother would people for me all the earth and
air with the forms of myth and legend--perhaps unwisely, yet I do not
know. I took no harm from it, good rather, I think. They were
beautiful fancies, most of them; or so my mother turned them, making
for love and pity, as do all the tales that live, whether poems or old
wives fables. But at that time of course they had no meaning for me
other than the literal; so that my mother, looking into my eyes, would
often hasten to add: "But that, you know, is only an old
superstition, and of course there are no such things nowadays." Yet,
forgetful sometimes of the time, and overtaken homeward by the
shadows, we would hasten swiftly through the darkening path, holding
each other tightly by the hand.

Spring had waxed to summer, summer waned to autumn. Then my aunt and
I one morning, waiting at the breakfast table, saw through the open
window my mother skipping, dancing, pirouetting up the garden path.