know that no other place means quite so much to you as this old
log house with the meadow behind it, and the woods, and the sea
grumbling always at our doorstep. Long ago this place came into
my hands at little more cost than the taking. It has proved a
refuge to me, a stronghold against all comers, against all
misfortune. I have spent much labor on it, and most of it has
been a labor of love. It has begun to grow valuable. In years to
come it will be of far greater value. I had hoped to pass it on
to you intact, unencumbered, an inheritance of some worth. Land,
you will eventually discover, Johnny, is the basis of
everything. A man may make a fortune in industry, in the market.
He turns to land for permanence, stability. All that is sterling
in our civilization has its foundation in the soil.

Out of this land of ours, which I have partially and
half-heartedly reclaimed from the wilderness, you should derive
a comfortable livelihood, and your children after you.

But I am afraid I must forego that dream and you, my son, your
inheritance. It has slipped away from me. How this has come
about I wish to make clear to you, so that you will not feel
unkindly toward me that you must face the world with no
resources beyond your own brain and a sound young body. If it
happens that the war ends soon and you come home while I am
still alive to welcome you, we can talk this over man to man.
But, as I said, my heart is bad. I may not be here. So I am
writing all this for you to read. There are many things which
you should know--or at least which I should like you to know.

Thirty years ago--