beautiful shade trees. It had once been the parsonage of the
neighboring church. Unhappily the old churchyard lay between.

Now, we are not people who whistle determinedly when passing a marble
orchard at midnight nor do we see white luminous shapes flitting among
the tombstones. But daily gazing upon one's final resting place, we
felt might, in time, prove depressing. Besides, we were by no means
certain that our friends had developed the callous indifference of a
young couple we heard of years later. Curiously free of inhibitions,
these two people bought an attractive old farmhouse with a family
burying lot located a fair distance from the house. The little plot
with its eight or ten simple headstones was unobtrusive and rather
gave an air of family roots deep in the soil, a quality all too rare
in America. These young vandals could not let well enough alone. They
uprooted the headstones and laid them end to end for a walk to their
front door! They were considering the plot itself as a possible tennis
court when outraged public opinion forced them to put the stones back.
In fact, the general hostility was so marked that they finally
abandoned the place and it was later sold at a distinct loss.

But back to the little gray parsonage; its location and the fact that
train service in its vicinity was poor, were the two deciding votes
against it. Another attractive house in a good location was ruled out
because our car got stuck in a spring hole practically in sight of it.
A mile or so of dirt road to the station is no drawback, provided it
is passable at all times of the year. This one was obviously poor,
even in summer. Finally a real estate broker showed us a picture of a
modest 18th century farm cottage. We visited the place one dreary
sunless day in late March, investigated the neighborhood, determined
the time required to drive to the nearest railroad station, and bought