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, and marveled at
the Greek temple frescoed on the wall behind the pulpit, is now a
church with a big organ, and stained-glass windows, and folding
opera-chairs on a slanting floor. There isn't any "Amen Corner,"
any more, and in these calm and well-bred times nobody ever gets
"shouting happy."