clover-fields to blue distant mountains, watching the palm-leaf fans swaying
to and fro in the warm stillness before sermon time, did not the place seem
full of memories, for has not the life of two villages ebbed and flowed
beneath that ancient roof? You heard the hum of droning bees and followed the
airy wings of butterflies fluttering over the grave-stones in the old
churchyard, and underneath almost every moss-grown tablet some humble romance
lies buried aud all but forgotten.

If it had not been for you, I should never have written this story, so I give
it back to you tied with a sprig from Ophelia's nosegay; a sprig of "rosemary,
that's for remembrance."

K. D. W.

August, 1907




The Old Peabody Pew

Edgewood, like all the other villages along the banks of the Saco, is full of
sunny slopes and leafy hollows. There are little, rounded, green-clad hillocks
that might, like their scriptural sisters, "skip with joy"; and there are
grand, rocky hills tufted with gaunt pine trees--these leading the eye to the
splendid heights of a neighbor State, where snow-crowned peaks tower in the
blue distance, sweeping the horizon in a long line of majesty.

Tory Hill holds its own among the others for peaceful beauty and fair
prospect, and on its broad, level summit sits the white-painted Orthodox