Only a strong man can go back over the Old Road to the beginning-point -
facing the memories that throng the path - meeting the surging emotions
that sweep away all our carefully-laid defenses - braving the grim
spectre that puts the white seal of age upon our heads.

Once more, in the cool of the late twilight, we'll sit with chin in hand
on grandfather's front steps and watch the stars come out . . . and hear
the loon calling weirdly across the water . . . and catch the perfume of
the lilacs and narcissus from the garden . . . and gather at
grandmother's knee to feel her soft fingers in our curls and hear her
bedtime story. Half asleep, but ever reluctant, we will trudge
stumblingly to the little room with its deep feather bed, and get into
our red-flannel nightie. Down on our knees, with our face in the soft
edges of the mattress and tiny hands uplifted, we will say our prayers,
and end them in the same old way: "God bless father and mother, and
grandfather and grandmother . . . and ev-ery-body . . . else in . . .
the . . . world . . amen . . . " and feel those strong mother-arms
lifting our sleepy form into the downy depths!

Never until now have we known the reality of the boy-days, or paused to
receive their hallowed touch.

Grandfather and grandmother, and the garden, and the river, and the song
of the robin in the appletree, and all the myriad experiences of the
boy-time, are glorified now as never before. In the halcyon Then they
were but incidents of the day; in the mellowed Now we learn the truth of
them, and catch their wondrous meaning.

The flower blossoms are gleaming as colorful and fragrant today as they