the green hill and the fields I loved, of its darkness and human
misery and inefficiency with the valiant fighting men of my boyish
dreams, that so impressed me. I believe it because it is so now.
Over against the tenement that we fight in our cities ever rises
in my mind the fields, the woods, God's open sky, as accuser and
witness that His temple is being so defiled, man so dwarfed in body
and soul.

[Illustration: The View the Stork got of the Old Town]

I know that Rag Hall displeased me very much. I presume there must
have been something of an inquiring Yankee twist to my make-up,
for the boys called me "Jacob the delver," mainly because of my
constant bothering with the sewerage of our house, which was of
the most primitive kind. An open gutter that was full of rats led
under the house to the likewise open gutter of the street. That was
all there was of it, and very bad it was; but it had always been
so, and as, consequently, it could not be otherwise, my energies
spent themselves in unending warfare with those rats, whose nests
choked the gutter. I could hardly have been over twelve or thirteen
when Rag Hall challenged my resentment. My methods in dealing with
it had at least the merit of directness, if they added nothing to
the sum of human knowledge or happiness. I had received a "mark,"
which was a coin like our silver quarter, on Christmas Eve, and I
hied myself to Rag Hall at once to divide it with the poorest family
there, on the express condition that they should tidy up things,
especially those children, and generally change their way of living.
The man took the money--I have a vague recollection of seeing a
stunned look on his face--and, I believe, brought it back to our
house to see if it was all right, thereby giving me great offence.