contentment. Altogether a substantial prosperity was apparent. A genuine
content and a hearty good will, one towards another, existed in all the
older parts. The settled part as yet, however, formed only a very narrow
belt extending along the bay and lake shores. The great forest lay close
at hand in the rear, and the second generation, as in the case of my
father, had only to go a few miles to find it, and commence for
themselves the laborious struggle of clearing it away.

The old home, as it was called, was always a place of attraction, and
especially so to the young people, who were sure of finding good cheer
at grandfather's. What fun, after the small place called home, to have
the run of a dozen rooms, to haunt the big cellar, with its great heaps
of potatoes and vegetables, huge casks of cider, and well-filled bins of
apples, or to sit at the table loaded with the good things which
grandmother only could supply. How delicious the large piece of pumpkin
pie tasted, and how toothsome the rich crullers that melted in the
mouth! Dear old body! I can see her now going to the great cupboard to
get me something saying as she goes, "I'm sure the child is hungry." And
it was true, he was always hungry; and how he managed to stow away so
much is a mystery I cannot now explain. There was no place in the world
more to be desired than this, and no spot in all the past the
recollection of which is more bright and joyous.

My father now assumed the management of affairs. The old people reserved
one room to themselves, but it was free to all, particularly to us
children. It was hard to tell sometimes which to choose, whether the
kitchen, where the family were gathered round the cheerful logs blazing
brightly in the big fire-place, or a stretch on the soft rag-carpet
beside the box stove in grandmother's room. This room was also a
sanctuary to which we often fled to escape punishment after doing some