whisky and tansy and sang with the same cracked, delightful voice, "Playing at the Same Old Game." John Tod telegraphed his regrets. I am pleased to think they came to see me. Such sweet homage paid to poverty.

JULY 20. Now the summer boarder infests the village. I shun the hotel, with its mob of strange faces and childhood in its only offensive form. The crowded kitchen is a bedlam of disorder. In its narrow space is confined the culinary work for over a hundred people. Poor Mrs. Ruof, thin as a ghost, from early to late pervades the place. Calm and serene in the midst of unending toil, Salome moves like a Greek goddess who has condescended to kitchen work. A perpetual skinning of potatoes goes on. The kitchen-maids work ceaselessly, while the maids of Zoar serve the tables in fresh white gowns. Not many of the haut ton are here, although some affect the giddy air of Newport.

Saturday night at the punch came Wiedman, Spalker, and Beecher of Canton. On account of the increased company, a double punch was brewed, and we were all much cheered. Ludwig was scored for taking his pretty sister-in-law to the circus under pretext of paying taxes, thus breeding dis

content among those left behind. Joseph, now for two months trustee, develops strength and "talks back." I think he will do well with his department of agriculture, although it is next to impossible to change the slow, wasteful ways they have of doing things. Every innovation is met with a clamorous resistance from the hide-bound fogies who would still use the flail and reaping-hook.

Rear-Admiral Kappel gravely collects his swill, and has no thought of the troubles in Wall Street or the failures of the Australian banks. Happy is he when fortune sends him a few extra drinks and elevates him to a placid state of exhilaration. Clearly he longs not for the Persian paradise, where nothing is expected stronger than lemonade. To the stormy heaven of the Northern gods his spirit would go, where eternal beakers of stiff drink regale the shades forever.

Yesterday was Sunday. John and Joseph and I went to the high, wild farm, and, lying under the trees, looked over the wide, beautiful landscape. The old farm, its buildings now destroyed, must have been cleared a hundred years ago. Ancient pear trees, and other indications, show this. Struggling in the wilderness around where the old home stood are some homely garden flowers. How many years is it since the first one was planted! And