Our house stood a short distance beyond the town, and on the other side of the that ran my father’s mill. This little stream came down out of the hills from somewhere a long way off, and emptied into the river that wound through the long valley beside the road, flowing from no man knew where. I must have been nine or ten years old before I was allowed to go to the mouth of the stream and watch it join the river and run off between the high hills beyond the town into the great unknown world. Many years before, I had heard that there was such a place, but I was not allowed to go; it was so far away, and the dangers were supposed to be so very great,—though why, I cannot say, any more than I can give a reason for other things that we boys believed, or, for that matter, that we grown-up folk believe.  
But I used to go quite early across the creek to the little town; at first holding my father or mother tightly by the hand, or, rather, having my hand held close by theirs. There were many wonders on the way: first, the old wooden bridge that used often to be carried off in the spring, when heavy rains and melting snow and ice came down the stream. But this bridge was nothing compared with the long covered one below the town, that I found some years later, when I had grown large enough to fish and was ashamed to hold my father and my mother by the hand.
 
Just across the stream was the blacksmith-shop into which I used to look with wondering eyes. I can see now the white-hot iron as the old bare-armed smith pulled it from the coals and threw the sparks in all directions, frightening me almost beyond my wits; still, I would always go back to the open door to be scared again. Especially in the early dusk, this old blacksmith-shop, with its great and and hammers, and its flying sparks and roaring fire up the room and throwing dark shadows in the corners and around the edges, was a constant source of wonder and delight; and I used to beg my good father to throw away my stupid books and me to learn the blacksmith trade. But he refused my prayers and tears, and told me that I would live to thank him for denying this first ambition of my life. Well, I did not learn the trade, and in a halting way I have followed the path into which the kind old guided my young reluctant feet. Still, I am not yet sure that he was right; for all my life, when I am honest with myself, I cannot help the thought that I have been a good deal of a blacksmith, after all.
 
Just beyond was the wagon-shop, where they made such nice long shavings, and where we used to go and play “I spy,” or “High spy,” as we boys called the game. The benches, , and piles of , and the garret overhead, furnished the best possible places for us to hide.
 
Then came the shoe-shop, where my father took us to get our winter boots, which he paid for by trading flour saved up from his . This shop was a large affair, with three or four men and boys working in the busy season of the year. Two or three checkerboards, 87too, were constantly in use, especially in the long winter evenings, and every man in the room would tell the player where he ought to move, or rather where he should have moved in order to win the game.
 
The old shoe-shop was a great place to discuss the questions of the day; it was even more popular than the store. Politics and religion were the favorite topics then, as they are to-day,—as they have ever been since the world began, and will ever be while the world shall last; for one of them has to do with the brief transitory life of man upon the earth, and the other with his hopes and doubts, desires and fears for another life when this is done. Besides politics and religion, men and women were discussed,—all the men and women for miles around who were not there; these critics debated about the skill of the blacksmith and the carriage-maker, the of the merchant and the farmer, and the learning of the preachers and the doctors. This last topic was a never-ending subject for debate, as there were two of each. I do not remember what they said about the preachers, but I know that when any doctor was discussed his claimed that 88he was the best in the whole country round, while his enemies agreed that they would not let him “doctor a sick cat.” As I recall those little groups, their opinions on men and women almost always seemed unfavorable and hard, like most of the personal discussions that I have ever heard. After much reflection I have reached the conclusion that all people are to a greater or a less degree, and of course each one’s goodness and importance increase in proportion as those of others are made to grow less.
 
The last time I went back along the road, I found that the wagon-shop and the shoe-shop had long since closed their doors. Cincinnati buggies and Studebaker wagons had driven away the last board of the old lumber-piles around which we children used to play; and New England shoe-factories had destroyed the old where were discussed the mysteries of life and death. Even the customs of the simple country folks had changed, for I observed that the boys wore shoes instead of boots; but in those days all the girls wore shoes, and now they were wearing boots. The blacksmith-shop still stood beside the road, 89but the old smith had gone away, and his son was now hammering stoutly at the same piece of white-hot iron that his father pulled out of the red coals so long ago; but the little boy who once looked in with wondering eyes at the open door,—it seemed as if he too were dead and buried forever behind a great mass of shifting clouds heaped so thick and high as to make nothing but a dream of those far-off childhood years.
 
I had almost forgotten to tell the name of my boyhood town. It was Farmington; and I feel that I ought to write it down in this book, so that the world may know exactly where it is, for I am sure it was never in a book before, excepting a county that once printed pictures and biographies of all the leading citizens of the place. I remember that the agent came to see my father, and told him what a beautiful picture the mill would make, and how anxious he was to have his portrait and history in the book. I really believe my father would have given his consent but for the reason that the season had been dry and he did not dare to sign a note. Poor man! I almost ............