love.

    If those who peruse this book extract half the pleasure from reading its pages that has come to me while writing them, I will be satisfied.

    AL. G. FIELD.

     Maple Villa Farm,

     July 4, 1912.

     Trust no prayer or promise,

      Words are grains of sand;

     To keep your heart unbroken

      Hold your child in hand.

    "Al-f-u-r-d!" "Al-f-u-r-d!!" "Al-f-u-r-d!!!"

    The last syllable, drawn out the length of an expiring breath, was the first sound recorded on the memory of the First Born. Indeed, constant repetition of the word, day to day, so filled his brain cells with "Al-f-u-r-d" that it was years after he realized his given patronymic was Alfred.

     The Old Well

    "Al-f-u-r-d!" "Al-f-u-r-d!"—A woman's voice, strong and penetrating, strengthened by years of voice culture in calling cows, sheep, pigs, chickens and other farm-yard companions. The voice came in swelling waves, growing in menace, from around the corner of as quaint an old farm-house as ever sheltered a happy family. In the wake of the voice followed a round, rosy woman of blood and brawn, with muscular arms and sturdy limbs that carried her over grass and gravel at a pace that soon

    brought her within reach of the prey pursued—a boy of four years, in flapping pantalets and gingham frock.

    The "boy" was headed for the family well as fast as his toddling legs could carry him. Forbidden, punished, guarded, the child lost no opportunity to climb to the top of the square enclosure and wonderingly peer down into the depths of the well. To prevent his falling headlong to his 

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