may ketch the solemnity ob de meanin'. I'se been married before."

But we are all aboard again. How the hoofs clatter, and the limestones as it were shoe the horses with sparks of fire as we whirl around the ridge, and with a glance at the attractive hostelry of John Valentine, with a bow to Billy McCleary, at the quaint polygonal toll-house; with a thought upon the poet of the Donegal Highlands who looked out upon the valley from the top of Coon Island Hill, we fly like the wind down the steep incline to Coon Island, which may have existed during that geologic period known as the coon age! To pass Coon Island was to remember that a mile or two northward dwelt old John Hupp, the Indian fighter and deer hunter, and that a little further on was the site of the old block-house which protected the wives and children of the brave pioneers of Donegal Township. On from Coon Island we bowl up the valley which, as I look back upon youth, resurrects a boy friend whose sesquipedalian utterance made the hearer feel that the dictionary had been the mother's milk of his infancy, and which as we near its end makes me think of that stern old matron whom we knew as Aunt Margaret.

Mounting the western rampart of "Our Village," clearing the summit marked by Porter's Spring, we bring up at the home of my playmates, the Kurtzes, or at the home of my playmates, the Dyes and the Walkers. I have known the wheels to scarcely cease revolving before the horses were changed. How the rival lines would race down our village street, and quiet Billy Rome would use the lines as if he were

seized with the jerks, the lazy whip of Bobby McElhenny would be charged with electricity, and the stentorian lungs of John Zinn would change his team into the likeness of four scared rabbits! Then how the whips would crack and the wheels would spin as the prancing teams left for the eastward on the gallop!

66

The last look at Our Village Home was from the residence of one of whom I often think as I look upon a sickle as he thrust it into the standing grain bareheaded and barefooted. The next house brings the tears, as its father and mother were like brother and sister to my father and mother. The bench of the same hill brought us to a signboard on which was inscribed the announcement, Entertainment for Man and Beast," accompanied by the picture of a tumbler and a square piece of cake, which every boy in the neighborhood understood to mean Grannie McFarland's spruce beer and gingerbread. The next house was the home of a man who reached old age drinking more whiskey and staggering less than any drunkard I ever knew. It is not long until Mrs. Caldwell, from her famous inn, surveys us through her spectacles. The next hilltop recalls a pair of black eyes which brought a crowd of devotees to the shrine of their owner. In another moment our minds are occupied with the beautiful home and plethoric purse of Big Billy Brownlee. And but a mile to the southward is the Alrich meeting-house, where Gospel simplicity was demonstrated by the veteran mathematical professor of Washington College.

But we have not yet reached the Red Barn. "Gee up!" shouts our driver, and on we glide through

Rankintown until we turn the corner at Chestnut and Main Streets in Washington to stop at the Old Mansion, or to be nearer the Catfish at the tavern of the famous stage agent, Edward Lane.

Hence we indulged in no fancy when we esteemed our village highway to be a world centre. It kept our little town in touch with the round globe. It appealed to all that was elevating in the beautiful and all that was stirring in the romantic.

To-day the National Road is a mere wagon track, fringed with green. A ride over it will show only here and there a traveller. The various neighborhoods through which it runs give it a little stir morning and evening. The innumerable caravan which once moved to and fro over it has, for the most part, joined "the innumerable caravan which moves to the silent halls of death."

The following lines on "The Old Country Road," written by James Newton Matthews for the Ladies' Home Journal, so aptly describe "The Old National Road" that I accommodate them to my purpose.

"Where did it come from, and where did it go?
That was the question that puzzled us so

As we waded the dust of the highway that flowed
By the town like a river-the old National Road.

"We stood with our hair sticking up thro' the crown
Of our hats, as the people went up and went down,
And we wished in our hearts, as our eyes fairly glowed,
We could find where it came from-the old National Road.

"We remember the peddler who came with his pack Adown the old highway, and never went back;

And we wondered what things he had seen as he strode
From some fabulous place up the old National Road.

We remember the stage-driver's look of delight,

And the crack of his whip as he whirled into sight,

And we thought we could read in each glance he bestowed

A tale of strange life up the old National Road.

"The movers came by like a ship in full sail,

"

With a rudder behind, in the shape of a pail

With a rollicking crew, and a cow that was towed

With a rope on her horns, down the old National Road.

Oh, the top of the hill was the rim of the world,
And the dust of the summer that over it curled
Was the curtain that hid from our sight the abode
Of the fairies that lived up the old National Road.
"The old National Road! I can see it still flow

Down the hill of my dreams, as it did long ago,
And I wish even now I could lay off my load,
And rest by the side of that old National Road."

O glorious old pike! In thy day the route of transportation, the path of the emigrant, the delight of the traveller, well hast thou finished the work which the country gave thee to do. For thou art the inspiration of that mighty instinct that doth unite earth's neighborhoods with friendly bands.

OUR VILLAGE HEARTHSTONE

Our Village Home might not quicken the fancy of the poet nor excite the attention of the historian. Its dwellings might curl the lip of the architect with a sneer. Its limited extent might prove nothing else