“And that’s Hetty Buel!  I declare I was beat, and I hav’n’t never got over bein’ beat about that.  So we growed up together, always out in the woods between schools, huntin’ checker-berries, and young winter-greens, and prince’s piney, and huckleberries, and saxifrax, and birch, and all them woodsy things that children hanker arter; and by-’n’-by we got to goin’ to the ’Cademy; and when Hetty was seventeen she went in to Hartford to her Aunt Smith’s for a spell, to do chores, and get a little Seminary larnin’, and I went to work on the farm; and when she come home, two year arter, she was growed to be a young woman, and though I was five year older’n her, I was as sheepish a land-lubber as ever got stuck a-goin’ to the mast-head, whenever I sighted her.

“She wasn’t very much for looks neither; she had black eyes, and she was pretty behaved; but she wasn’t no gret for beauty, anyhow, only I thought the world of her, and so did her old grandmother;—­for her mother died when she wa’n’t but two year old, and she lived to old Miss Buel’s ’cause her father had married agin away down to Jersey.

“Arter a spell I got over bein’ so mighty sheepish about Hetty; her ways was too kindly for me to keep on that tack.  We took to goin’ to singin’-school together; then I always come home from quiltin’-parties and conference-meetin’s with her, because ‘twas handy, bein’ right next door; and so it come about that I begun to think of settlin’ down for life, and that was the start of all my troubles.  I couldn’t take the home farm; for ’twas such poor land, father could only jest make a live out on’t for him and me.  Most of it was pastur’, gravelly land, full of mullens and stones; the rest was principally woodsy,—­not hickory, nor oak neither, but hemlock and white birches, that a’n’t of no account for timber nor firing, ’longside of the other trees.  There was a little strip of a medder-lot, and an orchard up on the mountain, where we used to make redstreak cider that beat the Dutch; but we hadn’t pastur’ land enough to keep more’n two cows, and altogether I knew ’twasn’t any use to think of bringin’ a family on to’t.  So I wrote to Parmely’s husband, out West, to know about Government lands, and what I could do ef I was to move out there and take an allotment; and gettin’ an answer every way favorable, I posted over to Miss Buel’s one night arter milkin’ to tell Hetty.  She was settin’ on the south door-step, braidin’ palm-leaf; and her grandmother was knittin’ in her old chair, a little back by the window.  Sometimes, a-lyin’ here on my back, with my head full o’ sounds, and the hot wind and the salt sea-smell a-comin’ in through the winders, and the poor fellers groanin’ overhead, I get clear away back to that night, so cool and sweet; the air full of treely smells, dead leaves like, and white-blows in the ma’sh below; and wood-robins singin’ clear fine whistles in the woods; and the big sweet-brier by the winder all a-flowered out; and the drippin’ little beads of dew on the clover-heads; and the tinklin’ sound of the mill-dam down to Squire Turner’s mill.