His criticism of things and books modern is probably a voicing of his regret that he has lost his zeal for the fun and frolic of youth.  If he could but drink a few copious drafts from the Fountain of Youth, the books of the present might not seem so inferior after all.  The bread and apple-butter stage of our hero’s career may seem to dim the lustre of the later porterhouse steak, but with all the glory of the halcyon days of yore it is to be noted that he rides in an automobile and not in an ox-cart, and prefers electricity to the good old oil-lamp.

I concede with enthusiasm the joys of bygone days, and would be glad to repeat those experiences with sundry very specific reservations and exceptions.  That thick bread with its generous anointing of apple butter discounted all the nectar and ambrosia of the books and left its marks upon the character as well as the features of the recipient.  The mouth waters even now as I recall the bill of fare plus the appetite.  But if I were going back to the good old days I’d like to take some of the modern improvements along with me.  It thrills me to consider the modern school credits for home work with all the “57 varieties” as an integral feature of the good old days.  Alas, how much we missed by not knowing about all this!  What miracles might have been wrought had we and our teachers only known!  Poor, ignorant teachers!  Little did they dream that such wondrous things could ever be.  Life might have been made a glad, sweet song for us had it been supplied with these modern attachments.  I spent many weary hours over partial payments in Ray’s Third Part, when I might have been brushing my teeth or combing my hair instead.  Then, instead of threading the mazes of Greene’s Analysis and parsing “Thanatopsis,” I might just as well have been asleep in the haymow, where ventilation was super-abundant.  How proudly could I have produced the home certificate as to my haymow experience and received an exhilarating grade in grammar!

Just here I interrupt myself to let the imagination follow me homeward on the days when grades were issued.  The triumphal processions of the Romans would have been mild by comparison.  The arch look upon my face, the martial mien, and the flashing eye all betoken the real hero.  Then the pride of that home, the sumptuous feast of chicken and angel-food cake, and the parental acclaim—­all befitting the stanch upholder of the family honor.  Of course, nothing like this ever really happened, which goes to prove that I was born years too early in the world’s history.  The more I think of this the more acute is my sympathy with Maud Muller.  That girl and I could sigh a duet thinking what might have been.  Why, I might have had my college degree while still wearing short trousers.  I was something of an adept at milking cows and could soon have eliminated the entire algebra by the method of substitution.  Milking the cows was one of my regular tasks, anyhow, and I could thus have combined business with pleasure.  And if by riding a horse to water I could have gained immunity from the Commentaries by one Julius Caesar, full lustily would I have shouted, a la Richard III:  “A horse!  A horse!  My kingdom for a horse!”