I have mentioned Nutley, which lies in New Jersey, near New York.  His dwelling there was a pretty little cottage, where he had a garden, some chickens, and a cow.  This was his home in his editorial days, and here Rudder Grange was written.  It was a rented place.  The next home we owned.  It stood at a greater distance from New York, at the place called Convent, half-way between Madison and Morristown, in New Jersey.  Here we lived a number of years after Mr. Stockton gave up editorial work; and here the greater number of his tales were written.  It was a much larger place than we had at Nutley, with more chickens, two cows, and a much larger garden.

Mr. Stockton dictated his stories to a stenographer.  His favorite spot for this in summer was a grove of large fir-trees near the house.  Here, in the warm weather, he would lie in a hammock.  His secretary would be near, with her writing materials, and a book of her choosing.  The book was for her own reading while Mr. Stockton was “thinking.”  It annoyed him to know he was being “waited for.”  He would think out pages of incidents, and scenes, and even whole conversations, before he began to dictate.  After all had been arranged in his mind he dictated rapidly; but there often were long pauses, when the secretary could do a good deal of reading.  In cold weather he had the secretary and an easy chair in the study—­a room he had built according to his own fancy.  A fire of blazing logs added a glow to his fancies.

I may state here that we always spent a part of every winter in New York.  A certain amount of city life was greatly enjoyed.  Mr. Stockton thus secured much intellectual pleasure.  He liked his clubs, and was fond of society, where he met men noted in various walks of life.[1]

[Footnote 1:  Edward Gary, the secretary of the Century Club, in the obituary notice of Mr. Stockton written by him for the club’s annual report, says of Mr. Stockton as a member:  “It was but a dozen years ago that Frank R. Stockton entered the fellowship of the Century, in which he soon became exceedingly at home, winning friends here, as he won them all over the land and in other lands, by the charm of his keen and kindly mind shining in all that he wrote and said.  He had an extraordinary capacity for work and a rare talent for diversion, and the Century was honored by his well-earned fame, and fortunate in its share in his ever fresh and varying companionship.”]

I am now nearing the close of a life which had had its trials and disappointments, its struggles with weak health and with unsatisfying labor.  But these mostly came in the earlier years, and were met with courage, an ever fresh-springing hope, and a buoyant spirit that would not be intimidated.  On the whole, as one looks back through the long vista, much more of good than of evil fell to his lot.  His life had been full of interesting experiences, and one of, perhaps, unusual happiness.  At the last there came to pass the fulfilment of a dream in which he had long indulged.  He became the possessor of a beautiful estate containing what he most desired, and with surroundings and associations dear to his heart.