The seventh anniversary was less exciting, but that could not be helped.  We were over in Alamo, with my father, small brother, and sister visiting us at the time—­or rather, of course, the place was theirs to begin with.  There was no one to leave the blessed sons with; also, Carl was working for the Immigration and Housing Commission, and no holidays.  But he managed to get home a bit early; we had an early supper, got the sons in bed, hitched up the old horse to the old cart, and off we fared in the moonlight, married seven years and not sorry.  We just poked about, ending at Danville with Danville ice-cream and Danville pumpkin pie; then walked the horse all the way back to Alamo and home.

Our eighth anniversary, as mentioned, was in our very own home in Berkeley, with the curtains drawn, the telephone plugged, and our Europe spread out before our eyes.

The ninth anniversary was still too soon after the June-Bug’s arrival for me to get off the hill and back, up our two hundred and seventeen steps home, so we celebrated under our own roof again—­this time with a roast chicken and ice-cream dinner, and with the entire family participating—­except the June-Bug, who did almost nothing then but sleep.  I tell you, if ever we had chicken, the bones were not worth salvaging by the time we got through.  We made it last at least two meals, and a starving torn cat would pass by what was left with a scornful sniff.

Our tenth and last anniversary was in Seattle.  Carl had to be at Camp Lewis all day, but he got back in time to meet me at six-thirty in the lobby of the Hotel Washington.  From there we went to our own favorite place—­Blanc’s—­for dinner.  Shut away behind a green lattice arbor-effect, we celebrated ten years of joy and riches and deep contentment, and as usual asked ourselves, “What in the world shall we be doing a year from now?  Where in the world shall we be?” And as usual we answered, “Bring the future what it may, we have ten years that no power in heaven or earth can rob us of!”

* * * * *

There was another occasion in our lives that I want to put down in black and white, though it does not come under wedding anniversaries.  But it was such a celebration!  “Uncle Max” ’lowed that before we left Berkeley we must go off on a spree with him, and suggested—­imagine!—­Del Monte!  The twelve-and-a-half-cent Parkers at Del Monte!  That was one spot we had never seen ourselves even riding by.  We got our beloved Nurse Balch out to stay with the young, and when a brand-new green Pierce Arrow, about the size of our whole living-room, honked without, we were ready, bag and baggage, for a spree such as we had never imagined ourselves having in this world or the next.  We called for the daughter of the head of the Philosophy Department.  Max had said to bring a friend along to make four; so, four, we whisked the dust of Berkeley from our wheels and—­presto—­Del Monte!