* * * * *

Summer vacation again, after a winter and spring’s weary grind in school.

Aunt Rachel wrote to Granma that they would be glad to have me come over to Halton for a visit.

Granma let me, after I had pleaded for a long while,—­but it was with great reluctance, warning me of Phoebe.

* * * * *

Aunt Rachel, Uncle Joshua, Cousin Phoebe and cousin Paul lived in a big, square barn-like structure.  Its unpainted, barren bulk sat uneasily on top of a bare hill where the clay lay so close to the top-soil that in wet weather you could hardly labour up the precipitous path that led to their house, it was so slippery.

As I floundered upward in the late spring rain, gaining the bare summit under the drizzly sky, a rush of dogs met me.  They leaped and slavered and jumped and flopped and tumbled and whined all about me and over me ... ten of them ... hound dogs with flop-ears and small, red-rimmed eyes ... skinny creatures ... there was no danger from them; but they planted their mud-sticky paws everywhere in a frenzy of welcome.

“A hound ain’t got no sense onless he’s a-huntin’,” drawled Paul, as his great boot caught them dextrously under their bellies and lifted them gently, assiduously, severally, in different directions from me....

Aunt Rachel’s face, ineffably ignorant and ineffably sweet, lit up with a smile of welcome.  She met me in the doorway, kissed me.

And she made me a great batch of pancakes to eat, with bacon dripping and New Orleans molasses ... but first—­

“Josh, where on earth is them carpet slippers o’ yourn?”

Josh yawned.  He knocked the tobacco out of his pipe leisurely ... then, silent, he began scraping the black, foul inside of the bowl ... then at last he drawled.

“Don’t know, Ma!”

But Phoebe knew, and soon, a mile too wide, the carpet slippers hung on my feet, while my shoes were drying in the oven and sending out that peculiar, close smell that wet leather emanates when subjected to heat.  Also, I put on Phoebe’s pea-green cotton skirt, while my knee britches hung behind the stove, drying.  The men chaffed me.

* * * * *

In the industrial Middle West of those days, when the steel kings’ fortunes were in bloom of growth, these distantly related kinsfolk of mine still lived the precarious life of pioneer days.  Through the bare boards of the uneven floor whistled the wind.  Here and there lay a sparse, grey, homemade rag rug.  And here and there a window pane, broken, had not been replaced.  And an old pair of pants, a ragged shirt, a worn out skirt stuffed in, kept out the draft,—­of which everybody but Phoebe seemed mortally afraid.  Incidentally these window-stuffings kept out much of the daylight.

Aunt Rachel, near-sighted, with her rather pathetic stoop, was ceaselessly sewing, knitting, scrubbing, washing, and cooking.  She took care of her “two men” as she phrased it proudly—­her husband and her great-bodied son—­as if they were helpless children.