bit of ground in front, this yard was kept with care, and it was different from the rest of the land altogether.  The children were not often allowed to play there, and the family did not use the front door except upon occasions of more or less ceremony.  I think that many of the old front yards could tell stories of the lovers who found it hard to part under the stars, and lingered over the gate; and who does not remember the solemn group of men who gather there at funerals, and stand with their heads uncovered as the mourners go out and come in, two by two.  I have always felt rich in the possession of an ancient York tradition of an old fellow who demanded, as he lay dying, that the grass in his front yard should be cut at once; it was no use to have it trodden down and spoilt by the folks at the funeral.  I always hoped it was good hay weather; but he must have been certain of that when he spoke.  Let us hope he did not confuse this world with the next, being so close upon the borders of it!  It was not man-like to think of the front yard, since it was the special domain of the women,—­the men of the family respected but ignored it,—­they had to be teased in the spring to dig the flower beds, but it was the busiest time of the year; one should remember that.

I think many people are sorry, without knowing why, to see the fences pulled down; and the disappearance of plain white palings causes almost as deep regret as that of the handsome ornamental fences and their high posts with urns or great white balls on top.  A stone coping does not make up for the loss of them; it always looks a good deal like a lot in a cemetery, for one thing; and then in a small town the grass is not smooth, and looks uneven where the flower-beds were not properly smoothed down.  The stray cows trample about where they never went before; the bushes and little trees that were once protected grow ragged and scraggly and out at elbows, and a few forlorn flowers come up of themselves, and try hard to grow and to bloom.  The ungainly red tubs that are perched on little posts have plants in them, but the poor posies look as if they would rather be in the ground, and as if they are held too near the fire of the sun.  If everything must be neglected and forlorn so much the more reason there should be a fence, if but to hide it.  Americans are too fond of being stared at; they apparently feel as if it were one’s duty to one’s neighbor.  Even if there is nothing really worth looking at about a house, it is still exposed to the gaze of the passers-by.  Foreigners are far more sensible than we, and the out-of-door home life among them is something we might well try to copy.  They often have their meals served out of doors, and one can enjoy an afternoon nap in a hammock, or can take one’s work out into the shady garden with great satisfaction, unwatched; and even a little piece of ground can be made, if shut in and kept for the use and pleasure of the family alone, a most charming unroofed and trellised summer