“That, Ann, is the salt of the earth, and I don’t see how I consumed life so long without it,” said father as he turned, and looked at me with a sparkle in his mystic gray eyes that I had never seen there when we were seated at table with the mighty or making our bow in broadcloth and fine linen in some of the palaces of the world.  I didn’t know what it was then, but I do now; it is a land-love that lies deep in the heart of every man who is born out in meadows and fields.  They never get over it and sometimes transmit it even to the second generation.  I felt it stir and run in my blood as we rumbled and bumped up the long avenue of tall old elm-trees that led through deep fields which were even then greening with blue-grass and from which arose a rich loamy fragrance, and finally arrived at the most wonderful old brick house that I had ever seen in all of my life; it seemed to even my much traveled eyes in some ways the most wonderful abode for human beings I had ever beheld.  It was not the traditional white-pillared mansion.  It was more wonderful.  The bricks had aged a rich, red purple, and were rimmed and splotched with soft green and gray moss under traceries of vines that were beginning to put out rich russet buds.  The windows were filled with tiny diamond panes of glass, which glittered in the gables from the last rays of the sun setting over Old Harpeth, and the broad, gray shingled roof hovered down over the wide porch which would have sheltered fifty people safely.  A flagstone walk and stone steps led up from the drive, seemingly right into the wide front door, which had small, diamond-paned, heavily shuttered windows in it, and queer holes on each side.

“To shoot through in case of marauding Indians,” answered Uncle Cradd to my startled question, which had sprung from a suspicion that must have been dictated by prenatal knowledge.  As I entered the homestead of my fathers I felt that I had slipped back into the colonial age of America, and I found myself almost in a state of terror.  The wide old hall, the heavy-beamed ceiling of which was so low that you felt again hovered, was lighted by only one candle, though a broad path of firelight lay across the dark polished floor from the room on the left, where appeared old Rufus enveloped in a large apron no whiter than the snowy kinks on his old head.

“Time you has worship, Mas’ Cradd, my muffins and spare ribs will be done,” he said after he had bestowed a grand bow first upon father and then upon me, with a soft-voiced greeting of “sarvant, little Mis’, and sarvant, Mas’ William.”

“It is fitting that we render unto the Lord thankfulness for your return home with Nancy, your child, William, in the first moments of your arrival.  Come!” commanded Uncle Cradd, and he led us into a huge room as low ceilinged and dark-toned as the hall.  In it there was only the firelight and another dim candle placed on a small table beside a huge old book.  With the surety of long habit father walked straight to a large chair that was drawn close to the hearth on the side opposite the table, behind which was another large chair of exactly the same pattern of high-backed dignity, and seated himself.  Then he drew me down into a low chair beside him, and I lifted up my hands, removed my hat, and was at last come home from a huge and unreal world outside.