"I'd 'a' know'd you in Chiny. You're Mort Whittaker's wife--her that was
Ida Janes. Hair hain't so red as what it was."

"You've took on flesh some, but otherwise--'Member the time you took me
to the dance at Tupper Falls--"

"An' we got mired crossin'--"

"An' Sam Kettleman come in a plug hat."

This conversation, or its counterpart, was repeated wherever resident
and visitor met. Old days lived again. Ancient men became middle-aged,
and middle-aged women became girls. The past was brought to life and
lived again. Sometimes it was brought to life a bit tediously, as when
old Jethro Hammond, postmaster of Coldriver twenty years ago, made a
speech seventy minutes long, which consisted in naming and locating
every house that existed in his day, and describing with minute detail
who lived in it and what part they played in the affairs of the
community. But the audience forgave him, because it knew what a good
time he was having.... Houses were invaded by perfect strangers who
insisted in pointing out the rooms in which they were born and in which
they had been married, and in telling the present proprietors how
fortunate they were to live in dwellings thus blessed.

The band arrived and met with universal satisfaction, though Lafe Atwell
complained that he hadn't ever see a snare drummer with whiskers. But
their coats were red, with gorgeous frogs, and their trousers were sky
blue, with gold stripes, and the drum major could whirl his baton in a
manner every boy in town would be imitating with the handle of the