It was strange, we aver, to see how little the place had changed,
for it seemed that we had passed round the curves and contours of a
good many centuries in those four or five years. In the open meadow
the cow was still grazing; perhaps the same cow that was once
pestered by a volatile Irish terrier who used to swing merrily at
the end of that cow's tail; a merry and irresponsible little
creature, she was, and her phantom still scampers the road where the
sharp scream of the Freeport trolley brings back her last fatal
venture to our mind. It was strange to look at those windows, with
their neat white sills, and to remember how we felt when for the
first time we slept in a house of our own, with all those Long
Island stars crowding up to the open window, and, waking in drowsy
unbelief, put out a hand to touch the strong wall and see if it was
still there. Perhaps one may be pardoned for being a little
sentimental in thinking back about one's first house.

The air, on that surprising afternoon, carried us again into the
very sensation and reality of those days, for there is an openness
and breezy stir on those plains that is characteristic. In the
tree-lined streets of the village, where old white clapboarded
houses with green or pale blue shutters stand in a warm breath of
box hedges, the feeling is quite different. Out on the Long Island
prairie--which Walt Whitman, by the way, was one of the first to
love and praise--you stand uncovered to all the skirmish of heaven,
and the feathery grasses are rarely still. There was the chimney of
the fireplace we had built for us, and we remembered how the
wood-smoke used to pour gallantly from it like a blue pennon of
defiance. The present owner, we fear, does not know how much
impalpable and unforgotten gold leaped up the wide red throat of