maturity and the minute he finds such a place off comes his coat, back
goes his broad-rimmed hat and out comes the trowel and seed. Travelers
driving along the road and catching sight of the big man on his knees say
to each other, "There's Doc Philipps, planting another tree."

Up in the big, prim old Howe house sits Madam Howe. She is called Madam
to distinguish her from her daughter-in-law, Mrs. George Howe. She is a
regal old lady of eighty-three and spends most of her time in her room
up-stairs where are gathered the wonderful heirlooms,--older, far older
than she.

There is the mellow brown spinning wheel, and armchairs nearly two
hundred years old and a walnut table that was mixed up in countless
weddings and a beautifully carved old chest and a brocade-covered settee.
There are old, old books and family portraits and there is the wonderful
Madam herself, regal and silver-haired. If she likes you she will take
you to her great room and tell you about the Revolutionary War as it
happened in and to her family; and about her great ride westward in the
prairie schooner; about the Indians and the babyhood of great cities, and
the lovely wild flowers of the virgin prairie; about the wild animals,
the snakes, the pioneer men and women of what is now only the Middle West.

She will take from out that age-darkened, beautiful chest dresses and
bits of lace and samplers like the one that hangs framed above her
writing desk and tells how it was stitched by one,

ABIGAIL WINSLOW PAGE,
Age 13.

There is one thing you must always remember if you wish to stand in