There had not been such a freshet for years before, and there had
never been one since; so, as the quiet seasons went by, "Lucindy's log"
was left in peace, the columbines blooming all about it, the harebells
hanging their heads of delicate blue among the rocks that held it in place,
the birds building their nests in the knot-holes of its withered side.

Seventy years had passed, and on each birthday,
from the time when she was only "Raish Dunnell's little Lou,"
to the years when she was Lucinda Bascom, wife and mother,
she had wandered down by the river side, and gazed,
a little superstitiously perhaps, on the log that had
been marked with an "L" on the morning she was born.
It had stood the wear and tear of the elements bravely,
but now it was beginning, like Lucinda, to show its age.
Its back was bent, like hers; its face was seamed and wrinkled,
like her own; and the village lovers who looked at it from
the opposite bank wondered if, after all, it would hold out
as long as "old Mis' Bascom."

She held out bravely, old Mrs. Bascom, though she was
"all skin, bones, and tongue," as the neighbors said; for nobody
needed to go into the Bascoms' to brighten up aunt Lucinda a bit,
or take her the news; one went in to get a bit of brightness,
and to hear the news.

"I should get lonesome, I s'pose," she was wont to say, "if it wa'n't
for the way this house is set, and this chair, and this winder, 'n' all.
Men folks used to build some o' the houses up in a lane, or turn 'em back
or side to the road, so the women folks couldn't see anythin' to keep their
minds off their churnin' or dish-washin'; but Aaron Dunnell hed somethin'