dusty lane .  .  .  .  the trolley-bells are softened so that they are but
the distant tinkle of the homeward herd on the hills .  .  .  .  and you and
I in matchless freedom are once more trudging the Old Dear Road side by
side, answering the call of the wondrous Voice of Boyhood sounding
through the years. 

The Garden 

It was the spirit of the garden that crept into my boy-heart and left
its fragrance, to endure through the years.  What the garden stood for -
what it expressed - left a mysterious but certain impress.  Grandmother's
touch hallowed it and made it a thing apart, and the rare soul of her
seemed to be reflected in the Lilies of the Valley that bloomed sweetly
year by year in the shady plot under her favorite window in the
sitting-room.  Because the garden was her special province, it expressed
her own sturdy, kindly nature.  Little wonder, then, that we cherished
it; that I loved to roam idly there feeling the enfoldment of that same
protection and loving-kindness which drew me to the shelter of her
gingham-aproned lap when the griefs of Boyhood pressed too hard upon me;
and that we walked in it so contentedly in the cool of the evening,