forever. I want Sir Walter Lea to tell me, in the name of all goodness, what caused them to leave us? Was it Davies' "free trade" that sent them all away to Yankey Land? I have an outward complaint, which is not catching. I am complain¬ ing of the road masters putting on their powerful Grit machines, filling up our sidewalks with stone, sods, and sticks every year, and our old people have to take the car tracks going to church, and our children have to do the same, and it may be the means of many a deaf person, and children getting killed. A FEW MEMORIES OF CHILDHOOD In my boyhood, in the 18th. century, when I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, but when I became a man, I put away my childish things. I was born on the Sherren homestead. A young child is the most helpless creature in the world. It knows nothing about itself or about its parents. It knows nobody; it can't help itself; its fingers are useless; its food has to be put in its mouth; it can't turn itself over on its side. My childhood home was in a low logged house 6 feet 4 ins. to ceil¬ ing, with one batten door and one window. The roof was six round pairs of poles for rafters, two slats crossways boarded up and down, and battened with slabs; a stone chimney with an iron swing crane; it had two dog irons, a pair of tongs, a poker and a blacksmith shovel, — all made by a blacksmith named Jackson, at Corner. Mother had a bake pan for loaves with a wrought-iron cover. It had a rim all round it for holding on the fire coals well on baking days. Mother would send me to gather old hemlock bark to burn to make coals for the cover, as we burned all soft wood. I used to gather old pitch pine to burn at nights for lights, and split them up into long splits to burn in the room of tallow candles, and lay them on the chimney hearth-stone. It would burn like a candle. Mother would sew and knit and read by it. Crapaud imported no flour. We grew air our food. We lived on buckwheat flour and oatmeal, and a little wheat flour, with plenty of potatoes and fish — herring, mackerel, lobster, trout, and smelts — and could fish on any day in the year, without licence. Mother made all our summer hats out of wheat straw and in the lumber woods, we wore green-hide shoes sewed together with leather laces, home-made. They kept our feet very warm in frosty weather. We had no well, and I used to carry in cakes of snow and melt them in the big potato pot for mother on wash days. There was no clothes line in those days — she hung the baby's clothes on the garden bushes, and very often they blew away, and I was sent to hunt them up in the snow drifts. In Crapaud we had no wagons — all trucks; a few carts, and three or four gigs hung on wooden springs. Horses were very scarce — mostly oxen. I remember our first span of oxen, Buck and Bright. Father had an ox truck, and one day he and I cleaned up a few bushels of oats that he threshed out with two sticks. He had a splint riddle, and we cleaned up twelve bushels of grain on a rug with the wind. He took the oxen and the oats and me down to Crapaud wharf. I enjoyed my ride on the bags very much. Father walked by the oxen's heads, his hand on the yoke to steer them, with a birch switch in his hand, and he walked home again. It was my first ride. My father was laid up one fall with rheumatic fever. The neigh¬ bors turned out and dug our potatoes and picked them. One man, out '*~4 40 p-