“_And so_,” I thought, “_I am going to meet, face to face, one of the eternal powers._ He may call himself Fred James all he pleases. His real name is Death.” I met the lady Life, once upon a time, long ago. She had innocent blue eyes. Alone in the field I felt free to kiss the palm of her little hand, under the shadow of the corn. It has nothing to do with the tale, but let us here reflect how the corn-stalk is a proud thing, how it flourishes its dangerous blades, guarding the young ear. It will cut you on the forehead if the wind is high. Above the blades is the sacred tassel like a flame. Once, under that tassel, under those dangerous blades, I met Life, and for good reason, bade her good-by. After her solemn words of parting, she called me back, and mischievously fed me, from the pocket of her gingham apron, crab apples and cranberries. Ever since that time those fruits have been bitter delights to my superstitious fancy. And here I was at CRANBERRY cross-roads, with a funeral director’s sign over my head. A long five minutes I meditated on the mystery of Life and Death and cranberries. A fat chicken, apparently meditating on the same mystery, kept walking up and down, catching gnats. At length it was revealed to me that when things have their proper rhythm Life and Death are interwoven, like willows plaited for a basket. Somewhat later in the afternoon I speculated that when times are out of joint, it is because Death reigns without Life for a partner, with the assistance of the Devil rather. But do not remember this. It anticipates the plot. One does not hasten into the presence of the undertaker. One rather waits. HE was coming. I did not look round. Even at noon he cast a considerable shadow. The shadow dwindled as he sat on the same step and asked: “What road have you come?” His non-partisan drawl was the result, we will suppose, of not knowing which side of the store the new customer approached. “I came from over there. I have been walking since sunrise.” He had some account of my adventures, and my point of view as a religious mendicant. I knew I would have to ask the further road of him, but disliked the necessity. He waited patiently while I watched my friend, the fat chicken, explore an empty, dirty, bottomless basket for flies. “I want to go west by way of Oil City,” I finally said. He answered: “Oil City is reached by the north road, straight in front of you as you sit. It is about an hour’s walk to the edge of it. It is a sort of trap in the mountains. When you get in sight of it, _keep on going down_.” This he said very solemnly. He put his hand on my shoulder: “Come in and rest and eat first. It won’t cost you a cent.”