How far I succeeded in keeping the man out of the boy's life, my readers can judge better than the writer. The volume originally made no sensation—how could it, pitched in such a key?—but it has gone on peacefully, and, I am glad to acknowledge, has made many valuable friends. It started a brook, and a brook it has continued. In sending out this new edition with Mr. Clifton Johnson's pictures, lovingly taken from the real life and heart of New England, I may express the hope that the boy of the remote generation will lose no friends. C. D. W. HARTFORD, May 8, 1897. BEING A BOY I BEING A BOY One of the best things in the world to be is a boy; it requires no experience, though it needs some practice to be a good one. The disadvantage of the position is that it does not last long enough; it is soon over; just as you get used to being a boy, you have to be something else, with a good deal more work to do and not half so much fun. And yet every boy is anxious to be a man, and is very uneasy with the restrictions that are put upon him as a boy. Good fun as it is to yoke up the calves and play work, there is not a boy on a farm but would rather drive a yoke of oxen at real work. What a glorious feeling it is, indeed, when a boy is for the first time given the long whip and permitted to drive the oxen, walking by their side, swinging the long lash, and shouting "Gee, Buck!" "Haw, Golden!" "Whoa, Bright!" and all the rest of that remarkable language, until he is red in the face, and all the neighbors for half a mile are aware that something unusual is going on. If I were a boy, I am not sure but I would rather drive the oxen than have a birthday. [Illustration: BEING A BOY]