"But a delicious dinner awaits; generally fried chicken, southern style. This does not mean a sun dried remnant of a wing, or the active extremity of a leg with a burnt bone protruding through gristly skin, but a nice, big piece of a yellow-legged Plymouth Rock, the real article, hatched by a mother hen acquainted with the business and not one of those Illinois river incubators that furnish spring chickens at all seasons of the year to be kept well frozen in cold storage until called for. This chicken is fried in ranch butter to a golden russet brown, if you happen to know what color cooking calls for, and a whole lot of it comes in on one great big platter, so you get a chance to pick a good joint, but any part of such a chicken is good." "Jack, you are putting in a whole lot that is not in that book just to make me hungry. My mouth has been puckered up for half an hour to get a bite of that 'yaller leg.' We are near Springfield; let's eat." Suiting the action to the word they joined the motley throng in the rush for the dining-room, as the train came to a stop for forty minutes. Fresh Connecticut River shad and roe, new green peas, new potatoes in cream, lettuce, radishes. "There, that will kill your chicken fever for a time," said Jack, as he ordered for both. "You may order me a piece of lemon pie, Jack. I see some on the sideboard and the meringue is about two inches thick." "We want to go over and see the train for the north pull out; might see some Bozrah people, Hazel," said Jack, after the dinner, "it leaves five minutes before we do." "Oh, sure enough, and there are a lot of students just going home. I suppose Chiquita is in Denver by this time." "Hazel, there is old Deacon Petherbridge and Elam Tucker. I'll bet they've been down to New Haven on a horse trade. You know Elam had the big livery stable that burned down when you were eight and I was just eleven. You remember the Tucker boy was foolish and set fire to the hay, 'Wanted to see it burn,' he told the town marshal. But we must get aboard." The last beams of rose-tinted sunlight percolated through the gathering darkness as the train sped on its way, winding in and out among the hills of western Massachusetts. Hazel watched the fading panorama as it dissolved in the gloom of the night. She was thinking of her happy school days among those very hills through which she was now gliding, a one-day bride, wife of her childhood lover. As the scenes vanished she shyly snuggled a little closer and whispered, "Jack, we will always be happy, won't we?" "Why, yes; but what made you ask it?" "Oh, just 'cause," continuing, "I kinder wish we had gone around by Hoosac tunnel, we could have seen 'Old Bozrah' hills and"-- "I guess my new wife is a little homesick," consolingly interrupted Jack. "Suppose we visit Old Bozrah when we come back and have a famous time going nutting and picking autumn leaves"--