The last time I went back along the road, I found that the wagon-shop and the shoe-shop had long since closed their doors. Cincinnati buggies and Studebaker wagons had driven away the last board of the old lumber-piles around which we children used to play; and New England shoe-factories had utterly destroyed the old forum where were discussed the mysteries of life and death. Even the customs of the simple country folks had changed, for I observed that the boys wore shoes instead of boots; but in those days all the girls wore shoes, and now they were wearing boots. The blacksmith-shop still stood beside the road, but the old smith had gone away, and his son was now hammering stoutly at the same piece of white-hot iron that his father pulled out of the red coals so long ago; but the little boy who once looked in with wondering eyes at the open door,—it seemed as if he too were dead and buried forever behind a great mass of shifting clouds heaped so thick and high as to make nothing but a dream of those far-off childhood years. I had almost forgotten to tell the name of my boyhood town. It was Farmington; and I feel that I ought to write it down in this book, so that the world may know exactly where it is, for I am sure it was never in a book before, excepting a county atlas that once printed pictures and biographies of all the leading citizens of the place. I remember that the agent came to see my father, and told him what a beautiful picture the mill would make, and how anxious he was to have his portrait and history in the book. I really believe my father would have given his consent but for the reason that the season had been dry and he did not dare to sign a note. Poor man! I almost wish he had consented, for even if the book had never been seen by any but the simple country folk who paid for their glory, as we all must do in some way, still my father could have read his own biography, and looked at the picture of himself and his famous mill. And really this is about the only reason that any of us write books, if the truth were known. Beyond the shop the road ran into a great common which we called a square. This really was a wonderful affair,—about the size of Rhode Island, as it seemed to us. Here we boys often gathered on Saturday afternoons, and, when I grew older, on the few nights that my father was away from home, or on some special occasion when I prevailed on him to let me go there and play.