Aunt Mary lived in a two-story white house with a wing on one side. In front was a picket fence, whitewashed so often that it fairly shone. Two large elm-trees stood just outside the fence, and a little gate opened for the footpath from the road, and next to this were bars that could be taken down to let teams drive in and out. In the front yard were a number of evergreen trees trimmed in such a way as to leave a large green ball on top. A door and several windows were in the front of the house, and another door and more windows on the side next the wing, which was mainly used for a woodshed and summer kitchen. A little path ran from the gate to the side door, and this was covered with large flat stones, which were kept so clean that they were almost spotless. There was no path running to the front door, although two stone steps led down to the ground. The house was always white, as if freshly painted the day before. Each of the windows had outside shutters (which we called blinds), and these were painted blue. I well remember these shutters, for all the others that I had ever seen were painted green, and I wondered why everyone did not know that blue was much the most beautiful color for blinds. The front door was never opened, and the front shutters were always tightly closed. Whenever any of us went to the house, we knew that we must go to the side door. If perchance a stranger knocked at the front door, Aunt Mary would come around the corner of the house and ask him to come to the kitchen. Through all the country Aunt Mary was known for her “neatness.” This had grown to a disease, the ruling passion of her life. It was never easy to get any of the other boys to go with me to Aunt Mary’s when I went for butter. None of them liked her, and they all knew that she did not care for them. I remember that when I first used to go there she would meet me at the side door and ask me to stay out in the yard or go into the woodshed while she got the butter or eggs. Then she would bring me a lump of sugar or a fried cake (which she called a nut-cake) made from dough boiled in lard, and which was very fine, especially when fresh and hot, and tell me not to get any crumbs on the stone steps or on the woodshed floor. Sometimes Uncle Ezra would come in from the barn or fields while I was there, and he always seemed to be kind and friendly, and would take me out to the pigpen while he poured the pails of swill into the trough. I used to think it great sport to see the grunting hogs rushing and shoving and tumbling over each other, and standing in the trough to get all the swill they could. None of them ever seemed to have enough, or to care whether the others had their share of swill or not. I shall always feel that I learned a great deal about human nature by helping Uncle Ezra feed his hogs.