Indelibly stamped on my memory are pictures of the old homes of my ancestors, and the simple life within them, in which it was my privilege to share in early childhood. These houses, built before the Revolutionary War, were of the “salt box” style, two stories high except at the back, where the roof sloped from the steep gables down so low that my grandfather, a tall man, had to bow his head to go under the eaves into the stoop. This made windows necessary on but three sides of a house, and was designed to evade the heavy tax on every pane of glass used. The shrewd colonist preferred to have less light, rather than add to the King’s revenue. Every stick of timber was oak from the forest primeval, felled and hewed by the strong arms of the men who, with stout hearts, braved the perils and hardships of the wilderness for their altars and homes. Every shingle was “rived out” by hand. The laths, window sashes, doors, handles and latches, hinges and nails, were all hand-wrought. How well our forefathers builded, these old houses, still standing in good habitable condition, after braving the summer suns, winter winds, and storms of more than a century and a half, bear witness. The great stone chimney was a tower of strength from its foundation in the cellar, fifteen feet square, up to the garret, strong as granite rocks could make it. It anchored the heavy beams and roof timbers, giving ample space for the many fireplaces needed in the large rooms growing around it. The kitchen fireplace was like those we read of, but seldom see. At one side of the crane was a bench where I, as a child, often sat watching the building of the fire--a work of skill. The big green back-log was first rolled in: then, the back-stick, fore-stick, chips and kindlings were added--a veritable woodpile, which, when kindled by the aid of the bellows, sent sparks and flame crackling and roaring up the cavernous chimney. There may have been much poetry in “the hanging of the crane.” There surely was much prose in cooking for a family, in pots and kettles hung on its hooks and trammels, over the burning coals and smoke. Long-handled frying pans, spiders, skillets, turnspits, bake kettles, and Dutch ovens would be unknown quantities to graduates from modern cooking schools; but they, with all their science and new appliances, cannot surpass the savory dishes evolved by our grandmothers from the limited means at their command, with the aid of these same out-of-date utensils. From out the arch-roofed old brick ovens came famous loaves of rye and Indian bread, biscuits, pans of pork and beans, cards of gingerbread, seed cookies, election and pound cakes, baked as none of our ranges can ever bake. They had a flavor all their own, a color golden-brown as the fallen autumn leaves of the maple trees, whose “fair white hearts” went up in smoke out of the doorway, while the long-handled iron peel spread the glowing coals over the worn floor of the old oven.