My log schoolhouse was gone. In its place stood Progress;
and Progress, I understand, is necessarily ugly. The crazy
foundation stones still marked the former site of my poor
little cabin, and not far away, on six weary boulders, perched
a jaunty board house, perhaps twenty by thirty feet, with
three windows and a door that locked. Some of the window-
glass was broken, and part of an old iron stove lay mourn-
fully under the house. I peeped through the window half
reverently, and found things that were more familiar. The
blackboard had grown by about two feet, and the seats were still
without backs. The county owns the lot now, I hear, and every
year there is a session of school. As I sat by the spring and
looked on the Old and the New I felt glad, very glad, and yet--
After two long drinks I started on. There was the great
double log-house on the corner. I remembered the broken,
blighted family that used to live there. The strong, hard face
of the mother, with its wilderness of hair, rose before me.
She had driven her husband away, and while I taught school a
strange man lived there, big and jovial, and people talked.
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