of our institutions; I might almost say the chief of them—casino and lyceum in one. If somebody once called the place a "yarn factory," that was only in the way of a joke. On a rainy holiday it was a great resource. There were always talkers and listeners there,—the two essentials,—and the talk was often racy, though never, so far as I know, unfit for a boy's hearing. The town supported no local newspaper, nor did we feel the need of any. You could get all the news there was, and more too, "down at the store." If the regular members of the club failed to bring it in, the baker or the candy peddler would happen along to supply the lack. And after all, say what you will, word of mouth is better than printers' ink.
And while you listened to the talk, you could be eating a stick of barber's-pole candy or a cent's worth of dates, or, if your wealth happened to admit of such extravagance, you could enjoy, after the Cranford fashion, quite unembarrassed by Cranford pudicity, a two-cent orange. Those were the days of small things. Dollars did not grow on every bush. Seven-year-old boys, at all events, were not
