64
The Story of My Childhood
further smart tricks. Twenty-five years later, when on a visit to the old home, long left, I saw my father, then a grey-haired grandsire, out on the same little pond, fitting the skates carefully to the feet of his little twin granddaughters, holding them up to make their first start in safety, I remembered my wounded knees, and blessed the great Father that progress and change were among the possibilities of His people.
I never learned to skate. When it became fashionable I had neither time nor opportunity.
Along these lines I recall another
disappointment, which, though not vital,
was still indicative of the times.
During the following winter a dancing
school was opened in the hall of
