The Facts of Life

Nearly a year passed before I saw Miss Liberty's torch raised over New York harbor and watched the friendly hills of the Mohawk Valley closing in on either side of the train. Springville was just what it had been fifteen years before—the same rutted streets, the same fly-specked store windows, the same sleepy horses in front of the Oriskany House—even the same sparrows quarreling under the eaves of the Methodist Church.

Jim Selford hacked me up from the station—he's Mayor of Springville now, and proprietor of the garage which he opened with much misgiving when he was sure that the horse had gone to stay. In the course of our parade up Main Street he gave me thumbnail sketches of practically everyone of importance who had been born, died, or come to fame since I left town.