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There are many scenes in my life which I shall never forget, though I have no tangible reminders. There is one which must have taken place when I was very / young, for the chief character is my great-grandma Smith, who died when she was ninety-eight, and that Was shortly after my third birthday. I can see her standing, as stern and straight as her unbending words, on the walk that led down to the street in front of the house. In the background there Was a corner of the porch with the side street vanishing behind it, for the house was on the corner. The small details of the picture have dimmed, but that only sharpens the figure of my grandma Smith in her long, stiff black dress, a lacy touch of white at the neck, and a very alert, serious, Irish face, the chin of Which indicated her unretreating nature. I can see her thin gray hair parted exactly in the middle and pulled tightly back into a knot. She looks at me and does not move. I can remember nothing more.



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