to "tell Nan" that her hero had been up to call upon them and had sat the bottom out of one of her mother's favorite chairs! The truth of it was that it was probably a frail chair and Mr. Harding's weight had broken it.
When my youngest brother, John, was born there was much discussion about what he should be called. I immediately attempted to solve the problem by announcing, "Why, he's going to be named 'Warren,' of course!" Father, in cahoots with "his girl," said we could call him "Warren Le Grand" the latter name for father's only brother, Le Grand Britton. But Mrs. Sinclair, the judge's wife, my mother's friend, seemed to have quite a bit to say in our household and now stepped into the picture. "He's going to be plain John Britton, isn't he, Mrs. Britton?" I think she had in mind John the Baptist, much less deserving of a namesake in my opinion than my beloved Mr. Harding. It took a long time for me to recover from this defeat.
In Marion the livery stables rented by the hour one-seated phaetons, drawn by dependable, equine "plugs," as my father called the drooping animals that jogged about the town pulling the occupants of these pleasure-providing equipages.
Before my doctor-father acquired the small red motor runabout which served to carry him about on his professional calls, he was a good customer at these livery stables, and we children often accompanied him. Often he gave the reins into my small hands and I experienced the thrill of a real charioteer as I called "Giddap!" to the horse and whisked imaginary flies off his back with the reins, even as I had seen my father do.
I have marvelled at what must have been an effort at resigned suspension of parental watchfulness which was responsible for the few memorable afternoons my sister Elizabeth and I
