EBEN HOLDEN, A TALE OF THE NORTH COUNTRY

By Irving Bacheller

PREFACE

Early in the last century the hardy wood-choppers began to come west, out of Vermont. They founded their homes in the Adirondack wildernessesand cleared their rough acres with the axe and the charcoal pit. Afteryears of toil in a rigorous climate they left their sons little besidesa stumpy farm and a coon-skin overcoat. Far from the centres of lifetheir amusements, their humours, their religion, their folk lore, their views of things had in them the flavour of the timber lands, thesimplicity of childhood. Every son was nurtured in the love of honourand of industry, and the hope of sometime being president. It is to befeared this latter thing and the love of right living, for its own sake, were more in their thoughts than the immortal crown that had been theinspiration of their fathers. Leaving the farm for the more promisinglife of the big city they were as men born anew, and their secondinfancy was like that of Hercules. They had the strength of manhood, the tireless energy of children and some hope of the highest things. The pageant of the big town--its novelty, its promise, its art, itsactivity--quickened their highest powers, put them to their best effort. And in all great enterprises they became the pathfinders, like theirfathers in the primeval forest. 

This book has grown out of such enforced leisure as one may find in abusy life. Chapters begun in the publicity of a Pullman car have beenfinished in the cheerless solitude of a hotel chamber. Some havehad their beginning in a sleepless night and their end in a day ofbronchitis. A certain pious farmer in the north country when, likeAgricola, he was about to die, requested the doubtful glory of thisepitaph: 'He was a poor sinner, but he done his best' Save for the factthat I am an excellent sinner, in a literary sense, the words may standfor all the apology I have to make. 

The characters were mostly men and women I have known and who leftwith me a love of my kind that even a wide experience with knavery andmisfortune has never dissipated. For my knowledge of Mr Greeley Iam chiefly indebted to David P. Rhoades, his publisher, to PhilipFitzpatrick, his pressman, to the files of the Tribune and to manybooks. 

IRVING BACHELLER New York City, 7 April 1900

BOOK ONE

Chapter I

Of all the people that ever went west that expedition was the mostremarkable. 

A small boy in a big basket on the back of a jolly old man, who carrieda cane in one hand, a rifle in the other; a black dog serving as scout, skirmisher and rear guard--that was the size of it. They were thesurvivors of a ruined home in the north of Vermont, and were travellingfar into the valley of the St Lawrence, but with no particulardestination. 

Midsummer had passed them in their journey; their clothes were coveredwith dust; their faces browning in the hot sun. It was a very small boythat sat inside the basket and clung to the rim, his tow head shaking asthe old man walked. He saw wonderful things, day after day, looking downat the green fields or peering into the gloomy reaches of the wood; andhe talked about them. 

'Uncle Eb--is that where the swifts are?' he would ask often; and theold man would answer, 'No; they ain't real sassy this time o' year. Theylay 'round in the deep dingles every day. '

Then the small voice would sing idly or prattle with an imaginary beingthat had a habit of peeking over the edge of the basket or would shout agreeting to some bird or butterfly and ask finally: 'Tired, Uncle Eb?'

Sometimes the old gentleman would say 'not very', and keep on, lookingthoughtfully at the ground. Then, again, he would stop and mop his baldhead with a big red handkerchief and say, a little tremor of irritationin his voice: 'Tired! who wouldn't be tired with a big elephant like youon his back all day? I'd be 'shamed o' myself t' set there an' let anold man carry me from Dan to Beersheba. Git out now an' shake yer legs. '

I was the small boy and I remember it was always a great relief to getout of the basket, and having run ahead, to lie in the grass among thewild flowers, and jump up at him as he came along. 

Uncle Eb had been working for my father five years before I was born. Hewas not a strong man and had never been able to carry the wide swath ofthe other help in the fields, but we all loved him for his kindness andhis knack of story-telling. He was a bachelor who came over the mountainfrom Pleasant Valley, a little bundle of clothes on his shoulder, andbringing a name that enriched the nomenclature of our neighbourhood. Itwas Eben Holden. 

He had a cheerful temper and an imagination that was a very wildernessof oddities. Bears and panthers growled and were very terrible in thatstrange country. He had invented an animal more treacherous than anyin the woods, and he called it a swift. 'Sumthin' like a panther', hedescribed the look of it a fearsome creature that lay in the edge ofthe woods at sundown and made a noise like a woman crying, to lure theunwary. It would light one's eye with fear to hear Uncle Eb lift hisvoice in the cry of the swift. Many a time in the twilight when the bayof a hound or some far cry came faintly through the wooded hills, Ihave seen him lift his hand and bid us hark. And when we had listeneda moment, our eyes wide with wonder, he would turn and say in a low, half-whispered tone: ''S a swift' I suppose we needed more the fear ofGod, but the young children of the pioneer needed also the fear of thewoods or they would have strayed to their death in them. 

A big bass viol, taller than himself, had long been the solace of hisSundays. After he had shaved--a ceremony so solemn that it seemed a riteof his religion--that sacred viol was uncovered. He carried it sometimesto the back piazza and sometimes to the barn, where the horses shook andtrembled at the roaring thunder of the strings. When he began playingwe children had to get well out of the way, and keep our distance. Iremember now the look of him, then--his thin face, his soft black eyes, his long nose, the suit of broadcloth, the stock and standing collarand, above all, the solemnity in his manner when that big devil of athing was leaning on his breast. 

As to his playing I have never heard a more fearful sound in any time ofpeace or one less creditable to a Christian. Weekdays he was addicted tothe milder sin of the flute and, after chores, if there were no one totalk with him, he would sit long and pour his soul into that magic barof boxwood. 

Uncle Eb had another great accomplishment. He was what they call in thenorth country 'a natural cooner'. After nightfall, when the corn wasripening, he spoke in a whisper and had his ear cocked for coons. But heloved all kinds of good fun. 

So this man had a boy in his heart and a boy in his basket that eveningwe left the old house. My father and mother and older brother had beendrowned in the lake, where they had gone for a day of pleasure. I hadthen a small understanding of my loss, hat I have learned since thatthe farm was not worth the mortgage and that everything had to be sold. Uncle Eb and I--a little lad, a very little lad of six--were all thatwas left of what had been in that home. Some were for sending me to thecounty house; but they decided, finally, to turn me over to a dissoluteuncle, with some allowance for my keep. Therein Uncle Eb was tobe reckoned with. He had set his heart on keeping me, but he was afarm-hand without any home or visible property and not, therefore, inthe mind of the authorities, a proper guardian. He had me with him inthe old house, and the very night he heard they were coming after me inthe morning, we started on our journey. I remember he was a long timetying packages of bread and butter and tea and boiled eggs to the rimof the basket, so that they hung on the outside. Then he put a woollenshawl and an oilcloth blanket on the bottom, pulled the straps over hisshoulders and buckled them, standing before the looking-glass, and, hangput on my cap and coat, stood me on the table, and stooped so that Icould climb into the basket--a pack basket, that he had used in hunting, the top a little smaller than the bottom. Once in, I could standcomfortably or sit facing sideways, my back and knees wedged from portto starboard. With me in my place he blew out the lantern and groped hisway to the road, his cane in one hand, his rifle in the other. Fred, ourold dog--a black shepherd, with tawny points--came after us. UncleEb scolded him and tried to send him back, but I pleaded for the poorcreature and that settled it, he was one of our party. 

'Dunno how we'll feed him, ' said Uncle Eb. 'Our own mouths are bigenough t' take all we can carry, but I hain' no heart t' leave 'im all'lone there. '

I was old for my age, they tell me, and had a serious look and a wiseway of talking, for a boy so young; but I had no notion of what laybefore or behind us. 

'Now, boy, take a good look at the old house, ' I remember he whisperedto me at the gate that night ''Tain't likely ye'll ever see it ag'in. Keep quiet now, ' he added, letting down the bars at the foot of thelane. 'We're goin' west an' we mustn't let the grass grow under us. Gott'be purty spry I can tell ye. '

It was quite dark and he felt his way carefully down the cow-paths intothe broad pasture. With every step I kept a sharp lookout for swifts, and the moon shone after a while, making my work easier. 

I had to hold my head down, presently, when the tall brush began to whipthe basket and I heard the big boots of Uncle Eb ripping the briars. Then we came into the blackness of the thick timber and I could hear himfeeling his way over the dead leaves with his cane. I got down, shortly, and walked beside him, holding on to the rifle with one hand. Westumbled, often, and were long in the trail before we could see themoonlight through the tree columns. In the clearing I climbed to myseat again and by and by we came to the road where my companion sat downresting his load on a boulder. 

'Pretty hot, Uncle Eb, pretty hot, ' he said to himself, fanning his browwith that old felt hat he wore everywhere. 'We've come three mile ermore without a stop an' I guess we'd better rest a jiffy. '

My legs ached too, and I was getting very sleepy. I remember the joltof the basket as he rose, and hearing him say, 'Well, Uncle Eb, I guesswe'd better be goin'. '

The elbow that held my head, lying on the rim of the basket, was alreadynumb; but the prickling could no longer rouse me, and half-dead withweariness, I fell asleep. Uncle Eb has told me since, that I tumbled outof the basket once, and that he had a time of it getting me in again, but I remember nothing more of that day's history. 

When I woke in the morning, I could hear the crackling of fire, and feltvery warm and cosy wrapped in the big shawl. I got a cheery greetingfrom Uncle Eb, who was feeding the fire with a big heap of sticks thathe had piled together. Old Fred was licking my hands with his roughtongue, and I suppose that is what waked me. Tea was steeping in thelittle pot that hung over the fire, and our breakfast of boiled eggs andbread and butter lay on a paper beside it. I remember well the sceneof our little camp that morning. We had come to a strange country, andthere was no road in sight. A wooded hill lay back of us, and, justbefore, ran a noisy little brook, winding between smooth banks, througha long pasture into a dense wood. Behind a wall on the opposite shore agreat field of rustling corn filled a broad valley and stood higher thana man's head. 

While I went to wash my face in the clear water Uncle Eb was huskingsome ears of corn that he took out of his pocket, and had them roastingover the fire in a moment. We ate heartily, giving Fred two big slicesof bread and butter, packing up with enough remaining for another day. Breakfast over we doused the fire and Uncle Eb put on his basket He madeafter a squirrel, presently, with old Fred, and brought him down out ofa tree by hurling stones at him and then the faithful follower of ourcamp got a bit of meat for his breakfast. We climbed the wall, as heate, and buried ourselves in the deep corn. The fragrant, silky tasselsbrushed my face and the corn hissed at our intrusion, crossing its greensabers in our path. Far in the field my companion heaped a little of thesoft earth for a pillow, spread the oil cloth between rows and, as welay down, drew the big shawl over us. Uncle Eb was tired after the toilof that night and went asleep almost as soon as he was down. Before Idropped off Fred came and licked my face and stepped over me, his tailwagging for leave, and curled upon the shawl at my feet. I could see nosky in that gloomy green aisle of corn. This going to bed in the morningseemed a foolish business to me that day and I lay a long time lookingup at the rustling canopy overhead. I remember listening to the wavesthat came whispering out of the further field, nearer and nearer, untilthey swept over us with a roaring swash of leaves, like that of waterflooding among rocks, as I have heard it often. A twinge of homesickness came to me and the snoring of Uncle Eb gave me no comfort. Iremember covering my head and crying softly as I thought of those whohad gone away and whom I was to meet in a far country, called Heaven, whither we were going. I forgot my sorrow, finally, in sleep. When Iawoke it had grown dusk under the corn. I felt for Uncle Eb and he wasgone. Then I called to him. 

'Hush, boy! lie low, ' he whispered, bending over me, a sharp look in hiseye. ' 'Fraid they're after us. '

He sat kneeling beside me, holding Fred by the collar and listening. Icould hear voices, the rustle of the corn and the tramp of feet nearby. It was thundering in the distance--that heavy, shaking thunder thatseems to take hold of the earth, and there were sounds in the cornlike the drawing of sabers and the rush of many feet. The noisy thunderclouds came nearer and the voices that had made us tremble were nolonger heard. Uncle Eb began to fasten the oil blanket to the stalks ofcorn for a shelter. The rain came roaring over us. The sound of it waslike that of a host of cavalry coming at a gallop. We lay bracing thestalks, the blanket tied above us and were quite dry for a time. Therain rattled in the sounding sheaves and then came flooding down thesteep gutters. Above us beam and rafter creaked, swaying, and showingglimpses of the dark sky. The rain passed--we could hear the lastbattalion leaving the field--and then the tumult ended as suddenly asit began. The corn trembled a few moments and hushed to a faint whisper. Then we could hear only the drip of raindrops leaking through the greenroof. It was dark under the corn. 

Chapter 2

We heard no more of the voices. Uncle Eb had brought an armful of wood, and some water in the teapot, while I was sleeping. As soon as the rainhad passed he stood listening awhile and shortly opened his knife andmade a little clearing in the corn by cutting a few hills. 

'We've got to do it, ' he said, 'er we can't take any comfort, an' theman tol' me I could have all the corn I wanted. '

'Did you see him, Uncle Eb?' I remember asking. 

'Yes, ' he answered, whittling in the dark. 'I saw him when I went outfor the water an' it was he tol' me they were after us. '

He took a look at the sky after a while, and, remarking that he guessedthey couldn't see his smoke now, began to kindle the fire. As it burnedup he stuck two crotches and hung his teapot on a stick' that lay inthem, so it took the heat of the flame, as I had seen him do in themorning. Our grotto, in the corn, was shortly as cheerful as any room ina palace, and our fire sent its light into the long aisles that openedopposite, and nobody could see the warm glow of it but ourselves. 

'We'll hev our supper, ' said Uncle Eb, as he opened a paper and spreadout the eggs and bread and butter and crackers. 'We'll jest hev oursupper an' by 'n by when everyone's abed we'll make tracks in the dirt, I can tell ye. '

Our supper over, Uncle Eb let me look at his tobacco-box--a shiny thingof German silver that always seemed to snap out a quick farewell to mebefore it dove into his pocket. He was very cheerful and communicative, and joked a good deal as we lay there waiting in the firelight. I gotsome further acquaintance with the swift, learning among other thingsthat it had no appetite for the pure in heart. 

'Why not?' I enquired. 

'Well, ' said Uncle Eb, 'it's like this: the meaner the boy, the sweeterthe meat. '

He sang an old song as he sat by the fire, with a whistled interludebetween lines, and the swing of it, even now, carries me back to thatfar day in the fields. I lay with my head in his lap while he wassinging. 

Years after, when I could have carried him on my back' he wrote downfor me the words of the old song. Here they are, about as he sang them, although there are evidences of repair, in certain lines, to supply theloss of phrases that had dropped out of his memory:

 I was goin' to Salem one bright summer day, I met a young maiden a goin' my way; O, my fallow, faddeling fallow, faddel away. 

 An' many a time I had seen her before, But I never dare tell 'er the love thet I bore. O, my fallow, etc. 

 'Oh, where are you goin' my purty fair maid?' 'O, sir, I am goin' t' Salem, ' she said. O, my fallow, etc. 

 'O, why are ye goin' so far in a day? Fer warm is the weather and long is the way. ' O, my fallow, etc. 

 'O, sir I've forgorten, I hev, I declare, But it's nothin' to eat an' its nothin' to wear. ' O, my fallow, etc. 

 'Oho! then I hev it, ye purty young miss! I'll bet it is only three words an' a kiss. ' O, my fallow, etc. 

 'Young woman, young woman, O how will it dew If I go see yer lover 'n bring 'em t' you?' O, my fallow, etc. 

 ''S a very long journey, ' says she, 'I am told, An' before ye got back, they would surely be cold. ' O, my fallow, etc. 

 'I hev 'em right with me, I vum an' I vow, An' if you don't object I'll deliver 'em now. ' O, my fallow, etc. 

 She laid her fair head all on to my breast, An' ye wouldn't know more if I tol' ye the rest O, my fallow, etc. 

I went asleep after awhile in spite of all, right in the middle of astory. The droning voice of Uncle Eb and the feel of his hand upon myforehead called me back, blinking, once or twice, but not for long. Thefire was gone down to a few embers when Uncle Eb woke me and the grottowas lit only by a sprinkle of moonlight from above. 

'Mos' twelve o'clock, ' he whispered. 'Better be off. '

The basket was on his back and he was all ready. I followed him throughthe long aisle of corn, clinging to the tall of his coat. The goldenlantern of the moon hung near the zenith and when we came out in theopen we could see into the far fields. I climbed into my basket at thewall and as Uncle Eb carried me over the brook, stopping on a flat rockmidway to take a drink, I could see the sky in the water, and it seemedas if a misstep would have tumbled me into the moon. 

'Hear the crickets holler, ' said Uncle Eb, as he followed the bank upinto the open pasture. 

'What makes 'em holler?' I asked. 

'O, they're jes' filin' their saws an' thinkin'. Mebbe tellin' o' what'shappened 'em. Been a hard day fer them little folks. Terrible flood intheir country. Everyone on em hed t' git up a steeple quick 'she coulder be drownded. They hev their troubles an' they talk 'bout 'em, too. '

'What do they file their saws for?' I enquired. 

'Well, ye know, ' said he, 'where they live the timber's thick an' theyhev hard work clearin' t' mek a home. '

I was getting too sleepy for further talk. He made his way from field tofield, stopping sometimes to look off at the distant mountains then atthe sky or to whack the dry stalks of mullen with his cane. I rememberhe let down some bars after a long walk and stepped into a smoothroadway. He stood resting a little while, his basket on the top bar, andthen the moon that I had been watching went down behind the broad rim ofhis hat and I fell into utter forgetfulness. My eyes opened on a lovelyscene at daylight Uncle Eb had laid me on a mossy knoll in a bit oftimber and through an opening right in front of us I could see a broadlevel of shining water, and the great green mountain on the furthershore seemed to be up to its belly in the sea. 

'Hello there!' said Uncle Eb; 'here we are at Lake Champlain. '

I could hear the fire crackling and smell the odour of steeping tea. 

'Ye flopped 'round like a fish in thet basket, ' said Uncle Eb. ''Guessye must a been drearnin' O' bears. Jumped so ye scairt me. Didn't knowbut I had a wil' cat on my shoulders. '

Uncle Eb had taken a fish-line out of his pocket and was tying it to arude pole that he had cut and trinmed with his jack-knife. 

'I've found some crawfish here, ' he said, 'an' I'm goin' t' try fer abite on the p'int O' rocks there. '

'Goin' t' git some fish, Uncle Eb?' I enquired. 

'Wouldn't say't I was, er wouldn't say't I wasn't, ' he answered. 'Jesgoin' t' try. '

Uncle Eb was always careful not to commit himself on a doubtful point. He had fixed his hook and sinker in a moment and then we went out on arocky point nearby and threw off into the deep water. Suddenly UncleEb gave a jerk that brought a groan out of him and then let his hook godown again, his hands trembling, his face severe. 

'By mighty! Uncle Eb, ' he muttered to himself, 'I thought we hed himthet time. '

He jerked again presently, and then I could see a tug on the line thatmade me jump. A big fish came thrashing into the air in a minute. Hetried to swing it ashore, but the pole bent and the fish got a freshhold of the water and took the end of the pole under. Uncle Eb gave ita lift then that brought it ashore and a good bit of water with it. Iremember how the fish slapped me with its wet tail and sprinkled my faceshaking itself between my boots. It was a big bass and in a little whilewe had three of them. Uncle Eb dressed them and laid them over the fireon a gridiron of green birch, salting them as they cooked. I rememberthey went with a fine relish and the last of our eggs and bread andbutter went with them. 

Our breakfast over, Uncle Eb made me promise to stay with Fred and thebasket while he went away to find a man who could row us across. Inabout an hour I heard a boat coming and the dog and I went out on thepoint of rocks where we saw Uncle Eb and another man, heading for us, half over the cove. The bow bumped the rocks beneath us in a minute. Then the stranger dropped his oars and stood staring at me and the dog. 

'Say, mister, ' said he presently, 'can't go no further. There's a rewardoffered fer you an' thet boy. '

Uncle Eb called him aside and was talking to him a long time. 

I never knew what was said, but they came at last and took us into theboat and the stranger was very friendly. 

When we had come near the landing on the 'York State' side, I rememberhe gave us our bearings. 

'Keep t' the woods, ' he said, 'till you're out o' harm's way. Don't gonear the stage road fer a while. Ye'll find a store a little way up themountain. Git yer provisions there an' about eighty rod farther ye'llstrike the trail. It'll take ye over the mountain north an' t' ParadiseRoad. Then take the white church on yer right shoulder an' go straightwest. '

I would not have remembered it so well but for the fact that Uncle Ebwrote it all down in his account book and that has helped me over manya slippery place in my memory of those events. At the store we got somecrackers and cheese, tea and coffee, dried beef and herring, a bit ofhoney and a loaf of bread that was sliced and buttered before it wasdone up. We were off in the woods by nine o'clock, according to UncleEb's diary, and I remember the trail led us into thick brush where I hadto get out and walk a long way. It was smooth under foot, however, andat noon we came to a slash in the timber, full of briars that were allaglow with big blackberries. We filled our hats with them and Uncle Ebfound a spring, beside which we built a fire and had a memorable mealthat made me glad of my hunger. 

Then we spread the oilcloth and lay down for another sleep. We couldsee the glow of the setting sun through the tree-tops when we woke, andbegan our packing. 

'We'll hev t' hurry, ' said Uncle Eb, 'er we'll never git out o' thewoods t'night 'S 'bout six mile er more t' Paradise Road, es I mek it. Come, yer slower 'n a toad in a tar barrel. '

We hurried off on the trail and I remember Fred looked very crestfallenwith two big packages tied to his collar. He delayed a bit by trying toshake them off, but Uncle Eb gave him a sharp word or two and then hewalked along very thoughtfully. Uncle Eb was a little out of patiencethat evening, and I thought he bore down too harshly in his rebuke ofthe old dog. 

'You shif'less cuss, ' he said to him, 'ye'd jes' dew nothin' but chasesquirrels an' let me break my back t' carry yer dinner. '

It was glooming fast in the thick timber, and Uncle Eb almost ran withme while the way was plain. The last ringing note of the wood thrushhad died away and in a little while it was so dark I could distinguishnothing but the looming mass of tree tranks. 

He stopped suddenly and strained his eyes in the dark. Then he whistleda sharp, sliding note, and the sound of it gave me some hint of histrouble. 

'Git down, Willie, ' said he, 'an' tek my hand. I'm 'fraid we're losthere 'n the big woods. '

We groped about for a minute, trying to find the trail. 

'No use, ' he said presently, 'we'll hev t' stop right here. Oughterknown berter 'n t' come through s' near sundown. Guess it was more 'nanybody could do. '

He built a fire and began to lay out a supper for us then, while Fredsat down by me to be relieved of his bundles. Our supper was rather dry, for we had no water, but it was only two hours since we left the spring, so we were not suffering yet Uncle Eb took out of the fire a burningbrand of pine and went away into the gloomy woods, holding it above hishead, while Fred and I sat by the fire. 

''S lucky we didn't go no further, ' he said, as he came in after a fewminutes. 'There's a big prec'pice over yender. Dunno how deep 't is. Guess we'd a found out purty soon. '

He cut some boughs of hemlock, growing near us, and spread them in alittle hollow. That done, we covered them with the oilcloth, and satdown comfortably by the fire. Uncle Eb had a serious look and was notinclined to talk or story telling. Before turning in he asked me tokneel and say my prayer as I had done every evening at the feet ofmy mother. I remember, clearly, kneeling before my old companion andhearing the echo of my small voice there in the dark and lonely woods. 

I remember too, and even more clearly, how he bent his head and coveredhis eyes in that brief moment. I had a great dread of darkness andimagined much evil of the forest, but somehow I had no fear if he werenear me. When we had fixed the fire and lain down for the night on thefragrant hemlock and covered ourselves with the shawl, Uncle Eb lay onone side of me and old Fred on the other, so I felt secure indeed. Thenight had many voices there in the deep wood. Away in the distance Icould hear a strange, wild cry, and I asked what it was and Uncle Ebwhispered back, ''s a loon. ' Down the side of the mountain a shrill barkrang in the timber and that was a fox, according to my patient oracle. Anon we heard the crash and thunder of a falling tree and a murmur thatfollowed in the wake of the last echo. 

'Big tree fallin'!' said Uncle Eb, as he lay gaping. 'It has t' break away t' the ground an' it must hurt. Did ye notice how the woods tremble?If we was up above them we could see the hole thet tree hed made. Jes'like an open grave till the others hev filed it with their tops. '

My ears had gone deaf with drowsiness when a quick stir in the body ofUncle Eb brought me back to my senses. He was up on his elbow listeningand the firelight had sunk to a glimmer. Fred lay shivering and growlingbeside me. I could hear no other sound. 

'Be still, ' said Uncle Eb, as he boxed the dog's ears. Then he rose andbegan to stir the fire and lay on more wood. As the flame leaped andthrew its light into the tree-tops a shrill cry, like the scream of afrightened woman, only louder and more terrible to hear brought me to myfeet, crying. I knew the source of it was near us and ran to Uncle Eb ina fearful panic. 

'Hush, boy, ' said he as it died away and went echoing in the far forest. 'I'll take care o' you. Don't be scairt. He's more 'fraid uv us than weare o' him. He's makin' off now. '

We heard then a great crackling of dead brush on the mountain above us. It grew fainter as we listened. In a little while the woods were silent. 

'It's the ol' man o' the woods, ' said Uncle Eb. 'E's out takin' a walk. '

'Will he hurt folks?' I enquired. 

'Tow!' he answered, 'jest as harmless as a kitten. '

Chapter 3

Naturally there were a good many things I wanted to know about 'theol' man o' the woods, ' but Uncle Eb would take no part in any furtherconversation. 

So I had to lie down beside him again and think out the problem as bestI could. My mind was never more acutely conscious and it gathered manystrange impressions, wandering in the kingdom of Fear, as I looked upat the tree-tops. Uncle Eb had built a furious fire and the warmth ofit made me sleepy at last. Both he and old Fred had been snoring a longtime when I ceased to hear them. Uncle Eb woke me at daylight, in themorning, and said we must be off to find the trail. He left me by thefire a little while and went looking on all sides and came back nowiser. We were both thirsty and started off on rough footing, withoutstopping to eat. We climbed and crawled for hours, it seemed to me, andeverywhere the fallen tree trunks were heaped in our way. Uncle Eb satdown on one of them awhile to rest. 

'Like the bones o' the dead, ' said he, as he took a chew of tobacco andpicked at the rotten skeleton of a fallen tree. We were both pretty wellout of breath and of hope also, if I remember rightly, when we restedagain under the low hanging boughs of a basswood for a bite of luncheon. Uncle Eb opened the little box of honey and spread some of it on ourbread and butter. In a moment I noticed that half a dozen bees had litin the open box. 

'Lord Harry! here's honey bees, ' said he, as he covered the box so as tokeep them in, and tumbled everything else into the basket. 'Make hastenow, Willie, and follow me with all yer might, ' he added. 

In a minute he let out one of the bees, and started running in thedirection it flew. It went but a few feet and then rose into thetree-top. 

'He's goin' t' git up into the open air, ' said Uncle Eb. 'But I've gothis bearins' an' I guess he knows the way all right. '

We took the direction indicated for a few minutes and then Uncle Eb letout another prisoner. The bee flew off a little way and then rose in aslanting course to the tree-tops. He showed us, however, that we werelooking the right way. 

'Them little fellers hev got a good compass, ' said Uncle Eb, as wefollowed the line of the bees. 'It p'ints home ev'ry time, an' nevermakes a mistake. '

We went further this time before releasing another. He showed us thatwe had borne out of our course a little and as we turned to followthere were half a dozen bees flying around the box, as if begging foradmission. 

'Here they are back agin, ' said Uncle Eb, 'an' they've told a lot o'their cronies 'bout the man an' the boy with honey. '

At length one of them flew over our heads and back in the direction wehad come from. 

'Ah, ha, ' said Uncle Eb, 'it's a bee tree an' we've passed it, but I'mgoin' t' keep lettin' 'em in an' out. Never heard uv a swarm o' beesgoin' fur away an' so we mus' be near the clearin'. '

In a little while we let one go that took a road of its own. The othershad gone back over our heads; this one bore off to the right in front ofus, and we followed. I was riding in the basket and was first to see thelight of the open through the tree-tops. But I didn't know what it meantuntil I heard the hearty 'hurrah' of Uncle Eb. 

We had come to smooth footing in a grove of maples and the clean trunksof the trees stood up as straight as a granite column. Presently we cameout upon wide fields of corn and clover, and as we looked back upon thegrove it had a rounded front and I think of it now as the vestibule ofthe great forest. 

'It's a reg'lar big tomb, ' said Uncle Eb, looking back over his shoulderinto the gloomy cavern of the woods. 

We could see a log house in the clearing, and we made for it as fast asour legs would carry us. We had a mighty thirst and when we came to alittle brook in the meadow we laid down and drank and drank until wewere fairly grunting with fullness. Then we filled our teapot and wenton. Men were reaping with their cradles in a field of grain and, as weneared the log house, a woman came out in the dooryard and, lifting ashell to her lips, blew a blast that rushed over the clearing and rangin the woods beyond it A loud halloo came back from the men. 

A small dog rushed out at Fred, barking, and, I suppose, with some lackof respect, for the old dog laid hold of him in a violent temper andsent him away yelping. We must have presented an evil aspect, for ourclothes were torn and we were both limping with fatigue. The woman hada kindly face and, after looking at us a moment, came and stooped beforeme and held my small face in her hands turning it so she could look intomy eyes. 

'You poor little critter, ' said she, 'where you goin'?'

Uncle Eb told her something about my father and mother being dead andour going west Then she hugged and kissed me and made me very miserable, I remember, wetting my face with her tears, that were quite beyond mycomprehension. 

'Jethro, ' said she, as the men came into the yard, 'I want ye t' lookat this boy. Did ye ever see such a cunnin' little critter? Jes' lookat them bright eyes!' and then she held me to her breast and nearlysmothered me and began to hum a bit of an old song. 

'Yer full o' mother love, ' said her husband, as he sat down on the grassa moment 'Lost her only baby, an' the good Lord has sent no other. Iswan, he has got putty eyes. Jes' as blue as a May flower. Ain't yehungry? Come right in, both o' ye, an' set down t' the table with us. '

They made room for us and we sat down between the bare elbows of thehired men. I remember my eyes came only to the top of the table. So thegood woman brought the family Bible and sitting on that firm foundationI ate my dinner of salt pork and potatoes and milk gravy a diet asgrateful as it was familiar to my taste. 

'Orphan, eh?' said the man of the house, looking down at me. 

'Orphan, ' Uncle Eb answered, nodding his head. 

'God-fearin' folks?'

'Best in the world, ' said Uncle Eb. 

Want t' bind 'im out?' the man asked. 

'Couldn't spare 'im, ' said Uncle Eb, decisively. 

'Where ye goin'?'

Uncle Eb hesitated, groping for an answer, I suppose, that would do noviolence to our mutual understanding. 

'Goin' t' heaven, ' I ventured to say presently--an answer that gave riseto conflicting emotions at the table. 

'That's right, ' said Uncle Eb, turning to me and patting my head. 'We'reon the road t' heaven, I hope, an' ye'll see it someday, sartin sure, ifye keep in the straight road and be a good boy. '

After dinner the good woman took off my clothes and put me in bed whileshe mended them. I went asleep then and did not awake for a long time. When I got up at last she brought a big basin of water and washed mewith such motherly tenderness in voice and manner that I have neverforgotten it. Uncle Eb lay sleeping on the lounge and when she hadfinished dressing me, Fred and I went out to play in the garden. Itwas supper time in a little while and then, again, the woman winded theshell and the men came up from the field. We sat down to eat with them, as we had done at noon, and Uncle Eb consented to spend the night aftersome urging. He helped them with the milking, and as I stood beside himshot a jet of the warm white flood into my mouth, that tickled it soI ran away laughing. The milking done, I sat on Uncle Eb's knee in thedoor-yard with all the rest of that household, hearing many tales ofthe wilderness, and of robbery and murder on Paradise Road. I got theimpression that it was a country of unexampled wickedness and ferocityin men and animals. One man told about the ghost of Burnt Bridge; howthe bridge had burnt one afternoon and how a certain traveller in thedark of the night driving down the hill above it, fell to his death atthe brink of the culvert. 

'An' every night since then, ' said the man, very positively, ye can hearhim drivin' down thet bill--jes' as plain as ye can hear me talkin'--therattle o' the wheels an' all. It stops sudden an' then ye can hear 'imhit the rocks way down there at the bottom O' the gulley an' groan an'groan. An' folks say it's a curse on the town for leavin' thet holeopen. '

'What's a ghost, Uncle Eb?' I whispered. 

'Somethin' like a swift, ' he answered, 'but not so powerful. We heard apanther las' night, ' he added, turning to our host. 'Hollered like sinwhen he see the fire. '

'Scairt!' said the man o' the house gaping. 'That's what ailed him. I'velived twenty year on Paradise Road an' it was all woods when I putup the cabin. Seen deer on the doorstep an' bears in the garden, an'panthers in the fields. But I tell ye there's no critter so terrible asa man. All the animals know 'im--how he roars, an' spits fire an' smokean' lead so it goes through a body er bites off a leg, mebbe. Guessthey'd made friends with me but them I didn't kill went away smartingwith holes in 'em. An' I guess they told all their people 'bout me--theterrible critter that walked on its hind legs an' lied a white face an'drew up an' spit 'is teeth into their vitals 'cross a ten-acre lot. An'putty soon they concluded they didn't want t' hev no truck with me. Theythought thin clearin' was the valley o' death an' they got verycareful. But the deer they kep' peekin' in at me. Sumthin' funny 'bout adeer--they're so cu'rus. Seem's though they loved the look o' me an' thetaste o' the tame grass. Mebbe God meant em t' serve in the yoke someway an' be the friend o' man. They're the outcasts o' the forest--theprey o' the other animals an' men like 'em only when they're dead. An' they're the purtiest critter alive an' the spryest an' the mos'graceful. '

'Men are the mos' terrible of all critters, an' the meanest, ' said UncleEb. 'They're the only critters that kill fer fun. '

'Bedtime, ' said our host, rising presently. 'Got t' be up early 'n themorning. '

We climbed a ladder to the top floor of the cabin with the hired men, ofwhom there were two. The good lady of the house had made a bed for uson the floor and I remember Fred came up the ladder too, and lay downbeside us. Uncle Eb was up with the men in the morning and at breakfasttime my hostess came and woke me with kisses and helped me to dress. When we were about going she brought a little wagon out of the cellarthat had been a playing of her dead boy, and said I could have it. Thiswonderful wagon was just the thing for the journey we were making. WhenI held the little tongue in my hand I was half-way to heaven already. Ithad four stout wheels and a beautiful red box. Her brother had sent itall the way from New York and it had stood so long in the cellar it wasnow much in need of repair. Uncle Eb took it to the tool shop in thestable and put it in shipshape order and made a little pair of thills togo in place of the tongue. Then he made a big flat collar and a back-padout of the leather in old boot-legs, and rigged a pair of tugs outof two pieces of rope. Old Fred was quite cast down when he stood inharness between the shafts. 

He had waited patiently to have his collar fitted; he had grinnedand panted and wagged his tail with no suspicion of the serious andhumiliating career he was entering upon. Now he stood with a sober faceand his aspect was full of meditation. 

'You fightin' hound!' said Uncle Eb, 'I hope this'll improve yercharacter. '

Fred tried to sit down when Uncle Eb tied a leading rope to his collar. When he heard the wheels rattle and felt the pull of the wagon he lookedback at it and growled a little and started to run. Uncle Eb shouted'whoa', and held him back, and then the dog got down on his belly andtrembled until we patted his head and gave him a kind word. He seemedto understand presently and came along with a steady stride. Our hostessmet us at the gate and the look of her face when she bade us goodbye andtucked some cookies into my pocket, has always lingered in my memory andput in me a mighty respect for all women. The sound of her voice, thetears, the waving of her handkerchief, as we went away, are among thethings that have made me what I am. 

We stowed our packages in the wagon box and I walked a few miles andthen got into the empty basket. Fred tipped his load over once or twice, but got a steady gait in the way of industry after a while and a morecheerful look. We had our dinner by the roadside on the bank of a brook, an hour or so after midday, and came to a little village about sundown. As we were nearing it there was some excitement among the dogs andone of them tackled Fred. He went into battle very promptly, the wagonjumping and rattling until it turned bottom up. Re-enforced by UncleEb's cane he soon saw the heels of his aggressor and stood growlingsavagely. He was like the goal in a puzzle maze all wound and tangledin his harness and it took some time to get his face before him and hisfeet free. 

At a small grocery where groups of men, just out of the fields, weresitting, their arms bare to the elbows, we bought more bread and butter. In paying for it Uncle Eb took a package out of his trouser pocket toget his change. It was tied in a red handkerchief and I remember itlooked to be about the size of his fist. He was putting it back when itfell from his hand, heavily, and I could hear the chink of coin as itstruck. One of the men, who sat near, picked it up and gave it back tohim. As I remember well, his kindness had an evil flavour, for he winkedat his companions, who nudged each other as they smiled knowingly. UncleEb was a bit cross, when I climbed into the basket, and walked along insilence so rapidly it worried the dog to keep pace. The leading rope wastied to the stock of the rifle and Fred's walking gait was too slow forthe comfort of his neck. 

'You shifless cuss! I'll put a kink in your neck fer you if ye don'twalk up, ' said Uncle Eb, as he looked back at the dog, in a temperwholly unworthy of him. 

We had crossed a deep valley and were climbing a long hill in the duskytwilight. 

'Willie, ' said Uncle Eb, 'your eyes are better'n mine--look back and seeif anyone's comin'. '

'Can't see anyone, ' I answered. 

'Look 'way back in the road as fur as ye can see. 

I did so, but I could see no one. He slackened his pace a little afterthat and before we had passed the hill it was getting dark. The road raninto woods and a river cut through them a little way from the clearing. 

'Supper time, Uncle Eb, ' I suggested, as we came to the bridge. 

'Supper time, Uncle Eb, ' he answered, turning down to the shore. 

I got out of the basket then and followed him in the brush. Fred foundit hard travelling here and shortly we took off his harness and left thewagon, transferring its load to the basket, while we pushed on to finda camping place. Back in the thick timber a long way from the road, webuilt a fire and had our supper. It was a dry nook in the pines--'tightas a house, ' Uncle Eb said--and carpeted with the fragrant needles. Whenwe lay on our backs in the firelight I remember the weary, droning voiceof Uncle Eb had an impressive accompaniment of whispers. While he toldstories I had a glowing cinder on the end of a stick and was weavingfiery skeins in the gloom. 

He had been telling me of a panther he had met in the woods, one day, and how the creature ran away at the sight of him. 

'Why's a panther 'fraid o' folks?' I enquired. 

'Wall, ye see, they used t' be friendly, years 'n years ago--folks 'npanthers--but they want eggszac'ly cal'lated t' git along t'gether someway. An' ol' she panther gin 'em one uv her cubs, a great while ago, jest' make frien's. The cub he grew big 'n used t' play 'n be very gentle. They wuz a boy he tuk to, an' both on 'em got very friendly. The boy 'nthe panther went off one day 'n the woods--guess 'twas more 'n a hundredyear ago--an' was lost. Walked all over 'n fin'ly got t' goin' round 'nround 'n a big circle 'til they was both on 'em tired out. Come nightthey lay down es hungry es tew bears. The boy he was kind o' 'fraid 'othe dark, so he got up clus t' the panther 'n lay 'tween his paws. Theboy he thought the panther smelt funny an' the panther he didn't jes'like the smell o' the boy. An' the boy he hed the legache 'n kickedthe panther 'n the belly, so 't he kin' o' gagged 'n spit an' they wantneither on 'em reel comf'able. The sof paws o' the panther was jes' likepincushions. He'd great hooks in 'em sharper 'n the p'int uv a needle. An' when he was goin' t' sleep he'd run 'em out jes' like an ol'cat--kind o' playfull--'n purr 'n pull. All t' once the boy feltsumthin' like a lot o' needles prickin' his back. Made him jump 'nholler like Sam Hill. The panther he spit sassy 'n riz up 'n smelt o'the ground. Didn't neither on 'em know what was the matter. Bime byethey lay down ag'in. 'Twant only a little while 'fore the boy feltsomethin' prickin' uv him. He hollered 'n kicked ag'in. The panther hegrowled 'n spit 'n dumb a tree 'n sot on a limb 'n peeked over at thetqueer little critter. Couldn't neither on 'em understan' it. The boyc'u'd see the eyes o' the panther 'n the dark. Shone like tew live coalseggszac'ly. The panther 'd never sot 'n a tree when he was hungry, 'nsee a boy below him. Sumthin' tol' him t' jump. Tail went swish in theleaves like thet. His whiskers quivered, his tongue come out. C'u'dthink o' nuthin' but his big empty belly. The boy was scairt. He up withhis gun quick es a flash. Aimed at his eyes 'n let 'er flicker. Blew alot o' smoke 'n bird shot 'n paper waddin' right up in t' his face. Thepanther he lost his whiskers 'n one eye 'n got his hide fill' o' shot'n fell off the tree like a ripe apple 'n run fer his life. Thought he'dnever see nuthin' c'u'd growl 'n spits powerful es thet boy. Never c'u'dbear the sight uv a man after thet. Allwus made him gag 'n spit t' thinko' the man critter. Went off tew his own folks 'n tol' o' the boy 'atspit fire 'n smoke 'n growled so't almos' tore his ears off An' now, whenever they hear a gun go off they allwus thank it's the man crittergrowlin'. An' they gag 'n spit 'n look es if it made 'em sick t'the stomach. An' the man folks they didn't hev no good 'pimon o' thepanthers after thet. Haint never been frien's any more. Fact is a man, he can be any kind uv a beast, but a panther he can't be nuthin' butjest a panther. '

Then, too, as we lay there in the firelight, Uncle Eb told theremarkable story of the gingerbread hear. He told it slowly, as if hisinvention were severely taxed. 

'Once they wuz a boy got lost. Was goin' cross lots t' play with 'notherboy 'n lied t' go through a strip o' woods. Went off the trail t' chasea butterfly 'n got lost. Hed his kite 'n' cross-gun 'n' he wandered allover 'til he was tired 'n hungry. Then he lay down t' cry on a bed o'moss. Putty quick they was a big black bear come along. 

'"What's the matter?" said the bear. 

'"Hungry, " says the boy. 

'"Tell ye what I'll dew, " says the bear. "If ye'll scratch my back ferme I'll let ye cut a piece o' my tail off t' eat. "

'Bear's tail, ye know, hes a lot o' meat on it--heam tell it was gran'good fare. So the boy he scratched the bear's back an' the bear hegrinned an' made his paw go patitty-pat on the ground--it did feel sosplendid. Then the boy tuk his jack-knife 'n begun t' cut off the bear'stail. The bear he flew mad 'n growled 'n growled so the boy he stopped'n didn't dast cut no more. 

'"Hurts awful, " says the bear. "Couldn't never stan' it. Tell ye whatI'll dew. Ye scratched my back an' now I'll scratch your'n. "

'Gee whiz!' said I. 

'Yessir, that's what the bear said, ' Uncle Eb went on. 'The boy he up'n run like a nailer. The bear he laughed hearty 'n scratched the groundlike Sam Hill, 'n flung the dirt higher'n his head. 

'"Look here, " says he, as the boy stopped, "I jes' swallered a piece omutton. Run yer hand int' my throat an I'll let ye hev it. "

'The bear he opened his mouth an' showed his big teeth. '

'Whew!' I whistled. 

'Thet's eggszac'ly what he done, ' said Uncle Eb. 'He showed 'em plain. The boy was scairter'n a weasel. The bear he jumped up 'an down on hishind legs 'n laughed 'n' hollered 'n' shook himself. 

'"Only jes' foolin, " says he, when he see the boy was goin' t' runag'in. "What ye 'fraid uv?"

'"Can't bear t' stay here, " says the boy, "'less ye'll keep yer mouthshet. "

'An the bear he shet his mouth 'n pinted to the big pocket 'n his furcoat 'n winked 'n motioned t' the boy. 

'The bear he reely did hev a pocket on the side uv his big fur coat. Theboy slid his hand in up t' the elbow. Wha' d'ye s'pose he found?'

'Durmo, ' said I. 

'Sumthin' t' eat, ' he continued. 'Boy liked it best uv all things. '

I guessed everything I could think of, from cookies to beefsteak, andgave up. 

'Gingerbread, ' said he, soberly, at length. 

'Thought ye said bears couldn't talk, ' I objected. 

'Wall, the boy 'd fell asleep an' he'd only dreamed o' the bear, ' saidUncle Eb. 'Ye see, bears can talk when boys are dreamin' uv 'em. Comedaylight, the boy got up 'n ketched a crow. Broke his wing with thecross-gun. Then he tied the kite swing on t' the crow's leg, an' thecrow flopped along 'n the boy followed him 'n bime bye they come out acornfield, where the crow'd been used t' comin' fer his dinner. '

'What 'come o' the boy?' said I. 

'Went home, ' said he, gaping, as he lay on his back and looked up at thetree-tops. 'An' he allwus said a bear was good comp'ny if he'd only keephis mouth shet--jes' like some folks I've hearn uv. '

'An' what 'come o' the crow?'

'Went t' the ol' crow doctor 'n got his wing fixed, ' he said, drowsily. And in a moment I heard him snoring. 

We had been asleep a long time when the barking of Fred woke us. I couldjust see Uncle Eb in the dim light of the fire, kneeling beside me, therifle in his hand. 

'I'll fill ye full o' lead if ye come any nearer, ' he shouted. 

Chapter 4

We listened awhile then but heard no sound in the thicket, although Fredwas growling ominously, his hair on end. As for myself I never had amore fearful hour than that we suffered before the light of morningcame. 

I made no outcry, but clung to my old companion, trembling. He did notstir for a few minutes, and then we crept cautiously into the smallhemlocks on one side of the opening. 

'Keep still, ' he whispered, 'don't move er speak. '

Presently we heard a move in the brush and then quick as a flash UncleEb lifted his rifle and fired in the direction of it Before the loudecho had gone off in the woods we heard something break through thebrush at a run. 

''S a man, ' said Uncle Eb, as he listened. 'He ain't a losin' no timenuther. '

We sat listening as the sound grew fainter, and when it ceased entirelyUncle Eb said he must have got to the road. After a little the lightof the morning began sifting down through the tree-tops and was greetedwith innumerable songs. 

'He done noble, ' said Uncle Eb, patting the old dog as he rose to pokethe fire. 'Putty good chap I call 'im! He can hev half o' my dinner anytime he wants it. '

'Who do you suppose it was?' I enquired. 

'Robbers, I guess, ' he answered, 'an' they'll be layin' fer us whenwe go out, mebbe; but, if they are, Fred'll find 'em an' I've got Ol'Trusty here 'n' I guess thet'll take care uv us. '

His rifle was always flattered with that name of Ol' Trusty when it haddone him a good turn. 

Soon as the light had come clear he went out in the near woods with dogand rifle and beat around in the brush. He returned shortly and said hehad seen where they came and went. 

'I'd a killed em deader 'n a door nail, ' said he, laying down the oldrifle, 'if they'd a come any nearer. '

Then we brought water from the river and had our breakfast. Fred went onahead of us, when we started for the road, scurrying through the brushon both sides of the trail, as if he knew what was expected of him. Heflushed a number of partridges and Uncle Eb killed one of them on ourway to the road. We resumed our journey without any further adventure. It was so smooth and level under foot that Uncle Eb let me get in thewagon after Fred was hitched to it The old dog went along soberly andwithout much effort, save when we came to hills or sandy places, whenI always got out and ran on behind. Uncle Eb showed me how to brake thewheels with a long stick going downhill. I remember how it hit the dog'sheels at the first down grade, and how he ran to keep out of the wayof it We were going like mad in half a minute, Uncle Eb coming after uscalling to the dog. Fred only looked over his shoulder, with a wild eye, at the rattling wagon and ran the harder. He leaped aside at the bottomand then we went all in a heap. Fortunately no harm was done. 

'I declare!' said Uncle Eb as he came up to us, puffing like a spenthorse, and picked me up unhurt and began to untangle the harness of oldFred, 'I guess he must a thought the devil was after him. '

The dog growled a little for a moment and bit at the harness, butcoaxing reassured him and he went along all right again on the level. Ata small settlement the children came out and ran along beside my wagon, laughing and asking me questions. Some of them tried to pet the dog, butold Fred kept to his labour at the heels of Uncle Eb and looked neitherto right nor left. We stopped under a tree by the side of a narrow brookfor our dinner, and one incident of that meal I think of always whenI think of Uncle Eb. It shows the manner of man he was and with whatunderstanding and sympathy he regarded every living thing. In rinsinghis teapot he accidentally poured a bit of water on a big bumble-bee. The poor creature struggled to lift hill, and then another downpourcaught him and still another until his wings fell drenched. Then hisbreast began heaving violently, his legs stiffened behind him and hesank, head downward, in the grass. Uncle Eb saw the death throes of thebee and knelt down and lifted the dead body by one of its wings. 

'Jes' look at his velvet coat, ' he said, 'an' his wings all wet n'stiff. They'll never carry him another journey. It's too bad a man hast' kill every step he takes. '

The bee's tail was moving faintly and Uncle Eb laid him out in the warmsunlight and fanned him awhile with his hat, trying to bring back thebreath of life. 

'Guilty!' he said, presently, coming back with a sober face. 'Thet's adead bee. No tellin' how many was dependent on him er what plans he bed. Must a gi'n him a lot o' pleasure t' fly round in the sunlight, workin'every fair day. 'S all over now. '

He had a gloomy face for an hour after that and many a time, in the daysthat followed, I heard him speak of the murdered bee. 

We lay resting awhile after dinner and watching a big city of ants. Uncle Eb told me how they tilled the soil of the mound every year andsowed their own kind of grain--a small white seed like rice--and reapedtheir harvest in the late summer, storing the crop in their dry cellarsunder ground. He told me also the story of the ant lion--a big beetlethat lives in the jungles of the grain and the grass--of which Iremember only an outline, more or less imperfect. 

Here it is in my own rewording of his tale: On a bright day one of thelittle black folks went off on a long road in a great field of barley. He was going to another city of his own people to bring helpers for theharvest. He came shortly to a sandy place where the barley was thin andthe hot sunlight lay near to the ground. In a little valley close bythe road of the ants he saw a deep pit, in the sand, with steep sidessloping to a point in the middle and as big around as a biscuit. Nowthe ants are a curious people and go looking for things that are new andwonderful as they walk abroad, so they have much to tell worth hearingafter a journey. The little traveller was young and had no fear, so heleft the road and went down to the pit and peeped over the side of it. 

'What in the world is the meaning of this queer place?' he asked himselfas he ran around the rim. In a moment he had stepped over and the softsand began to cave and slide beneath him. Quick as a flash the biglion-beetle rose up in the centre of the pit and began to reach forhim. Then his legs flew in the caving sand and the young ant struckhis blades in it to hold the little he could gain. Upward he struggled, leaping and floundering in the dust. He had got near the rim and hadstopped, clinging to get his breath, when the lion began flinging thesand at him with his long feelers. It rose in a cloud and fell on theback of the ant and pulled at him as it swept down. He could feel themighty cleavers of the lion striking near his hind legs and pulling thesand from under them. He must go down in a moment and he knew what thatmeant. He had heard the old men of the tribe tell often--how they holdone helpless and slash him into a dozen pieces. He was letting go, indespair, when he felt a hand on his neck. Looking up he saw one of hisown people reaching over the rim, and in a jiffy they had shut theirfangs together. He moved little by little as the other tagged at him, and in a moment was out of the trap and could feel the honest earthunder him. When they had got home and told their adventure, some werefor going to slay the beetle. 

'There is never a pit in the path o' duty, ' said the wise old chief ofthe little black folks. 'See that you keep in the straight road. '

'If our brother had not left the straight road, ' said one who stoodnear, 'he that was in danger would have gone down into the pit. '

'It matters much, ' he answered, 'whether it was kindness or curiositythat led him out of the road. But he that follows a fool hath much needof wisdom, for if he save the fool do ye not see that he hath encouragedfolly?'

Of course I had then no proper understanding of the chiefs counsel, nordo I pretend even to remember it from that first telling, but the talewas told frequently in the course of my long acquaintance with Uncle Eb. 

The diary of my good old friend lies before me as I write, the leavesturned yellow and the entries dim. I remember how stern he grew of anevening when he took out this sacred little record of our wanderings andbegan to write in it with his stub of a pencil. He wrote slowly and readand reread each entry with great care as I held the torch for him. 'Bestill, boy--be still, ' he would say when some pressing interrogatorypassed my lips, and then he would bend to his work while the point ofhis pencil bored further into my patience. Beginning here I shall quotea few entries from the diary as they cover, with sufficient detail, anuneventful period of our journey. 

AUGUST 20 Killed a partridge today. Biled it in the teapot for dinner. Went good. 14 mild. 

AUGUST 21 Seen a deer this morning. Fred fit ag'in. Come near spilin'the wagon. Hed to stop and fix the ex. 10 mild. 

AUGUST 22 Clumb a tree this morning after wild grapes. Come nearfalling. Gin me a little crick in the back. Willie hes got a stun bruze. 12 mild. 

AUGUST 23 Went in swinmun. Ketched a few fish before breakfus'. Gotprovisions an' two case knives an' one fork, also one tin pie-plate. Used same to fry fish for dinner. 14 mild. 

AUGUST 24 Got some spirits for Willie to rub on my back. Boots wearingout. Terrible hot. Lay in the shade in the heat of the day. Gypsies comean' camped by us tonight. 10 mild. 

I remember well the coming of those gypsies. We were fishing in sight ofthe road and our fire was crackling on the smooth cropped shore. The bigwagons of the gypsies--there were four of them as red and beautiful asthose of a circus caravan--halted about sundown while the men came overa moment to scan the field. Presently they went back and turned theirwagons into the siding and began to unhitch. Then a lot of barefootedchildren, and women under gay shawls, overran the field gathering woodand making ready for night. Meanwhile swarthy drivers took the horses towater and tethered them with long ropes so they could crop the grass ofthe roadside. 

One tall, bony man, with a face almost as black as that of an Indian, brought a big iron pot and set it up near the water. A big stew of beefbone, leeks and potatoes began to cook shortly, and I remember it hadsuch a goodly smell I was minded to ask them for a taste of it. A littlecity of strange people had surrounded us of a sudden. Uncle Eb thoughtof going on, but the night was coming fast and there would be no moonand we were footsore and hungry. Women and children came over to ourfire, after supper, and made more of me than I liked. I remember takingrefuge between the knees of Uncle Eb, and Fred sat close in front ofus growling fiercely when they came too near. They stood about, lookingdown at us and whispered together, and one young miss of the tribe cameup and tried to kiss me in spite of Fred's warnings: She had flashingblack eyes and hair as dark as the night, that fell in a curling massupon her shoulders; but, somehow, I had a mighty fear of her and foughtwith desperation to keep my face from the touch of her red lips. UncleEb laughed and held Fred by the collar, and I began to cry out interror, presently, when, to my great relief, she let go and ran away toher own people. They all went away to their wagons, save one young man, who was tall with light hair and a fair skin, and who looked like noneof the other gypsies. 

'Take care of yourself, ' he whispered, as soon as the rest had gone. 'These are bad people. You'd better be off. '

The young man left us and Uncle Eb began to pack up at once. They weregoing to bed in their wagons when we came away. I stood in the basketand Fred drew the wagon that had in it only a few bundles. A mile ormore further on we came to a lonely, deserted cabin close to the road. It had began to thunder in the distance and the wind was blowing damp. 

'Guess nobody lives here, ' said Uncle Eb as he turned in at the sagginggate and began to cross the little patch of weeds and hollyhocks behindit 'Door's half down, but I guess it'll de better'n no house. Goin' t'rain sartin. '

I was nodding a little about then, I remember; but I was wide awake whenhe took me out of the basket The old house stood on a high hill, andwe could see the stars of heaven through the ruined door and one of theback windows. Uncle Eb lifted the leaning door a little and shoved itaside. We heard then a quick stir in the old house--a loud and ghostlyrattle it seems now as I think of it--like that made by linen shaking onthe line. Uncle Eb took a step backward as if it had startled him. 

'Guess it's nuthin' to be 'fraid of;' he said, feeling in the pet of hiscoat He had struck a match in a moment. By its flickering light I couldsee only a bit of rubbish on the floor. 

'Full o' white owls, ' said he, stepping inside, where the rustling wasnow continuous. 'They'll do us no harm. '

I could see them now flying about under the low ceiling. Uncle Ebgathered an gathered an armful of grass and clover, in the near field, and spread it in a corner well away from the ruined door and windows. Covered with our blanket it made a fairly comfortable bed. Soon as wehad lain down, the rain began to rattle on the shaky roof and flashes oflightning lit every corner of the old room. 

I have had, ever, a curious love of storms, and, from the time whenmemory began its record in my brain, it has delighted me to hear atnight the roar of thunder and see the swift play of the lightning. Ilay between Uncle Eb and the old dog, who both went asleep shortly. Less wearied I presume than either of them, for I had done none of thecarrying, and had slept along time that day in the shade of a tree, Iwas awake an hour or more after they were snoring. Every flash lit theold room like the full glare of the noonday sun. I remember it showed mean old cradle, piled full of rubbish, a rusty scythe hung in the rottingsash of a window, a few lengths of stove-pipe and a plough in onecorner, and three staring white owls that sat on a beam above thedoorway. The rain roared on the old roof shortly, and came dripping downthrough the bare boards above us. A big drop struck in my face and Imoved a little. Then I saw what made me hold my breath a moment andcover my head with the shawl. A flash of lightning revealed a tall, ragged man looking in at the doorway. I lay close to Uncle Eb imaginingmuch evil of that vision but made no outcry. 

Snugged in between my two companions I felt reasonably secure and soonfell asleep. The sun, streaming in at the open door, roused me in themorning. At the beginning of each day of our journey I woke to findUncle Eb cooking at the fire. He was lying beside me, this morning, hiseyes open. 

'Fraid I'm hard sick, ' he said as I kissed him. 

'What's the matter?' I enquired. 

He struggled to a sitting posture, groaning so it went to my heart. 

'Rheumatiz, ' he answered presently. 

He got to his feet, little by little, and every move he made gave himgreat pain. With one hand on his cane and the other on my shoulder hemade his way slowly to the broken gate. Even now I can see clearly thefair prospect of that high place--a valley reaching to distant hills anda river winding through it, glimmering in the sunlight; a long woodedledge breaking into naked, grassy slopes on one side of the valley andon the other a deep forest rolling to the far horizon; between them bigpatches of yellow grain and white buckwheat and green pasture land andgreener meadows and the straight road, with white houses on either sideof it, glorious in a double fringe of golden rod and purple aster andyellow John's-wort and the deep blue of the Jacob's ladder. 

'Looks a good deal like the promised land, ' said Uncle Eb. 'Hain't gotmuch further t' go. '

He sat on the rotting threshold while I pulled some of the weeds infront of the doorstep and brought kindlings out of the house and built afire. While we were eating I told Uncle Eb of the man that I had seen inthe night. 

'Guess you was dreamin', ' he said, and, while I stood firm for thereality of that I had seen, it held our thought only for a brief moment. My companion was unable to walk that day so we lay by, in the shelter ofthe old house, eating as little of our scanty store as we could dowith. I went to a spring near by for water and picked a good mess ofblackberries that I hid away until supper time, so as to surprise UncleEb. A longer day than that we spent in the old house, after our coming, I have never known. I made the room a bit tidier and gathered more grassfor bedding. Uncle Eb felt better as the day grew warm. I had a busytime of it that morning bathing his back in the spirits and rubbinguntil my small arms ached. I have heard him tell often how vigorouslyI worked that day and how I would say: 'I'll take care o' you, UncleEb--won't I, Uncle Eb?' as my little hands flew with redoubled energy onhis bare skin. That finished we lay down sleeping until the sun was low, when I made ready the supper that took the last of everything we had toeat. Uncle Eb was more like himself that evening and, sitting up in thecorner, as the darkness came, told me the story of Squirreltown and FrogFerry, which came to be so great a standby in those days that, even now, I can recall much of the language in which he told it. 

'Once, ' he said, 'there was a boy thet hed two grey squirrels in a cage. They kep' thinkin' o' the time they used t' scamper in the tree-tops an'make nests an' eat all the nuts they wanted an' play I spy in the thickleaves. An they grew poor an' looked kind o' ragged an' sickly an'downhearted. When he brought 'em outdoors they used t' look up in thetrees an' run in the wire wheel as if they thought they could get theresometime if they kep' goin'. As the boy grew older he see it was cruelto keep 'em shet in a cage, but he'd hed em a long time an' couldn'tbear t' give 'em up. 

'One day he was out in the woods a little back o' the clearin'. All t'once he heard a swift holler. 'Twas nearby an' echoed so he couldn'ttell which way it come from. He run fer home but the critter ketched 'imbefore he got out o' the woods an' took 'im into a cave, an' give 'im t'the little swifts t' play with. The boy cried terrible. The swifts theylaughed an' nudged each other. 

'"O ain't he cute!" says one. "He's a beauty!" says another. "Cur'us howhe can git along without any fur, " says the mother swift, as she run ernose over 'is bare foot. He thought of 'is folks waitin' fer him an' hebegged em t' let 'im go. Then they come an' smelt 'im over. 

'"Yer sech a cunnin' critter, " says the mother swift, "we couldn't spareye. "

'"Want to see my mother, " says the boy sobbing. 

'"Couldn't afford t' let ye go--yer so cute, " says the swift. "Bring thepoor critter a bone an' a bit o' snake meat. "

'The boy couldn't eat. They fixed a bed fer him, but 'twant clean. Thefeel uv it made his back ache an' the smell uv it made him sick to hisstomach. 

'"When the swifts hed comp'ny they 'd bring 'em overt' look at him there'n his dark corner. " "S a boy, " said the mother swift pokin' him with along stick "Wouldn't ye like t' see 'im run?" Then she punched him untilhe got up an' run 'round the cave fer his life. Happened one day et avery benevolent swift come int' the cave. 

'"'S a pity t' keep the boy here, " said he; "he looks bad. "

'"But he makes fun fer the children, " said the swift. 

'"Fun that makes misery is only fit fer a fool, " said the visitor. 

'They let him go thet day. Soon as he got hum he thought o' thesquirrels an' was tickled t' find 'em alive. He tak 'em off to anisland, in the middle of a big lake, thet very day, an' set the cage onthe shore n' opened it He thought he would come back sometime an' seehow they was ginin' along. The cage was made of light wire an' hed atin bottom fastened to a big piece o' plank. At fust they was 'fraid t'leave it an' peeked out o' the door an' scratched their heads's if theythought it a resky business. After awhile one stepped out careful an'then the other followed. They tried t' climb a tree, but their nails waswore off an' they kep' fallin' back. Then they went off 'n the brush t'find some nuts. There was only pines an' poppies an' white birch an' afew berry bushes on the island. They went t' the water's edge on everyside, but there was nuthin there a squirrel ud give a flirt uv histail fer. 'Twas near dark when they come back t' the cage hungry as tewbears. They found a few crumbs o' bread in the cup an' divided 'em even. Then they went t' bed 'n their ol' nest. 

'It hed been rainin' a week in the mount'ins. Thet night the lake rosea foot er more an' 'fore mornin' the cage begun t' rock a teenty bit asthe water lifted the plank. They slep' all the better fer thet an' theydreamed they was up in a tree at the end uv a big bough. The cage begunt' sway sideways and then it let go o' the shore an' spun 'round once ertwice an' sailed out 'n the deep water. There was a light breeze blowin'offshore an' purty soon it was pitchin' like a ship in the sea. But thetwo squirrels was very tired an' never woke up 'til sunrise. They got aterrible scare when they see the water 'round 'em an' felt the motiono' the ship. Both on 'em ran into the wire wheel an' that bore down thestern o' the ship so the under wires touched the water. They made itspin like a buzz saw an' got their clothes all wet. The ship went fasterwhen they worked the wheel, an' bime bye they got tired an' come outon the main deck. The water washed over it a little so they clim up theroof thet was a kin' uv a hurricane deck. It made the ship sway an' rockfearful but they hung on 'midships, an' clung t' the handle that stuckup like a top mast. Their big tails was spread over their shoulders, an' the wind rose an' the ship went faster 'n faster. They could see themain shore where the big woods come down t' the water 'n' all the whileit kep' a comin' nearer 'n' nearer. But they was so hungry didn't seempossible they could live to git there. 

'Ye know squirrels are a savin' people. In the day o' plenty they thinko' the day o' poverty an' lay by fer it. All at once one uv 'em thoughtuv a few kernels o' corn, he hed pushed through a little crack in thetin floor one day a long time ago. It happened there was quite a holeunder the crack an' each uv 'em bad stored some kernels unbeknown t'the other. So they hed a good supper 'n' some left fer a bite 'n themornin'. 'Fore daylight the ship made her pott 'n' lay to, 'side liv alog in a little cove. The bullfrogs jumped on her main deck an' begunt' holler soon as she hove to: "all ashore! all ashore! all ashore!" Thetwo squirrels woke up but lay quiet 'til the sun rose. Then they comeout on the log 'et looked like a long dock an' run ashore 'n' foun' someo' their own folks in the bush. An' when they bed tol' their story theol' father o' the tribe got up 'n a tree an' hollered himself hoarsepreachin' 'bout how 't paid t' be savin'. 

'"An' we should learn t' save our wisdom es well es our nuts, " said asassy brother; "fer each needs his own wisdom fer his own affairs. "

'An the little ship went back 'n' forth 'cross the cove as the win'blew. The squirrels hed many a fine ride in her an' the frogs were theferrymen. An' all 'long thet shore 'twas known es Frog Ferry 'mong thesquirrel folks. '

It was very dark when he finished the tale an' as we lay gaping a fewminutes after my last query about those funny people of the lake marginI could hear nothing but the chirping of the crickets. I was feelinga bit sleepy when I heard the boards creak above our heads. Uncle Eliraised himself and lay braced upon his elbow listening. In a few momentswe heard a sound as of someone coming softly down the ladder at theother end of the room. It was so dark I could see nothing. 

'Who's there?' Uncle Eb demanded. 

'Don't p'int thet gun at me, ' somebody whispered. 'This is my home and Iwarn ye t' leave it er I'll do ye harm. '

Chapter 5

Here I shall quote you again from the diary of Uncle Eb. 'It was so darkI couldn't see a han' before me. "Don't p'int yer gun at me, " the manwhispered. Thought 'twas funny he could see me when I couldn't see him. Said 'twas his home an' we'd better leave. Tol him I was sick (rumatiz)an' couldn't stir. Said he was sorry an' come over near us. Tol' him Iwas an' ol' man goin' west with a small boy. Stopped in the rain. Gotsick. Out o' purvisions. 'Bout ready t' die. Did'n know what t' do. Started t' stike a match an' the man said don't make no light cos Idon't want to hev ye see my face. Never let nobody see my face. Said henever went out 'less 'twas a dark night until folks was abed. Said welooked like good folks. Scairt me a little cos we couldn't see a thing. Also he said don't be 'fraid of me. Do what I can fer ye. '

I remember the man crossed the creaking floor and sat down near us afterhe had parleyed with Uncle Eb awhile in whispers. Young as I was I keepa vivid impression of that night and, aided by the diary of Uncle Eb, Ihave made a record of what was said that is, in the main, accurate. 

'Do you know where you are?' he enquired presently, whispering as he haddone before. 

'I've no idee, ' said Uncle Eb. 

'Well, down the hill is Paradise Valley in the township o' Faraway, 'he continued. 'It's the end o' Paradise Road an' a purty country. Beensettled a long time an' the farms are big an' prosperous--kind uv a lando' plenty. That big house at the foot o' the hill is Dave Brower's. He'sthe richest man in the valley. '

'How do you happen t' be livin' here?--if ye don't min' tellin' me, 'Uncle Eb asked. 

'Crazy, ' said he; ''fraid uv everybody an' everybody's 'fraid o' me. Lived a good long time in this way. Winters I go into the big woods. Gota camp in a big cave an' when I'm there I see a little daylight. Here 'nthe clearin' I'm only up in the night-time. Thet's how I've come to seeso well in the dark. It's give me cat's eyes. '

'Don't ye git lonesome?' Uncle Eb asked. 

'Awful--sometimes, ' he answered with a sad sigh, 'an' it seems good t'talk with somebody besides myself. I get enough to eat generally. Thereare deer in the woods an' cows in the fields, ye know, an' potatoes an'corn an' berries an' apples, an' all thet kind o' thing. Then I've gotmy traps in the woods where I ketch partridges, an' squirrels an' coonsan' all the meat I need. I've got a place in the thick timber t' do mycookin'--all I want t' do--in the middle of the night Sometimes I comehere an' spend a day in the garret if I'm caught in a storm or if Ihappen to stay a little too late in the valley. Once in a great whileI meet a man somewhere in the open but he always gits away quick as hecan. Guess they think I'm a ghost--dunno what I think o' them. '

Our host went on talking as if he were glad to tell the secrets of hisheart to some creature of his own kind. I have often wondered at hisfrankness; but there was a fatherly tenderness, I remember in the voiceof Uncle Eb, and I judge it tempted his confidence. Probably the loveof companionship can never be so dead in a man but that the voice ofkindness may call it back to life again. 

'I'll bring you a bite t' eat before morning, ' he said, presently, as herose to go, 'leet me feel o' your han', mister. '

Uncle Eb gave him his hand and thanked him. 

'Feels good. First I've hed hold of in a long time, ' he whispered. 

'What's the day o' the month?'

'The twenty-fifth. '

'I must remember. Where did you come from?'

Uncle Eb told him, briefly, the story of our going west

'Guess you'd never do me no harm--would ye?' the man asked. 'Not a bit, 'Uncle Eb answered. 

Then he bade us goodbye, crossed the creaking floor and went away in thedarkness. 

'Sing'lar character!' Uncle Eb muttered. 

I was getting drowsy and that was the last I heard. In the morning wefound a small pail of milk sitting near us, a roasted partridge, twofried fish and some boiled potatoes. It was more than enough to carryus through the day with a fair allowance for Fred. Uncle Eb was a bitbetter but very lame at that and kept to his bed the greater part of theday. The time went slow with me I remember. Uncle Eb was not cheerfuland told me but one story and that had no life in it. At dusk he let mego out in the road to play awhile with Fred and the wagon, but came tothe door and called us in shortly. I went to bed in a rather unhappyflame of mind. The dog roused me by barking in the middle of the rightand I heard again the familiar whisper of the stranger. 

'Sh-h-h! be still, dog, ' he whispered; but I was up to my ears in sleepand went under shortly, so I have no knowledge of what passed thatnight. Uncle Eb tells in his diary that he had a talk with him lastingmore than an hour, but goes no further and never seemed willing to talkmuch about that interview or others that followed it. 

I only know the man had brought more milk and fish and fowl for us. Westayed another day in the old house, that went like the last, and thenight man came again to see Uncle Eb. The next morning my companion wasable to walk more freely, but Fred and I had to stop and wait for himvery often going down the big hill. I was mighty glad when we wereleaving the musty old house for good and had the dog hitched withall our traps in the wagon. It was a bright morning and the sunlightglimmered on the dew in the broad valley. The men were just coming frombreakfast when we turned in at David Brower's. A barefooted little girla bit older than I, with red cheeks and blue eyes and long curly hair, that shone like gold in the sunlight, came running out to meet us andled me up to the doorstep, highly amused at the sight of Fred and thewagon. I regarded her with curiosity and suspicion at first, while UncleEb was talking with the men. I shall never forget that moment when DavidBrower came and lifted me by the shoulders, high above his head, andshook me as if to test my mettle. He led me into the house then wherehis wife was working. 

'What do you think of this small bit of a boy?' he asked. 

She had already knelt on the floor and put her arms about my neck andkissed me. 

'Am' no home, ' said he. 'Come all the way from Vermont with an ol' man. They're worn out both uv 'em. Guess we'd better take 'em in awhile. '

'O yes, mother--please, mother, ' put in the little girl who was holdingmy hand. 'He can sleep with me, mother. Please let him stay. '

She knelt beside me and put her arms around my little shoulders and drewme to her breast and spoke to me very tenderly. 

'Please let him stay, ' the girl pleaded again. 

'David, ' said the woman, 'I couldn't turn the little thing away. Won'tye hand me those cookies. '

And so our life began in Paradise Valley. Ten minutes later I wasplaying my first game of 'I spy' with little Hope Brower, among thefragrant stooks of wheat in the field back of the garden. 

Chapter 6

The lone pine stood in Brower's pasture, just clear of the woods. Whenthe sun rose, one could see its taper shadow stretching away to thefoot of Woody Ledge, and at sunset it lay like a fallen mast athwartthe cow-paths, its long top arm a flying pennant on the side of Bowman'sHill. In summer this bar of shadow moved like a clock-hand on the greendial of the pasture, and the help could tell the time by the slantof it. Lone Pine had a mighty girth at the bottom, and its bare bodytapered into the sky as straight as an arrow. Uncle Eb used to say thatits one long, naked branch that swung and creaked near the top of it, like a sign of hospitality on the highway of the birds, was two hundredfeet above ground. There were a few stubs here and there upon itsshaft--the roost of crows and owls and hen-hawks. It must have passedfor a low resort in the feathered kingdom because it was only therobbers of the sky that halted on Lone Pine. 

This towering shaft of dead timber commemorated the ancient forestthrough which the northern Yankees cut their trails in the beginning ofthe century. They were a tall, big fisted, brawny lot of men who cameacross the Adirondacks from Vermont, and began to break the green canopythat for ages had covered the valley of the St Lawrence. Generally theydrove a cow with them, and such game as they could kill on the journeysupplemented their diet of 'pudding and milk'. Some settled where thewagon broke or where they had buried a member of the family, and therethey cleared the forests that once covered the smooth acres of today. Gradually the rough surface of the trail grew smoother until it becameParadise Road--the well-worn thoroughfare of the stagecoach with its'inns and outs', as the drivers used to say--the inns where the 'menfolks' sat in the firelight of the blazing logs after supper andtold tales of adventure until bedtime, while the women sat with theirknitting in the parlour, and the young men wrestled in the stableyard. The men of middle age had stooped and massive shoulders, anddeep-furrowed brows: Tell one of them he was growing old and he mightanswer you by holding his whip in front of him and leaping over itbetween his hands. 

There was a little clearing around that big pine tree when David Browersettled in the valley. Its shadows shifting in the light of sun andmoon, like the arm of a compass, swept the spreading acres of his farm, and he built his house some forty rods from the foot of it on higherground. David was the oldest of thirteen children. His father had diedthe year before he came to St Lawrence county, leaving him nothing butheavy responsibilities. Fortunately, his great strength and his kindlynature were equal to the burden. Mother and children were landed safelyin their new home on Bowman's Hill the day that David was eighteen. Ihave heard the old folks of that country tell what a splendid figure ofa man he was those days--six feet one in his stockings and broad at theshoulder. His eyes were grey and set under heavy brows. I have neverforgotten the big man that laid hold of me and the broad clean-shavenserious face, that looked into mine the day I came to Paradise Valley. As I write I can see plainly his dimpled chin, his large nose, his firmmouth that was the key to his character. 'Open or shet, ' I have heardthe old folks say, 'it showed he was no fool. '

After two years David took a wife and settled in Paradise Valley. Heprospered in a small way considered handsome thereabouts. In a few yearshe had cleared the rich acres of his farm to the sugar bush that was thenorth vestibule of the big forest; he had seen the clearing widen untilhe could discern the bare summits of the distant hills, and, far ashe could see, were the neat white houses of the settlers. Children hadcome, three of them--the eldest a son who had left home and died in afar country long before we came to Paradise Valley--the youngest a baby. 

I could not have enjoyed my new home more if I had been born in it. Ihad much need of a mother's tenderness, no doubt, for I remember withwhat a sense of peace and comfort I lay on the lap of Elizabeth Brower, that first evening, and heard her singing as she rocked. The littledaughter stood at her knees, looking down at me and patting my bare toesor reaching over to feel my face. 

'God sent him to us--didn't he, mother?' said she. 

'Maybe, ' Mrs Brower answered, 'we'll be good to him, anyway. '

Then that old query came into my mind. I asked them if it was heavenwhere we were. 

'No, ' they answered. 

''Tain't anywhere near here, is it?' I went on. 

Then she told me about the gate of death, and began sowing in me theseed of God's truth--as I know now the seed of many harvests. I sleptwith Uncle Eb in the garret, that night, and for long after we came tothe Brower's. He continued to get better, and was shortly able to givehis hand to the work of the farm. 

There was room for all of us in that ample wilderness of hisimagination, and the cry of the swift woke its echoes every evening fora time. Bears and panthers prowled in the deep thickets, but the swiftstook a firmer grip on us, being bolder and more terrible. Uncle Ebbecame a great favourite in the family, and David Brower came to knowsoon that he was 'a good man to work' and could be trusted 'to lookafter things'. We had not been there long when I heard Elizabeth speakof Nehemiah--her lost son--and his name was often on the lips of others. He was a boy of sixteen when he went away, and I learned no more of himuntil long afterwards. 

A month or more after we came to Faraway, I remember we went 'cross lotsin a big box wagon to the orchard on the hill and gathered apples thatfell in a shower when Uncle Eb went up to shake them down. Then cane theraw days of late October, when the crows went flying southward beforethe wind--a noisy pirate fleet that filled the sky at times--and when weall put on our mittens and went down the winding cow-paths to the groveof butternuts in the pasture. The great roof of the wilderness hadturned red and faded into yellow. Soon its rafters began to showthrough, and then, in a day or two, they were all bare but for somepatches of evergreen. Great, golden drifts of foliage lay higher thana man's head in the timber land about the clearing. We had our best funthen, playing 'I spy' in the groves. 

In that fragrant deep of leaves one might lie undiscovered a long time. He could hear roaring like that of water at every move of the finder, wallowing nearer and nearer possibly, in his search. Old Fred camegenerally rooting his way to us in the deep drift with unerringaccuracy. 

And shortly winter came out of the north and, of a night, after rappingat the windows and howling in the chimney and roaring in the big woods, took possession of the earth. That was a time when hard cider flowedfreely and recollection found a ready tongue among the older folk, andthe young enjoyed many diversions, including measles and whooping cough. 

Chapter 7

I had a lot of fun that first winter, but none that I can remember moregratefully than our trip in the sledgehouse--a tight little housefitted and fastened to a big sledge. Uncle Eb had to go to mill atHillsborough, some twelve miles away, and Hope and I, after muchcoaxing and many family counsels, got leave to go with him. The sky wascloudless, and the frosty air was all aglow in the sunlight that morningwe started. There was a little sheet iron stove in one corner of thesledgehouse, walled in with zinc and anchored with wires; a layer ofhay covered the floor and over that we spread our furs and blankets. Thehouse had an open front, and Uncle Eb sat on the doorstep, as it were, to drive, while we sat behind him on the blankets. 

'I love you very much, ' said Hope, embracing me, after we were seated. Her affection embarrassed me, I remember. It seemed unmanly to be pettedlike a doll. 

'I hate to be kissed, ' I said, pulling away from her, at which Uncle Eblaughed heartily. 

The day came when I would have given half my life for the words I heldso cheaply then. 

'You'd better be good t' me, ' she answered, 'for when mother dies I'mgoin' t' take care o' you. Uncle Eb and Gran'ma Bisnette an' you an'everybody I love is goin' t' come an' live with me in a big, big house. An' I'm goin' t' put you t' bed nights an' hear ye say yer prayers aneverything. '

'Who'll do the spankin?' Uncle Eb asked. 

'My husban', ' she answered, with a sigh at the thought of all thetrouble that lay before her. 

'An' I'll make him rub your back, too, Uncle Eb, ' she added. 'Wall, Irather guess he'll object to that, ' said he. 

'Then you can give 'ins five cents, an' I guess he'll be glad t' do it, 'she answered promptly. 

'Poor man! He won't know whether he's runnin' a poorhouse er a hospital, will he?' said Uncle Eb. 'Look here, children, ' he added, taking out hisold leather wallet, as he held the reins between his knees. 'Here's tewshillin' apiece for ye, an' I want ye t' spend it jest eggsackly as yeplease. ' The last words were spoken slowly and with emphasis. 

We took the two silver pieces that he handed to us and looked them allover and compared them. 

'I know what I'll do, ' said she, suddenly. 'I'm goin' t' buy my mother anew dress, or mebbe a beautiful ring, ' she added thoughtfully. 

For my own part I did not know what I should buy. I wanted a real gunmost of all and my inclination oscillated between that and a red rockinghorse. My mind was very busy while I sat in silence. Presently I roseand went to Uncle Eb and whispered in his ear. 

'Do you think I could get a real rifle with two shilin'?' I enquiredanxiously. 

'No, ' he answered in a low tone that seemed to respect my confidence. 'Bime by, when you're older, I'll buy ye a rifle--a real rip snorter, too, with a shiny barrel 'n a silver lock. When ye get down t, thevillage ye'll see lots o' things y'd rather hev, prob'ly. If I was you, children, ' he added, in a louder tone, 'I wouldn't buy a thing but nuts'n' raisins. '

'Nuts 'n' raisins!' Hope exclaimed, scornfully. 

'Nuts 'n' raisins, ' he repeated. 'They're cheap 'n' satisfyin'. If yeeat enough uv 'em you'll never want anything else in this world. '

I failed to see the irony in Uncle Eb's remark and the suggestion seemedto have a good deal of merit, the more I thought it over. 

''T any rate, ' said Uncle Eb, 'I'd git somethin' fer my own selves. '

'Well, ' said Hope, 'You tell us a lot o' things we could buy. '

'Less see!' said Uncle Eb, looking very serious. 'There's bootjacks an'there's warmin' pans 'n' mustard plasters 'n' liver pads 'n' all themkind o' things. '

We both shook our heads very doubtfully. 

'Then, ' he added, 'there are jimmyjacks 'n' silver no nuthin's. '

There were many other suggestions but none of them were decisive. 

The snow lay deep on either side of the way and there was a glimmer onevery white hillside where Jack Frost had sown his diamonds. Here andthere a fox track crossed the smooth level of the valley and dwindled onthe distant hills like a seam in a great white robe. It grew warmer asthe sun rose, and we were a jolly company behind the merry jingle of thesleigh bells. We had had a long spell of quiet weather and the road layin two furrows worn as smooth as ice at the bottom. 

'Consarn it!' said Uncle Eb looking up at the sky, after we had been onthe road an hour or so. 'There's a sun dog. Wouldn't wonder if we got asnowstorm' fore night. 

I was running behind the sledge and standing on the brake hooks goingdownhill. He made me get in when he saw the sun dog, and let ourhorse--a rat-tailed bay known as Old Doctor--go at a merry pace. 

We were awed to silence when we came in sight of Hillsborough, withspires looming far into the sky, as it seemed to me then, and buildingsthat bullied me with their big bulk, so that I had no heart for thespending of the two shillings Uncle Eb had given me. Such sublimityof proportion I have never seen since; and yet it was all very smallindeed. The stores had a smell about them that was like chloroform inits effect upon me; for, once in them, I fell into a kind of tranceand had scarce sense enough to know my own mind. The smart clerks, whogenerally came and asked, 'Well, young man, what can I do for you?' Iregarded with fear and suspicion. I clung the tighter to my coin always, and said nothing, although I saw many a trinket whose glitter went tomy soul with a mighty fascination. We both stood staring silently at theshow cases, our tongues helpless with awe and wonder. Finally, after awhispered conference, Hope asked for a 'silver no nothing', and provokedso much laughter that we both fled to the sidewalk. Uncle Eb had to doour buying for us in the end. 

'Wall, what'll ye hev?' he said to me at length. 

I tried to think-it was no easy thing to do after all I had seen. 

'Guess I'll take a jacknife, ' I whispered. 

'Give this boy a knife, ' he demanded. 'Wants t' be good 'n sharp. Mighthev t' skin a swift with it sometime. '

'What ye want?' he asked, then turning to Hope. 

'A doll, ' she whispered. 

'White or black?' said he. 

'White, ' said she, 'with dark eyes and hair. '

'Want a reel, splendid, firs'-class doll, ' he said to the clerk. 'Thetone'll do, there, with the sky-blue dress 'n the pink apron. '

We were worn out with excitement when we left for home under loweringskies. We children lay side by side under the robes, the doll betweenus, and were soon asleep. It was growing dark when Uncle Eb woke us, and the snow was driving in at the doorway. The air was full of snow, Iremember, and Old Doctor was wading to his knees in a drift. We were upin the hills and the wind whistled in our little chimney. Uncle Eb hada serious look in his face. The snow grew deeper and Old Doctor wentslower every moment. 

'Six mild from home, ' Uncle Eb muttered, as he held up to rest a moment. 'Six mild from home. 'Fraid we're in fer a night uv it. '

We got to the top of Fadden's Hill about dark, and the snow lay so deepin the cut we all got out for fear the house would tip over. Old Doctorfloundered along a bit further until he went down in the drift and laybetween the shafts half buried. We had a shovel that always hung besidea small hatchet in the sledgehouse--for one might need much beside thegrace of God of a winter's day in that country--and with it Uncle Ebbegan to uncover the horse. We children stood in the sledgehouse doorwatching him and holding the lantern. Old Doctor was on his feet in afew minutes. 

''Tain' no use tryin', ' said Uncle Eb, as he began to unhitch. 'Can't gono further t'night. '

Then he dug away the snow beside the sledgehouse, and hitched Old Doctorto the horseshoe that was nailed to the rear end of it. That done, heclambered up the side of the cut and took some rails off the fence andshoved them over on the roof of the house, so that one end rested thereand the other on the high bank beside us. Then he cut a lot of hemlockboughs with the hatchet, and thatched the roof he had made over OldDoctor, binding them with the reins. Bringing more rails, he leaned themto the others on the windward side and nailed a big blanket over them, piecing it out with hemlock thatching, so it made a fairly comfortableshelter. We were under the wind in this deep cut on Fadden's Hill, andthe snow piled in upon us rapidly. We had a warm blanket for Old Doctorand two big buffalo robes for our own use. We gave him a good feed ofhay and oats, and then Uncle Eb cut up a fence rail with our hatchet andbuilt a roaring fire in the stove. We had got a bit chilly wading in thesnow, and the fire gave us a mighty sense of comfort. 

'I thought somethin' might happen, ' said Uncle Eb, as he hung hislantern to the ridge pole and took a big paper parcel out of his greatcoat pocket. 'I thought mebbe somethin' might happen, an' so I broughtalong a bite o' luncheon. '

He gave us dried herring and bread and butter and cheese. 

''S a little dry, ' he remarked, while we were eating, 'but it's drierwhere there's none. '

We had a pail of snow on top of the little stove and plenty of gooddrinking water for ourselves and the Old Doctor in a few minutes. 

After supper Uncle Eb went up the side of the cut and brought back a lotof hemlock boughs and spread them under Old Doctor for bedding. 

Then we all sat around the stove on the warm robes and listened to thewind howling above our little roof and the stories of Uncle Eb. Thehissing of the snow as it beat upon the sledgehouse grew fainter by andby, and Uncle Eb said he guessed we were pretty well covered up. We fellasleep soon. I remember he stopped in the middle of a wolf story, and, seeing that our eyes were shut, pulled us back from the fire a littleand covered us with one of the robes. It had been a mighty strugglebetween Sleep and Romance, and Sleep had won. I roused myself andbegged him to go on with the story, but he only said, 'Hush, boy; it'sbedtime, ' and turned up the lantern and went out of doors. I woke onceor twice in the night and saw him putting wood on the fire. He had putout the light. The gleam of the fire shone on his face when he openedthe stove door. 

'Gittin' a leetle cool here, Uncle Eb, ' he was saying to himself. 

We were up at daylight, and even then it was snowing and blowingfiercely. There were two feet of snow on the sledgehouse roof, and wewere nearly buried in the bank. Uncle Eb had to do a lot of shovelingto get out of doors and into the stable. Old Doctor was quite out of thewind in a cave of snow and nickering for his breakfast. There was plentyfor him, but we were on short rations. Uncle Eb put on the snow shoes, after we had eaten what there was left, and, cautioning us to keep in, set out for Fadden's across lots. He came back inside of an hour with agood supply of provisions in a basket on his shoulder. The wind had gonedown and the air was milder. Big flakes of snow came fluttering slowlydownward out of a dark sky. After dinner we went up on top of thesledgehouse and saw a big scraper coming in the valley below. Six teamsof oxen were drawing it, and we could see the flying furrows on eitherside of the scraper as it ploughed in the deep drifts. Uncle Eb put onthe snow shoes again, and, with Hope on his back and me clinging to hishand, he went down to meet them and to tell of our plight. The frontteam had wallowed to their ears, and the men were digging them out withshovels when we got to the scraper. A score of men and boys clung to thesides of that big, hollow wedge, and put their weight on it as the oxenpulled. We got on with the others, I remember, and I was swept off assoon as the scraper started by a roaring avalanche of snow that camedown upon our heads and buried me completely. I was up again and hada fresh hold in a jiffy, and clung to my place until I was nearlysmothered by the flying snow. It was great fun for me, and they wereall shouting and hallooing as if it were a fine holiday. They made slowprogress, however, and we left them shortly on their promise to try toreach us before night. If they failed to get through, one of themsaid he would drive over to Paradise Valley, if possible, and tell theBrowers we were all right. 

On our return, Uncle Eb began shoveling a tunnel in the cut. When we gotthrough to the open late in the afternoon we saw the scraper party goingback with their teams. 

'Guess they've gi'n up fer t'day, ' said he. 'Snow's powerful deep downthere below the bridge. Mebbe we can get 'round to where the road'sclear by goin' 'cross lots. I've a good mind t' try it. '

Then he went over in the field and picked a winding way down the hilltoward the river, while we children stood watching him. He came backsoon and took down a bit of the fence and harnessed Old Doctor andhitched him to the sledgehouse. The tunnel was just wide enough to letus through with a tight pinch here and there. The footing was rathersoft' and the horse had hard pulling. We went in the field, strugglingon afoot--we little people--while Uncle Eb led the horse. He had to stopfrequently to tunnel through a snowdrift, and at dusk we had only gothalf-way to the bridge from our cave in the cat. Of a sudden Old Doctorwent up to his neck in a wall of deep snow that seemed to cut us offcompletely. He struggled a moment, falling on his side and wrenchingthe shafts from the runners. Uncle Eb went to work vigorously with hisshovel and had soon cut a narrow box stall in the deep snow around OldDoctor. Just beyond the hill dipped sharply and down the slope we couldsee the stubble sticking through the shallow snow. 'We'll hev t' stopright where we are until mornin', ' he said. 'It's mos' dark now. 

Our little house stood tilting forward about half-way down the hill, itsrunners buried in the snow. A few hundred yards below was a cliff wherethe shore fell to the river some thirty feet It had stopped snowing, andthe air had grown warmer, but the sky was dark We put nearly all the hayin the sledgehouse under Old Doctor and gave him the last of the oatsand a warm cover of blankets. Then Uncle Eb went away to the fence formore wood, while we spread the supper. He was very tired, I remember, and we all turned in for the night a short time after we had eaten. Thelittle stove was roaring like a furnace when we spread our blankets onthe sloping floor and lay down, our feet to the front, and drew the warmrobes over us. Uncle Eb, who had had no sleep the night before, beganto snore heavily before we children had stopped whispering. He was stillsnoring, and Hope sound asleep, when I woke in the night and heard therain falling on our little roof and felt the warm breath of the southwind. The water dripping from the eaves and falling far and near uponthe yielding snow had many voices. I was half-asleep when I heard anew noise under the sledge. Something struck the front corner of thesledgehouse--a heavy, muffled blow--and brushed the noisy boards. Then Iheard the timbers creak and felt the runners leaping over the soft snow. I remember it was like a dream of falling. I raised myself and staredabout me. We were slipping down the steep floor. The lantern, burningdimly under the roof, swung and rattled. Uncle Eb was up on his elbowstaring wildly. I could feel the jar and rush of the runners and therain that seemed to roar as it dashed into my face. Then, suddenly, the sledgehouse gave a great leap into the air and the grating of therunners ceased. The lantern went hard against the roof; there was amighty roar in my ears; then we heard a noise like thunder and felt theshock of a blow that set my back aching, and cracked the roof above ourheads. It was all still for a second; then we children began to cry, andUncle Eb staggered to his feet and lit the lantern that had gone out andthat had no globe, I remember, as he held it down to our faces. 

'Hush! Are you hurt?' he said, as he knelt before us. 'Git up now, seeif ye can stand. '

We got to our feet, neither of us much the worse for what hadhappened--My knuckles were cut a bit by a splinter, and Hope had beenhit on the shins by the lantern globe as it fell. 

'By the Lord Harry!' said Uncle Eb, when he saw we were not hurt. 'Wonder what hit us. '

We followed him outside while he was speaking. 

'We've slid downhill, ' he said. 'Went over the cliff Went kerplunk inthe deep snow, er there'd have been nuthin' left uv us. Snow's meltin'jest as if it was July. '

Uncle Eb helped us into our heavy coats, and then with a blanket overhis arm led us into the wet snow. We came out upon clear ice in amoment and picked our way along the lowering shore. At length Uncle Ebclambered up, pulling us up after him, one by one. Then he whistled toOld Doctor, who whinnied a quick reply. He left us standing together, the blanket over our heads, and went away in the dark whistling as hehad done before. We could hear Old Doctor answer as he came near, andpresently Uncle Eb returned leading the horse by the halter. Then heput us both on Old Doctor's back, threw the blanket over our heads, and started slowly for the road. We clung to each other as the horsestaggered in the soft snow, and kept our places with some aid fromUncle Eb. We crossed the fence presently, and then for a way it was hardgoing. We found fair footing after we had passed the big scraper, and, coming to a house a mile or so down the road called them out of bed. Itwas growing light and they made us comfortable around a big stove, and gave us breakfast. The good man of the house took us home in a bigsleigh after the chores were done. We met David Brower coming after us, and if we'd been gone a year we couldn't have received a warmer welcome. 

Chapter 8

Of all that long season of snow, I remember most pleasantly the daysthat were sweetened with the sugar-making. When the sun was lifting hiscourse in the clearing sky, and March had got the temper of the lamb, and the frozen pulses of the forest had begun to stir, the great kettlewas mounted in the yard and all gave a hand to the washing of spouts andbuckets. Then came tapping time, in which I helped carry the buckets andtasted the sweet flow that followed the auger's wound. The woods weremerry with our shouts, and, shortly, one could hear the heart-beatof the maples in the sounding bucket. It was the reveille of spring. Towering trees shook down the gathered storms of snow and felt for thesunlight. The arch and shanty were repaired, the great iron kettle wasscoured and lifted to its place, and then came the boiling. It was agreat, an inestimable privilege to sit on the robes of faded fur, in theshanty, and hear the fire roaring under the kettle and smell the sweetodour of the boiling sap. Uncle Eb minded the shanty and the fire andthe woods rang with his merry songs. When I think of that phase of thesugaring, lam face to face with one of the greatest perils of my life. My foster father had consented to let me spend a night with Uncle Eb inthe shanty, and I was to sleep on the robes, where he would be besideme when he was not tending the fire. It had been a mild, bright day, andDavid came up with our supper at sunset. He sat talking with Uncle Ebfor an hour or so, and the woods were darkling when he went away. 

When he started on the dark trail that led to the clearing, I wonderedat his courage--it was so black beyond the firelight. While we sat aloneI plead for a story, but the thoughts of Uncle Eb had gone to roostearly in a sort of gloomy meditation. 

'Be still, my boy, ' said he, 'an' go t' sleep. I ain't agoin' t' tell noyarns an' git ye all stirred up. Ye go t' sleep. Come mornin' we'll godown t' the brook an' see if we can't find a mink or tew 'n the traps. '

I remember hearing a great crackling of twigs in the dark wood beforeI slept. As I lifted my head, Uncle Eb whispered, 'Hark!' and we bothlistened. A bent and aged figure came stalking into the firelight Hislong white hair mingled with his beard and covered his coat collarbehind. 

'Don't be scairt, ' said Uncle Eb. ''Tain' no bear. It's nuthin' but apoet. '

I knew him for a man who wandered much and had a rhyme for everyone--akindly man with a reputation for laziness and without any home. 

'Bilin', eh?' said the poet

'Bilin', ' said Uncle Eb. 

'I'm bilin' over 'n the next bush, ' said the poet, sitting down. 

'How's everything in Jingleville?' Uncle Eb enquired. 

Then the newcomer answered:

 'Well, neighbour dear, in Jingleville We live by faith but we eat our fill; An' what w'u'd we do if it wa'n't fer prayer? Fer we can't raise a thing but whiskers an' hair. '

'Cur'us how you can talk po'try, ' said Uncle Eb. 'The only thing I'vegot agin you is them whiskers an' thet hair. 'Tain't Christian. '

''Tain't what's on the head, but what's in it--thet's the importantthing, ' said the poet. 'Did I ever tell ye what I wrote about thebirds?'

'Don' know's ye ever did, ' said Uncle Eb, stirring his fire. 

'The boy'll like it, mebbe, ' said he, taking a dirty piece of paper outof his pocket and holding it to the light. 

The poem interested me, young as I was, not less than the strange figureof the old poet who lived unknown in the backwoods, and who died, I daresay, with many a finer song in his heart. I remember how he stood inthe firelight and chanted the words in a sing-song tone. He gave us thatrude copy of the poem, and here it is:

 THE ROBIN'S WEDDING

 Young robin red breast hed a beautiful nest an' he says to his love says he: It's ready now on a rocking bough In the top of a maple tree. I've lined it with down an' the velvet brown on the waist of a bumble-bee. 

 They were married next day, in the land o' the hay, the lady bird an' he. The bobolink came an' the wife o' the same An' the lark an' the fiddle de dee. An' the crow came down in a minister gown--there was nothing that he didn't see. 

 He fluttered his wing as they ast him to sing an' he tried fer t' clear out his throat; He hemmed an' he hawed an' be hawked an' he cawed But he couldn't deliver a note. The swallow was there an' he ushered each pair with his linsey an' claw hammer coat. 

 The bobolink tried fer t' flirt with the bride in a way thet was sassy an' bold. An' the notes that he took as he shivered an' shook Hed a sound like the jingle of gold. He sat on a briar an' laughed at the choir an' said thet the music was old. 

 The sexton he came--Mr Spider by name--a citizen hairy and grey. His rope in a steeple, he called the good people That live in the land o' the hay. The ants an' the squgs an' the crickets an' bugs--came out in a mighty array. 

 Some came down from Barleytown an' the neighbouring city o' Rye. An' the little black people they climbed every steeple An' sat looking up at the sky. They came fer t' see what a wedding might be an' they furnished the cake an' the pie. 

I remember he turned to me when he had finished and took one of my smallhands and held it in his hard palm and looked at it and then into myface. 

'Ah, boy!' he said, 'your way shall lead you far from here, and youshall get learning and wealth and win--victories. '

'What nonsense are you talking, Jed Ferry?' said Uncle Eb. 

'O, you all think I'm a fool an' a humbug, 'cos I look it. Why, EbenHolden, if you was what ye looked, ye'd be in the presidential chair. Folks here 'n the valley think o' nuthin' but hard work--most uv 'em, an' I tell ye now this boy ain't a goin' t' be wuth putty on a farm. Look a' them slender hands. 

'There was a man come to me the other day an' wanted t' hev a poem 'bouthis wife that hed jes' died. I ast him t' tell me all 'bout her. 

'"Wall, " said he, after he had scratched his head an' thought a minute, "she was a dretful good woman t' work. "

'"Anything else?" I asked. 

'He thought agin fer a minute. 

'"Broke her leg once, " he said, "an' was laid up fer more'n a year. "

"Must o' suffered, " said I. 

'"Not then, " he answered. "Ruther enjoyed it layin' abed an' readin' an'bein' rubbed, but 'twas hard on the children. "

'"S'pose ye loved her, " I said. 

'Then the tears come into his eyes an' he couldn't speak fer a minute. Putty soon he whispered "Yes" kind o' confidential. 'Course he lovedher, but these Yankees are ashamed o' their feelin's. They hev tenderthoughts, but they hide 'em as careful as the wild goose hides her eggs. I wrote a poem t' please him, an' goin' home I made up one fer myself, an 'it run 'bout like this:

 O give me more than a life, I beg, That finds real joy in a broken leg. Whose only thought is t' work an' save An' whose only rest is in the grave. Saving an' scrimping from day to day While its best it has squandered an' flung away Fer a life like that of which I tell Would rob me quite o' the dread o' hell. 

'Toil an' slave an' scrimp an' save--thet's 'bout all we think uv 'nthis country. 'Tain't right, Holden. '

'No, 'tain't right, ' said Uncle Eb. 

'I know I'm a poor, mis'rable critter. Kind o' out o' tune witheverybody I know. Alwus quarrelled with my own folks, an' now I ain'tgot any home. Someday I'm goin' t' die in the poorhouse er on the groundunder these woods. But I tell ye'--here he spoke in a voice that grewloud with feeling--'mebbe I've been lazy, as they say, but I've got moreout o' my life than any o' these fools. And someday God'll honour me farabove them. When my wife an' I parted I wrote some lines that say wellmy meaning. It was only a log house we had, but this will show whatI got out of it. ' Then he spoke the lines, his voice trembling withemotion. 

 'O humble home! Thou hadst a secret door Thro' which I looked, betimes, with wondering eye On treasures that no palace ever wore But now--goodbye!

 In hallowed scenes what feet have trod thy stage! The babe, the maiden, leaving home to wed The young man going forth by duty led And faltering age. 

 Thou hadst a magic window broad and high The light and glory of the morning shone Thro' it, however dark the day had grown, Or bleak the sky. 

'I know Dave Brower's folks hev got brains an' decency, but when thetboy is old enough t' take care uv himself, let him git out o' thiscountry. I tell ye he'll never make a farmer, an' if he marries an'settles down here he'll git t' be a poet, mebbe, er some such shif'lesscuss, an' die in the poorhouse. Guess I better git back t' my bilin'now. Good-night, ' he added, rising and buttoning his old coat as hewalked away. 

'Sing'lar man!' Uncle Eli exclaimed, thoughtfully, 'but anyone thetpicks him up fer a fool'll find him a counterfeit. '

Young as I was, the rugged, elemental power of the old poet had somehowgot to my heart and stirred my imagination. It all came not fully to myunderstanding until later. Little by little it grew upon me, and what aneffect it had upon my thought and life ever after I should not dare toestimate. And soon I sought out the 'poet of the hills, ' as they calledhim, and got to know and even to respect him in spite of his unlovelyaspect. 

Uncle Eb skimmed the boiling sap, put more wood on the fire and came andpulled off his boots and lay down beside me under the robe. And, hearingthe boil of the sap and the crackle of the burning logs in the arch, Isoon went asleep. 

I remember feeling Uncle Eb's hand upon my cheek, and how I rose andstared about me in the fading shadows of a dream as he shook me gently. 

'Wake up, my boy, ' said he. 'Come, we mus' put fer home. '

The fire was out. The old man held a lantern as he stood before me, theblaze flickering. There was a fearsome darkness all around. 

'Come, Willy, make haste, ' he whispered, as I rubbed my eyes. 'Put onyer boots, an' here's yer little coat 'n' muffler. '

There was a mighty roar in the forest and icy puffs of snow camewhistling in upon us. We stored the robes and pails and buckets andcovered the big kettle. 

The lofty tree-tops reeled and creaked above us, and a deep, sonorousmoan was sweeping through the woods, as if the fingers of the wind hadtouched a mighty harp string in the timber. We could hear the crash andthunder of falling trees. 

'Make haste! Make haste! It's resky here, ' said Uncle Eb, and he held myhand and ran. We started through the brush and steered as straight aswe could for the clearing. The little box of light he carried was soonsheathed in snow, and I remember how he stopped, half out of breath, often, and brushed it with his mittens to let out the light. We had madethe scattering growth of little timber at the edge of the woods when theglobe of the lantern snapped and fell. A moment later we stood in utterdarkness. I knew, for the first time, then that we were in a bad fix. 

'I guess God'll take care of us, Willy, ' said Uncle Eb. 'If he don't, we'll never get there in this world never!'

It was a black and icy wall of night and storm on every side of us. I never saw a time when the light of God's heaven was so utterlyextinguished; the cold never went to my bone as on that bitter night. My hands and feet were numb with aching, as the roar of the trees grewfainter in the open. I remember how I lagged, and how the old man urgedme on, and how we toiled in the wind and darkness, straining our eyesfor some familiar thing. Of a sudden we stumbled upon a wall that we hadpassed an hour or so before. 

'Oh!' he groaned, and made that funny, deprecating cluck with histongue, that I have heard so much from Yankee lips. 

'God o' mercy!' said he, 'we've gone 'round in a half-circle. Now we'lltake the wall an' mebbe it'll bring us home. '

I thought I couldn't keep my feet any longer, for an irresistibledrowsiness had come over me. The voice of Uncle Eb seemed far away, and when I sank in the snow and shut my eyes to sleep he shook me as aterrier shakes a rat. 

'Wake up, my boy, ' said he, 'ye musn't sleep. '

Then he boxed my ears until I cried, and picked me up and ran with mealong the side of the wall. I was but dimly conscious when he droppedme under a tree whose bare twigs lashed the air and stung my cheeks. Iheard him tearing the branches savagely and muttering, 'Thanks to God, it's the blue beech. ' I shall never forget how he turned and held to myhand and put the whip on me as I lay in the snow, and how the sting ofit started my blood. Up I sprang in a jiffy and howled and danced. Thestout rod bent and circled on me like a hoop of fire. Then I turned andtried to run while he clung to my coat tails, and every step I felt thestinging grab of the beech. There is a little seam across my cheek todaythat marks a footfall of one of those whips. In a moment I was as wideawake as Uncle Eb and needed no more stimulation. 

The wall led us to the pasture lane, and there it was easy enough tomake our way to the barnyard and up to the door of the house, which hada candle in every window, I remember. David was up and dressed to comeafter us, and I recall how he took Uncle Eb in his arms, when he fellfainting on the doorstep, and carried him to the lounge. I saw the bloodon my face as I passed the mirror, and Elizabeth Brower came running andgave me one glance and rushed out of doors with the dipper. It was fullof snow when she ran in and tore the wrappings off my neck and began torub my ears and cheeks with the cold snow, calling loudly for GrandmaBisnette. She came in a moment and helped at the stripping of our feetand legs. I remember that she slit my trousers with the shears as I layon the floor, while the others rubbed my feet with the snow. Our handsand ears were badly frosted, but in an hour the whiteness had gone outof them and the returning blood burnt like a fire. 

'How queer he stares!' I heard them say when Uncle Eb first came to, andin a moment a roar of laughter broke from him. 

'I'll never fergit, ' said he presently, 'if I live a thousan' years, thelickin' I gin thet boy; but it hurt me worse'n it hurt him. '

Then he told the story of the blue beech. 

The next day was that 'cold Friday' long remembered by those who feltits deadly chill--a day when water thrown in the magic air came down inclinking crystals, and sheaths of frost lay thick upon the windows. Butthat and the one before it were among the few days in that early periodthat lie, like a rock, under my character. 

Chapter 9

Grandma Bisnette came from Canada to work for the Browers. She wasa big, cheerful woman, with a dialect, an amiable disposition and aswarthy, wrinkled face. She had a loose front tooth that occupied allthe leisure of her tongue. When she sat at her knitting this big toothclicked incessantly. On every stitch her tongue went in and out acrossit' and I, standing often by her knees, regarded the process with greatcuriosity. 

The reader may gather much from these frank and informing words ofGrandma Bisnette. 'When I los' my man, Mon Dieu! I have two son. An'when I come across I bring him with me. Abe he rough; but den he no badman. '

Abe was the butcher of the neighbourhood--that red-handed, stony-hearted, necessary man whom the Yankee farmer in that northcountry hires to do the cruel things that have to be done. He woreragged, dirty clothes and had a voice like a steam whistle. His rough, black hair fell low and mingled with his scanty beard. His hands werestained too often with the blood of some creature we loved. I alwayscrept under the bed in Mrs Brower's room when Abe came--he was such aterror to me with his bloody work and noisy oaths. Such men were thecurse of the cleanly homes in that country. There was much to shockthe ears and eyes of children in the life of the farm. It was a fashionamong the help to decorate their speech with profanity for the meresound of it' and the foul mouthings of low-minded men spread like apestilence in the fields. 

Abe came always with an old bay horse and a rickety buckboard. His onefoot on the dash, as he rode, gave the picture a dare-devil finish. The lash of his bull-whip sang around him, and his great voice sent itsblasts of noise ahead. When we heard a fearful yell and rumble in thedistance, we knew Abe was coming. 

'Abe he come, ' said Grandma Bisnette. 'Mon Dieu! he make de leetle rockfly. '

It was like the coming of a locomotive with roar of wheel and whistle. In my childhood, as soon as I saw the cloud of dust, I put for the bedand from its friendly cover would peek out' often, but never venture faruntil the man of blood had gone. 

To us children he was a marvel of wickedness. There were those who toldhow he had stood in the storm one night and dared the Almighty to sendthe lightning upon him. 

The dog Fred had grown so old and infirm that one day they sent for Abeto come and put an end to his misery. Every man on the farm loved theold dog and not one of them would raise a hand to kill him. Hope andI heard what Abe was coming to do, and when the men had gone to thefields, that summer morning, we lifted Fred into the little wagon inwhich he had once drawn me and starting back of the barn stole awaywith him through the deep grass of the meadow until we came out upon thehighroad far below. We had planned to take him to school and make him anest in the woodshed where he could share our luncheon and be out of theway of peril. After a good deal of difficulty and heavy pulling wegot to the road at last. The old dog, now blind and helpless, satcontentedly in the wagon while its wheels creaked and groaned beneathhim. We had gone but a short way in the road when we heard the redbridge roar under rushing wheels and the familiar yell of Abe. 

'We'd better run, ' said Hope, ''er we'll git swore at. '

I looked about me in a panic for some place to hide the party, but Abewas coming fast and there was only time to pick up clubs and stand ourground. 

'Here!' the man shouted as he pulled up along side of us, 'where yegoin' with that dog?'

'Go 'way, ' I answered, between anger and tears, lifting my club in athreatening manner. 

He laughed then--a loud guffaw that rang in the near woods. 

'What'll ye give me, ' he asked leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, 'What'll ye give me if I don't kill him?'

I thought a moment. Then I put my hand in my pocket and presently tookout my jack-knife--that treasure Uncle Eb had bought for me--and lookedat it fondly. 

Then I offered it to him. 

Again he laughed loudly. 

'Anything else?' he demanded while Hope sat hugging the old dog that waslicking her hands. 

'Got forty cents that I saved for the fair, ' said I promptly. 

Abe backed his horse and turned in the road. 

'Wall boy, ' he said, 'Tell 'em I've gone home. '

Then his great voice shouted, 'g'lang' the lash of his whip sang in theair and off he went. 

We were first to arrive at the schoolhouse, that morning, and whenthe other children came we had Fred on a comfortable bed of grass in acorner of the woodshed. What with all the worry of that day I said mylessons poorly and went home with a load on my heart. Tomorrow would beSaturday; how were we to get food and water to the dog? They asked athome if we had seen old Fred and we both declared we had not--the firstlie that ever laid its burden on my conscience. We both saved all ourbread and butter and doughnuts next day, but we had so many chores todo it was impossible to go to the schoolhouse with them. So we agreedto steal away that night when all were asleep and take the food from itshiding place. 

In the excitement of the day neither of us had eaten much. They thoughtwe were ill and sent us to bed early. When Hope came into my room abovestairs late in the evening we were both desperately hungry. We looked atour store of doughnuts and bread and butter under my bed. We counted itover. 

'Won't you try one o' the doughnuts, ' I whispered hoping that she wouldsay yes so that I could try one also; for they did smell mighty good. 

''Twouldn't be right, ' said she regretfully. 'There ain't any more 'nhe'll want now. 

''Twouldn't be right, ' I repeated with a sigh as I looked longingly atone of the big doughnuts. 'Couldn't bear t' do it--could you?'

'Don't seem as if I could, ' she whispered, thoughtfully, her chin uponher hand. 

Then she rose and went to the window. 

'O my! how dark it is!' she whispered, looking out into the night. 

'Purty dark!' I said, 'but you needn't be 'fraid. I'll take care o' you. If we should meet a bear I'll growl right back at him--that's what UncleEb tol' me t' do. I'm awful stout--most a man now! Can't nuthin' scareme. '

We could hear them talking below stairs and we went back to bed, intending to go forth later when the house was still. But' unfortunatelyfor our adventure I fell asleep. 

It was morning when I opened my eyes again. We children lookedaccusingly at each other while eating breakfast. Then we had to bewashed and dressed in our best clothes to go to meeting. When the wagonwas at the door and we were ready to start I had doughnuts and breadand butter in every pocket of my coat and trousers. I got in quickly andpulled the blanket over me so as to conceal the fullness of my pockets. We arrived so late I had no chance to go to the dog before we went intomeeting. I was wearing boots that were too small for me, and when Ientered with the others and sat down upon one of those straight backedseats of plain, unpainted pine my feet felt as if I had been caught ina bear trap. There was always such a silence in the room after the elderhad sat down and adjusted his spectacles that I could hear the tickingof the watch he carried in the pocket of his broadcloth waistcoat. Formy own part I know I looked with too much longing for the good of mysoul on the great gold chain that spanned the broad convexity of hisstomach. Presently I observed that a couple of young women were lookingat me and whispering. Then suddenly I became aware that there weresundry protuberances on my person caused by bread and butter anddoughnuts, and I felt very miserable indeed. Now and then as the elderspoke the loud, accusing neigh of some horse, tethered to the fence inthe schoolyard, mingled with his thunder. After the good elder had beenpreaching an hour his big, fat body seemed to swim in my tears. When hehad finished the choir sang. Their singing was a thing that appealed tothe eye as well as the ear. Uncle Eb used to say it was a great comfortto see Elkenah Samson sing bass. His great mouth opened widely in thisform of praise and his eyes had a wild stare in them when he aimed atthe low notes. 

Ransom Walker, a man of great dignity, with a bristling moustache, whohad once been a schoolmaster, led the choir and carried the tenor part. It was no small privilege after the elder had announced the hymn, to seehim rise and tap the desk with his tuning fork and hold it to his earsolemnly. Then he would seem to press his chin full hard upon his throatwhile he warbled a scale. Immediately, soprano, alto, bass and tenorlaunched forth upon the sea of song. The parts were like the treacherousand conflicting currents of a tide that tossed them roughly andsometimes overturned their craft. And Ransom Walker showed always aproper sense of danger and responsibility. Generally they got to portsafely on these brief excursions, though exhausted. He had a way ofbeating time with his head while singing and I have no doubt it was agreat help to him. 

The elder came over to me after meeting, having taken my tears for asign of conviction. 

'May the Lord bless and comfort you, my boy!' said he. 

I got away shortly and made for the door. Uncle Eb stopped me. 

'My stars, Willie!' said he putting his hand on my upper coat pocket''what ye got in there?'

'Doughnuts, ' I answered. 

'An' what's this?' he asked touching one of my side pockets. 

'Doughnuts, ' I repeated. 

'An' this, ' touching another. 

'That's doughnuts too, ' I said. 

'An' this, ' he continued going down to my trousers pocket. 

'Bread an' butter, ' I answered, shamefacedly, and on the verge of tears. 

'Jerusalem!' he exclaimed, 'must a 'spected a purty long sermon. 

'Brought 'em fer ol' Fred, ' I replied. 

'Ol' Fred!' he whispered, 'where's he?'

I told my secret then and we both went out with Hope to where we hadleft him. He lay with his head between his paws on the bed of grass justas I had seen him lie many a time when his legs were weary with travelon Paradise Road, and when his days were yet full of pleasure. We calledto him and Uncle Eb knelt and touched his head. Then he lifted the dog'snose, looked a moment into the sightless eyes and let it fall again. 

'Fred's gone, ' said he in a low tone as he turned away. 'Got there aheaduv us, Willy. '

Hope and I sat down by the old dog and wept bitterly. 

Chapter 10

Uncle Eb was a born lover of fun. But he had a solemn way of fishingthat was no credit to a cheerful man. It was the same when he playedthe bass viol, but that was also a kind of fishing at which he tried hisluck in a roaring torrent of sound. Both forms of dissipation gave hima serious look and manner, that came near severity. They brought onhis face only the light of hope and anticipation or the shadow ofdisappointment. 

We had finished our stent early the day of which lam writing. When wehad dug our worms and were on our way to the brook with pole and line asquint of elation had hold of Uncle Eb's face. Long wrinkles deepened ashe looked into the sky for a sign of the weather, and then relaxed abit as he turned his eyes upon the smooth sward. It was no time for idletalk. We tiptoed over the leafy carpet of the woods. Soon as I spoke helifted his hand with a warning 'Sh--h!' The murmur of the stream was inour ears. Kneeling on a mossy knoll we baited the hooks; then Uncle Ebbeckoned to me. 

I came to him on tiptoe. 

'See thet there foam 'long side o' the big log?' he whispered, pointingwith his finger. 

I nodded. 

'Cre-e-ep up jest as ca-a-areful as ye can, ' he went on whispering. 'Drop in a leetle above an' let 'er float down. '

Then he went on, below me, lifting his feet in slow and stealthystrides. 

He halted by a bit of driftwood and cautiously threw in, his armextended, his figure alert. The squint on his face took a firmer grip. Suddenly his pole gave a leap, the water splashed, his line sang inthe air and a fish went up like a rocket. As we were looking into thetreetops it thumped the shore beside him, quivered a moment and floppeddown the bank He scrambled after it and went to his knees in the brookcoming up empty-handed. The water was slopping out of his boot legs. 

'Whew!' said he, panting with excitement, as I came over to him. 'Reg'lar ol' he one, ' he added, looking down at his boots. 'Got awayfrom me--consarn him! Hed a leetle too much power in the arm. '

He emptied his boots, baited up and went back to his fishing. As Ilooked up at him he stood leaning over the stream jiggling his hook. Ina moment I saw a tug at the line. The end of his pole went under waterlike a flash. It bent double as Uncle Eb gave it a lift. The fish beganto dive and rush. The line cut the water in a broad semicircle and thenwent far and near with long, quick slashes. The pole nodded and writhedlike a thing of life. Then Uncle Eb had a look on him that is one ofthe treasures of my memory. In a moment the fish went away with such aviolent rush, to save him, he had to throw his pole into the water. 

'Heavens an' airth!' he shouted, 'the ol' settler!'

The pole turned quickly and went lengthwise into the rapids. He ran downthe bank and I after him. The pole was speeding through the swift water. We scrambled over logs and through bushes, but the pole went faster thanwe. Presently it stopped and swung around. Uncle Eb went splashing intothe brook. Almost within reach of the pole he dashed his foot upon astone, falling headlong in the current. I was close upon his heels andgave him a hand. He rose hatless, dripping from head to foot and pressedon. He lifted his pole. The line clung to a snag and then gave way;the tackle was missing. He looked at it silently, tilting his head. Wewalked slowly to the shore. Neither spoke for a moment. 

'Must have been a big fish, ' I remarked. 

'Powerful!' said he, chewing vigorously on his quid of tobacco as heshook his head and looked down at his wet clothing. 'In a desp'rit fix, ain't I?'

'Too bad!' I exclaimed. 

'Seldom ever hed sech a disapp'intment, ' he said. 'Ruther counted onketchin' thet fish--he was s' well hooked. '

He looked longingly at the water a moment 'If I don't go hum, ' said he, 'an' keep my mouth shet I'll say sumthin' I'll be sorry fer. '

He was never quite the same after that. He told often of his strugglewith this unseen, mysterious fish and I imagined he was a bit more givento reflection. He had had hold of the 'ol' settler of Deep Hole'--afish of great influence and renown there in Faraway. Most of the localfishermen had felt him tug at the line one time or another. No man hadever seen him for the water was black in Deep Hole. No fish had everexerted a greater influence on the thought' the imagination, the mannersor the moral character of his contemporaries. Tip Taylor always tookoff his hat and sighed when he spoke of the 'ol' settler'. Ransom Walkersaid he had once seen his top fin and thought it longer than a razor. Ransom took to idleness and chewing tobacco immediately after hisencounter with the big fish, and both vices stuck to him as long as helived. Everyone had his theory of the 'ol' settler'. Most agreed he wasa very heavy trout. Tip Taylor used to say that in his opinion ''twasnuthin' more'n a plain, overgrown, common sucker, ' but Tip came from theSucker Brook country where suckers lived in colder water and were moreentitled to respect. 

Mose Tupper had never had his hook in the 'ol' settler' and wouldbelieve none of the many stories of adventure at Deep Hole that hadthrilled the township. 

'Thet fish hes made s' many liars 'round here ye dimno who t' b'lieve, 'he had said at the corners one day, after Uncle Eb had told his story ofthe big fish. 'Somebody 't knows how t' fish hed oughter go 'n ketch himfer the good o' the town--thet's what I think. '

Now Mr Tupper was an excellent man but his incredulity was always toobluntly put. It had even led to some ill feeling. 

He came in at our place one evening with a big hook and line from 'downeast'--the kind of tackle used in salt water. 

'What ye goin' t' dew with it?' Uncle Eb enquired. 

'Ketch thet fish ye talk 5' much about--goin' t' put him out o' theway. '

''Tain't fair, ' said Uncle Eb, 'its reedic'lous. Like leading a pup witha log chain. '

'Don't care, ' said Mose, 'I'm goin' t' go fishin t'morrer. If therereely is any sech fish--which I don't believe there is--I'm goin't' rassle with him an' mebbe tek him out o' the river. Thet fish issp'llin' the moral character o' this town. He oughter be rode on arail--thet fish hed. '

How he would punish a trout in that manner Mr Tupper failed to explain, but his metaphor was always a worse fit than his trousers and that wasbad enough. 

It was just before haying and, there being little to do, we had alsoplanned to try our luck in the morning. When, at sunrise, we werewalking down the cow-path to the woods I saw Uncle Eb had a coil of bedcord on his shoulder. 

'What's that for?' I asked. 

'Wall, ' said he, 'goin' t' hev fun anyway. If we can't ketch one thingwe'll try another. '

We had great luck that morning and when our basket was near full we cameto Deep Hole and made ready for a swim in the water above it. Uncle Ebhad looped an end of the bed cord and tied a few pebbles on it with bitsof string. 

'Now, ' said he presently, 'I want t' sink this loop t' the bottom an'pass the end o' the cord under the driftwood so 't we can fetch it'crost under water. '

There was a big stump, just opposite, with roots running down the bankinto the stream. I shoved the line under the drift with a pole and thenhauled it across where Uncle Eb drew it up the bank under the stumproots. 

'In 'bout half an hour I cal'late Mose Tupper'll be 'long, ' hewhispered. 'Wisht ye'd put on yer clo's an' lay here back o' the stumpan' hold on t' the cord. When ye feel a bite give a yank er two an' haulin like Sam Hill--fifteen feet er more quicker'n scat. Snatch his poleright away from him. Then lay still. '

Uncle Eb left me, shortly, going up stream. It was near an hour before Iheard them coming. Uncle Eb was talking in a low tone as they came downthe other bank. 

'Drop right in there, ' he was saying, 'an' let her drag down, throughthe deep water, deliberate like. Git clus t' the bottom. '

Peering through a screen of bushes I could see an eager look on theunlovely face of Moses. He stood leaning toward the water and jigglinghis hook along the bottom. Suddenly I saw Mose jerk and felt the cordmove. I gave it a double twitch and began to pull. He held hard for ajiffy and then stumbled and let go yelling like mad. The pole hit thewater with a splash and went out of sight like a diving frog. I broughtit well under the foam and driftwood. Deep Hole resumed its calm, unruffled aspect. Mose went running toward Uncle Eb. 

''S a whale!' he shouted. 'Ripped the pole away quicker'n lightnin'. '

'Where is it?' Uncle Eb asked. 

'Tuk it away f'm me, ' said Moses. 'Grabbed it jes' like thet, ' he addedwith a violent jerk of his hand. 

'What d' he dew with it?' Uncle Eb enquired. 

Mose looked thoughtfully at the water and scratched his head, hisfeatures all a tremble. 

'Dunno, ' said he. 'Swallered it mebbe. '

'Mean t' say ye lost hook, line, sinker 'n pole?'

'Hook, line, sinker 'n pole, ' he answered mournfully. 'Come nigh haulin'me in tew. '

''Tain't possible, ' said Uncle Eb. 

Mose expectorated, his hands upon his hips, looking down at the water. 

'Wouldn't eggzac'ly say 'twas possible, ' he drawled, 'but 'twas a fact. '

'Yer mistaken, ' said Uncle Eb. 

'No I hain't, ' was the answer, 'I tell ye I see it. '

'Then if ye see it the nex' thing ye orter see 's a doctor. There'ssumthin' wrong with you sumwheres. '

'Only one thing the matter o' me, ' said Mose with a little twinge ofremorse. 'I'm jest a natural born perfec' dum fool. Never c'u'd b'lievethere was any sech fish. '

'Nobody ever said there was any sech fish, ' said Uncle Eb. 'He's donemore t' you 'n he ever done t' me. Never served me no sech trick asthet. If I was you I'd never ask nobody t' b'lieve it 'S a leetle tewmuch. '

Mose went slowly and picked up his hat. Then he returned to the bank andlooked regretfully at the water. 

'Never see the beat o' thet, ' he went on. 'Never see sech power 'n afish. Knocks the spots off any fish I ever hearn of. '

'Ye riled him with that big tackle o' yourn, ' said Uncle Eb. 'Hewouldn't stan' it. '

'Feel jest as if I'd hed holt uv a wil' cat, ' said Mose. 'Tuk the hullthing--pole an' all--quicker 'n lightnin'. Nice a bit o' hickory as aman ever see. Gol' durned if I ever heem o' the like o' that, ever. '

He sat down a moment on the bank. 

'Got t' rest a minute, ' he remarked. 'Feel kind o' wopsy after thetsquabble. '

They soon went away. And when Mose told the story of 'the swalleredpole' he got the same sort of reputation he had given to others. Only itwas real and large and lasting. 

'Wha' d' ye think uv it?' he asked, when he had finished. 

'Wall, ' said Ransom Walker, 'wouldn't want t' say right out plain t' yerface. '

''Twouldn't he p'lite, ' said Uncle Eb soberly. 

'Sound a leetle ha'sh, ' Tip Taylor added. 

'Thet fish has jerked the fear o' God out o' ye--thet's the way it lookst' me, ' said Carlyle Barber. 

'Yer up 'n the air, Mose, ' said another. 'Need a sinker on ye. ' Theybullied him--they talked him down, demurring mildly, but firmly. 

'Tell ye what I'll do, ' said Mose sheepishly, 'I'll b'lieve you fellersif you'll b'lieve me. '

'What, swop even? Not much!' said one, with emphasis. ''Twouldn't befair. Ye've ast us t' b'lieve a genuwine out 'n out impossibility. '

Mose lifted his hat and scratched his head thoughtfully. There was alook of embarrassment in his face. 

'Might a ben dreamin', ' said he slowly. 'I swear it's gittin' so here 'nthis town a feller can't hardly b'lieve himself. '

'Fur '5 my experience goes, ' said Ransom Walker, 'he'd be a fool 'f hedid. '

''Minds me o' the time I went fishin' with Ab Thomas, ' said Uncle Eb. 'He ketched an ol' socker the fast thing. I went off by myself 'n got agood sized fish, but 'twant s' big 's hisn. So I tuk 'n opened his mouthn poured in a lot o' fine shot. When I come back Ab he looked at my fish'n begun t' brag. When we weighed 'em mine was a leetle heavier. 

'"What!" says he. "'Tain't possible thet leetle cuss uv a trout 'sheavier 'n mine. "

''Tis sarrin, ' I said. 

'"Dummed deceivin' business, " said he as he hefted 'em both. "Gittin' soye can't hardly b'lieve the stillyards. "'

Chapter 11

The fifth summer was passing since we came down Paradise Road--the dog, Uncle Eb and I. Times innumerable I had heard my good old friend tellthe story of our coming west until its every incident was familiar tome as the alphabet. Else I fear my youthful memory would have served mepoorly for a chronicle of my childhood so exact and so extended as thisI have written. Uncle Eb's hair was white now and the voices of theswift and the panther had grown mild and tremulous and unsatisfactoryand even absurd. Time had tamed the monsters of that imaginarywilderness and I had begun to lose my respect for them. But one fear hadremained with me as I grew older--the fear of the night man. Every boyand girl in the valley trembled at the mention of him. Many a time I hadheld awake in the late evening to hear the men talk of him before theywent asleep--Uncle Eb and Tip Taylor. I remember a night when Tip said, in a low awesome tone, that he was a ghost. The word carried into mysoul the first thought of its great and fearful mystery. 

'Years and years ago, ' said he, 'there was a boy by the name of NehemiahBrower. An' he killed another boy, once, by accident an' run away an'was drownded. '

'Drownded!' said Uncle Eb. 'How?'

'In the ocean, ' the first answered gaping. 'Went away off 'round theworld an' they got a letter that said he was drownded on his way to VanDieman's Land. '

'To Van Dieman's Land!'

'Yes, an some say the night man is the ghost o' the one he killed. '

I remember waking that night and hearing excited whispers at the windownear my bed. It was very dark in the room and at first I could not tellwho was there. 

'Don't you see him?' Tip whispered. 

'Where?' I heard Uncle Be ask

'Under the pine trees--see him move. '

At that I was up at the window myself and could plainly see the darkfigure of a man standing under the little pine below us. 

'The night man, I guess, ' said Uncle Be, 'but he won't do no harm. Lethim alone; he's going' away now. '

We saw him disappear behind the trees and then we got back into our bedsagain. I covered my head with the bedclothes and said a small prayer forthe poor night man. 

And in this atmosphere of mystery and adventure, among the plain folk ofFaraway, whose care of me when I was in great need, and whose love ofme always, I count among the priceless treasures of God's providence, mychildhood passed. And the day came near when I was to begin to play mypoor part in the world. 

BOOK TWO

Chapter 12

It was a time of new things--that winter when I saw the end of myfifteenth year. Then I began to enjoy the finer humours of life inFaraway--to see with understanding; and by God's grace--to feel. 

The land of play and fear and fable was now far behind me and I hadbegun to feel the infinite in the ancient forest' in the everlastinghills, in the deep of heaven, in all the ways of men. Hope Brower wasnow near woman grown. She had a beauty of face and form that was thetalk of the countryside. I have travelled far and seen many a fair facehut never one more to my eye. I have heard men say she was like a girlout of a story-book those days. 

Late years something had come between us. Long ago we had fallen out ofeach other's confidence, and ever since she had seemed to shun me. Itwas the trip in the sledgehouse that' years after, came up between usand broke our childish intimacy. Uncle Be had told, before company, howshe had kissed me that day and bespoke me for a husband, and while theothers laughed loudly she had gone out of the room crying. She wouldhave little to say to me then. I began to play with boys and she withgirls. And it made me miserable to hear the boys a bit older than Igossip of her beauty and accuse each other of the sweet disgrace oflove. 

But I must hasten to those events in Faraway that shaped our destinies. And first comes that memorable night when I had the privilegeof escorting Hope to the school lyceum where the argument of JedFeary--poet of the hills--fired my soul with an ambition that hasremained with me always. 

Uncle Be suggested that I ask Hope to go with me. 

'Prance right up to her, ' he said, 'an' say you'd be glad of thepleasure of her company. 

It seemed to me a very dubious thing to do. I looked thoughtful andturned red in the face. 

'Young man, ' he continued, 'the boy thet's 'fraid o' women'll never hevwhiskers. '

'How's that?' I enquired. 

'Be scairt t' death, ' he answered, ' 'fore they've hed time t' startYe want t' step right up t' the rack jes' if ye'd bought an' paid feryerself an' was proud o' yer bargain. '

I took his advice and when I found Hope alone in the parlour I came andasked her, very awkwardly as I now remember, to go with me. 

She looked at me, blushing, and said she would ask her mother. 

And she did, and we walked to the schoolhouse together that evening, herhand holding my arm, timidly, the most serious pair that ever struggledwith the problem of deportment on such an occasion. I was oppressed witha heavy sense of responsibility in every word I uttered. 

Ann Jane Foster, known as 'Scooter Jane', for her rapid walk and stiffcarriage, met us at the corners on her way to the schoolhouse. 

'Big turn out I guess, ' said she. 'Jed Feary 'n' Squire Town is comin'over from Jingleville an' all the big guns'll be there. I love t' hearJed Feary speak, he's so techin'. '

Ann Jane was always looking around for some event likely to touch herfeelings. She went to every funeral in Faraway and, when sorrow wasscarce in her own vicinity, journeyed far in quest of it. 

'Wouldn't wonder 'f the fur flew when they git t' going', ' she remarked, and then hurried on, her head erect, her body motionless, her legsflying. Such energy as she gave to the pursuit of mourning I have neverseen equalled in any other form of dissipation. 

The schoolhouse was nearly full of people when we came in. The big boyswere wrestling in the yard; men were lounging on the rude seats, inside, idly discussing crops and cattle and lapsing into silence, frequently, that bore the signs both of expectancy and reflection. Young menand young women sat together on one side of the house whispering andgiggling. Alone among them was the big and eccentric granddaughter ofMrs Bisnette, who was always slapping some youngster for impertinence. Jed Feary and Squire Town sat together behind a pile of books, bothlooking very serious. The long hair and beard of the old poet were nowwhite and his form bent with age. He came over and spoke to us andtook a curl of Hope's hair in his stiffened fingers and held it to thelamplight. 

'What silky gold!' he whispered. ' 'S a skein o' fate, my dear girl!'

Suddenly the schoolteacher rapped on the desk and bade us come to orderand Ransom Walker was called to the chair. 

'Thet there is talent in Faraway township, ' he said, having reluctantlycome to the platform, 'and talent of the very highest order, no one candeny who has ever attended a lyceum at the Howard schoolhouse. I seeevidences of talent in every face before me. And I wish to ask what arethe two great talents of the Yankee--talents that made our forefathersfamous the world over? I pause for an answer. '

He had once been a schoolmaster and that accounted for his didacticstyle. 

'What are the two great talents of the Yankee?' he repeated, his handsclasped before him. 

'Doughnuts an' pie, ' said Uncle Be who sat in a far corner. 

'No sir, ' Mr Walker answered, 'there's some hev a talent fer sawin'wood, but we don't count that. It's war an' speakin', they are the twogreat talents of the Yankee. But his greatest talent is the gift o'gab. Give him a chance t' talk it over with his enemy an' he'll lick 'imwithout a fight. An' when his enemy is another Yankee--why, they bothgit licked, jest as it was in the case of the man thet sold me lightnin'rods. He was sorry he done it before I got through with him. If we didnot encourage this talent in our sons they would be talked to death byour daughters. Ladies and gentlemen, it gives me pleasure t' say thatthe best speakers in Faraway township have come here t' discuss theimportant question:

'Resolved, that intemperance has caused more misery than war?

'I call upon Moses Tupper to open for the affirmative. '

Moses, as I have remarked, had a most unlovely face with a thin andbristling growth of whiskers. In giving him features Nature had beengenerous to a fault. He had a large red nose, and a mouth vastly toobig for any proper use. It was a mouth fashioned for odd sayings. He waswell to do and boasted often that he was a self-made man. Uncle Be usedto say that if Mose Tupper had had the 'makin' uv himself he'd oughterdone it more careful. '

I remember not much of the speech he made, but the picture of him, ashe rose on tiptoe and swung his arms like a man fighting bees, and hisdrawling tones are as familiar as the things of yesterday. 

'Gentlemen an' ladies, ' said he presently, 'let me show you a pictur'. It is the drunkard's child. It is hungry an' there ain't no food in itshome. The child is poorer'n a straw-fed hoss. 'Tain't hed a thing t' eatsince day before yistiddy. Pictur' it to yourselves as it comes cryin'to its mother an' says:

'"Ma! Gi' me a piece o' bread an' butter. "

'She covers her face with her apron an' says she, "There am none left, my child. "

'An' bime bye the child comes agin' an' holds up its poor little han'san' says: "Ma! please gi' me a piece O' cake. "

'An' she goes an' looks out O' the winder, er mebbe pokes the fire, an'says: "There am' none left, my child. "

'An' bime bye it comes agin' an' it says: "Please gi' me a little pieceO' pie. "

'An' she mebbe flops into a chair an' says, sobbin', "There ain' noneleft, my child. "

'No pie! Now, Mr Chairman!' exclaimed the orator, as he lifted bothhands high above his head, 'If this ain't misery, in God's name, what isit?

'Years ago, when I was a young man, Mr President, I went to a dance onenight at the village of Migleyville. I got a toothache, an' the Deviltempted me with whiskey, an' I tuk one glass an' then another an' purtysoon I began t' thank I was a mighty hefty sort of a character, I did, an' I stud on a corner an' stumped everybody t' fight with me, an'bime bye an accomanodatin' kind of a chap come along, an' that's all Iremember O' what happened. When I come to, my coat tails had been toreoff, I'd lost one leg O' my trousers, a bran new silver watch, tewdollars in money, an a pair O' spectacles. When I stud up an' tried t'realise what hed happened I felt jes' like a blind rooster with only oneleg an' no tail feathers. '

A roar of laughter followed these frank remarks of Mr Tupper and brokeinto a storm of merriment when Uncle Eb rose and said:

'Mr President, I hope you see that the misfortunes of our friend was duet' war, an' not to intemperance. '

Mr Tupper was unhorsed. For some minutes he stood helpless or shakingwith the emotion that possessed all. Then he finished lamely and satdown. 

The narrowness of the man that saw so much where there was so littlein his own experience and in the trivial events of his own township waswhat I now recognise as most valuable to the purpose of this history. It was a narrowness that covered a multitude of people in St Lawrencecounty in those days. 

Jed Feary was greeted with applause and then by respectful silence whenhe rose to speak. The fame of his verse and his learning had gone farbeyond the narrow boundaries of the township in which he lived. It wasthe biggest thing in the county. Many a poor sinner who had gone out ofFaraway to his long home got his first praise in the obituary poem byJed Feary. These tributes were generally published in the county paperand paid for by the relatives of the deceased at the rate of a dollara day for the time spent on them, or by a few days of board and lodgingglory and consolation that was, alas! too cheap, as one might see by aglance at his forlorn figure. I shall never forget the courtly manner, so strangely in contrast with the rude deportment of other men in thatplace, with which he addressed the chairman and the people. The drawlingdialect of the vicinity that flavoured his conversation fell from himlike a mantle as he spoke and the light in his soul shone upon thatlittle company a great light, as I now remember, that filled me withburning thoughts of the world and its mighty theatre of action. The wayof my life lay clear before me, as I listened, and its days of toil andthe sweet success my God has given me, although I take it humbly andhold it infinitely above my merit. I was to get learning and seek someway of expressing what was in me. 

It would ill become me to try to repeat the words of this venerableseer, but he showed that intemperance was an individual sin, while warwas a national evil. That one meant often the ruin of a race; the otherthe ruin of a family; that one was as the ocean, the other as a singledrop in its waters. And he told us of the full of empires and themillions that had suffered the oppression of the conqueror and perishedby the sword since Agamemnon. 

After the debate a young lady read a literary paper full of clumsywit, rude chronicles of the countryside, essays on 'Spring', and liketopics--the work of the best talent of Faraway. Then came the decision, after which the meeting adjourned. 

At the door some other boys tried 'to cut me out'. I came through thenoisy crowd, however, with Hope on my arm and my heart full of a greathappiness. 

'Did you like it?' she asked. 

'Very much, ' I answered. 

'What did you enjoy most?'

'Your company, ' I said, with a fine air of gallantry. 

'Honestly?'

'Honestly. I want to take you to Rickard's sometime?'

That was indeed a long cherished hope. 

'Maybe I won't let you, ' she said. 

'Wouldn't you?'

'You'd better ask me sometime and see. '

'I shall. I wouldn't ask any other girl. '

'Well, ' she added, with a sigh, 'if a boy likes one girl I don't thinkhe ought to have anything to do with other girls. I hate a flirt. '

I happened to hear a footfall in the snow behind us, and looking backsaw Ann Jane Foster going slow in easy hearing. She knew all, as we soonfound out. 

'I dew jes love t' see young folks enjoy themselves, ' said she, 'it'sentrancin'. '

Coming in at our gate I saw a man going over the wall back of the bigstables. The house was dark. 

'Did you see the night man?' Elizabeth Brower whispered as I lit thelamp. 'Went through the garden just now. I've been watching him here atthe window. '

Chapter 13

The love of labour was counted a great virtue there in Faraway. As formyself I could never put my heart in a hoe handle or in any like toolof toil. They made a blister upon my spirit as well as upon my hands. Itried to find in the sweat of my brow that exalted pleasure of which MrGreeley had visions in his comfortable retreat on Printing House Square. But unfortunately I had not his point of view. 

Hanging in my library, where I may see it as I write, is the old sickleof Uncle Eb. The hard hickory of its handle is worn thin by the grip ofhis hand. It becomes a melancholy symbol when I remember how also thehickory had worn him thin and bent him low, and how infinitely betterthan all the harvesting of the sickle was the strength of that man, diminishing as it wore the wood. I cannot help smiling when I lookat the sickle and thank of the soft hands and tender amplitude of MrGreeley. 

The great editor had been a playmate of David Brower when they wereboys, and his paper was read with much reverence in our home. 

'How quick ye can plough a ten-acre lot with a pen, ' Uncle Eb used tosay when we had gone up to bed after father had been reading aloud fromhis Tribune. 

Such was the power of the press in that country one had but to say ofany doubtful thing, 'Seen it in print, ' to stop all argument. If therewere any further doubt he had only to say that he had read it eitherin the Tribune or the Bible, and couldn't remember which. Then it was amere question of veracity in the speaker. Books and other reading werecarefully put away for an improbable time of leisure. 

'I might break my leg sometime, ' said David Brower, 'then they'll comehandy. ' But the Tribune was read carefully every week. 

I have seen David Brower stop and look at me while I have been diggingpotatoes, with a sober grin such as came to him always after he hadswapped 'hosses' and got the worst of it. Then he would show me again, with a little impatience in his manner, how to hold the handle andstraddle the row. He would watch me for a moment, turn to Uncle Eb, laugh hopelessly and say: 'Thet boy'll hev to be a minister. He can'twork. '

But for Elizabeth Brower it might have gone hard with me those days. My mind was always on my books or my last talk with Jed Feary, andshe shared my confidence and fed my hopes and shielded me as much aspossible from the heavy work. Hope had a better head for mathematicsthan I, and had always helped me with my sums, but I had a better memoryand an aptitude in other things that kept me at the head of most of myclasses. Best of all at school I enjoyed the 'compositions'--I had manythoughts, such as they were, and some facility of expression, I doubtnot, for a child. Many chronicles of the countryside came off mypen--sketches of odd events and characters there in Faraway. These wereread to the assembled household. Elizabeth Brower would sit lookinggravely down at me, as I stood by her knees reading, in those days of myearly boyhood. Uncle Eb listened with his head turned curiously, as ifhis ear were cocked for coons. Sometimes he and David Brower would slaptheir knees and laugh heartily, whereat my foster mother would give thema quick glance and shake her head. For she was always fearful of the daywhen she should see in her children the birth of vanity, and sought toput it off as far as might be. Sometimes she would cover her mouth tohide a smile, and, when I had finished, look warningly at the rest, andsay it was good, for a little boy. Her praise never went further, andindeed all those people hated flattery as they did the devil and frownedupon conceit She said that when the love of flattery got hold of one hewould lie to gain it. 

I can see this slender, blue-eyed woman as I write. She is walking upand down beside her spinning-wheel. I can hear the dreary buz-z-z-z ofthe spindle as she feeds it with the fleecy ropes. That loud crescendoechoes in the still house of memory. I can hear her singing as she stepsforward and slows the wheel and swings the cradle with her foot:

 'On the other side of Jordan, In the sweet fields of Eden, Where the tree of Life is blooming, There is rest for you. 

She lays her hand to the spokes again and the roar of the spindle drownsher voice. 

All day, from the breakfast hour to supper time, I have heard the dismalsound of the spinning as she walked the floor, content to sing of restbut never taking it. 

Her home was almost a miracle of neatness. She could work with no peaceof mind until the house had been swept and dusted. A fly speck on thewindow was enough to cloud her day. She went to town with David now andthen--not oftener than once a quarter--and came back ill and exhausted. If she sat in a store waiting for David, while he went to mill orsmithy, her imagination gave her no rest. That dirt abhorring mind ofhers would begin to clean the windows, and when that was finished itwould sweep the floor and dust the counters. In due course it wouldlower the big chandelier and take out all the lamps and wash thechimneys with soap and water and rub them till they shone. Then, if David had not come, it would put in the rest of its time on thewoodwork. With all her cleaning I am sure the good woman kept her soulspotless. Elizabeth Brower believed in goodness and the love of God, andknew no fear. Uncle Eb used to say that wherever Elizabeth Brower wenthereafter it would have to be clean and comfortable. 

Elder Whitmarsh came often to dinner of a Sunday, when he and Mrs Browertalked volubly about the Scriptures, he taking a sterner view of Godthan she would allow. He was an Englishman by birth, who had settled inFaraway because there he had found relief for a serious affliction ofasthma. 

He came over one noon in the early summer, that followed the event ofour last chapter, to tell us of a strawberry party that evening at theWhite Church. 

'I've had a wonderful experience, ' said he as he took a seat on thepiazza, while Mrs Brower came and sat near him. 'I've discovered a greatgenius--a wandering fiddler, and I shall try to bring him to play forus. '

'A fiddler! why, Elder!' said she, 'you astonish me!'

'Nothing but sacred music, ' he said, lifting his hand. 'I heard him playall the grand things today--"Rock of Ages", "Nearer My God, to Thee", "The Marseillaise" and "Home, Sweet Home". Lifted me off my feet! I'veheard the great masters in New York and London, but no greater playerthan this man. '

'Where is he and where did he come from?'

'He's at my house now, ' said the good man. 'I found him this morning. Hestood under a tree by the road side, above Nortlrup's. As I came nearI heard the strains of "The Marseillaise". For more than an hour Isat there listening. It was wonderful, Mrs Brower, wonderful! The poorfellow is eccentric. He never spoke to me. His clothes were dusty andworn. But his music went to my heart like a voice from Heaven. When hehad finished I took him home with me, gave him food and a new coat, andleft him sleeping. I want you to come over, and be sure to bring Hope. She must sing for us. '

'Mr Brower will be tired out, but perhaps the young people may go, ' shesaid, looking at Hope and me. 

My heart gave a leap as I saw in Hope's eyes a reflection of my own joy. In a moment she came and gave her mother a sounding kiss and asked herwhat she should wear. 

'I must look my best, mother, ' she said. 

'My child, ' said the elder, 'it's what you do and not what you wearthat's important. '

'They're both important, Elder, ' said my foster mother. You should teachyour people the duty of comeliness. They honour their Maker when theylook their best. '

The spirit of liberalism was abroad in the sons of the Puritans. InElizabeth Brower the ardent austerity of her race had been freelydiluted with humour and cheerfulness and human sympathy. It used to besaid of Deacon Hospur, a good but lazy man, that he was given both toprayer and profanity. Uncle Eb, who had once heard the deacon swear, when the latter had been bruised by a kicking cow, said that, so faras he knew, the deacon never swore except when 'twas necessary. Indeed, most of those men had, I doubt not, too little of that fear of God inthem that characterised their fathers. And yet, as shall appear, therewere in Faraway some relics of a stern faith. 

Hope came out in fine feather, and although I have seen many grandladles, gowned for the eyes of kings, I have never seen a lovelierfigure than when, that evening, she came tripping down to the buggy. Itwas three miles to the white Church, and riding over in the twilight Ilaid the plan of my life before her. She sat a moment in silence after Ihad finished. 

'I am going away, too, ' she remarked, with a sigh. 

'Going away!' I said with some surprise, for in all my plans I hadsecretly counted on returning in grand style to take her back with me. 

'Going away, ' said she decisively. 

'It isn't nice for girls to go away from home, ' I said. 

'It isn't nice for boys, either, ' said she. 

We had come to the church, its open doors and windows all aglow withlight. I helped her out at the steps, and hitched my horse under thelong shed. We entered together and made our way through the chatteringcrowd to the little cloakroom in one corner. Elder Whitmarsh arrived ina moment and the fiddler, a short, stout, stupid-looking man, his fiddlein a black box under his arm, followed him to the platform that had beencleared of its pulpit The stranger stood staring vacantly at thecrowd until the elder motioned him to a chair, when he obeyed withthe hesitating, blind obedience of a dog. Then the elder made abrief prayer, and after a few remarks flavoured with puns, sacredand immemorial as the pulpit itself, started a brief programme ofentertainment. A broad smile marked the beginning of his lighter mood. His manner seemed to say: 'Now, ladies and gentlemen, if you will givegood heed, you shall see I can be witty on occasion. '

Then a young man came to the platform and recited, after which Hope wentforward and sang 'The Land o' the Leal' with such spirit that I can feelmy blood go faster even now as I thank of it, and of that girlish figurecrowned with a glory of fair curls that fell low upon her waist andmingled with the wild pink roses at her bosom. The fiddler sat quietlyas if he heard nothing until she began to sing, when he turned to lookat her. The elder announced, after the ballad, that he had brought withhim a wonderful musician who would favour them with some sacred music. He used the word 'sacred' because he had observed, I suppose, thatcertain of the 'hardshells' were looking askance at the fiddle. Therewas an awkward moment in which the fiddler made no move or sign ofintelligence. The elder stepped near him and whispered. Getting noresponse, he returned to the front of the platform and said: 'We shallfirst resign ourselves to social intercourse and the good things theladies have provided. '

Mountains of frosted cake reared their snowy summits on a long table, and the strawberries, heaped in saucers around them, were like redfoothills. I remember that while they were serving us Hope and I wereintroduced to one Robert Livingstone--a young New Yorker, stopping atthe inn near by, on his way to the big woods. He was a handsome fellow, with such a fine air of gallantry and so trig in fashionable clothesthat he made me feel awkward and uncomfortable. 

'I have never heard anything more delightful than that ballad, ' he saidto Hope. 'You must have your voice trained--you really must. It willmake a great name for you. '

I wondered then why his words hurt me to the soul. The castle of mydreams had fallen as he spoke. A new light came into her face--I did notknow then what it meant. 

'Will you let me call upon you before I leave--may I?' He turned to mewhile she stood silent. 'I wish to see your father, ' he added. 

'Certainly, ' she answered, blushing, 'you may come--if you care to come. 

The musician had begun to thrum the strings of his violin. We turnedto look at him. He still sat in his chair, his ear bent to the echoingchamber of the violin. Soon he laid his bow to the strings and a greatchord hushed every whisper and died into a sweet, low melody, in whichhis thought seemed to be feeling its way through sombre paths of sound. The music brightened, the bow went faster, and suddenly 'The Girl I LeftBehind Me' came rushing off the strings. A look of amazement gathered onthe elder's face and deepened into horror. It went from one to anotheras if it had been a dish of ipecac. Ann Jane Foster went directly forher things, and with a most unchristian look hurried out into the night. Half a dozen others followed her, while the unholy music went on, itsmerry echoes rioting in that sacred room, hallowed with memories of thehour of conviction, of the day of mourning, of the coming of the bridein her beauty. 

Deacon Hospur rose and began to drawl a sort of apology, when the playerstopped suddenly and shot an oath at him. The deacon staggered under theshock of it. His whiskers seemed to lift a bit like the hair of a catunder provocation. Then he tried to speak, but only stuttered helplesslya moment as if his tongue were oscillating between silence andprofanity, and was finally pulled down by his wife, who had laid hold ofhis coat tails. If it had been any other man than Deacon Hospur it wouldhave gone badly with the musician then and there, but we boys saw hisdiscomfiture with positive gratitude. In a moment all rose, the disheswere gathered up, and many hurried away with indignant glances at thepoor elder, who was busy taking counsel with some of the brethren. 

I have never seen a more pathetic figure than that of poor Nick Goodallas he sat there thrumming the strings of which he was a Heaven-bornmaster. I saw him often after that night--a poor, halfwitted creature, who wandered from inn to inn there in the north country, trading musicfor hospitality. A thoroughly intelligible sentence never passed hislips, but he had a great gift of eloquence in music. Nobody knew whencehe had come or any particular of his birth or training or family. Butfor his sullen temper, that broke into wild, unmeaning profanity attimes, Nick Goodall would have made fame and fortune. 

He stared at the thinning crowd as if he had begun dimly to comprehendthe havoc he had wrought. Then he put on his hat, came down off theplatform, and shuffled out of the open door, his violin in one hand, itsbox in the other. There were not more than a dozen of us who followedhim into the little churchyard. The moon was rising, and the shadowsof lilac and rose bush, of slab and monument lay long across the greenmounds. Standing there between the graves of the dead he began to play. I shall never forget that solemn calling of the silver string:

'Come ye disconsolate where'er ye languish. '

It was a new voice, a revelation, a light where darkness had been, toHope and to me. We stood listening far into the night, forgetful ofeverything, even the swift flight of the hours. 

Loud, impassioned chords rose into the moonlit sky and sank to a faintwhisper of melody, when we could hear the gossip of the birds in thebelfry and under the eaves; trembling tones of supplication, wailingnotes of longing and regret swept through the silent avenues of thechurchyard, thrilling us with their eloquence. For the first time weheard the music of Handel, of Mendelssohn, of Paganini, and felt itspower, then knowing neither name nor theme. Hour by hour he played onfor the mere joy of it. When we shook hands with the elder and tiptoedto the buggy he was still playing. We drove slowly and listened a longway down the road. I could hear the strains of that ballad, then new tome, but now familiar, growing fainter in the distance:

O ye'll tak' the high road an' I'll tak' the low road An' I'll be inScotland afore ye; But me an' me true love will never meet again On thebonnie, bonnie banks o' Loch Lomond. 

what connection it may have had with the history of poor Nick Goodall[*1] I have often wondered. 

 [*1] Poor Nick Coodall died in the almshouse of Jefferson County some thirty years ago. A better account of this incident was widely printed at that time. 

As the last note died into silence I turned to Hope, and she was crying. 

'Why are you crying?' I asked, in as miserable a moment as I have everknown. 

'It's the music, ' she said. 

We both sat in silence, then, hearing only the creak of the buggy asit sped over the sandy road. Well ahead of us I saw a man who suddenlyturned aside, vaulting over the fence and running into the near woods. 

'The night man!' I exclaimed, pulling up a moment to observe him. 

Then a buggy came in sight, and presently we heard a loud 'hello' fromDavid Brower, who, worried by our long stay, had come out in quest ofus. 

Chapter 14

Hope's love of music became a passion after that night. Young MrLivingstone, 'the city chap' we had met at the church, came over nextday. His enthusiasm for her voice gave us all great hope of it. DavidBrower said he would take her away to the big city when she wasolder. They soon decided to send her in September to the big school inHillsborough. 

'She's got t' be a lady, ' said David Brower, as he drew her into his lapthe day we had all discussed the matter. 'She's learnt everything inthe 'rithinetic an' geography an' speller. I want her t' learn somethin'more scientific. '

'Now you're talkin', ' said Uncle Eb. 'There's lots o' things ye can'tlearn by cipherin'. Nuthin's too good fer Hope. '

'I'd like t' know what you men expect of her anyway, ' said ElizabethBrower. 

'A high stepper, ' said Uncle Eb. 'We want a slick coat, a kind uv atoppy head, an a lot O' ginger. So't when we hitch 'er t' the pole bimebye we shan't be 'shamed o' her. '

'Eggzac'ly, ' said David Brower, laughing. 'An' then she shall have thebest harness in the market. '

Hope did not seem to comprehend all the rustic metaphors that had beenapplied to her. A look of puzzled amusement came over her face, and thenshe ran away into the garden, her hair streaming from under her whitesun-bonnet. 

'Never see sech a beauty! Beats the world, ' said Uncle Eb in a whisper, whereat both David and Elizabeth shook their heads. 

'Lord o' mercy! Don't let her know it, ' Elizabeth answered, in a lowtone. 'She's beginning to have-'

Just then Hope came by us leading her pet filly that had been bornwithin the month. Immediately Mrs Brower changed the subject. 

'To have what?' David enquired as soon as the girl was out of hearing. 

'Suspicions, ' said Elizabeth mournfully. 'Spends a good deal of her timeat the looking-glass. I think the other girls tell her and then thatyoung Livingstone has been turning her head. '

'Turning her head!' he exclaimed. 

'Turning her head, ' she answered. 'He sat here the other day anddeliberately told her that he had never seen such a complexion and suchlovely hair. '

Elizabeth Brower mocked his accent with a show of contempt that feeblyechoed my own emotions. 

'That's the way o' city folks, mother, ' said David. 

'It's a bad way, ' she answered. 'I do not thank he ought to come here. Hope's a child yet, and we mustn't let her get notions. '

'I'll tell him not t' come any more, ' said David, as he and Uncle Ebrose to go to their work. '

'I'm 'fraid she ought not to go away to school for a year yet, ' saidElizabeth, a troubled look in her face. 

'Pshaw, mother! Ye can't keep her under yer wing alwus, ' said he. 'Well, David, you know she is very young and uncommonly--' she hesitated. 

'Han'some, ' said he, 'we might as well own up if she is our child. '

'If she goes away, ' continued Elizabeth, 'some of us ought t' go withher. '

Then Uncle Eb and David went to their work in the fields and I to my owntask That very evening they began to talk of renting the farm and goingto town with the children. 

I had a stent of cording wood that day and finished it before twoo'clock Then I got my pole of mountain ash, made hook and line ready, dug some worms and went fishing. I cared not so much for the fishing asfor the solitude of the woods. I had a bit of thing to do. In the thicktimber there was a place where Tinkle brook began to hurry and breakinto murmurs on a pebble bar, as if its feet were tickled. A few moresteps and it burst into a peal of laughter that lasted half the year asit tumbled over narrow shelves of rock into a foamy pool. Many a day Ihad sat fishing for hours at the little fall under a birch tree, amongthe brakes and moss. No ray of sunlight ever got to the dark water belowme--the lair of many a big fish that had yielded to the temptation ofmy bait. Here I lay in the cool shade while a singular sort of heartsickness came over me. A wild partridge was beating his gong in the nearwoods all the afternoon. The sound of the water seemed to break in thetree-tops and fall back upon me. I had lain there thinking an hour ormore when I caught the jar of approaching footsteps. Looking up I sawJed Feary coming through the bushes, pole in hand. 

'Fishin'?' he asked. 

'Only thinking, ' I answered. 

'Couldn't be in better business, ' said he as he sat down beside me. 

More than once he had been my father confessor and I was glad he hadcome. 

'In love?' he asked. 'No boy ever thinks unless he's in love. '

'In trouble, ' said I. 

'Same thing, ' he answered, lighting his pipe. 'Love is trouble witha bit of sugar in it--the sweetest trouble a man can have. What's thematter?'

'It's a great secret, ' I said, 'I have never told it. I am in love. '

'Knew it, ' he said, puffing at his pipe and smiling in a kindly way. 'Now let's put in the trouble. '

'She does not love me, ' I answered. 

'Glad of it, ' he remarked. 'I've got a secret t, tell you. '

'What's that?' I enquired. 

'Wouldn't tell anybody else for the world, my boy, ' he said, 'it'sbetween you an' me. '

'Between you an' me, ' I repeated. 

'Well, ' he said, you're a fool. '

'That's no secret, ' I answered much embarrassed. 

'Yes it is, ' he insisted, 'you're smart enough an' ye can have mostanything in this world if ye take the right road. Ye've grown t' be agreat big strapping fellow but you're only--sixteen?'

'That's all, ' I said mournfully. 

'Ye're as big a fool to go falling in love as I'd be. Ye're too youngan' I'm too old. I say to you, wait. Ye've got to go t' college. '

'College!' I exclaimed, incredulously. 

'Yes! an' thet's another secret, ' said he. I tol' David Brower what Ithought o' your writing thet essay on bugs in pertickier--an' I tol' 'imwhat people were sayin' o' your work in school. '

'What d' he say?' I asked. 

'Said Hope had tol' him all about it--that she was as proud o' you asshe was uv her curls, an' I believe it. "Well, " says I, "y' oughter sen'that boy t' college. " "Goin' to, " says he. "He'll go t' the 'Cademy thisfall if he wants to. Then he can go t' college soon's he's ready. " Threwup my hat an' shouted I was that glad. '

As he spoke the old man's face kindled with enthusiasm. In me he had onewho understood him, who saw truth in his thought, music in his verse, a noble simplicity in his soul. I took his hand in mine and thanked himheartily. Then we rose and came away together. 

'Remember, ' he said, as we parted at the corner, 'there's a way laidout fer you. In God's time it will lead to every good thing you desire. Don't jump over the fence. Don't try t' pass any milestun 'fore ye'vecome to it. Don't mope. Keep yer head cool with philosophy, yer feetwarm with travel an' don't worry bout yer heart. It won't turn t' stunif ye do keep it awhile. Allwus hev enough of it about ye t' do businesswith. Goodbye!'

Chapter 15

Gerald Brower, who was a baby when I came to live at Faraway, and wasnow eleven, had caught a cold in seed time, and he had never quiterecovered. His coughing had begun to keep him awake, and one night itbrought alarm to the whole household. Elizabeth Brower was up early inthe morning and called Uncle Eb, who went away for the doctor as soonas light came. We ate our breakfast in silence. Father and mother andGrandma Bisnette spoke only in low tones and somehow the anxiety intheir faces went to my heart. Uncle Eb returned about eight o'clock andsaid the doctor was coming. Old Doctor Bigsby was a very great man inthat country. Other physicians called him far and wide for consultation. I had always regarded him with a kind of awe intensified by the aroma ofhis drugs and the gleam of his lancet. Once I had been his patient andthen I had trembled at his approach. When he took my little wrist inhis big hand, I remember with what reluctance I stuck out my quiveringtongue, black, as I feared with evidences of prevarication. 

He was a picture for a painter man as he came that morning erect in hisgig. Who could forget the hoary majesty of his head--his 'stovepipe'tilted back, his white locks flying about his ears? He had a longnose, a smooth-shaven face and a left eye that was a trifle turned. Histhoughts were generally one day behind the calendar. Today he seemed tobe digesting the affairs of yesterday. He was, therefore, absentminded, to a degree that made no end of gossip. If he came out one day withshoe-strings flying, in his remorse the next he would forget his collar;if one told him a good joke today, he might not seem to hear it, buttomorrow he would take it up in its turn and shake with laughter. 

I remember how, that morning after noting the symptoms of his patient, he sat a little in silent reflection. He knew that colour in the cheek, that look in the eye--he had seen so much of it. His legs were crossedand one elbow thrown carelessly over the back of his chair. We all satlooking at him anxiously. In a moment he began chewing hard on hisquid of tobacco. Uncle Eb pushed the cuspidor a bit nearer. The doctorexpectorated freely and resumed his attitude of reflection. The clockticked loudly, the patient sighed, our anxiety increased. Uncle Eb spoketo father, in a low tone, whereupon the doctor turned suddenly, witha little grunt of enquiry, and seeing he was not addressed, sank againinto thoughtful repose. I had begun to fear the worst when suddenly thehand of the doctor swept the bald peak of benevolence at the top ofhis head. Then a smile began to spread over his face. It was as if somefeather of thought had begun to tickle him. In a moment his head wasnodding with laughter that brought a great sense of relief to all of us. In a slow, deliberate tone he began to speak:

'I was over t' Rat Tupper's t'other day, ' said he, 'Rat was sitting withme in the door yard. Purty soon a young chap came in, with a scythe, and asked if he might use the grindstun. He was a new hired man fromsomewhere near. He didn't know Rat, an' Rat didn't know him. So Rat o'course had t' crack one o' his jokes. 

'"May I use yer grindstun?" said the young feller. 

'"Dunno, " said Rat, "I'm only the hired man here. Go an' ask Mis'Tupper. "

'The ol' lady had overheard him an' so she says t' the young feller, "Yes--ye can use the grindstun. The hired man out there'll turn it ferye. "

'Rat see he was trapped, an' so he went out under the plum tree, wherethe stun was, an' begun t' turn. The scythe was dull an' the youngfeller bore on harder'n wuz reely decent fer a long time. Rat begun t'git very sober lookin'. 

'"Ain't ye 'bout done, " said he. 

'"Putty nigh, " said the young feller bearin' down a leetle harder allthe time. 

'Rat made the stun go faster. Putty soon he asked agin, "Ain't ye doneyit?"

'"Putty nigh!" says the other, feeling o' the edge. 

'"I'm done, " said Rat, an' he let go o' the handle. "I dunno 'bout thescythe but I'm a good deal sharper'n I wuz. "

'"You're the hired man here ain't ye?" said the young feller. 

'"No, I ain't, " said Rat. "'D rather own up t' bein' a liar than turnthat stun another minnit. "

As soon as he was fairly started with this droll narrative the strainof the situation was relieved. We were all laughing as much at hisdeliberate way of narration as at the story itself. 

Suddenly he turned to Elizabeth Brower and said, very soberly, 'Will youbring me some water in a glass?'

Then he opened his chest of medicine, made some powders and told us howto give them. 

'In a few days I would take him into the big woods for a while, ' hesaid. 'See how it agrees with him. '

Then he gathered up his things and mother went with him to the gig. 

Humour was one of the specifics of Doctor Bigsby. He was always a poorman. He had a way of lumping his bills, at about so much, in settlementand probably never kept books. A side of pork paid for many a longjourney. He came to his death riding over the hills one bitter day notlong after the time of which I write, to reach a patient. 

The haying over, we made ready for our trip into the woods. Uncle Eb andTip Taylor, who knew the forest, and myself, were to go with Gerald toBlueberry Lake. We loaded our wagon with provisions one evening and madeready to be off at the break of day. 

Chapter 16

I remember how hopefully we started that morning with Elizabeth Browerand Hope waving their handkerchiefs on the porch and David near themwhittling. They had told us what to do and what not to do over and overagain. I sat with Gerald on blankets that were spread over a thick matof hay. The morning air was sweet with the odour of new hay and themusic of the bobolink. Uncle Eb and Tip Taylor sang merrily as we rodeover the hills. 

When we entered the shade of the big forest Uncle Eb got out his rifleand loaded it. He sat a long time whispering and looking eagerly forgame to right and left. He was still a boy. One could see evidences ofage only in his white hair and beard and wrinkled brow. He retainedthe little tufts in front of his ears, and lately had grown a silvercrescent of thin and silky hair that circled his throat under a barechin. Young as I was I had no keener relish for a holiday than he. Atnoon we halted beside a brook and unhitched our horses. Then we caughtsome fish, built a fire and cooked them, and brewed our tea. At sunsetwe halted at Tuley Pond, looking along its reedy margin, under purpletamaracks, for deer. There was a great silence, here in the deep ofthe woods, and Tip Taylor's axe, while he peeled the bark for our camp, seemed to fill the wilderness with echoes. It was after dark when theshanty was covered and we lay on its fragrant mow of balsam and hemlock. The great logs that we had rolled in front of our shanty were set afireand shortly supper was cooking. 

Gerald had stood the journey well. Uncle Eb and he stayed in while Tipand I got our jack ready and went off in quest of a dugout He said BillEllsworth had one hid in a thicket on the south side of Tuley. We foundit after an hour's tramp near by. It needed a little repairing but wesoon made it water worthy, and then took our seats, he in the stern, with the paddle, and I in the bow with the gun. Slowly and silently weclove a way through the star-sown shadows. It was like the hushed andmystic movement of a dream. We seemed to be above the deep of heaven, the stars below us. The shadow of the forest in the still water lookedlike the wall of some mighty castle with towers and battlements andmyriads of windows lighted for a fete. Once the groan of a nighthawkfell out of the upper air with a sound like that of a stone striking inwater. I thought little of the deer Tip was after. His only aim in lifewas the one he got with a gun barrel. I had forgotten all but the beautyof the scene. Suddenly Tip roused me by laying his hand to the gunwaleand gently shaking the dugout. In the dark distance, ahead of us, Icould hear the faint tinkle of dripping water. Then I knew a deer wasfeeding not far away and that the water was falling from his muzzle. When I opened my jack we were close upon him. His eyes gleamed. I shothigh above the deer that went splashing ashore before I had pulled mytrigger. After the roar of the gun had got away, in the distant timber, Tip mentioned a place abhorred of all men, turned and paddled for thelanding. 

'Could 'a killed 'im with a club, ' said he snickering. 'Guess he must alooked putty tall didn't he?'

'Why?' I asked. 

'Cos ye aimed into the sky, ' said he. 'Mebbe ye thought he was a bird. '

'My hand trembled a little, ' said I. 

''Minds me of Bill Barber, ' he said in a half-whisper, as he worked hispaddle, chuckling with amusement. 

'How's that?' I asked. 

'Nothin' safe but the thing he shoots at, ' said he. 'Terrible bad shot. Kills a cow every time he goes huntin'. '

Uncle Eb was stirring the fire when we came whispering into camp, andGerald lay asleep under the blankets. 

'Willie couldn't hit the broadside of a bam, ' said Tip. 'He don't taketo it nat'ral. '

'Killin' an' book learnin' don't often go together, ' said Uncle Eb. 

I turned in by the side of Gerald and Uncle Eb went off with Tip foranother trip in the dugout. The night was chilly but the fire floodedour shanty with its warm glow. What with the light, and the boughs underus, and the strangeness of the black forest we got little sleep. I heardthe gun roar late in the night, and when I woke again Uncle Eb and TipTaylor were standing over the fire in the chilly grey of the morning. A dead deer hung on the limb of a tree near by. They began dressing itwhile Gerald and I went to the spring for water, peeled potatoes, andgot the pots boiling. After a hearty breakfast we packed up, and weresoon on the road again, reaching Blueberry Lake before noon. There wehired a boat of the lonely keeper of the reservoir, found an abandonedcamp with an excellent bark shanty and made ourselves at home. 

That evening in camp was one to be remembered. An Thomas, the guide whotended the reservoir, came over and sat beside our fire until bedtime. He had spent years in the wilderness going out for nothing lessimportant than an annual spree at circus time. He eyed us over, each inturn, as if he thought us all very rare and interesting. 

'Many bears here?' Uncle Eb enquired. 

'More plenty 'n human bein's, ' he answered, puffing lazily at his pipewith a dead calm in his voice and manner that I have never seen equalledexcept in a tropic sea. 

'See 'em often?' I asked. 

He emptied his pipe, striking it on his palm until the bowl rang, without answering. Then he blew into the stem with great violence. 

'Three or four 'n a summer, mebbe, ' he said at length. 

'Ever git sassy?' Uncle Eb asked. 

He whipped a coal out of the ashes then and lifted it in his fingers tothe bowl of his pipe. 

'Never real sassy, ' he said between vigourous puffs. 'One stole a hamoff my pyazz las' summer; Al Fifield brought 't in fer me one day--smeltgood too! I kep' savin' uv it thinkin' I'd enjoy it all the more whenI did hev it. One day I went off cuttin' timber an' stayed 'til mos'night. Comin' home I got t' thinkin' o' thet ham, an' made up my mindI'd hev some fer supper. The more I thought uv it the faster I hurriedan' when I got hum I was hungrier'n I'd been fer a year. When I see theol' bear's tracks an' the empty peg where the ham had hung I went t'work an' got mad. Then I started after thet bear. Tracked 'im overyender, up Cat Mountin'. '

Here Ab paused. He had a way of stopping always at the most interestingpoint to puff at his pipe. It looked as if he were getting up steam foranother sentence and these delays had the effect of 'continued in ournext'. 

'Kill 'im?' Uncle Eb asked. 

'Licked him, ' he said. 

'Huh!' we remarked incredulously. 

'Licked 'im, ' he repeated chucking. 'Went into his cave with a sledgestake an' whaled 'im--whaled 'im 'til he run fer his life. '

Whether it was true or not I have never been sure, even to this day, butAb's manner was at once modest and convincing. 

'Should 'a thought he'd 'a rassled with ye, ' Uncle Eb remarked. 

'Didn't give 'im time, ' said Ab, as he took out his knife and beganslowly to sharpen a stick. 

'Don't never wan' t' rassle with no bear, ' he added, 'but hams is tooscurce here 'n the woods t' hev 'em tuk away 'fore ye know the taste uv'em. I ain't never been hard on bears. Don't seldom ever set no trapsan' I ain't shot a bear fer mor'n 'n ten year. But they've got t' bedecent. If any bear steals my vittles he's goin' t' git cuffed bard. '

Ab's tongue had limbered up at last. His pipe was going well and heseemed to have struck an easy grade. There was a tone of injury andaggrievement in his talk of the bear's ingratitude. He snailed over hiswhittling as we laughed heartily at the droll effect of it all. 

'D'ye ever hear o' the wild man 'at roams 'round'n these woods?' heasked. 

'Never did, ' said Uncle Eb. 

'I've seen 'im more times 'n ye could shake a stick at, ' said Abcrossing his legs comfortably and spitting into the fire. 'Kind o' thankhe's the same man folks tells uv down 'n Paradise Valley there--'at goes'round 'n the clearin' after bedtime. '

'The night man!' I exclaimed. 

'Guess thet's what they call 'im, ' said Ab. 'Curus man! Sometimes I'vehed a good squint at 'im off 'n the woods. He's wilder 'n a deer an'I've seen 'im jump over logs, half as high as this shanty, jest as easyas ye 'd hop a twig. Tried t' foller 'im once er twice but tain' no use. He's quicker 'n a wil' cat. '

'What kind of a lookin' man is he?' Tip Taylor asked. 

'Great, big, broad-shouldered feller, ' said Ab. 'Six feet tall if he'san inch. Hed a kind of a deerskin jacket on when I seen 'im an' breechesan' moccasins made o' some kind o' hide. I recollec' one day I was overon the ridge two mile er more from the Stillwater goin' south. I seen'im gittin' a drink at the spring there 'n the burnt timber. An' if Iain't mistaken there was a real live panther playin' 'round 'im. If 'twa'n't a panther 'twas pesky nigh it I can tell ye. The critter see mefast an' drew up 'is back. Then the man got up quickerin' a flash. Soon'she see me--Jeemimey! didn't they move. Never see no human critter runas he did! A big tree hed fell 'cross a lot o' bush right 'n his path. I'll be gol dummed if 'twan't higher 'n my head! But he cleared it--jestas easy as a grasshopper'd go over a straw. I'd like t' know wher hecomes from, gol dummed if I wouldn't. He's the consarndest queerestanimal 'n these woods. '

Ab emphasised this lucid view of the night man by an animated movementof his fist that held the big hunting knife with which he whittled. Thenhe emptied his pipe and began cutting more tobacco. 

'Some says 'e 's a ghost, ' said Tip Taylor, splitting his sentence witha yawn, as he lay on a buffalo robe in the shanty. 

'Shucks an' shoestrings!' said Ab, 'he looks too nat'ral. Don't believeno ghost ever wore whiskers an' long hair like his'n. Thet don't hol' t'reason. '

This remark was followed by dead silence. Tip seemed to lack bothcourage and information with which to prolong the argument. 

Gerald had long been asleep and we were all worn out with uphilltravelling and the lack of rest. Uncle Eb went out to look after thehorses that were tethered near us. Ab rose, looked up through thetree-tops, ventured a guess about the weather, and strode off into thedarkness. 

We were five days in camp, hunting, fishing, fighting files andpicking blueberries. Gerald's cough had not improved at all--it was, ifanything, a bit worse than it had been and the worry of that had cloudedour holiday. We were not in high spirits when, finally, we decided tobreak camp the next afternoon. 

The morning of our fourth day at Blueberry Uncle Eb and I crossed thelake, at daylight, to fish awhile in Soda Brook and gather orchids thenabundant and beautiful in that part of the woods. We headed for campat noon and were well away from shore when a wild yell rang in the deadtimber that choked the wide inlet behind us. I was rowing and stoppedthe oars while we both looked back at the naked trees, belly deep in thewater. 

But for the dry limbs, here and there, they would have looked like mastsof sunken ships. In a moment another wild whoop came rushing over thewater. Thinking it might be somebody in trouble we worked about andpulled for the mouth of the inlet. Suddenly I saw a boat coming in thedead timber. There were three men in it, two of whom were paddling. Theyyelled like mad men as they caught sight of us, and one of them waved abottle in the air. 

'They're Indians, ' said Uncle Eb. 'Drunk as lords. Guess we'd better gitout o' the way. '

I put about and with a hearty pull made for the other side of the lake, three miles away. The Indians came after us, their yells echoing in thefar forest. Suddenly one of them lifted his rifle, as if taking aim atus, and, bang it went the ball ricocheting across our bows. 

'Crazy drunk, ' said Uncle Eb, 'an' they're in fer trouble. Pull with allyer might. '

I did that same putting my arms so stiffly to their task I feared theoars would break. 

In a moment another ball came splintering the gunwales right between us, but fortunately, well above the water line. Being half a mile from shoreI saw we were in great peril. Uncle Eb reached for his rifle, his handtrembling. 

'Sink 'em, ' I shouted, 'an' do it quick or they'll sink us. '

My old companion took careful aim and his ball hit them right on thestarboard bow below the water line. A splash told where it had landed. They stopped yelling. The man in the bow clapped his hat against theside of the boat. 

'Guess we've gin 'em a little business t' ten' to, ' said Uncle Eb as hemade haste to load his rifle. 

The Indian at the bow was lifting his rifle again. He seemed to reel ashe took aim. He was very slow about it. I kept pulling as I watched him. I saw that their boat was slowly sinking. I had a strange fear that hewould hit me in the stomach. I dodged when I saw the flash of his rifle. His ball struck the water, ten feet away from us, and threw a spray intomy face. 

Uncle Eb had lifted his rifle to shoot again. Suddenly the Indian, whohad shot at us, went overboard. In a second they were all in the water, their boat bottom up. 

'Now take yer time, ' said Uncle Eb coolly, a frown upon his face. 

'They'll drown, ' said I. 

'Don't care if they do, consam 'em, ' he answered. 'They're some o' themSt Regis devils, an' when they git whisky in 'em they'd jes' soon killye as look at ye. They am' no better 'n rats. '

We kept on our way and by and by a wind came up that gave us both somecomfort, for we knew it would soon blow them ashore. Ab Thomas had cometo our camp and sat with Tip and Gerald when we got there. We told ofour adventure and then Ab gave us a bad turn, and a proper appreciationof our luck, by telling us that they were a gang of cut-throats--theworst in the wilderness. 

'They'd a robbed ye sure, ' he said. 'It's the same gang 'at killed a manon Cat Mountain las' summer, an' I'll bet a dollar on it. '

Tip had everything ready for our journey home. Each day Gerald had grownpaler and thinner. As we wrapped him in a shawl and tenderly helped himinto the wagon I read his doom in his face. We saw so much of that kindof thing in our stern climate we knew what it meant. Our fun was over. We sat in silence, speeding down the long hills in the fading light ofthe afternoon. Those few solemn hours in which I heard only the wagon'srumble and the sweet calls of the whip-poor-will-waves of music on a seaof silence-started me in a way of thought which has led me high and lowthese many years and still invites me. The day was near its end when wegot to the first big clearing. From the top of a high hill we could seeabove the far forest, the red rim of the setting sun, big with windingfrom the skein of day, that was now flying off the tree-tops in thewest. 

We stopped to feed the horses and to take a bite of jerked venison, wrapped ourselves warmer, for it was now dunk and chilly, and went onagain. The road went mostly downhill, going out of the woods, and wecould make good time. It was near midnight when we drove in at our gate. There was a light in the sitting-room and Uncle Eb and I went inwith Gerald at once. Elizabeth Brower knelt at the feet of her son, unbuttoned his coat and took off his muffler. Then she put her armsabout his neck while neither spoke nor uttered any sound. Both motherand son felt and understood and were silent. The ancient law of God, that rends asunder and makes havoc of our plans, bore heavy on them inthat moment, I have no doubt, but neither murmured. Uncle Eb began topump vigorously at the cistern while David fussed with the fire. We wereall quaking inwardly but neither betrayed a sign of it. It is a way thePuritan has of suffering. His emotions are like the deep undercurrentsof the sea. 

Chapter 17

If I were writing a novel merely I should try to fill it with merrimentand good cheer. I should thrust no sorrow upon the reader save thathe might feel for having wasted his time. We have small need ofmanufactured sorrow when, truly, there is so much of the real thing onevery side of us. But this book is nothing more nor less than a history, and by the same token it cannot be all as I would have wished it. In October following the events of the last chapter, Gerald died ofconsumption, having borne a lingering illness with great fortitude. I, who had come there a homeless orphan in a basket, and who, with theGod-given eloquence of childhood had brought them to take me to theirhearts and the old man that was with me as well, was now the only sonleft to Elizabeth and David Brower. There were those who called it follyat the time they took us in, I have heard, but he who shall read thishistory to the end shall see how that kind of folly may profit one oreven many here in this hard world. 

It was a gloomy summer for all of us. The industry and patience withwhich Hope bore her trial, night and day, is the sweetest recollectionof my youth. It brought to her young face a tender soberness ofwomanhood--a subtle change of expression that made her all the more dearto me. Every day, rain or shine, the old doctor had come to visit hispatient, sometimes sitting an hour and gazing thoughtfully in his face, occasionally asking a question, or telling a quaint anecdote. And thencame the end. 

The sky was cold and grey in the late autumn and the leaves were drifteddeep in the edge of the woodlands when Hope and I went away to schooltogether at Hillsborough. Uncle Eb drove us to our boarding place intown. When we bade him goodbye and saw him driving away, alone in thewagon, we hardly dared look at each other for the tears in our eyes. 

David Brower had taken board for us at the house of one SolomonRollin--universally known as 'Cooky' Rollin; that was one of the firstthings I learned at the Academy. It seemed that many years ago he hadtaken his girl to a dance and offered her, in lieu of supper, cookiesthat he had thoughtfully brought with him. Thus cheaply he had come tolife-long distinction. 

'You know Rollin's Ancient History, don't you?' the young man asked whosat with me at school that first day. 

'Have it at home, ' I answered, 'It's in five volumes. '

'I mean the history of Sol Rollin, the man you are boarding with, ' saidhe smiling at me and then he told the story of the cookies. 

The principal of the Hillsborough Academy was a big, brawny bachelor ofScotch descent, with a stem face and cold, grey, glaring eyes. When hestood towering above us on his platform in the main room of the buildingwhere I sat, there was an alertness in his figure, and a look ofresponsibility in his face, that reminded me of the pictures of Napoleonat Waterloo. He always carried a stout ruler that had blistered a shankof every mischievous boy in school. As he stood by the line, that camemarching into prayers every morning he would frequently pull out a boy, administer a loud whack or two, shake him violently and force him into aseat. The day I began my studies at the Academy I saw him put two dentsin the wall with the heels of a young man who had failed in his algebra. To a bashful and sensitive youth, just out of a country home, the sightof such violence was appalling. My first talk with him, however, renewedmy courage. He had heard I was a good scholar and talked with me in afriendly way about my plans. Both Hope and I were under him inalgebra and Latin. I well remember my first error in his class. I hadmisconstrued a Latin sentence. He looked at me, a smile and a sneercrowding each other for possession of his face. In a loud, jeering tonehe cried: 'Mirabile dictu!'

I looked at him in doubt of his meaning. 

'Mirabile dictu!' he shouted, his tongue trilling the r. 

I corrected my error. 

'Perfect!' he cried again. 'Puer pulchre! Next!'

He never went further than that with me in the way of correction. Mysize and my skill as a wrestler, that shortly ensured for me the respectof the boys, helped me to win the esteem of the master. I learned mylessons and kept out of mischief. But others of equal proficiency werenot so fortunate. He was apt to be hard on a light man who could behandled without over-exertion. 

Uncle Eb came in to see me one day and sat awhile with me in my seat. While he was there the master took a boy by the collar and almostliterally wiped the blackboard with him. There was a great clatter ofheels for a moment. Uncle Eb went away shortly and was at Sol Rollin'swhen I came to dinner. 

'Powerful man ain't he?' said Uncle Eb. 

'Rather, ' I said. 

'Turned that boy into a reg'lar horse fiddle, ' he remarked. 'Must 'aveunsot his reason. '

'Unnecessary!' I said. 

'Reminded me o' the time 'at Tip Taylor got his tooth pulled, ' said he. 'Shook 'im up so 'at he thought he'd had his neck put out o' ji'nt. '

Sol Rollin was one of my studies that winter. He was a carpenter bytrade and his oddities were new and delightful. He whistled as heworked, he whistled as he read, he whistled right merrily as he walkedup and down the streets--a short, slight figure with a round boyish faceand a fringe of iron-grey hair under his chin. The little man had onebig passion--that for getting and saving. The ancient thrift of his racehad pinched him small and narrow as a foot is stunted by a tight shoe. His mind was a bit out of register as we say in the printing business. His vocabulary was rich and vivid and stimulating. 

'Somebody broke into the arsenic today, ' he announced, one evening, atthe supper table. 

'The arsenic, ' said somebody, 'what arsenic?'

'Why the place where they keep the powder, ' he answered. 

'Oh! the arsenal. '

'Yes, the arsenal, ' he said, cackling with laughter at his error. Thenhe grew serious. 

'Stole all the ambition out of it, ' he added. 

'You mean ammunition, don't you, Solomon?' his wife enquired. 

'Certainly, ' said he, 'wasn't that what I said. '

When he had said a thing that met his own approval Sol Rollin wouldcackle most cheerfully and then crack a knuckle by twisting a finger. His laugh was mostly out of register also. It had a sad lack ofrelevancy. He laughed on principle rather than provocation. Some sort ofsecret comedy of which the world knew nothing, was passing in his mind;it seemed to have its exits and its entrances, its villain, its clownand its miser who got all the applause. 

While working his joy was unconfined. Many a time I have sat and watchedhim in his little shop, its window dim with cobwebs. Sometimes he wouldstop whistling and cackle heartily as he worked his plane or drew hispencil to the square. I have even seen him drop his tools and give hisundivided attention to laughter. He did not like to be interrupted--heloved his own company the best while he was 'doin' business'. I went oneday when he was singing the two lines and their quaint chorus which wasall he ever sang in my hearing; which gave him great relief, I have nodoubt, when lip weary with whistling:

 Sez I 'Dan'l Skinner, I thank yer mighty mean To send me up the river, With a sev'n dollar team' Lul-ly, ul--ly, diddie ul--ly, diddleul--lydee, Oh, lul-ly, ul--ly, diddle ul--ly, diddle ul--ly dee. 

'Mr Rollin!' I said. 

Yes siree, ' said he, pausing in the midst of his chorus to look up atme. 

'Where can I get a piece of yellow pine?'

'See 'n a minute, ' he said. Then he continued his sawing and his song, '"Says I Dan Skinner, I thank yer mighty mean"--what d' ye want it fer?'he asked stopping abruptly. 

'Going to make a ruler, ' I answered. 

'"T' sen' me up the river with a seven dollar team, "' he went on, picking out a piece of smooth planed lumber, and handing it to me. 

'How much is it worth?' I enquired. 

He whistled a moment as he surveyed it carefully. 

''Bout one cent, ' he answered seriously. 

I handed him the money and sat down awhile to watch him as he went onwith his work. It was the cheapest amusement I have yet enjoyed. IndeedSol Rollin became a dissipation, a subtle and seductive habit that grewupon me and on one pretext or another I went every Saturday to the shopif I had not gone home. 

'What ye goin' t' be?'

He stopped his saw, and looked at me, waiting for my answer. 

At last the time had come when I must declare myself and I did. 

'A journalist, ' I replied. 

'What's that?' he enquired curiously. 

'An editor, ' I said. 

'A printer man?'

'A printer man. '

'Huh!' said he. 'Mebbe I'll give ye a job. Sairey tol' me I'd orter t''ave some cards printed. I'll want good plain print: Solomon Rollin, Cappenter 'n J'iner, Hillsborough, NY--soun's putty good don't it. '

'Beautiful, ' I answered. 

'I'll git a big lot on 'em, ' he said. 'I'll want one for Sister Susan'at's out in Minnesoty--no, I guess I'll send 'er tew, so she can giveone away--an' one fer my brother, Eliphalet, an' one apiece fer my threecousins over 'n Vermont, an' one fer my Aunt Mirandy. Le's see-tew an'one is three an' three is six an' one is seven. Then I'll git a fewstruck off fer the folks here--guess they'll thank I'm gittin' up 'n theworld. '

He shook and snickered with anticipation of the glory of it. Pure vanityinspired him in the matter and it had in it no vulgar consideration ofbusiness policy. He whistled a lively tune as he bent to his work again. 

'Yer sister says ye're a splendid scholar!' said he. 'Hear'n 'erbraggin' 'bout ye t'other night; she thinks a good deal o' her brother, I can tell ye. Guess I know what she's gain' t' give ye Crissmus. '

'What's that?' I asked, with a curiosity more youthful than becoming. 

'Don't ye never let on, ' said he. 

'Never, ' said I. 

'Hear'n 'em tell, ' he said, ' 'twas a gol' lockup, with 'er pictur' init. '

'Oh, a locket!' I exclaimed. 

'That's it, ' he replied, 'an' pure gol', too. '

I turned to go. 

'Hope she'll grow up a savin' woman, ' he remarked. ''Fraid she won'tnever be very good t' worlt. '

'Why not?' I enquired. 

'Han's are too little an' white, ' he answered. 

'She won't have to, ' I said. 

He cackled uproariously for a moment, then grew serious. 

'Her father's rich, ' he said, 'the richest man o' Faraway, an Iguess she won't never hev anything t' dew but set'n sing an' play themelodium. '

'She can do as she likes, ' I said. 

He stood a moment looking down as if meditating on the delights he hadpictured. 

'Gol!' he exclaimed suddenly. 

My subject had begun to study me, and I came away to escape furtherexamination. 

Chapter 18

I ought to say that I have had and shall have to chronicle herein muchthat would seem to indicate a mighty conceit of myself. Unfortunatelythe little word 'I' throws a big shadow in this history. It looms up alltoo frequently in every page for the sign of a modest man. But, indeed, I cannot help it, for he was the only observer of all there is to tell. Now there is much, for example, in the very marrow of my history--thingsthat never would have happened, things that never would have been said, but for my fame as a scholar. My learning was of small account, for, it must be remembered, I am writing of a time when any degree ofscholarship was counted remarkable among the simple folk of Faraway. 

Hope took singing lessons and sang in church every Sunday. David orUncle Eb came down for us often of a Saturday and brought us back beforeservice in the morning. One may find in that town today many who willlove to tell him of the voice and beauty and sweetness of Hope Browerthose days, and of what they expected regarding her and me. We wentout a good deal evenings to concerts, lectures at the churches or thecollege, or to visit some of the many people who invited us to theirhomes. 

We had a recess of two weeks at the winter holidays and David Browercame after us the day the term ended. O, the great happiness of thatday before Christmas when we came flying home in the sleigh behind a newteam of greys and felt the intoxication of the frosty air, and drove inat dusk after the lamps were lit and we could see mother and Uncle Eband Grandma Bisnette looking out of the window, and a steaming dinner onthe table! I declare! it is long since then, but I cannot ever think ofthat time without wiping my glasses and taking a moment off Tip Taylortook the horses and we all came in where the kettle was singing on thestove and loving hands helped us out of our wraps. The supper was amerry feast, the like of which one may find only by returning to hisboyhood. Mack! that is a long journey for some of us. 

Supper over and the dishes out of the way we gathered about the stovewith cider and butternuts. 

'Well, ' said Hope, 'I've got some news to tell you--this boy is the bestscholar of his age in this county. '

'Thet so?' said David. 

Uncle Eb stopped his hmnmer that was lifted to crack a butternut andpulled his chair close to Hope's. Elizabeth looked at her daughter andthen at me, a smile and a protest in her face. 

'True as you live, ' said Hope. 'The master told me so. He's first ineverything, and in the Town Hall the other night he spelt everybodydown. '

'What! In Hillsborough?' Uncle Eb asked incredulously. 

'Yes, in Hillsborough, ' said Hope, 'and there were doctors and lawyersand college students and I don't know who all in the match. '

'Most reemarkable!' said David Brower. 

'Treemenjious!' exclaimed Uncle Eb. 

'I heard about it over at the mills t'day, ' said Tip Taylor. 

'Merd Dieu!' exclaimed Grandma Bisnette, crossing herself. 

Elizabeth Brower was unable to stem this tide of enthusiasm. I had triedto stop it, but, instantly, it had gone beyond my control. If I could behurt by praise the mischief had been done. 

'It's very nice, indeed, ' said she soberly. 'I do hope it won't make himconceited. He should remember that people do not always mean what theysay. '

'He's too sensible for that, mother, ' said David. 

'Shucks!' said Uncle Eb, 'he ain' no fool if he is a good speller--notby a dum sight!'

'Tip, ' said David, 'you'll find a box in the sleigh 'at come by express. I wish ye'd go'n git it. '

We all stood looking while Tip brought it in and pried off the topboards with a hatchet. 

'Careful, now!' Uncle Eb cautioned him. 'Might spile sumthin'. '

The top off, Uncle Eb removed a layer of pasteboard. Then he pulled outa lot of coloured tissue paper, and under that was a package, wrappedand tied. Something was written on it. He held it up and tried to readthe writing. 

'Can't see without my spectacles, ' he said, handing it to me. 

'For Hope, ' I read, as I passed it to her. 

'Hooray!' said Uncle Eb, as he lifted another, and the last package, from the box. 

'For Mrs Brower, ' were the words I read upon that one. 

The strings were cut, the wrappers torn away, and two big rolls of shinysilk loosened their coils on the table. Hope uttered a cry of delight. Amurmur of surprise and admiration passed from one to another. Elizabethlifted a rustling fold and held it to the lamplight We passed our handsover the smooth sheen of the silk. 

'Wall, I swan!' said Uncle Eb. 'Jes' like a kitten's ear!'

'Eggzac'ly!' said David Brower. 

Elizabeth lifted the silk and let it flow to her feet Then for a littleshe looked down, draping it to her skirt and moving her foot to make thesilk rustle. For the moment she was young again. 

'David, ' she said, still looking at the glory of glossy black thatcovered her plain dress. 

'Well, mother, ' he answered. 

'Was you fool enough t' go'n buy this stuff fer me?'

'No, mother--it come from New York City, ' he said. 

'From New York City?' was the exclamation of all. 

Elizabeth Brower looked thoughtfullyy at her husband. 

'Clear from New York City?' she repeated. 

'From New York City, ' said he. 

'Wall, of all things!' said Uncle Eb, looking over his spectacles fromone to another. 

'It's from the Livingstone boy, ' said Mrs Brower. 'I've heard he's theson of a rich man. '

''Fraid he took a great fancy t' Hope, ' said David. 

'Father, ' said the girl, you've no right to say that. I'm sure he nevercared a straw for me. '

'I don't think we ought to keep it, ' said Mrs Brower, looking upthoughtfullyy. 

'Shucks and shavin's!' said Uncle Eb. 'Ye don't know but what I had itsent myself. '

Hope went over and put her arms around his neck. 

'Did you, Uncle Eb?' she asked. 'Now you tell me the truth, Uncle Eb. '

'Wouldn't say 't I did, ' he answered, 'but I don' want 'a see ye gosendin' uv it back. Ye dunno who sent it. '

'What'll I do with it?' Mrs Brower asked, laughing in a way that showeda sense of absurdity. 'I'd a been tickled with it thirty years ago, butnow-folks 'ud think I was crazy. '

'Never heard such fol de rol, ' said Uncle Eb. 'If ye move t' the villageit'll come handy t' go t' meetin' in. '

That seemed to be unanswerable and conclusive, at least for the timebeing, and the silk was laid away. We sat talking until late bedtime, Hope and I, telling of our studies and of the many people we had met inHillsborough. 

We hung up our stockings just as we had always done Christmas Eve, andwere up betimes in the morning to find them filled with many simple butdelightful things, and one which I treasure to this day--the locket andits picrure of which I had been surreptitiously informed. 

At two o'clock we had a fine dinner of roast turkey and chicken pie, with plenty of good cider, and the mince pie, of blessed memory, such asonly a daughter of New England may dare try to make. 

Uncle Eb went upstairs after dinner and presently we heard himdescending with a slow and heavy foot I opened the stair door and therehe stood with the old bass viol that had long lain neglected in a dustycorner of the attic. Many a night I had heard it groan as the stringsloosened, in the years it had lain on its hack, helpless and forgotten. It was like a dreamer, snoring in his sleep, and murmuring of thathe saw in his dreams. Uncle Eb had dusted and strung it and glued itsweaker joints. He sat down with it' the severe look of old upon hisface, and set the strings roaring as he tuned them. Then he brought thesacred treasure to me and leaned it against my shoulder. 

'There that's a Crissmus present fer ye, Willie, ' said he. 'It may helpye t' pass away the time once in a while. '

I thanked him warmly. 

''S a reel firs'-class instrument, ' he said. 'Been a rip snorter 'n itsday. ' He took from his bosom then the old heart pin of silver that hehad always worn of a Sunday. 

'Goin' t' give ye thet, too, ' he said. 'Dunno's ye'll ever care towear it, but I want ye should hev sumthin' ye can carry'n yer pocket t'remember me by. '

I did not dare trust myself to speak, and I sat helplessly turning thatrelic of a better day in my fingers. 

'It's genuwine silver, ' said he proudly. 

I took his old hand in mine and raised it reverently to my lips. 

'Hear'n 'em tell 'bout goin' t' the village, an' I says t' myself, "Uncle Eb, " says I, "we'll hev t' be goin'. 'Tain' no place fer you inthe village. "'

'Holden, ' said David Brower, 'don't ye never talk like that ag'in. Yerjust the same as married t' this family, an' ye can't ever git away fromus. '

And he never did until his help was needed in other and fairer fields, Iam sure, than those of Faraway--God knows where. 

Chapter 19

Tip Taylor was, in the main, a serious-minded man. A cross eye enhancedthe natural solemnity of his countenance. He was little given to talk orlaughter unless he were on a hunt, and then he only whispered his joy. He had seen a good bit of the world through the peek sight of his rifle, and there was something always in the feel of a gun that lifted him tohigher moods. And yet one could reach a tender spot in him without theaid of a gun. That winter vacation I set myself to study things fordeclamation--specimens of the eloquence of Daniel Webster and Henry Clayand James Otis and Patrick Henry. I practiced them in the barn, often, in sight and hearing of the assembled herd and some of those fierypassages were rather too loud and threatening for the peace and comfortof my audience. The oxen seemed always to be expecting the sting of thebull whip; they stared at me timidly, tilting their ears every moment, as if to empty them of a heavy load; while the horses snorted withapprehension. This haranguing of the herd had been going on a week ormore when Uncle Eb and I, returning from a distant part of the farm, heard a great uproar in the stable. Looking in at a window we saw TipTaylor, his back toward us, extemporising a speech. He was pressing hisargument with gestures and the tone of thunder. We listened a moment, while a worried look came over the face of Uncle Eb. Tip's words weremeaningless save for the secret aspiration they served to advertise. Myold companion thought Tip had gone crary, and immediately swung the doorand stepped in. The orator fell suddenly from his lofry altitude andbecame a very sober looking hired man. 

'What's the matter?' Uncle Eb enquired. 

'Practicin', ' said Tip soberly, as he turned slowly, his face damp andred with exertion. 

'Fer what?' Uncle Eb enquired. 

'Fer the 'sylum, I guess, ' he answered, with a faint smile. 

'Ye don' need no more practice, ' Uncle Eb answered. 'Looks t' me asthough ye was purty well prepared. '

To me there was a touch of pathos in this show of the deeper things inTip's nature that had been kindled to eruption by my spouting. He wouldnot come in to dinner that day, probably from an unfounded fear that wewould make fun of his flight--a thing we should have been far from doingonce we understood him. 

It was a bitter day of one of the coldest winters we had ever known. Ashrieking wind came over the hills, driving a scud of snow before itThe stock in the stables, we all came in, soon after dinner, and satcomfortably by the fire with cider, checkers and old sledge. The dismalroar of the trees and the wind-wail in the chimney served only toincrease our pleasure. It was growing dusk when mother, peeringthrough the sheath of frost on a window pane, uttered an exclamation ofsurprise. 

'Why! who is this at the door?' said she. 'Why! It's a man in a cutter. 'Father was near the door and he swung it open quickly. There stood ahorse and cutter, a man sitting in it, heavily muffled. The horse wasshivering and the man sat motionless. 

'Hello!' said David Brower in a loud voice. 

He got no answer and ran bareheaded to the sleigh. 

'Come, quick, Holden, ' he called, 'it's Doctor Bigsby. '

We all ran out then, while David lifted the still figure in his arms. 

'In here, quick!' said Elizabeth, opening the door to the parlour. 'Musn't take 'im near the stove. '

We carried him into the cold room and laid him down, and David and Itore his wraps open while the others ran quickly after snow. 

I rubbed it vigorously upon his face and ears, the others meantimeapplying it to his feet and arms, that had been quickly stripped. Thedoctor stared at us curiously and tried to speak. 

'Get ap, Dobbin!' he called presently, and ducked as if urging hishorse. 'Get ap, Dobbin! Man'll die 'fore ever we git there. '

We all worked upon him with might and main. The white went slowly out ofhis face. We lifted him to a sitting posture. Mother and Hope and UncleEb were rubbing his hands and feet. 

'Where am I?' he enquired, his face now badly swollen. 

'At David Brower's, ' said I. 

'Huh?' he asked, with that kindly and familiar grunt of interrogation. 

'At David Brower's, ' I repeated. 

'Well, I'll have t' hurry, ' said he, trying feebly to rise. 'Man's dyin'over--' he hesitated thoughtfully, 'on the Plains, ' he added, lookingaround at us. 

Grandma Bisnette brought a lamp and held it so the light fell on hisface. He looked from one to another. He drew one of his hands away andstared at it. 

'Somebody froze?' he asked. 

'Yes, ' said I. 

'Hm! Too bad. How'd it happen?' he asked. 'I don't know. '

'How's the pulse?' he enquired, feeling for my wrist. 

I let him hold it in his hand. 

'Will you bring me some water in a glass?' he enquired, turning toMrs Brower, just as I had seen him do many a time in Gerald's illness. Before she came with the water his head fell forward upon his breast, while he muttered feebly. I thought then he was dead, but presently heroused himself with a mighty effort. 

'David Brower!' he called loudly, and trying hard to rise, 'bring thehorse! bring the horse! Mus' be goin', I tell ye. Man's dyin' over--onthe Plains. '

He went limp as a rag then. I could feel his heart leap and strugglefeebly. 

'There's a man dyin' here, ' said David Brower, in a low tone. 'Yeneedn't rub no more. 

'He's dead, ' Elizabeth whispered, holding his hand tenderly, and lookinginto his half-closed eyes. Then for a moment she covered her own withher handkerchief, while David, in a low, calm tone, that showed thedepth of his feeling, told us what to do. 

Uncle Eb and I watched that night, while Tip Taylor drove away totown. The body lay in the parlour and we sat by the stove in the roomadjoining. In a half-whisper we talked of the sad event of the day. 

'Never oughter gone out a day like this, ' said Uncle Eb. 'Don' take mucht' freeze an ol' man. '

'Got to thinking of what happened yesterday and forgot the cold, ' Isaid. 

'Bad day t' be absent-minded, ' whispered Uncle Eb, as he rose andtiptoed to the window and peered through the frosty panes. 'May o' gotfaint er sumthin'. Ol' hoss brought 'im right here--been here s' oftenwith 'in'. '

He took the lantern and went out a moment. The door creaked upon itsfrosty hinges when he opened it. 

'Thirty below zero, ' he whispered as he came in. 'Win's gone down aleetle bit, mebbe. '

Uncanny noises broke in upon the stillness of the old house. Itstimbers, racked in the mighty grip of the cold, creaked and settled. Sometimes there came a sharp, breaking sound, like the crack of bones. 

'If any man oughter go t' Heaven, he had, ' said Uncle Eb, as he drew onhis boots. 

'Think he's in Heaven?' I asked. 

'Hain't a doubt uv it, ' said he, as he chewed a moment, preparing forexpectoration. 

'What kind of a place do you think it is?' I asked. 

'Fer one thing, ' he said, deliberately, 'nobody'll die there, 'lesshe'd ought to; don't believe there's goin' t' be any need o' swearin'er quarrellin'. To my way o' thinkin' it'll be a good deal like DaveBrower's farm--nice, smooth land and no stun on it, an' hills an'valleys an' white clover aplenty, an' wheat an' corn higher'n a man'shead. No bull thistles, no hard winters, no narrer contracted fools;no long faces, an' plenty o' work. Folks sayin' "How d'y do" 'stid o'"goodbye", all the while--comin' 'stid o' gain'. There's goin' t' besome kind o' fun there. I ain' no idee what 'tis. Folks like it an' Ikind o' believe 'at when God's gin a thing t' everybody he thinks purtymiddlin' well uv it. '

'Anyhow, it seems a hard thing to die, ' I remarked. 

'Seems so, ' he said thoughtfully. 'Jes' like ever'thing else--them 'atknows much about it don' have a great deal t' say. Looks t' me likethis: I cal'ate a man hes on the everidge ten things his heart is soton--what is the word I want--?'

'Treasures?' I suggested. 

'Thet's it, ' said he. 'Ev'ry one hes about ten treasures. Some hevmore--some less. Say one's his strength, one's his plan, the rest isthem he loves, an' the more he loves the better 'tis fer him. Wall, theybegin t' go one by one. Some die, some turn agin' him. Fin's it hard t'keep his allowance. When he's only nine he's lost eggzac'ly one-tenth uvhis dread o' dyin'. Bime bye he counts up--one-two-three-four-five-an'thet's all ther is left. He figgers it up careful. His strength is gone, his plan's a fillure, mebbe, an' this one's dead an' thet one's dead, an' t'other one better be. Then 's 'bout half-ways with him. If helives till the ten treasures is all gone, God gives him one more--thet'sdeath. An' he can swop thet off an' git back all he's lost. Then hebegins t' think it's a purty dum good thing, after all. Purty goodthing, after all, ' he repeated, gaping as he spoke. 

He began nodding shortly, and soon he went asleep in his chair. 

Chapter 20

We went back to our work again shortly, the sweetness and the bitternessof life fresh in our remembrance. When we came back, 'hook an' line', for another vacation, the fields were aglow with colour, and the roadswhere Dr Bigsby had felt the sting of death that winter day were nowover drifted with meadow-music and the smell of clover. I had creditablytaken examination for college, where I was to begin my course in thefall, with a scholarship. Hope had made remarkable progress in music andwas soon going to Ogdensburg for instruction. 

A year had gone, nearly, since Jed Feary had cautioned me about fallingin love. I had kept enough of my heart about me 'to do business with', but I had continued to feel an uncomfortable absence in the region ofit. Young men at Hillsborough--many of whom, I felt sure, had a smarterlook than I--had bid stubbornly for her favour. I wondered, often, itdid not turn her head--this tribute of rustic admiration. But she seemedto be all unconscious of its cause and went about her work with smallconceit of herself. Many a time they had tried to take her from my armat the church door--a good-natured phase of youthful rivalry there inthose days--but she had always said, laughingly, 'No, thank you, ' andclung all the closer to me. Now Jed Feary had no knowledge of the worryit gave me, or of the peril it suggested. I knew that, if I felt freeto tell him all, he would give me other counsel. I was now seventeen andshe a bit older, and had I not heard of many young men and women who hadbeen engaged--aye, even married--at that age? Well, as it happened, aday before she left us, to go to her work in Ogdensburg, where she wasto live with her uncle, I made an end of delay. I considered carefullywhat a man ought to say in the circumstances, and I thought I had nearan accurate notion. We were in the garden--together--the playground ofour childhood. 

'Hope, I have a secret to tell you, ' I said. 

'A secret, ' she exclaimed eagerly. 'I love secrets. '

'A great secret, ' I repeated, as I felt my face burning. 

'Why--it must be something awful!'

'Not very, ' I stammered. Having missed my cue from the beginning, I wasnow utterly confused. 

'William!' she exclaimed, 'what is the matter of you. '

'I--I am in love, ' said I, very awkwardly. 

'Is that all?' she answered, a trace of humour in her tone. 'I thoughtit was bad news. '

I stooped to pick a rose and handed it to her. 

'Well, ' she remarked soberly, but smiling a little, as she lifted therose to her lips, 'is it anyone I know?'

I felt it was going badly with me, but caught a sudden inspiration. 

'You have never seen her, ' I said. 

If she had suspected the truth I had turned the tables on her, and nowshe was guessing. A quick change came into her face, and, for a moment, it gave me confidence. 

'Is she pretty?' she asked very seriously as she dropped the flower andlooked down crushing it beneath her foot. 

'She is very beautiful--it is you I love, Hope. '

A flood of colour came into her cheeks then, as she stood a momentlooking down at the flower in silence. 

'I shall keep your secret, ' she said tenderly, and hesitating as shespoke, 'and when you are through college--and you are older--and Iam older--and you love me as you do now--I hope--I shall love you, too--as--I do now. '

Her lips were trembling as she gave me that sweet assurance--dearer tome--far dearer than all else I remember of that golden time--and tearswere coursing down her cheeks. For myself I was in a worse plight ofemotion. I dare say she remembered also the look of my face in thatmoment. 

'Do not speak of it again, ' she said, as we walked away together on theshorn sod of the orchard meadow, now sown with apple blossoms, 'until weare older, and, if you never speak again, I shall know you--you do notlove me any longer. '

The dinner horn sounded. We turned and walked slowly back

'Do I look all right?' she asked, turning her face to me and smilingsweetly. 

'All right, ' I said. 'Nobody would know that anyone loved you--exceptfor your beauty and that one tear track on your cheek. '

She wiped it away as she laughed. 

'Mother knows anyway, ' she said, 'and she has given me good advice. Wait!' she added, stopping and turning to me. 'Your eyes are wet!'

I felt for my handkerchief. 

'Take mine, ' she said. 

Elder Whitmarsh was at the house and they were all sitting down todinner as we came in. 

'Hello!' said Uncle Eb. 'Here's a good-lookin' couple. We've got achicken pie an' a Baptis' minister fer dinner an' both good. Take yerpew nex' t' the minister, ' he added as he held the chair for me. 

Then we all bowed our heads and I felt a hearty amen for the elder'swords:

'O Lord, may all our doing and saying and eating and drinking of thisday be done, as in Thy sight, for our eternal happiness--and for Thyglory. Amen. '

Chapter 21

We have our secrets, but, guard them as we may, it is not long beforeothers have them also. We do much talking without words. I once knew aman who did his drinking secretly and his reeling in public, and thoughthe was fooling everybody. That shows how much easier it is for one tofool himself than to fool another. What is in a man's heart is on hisface, and is shortly written all over him. Therein is a mighty lesson. 

Of all people I ever knew Elizabeth Brower had the surest eye forlooking into one's soul, and I, myself, have some gift of penetration. I knew shortly that Mrs Brower--wise and prudent woman that she was--hadsuspected my love for Hope and her love for me, and had told her whatshe ought to say if I spoke of it. 

The maturity of judgement in Hope's answer must have been the result ofmuch thought and counsel, it seemed to me. 

'If you do not speak again I shall know you do not love me any longer, 'she had said. They were brave words that stood for something very deepin the character of those people--a self-repression that was sublime, often, in their women. As I said them to myself, those lonely summerdays in Faraway, I saw in their sweet significance no hint of thebitterness they were to bring. But God knows I have had my share ofpleasure and no more bitterness than I deserved. 

It was a lonely summer for me. I had letters from Hope--ten ofthem--which I still keep and read, often with something of the oldpleasure--girlish letters that told of her work and friends, and gave mesome sweet counsel and much assurance between the lines. 

I travelled in new roads that vacation time. Politics and religion, as well as love, began to interest me. Slavery was looming into theproportion of a great issue, and the stories of cruelty and outrage onthe plantations of the South stirred my young blood and made it readyfor the letting of battle, in God's time. The speeches in the Senatewere read aloud in our sitting-room after supper--the day the Tribunecame--and all lent a tongue to their discussion. Jed Feary was with usone evening, I remember, when our talk turned into long ways, the endof which I have never found to this day. Elizabeth had been reading of aslave, who, according to the paper, had been whipped to death. 

'If God knows 'at such things are bein' done, why don't he stop 'em?'David asked. 

'Can't very well, ' said Jed Feary. 

'Can, if he's omnipotent, ' said David. 

'That's a bad word--a dangerous one, ' said the old poet, dropping hisdialect as he spoke. 'It makes God responsible for evil as well as good. The word carries us beyond our depth. It's too big for our boots. I'druther think He can do what's doable an' know what's knowable. In thebeginning he gave laws to the world an' these laws are unchangeable, or they are not wise an' perfect. If God were to change them He wouldthereby acknowledge their imperfection. By this law men and races sufferas they struggle upward. But if the law is unchangeable, can it bechanged for a better cause even than the relief of a whipped slave? Ingood time the law shall punish and relieve. The groans of them thatsuffer shall hasten it, but there shall be no change in the law. Therecan be no change in the law. '

'Leetle hard t' tell jest how powerful God is, ' said Uncle Eb. 'Gooddeal like tryin' t' weigh Lake Champlain with a quart pail and a pair o'steelyards. '

'If God's laws are unchangeable, what is the use of praying?' I asked. 

'He can give us the strength to bear, the will to obey him an' light toguide us, ' said the poet. 'I've written out a few lines t' read t' Billhere 'fore he goes off t' college. They have sumthin' t' say on thissubject. The poem hints at things he'd ought 'o learn purty soon--if hedon't know 'em now. '

The old poet felt in his pockets as he spoke, and withdrew a foldedsheet of straw-coloured wrapping paper and opened it. I was 'Bill'-plain'Bill'--to everybody in that country, where, as you increased your loveof a man, you diminished his name. I had been called Willie, Williamand Billy, and finally, when I threw the strong man of the township in awrestling match they gave me this fail token of confidence. I bent overthe shoulder of Jed Feary for a view of the manuscript, closely writtenwith a lead pencil, and marked with many erasures. 

'Le's hear it, ' said David Brower. 

Then I moved the lamp to his elbow and he began reading:

'A talk with William Brower on the occasion of his going away to collegeand writ out in rhyme for him by his friend Jedediah Feary to be a tokenof respect. 

 The man that loses faith in God, ye'll find out every time, Has found a faith in his own self that's mighty nigh sublime. He knows as much as all the saints an' calls religion flighty, An' in his narrow world assumes the place o' God Almighty. 

 But don't expect too much o' God, it wouldn't be quite fair If fer everything ye wanted ye could only swap a prayer; I'd pray fer yours an' you fer mine an' Deacon Henry Hospur He wouldn't hev a thing t' do but lay a-bed an' prosper. 

 If all things come so easy, Bill, they'd hev but little worth, An' someone with a gift O' prayer 'ud mebbe own the earth. It's the toil ye give t' git a thing--the sweat an' blood an' trouble We reckon by--an' every tear'll make its value double. 

 There's a money O' the soul, my boy, ye'll find in after years, Its pennies are the sweat drops an' its dollars are the tears; An' love is the redeemin' gold that measures what they're worth, An' ye'll git as much in Heaven as ye've given out on earth. 

 Fer the record o' yer doin'--I believe the soul is planned With an automatic register t, tell jest how ye stand, An' it won't take any cipherin' t' show that fearful day, If ye've multiplied yer talents well, er thrown 'em all away. 

 When yer feet are on the summit, an' the wide horizon clears, An' ye look back on yer pathway windin' thro' the vale o' tears; When ye see how much ye've trespassed an' how fur ye've gone astray, Ye'll know the way o' Providence ain't apt t' be your way. 

 God knows as much as can be known, but I don't think it's true He knows of all the dangers in the path o' me an' you. If I shet my eyes an' hurl a stone that kills the King o' Siam, The chances are that God'll be as much surprised as I am. 

 If ye pray with faith believin', why, ye'll certnly receive, But that God does what's impossible is more than I'll believe. If it grieves Him when a sparrow falls, it's sure as anything, He'd hev turned the arrow if He could, that broke the sparrow's wing. 

 Ye can read old Nature's history thet's writ in rocks an' stones, Ye can see her throbbin' vitals an' her mighty rack o' hones. But the soul o' her--the livin' God, a little child may know No lens er rule o' cipherin' can ever hope t' show. 

 There's a part o' Cod's creation very handy t' yer view, Al' the truth o' life is in it an' remember, Bill, it's you. An' after all yer science ye must look up in yer mind, An' learn its own astronomy the star o' peace t' find. 

 There's good old Aunt Samanthy Jane thet all her journey long Has led her heart to labour with a reveille of song. Her folks hev robbed an' left her but her faith in goodness grows, She hasn't any larnin', but I tell ye Bill, she knows!

 She's hed her share o' troubles; I remember well the day We took her t' the poorhouse--she was singin' all the way; Ye needn't be afraid t' come where stormy Jordan flows, If all the larnin' ye can git has taught ye halfshe knows. '

I give this crude example of rustic philosophy, not because it has myendorsement--God knows I have ever felt it far beyond me--but because itis useful to those who may care to know the man who wrote it. I give itthe poor fame of these pages with keen regret that my friend is now longpassed the praise or blame of this world. 

Chapter 22

The horse played a part of no small importance in that country. He wasthe coin of the realm, a medium of exchange, a standard of value, anexponent of moral character. The man that travelled without a horse wason his way to the poorhouse. Uncle Eb or David Brower could tell a goodhorse by the sound of his footsteps, and they brought into St LawrenceCounty the haughty Morgans from Vermont. There was more pride in theirhigh heads than in any of the good people. A Northern Yankee who was notcarried away with a fine horse had excellent self-control. Politics andthe steed were the only things that ever woke him to enthusiasm, andthere a man was known as he traded. Uncle Eb used to say that oneought always to underestimate his horse 'a leetle fer the sake of areputation'. 

We needed another horse to help with the haying, and Bob Dean, a trickytrader, who had heard of it, drove in after supper one evening, andoffered a rangy brown animal at a low figure. We looked him over, triedhim up and down the road, and then David, with some shrewd suspicion, as I divined later, said I could do as I pleased. I bought the horse andled him proudly to the stable. Next morning an Irishman, the extra manfor the haying, came in with a worried look to breakfast. 

'That new horse has a chittern' kind of a coff, ' he said. 

'A cough?' said I. 

''Tain't jist a coff, nayther, ' he said, 'but a kind of toom!'

With the last word he obligingly imitated the sound of the cough. Itthrew me into perspiration. 

'Sounds bad, ' said Uncle Eb, as he looked at me and snickered. 

''Fraid Bill ain't much of a jockey, ' said David, smiling. 

'Got a grand appetite--that hoss has, ' said Tip Taylor. 

After breakfast Uncle Eb and I hitched him to the light buggy andtouched him up for a short journey down the road. In five minutes he hadbegun to heave and whistle. I felt sure one could have heard him half amile away. Uncle Eb stopped him and began to laugh. 

'A whistler, ' said he, 'sure's yer born. He ain't wuth a bag o' beans. But don't ye never let on. When ye git licked ye musn't never fin'fault. If anybody asks ye 'bout him tell 'em he's all ye expected. '

We stood waiting a moment for the horse to recover himself. A team wasnearing us. 

'There's Bob Dean, ' Uncle Eb whispered. 'The durn scalawag! Don't ye saya word now. 

'Good-mornin'!' said Dean, smiling as he pulled up beside us. 

'Nice pleasant mornin'!' said Uncle Eb, as he cast a glance into thesky. 

'What ye standin' here for?' Dean asked. 

Uncle Eb expectorated thoughtfullyy. 

'Jest a lookin' at the scenery, ' said he. 'Purty country, right here!AIwus liked it. '

'Nice lookin' hoss ye got there, ' said Dean. 

'Grand hoss!' said Uncle Eb, surveying him proudly. 'Most reemarkablehoss. '

'Good stepper, too, ' said Dean soberly. 

'Splendid!' said Uncle Eb. 'Can go a mile without ketchin' his breath. '

'Thet so?' said Dean. 

'Good deal like Lucy Purvis, ' Uncle Eb added. 'She can say the hullmul'plication table an' only breathe once. Ye can learn sumthin' from ahoss like thet. He's good as a deestric' school--thet hoss is. '

Yes, sir, thet hoss is all right, ' said Dean, as he drove away. 

'Righter'n I expected, ' Uncle Eb shouted, and then he covered his mouth, shaking with suppressed laughter. 

'Skunk!' he said, as we turned the animal and started to walk him home. 'Don't min' bein' beat, but I don't like t' hev a man rub it in on me. I'll git even with him mebbe. '

And he did. It came about in this way. We turned our new purchase intothe pasture, and Uncle Eb and I drove away to Potsdam for a betternag. We examined all the horses in that part of the country. At last wechanced upon one that looked like the whistler, save that he had a whitestocking on one hind foot. 

'Same age, too, ' said Uncle Eb, as he looked into his mouth. 

'Can pass anything on the road, ' said his owner. 

'Can he?' said Uncle Eb, who had no taste for slow going. 'Hitch him upan' le's see what he can do. '

He carried us faster than we had ever ridden before at a trot, andcoming up behind another team the man pulled out, let the reins loose onhis back, and whistled. If anyone had hit him with a log chain the horsecould not have moved quicker. He took us by the other team like a flash, on the dead run and three in the buggy. 

'He'll do all right, ' said Uncle Eb, and paid for the horse. 

It was long after dark when we started home, leading him behind, andnear midnight when we arrived. 

In the morning I found Uncle Eb in the stable showing him to the otherhelp. To my surprise the white stocking had disappeared. 

'Didn't jes' like that white stockin', ' he said, as I came in. 'Wonderedhow he'd look without it. '

They all agreed this horse and the whistler were as much alike as twopeas in appearance. Breakfast over Uncle Eb asked the Irishman to hitchhim up. 

'Come Bill, ' said he, 'le's take a ride. Dean'll be comm' 'long bym byeon his way t' town with that trotter o' his'n. 'Druther like to meethim. '

I had only a faint idea of his purpose. He let the horse step along attop speed going up the road and when we turned about he was breathingheavily. We jogged him back down the road a mile or so, and when Isaw the blazed face of Dean's mare, in the distance, we pulled up andshortly stopped him. Dean came along in a moment. 

'Nice mornin'!' said he. 

'Grand!' said Uncle Eb. 

'Lookin' at the lan'scape ag'in?'

'Yes; I've jes' begun t' see what a putty country this is, ' said UncleEb. 

'How's the boss?'

'Splendid! Gives ye time t' think an' see what yer passin'. Like t' set'n think once in a while. We don't do enough thinkin' here in this parto' the country. '

'Yd orter buy this mare an learn how t' ride fast, ' said Dean. 

'Thet one, ' said Uncle Eb, squinting at the mare, 'why she can't go fast'nough. '

'She can't, hey?' said Dean, bridling with injured pride. 'I don't thinkthere's anything in this town can head her. '

'Thunder!' said Uncle Eb, 'I can go by her with this ol' plug easy'twixt here an' our gate. Ye didn't know what ye was sellin'. '

'If ye pass her once I'll give her to ye, ' said he. 

'Mean it?' said Uncle Eb. 

'Sartin, ' said he, a little redder in the face. 

'An' if I don't I'll give ye the whistler, ' said Uncle Eb as he turnedabout. 

The mare went away, under the whip, before we had fairly started. Shewas going a fifty shot but in a moment we were lapping upon her hindwheel. Dean threw a startled glance over his shoulder. Then he shoutedto the mare. She quickened her pace a little but we kept our position. Uncle Eb was leaning over the dasher his white locks flying. He hadsomething up his sleeve, as they say, and was not yet ready to use it. Then Dean began to shear over to cut us off--a nasty trick of the lowhorseman. I saw Uncle Eb glance at the ditch ahead. I knew what wascoming and took a firm hold of the seat. The ditch was a bit rough, butUncle Eb had no lack of courage. He turned the horse's head, let up onthe reins and whistled. I have never felt such a thrill as then. Ourhorse leaped into the deep grass running like a wild deer. 

'Hi there! hi there!' Uncle Eb shouted, bouncing in his seat, as we wentover stones and hummocks going like the wind. 

'Go, ye brown devil!' he yelled, his hat flying off as he shook thereins. 

The mare lost her stride; we flashed by and came up into the road. Looking back I saw her jumping up and down a long way behind us and Deanwhipping her. Uncle Eb, his hands over the dasher, had pulled down toa trot Ahead of us we could see our folks--men and women--at the gatelooking down the road at us waving hats and handkerchiefs. They hadheard the noise of the battle. Uncle Eb let up on the reins and lookedback snorting with amusement. In a moment we pulled up at our gate. Deancame along slowly. 

'Thet's a putty good mare, ' said Uncle Eb. 

'Yer welcome to her, ' said Dean sullenly. 

'Wouldn't hev her, ' said Uncle Eb. 

'Why not?' said the trader a look of relief coming over his face. 

'Can't go fast enough for my use, ' Uncle Eb answered. 'Ye can jest hitchher in here awhile an' the first day ye come over with a hundred dollarsye can hev her 'n the whistler, both on 'em. Thet whistler's a grandhoss! Can hold his breath longer'n any hoss I ever knew!'

The sum named was that we had paid him for the highly accomplishedanimal. Dean had the manhood to pay up then and there and said he wouldsend for the other horse, which he never did. 

'Guess he won't bother us any more when we stop t' look at the scenery, 'said Uncle Eb, laughing as Dean drove away. 'Kind o' resky businessbuyin' hosses, ' he added. 'Got t' jedge the owner as well as the hoss. If there's anything the matter with his conscience it'll come out inthe hoss somewhere every time. Never knew a mean man t' own a good hoss. Remember, boy, 's a lame soul thet drives a limpin' hoss. '

'No use talkin'; Bill ain' no jedge uv a hoss' said David Brower. 'He'llhev t' hev an education er he'll git t' the poorhouse someday sartin. '

'Wall he's a good jedge o' gals anyway, ' said Uncle Eb. 

As for myself I was now hopelessly confirmed in my dislike of farmingand I never traded horses again. 

Chapter 23

Late in August Uncle Eb and I took our Black Hawk stallion to the fairin Hillsborough and showed him for a prize. He was fit for the eye of aking when we had finished grooming him, that morning, and led him out, rearing in play, his eyes flashing from under his broad plume, so thatall might have a last look at him. His arched neck and slim barrelglowed like satin as the sunlight fell upon him. His black mane flew, heshook the ground with his hoofs playing at the halter's end. He hated aharness and once in it lost half his conceit. But he was vainest of allthings in Faraway when we drove off with him that morning. 

All roads led to Hillsborough fair time. Up and down the long hills wewent on a stiff jog passing lumber wagons with generations enough inthem to make a respectable genealogy, the old people in chairs; lightwagons that carried young men and their sweethearts, backswoodsmencoming out in ancient vehicles upon reeling, creaking wheels to get foodfor a year's reflection--all thickening the haze of the late summer withthe dust of the roads. And Hillsborough itself was black with people. The shouts of excited men, the neighing of horses, the bellowing ofcattle, the wailing of infants, the howling of vendors, the pressingcrowd, had begun to sow the seed of misery in the minds of thoseaccustomed only to the peaceful quietude of the farm. The staring eye, the palpitating heart, the aching head, were successive stages in thedoom of many. The fair had its floral hall carpeted with sawdust andredolent of cedar, its dairy house, its mechanics' hall sacred tofarming implements, its long sheds full of sheep and cattle, itsdining-hall, its temporary booths of rough lumber, its half-mile trackand grandstand. Here voices of beast and vendor mingled in a chorus ofcupidity and distress. In Floral Hall Sol Rollin was on exhibition. Hegave me a cold nod, his lips set for a tune as yet inaudible. He wassurveying sundry examples of rustic art that hung on the circularrailing of the gallery and trying to preserve a calm breast. He waslooking at Susan Baker's painted cow that hung near us. 

'Very descriptive, ' he said when I pressed him for his notion of it. 'Rod Baker's sister Susan made thet cow. Gits tew dollars an' fiftycents every fair time--wish I was dewin 's well. '

'That's one of the most profitable cows in this country, ' I said. 

'Looks a good deal like a new breed. '

'Yes, ' he answered soberly, then he set his lips, threw a sweepingglance into the gallery, and passed on. 

Susan Baker's cow was one of the permanent features of the county fair, and was indeed a curiosity not less remarkable than the sacred ox of MrBarnum. 

Here also I met a group of the pretty girls who had been my schoolmates. They surrounded me, chattering like magpies. 

'There's going to be a dance at our house tonight, ' said one of them, 'and you must come. '

'I cannot, I must go home, ' I said. 

'Of course!' said a red-cheeked saucy miss. 'The stuck-up thing! Hewouldn't go anywhere unless he could have his sister with him. '

Then they went away laughing. 

I found Ab Thomas at the rifle range. He was whittling as he considereda challenge from Tip Taylor to shoot a match. He turned and 'hefted'the rifle, silently, and then he squinted over the barrel two or threetimes. 

'Dunno but what I'll try ye once, ' he said presently, 'jes t' see. '

Once started they grew red in their faces and shot themselves weary ina reckless contest of skill and endurance. A great hulking fellow, halfdrunk and a bit quarrelsome, came up, presently, and endeavoured to helpAb hold his rifle. The latter brushed him away and said nothing for amoment. But every time he tried to take aim the man jostled him. 

An looked up slowly and calmly, his eyebrows tilted for his aim, andsaid, 'Go off I tell ye. ' Then he set himself and took aim again. 

'Le'me hold it, ' said the man, reaching for the barrel. 'Shoot better ifI do the aimin'. ' A laugh greeted this remark. Ab looked up again. Therewas a quick start in his great slouching figure. 

'Take yer hand off o' thet, ' he said a little louder than before. 

The man, aching for more applause, grew more impertinent Ab quietlyhanded the rifle to its owner. Then something happened suddenly. It wasso quickly over I am not quite sure of the order of business, but anyhowhe seized the intruder by the shoulders flinging him down so heavily itknocked the dust out of the grass. 

'A fight!' somebody shouted and men and boys came runing from all sides. We were locked in a pushing crowd before I could turn. The intruder laystunned a moment. Then he rose, bare headed, his back covered with dust, pushed his way out and ran. 

Ab turned quietly to the range. 

'Hedn't orter t' come an' try t' dew my aimin', ' he said mildly, by wayof protest, 'I won't hev it. '

Then he enquired about the score and calmly took aim again. The stallionshow came on that afternoon. 

'They can't never beat thet hoss, ' Uncle Eb had said to me. 

''Fraid they will, ' I answered. 'They're better hitched for one thing. '

'But they hain't got the ginger in 'em, ' said he, 'er the git up 'n git. If we can show what's in him the Hawk'll beat 'em easy. '

If we won I was to get the prize but I had small hope of winning. WhenI saw one after another prance out, in sparkling silver harness adornedwith rosettes of ribbon--light stepping, beautiful creatures all ofthem--I could see nothing but defeat for us. Indeed I could see we hadbeen too confident. I dreaded the moment when Uncle Eb should drive downwith Black Hawk in a plain leather harness, drawing a plainer buggy. Ihad planned to spend the prize money taking Hope to the harvest ball atRickard's, and I had worked hard to put the Hawk in good fettle. I beganto feel the bitterness of failure. 

'Black Hawk! Where is Black Hawk?' said one of the judges loudly. 

'Owned by David Brower o' Faraway, ' said another looking at his card. 

Where indeed was Uncle Eb? I got up on the fence and looked all aboutme anxiously. Then I heard a great cheering up the track. Somebody wascoming down, at a rapid pace, riding a splendid moving animal, a kneerising to the nose at each powerful stride. His head and flying maneobscured the rider but I could see the end of a rope swinging in hishand. There was something familiar in the easy high stride of the horse. The cheers came on ahead of him like foam before a breaker. Upon myeyes! it was Black Hawk, with nothing but a plain rope halter on hishead, and Uncle Eb riding him. 

'G'lang there!' he shouted, swinging the halter stale to the shiningflank. 'G'lang there!' and he went by, like a flash, the tail of BlackHawk straight out behind him, its end feathering in the wind. It wasa splendid thing to see--that white-haired man, sitting erect on theflying animal, with only a rope halter in his hand. Every man about mewas yelling. I swung my hat, shouting myself hoarse. When Uncle Eb cameback the Hawk was walking quietly in a crowd of men and boys eager tofeel his silken sides. I crowded through and held the horse's nose whileUncle Eb got down. 

'Thought I wouldn't put no luther on him, ' said Uncle Eb, 'God's gin''im a good 'nuff harness. '

The judges came and looked him over. 

'Guess he'll win the prize all right, ' said one of them. 

And he did. When we came home that evening every horse on the roadthought himself a trotter and went speeding to try his pace witheverything that came up beside him. And many a man of Faraway, that wepassed, sent up a shout of praise for the Black Hawk. 

But I was thinking of Hope and the dance at Rickard's. I had plenty ofmoney now and my next letter urged her to come home at once. 

Chapter 24

Hope returned for a few days late in August. Invitations were justissued for the harvest dance at Rickard's. 

'You mus' take 'er, ' said Uncle Eb, the day she came. 'She's a purtydancer as a man ever see. Prance right up an' tell 'er she mus' go. Don'want 'O let anyone git ahead O' ye. '

'Of course I will go, ' she said in answer to my invitation, 'I shouldn'tthink you were a beau worth having if you did not ask me. '

The yellow moon was peering over Woody Ledge when we went away thatevening. I knew it was our last pleasure seeking in Faraway, and thecrickets in the stubble filled the silence with a kind of mourning. 

She looked so fine in her big hat and new gown with its many daintyaccessories of lace and ribbon, adjusted with so much patting andpulling, that as she sat beside me, I hardly dared touch her for fear ofspoiling something. When she shivered a little and said it was growingcool I put my arm about her, and, as I drew her closer to my side, sheturned her hat, obligingly, and said it was a great nuisance. 

I tried to kiss her then, but she put her hand over my mouth and said, sweetly, that I would spoil everything if I did that. 

'I must not let you kiss me, William, ' she said, 'not--not for all inthe world. I'm sure you wouldn't have me do what I think is wrong--wouldyou?'

There was but one answer to such an appeal, and I made myself as happyas possible feeling her head upon my shoulder and her soft hair touchingmy cheek. As I think of it now the trust she put in me was somethingsublime and holy. 

'Then I shall talk about--about our love, ' I said, 'I must dosomething. '

'Promised I wouldn't let you, ' she said. Then she added after a momentof silence, 'I'll tell you what you may do--tell me what is your idealin a woman--the one you would love best of all. I don't think that wouldbe wicked--do you?'

'I think God would forgive that, ' I said. 'She must be tall and slim, with dainty feet and hands, and a pair of big eyes, blue as a violet, shaded with long dark lashes. And her hair must be wavy and light with alittle tinge of gold in it. And her cheek must have the pink of the roseand dimples that show in laughter. And her voice--that must have musicin it and the ring of kindness and good-nature. And her lips--let themshow the crimson of her blood and be ready to give and receive a kisswhen I meet her. '

She sighed and nestled closer to me. 

'If I let you kiss me just once, ' she whispered, 'you will not ask meagain--will you?'

'No, sweetheart, I will not, ' I answered. Then we gave each other such akiss as may be known once and only once in a lifetime. 

'What would you do for the love of a girl like that?' she whispered. 

I thought a moment, sounding depths of undiscovered woe to see if therewere anything I should hesitate to suffer and there was nothing. 

'I'd lay me doun an' dee, ' I said. 

And I well remember how, when I lay dying, as I believed, in rain anddarkness on the bloody field of Bull Run, I thought of that moment andof those words. 

'I cannot say such beautiful things as you, ' she answered, when I askedher to describe her ideal. 'He must be good and he must be tall andhandsome and strong and brave. '

Then she sang a tender love ballad. I have often shared the pleasure ofthousands under the spell of her voice, but I have never heard her singas to that small audience on Faraway turnpike. 

As we came near Rickard's Hall we could hear the fiddles and the callingoff. 

The windows on the long sides of the big house were open. Long shafts oflight shot out upon the gloom. It had always reminded me of a pictureof Noah's ark that hung in my bedroom and now it seemed to be floating, with resting oars of gold, in a deluge of darkness. We were greeted witha noisy welcome, at the door. Many of the boys and girls came, from allsides of the big hall, and shook hands with us. Enos Brown, whoselong forelocks had been oiled for the occasion and combed down so theytouched his right eyebrow, was panting in a jig that jarred the house. His trouser legs were caught on the tops of his fine boots. He nodded tome as I came in, snapped his fingers and doubled his energy. It was anexhibition both of power and endurance. He was damp and apologetic when, at length, he stopped with a mighty bang of his foot and sat down besideme. He said he was badly out of practice when I offered congratulations. The first fiddler was a small man, with a short leg, and a characterthat was minus one dimension. It had length and breadth but nothickness. He sat with his fellow player on a little platform at one endof the room. He was an odd man who wandered all over the township withhis fiddle. He played by ear, and I have seen babies smile and old mendance when his bow was swaying. I remember that when I heard it for thefirst time, I determined that I should be a fiddler if I ever grew to bea man. But David told me that fiddlers were a worthless lot, and thatno wise man should ever fool with a fiddle. One is lucky, I have sincelearned, if any dream of yesterday shall stand the better light of todayor the more searching rays of tomorrow. 

'Choose yer partners fer Money Musk!' the caller shouted. 

Hope and I got into line, the music started, the circles began to sway. Darwin Powers, an old but frisky man, stood up beside the fiddlers, whistling, with sobriety and vigour, as they played. It was a pleasureto see some of the older men of the neighbourhood join the dizzy riot byskipping playfully in the corners. They tried to rally their unwillingwives, and generally a number of them were dancing before the night wasover. The life and colour of the scene, the fresh, young faces of thegirls some of them models of rustic beauty--the playful antics of theyoung men, the merrymaking of their fathers, the laughter, the airs ofgallantry, the glances of affection--there is a magic in the thought ofit all that makes me young again. 

There were teams before and behind us when we came home, late at night, so sleepy that the stars went reeling as we looked at them. 

'This night is the end of many things, ' I remarked. 

'And the beginning of better ones, I hope, ' was her answer. 

'Yes, but they are so far away, ' I said, 'you leave home to study and Iam to be four years in college-possibly I can finish in three. '

'Perfectly terrible!' she said, and then she added the favourite phraseand tone of her mother: 'We must be patient. '

'I am very sorry of one thing, ' I said. 'What's that?'

'I promised not to ask you for one more kiss. '

'Well then, ' said she, 'you--you--needn't ask me. ' And in a moment Ihelped her out at the door. 

Chapter 25

David Brower had prospered, as I have said before, and now he waschiefly concerned in the welfare of his children. So, that he might giveus the advantages of the town, he decided either to lease or sell hisfarm--by far the handsomest property in the township. I was there when abuyer came, in the last days of that summer. We took him over the smoothacres from Lone Pine to Woody Ledge, from the top of Bowman's Hill toTinkie Brook in the far valley. He went with us through every tidy roomof the house. He looked over the stock and the stables. 

'Wall! what's it wuth?' he said, at last, as we stood looking down thefair green acres sloping to the sugar bush. 

David picked up a stick, opened his knife, and began to whittlethoughtfully, a familiar squint of reflection in his face. I suppose hethought of all it had cost him--the toil of many years, the strength ofhis young manhood, the youth and beauty of his wife, a hundred thingsthat were far better than money. 

'Fifteen thousan' dollars, ' he said slowly--'not a cent less. ' The manparleyed a little over the price. 

'Don' care t' take any less t'day, ' said David calmly. 'No harm done. '

'How much down?'

David named the sum. 

'An' possession?'

'Next week'

'Everything as it stan's?'

'Everything as it stan's 'cept the beds an' bedding. '

'Here's some money on account, ' he said. 'We'll close t'morrer?'

'Close t'morrer, ' said David, a little sadness in his tone, as he tookthe money. 

It was growing dusk as the man went away. The crickets sang with a loud, accusing, clamour. Slowly we turned and went into the dark house, Davidwhistling under his breath. Elizabeth was resting in her chair. She washumming an old hymn as she rocked. 

'Sold the farm, mother, ' said David. 

She stopped singing but made no answer. In the dusk, as we sat down, Isaw her face leaning upon her hand. Over the hills and out of the fieldsaround us came many voices--the low chant in the stubble, the baying ofa hound in the far timber, the cry of the tree toad--a tiny drift of oddthings (like that one sees at sea) on the deep eternal silence of theheavens. There was no sound in the room save the low creaking of therocker in which Elizabeth sat. After all the going, and corning, anddoing, and saying of many years here was a little spell of silence andbeyond lay the untried things of the future. For me it was a time ofreckoning. 

'Been hard at work here all these years, mother, ' said David. 'Oughterbe glad t' git away. '

'Yes, ' said she sadly, 'it's been hard work. Years ago I thought I nevercould stan' it. But now I've got kind o' used t' it. '

'Time ye got used t' pleasure 'n comfort, ' he said. 'Come kind o' hard, at fast, but ye mus' try t' stan' it. If we're goin' t' hev sech flin inHeaven as Deacon Hospur tells on we oughter begin t' practice er we'llbe 'shamed uv ourselves. '

The worst was over. Elizabeth began to laugh. 

At length a strain of song came out of the distance. 

'Maxwelton's braes are bonnie where early falls the dew. '

'It's Hope and Uncle Eb, ' said David while I went for the lantern. 'Wonder what's kep' 'em s' late. '

When the lamps were lit the old house seemed suddenly to have got asense of what had been done. The familiar creak of the stairway asI went to bed had an appeal and a protest. The rude chromo of thevoluptuous lady, with red lips and the name of Spring, that had alwayshung in my chamber had a mournful, accusing look. The stain upon hercheek that had come one day from a little leak in the roof looked nowlike the path of a tear drop. And when the wind came up in the night andI heard the creaking of Lone Pine it spoke of the doom of that house andits own that was not far distant. 

We rented a new home in town, that week, and were soon settled init. Hope went away to resume her studies the same day I began work incollege. 

Chapter 26

Not much in my life at college is essential to this history--save thetraining. The students came mostly from other and remote parts of thenorth country--some even from other states. Coming largely from townsand cities they were shorn of those simple and rugged traits, thatdistinguished the men o' Faraway, and made them worthy of what poorfame this book may afford. In the main they were like other students theworld over, I take it' and mostly, as they have shown, capable of wilingtheir own fame. It all seemed very high and mighty and grand to meespecially the names of the courses. I had my baptism of Sophomoricscorn and many a heated argument over my title to life, liberty and thepursuit of learning. It became necessary to establish it by force ofarms, which I did decisively and with as little delay as possible. Itook much interest in athletic sports and was soon a good ball player, aboxer of some skill, and the best wrestler in college. Things were goingon comfortably when an upper classman met me and suggested that on acorning holiday, the Freshmen ought to wear stove-pipe hats. Those hatswere the seed of great trouble. 

'Stove-pipe hats!' I said thoughtfully. 

'They're a good protection, ' he assured me. 

It seemed a very reasonable, not to say a necessary precaution. A manhas to be young and innocent sometime or what would become of the Devil. I did not see that the stove-pipe hat was the red rag of insurrectionand, when I did see it' I was up to my neck in the matter. 

You see the Sophs are apt to be very nasty that day, ' he continued. 

I acknowledged they were quite capable of it. 

'And they don't care where they hit, ' he went on. 

I felt of my head that was still sore, from a forceful argument of thepreceding day, and admitted there was good ground for the assertion. 

When I met my classmen, that afternoon, I was an advocate of the'stove-pipe' as a means of protection. There were a number of huskyfellows, in my class, who saw its resisting power and seconded mysuggestion. We decided to leave it to the ladies of the class and theygreeted our plan with applause. So, that morning, we arrayed ourselvesin high hats, heavy canes and fine linen, marching together up CollegeHill. We had hardly entered the gate before we saw the Sophs formingin a thick rank outside the door prepared, as we took it, to resist ourentrance. They out-numbered us and were, in the main, heavier but wehad a foot or more of good stiff material between each head and harm. Ofjust what befell us, when we got to the enemy, I have never felt sure. Of the total inefficiency of the stove-pipe hat as an article of armour, I have never had the slightest doubt since then. There was a great flashand rattle of canes. Then the air was full of us. In the heat of it allprudence went to the winds. We hit out right and left, on both sides, smashing hats and bruising heads and hands. The canes went down in ajiffy and then we closed with each other hip and thigh. Collars wereripped off, coats were torn, shirts were gory from the blood of noses, and in this condition the most of us were rolling and tumbling on theground. I had flung a man, heavily, and broke away and was tacklinganother when I heard a hush in the tumult and then the voice of thepresident. He stood on the high steps, his grey head bare, his righthand lifted. It must have looked like carnage from where he stood. 

'Young gentlemen!' he called. 'Cease, I command you. If we cannot getalong without this thing we will shut up shop. '

Well, that was the end of it and came near being the end of our careersin college. We looked at each other, torn and panting and bloody, andat the girls, who stood by, pale with alarm. Then we picked up theshapeless hats and went away for repairs. I had heard that the path oflearning was long and beset with peril but I hoped, not without reason, the worst was over. As I went off the campus the top of my hat washanging over my left ear, my collar and cravat were turned awry, mytrousers gaped over one knee. I was talking with a fellow sufferer andpatching the skin on my knuckles, when suddenly I met Uncle Eb. 

'By the Lord Harry!' he said, looking me over from top to toe, 'teacherup there mus' be purty ha'sh. '

'It wa'n't the teacher, ' I said. 

'Must have fit then. '

'Fit hard, ' I answered, laughing. 

'Try t' walk on ye?'

'Tried t' walk on me. Took several steps too, ' I said stooping to brushmy trousers. 

'Hm! guess he found it ruther bad walkin' didn't he?' my old friendenquired. 'Leetle bit rough in spots?'

'Little bit rough, Uncle Eb--that's certain. '

'Better not go hum, ' he said, a great relief in his face. 'Look 's ifye'd been chopped down an' sawed--an' split--an' throwed in a pile. I'llgo an' bring over some things fer ye. '

I went with my friend, who had suffered less damage, and Uncle Ebbrought me what I needed to look more respectable than I felt. 

The president, great and good man that he was, forgave us, finally, after many interviews and such wholesome reproof as made us all ashamedof our folly. 

In my second year, at college, Hope went away to continue her studiesin New York She was to live in the family of John Fuller, a friend ofDavid, who had left Faraway years before and made his fortune there inthe big city. Her going filled my days with a lingering and pervasivesadness. I saw in it sometimes the shadow of a heavier loss than I daredto contemplate. She had come home once a week from Ogdensburg and I hadalways had a letter between times. She was ambitious and, I fancy, theylet her go, so that there should be no danger of any turning aside fromthe plan of my life, or of hers; for they knew our hearts as well as weknew them and possibly better. 

We had the parlour to ourselves the evening before she went away, and Iread her a little love tale I had written especially for that occasion. It gave us some chance to discuss the absorbing and forbidden topic ofour lives. 

'He's too much afraid of her, ' she said, 'he ought to put his arm abouther waist in that love scene. '

'Like that, ' I said, suiting the action to the word. 

'About like that, ' she answered, laughing, 'and then he ought to saysomething very, very, nice to her before he proposes--something abouthis having loved her for so long--you know. '

'And how about her?' I asked, my arm still about her waist. 

'If she really loves him, ' Hope answered, 'she would put her arms abouthis neck and lay her head upon his shoulder, so; and then he might saywhat is in the story. ' She was smiling now as she looked up at me. 

'And kiss her?'

'And kiss her, ' she whispered; and, let me add, that part of the scenewas in nowise neglected. 

'And when he says: "will you wait for me and keep me always in yourheart?" what should be her answer, ' I continued. 

'Always!' she said. 

'Hope, this is our own story, ' I whispered. 'Does it need any furthercorrection?'

'It's too short--that's all, ' she answered, as our lips met again. 

Just then Uncle Eb opened the door, suddenly. 

'Tut tut!' he said tuning quickly about

'Come in, Uncle Eb, ' said Hope, 'come right in, we want to see you. 

In a moment she had caught him by the arm. 

'Don' want 'o break up the meetin', ' said he laughing. 

'We don't care if you do know, ' said Hope, 'we're not ashamed of it. '

'Hain't got no cause t' be, ' he said. 'Go it while ye're young 'n full'o vinegar! That's what I say every time. It's the best fun there is. Ithought I'd like t' hev ye both come up t' my room, fer a minute, 'foreyer mother 'n father come back, ' he said in a low tone that was almost awhisper. 

Then he shut one eye, suggestively, and beckoned with his head, as wefollowed him up the stairway to the little room in which he slept. Heknelt by the bed and pulled out the old skin-covered trunk that DavidBrower had given him soon after we came. He felt a moment for thekeyhole, his hand trembling, and then I helped him open the trunk. From under that sacred suit of broadcloth, worn only on the grandestoccasions, he fetched a bundle about the size of a man's head. It wastied in a big red handkerchief. We were both sitting on the floor besidehim. 

'Heft it, ' he whispered. 

I did so and found it heavier than I expected. 

'What is it?' I asked. 

'Spondoolix, ' he whispered. 

Then he untied the bundle--a close packed hoard of bankbills with somepieces of gold and silver at the bottom. 

'Hain't never hed no use fer it, ' he said as he drew out a layerof greenbacks and spread them with trembling fingers. Then he begancounting them slowly and carefully. 

'There!' he whispered, when at length he had counted a hundred dollars. 'There Hope! take thet an' put it away in yer wallet. Might come handywhen ye're 'way fr'm hum. '

She kissed him tenderly. 

'Put it 'n yer wallet an' say nothin'--not a word t' nobody, ' he said. 

Then he counted over a like amount for me. 

'Say nothin', ' he said, looking up at me over his spectacles. 'Ye'll hevt' spile a suit o' clothes purty often if them fellers keep a fightin'uv ye all the time. '

Father and mother were coming in below stairs and, hearing them, wehelped Uncle Eb tie up his bundle and stow it away. Then we went down tomeet them. 

Next morning we bade Hope goodbye at the cars and returned to our homewith a sense of loss that, for long, lay heavy upon us all. 

Chapter 27

Uncle Eb and David were away buying cattle, half the week, but ElizabethBrower was always at home to look after my comfort. She was up betimesin the morning and singing at her work long before I was out of bed. When the breakfast was near ready she came to my door with a call sofall of cheerfulness and good-nature it was the best thing in the day. And often, at night, I have known her to come into my room when I waslying awake with some hard problem, to see that I was properly coveredor that my window was not open too far. As we sat alone together, ofan evening, I have seen her listen for hours while I was committing theOdes of Horace with a curiosity that finally gave way to resignation. Sometimes she would look over my shoulder at the printed page and try todiscern some meaning in it when Uncle Eb was with us he would often sita long time his head turned attentively as the lines came rattling offmy tongue. 

'Cur'us talk!' he said, one evening, as I paused a moment, while hecrossed the room for a drink of water. 'Don' seem t' make no kind O'sense. I can make out a word here 'n there but fer good, sound, commonsense I call it a purty thin crop. '

Hope wrote me every week for a time. A church choir had offered her aplace soon after she went to the big city. She came home intending tosurprise us all, the first summer but unfortunately, I had gone away inthe woods with a party of surveyors and missed her. We were a month inthe wilderness and came out a little west of Albany where I took a boatfor New York to see Hope. I came down the North River between the greatsmoky cities, on either side of it, one damp and chilly morning. Thenoise, the crowds, the immensity of the town appalled me. At JohnFuller's I found that Hope had gone home and while they tried to detainme longer I came back on the night boat of the same day. Hope and Ipassed each other in that journey and I did not see her until the summerpreceding my third and last year in college--the faculty having allowedme to take two years in one. Her letters had come less frequently andwhen she came I saw a grand young lady of fine manners, her beautyshaping to an ampler mould, her form straightening to the dignity ofwomanhood. 

At the depot our hands were cold and trembling with excitement--neitherof us, I fancy, knowing quite how far to go in our greeting. Ourcorrespondence had been true to the promise made her mother--there hadnot been a word of love in it--only now and then a suggestion of ourtender feeling. We hesitated only for the briefest moment. Then I put myarm about her neck and kissed her. 

'I am so glad to see you, ' she said. 

Well, she was charming and beautiful, but different, and probablynot more different than was I. She was no longer the laughing, simple-mannered child of Faraway, whose heart was as one's hand beforehim in the daylight. She had now a bit of the woman's reserve--herprudence, her skill in hiding the things of the heart. I loved her morethan ever, but somehow I felt it hopeless--that she had grown out of mylife. She was much in request among the people of Hillsborough, and wewent about a good deal and had many callers. But we had little time toourselves. She seemed to avoid that, and had much to say of the grandyoung men who came to call on her in the great city. Anyhow it all hurtme to the soul and even robbed me of my sleep. A better lover thanI would have made an end of dallying and got at the truth, come whatmight. But I was of the Puritans, and not of the Cavaliers, and my waywas that which God had marked for me, albeit I must own no man had evera keener eye for a lovely woman or more heart to please her. A mightypride had come to me and I had rather have thrown my heart to vulturesthan see it an unwelcome offering. And I was quite out of courage withHope; she, I dare say, was as much out of patience with me. 

She returned in the late summer and I went back to my work at college ina hopeless fashion that gave way under the whip of a strong will. 

I made myself as contented as possible. I knew all the pretty girlsand went about with some of them to the entertainments of the collegeseason. At last came the long looked for day of my graduation--the endof my student life. 

The streets of the town were thronged, every student having the collegecolours in his coat lapel. The little company of graduates trembled withfright as the people crowded in to the church, whispering and faringthemselves, in eager anticipation. As the former looked from the twoside pews where they sat, many familiar faces greeted them--the facesof fathers and mothers aglow with the inner light of pride and pleasure;the faces of many they loved come to claim a share in the glory of thatday. I found my own, I remember, but none of them gave me such help asthat of Uncle Eb. However I might fare, none would feel the pride ordisgrace of it more keenly than he. I shall never forget how he turnedhis head to catch every word when I ascended the platform. As I warmedto my argument I could see him nudging the arm of David, who sat besidehim, as if to say, 'There's the boy that came over the hills with me ina pack basket. ' when I stopped a moment, groping for the next word, heleaned forward, embracing his knee, firmly, as if intending to draw offa boot. It was all the assistance he could give me. When the exerciseswere over I found Uncle Eb by the front door of the church, waiting forme. 

'Willie, ye done noble!' said he. 

'Did my very best, Uncle Eb, ' I replied. 

'Liked it grand--I did, sartin. ' 'Glad you liked it, Uncle Eb. '

'Showed great larnin'. Eho was the man 'at give out the pictur's?'

He meant the president who had conferred the degrees. I spoke the name. 

'Deceivin' lookin' man, ain't he? Seen him often, but never took nopertick'lar notice of him before. '

'How deceiving?' I enquired. 

'Talked so kind of plain, ' he replied. 'I could understan' him as easyas though he'd been swappin' hosses. But when you got up, Bill'. Why, you jes' riz right up in the air an' there couldn't no dum fool tellwhat you was talkin' 'bout. '

Whereat I concluded that Uncle Eb's humour was as deep as it was kindly, but I have never been quite sure whether the remark was a compliment ora bit of satire. 

Chapter 28

The folks of Faraway have been carefully if rudely pictured, but thelook of my own person, since I grew to the stature of manhood, I haveleft wholly to the imagination of the reader. I will wager he knew longsince what manner of man I was and has measured me to the fraction of aninch, and knows even the colour of my hair and eyes from having been solong in my company. If not--well, I shall have to write him a letter. 

When Uncle Eb and I took the train for New York that summer day in 1860, some fifteen years after we came down Paradise Road with the dog andwagon and pack basket, my head, which, in that far day, came only tothe latitude of his trouser pocket, had now mounted six inches abovehis own. That is all I can say here on that branch of my subject. Iwas leaving to seek my fortune in the big city; Uncle Eb was off for aholiday and to see Hope and bring her home for a short visit. I rememberwith what sadness I looked back that morning at mother and father asthey stood by the gate slowly waving their handkerchiefs. Our home atlast was emptied of its young, and even as they looked the shadow of oldage must have fallen suddenly before them. I knew how they would go backinto that lonely room and how, while the clock went on with its ticking, Elizabeth would sit down and cover her face a moment, while David wouldmake haste to take up his chores. 

We sat in silence a long time after the train was off, a mighty sadnessholding our tongues. Uncle Eb, who had never ridden a long journey onthe cars before, had put on his grand suit of broadcloth. The day washot and dusty, and before we had gone far he was sadly soiled. But asuit never gave him any worry, once it was on. He sat calmly, holdinghis knee in his hands and looking out of the open window, a squint inhis eyes that stood for some high degree of interest in the scenery. 

'What do you think of this country?' I enquired. 

'Looks purty fair, ' said he, as he brushed his face with hishandkerchief and coughed to clear his throat of the dust, 'but 'tain'tquite so pleasant to the taste as some other parts o' the country. Iruther liked the flavour of Saint Lawrence all through, but Jefferson isa leetle gritty. '

He put down the window as he spoke. 

'A leetle tobaccer'll improve it some, ' he added, as his hand went downfor the old silver box. 'The way these cars dew rip along! Consamed ifit ain't like flyin'! Kind o' makes me feel like a bird. '

The railroad was then not the familiar thing it is now in the northcountry. The bull in the fields had not yet come to an understanding ofits rights, and was frequently tempted into argument with a locomotive. Bill Fountain, who came out of a back township, one day had even tiedhis faithful hound to the rear platform. 

Our train came to a long stop for wood and water near midday, and thenwe opened the lunch basket that mother had given us. 

'Neighbour, ' said a solemn-faced man, who sat in front of us, 'do youthink the cars are ag'in the Bible? D'you think a Christian orter rideon 'em?'

'Sartin, ' said Uncle Eb. 'Less the constable's after him--then I thinkhe orter be on a balky hoss. '

'Wife'n I hes talked it over a good deal, ' said the man. 'Some says it'sag'in the Bible. The minister 'at preaches over 'n our neighbourhoodsays if God hed wanted men t' fly he'd g'in 'em wings. '

'S'pose if he'd ever wanted 'm t' skate he'd hed 'em born with skateson?' said Uncle Eb. 

'Danno, ' said the man. 'It behooves us all to be careful. The Bible says"Go not after new things. "'

'My friend, ' said Uncle Eb, between bites of a doughnut, 'I don'care what I ride in so long as 'tain't a hearse. I want sumthin' at'scomfortable an' purty middlin' spry. It'll do us good up here t' gitjerked a few hunderd miles an' back ev'ry leetle while. Keep our j'intslimber. We'll live longer fer it, an' thet'll please God sure--cuz Idon't think he's hankerin' fer our society--not a bit. Don' make nodifference t' him whuther we ride 'n a spring wagon er on the cars solong's we're right side up 'n movin'. We need more steam; we're too dumslow. Kind o' think a leetle more steam in our religion wouldn't hurt usa bit. It's purty fur behind. '

We got to Albany in the evening, just in time for the night boat. UncleEb was a sight in his dusty broadcloth, when we got off the cars, andI know my appearance could not have been prepossessing. Once we wereaboard the boat and had dusted our clothes and bathed our hands andfaces we were in better spirits. 

'Consarn it!' said Uncle Eb, as we left the washroom, 'le's have a durngood supper. I'll stan' treat. '

'Comes a leetle bit high, ' he said, as he paid the bill, 'but I don'care if it does. 'Fore we left I says t' myself, "Uncle Eb, " saysI, "you go right in fer a good time an' don' ye count the pennies. Everybody's a right t' be reckless once in seventy-five year. "'

We went to our stateroom a little after nine. I remember the berths hadnot been made up, and removing our boots and coats we lay down uponthe bare mattresses. Even then I had a lurking fear that we might beviolating some rule of steamboat etiquette. When I went to New Yorkbefore I had dozed all night in the big cabin. 

A dim light came through the shuttered door that opened upon thedinning-saloon where the rattle of dishes for a time put away thepossibility of sleep. 

'I'll be awful glad t' see Hope, ' said Uncle Eb, as he lay gaping. 

'Guess I'll be happier to see her than she will to see me, ' I said. 

'What put that in yer head?' Uncle Eb enquired. 

''Fraid we've got pretty far apart, ' said I. 

'Shame on ye, Bill, ' said the old gentleman. 'If thet's so ye ain'tdone right Hedn't orter let a girl like thet git away from ye--th' ain'tanother like her in this world. '

'I know it' I said' 'but I can't help it Somebody's cut me out UncleEb. '

''Tain't so, ' said he emphatically. 'Ye want t' prance right up t' her. '

'I'm not afraid of any woman, ' I said, with a great air of bravery, 'butif she don't care for me I ought not to throw myself at her. '

'Jerusalem!' said Uncle Eb, rising up suddenly, 'what hev I gone an'done?'

He jumped out of his berth quickly and in the dim light I could see himreaching for several big sheets of paper adhering to the back of hisshirt and trousers. I went quickly to his assistance and beganstripping off the broadsheets which, covered with some strongly adhesivesubstance, had laid a firm hold upon him. I rang the bell and ordered alight. 

'Consam it all! what be they--plasters?' said Uncle Eb, quite out ofpatience. 

'Pieces of brown paper, covered with--West India molasses, I shouldthink, ' said I. 

'West Injy molasses!' he exclaimed. 'By mighty! That makes me hotter'n apancake. What's it on the bed fer?'

'To catch flies, ' I answered. 

'An' ketched me, ' said Uncle Eb, as he flung the sheet he was examininginto a corner. 'My extry good suit' too!'

He took off his trousers, then, holding them up to the light. 

'They're sp'ilt, ' said he mournfully. 'Hed 'em fer more'n ten year, too. '

'That's long enough, ' I suggested. 

'Got kind o' 'tached to 'em, ' he said, looking down at them and rubbinghis chin thoughtfully. Then we had a good laugh. 

'You can put on the other suit, ' I suggested, 'and when we get to thecity we'll have these fixed. '

'Leetle sorry, though, ' said he, 'cuz that other suit don' look reelgrand. This here one has been purty--purty scrumptious in its day--if Ido say it. '

'You look good enough in anything that's respectable, ' I said. 

'Kind o' wanted to look a leetle extry good, as ye might say, ' saidUncle Eb, groping in his big carpet-bag. 'Hope, she's terrible proud, an' if they should hev a leetle fiddlin' an' dancin' some night we'dwant t' be as stylish as any on em. B'lieve I'll go'n git me a spang, bran' new suit, anyway, 'fore we go up t' Fuller's. '

As we neared the city we both began feeling a bit doubtful as to whetherwe were quite ready for the ordeal. 

'I ought to, ' I said. 'Those I'm wearing aren't quite stylish enough, I'm afraid. '

'They're han'some, ' said Uncle Eb, looking up over his spectacles, 'butmebbe they ain't just as splendid as they'd orter be. How much money didDavid give ye?'

'One hundred and fifty dollars, ' I said, thinking it a very grand sumindeed. 

''Tain't enough, ' said Uncle Eb, bolting up at me again. 'Leastways notif ye're goin' t' hev a new suit. I want ye t' be spick an' span. '

He picked up his trousers then, and took out his fat leather wallet. 

'Lock the door, ' he whispered. 

'Pop goes the weasel!' he exclaimed, good-naturedly, and then he begancounting the bills. 

'I'm not going to take any more of your money, Uncle Eb, ' I said. 

'Tut, tut!' said he, 'don't ye try t' interfere. What d' ye thinkthey'll charge in the city fer a reel, splendid suit?'

He stopped and looked up at me. 

'Probably as much as fifty dollars, ' I answered. 

'Whew-w-w!' he whistled. 'Patty steep! It is sartin. '

'Let me go as I am, ' said I. 'Time enough to have a new suit when I'veearned it. '

'Wall, ' he said, as he continued counting, 'I guess you've earnt italready. Ye've studied hard an' tuk first honours an' yer goin' wherefolks are purty middlin' proud'n haughty. I want ye t' be a reg'lar highstepper, with a nice, slick coat. There, ' he whispered, as he handed methe money, 'take thet! An' don't ye never tell 'at I g'in it t' ye. '

I could not speak for a little while, as I took the money, for thinkingof the many, many things this grand old man had done for me. 

'Do ye think these boots'll do?' he asked, as he held up to the lightthe pair he had taken off in the evening. 

'They look all right, ' I said. 

'Ain't got no decent squeak to 'em now, an' they seem t' look kind o'clumsy. How're your'n?' he asked. 

I got them out from under the berth and we inspected them carefullydeciding in the end they would pass muster. 

The steward had made up our berths, when he came, and lit our room forus. Our feverish discussion of attire had carried us far past midnight, when we decided to go to bed. 

'S'pose we musn't talk t' no strangers there 'n New York, ' said UncleEb, as he lay down. 'I've read 'n the Tribune how they'll purtend t' befriends an' then grab yer money an' run like Sam Hill. If I meet any o'them fellers they're goin' t' find me purty middlin' poor comp'ny. '

We were up and on deck at daylight, viewing the Palisades. The lonelyfeeling of an alien hushed us into silence as we came to the noisy andthickening river craft at the upper end of the city. Countless windowpanes were shining in the morning sunlight. This thought was in my mindthat somewhere in the innumerable host on either side was the one dearerto me than any other. We enquired our way at the dock and walked toFrench's Hotel, on Printing House Square. After breakfast we went andordered all the grand new things we had planned to get. They would notbe ready for two days, and after talking it over we decided to go andmake a short call. Hope, who had been up and looking for us a longtime, gave us a greeting so hearty we began to get the first feeling ofcomfort since landing. She was put out about our having had breakfast, Iremember, and said we must have our things brought there at once. 

'I shall have to stay at the hotel awhile, ' I said, thinking of the newclothes. 

'Why, ' said Mrs Fuller, 'this girl has been busy a week fixing yourrooms and planning for you. We could not hear of your going elsewhere. It would be downright ingratitude to her. '

A glow of red came into the cheeks of Hope that made me ashamed of myremark. I thought she looked lovelier in her pretty blue morning gown, covering a broad expanse of crinoline, than ever before. 

'And you've both got to come and hear me sing tonight at the church, 'said she. 'I wouldn't have agreed to sing if I had not thought you wereto be here. '

We made ourselves at home, as we were most happy to do, and thatafternoon I went down town to present to Mr Greeley the letter thatDavid Brower had given me. 

Chapter 29

I came down Broadway that afternoon aboard a big white omnibus, thatdrifted slowly in a tide of many vehicles. Those days there were agoodly show of trees on either side of that thoroughfare--elms, withhere and there a willow, a sumach or a mountain ash. The walks werethronged with handsome people--dandies with high hats and flauntingnecknes and swinging canes--beautiful women, each covering a broadcircumference of the pavement, with a cone of crinoline that swayed overdainty feet. From Grace Church down it was much of the same thing we seenow, with a more ragged sky line. Many of the great buildings, of whiteand red sandstone, had then appeared, but the street was largely in thepossession of small shops--oyster houses, bookstores and the like. Notuntil I neared the sacred temple of the Tribune did I feel a propersense of my own littleness. There was the fountain of all that wisdomwhich had been read aloud and heard with reverence in our householdsince a time I could but dimly remember. There sat the prophet who hadgiven us so much--his genial views of life and government, his hopes, his fears, his mighty wrath at the prospering of cruelty and injustice. 

'I would like to see Mr Horace Greeley, ' I said, rather timidly, at thecounter. 

'Walk right up those stairs and turn to the left, ' said a clerk, as heopened a gate for me. 

Ascending, I met a big man coming down, hurriedly, and with heavy steps. We stood dodging each other a moment with that unfortunate co-ordinationof purpose men sometimes encounter when passing each other. Suddenly thebig man stopped in the middle of the stairway and held both of his handsabove his head. 

'In God's name! young man, ' said he, 'take your choice. '

He spoke in a high, squeaky voice that cut me with the sharpness of itsirritation. I went on past him and entered an open door near the top ofthe stairway. 

'Is Mr Horace Greeley in?' I enquired of a young man who sat readingpapers. 

'Back soon, ' said he, without looking up. 'Take a chair. '

In a little while I heard the same heavy feet ascending the stairway twosteps at a time. Then the man I had met came hurriedly into the room. 

'This is Mr Greeley, ' said the young man who was reading. 

The great editor turned and looked at me through gold-rimmed spectacles. I gave him my letter out of a trembling hand. He removed it from theenvelope and held it close to his big, kindly, smooth-shaven face. Therewas a fringe of silky, silver hair, streaked with yellow, about thelower part of his head from temple to temple. It also encircled histhroat from under his collar. His cheeks were fall and fair as a lady's, with rosy spots in them and a few freckles about his nose. He laughed ashe finished reading the letter. 

'Are you Dave Brower's boy?' he asked in a drawling falsetto, looking atme out of grey eyes and smiling with good humour. 

'By adoption, ' I answered. '

'He was an almighty good rassler, ' he said, deliberately, as he lookedagain at the letter. '

'What do you want to do?' he asked abruptly. '

'Want to work on the Tribune, ' I answered. '

'Good Lord! he said. 'I can't hire everybody. '

I tried to think of some argument, but what with looking at the greatman before me, and answering his questions and maintaining a decent showof dignity, I had enough to do. 

'Do you read the Tribune? he asked. '

'Read it ever since I can remember. '

'What do you think of the administration?

'Lot of dough faces! I answered, smiling, as I saw he recognised his ownphrase. He sat a moment tapping the desk with his penholder. '

'There's so many liars here in New York, ' he said, 'there ought to beroom for an honest man. How are the crops?'

'Fair, I answered. 'Big crop of boys every year. '

'And now you're trying to find a market, he remarked. '

'Want to have you try them, ' I answered. 

'Well, ' said he, very seriously, turning to his desk that came up to hischin as he sat beside it, 'go and write me an article about rats. '

'Would you advise-, ' I started to say, when he interrupted me. 

'The man that gives advice is a bigger fool than the man that takes it, 'he fleered impatiently. 'Go and do your best!'

Before he had given me this injunction he had dipped his pen and begunto write hurriedly. If I had known him longer I should have known that, while he had been talking to me, that tireless mind of his had summonedhim to its service. I went out, in high spirits, and sat down a momenton one of the benches in the little park near by, to think it allover. He was going to measure my judgement, my skill as a writer--myresources. 'Rats, ' I said to myself thoughtfully. I had read much aboutthem. They infested the ships, they overran the wharves, they traversedthe sewers. An inspiration came to me. I started for the waterfront, asking my way every block or two. Near the East River I met apoliceman--a big, husky, good-hearted Irishman. 

'Can you tell me, ' I said, 'who can give me information about rats?'

'Rats?' he repeated. 'What d' ye wan't' know about thim?'

'Everything, ' I said. 'They ve just given me a job on the New YorkTribune, ' I added proudly. 

He smiled good-naturedly. He had looked through me at a glance. 

'Just say "Tribune", ' he said. 'Ye don't have t' say "New York Tribune"here. Come along wi' me. '

He took me to a dozen or more of the dock masters. 

'Give 'im a lift, my hearty, ' he said to the first of them. 'He's agreen. '

I have never forgotten the kindness of that Irishman, whom I came toknow well in good time. Remembering that day and others I always greetedhim with a hearty 'God bless the Irish!' every time I passed him, and hewould answer, 'Amen, an' save yer riverince. '

He did not leave me until I was on my way home loaded with fact andfable and good dialect with a savour of the sea in it. 

Hope and Uncle Eb were sitting together in his room when I returned. 

'Guess I've got a job, ' I said, trying to be very cool about it. . 

'A job! said Hope eagerly, as she rose. 'Where?

'With Mr Horace Greeley, ' I answered, my voice betraying my excitement. 

'Jerusalem! said Uncle Eb. 'Is it possible?'

'That's grand! said Hope. 'Tell us about it. '

Then I told them of my interview with the great editor and of what I haddone since. 

'Ye done wonderful!' said Uncle Eb and Hope showed quite as muchpleasure in her own sweet way. 

I was for going to my room and beginning to write at once, but Hope saidit was time to be getting ready for dinner. 

When we came down at half-past six we were presented to our host and theguests of the evening--handsome men and women in full dress--and youngMr Livingstone was among them. I felt rather cheap in my frock coat, although I had thought it grand enough for anybody on the day of mygraduation. Dinner announced, the gentlemen rose and offered escortto the ladies, and Hope and Mrs Fuller relieved our embarrassmentby conducting us to our seats--women are so deft in those littledifficulties. The dinner was not more formal than that of every eveningin the Fuller home--for its master was a rich man of some refinement oftaste--and not at all comparable to the splendid hospitality one maysee every day at the table of a modern millionaire. But it did seem verywonderful to us, then, with its fine-mannered servants, its flowers, itsabundant silver. Hope had written much to her mother of the details ofdeportment at John Fuller's table, and Elizabeth had delicately impartedto us the things we ought to know. We behaved well, I have since beentold, although we got credit for poorer appetites than we possessed. Uncle Eb took no chances and refused everything that had a look ofmystery and a suggestion of peril, dropping a droll remark, betimes, that sent a ripple of amusement around the table. 

John Trumbull sat opposite me, and even then I felt a curious interestin him--a big, full bearded man, quite six feet tall, his skin and eyesdark, his hair iron-grey, his voice deep like David s. I could not getover the impression that I had seen him before--a feeling I have hadoften, facing men I could never possibly have met. No word came outof his firm mouth unless he were addressed, and then all in hearinglistened to the little he had to say: it was never more than somevery simple remark. In his face and form and voice there was abundantheraldry of rugged power and ox-like vitality. I have seen a bronze headof Daniel Webster which, with a full blonde beard and an ample coveringof grey hair would have given one a fairly perfect idea of the look ofJohn Trumbull. Imagine it on a tall, and powerful body and let it speakwith a voice that has in it the deep and musical vibration one may hearin the looing of an ox and you shall see, as perfectly as my feeblewords can help you to do, this remarkable man who, must, hereafter, play before you his part--compared to which mine is as the prattle of achild--in this drama of God's truth. 

'You have not heard, ' said Mrs Fuller addressing me, 'how Mr Trumbullsaved Hope's life. '

'Saved Hope's life!' I exclaimed. 

'Saved her life, ' she repeated, 'there isn't a doubt of it. We neversent word of it for fear it would give you all needless worry. It was aday of last winter--fell crossing Broadway, a dangerous place' he pulledher aside just in time--the horse's feet were raised above her--shewould have been crushed in a moment He lifted her in his arms andcarried her to the sidewalk not a bit the worse for it. 

'Seems as if it were fate, ' said Hope. 'I had seen him so often andwondered who he was. I recall a night when I had to come home alone fromrehearsal. I was horribly afraid. I remember passing him under a streetlamp. If he had spoken to me, then, I should have dropped with fear andhe would have had to carry me home that time. 

'It's an odd thing a girl like you should ever have to walk home alone, 'said Mr Fuller. 'Doesn't speak well for our friend Livingstone orBurnham there or Dobbs. 

'Mrs Fuller doesn't give us half a chance, ' said Livingstone, 'sheguards her day and night. It's like the monks and the Holy Grail. 

'Hope is independent of the young men, ' said Mrs Fuller as we rose fromthe table. 'If I cannot go with her myself, in the carriage, I alwayssend a maid or a manservant to walk home with her. But Mr Fuller andI were out of town that night and the young men missed their greatopportunity. 

'Had a differ'nt way o' sparkin' years ago, ' said Uncle Eb. 'Didn'tnever hev if please anybody but the girl then. If ye liked a girl yewent an' sot up with her an' gin her a smack an' tol' her right outplain an' square what ye wanted. An' thet settled it one way er t'other. An' her mother she step' in the next room with the door half-openan' never paid no 'tention. Recollec' one col'night when I was sparkin'the mother hollered out o' bed, "Lucy, hev ye got anythin 'round ye?"an' she hollered back, "Yis, mother, " an' she hed too but 'twan'tnothin' but my arm. '

They laughed merrily, over the quaint reminiscence of my old friendand the quainter way he had of telling it. The rude dialect of thebackwoodsman might have seemed oddly out of place, there, but for thequiet, unassuming manner and the fine old face of Uncle Eb in which thedullest eye might see the soul of a gentleman. 

'What became of Lucy?' Mr Fuller enquired, laughingly. 'You nevermarried her. '

'Lucy died, ' he answered soberly; 'thet was long, long ago. '

Then he went away with John Trumbull to the smoking-room where I foundthem, talking earnestly in a corner, when it was time to go to thechurch with Hope. 

Chapter 30

Hope and Uncle Eb and I went away in a coach with Mrs Fuller. Therewas a great crowd in the church that covered, with sweeping arches, aninterior more vast than any I had ever entered. Hope was gowned inwhite silk, a crescent of diamonds in her hair--a birthday gift fromMrs Fuller; her neck and a part of her full breast unadorned by anythingsave the gifts of God--their snowy whiteness, their lovely curves. 

First Henry Cooper came on with his violin--a great master as I nowremember him. Then Hope ascended to the platform, her dainty kidslippers showing under her gown, and the odious Livingstone escortingher. I was never so madly in love or so insanely jealous. I must confessit for I am trying to tell the whole truth of myself--I was a fool. Andit is the greater folly that one says ever 'I was, ' and never 'I am' inthat plea. I could even see it myself then and there, but I was so greata fool I smiled and spoke fairly to the young man although I could havewrung his neck with rage. There was a little stir and a passing whisperin the crowd as she stood waiting for the prelude. Then she sang theballad of Auld Robin Grey--not better than I had heard her sing itbefore, but so charmingly there were murmurs of delight going far andwide in the audience when she had finished. Then she sang the finemelody of 'Angels ever Bright and Fair', and again the old ballad sheand I had heard first from the violin of poor Nick Goodall. 

 By yon bonnie bank an' by yon bonnie bonnie brae The sun shines bright on Loch Lomond Where me an' me true love were ever won't if gae On the bonnie, bonnie bank o' Loch Lomond. 

Great baskets of roses were handed to her as she came down from theplatform and my confusion was multiplied by their number for I had notthought to bring any myself. 

I turned to Uncle Eb who, now and then, had furtively wiped his eyes. 'My stars!' he whispered, 'ain't it reemarkable grand! Never heard nerseen nothin' like thet in all my born days. An' t' think it's my littleHope. '

He could go no further. His handkerchief was in his hand while he tookrefuge in silence. 

Going home the flowers were heaped upon our laps and I, with Hope besideme, felt some restoration of comfort. 

'Did you see Trumbull?' Mrs Fuller asked. 'He sat back of us and didseem to enjoy it so much--your singing. He was almost cheerful. 

'Tell me about Mr Trumbull, ' I said. 'He is interesting. 

'Speculator, ' said Mrs Fuller. 'A strange man, successful, silent, unmarried and, I think, in love. Has beautiful rooms they say onGramercy Park. Lives alone with an old servant. We got to know himthrough the accident. Mr Fuller and he have done business together--agreat deal of it since then. Operates in the stock market. 

A supper was waiting for us at home and we sat a long time at the table. I was burning for a talk with Hope but how was I to manage it? We rosewith the others and went and sat down together in a corner of the greatparlour. We talked of that night at the White Church in Faraway when weheard Nick Goodall play and she had felt the beginning of a new life. 

'I've heard how well you did last year, ' she said, 'and how nice youwere to the girls. A friend wrote me all about it. How attentive youwere to that little Miss Brown!

'But decently polite, ' I answered. 'One has to have somebody or--or be amonk. 

'One has to have somebody!' she said, quickly, as she picked at theflower on her bosom and looked down at it soberly. 'That is true onehas to have somebody and, you know, I haven't had any lack of companymyself. By the way, I have news to tell you. 

She spoke slowly and in a low voice with a touch of sadness in it. Ifelt the colour mounting to my face. 

'News!' I repeated. 'What news, I-lope?

'I am going away to England, ' she said, 'with Mrs Fuller if--if motherwill let me. I wish you would write and ask her to let me go. 

I was unhorsed. What to say I knew not, what it meant I could vaguelyimagine. There was a moment of awkward silence. 

'Of course I will ask her if you wish to go, ' I said. 'When do you sail?

'They haven't fixed the day yet. 

She sat looking down at her fan, a beautiful, filmy thing between bracesof ivory. Her knees were crossed, one dainty foot showing under rufflesof lace. I looked at her a moment dumb with admiration. 

'What a big man you have grown to be Will, ' she said presently. 'I amalmost afraid of you now. 

She was still looking down at the fan and that little foot was movingnervously. Now was my time. I began framing an avowal. I felt a wildimpulse to throw my strong arms about her and draw her close to me andfeel the pink velvet of her fair face upon mine. If I had only done it!But what with the strangeness and grandeur of that big room, the voicesof the others who were sitting in the library, near by, the mystery ofthe spreading crinoline that was pressing upon my knees, I had not halfthe courage of a lover. 

'My friend writes me that you are in love, ' she said, opening her fanand moving it slowly, as she looked up at me. 

'She is right I must confess it, ' I said, 'I am madly, hopelessly inlove. It is time you knew it Hope and I want your counsel. 

She rose quickly and turned her face away. 

'Do not tell me--do not speak of it again--I forbid you, ' she answeredcoldly. 

Then she stood silent. I rose to take her hand and ask her to tell mewhy, a pretty rankling in my heart, Soft footsteps and the swish of agown were approaching. Before I could speak Mrs Fuller had come throughthe doorway. 

'Come Hope, ' she said, 'I cannot let you sit up late--you are worn out, my dear. 

Then Hope bade us both good-night and went away to her room. If I hadknown as much about women then, as now, I should have had it out, withshort delay, to some understanding between us. But in that subject oneloves and learns. And one thing I have learned is this, that jealousythrows its illusions on every word and look and act. I went to my roomand sat down for a bit of reckoning. Hope had ceased to love me, I feltsure, and how was I to win her back?

After all my castle building what was I come to?

I heard my door open presently, and then I lifted my head. Uncle Ebstood near me in his stocking feet and shirt-sleeves. 

'In trouble, ' he whispered. 

'In trouble, ' I said. 

''Bout Hope?'

'It's about Hope. '

'Don't be hasty. Hope'll never go back on you, ' he whispered. 'Shedoesn't love me, ' I said impulsively. 'She doesn't care the snap of herfinger for me. 

'Don't believe it, ' he answered calmly. 'Not a single word of it. Thet woman--she's tryin' t' keep her away from ye--but 'twon't make nodiffer'nce. Not a bit. 

'I must try to win her back--someway--somehow, ' I whispered. 

'Gi n ye the mitten?' he asked. 

'That's about it, ' I answered, going possibly too far in the depth of myfeeling. 

'Whew w!' he softly whistled. 'Wall, it takes two mittens t'make apair--ye'll hev t'ask her ag in. 

'Yes I cannot give her up, ' I said decisively, 'I must try to win herback. It isn't fair. I have no claim upon her. But I must do it. 

'Consarn it! women like t'be chased, ' he said. 'It's their natur'. Whatdo they fix up so fer--di'mon's an' silks an' satins--if 'tain't t'setmen a chasm 'uv 'em? You'd otter enjoy it. Stick to her--jes' like apuppy to a root. Thet's my advice. '

'Hope has got too far ahead of me, ' I said. 'She can marry a rich man ifshe wishes to, and I don't see why she shouldn't. What am I, anyhow, but a poor devil just out of college and everything to win? It makes memiserable to think here in this great house how small I am. '

'There's things goin' if happen, ' Uncle Eb whispered. 'I can't tell yewhat er when but they're goin' if happen an' they're goin' if changeeverything. 

We sat thinking a while then. I knew what he meant--that I was toconquer the world, somehow, and the idea seemed to me so absurd I couldhardly help laughing as melancholy as I felt. 

'Now you go if bed, ' he said, rising and gently touching my head withhis hand. 'There's things goin' t'happen, boy--take my word fer it. 

I got in bed late at night but there was no sleep for me. In the stillhours I lay quietly, planning my future, for now I must make myselfworth having and as soon as possible. 

Some will say my determination was worthy of a better lover but, blessyou! I have my own way of doing things and it has not been always sounsuccessful. 

Chapter 31

Hope was not at breakfast with us. 

'The child is worn out, ' said Mrs Fuller. 'I shall keep her in bed a dayor two. 

'Couldn't I see her a moment?' I enquired. 

'Dear! no!' said she. 'The poor thing is in bed with a headache. ' IfHope had been ill at home I should have felt free to go and sit by heras I had done more than once. It seemed a little severe to be shut awayfrom her now but Mrs Fuller's manner had fore-answered any appeal and Iheld my peace. Having no children of her own she had assumed a sort ofproprietorship over Hope that was evident--that probably was why thegirl had ceased to love me and to write to me as of old. A troop ofmysteries came clear to me that morning. Through many gifts and favoursshe had got my sweetheart in a sort of bondage and would make a marriageof her own choosing if possible. 

'Is there anything you would like particularly for your breakfast? MrsFuller enquired. 

'Hain't no way pertic'lar, ' said Uncle Eb. 'I gen rally eat buckwheatpancakes an' maple sugar with a good strong cup o'tea. 

Mrs Fuller left the room a moment. 

'Dunno but I'll go out if the barn a minnit 'n take a look at thehosses, ' he said when she came back. 

'The stable is a mile away, ' she replied smiling. 

'Gran' good team ye druv us out with las' night, ' he said. 'Hed a chancet'look 'em over a leetle there at the door. The off hoss is puffed somefor'ard but if yer husband'll put on a cold bandage ev'ry night it'llmake them legs smoother n a hound's tooth. 

She thanked him and invited us to look in at the conservatory. 

'Where's yer husband?' Uncle Eb enquired. 

'He's not up yet, ' said she, 'I fear he did not sleep well. 

'Now Mis Fuller, ' said Uncle Eb, as we sat waiting, 'if there s anythingI can do t'help jes'le'me know what 'tis. 

She said there was nothing. Presently Uncle Eb sneezed so powerfullythat it rattled the crystals on the chandelier and rang in the brassmedallions. 

The first and second butlers came running in with a frightened look. There was also a startled movement from somebody above stairs. 

'I do sneeze powerful, sometimes, ' said Uncle Eb from under his redbandanna. ''S enough if scare anybody. '

They brought in our breakfast then--a great array of tempting dishes. 'Jest hev four pancakes 'n a biled egg, ' said Uncle Eb as he sipped histea. 'Grand tea!' he added, 'strong enough if float a silver dollar too. 

'Mrs Fuller, ' I said rising, when we had finished, 'I thank you for yourhospitality, but as I shall have to work nights, probably, I must findlodgings near the office. 

'You must come and see us again, ' she answered cordially. 'On SaturdayI shall take Hope away for a bit of rest to Saratoga probably--and fromthere I shall take her to Hillsborough myself for a day or two. 

'Thought she was goin' home with me, ' said Uncle Eb. 

'O dear no!' said Mrs Fuller, 'she cannot go now. The girl is ill andit's such a long journey. '

The postman came then with a letter for Uncle Eb. 

It was from David Brower. He would have to be gone a week or so buyingcattle and thought Uncle Eb had better come home as soon as convenient. 

'They're lonesome, ' he said, thoughtfully, after going over the letteragain. ''Tain't no wonder--they're gittin' old. '

Uncle Eb was older than either of them but he had not thought of that. 

'Le's see; 's about eight o clock, ' said he, presently. 'I've got t'goan' ten' to some business o' my own. I'll be back here sometime if dayMis Fuller an' I'll hev if see thet girl. Ye musn't never try if keep me'way from her. She's sot on my knee too many year fer that--altogethertoo many. 

We arranged to meet there at four. Then a servant brought us our hats. Iheard Hope calling as we passed the stairway:

'Won't you come up a minute, Uncle Eb? I want to see you very much. '

Then Uncle Eb hurried upstairs and I came away. 

I read the advertisements of board and lodging--a perplexing task forone so ignorant of the town. After many calls I found a place to myliking on Monkey Hill, near Printing House Square. Monkey Hill was theeast end of William Street, and not in the least fashionable. There weresome neat and cleanly looking houses on it of wood, and brick, and brownstone inhabited by small tradesmen; a few shops, a big stable and thechalet sitting on a broad, flat roof that covered a portion of thestableyard. The yard itself was the summit of Monkey Hill. It laybetween two brick buildings and up the hill, from the walk, one lookedinto the gloomy cavern of the stable and under the low roof, on oneside there were dump carts and old coaches in varying stages ofinfirmity. There was an old iron shop, that stood flush with thesidewalk, flanking the stableyard. A lantern and a mammoth key weresuspended above the door and hanging upon the side of the shop wasa wooden stair ascending to the chalet The latter had a sheathing ofweather-worn clapboards. It stood on the rear end of the brick building, communicating with the front rooms above the shop. A little stair offive steps ascended from the landing to its red door that overlooked anample yard of roofing, adorned with potted plants. The main room of thechalet where we ate our meals and sat and talked, of an evening, hadthe look of a ship's cabin. There were stationary seats along the wallcovered with leathern cushions. There were port and starboard lanternsand a big one of polished brass that overhung the table. A ship'sclock that had a noisy and cheerful tick, was set in the wall. A narrowpassage led to the room in front and the latter had slanting sides. A big window of little panes, in its further end, let in the light ofWilliam Street Here I found a home for myself, humble but quaint andcleanly. A thrifty German who, having long followed the sea, had marriedand thrown out his anchor for good and all, now dwelt in the chalet withhis wife and two boarders--both newspaper men. The old shopkeeper infront, once a sailor himself, had put the place in shipshape and leasedit to them. 

Mine host bore the name of Opper and was widely known as 'All Right'Opper, from his habit of cheery approval. Everything and everybody were'all right' to him so far as I could observe. If he were blessed ordamned he said 'all right. To be sure he took exceptions, on occasions, but even then the affair ended with his inevitable verdict of 'allright'. Every suggestion I made as to terms of payment and arrangementof furniture was promptly stamped with this seal of approval. 

I was comfortably settled and hard at work on my article by noon. Atfour I went to meet Uncle Eb. Hope was still sick in bed and we cameaway in a frame of mind that could hardly have been more miserable. Itried to induce him to stay a night with me in my new quarters. 

'I mus'n't, ' he said cheerfully. ' 'Fore long I'm comin' down ag'in butI can't fool 'round no longer now. I'll jes'go n git my new clothes andput fer the steamboat. Want ye t'go 'n see Hope tomorrow. She's comm upwith Mis Fuller next week. I'm goin' t' find out what's the matter uvher then. Somethin's wrong somewhere. Dunno what 'tis. She's all upsot. 

Poor girl! it had been almost as heavy a trial to her as to me' cuttingme off as she had done. Remembrances of my tender devotion to her, inall the years between then and childhood, must have made her sore withpity. I had already determined what I should do, and after Uncle Eb hadgone that evening I wrote her a long letter and asked her if I might notstill have some hope of her loving me. I begged her to let me know whenI might come and talk with her alone. With what eloquence I could bringto bear I told her how my love had grown and laid hold of my life. 

I finished my article that night and, in the morning, took it to MrGreeley. He was at his desk writing and at the same time giving ordersin a querulous tone to some workman who sat beside him. He did notlook up as he spoke. He wrote rapidly, his nose down so close to thestraggling, wet lines that I felt a fear of its touching them. I stoodby, waiting my opportunity. A full-bearded man in his shirt-sleeves camehurriedly out of another room. 

'Mr Greeley, ' he said, halting at the elbow of the great editor. 

'Yes, what is it?' the editor demanded nervously, his hand wobbling overthe white page, as rapidly as before, his eyes upon his work. 

'Another man garrotted this morning on South Street. 

'Better write a paragraph, ' he said, his voice snapping with impatienceas he brushed the full page aside and began sowing his thoughts onanother. 'Warn our readers. Tell 'em to wear brass collars with spikesin 'em till we get a new mayor. 

The man went away laughing. 

Mr Greeley threw down his pen, gathered his copy and handed it to theworkman who sat beside him. 

'Proof ready at five!' he shouted as the man was going out of the room. 

'Hello! Brower, ' he said bending to his work again. 'Thought you d blownout the gas somewhere. 

'Waiting until you reject this article, ' I said. 

He sent a boy for Mr Ottarson, the city editor. Meanwhile he had begunto drive his pen across the broadsheets with tremendous energy. 

Somehow it reminded me of a man ploughing black furrows behind a fastwalking team in a snow flurry. His mind was 'straddle the furrow' whenMr Ottarson came in. There was a moment of silence in which the latterstood scanning a page of the Herald he had brought with him. 

'Ottarson!' said Mr Greeley, never slacking the pace of his busy hand, as he held my manuscript in the other, 'read this. Tell me what youthink of it. If good, give him a show. 

'The staff is full, Mr Greeley, ' said the man of the city desk. Hiswords cut me with disappointment. 

The editor of the Tribune halted his hand an instant, read the lastlines, scratching a word and underscoring another. 

'Don't care!' he shrilled, as he went on writing. 'Used to slidedownhill with his father. If he's got brains we'll pay him eight dollarsa-week. 

The city editor beckoned to me and I followed him into another room. 

'If you will leave your address, ' he said, 'I will let you hear from mewhen we have read the article. 

With the hasty confidence of youth I began to discount my future thatvery day, ordering a full dress suit, of the best tailor, hat and shoesto match and a complement of neck wear that would have done credit toBeau Brummel. It gave me a start when I saw the bill would empty mypocket of more than half its cash. But I had a stiff pace to follow, andevery reason to look my best. 

Chapter 32

I took a walk in the long twilight of that evening. As it began to growdark I passed the Fuller house and looked up at its windows. Standingunder a tree on the opposite side of the avenue I saw a man come outof the door and walk away hurriedly with long strides. I met him at thenext corner. 

'Good-evening!' he said. 

I recognised then the voice and figure of John Trumbull. 'Been toFuller's, ' said he. 

'How is Hope?' I asked. 

'Better, ' said he. 'Walk with me?

'With pleasure, ' said I, and then he quickened his pace. 

We walked awhile in silence, going so fast! had hardly time to speak, and the darkness deepened into night. We hurried along through streetsand alleys that were but dimly lighted, coming out at length on a wideavenue passing through open fields in the upper part of the city. Lightsin cabin windows glowed on the hills around us. I made some remark aboutthem but he did not hear me. He slackened pace in a moment and beganwhispering to himself' I could not hear what he said. I thought ofbidding him good-night and returning but where were we and how could Ifind my way? We heard a horse coming presently at a gallop. At the firstloud whack of the hoofs he turned suddenly and laying hold of my armbegan to run. I followed him into the darkness of the open field. It gave me a spell of rare excitement for I thought at once ofhighwaymen--having read so much of them in the Tribune. He stoppedsuddenly and stooped low his hands touching the grass and neither spokeuntil the horse had gone well beyond us. Then he rose, stealthily, andlooked about him in silence, even turning his face to the dark sky whereonly a few stars were visible. 

'Well!' said he with a sort of grunt. 'Beats the devil! I thought it wasA wonderful thing was happening in the sky. A great double moon seemedto be flying over the city hooded in purple haze. A little spray ofsilver light broke out of it, as we looked, and shot backward and thenfloated after the two shining disks that were falling eastward in a longcurve. They seemed to be so near I thought they were coming down uponthe city. It occurred to me they must have some connection with the oddexperience I had gone through. In a moment they had passed out of sight. We were not aware that we had witnessed a spectacle the like of whichhad not been seen in centuries, if ever, since God made the heavens' thegreat meteor of 1860. 

'Let's go back, ' said Trumbull. 'We came too far. I forgot myself. '

'Dangerous here?' I enquired. 

'Not at all, ' said he, 'but a long way out of town--tired?

'Rather, ' I said, grateful for his evident desire to quiet my alarm. 

'Come!' said he as we came back to the pavement, his hand upon myshoulder. 'Talk to me. Tell me--what are you going to do?

We walked slowly down the deserted avenue, I, meanwhile, talking of mypians. 

'You love. Hope, ' he said presently. 'You will marry her?

'If she will have me, ' said I. 

'You must wait, ' he said, 'time enough!

He quickened his pace again as we came in sight of the scatteringshops and houses of the upper city and no other word was spoken. On thecorners we saw men looking into the sky and talking of the fallen moon. It was late bedtime when we turned into Gramercy Park. 

'Come in, ' said he as he opened an iron gate. 

I followed him up a marble stairway and a doddering old English butleropened the door for us. We entered a fine hall, its floor of beautifulparquetry muffled with silken rugs. High and spacious rooms were allaglow with light. 

He conducted me to a large smoking-room, its floor and walls coveredwith trophies of the hunt--antlers and the skins of carnivora. Here hethrew off his coat and bade me be at home as he lay down upon a wickerdivan covered with the tawny skin of some wild animal. He stroked thefur fondly with his hand. 

'Hello Jock!' he said, a greeting that mystified me. 

'Tried to eat me, ' he added, turning to me. 

Then he bared his great hairy arm and showed me a lot of ugly scars, Ibesought him to tell the story. 

'Killed him, ' he answered. 'With a gun?

'No--with my hands, ' and that was all he would say of it. 

He lay facing a black curtain that covered a corner. Now and then Iheard a singular sound in the room--like some faint, far, night cry suchas I have heard often in the deep woods. It was so weird I felt somewonder of it. Presently I could tell it came from behind the curtainwhere, also, I heard an odd rustle like that of wings. 

I sat in a reverie, looking at the silent man before me, and in themidst of it he pulled a cord that hung near him and a bell rang. 

'Luncheon!' he said to the old butler who entered immediately. 

Then he rose and showed me odd things, carved out of wood, by his ownhand as he told me, and with a delicate art. He looked at one tiny thingand laid it aside quickly. 

'Can't bear to look at it now, ' he said. 

'Gibbet?' I enquired. 

'Gibbet, ' he answered. 

It was a little figure bound hand and foot and hanging from the gallowstree. 

'Burn it!' he said, turning to the old servant and putting it in hishands. Luncheon had been set between us, the while, and as we wereeating it the butler opened a big couch and threw snowy sheets of linenover it and silken covers that rustled as they fell. 

'You will sleep there, ' said my host as his servant laid the pillows, 'and well I hope. 

I thought I had better go to my own lodgings. 

'Too late--too late, ' said he, and I, leg-weary and half-asleep, accepted his proffer of hospitality. Then, having eaten, he left me andI got into bed after turning the lights out Something woke me in thedark of the night. There was a rustling sound in the room. I raisedmy head a bit and listened. It was the black curtain that hung in thecorner. I imagined somebody striking it violently. I saw a white figurestanding near me in the darkness. It moved away as I looked at it. Acold wind was blowing upon my face. I lay a long time listening and byand by I could hear the deep voice of Trumbull as if he were groaningand muttering in his sleep. When it began to come light I saw the breezefrom an open window was stirring the curtain of silk in the corner. Igot out of bed and, peering behind the curtain, saw only a great whiteowl, caged and staring out of wide eyes that gleamed fiery in the dimlight. I went to bed again, sleeping until my host woke me in the latemorning. 

After breakfasting I went to the chalet. The postman had been there buthe had brought no letter from Hope. I waited about home, expectingto hear from her, all that day, only to see it end in bitterdisappointment. 

Chapter 33

That very night, I looked in at the little shop beneath us and metRiggs. It was no small blessing, just as I was entering upon darkand unknown ways of life, to meet this hoary headed man with all hislanterns. He would sell you anchors and fathoms of chain and rope enoughto hang you to the moon but his 'lights'were the great attraction ofRiggs s. He had every kind of lantern that had ever swung on land orsea. After dark, when light was streaming out of its open door and broadwindow Riggs's looked like the side of an old lantern itself. It wasa door, low and wide, for a time when men had big round bellies andnothing to do but fill them and heads not too far above their business. It was a window gone blind with dust and cobwebs so it resembled the dimeye of age. If the door were closed its big brass knocker and massiveiron latch invited the passer. An old ship's anchor and a coil ofchain lay beside it. Blocks and heavy bolts, steering wheels, old brasscompasses, coils of rope and rusty chain lay on the floor and benches, inside the shop. There were rows of lanterns, hanging on the bare beams. And there was Riggs. He sat by a dusty desk and gave orders in a sleepy, drawling tone to the lad who served him. An old Dutch lantern, its lightsoftened with green glass, sent a silver bean across the gloomy upperair of the shop that evening. Riggs held an old un lantern with littlestreams of light bursting through its perforated walls. He was blind, one would know it at a glance. Blindness is so easy to be seen. Riggswas showing it to a stranger. 

'Turn down the lights, ' he said and the boy got his step-ladder andobeyed him. 

Then he held it aloft in the dusk and the little lantern was like acastle tower with many windows lighted, and, when he set it down, therewas a golden sprinkle on the floor as if something had plashed into amagic pool of light there in the darkness. 

Riggs lifted the lantern, presently, and stood swinging it in his hand. Then its rays were sown upon the darkness falling silently into everynook and corner of the gloomy shop and breaking into flowing dapples onthe wall. 

'See how quick it is!' said he as the rays flashed with the speed oflightning. 'That is the only traveller from Heaven that travels fastenough to ever get to earth. 

Then came the words that had a mighty fitness for his tongue. 

'Hail, holy light! Offspring of Heaven first born. 

His voice rose and fell, riding the mighty rhythm of inspired song. Ashe stood swinging the lantern, then, he reminded me of a chanting priestbehind the censer. In a moment he sat down, and, holding the lanternbetween his knees, opened its door and felt the candle. Then as thelight streamed out upon his hands, he rubbed them a time, silently, asif washing them in the bright flood. 

'One dollar for this little box of daylight, ' he said. 

'Blind?' said the stranger as he paid him the money. 

'No, ' said Riggs, 'only dreaming as you are. 

I wondered what he meant by the words 'dreaming as you are. 

'Went to bed on my way home to marry, ' he continued, stroking his longwhite beard, 'and saw the lights go out an' went asleep and it hasn'tcome morning yet--that's what I believe. I went into a dream. Think I'mhere in a shop talking but I'm really in my bunk on the good ship Aridcoming home. Dreamed everything since then--everything a man could thinkof. Dreamed I came home and found Annie dead, dreamed of blindness, ofold age, of poverty, of eating and drinking and sleeping and of manypeople who pass like dim shadows and speak to me--you are one of them. And sometimes I forget I am dreaming and am miserable, and then Iremember and am happy. I know when the morning comes I shall wake andlaugh at all these phantoms. And I shall pack my things and go up ondeck, for we shall be in the harbour probably--ay! maybe Annie andmother will be waving their hands on the dock!

The old face had a merry smile as he spoke of the morning and all it hadfor him. 

'Seems as if it had lasted a thousand years, ' he continued, yawning andrubbing his eyes. 'But I've dreamed the like before, and, my God! howglad I felt when I woke in the morning. 

It gave me an odd feeling--this remarkable theory of the old man. Ithought then it would be better for most of us if we could think all ourmisery a dream and have his faith in the morning--that it would bringback the things we have lost. I had come to buy a lock for my door, butI forgot my errand and sat down by Riggs while the stranger went awaywith his lantern. 

'You see no reality in anything but happiness, ' I said. 

'It's all a means to that end, ' he answered. 'It is good for me, thisdream. I shall be all the happier when I do wake, and I shall love Annieall the better, I suppose. 

'I wish I could take my ifi luck as a dream and have faith only in goodthings, ' I said. 

'All that is good shall abide, ' said he, stroking his white beard, 'andall evil shall vanish as the substance of a dream. In the end the onlyrealities are God and love and Heaven. To die is just like waking up inthe morning. 

'But I know I'm awake, ' I said. 

'You think you are--that's a part of your dream. Sometimes I think I'mawake--it all seems so real to me. But I have thought it out, and I amthe only man I meet that knows he is dreaming. When you do wake, in themorning, you may remember how you thought you came to a certain shop andmade some words with a man as to whether you were both dreaming, and youwill laugh and tell your friends about it. Hold on! I can feel the shiplurching. I believe I am going to wake. 

He sat a moment leaning back in his chair with closed eyes, and asilence fell upon us in the which I could hear only the faint ticking ofa tall clock that lifted its face out of the gloom beyond me. 

'You there?' he whispered presently. 

'I am here, ' I said. 

'Odd!' he muttered. 'I know how it will be--I know how it has beenbefore. Generally come to some high place and a great fear seizes me. Islip, I fall--fall--fall, and then I wake. 

After a little silence I heard him snoring heavily. He was still leaningback in his chair. I walked on tiptoe to the door where the boy stoodlooking out. 

'Crazy?' I whispered. 

'Dunno, ' said he, smiling. 

I went to my room above and wrote my first tale, which was nothing moreor less than some brief account of what I had heard and seen down atthe little shop that evening. I mailed it next day to the Knickerbocker, with stamps for return if unavailable. 

Chapter 34

New York was a crowded city, even then, but I never felt so lonelyanywhere outside a camp in the big woods, The last day of the first weekcame, but no letter from Hope. To make an end of suspense I went thatSaturday morning to the home of the Fullers. The equation of my valuehad dwindled sadly that week. Now a small fraction would have stood forit--nay, even the square of it. 

Hope and Mrs Fuller had gone to Saratoga, the butler told me. I cameaway with some sense of injury. I must try to be done with Hope. Therewas no help for it. I must go to work at something and cease to worryand lie awake of nights. But I had nothing to do but read and walk andwait. No word had come to me from the 'Tribune'--evidently it was notlanguishing for my aid. That day my tale was returned to me with thankswith nothing but thanks printed in black type on a slip of paper--cold, formal, prompt, ready-made thanks. And I, myself, was in about the samefix--rejected with thanks--politely, firmly, thankfully rejected. Fora moment I felt like a man falling. I began to see there was no veryclamourous demand for me in 'the great emporium', as Mr Greeley calledit. I began to see, or thought I did, why Hope had shied at my offer andwas now shunning me. I went to the Tribune office. Mr Greeley had goneto Washington; Mr Ottarson was too busy to see me. I concluded that Iwould be willing to take a place on one of the lesser journals. I spentthe day going from one office to another, but was rejected everywherewith thanks. I came home and sat down to take account of stock. First, Icounted my money, of which there were about fifty dollars left. As to mytalents, there were none left. Like the pies at the Hillsboroughtavern, if a man came late to dinner--they were all out. I had some fineclothes, but no more use for them than a goose for a peacock's feathers. I decided to take anything honourable as an occupation, even thoughit were not in one of the learned professions. I began to answeradvertisements and apply at business offices for something to give me aliving, but with no success. I began to feel the selfishness of men. God pity the warm and tender heart of youth when it begins to harden andgrow chill, as mine did then; to put away its cheery confidence forever;to make a new estimate of itself and others. Look out for that time, Oye good people! that have sons and daughters. 

I must say for myself that I had a mighty courage and no smallcapital of cheerfulness. I went to try my luck with the newspapers ofPhiladelphia, and there one of them kept me in suspense a week to nopurpose. When I came back reduced in cash and courage Hope had sailed. 

There was a letter from Uncle Eb telling me when and by what steamerthey were to leave. 'She will reach there a Friday, ' he wrote, 'andwould like to see you that evening at Fuller's'. 

I had waited in Philadelphia, hoping I might have some word, to giveher a better thought of me, and, that night, after such a climax of illluck, well--I had need of prayer for a wayward tongue. I sent home agood account of my prospects. I could not bring myself to report failureor send for more money. I would sooner have gone to work in a scullery. 

Meanwhile my friends at the chalet were enough to keep me in good cheer. There were William McClingan, a Scotchman of a great gift of dignity anda nickname inseparably connected with his fame. He wrote leaders for abig weekly and was known as Waxy McClingan, to honour a pale ear of waxthat took the place of a member lost nobody could tell how. Hedrank deeply at times, but never to the loss of his dignity or selfpossession. In his cups the natural dignity of the man grew andexpanded. One could tell the extent of his indulgence by the degreeof his dignity. Then his mood became at once didactic and devotional. Indeed, I learned in good time of the rumour that he had lost his ear inan argument about the Scriptures over at Edinburgh. 

I remember he came an evening, soon after my arrival at the chalet, when dinner was late. His dignity was at the full. He sat awhile in grimsilence, while a sense of injury grew in his bosom. 

'Mrs Opper, ' said he, in a grandiose manner and voice that nicelytrilled the r's, 'in the fourth chapter and ninth verse of Lamentationsyou will find these words--here he raised his voice a bit and beganto tap the palm of his left hand with the index finger of his right, continuing: "They that be slain with the sword are better than they thatbe slain with hunger. For these pine away stricken through want of thefruits of the field. " Upon my honour as a gentleman, Mrs Opper, I wasnever so hungry in all my life. '

The other boarder was a rather frail man with an easy cough and aconfidential manner, lie wrote the 'Obituaries of Distinguished Persons'for one of the daily papers. Somebody had told him once, his headresembled that of Washington. He had never forgotten it, as I havereason to remember. His mind lived ever among the dead. His tongue waspickled in maxims; his heart sunk in the brine of recollection; hishumour not less unconscious and familiar than that of an epitaph; hisname was Lemuel Framdin Force. To the public of his native city he hadintroduced Webster one fourth of July--a perennial topic of his lightermoments. 

I fell an easy victim to the obituary editor that first evening in thechalet. We had risen from the table and he came and held me a momentby the coat lapel. He released my collar, when he felt sure of me, andbegan tapping my chest with his forefinger to drive home his point Istood for quite an hour out of sheer politeness. By that time he had meforced to the wall--a God's mercy, for there I got some sense of reliefin the legs. His gestures, in imitation of the great Webster, put myhead in some peril. Meanwhile he continued drumming upon my chest. I looked longingly at the empty chairs. I tried to cut him off withapplause that should be condusive and satisfying, but with no success. It had only a stimulating effect. I felt somehow like a cheap hired manbadly overworked. I had lost all connection. I looked, and smiled, andnodded, and exclaimed, and heard nothing. I began to plan a method ofescape. McClingan--the great and good Waxy McClingan--came out of hisroom presently and saw my plight. 

'What is this?' he asked, interrupting, 'a serial stawry?

Getting no answer he called my name, and when Force had paused he camenear. 

'In the sixth chapter and fifth verse of Proverbs, ' said he, 'it iswritten:

"Deliver thyself as a roe from the hand of the hunter and as a bird fromthe hand of the fowler. " Deliver thyself, Brower. 

I did so, ducking under Force's arm and hastening to my chamber. 

'Ye have a brawling, busy tongue, man, ' I heard McClingan saying. 'Bythe Lord! ye should know a dull tongue is sharper than a serpent'stooth. 

'You are a meddlesome fellow, ' said Force. 

'If I were you, ' said McClingan, 'I would go and get for myself the longear of an ass and empty my memory into it every day. Try it, man. Giveit your confidence exclusively. Believe me, my dear Force, you would wingolden opinions. 

'It would be better than addressing an ear of wax, ' said Force, hurriedly withdrawing to his own room. 

This answer made McClingan angry. 

'Better an ear of wax than a brain of putty, ' he called after him. 'Blessed is he that hath no ears when a fool's tongue is busy, ' and thenstrode up and down the floor, muttering ominously. 

I came out of my room shortly, and then he motioned me aside. 

'Pull your own trigger first, man, ' he said to me in a low tone. 'Whenye see he's going to shoot pull your own trigger first. Go right up ifhim and tap him on the chest quiddy and say, "My dear Force, I have aglawrious stawry to tell you, " and keep tapping him--his own trick, youknow, and he can't complain. Now he has a weak chest, and when he beginsto cough--man, you are saved. 

Our host, Opper, entered presently, and in removing the tableclothinadvertently came between us. McClingan resented it promptly. 

'Mr Opper, ' said he, leering at the poor German, 'as a matter ofpersonal obligement, will you cease to interrupt us?

'All right! all right! gentlemens, ' he replied, and then, fearing thathe had not quite squared himself, turned back, at the kitchen door, andadded, 'Oxcuse me. 

McClingan looked at him with that leering superior smile of his, andgave him just the slightest possible nod of his head. 

McClingan came into my room with me awhile then. He had been everywhere, it seemed to me, and knew everybody worth knowing. I was much interestedin his anecdotes of the great men of the time. Unlike the obituaryeditor his ear was quite as ready as his tongue, though I said littlesave now and then to answer a question that showed a kindly interest inme. 

I went with him to his room at last, where he besought me to join him indrinking 'confusion to the enemies of peace and order'. On my refusing, he drank the toast alone and shortly proposed 'death to slavery'. This was followed in quick succession by 'death to the arch traitor, Buchanan'; 'peace to the soul of John Brown'; 'success to Honest Abe'and then came a hearty 'here's to the protuberant abdomen of the Mayor'. 

I left him at midnight standing in the middle of his room and singing'The Land o' the Leal' in a low tone savoured with vast dignity. 

Chapter 35

I was soon near out of money and at my wit's end, but my will wasunconquered. In this plight I ran upon Fogarty, the policeman who hadbeen the good angel of my one hopeful day in journalism. His mannerinvited my confidence. 

'What luck?' said he. 

'Bad luck' I answered. 'Only ten dollars in my pocket and nothing todo. '

He swung his stick thoughtfully. 

'If I was you, ' said he, 'I'd take anything honest. Upon me wurred, I'druther pound rocks than lay idle. '

'So would I. '

'Wud ye?' said he with animation, as he took my measure from head tofoot. 

'I'll do anything that's honest. '

'Ah ha!' said he, rubbing his sandy chin whiskers. 'Don't seem like ye'dbeen used if hard wurruk. '

'But I can do it, ' I said. 

He looked at me sternly and beckoned with his head. 

'Come along, ' said he. 

He took me to a gang of Irishmen working in the street near by. 

'Boss McCormick!' he shouted. 

A hearty voice answered, 'Aye, aye, Counsellor, ' and McCormick came outof the crowd, using his shovel for a staff. 

'A happy day if ye!' said Fogarty. 

'Same if youse an' manny o' thim, ' said McCormick. 

'Ye'll gi'me one if ye do me a favour, ' said Fogarty. 

'An' what?' said the other. 

'A job for this lad. Wull ye do it?'

'I wall, ' said McCormick, and he did. 

I went to work early the next morning, with nothing on but myunderclothing and trousers, save a pair of gloves, that excited theridicule of my fellows. With this livery and the righteous determinationof earning two dollars a day, I began the inelegant task of 'poundingrocks no merry occupation, I assure you, for a hot summer's day onManhattan Island. 

We were paving Park Place and we had to break stone and lay them andshovel dirt and dig with a pick and crowbar. 

My face and neck were burned crimson when we quit work at five, and Iwent home with a feeling of having been run over by the cars. I hada strong sense of soul and body, the latter dominated by a mightyappetite. McClingan viewed me at first with suspicion in which therewas a faint flavour of envy. He invited me at once to his room, and wasamazed at seeing it was no lark. I told him frankly what I was doing andwhy and where. 

'I would not mind the loaning of a few dollars, ' he said, 'as a mattero' personal obligement I would be most happy to do it--most happy, Brower, indeed I would. '

I thanked him cordially, but declined the favour, for at home they hadalways taught me the danger of borrowing, and I was bound to have it outwith ill luck on my own resources. 

'Greeley is back, ' said he, 'and I shall see him tomorrow. I will puthim in mind o'you. '

I went away sore in the morning, but with no drooping spirit. In themiddle of the afternoon I straightened up a moment to ease my back andlook about me. 

There at the edge of the gang stood the great Horace Greeley and WaxyMcClingan. The latter beckoned me as he caught my eye. I went aside togreet them. Mr Greeley gave me his hand. 

'Do you mean to tell me that you'd rather work than beg or borrow?' saidhe. 

'That's about it, ' I answered. 

'And ain't ashamed of it?

'Ashamed! Why?' said I, not quite sure of his meaning. It had neveroccurred to me that one had any cause to be ashamed of working. 

He turned to McClingan and laughed. 

'I guess you'll do for the Tribune, ' he said. 'Come and see me at twelvetomorrow. 

And then they went away. 

If I had been a knight of the garter I could not have been treated withmore distinguished courtesy by those hard-handed men the rest of theday. I bade them goodbye at night and got my order for four dollars. OnePat Devlin, a great-hearted Irishman, who had shared my confidence andsome of my doughnuts on the curb at luncheon time, I remember best ofall. 

'Ye'll niver fergit the toime we wurruked together under BossMcCormick, ' said he. 

And to this day, whenever I meet the good man, now bent and grey, hesays always, 'Good-day if ye, Mr Brower. D'ye mind the toime we poundedthe rock under Boss McCormick?

Mr Greeley gave me a place at once on the local staff and invited meto dine with him at his home that evening. Meanwhile he sent me to theheadquarters of the Republican Central Campaign Committee, on Broadway, opposite the New York Hotel. Lincoln had been nominated in May, and thegreat political fight of 1860 was shaking the city with its thunders. 

I turned in my copy at the city desk in good season, and, although thegreat editor had not yet left his room, I took a car at once to keep myappointment. A servant showed me to a seat in the big back parlour ofMr Greeley's home, where I spent a lonely hour before I heard his heavyfootsteps in the hail. He immediately rushed upstairs, two steps at atime, and, in a moment, I heard his high voice greeting the babies. Hecame down shortly with one of them clinging to his hand. 

'Thunder!' said he, 'I had forgotten all about you. Let's go right in todinner. 

He sat at the head of the table and I next to him. I remember how, wearied by the day's burden, he sat, lounging heavily, in carelessattitudes. He stirred his dinner into a hash of eggs, potatoes, squashand parsnips, and ate it leisurely with a spoon, his head braced oftenwith his left forearm, its elbow resting on the table. It was a sort ofletting go, after the immense activity of the day, and a casual observerwould have thought he affected the uncouth, which was not true of him. 

He asked me to tell him all about my father and his farm. At length Isaw an absent look in his eye, and stopped talking, because I thought hehad ceased to listen. 

'Very well! very well!' said he. 

I looked up at him, not knowing what he meant. 

'Go on! Tell me all about it, ' he added. 

'I like the country best, ' said he, when I had finished, 'because thereI see more truth in things. Here the lie has many forms--unique, varied, ingenious. The rouge and powder on the lady's cheek--they are lies, bothof them; the baronial and ducal crests are lies and the fools who usethem are liars; the people who soak themselves in rum have nothing butlies in their heads; the multitude who live by their wits and the lackof them in others--they are all liars; the many who imagine a vain thingand pretend to be what they are not liars everyone of them. It is boundto be so in the great cities, and it is a mark of decay. The skirts ofElegabalus, the wigs and rouge pots of Madame Pompadour, the crucifix ofMachiavelli and the innocent smile of Fernando Wood stand for somethinghorribly and vastly false in the people about them. For truth you ve gotto get back into the woods. You can find men there a good deal as Godmade them' genuine, strong and simple. When those men cease to come hereyou'll see grass growing in Broadway. 

I made no answer and the great commoner stirred his coffee a moment insilence. 

'Vanity is the curse of cities, ' he continued, 'and Flattery is itshandmaiden. Vanity, flattery and Deceit are the three disgraces. I likea man to be what he is--out and out. If he's ashamed of himself it won'tbe long before his friends'll be ashamed of him. There's the troublewith this town. Many a fellow is pretending to be what he isn't. A mancannot be strong unless he is genuine. 

One of his children--a little girl--came and stood close to him as hespoke. He put his big arm around her and that gentle, permanent smile ofhis broadened as he kissed her and patted her red cheek. 

'Anything new in the South?' Mrs Greeley enquired. 

'Worse and worse every day, ' he said. 'Serious trouble coming! TheCharleston dinner yesterday was a feast of treason and a flow ofcriminal rhetoric. The Union was the chief dish. Everybody slashed itwith his knife and jabbed it with his fork. It was slaughtered, roasted, made into mincemeat and devoured. One orator spoke of "rolling back thetide of fanaticism that finds its root in the conscience of the people. "Their metaphors are as bad as their morals. 

He laughed heartily at this example of fervid eloquence, and then werose from the table. He had to go to the office that evening, and I cameaway soon after dinner. I had nothing to do and went home reflectingupon all the great man had said. 

I began shortly to see the truth of what he had told me--men licking thehand of riches with the tongue of flattery men so stricken with theitch of vanity that they grovelled for the touch of praise; men even whowould do perjury for applause. I do not say that most of the men I sawwere of that ilk, but enough to show the tendency of life in a greattown. 

I was filled with wonder at first by meeting so many who had beeneverywhere and seen everything, who had mastered all sciences and allphilosophies and endured many perils on land and sea. I had met liarsbefore--it was no Eden there in the north country--and some of them hadattained a good degree of efficiency, but they lacked the candour andfinish of the metropolitan school. I confess they were all too muchfor me at first. They borrowed my cash, they shared my confidence, theytaxed my credulity, and I saw the truth at last. 

'Tom's breaking down, ' said a co-labourer on the staff one day. 'How isthat?' I enquired. 

'Served me a mean trick. '

'Indeed!'

'Deceived me, ' said he sorrowfully. 

'Lied, I suppose?'

'No. He told the truth, as God's my witness. '

Tom had been absolutely reliable up to that time. 

Chapter 36

Those were great days in mid autumn. The Republic was in grave peril ofdissolution. Liberty that had hymned her birth in the last centurynow hymned her destiny in the voices of bard and orator. Crowds ofmen gathered in public squares, at bulletin boards, on street cornersarguing, gesticulating, exclaiming and cursing. Cheering multitudes wentup and down the city by night, with bands and torches, and there wassuch a howl of oratory and applause on the lower half of ManhattanIsland that it gave the reporter no rest. William H. Seward, CharlesSumner, John A. Dix, Henry Ward Beecher and Charles O'Connor were thegiants of the stump. There was more violence and religious fervour inthe political feeling of that time than had been mingled since '76. Asense of outrage was in the hearts of men. 'Honest Abe' Lincoln stood, as they took it, for their homes and their country, for human libertyand even for their God. 

I remember coming into the counting-room late one evening. Loud voiceshad halted me as I passed the door. Mr Greeley stood back of thecounter; a rather tall, wiry grey-headed man before it. Each was shakinga right fist under the other's nose. They were shouting loudly as theyargued. The stranger was for war; Mr Greeley for waiting. The publisherof the Tribune stood beside the latter, smoking a pipe; a small manleaned over the counter at the stranger's elbow, putting in a word hereand there; half a dozen people stood by, listening. Mr Greeley turned tohis publisher in a moment. 

'Rhoades, ' said he, 'I wish ye'd put these men out. They holler 'n yell, so I can't hear myself think. 

Then there was a general laugh. 

I learned to my surprise, when they had gone, that the tall man wasWilliam H. Seward, the other John A. Dix. 

Then one of those fevered days came the Prince of Wales--a Godsend, toallay passion with curiosity. 

It was my duty to handle some of 'the latest news by magnetictelegraph', and help to get the plans and progress of the campaign atheadquarters. The Printer, as they called Mr Greeley, was at his deskwhen I came in at noon, never leaving the office but for dinner, untilpast midnight, those days. And he made the Tribune a mighty power in thestate. His faith in its efficacy was sublime, and every line went underhis eye before it went to his readers. I remember a night when he calledme to his office about twelve o clock. He was up to his knees in therubbish of the day-newspapers that he had read and thrown upon thefloor; his desk was littered with proofs. 

'Go an' see the Prince o' Wales, ' he said. (That interesting young manhad arrived on the Harriet Lane that morning and ridden up Broadwaybetween cheering hosts. ) 'I've got a sketch of him here an' it's alltwaddle. Tell us something new about him. If he's got a hole in his sockwe ought to know it. '

Mr Dana came in to see him while I was there. 

'Look here, Dana, ' said the Printer, in a rasping humour. 'By the godsof war! here's two columns about that performance at the Academy andonly two sticks of the speech of Seward at St Paul. I'll have to getsomeone if go an' burn that theatre an' send the bill to me. 

In the morning Mayor Wood introduced me to the Duke of Newcastle, whoin turn presented me to the Prince of Wales--then a slim, blue-eyedyoungster of nineteen, as gentle mannered as any I have ever met. It wasmy unpleasant duty to keep as near as possible to the royal party in allthe festivities of that week. 

The ball, in the Prince's honour, at the Academy of Music, was one ofthe great social events of the century. No fair of vanity in the westernhemisphere ever quite equalled it. The fashions of the French Court hadtaken the city, as had the Prince, by unconditional surrender. Not inthe palace of Versailles could one have seen a more generous exposure ofthe charms of fair women. None were admitted without a low-cut bodice, and many came that had not the proper accessories. But it was the mostbrilliant company New York had ever seen. 

Too many tickets had been distributed and soon 'there was an elbow onevery rib and a heel on every toe', as Mr Greeley put it. Every miss andher mamma tiptoed for a view of the Prince and his party, who came in atten, taking their seats on a dais at one side of the crowded floor. The Prince sat with his hands folded before him, like one in a reverie. Beside him were the Duke of Newcastle, a big, stern man, with anaggressive red beard; the blithe and sparkling Earl of St Germans, thenSteward of the Royal Household; the curly Major Teasdale; the gay Bruce, a major-general, who behaved himself always like a lady. Suddenly thefloor sank beneath the crowd of people, who retired in some disorder. Such a compression of crinoline was never seen as at that moment, whenperiphery pressed upon periphery, and held many a man captive in thecold embrace of steel and whalebone. The royal party retired to itsrooms again and carpenters came in with saws and hammers. The floorrepaired, an area was roped off for dancing--as much as could be spared. The Prince opened the dance with Mrs Governor Morgan, after which otherladies were honoured with his gallantry. 

I saw Mrs Fuller in one of the boxes and made haste to speak withher. She had just landed, having left Hope to study a time in theConservatory of Leipzig. 

'Mrs Livingstone is with her, ' said she, 'and they will return togetherin April. 

'Mrs Fuller, did she send any word to me?' I enquired anxiously. 'Didshe give you no message?

'None, ' she said coldly, 'except one to her mother and father, which Ihave sent in a letter to them. 

I left her heavy hearted, went to the reporter's table and wrote mystory, very badly I must admit, for I was cut deep with sadness. Then Icame away and walked for hours, not caring whither. A great homesicknesshad come over me. I felt as if a talk with Uncle Eb or Elizabeth Browerwould have given me the comfort I needed. I walked rapidly through dark, deserted streets. A steeple clock was striking two, when I heard someonecoming hurriedly on the walk behind me. I looked over my shoulder, butcould not make him out in the darkness, and yet there was somethingfamiliar in the step. As he came near I felt his hand upon my shoulder. 

'Better go home, Brower, ' he said, as I recognised the voice ofTrumbull. 'You've been out a long time. Passed you before tonight. '

'Why didn't you speak?'

'You were preoccupied. '

'Not keeping good hours yourself, ' I said. 

'Rather late, ' he answered, 'but I am a walker, and I love the night. Itis so still in this part of the town. '

We were passing the Five Points. 

'When do you sleep, ' I enquired. 

'Never sleep at night, ' he said, 'unless uncommonly tired. Out everynight more or less. Sleep two hours in the morning and two in theafternoon--that's all I require. Seen the hands o' that clock yonder onevery hour of the night. '

He pointed to a lighted dial in a near tower. 

Stopping presently he looked down at a little waif asleep in a doorway, a bundle of evening papers under his arm. He lifted him tenderly. 

'Here, boy, ' he said, dropping corns in the pocket of the ragged littlecoat, 'I'll take those papers--you go home now. 

We walked to the river, passing few save members of 'the force, whoalways gave Trumbull a cheery 'hello, Cap!' We passed wharves where thegreat sea horses lay stalled, with harnesses hung high above them, theirnoses nodding over our heads; we stood awhile looking up at the loomingmasts, the lights of the river craft. 

'Guess I've done some good, ' said he turning into Peck Slip. 'Savedtwo young women. Took 'em off the streets. Fine women now both ofthem--respectable, prosperous, and one is beautiful. Man who s got amother, or a sister, can't help feeling sorry for such people. 

We came up Frankfort to William Street where we shook hands and partedand I turned up Monkey Hill. I had made unexpected progress withTrumbull that night. He had never talked to me so freely before andsomehow he had let me come nearer to hun than I had ever hoped to be. His company had lifted me out of the slough a little and my mind was ona better footing as I neared the chalet. 

Riggs's shop was lighted--an unusual thing at so late an hour. Peeringthrough the window I saw Riggs sleeping at his desk An old tin lanternsat near, its candle burning low, with a flaring flame, that threwa spray of light upon him as it rose and fell. Far back in the shopanother light was burning dimly. I lifted the big iron latch and pushedthe door open. Riggs did not move. I closed the door softly and wentback into the gloom. The boy was also sound asleep in his chair. The lantern light flared and fell again as water leaps in a stoppingfountain. As it dashed upon the face of Riggs I saw his eyes half-open. I went close to his chair. As I did so the light went out and smoke roseabove the lantern with a rank odour. 

'Riggs!' I called but he sat motionless and made no answer. 

The moonlight came through the dusty window lighting his face andbeard. I put my hand upon his brow and withdrew it quicidy. I was inthe presence of death. I opened the door and called the sleeping boy. Herose out of his chair and came toward me rubbing his eyes. 

'Your master is dead, ' I whispered, 'go and call an officer. 

Riggs's dream was over--he had waked at last. He was in port and I doubtnot Annie and his mother were hailing him on the shore, for I knew nowthey had both died far back in that long dream of the old sailor. 

My story of Riggs was now complete. It soon found a publisher because itwas true. 

'All good things are true in literature, ' said the editor after he hadread it. 'Be a servant of Truth always and you will be successful. '

Chapter 37

As soon as Lincoln was elected the attitude of the South showed clearlythat 'the irrepressible conflict', of Mr Seward's naming, had only justbegun. The Herald gave columns every day to the news of 'the comingRevolution', as it was pleased to call it. There was loud talk of war atand after the great Pine Street meeting of December 15. South Carolinaseceded, five days later, and then we knew what was coming, albeit, wesaw only the dim shadow of that mighty struggle that was to shake theearth for nearly five years. The Printer grew highly irritable thosedays and spoke of Buchanan and Davis and Toombs in language so violentit could never have been confined in type. But while a bitter foe nonewas more generous than he and, when the war was over, his money went tobail the very man he had most roundly damned. 

I remember that one day, when he was sunk deep in composition, a negrocame and began with grand airs to make a request as delegate from hiscampaign club. The Printer sat still, his eyes close to the paper, hispen flying at high speed. The coloured orator went on lifting hisvoice in a set petition. Mr Greeley bent to his work as the man waxedeloquent. A nervous movement now and then betrayed the Printer'sirritation. He looked up, shortly, his face kindling with anger. 

'Help! For God's sake!' he shrilled impatiently, his hands flying in theair. The Printer seemed to be gasping for breath. 

'Go and stick your head out of the window and get through, ' he shoutedhotly to the man. 

He turned to his writing--a thing dearer to him than a new bone to ahungry dog. 

'Then you may come and tell me what you want, ' he added in a mildertone. 

Those were days when men said what they meant and their meaning had morefight in it than was really polite or necessary. Fight was in the airand before I knew it there was a wild, devastating spirit in my ownbosom, insomuch that I made haste to join a local regiment. It grewapace but not until I saw the first troops on their way to the war was Ifully determined to go and give battle with my regiment. 

The town was afire with patriotism. Sumter had fallen; Lincoln hadissued his first call. The sound of the fife and drum rang in thestreets. Men gave up work to talk and listen or go into the sternerbusiness of war. Then one night in April, a regiment came out of NewEngland, on its way to the front. It lodged at the Astor House to leaveat nine in the morning. Long before that hour the building was flankedand fronted with tens of thousands, crowding Broadway for three blocks, stuffing the wide mouth of Park Row and braced into Vesey and BardayStreets. My editor assigned me to this interesting event. I stood in thecrowd, that morning, and saw what was really the beginning of the war inNew York. There was no babble of voices, no impatient call, no soundof idle jeering such as one is apt to hear in a waiting crowd. It stoodsilent, each man busy with the rising current of his own emotions, solemnified by the faces all around him. The soldiers filed out upon thepavement, the police having kept a way clear for them, Still there wassilence in the crowd save that near me I could hear a man sobbing. Atrumpeter lifted his bugle and sounded a bar of the reveille. The clearnotes clove the silent air, flooding every street about us with theirsilver sound. Suddenly the band began playing. The tune was YankeeDoodle. A wild, dismal, tremulous cry came out of a throat near me. It grew and spread to a mighty roar and then such a shout went up toHeaven, as I had never heard, and as I know full well I shall neverhear again. It was like the riving of thunderbolts above the roar offloods--elemental, prophetic, threatening, ungovernable. It did seem tome that the holy wrath of God Almighty was in that cry of the people. It was a signal. It declared that they were ready to give all that a manmay give for that he loves--his life and things far dearer to him thanhis life. After that, they and their sons begged for a chance to throwthemselves into the hideous ruin of war. 

I walked slowly back to the office and wrote my article. When thePrinter came in at twelve I went to his room before he had had time tobegin work. 

'Mr Greeley, ' I said, 'here is my resignation. I am going to the war. '

His habitual smile gave way to a sober look as he turned to me, his bigwhite coat on his arm. He pursed his lips and blew thoughtfully. Then hethrew his coat in a chair and wiped his eyes with his handkerchief. 

'Well! God bless you, my boy, ' he said. 'I wish I could go, too. '

Chapter 38

I worked some weeks before my regiment was sent forward. I planned tobe at home for a day, but they needed me on the staff, and I dreaded thepain of a parting, the gravity of which my return would serve only toaccentuate. So I wrote them a cheerful letter, and kept at work. It wasmy duty to interview some of the great men of that day as to the courseof the government. I remember Commodore Vanderbilt came down to see mein shirt-sleeves and slippers that afternoon, with a handkerchief tiedabout his neck in place of a collar--a blunt man, of simple manners anda big heart, one who spoke his mind in good, plain talk, and, I suppose, he got along with as little profanity as possible, considering his manycares. He called me 'boy' and spoke of a certain public man as a 'bigsucker'. I soon learned that to him a 'sucker' was the lowest andmeanest thing in the world. He sent me away with nothing but a greatadmiration of him. As a rule, the giants of that day were plain men ofthe people, with no frills upon them, and with a way of hitting fromthe shoulder. They said what they meant and meant it hard. I have heardLincoln talk when his words had the whiz of a bullet and his arm thejerk of a piston. 

John Trumbull invited McClingan, of whom I had told him much, and myselfto dine with him an evening that week. I went in my new dress suit--thatmark of sinful extravagance for which Fate had brought me down to thepounding of rocks under Boss McCormick. Trumbull's rooms were a feastfor the eye--aglow with red roses. He introduced me to Margaret Hull andher mother, who were there to dine with us. She was a slight womanof thirty then, with a face of no striking beauty, but of singularsweetness. Her dark eyes had a mild and tender light in them; her voicea plaintive, gentle tone, the like of which one may hear rarely if ever. For years she had been a night worker in the missions of the lower city, and many an unfortunate had been turned from the way of evil by her goodoffices. I sat beside her at the table, and she told me of her work andhow often she had met Trumbull in his night walks. 

'Found me a hopeless heathen, ' he remarked. 

'To save him I had to consent to marry him, ' she said, laughing. 

'"Who hath found love is already in Heaven, "'said McClingan. 'I have notfound it and I am in'' he hesitated, as if searching for a synonym. 

'A boarding house on William Street, ' he added. 

The remarkable thing about Margaret Hull was her simple faith. It lookedto no glittering generality for its reward, such as the soul s 'highestgood much talked of in the philosophy of that time. She believed that, for every soul she saved, one jewel would be added to her crown inHeaven. And yet she wore no jewel upon her person. Her black costume wasbeautifully fitted to her fine form, but was almost severely plain. Itoccurred to me that she did not quite understand her own heart, and, forthat matter, who does? But she had somewhat in her soul that passeth allunderstanding--I shall not try to say what, with so little knowledge ofthose high things, save that I know it was of God. To what patience andunwearying effort she had schooled herself I was soon to know. 

'Can you not find anyone to love you?' she said, turning to McClingan. 'You know the Bible says it is not good for man to live alone. 

'It does, Madame, ' said he, 'but I have a mighty fear in me, rememberingthe twenty-fourth verse of the twenty-fifth chapter of Proverbs: "Itis better to dwell in the corner of the housetops than with a brawlingwoman in a wide house. " We cannot all be so fortunate as our friendTrumbull. But I have felt the great passion. 

He smiled at her faintly as he spoke in a quiet manner, his r s comingoff his tongue with a stately roll. His environment and the company hadgiven him a fair degree of stimulation. There was a fine dignity inhis deep voice, and his body bristled with it, from his stiff andheavy shock of blonde hair parted carefully on the left side, to hishigh-heeled boots. The few light hairs that stood in lonely abandonmenton his upper lip, the rest of his lean visage always well shorn, had nosmall part in the grand effect of McClingan. 

'A love story!' said Miss Hull. 'I do wish I had your confidence. I likea real, true love story. 

'A simple stawry it is, ' said McClingan, 'and Jam proud of my part init. I shall be glad to tell the stawry if you are to hear it. '

We assured him of our interest. 

'Well, ' said he, 'there was one Tom Douglass at Edinburgh who was myfriend and classmate. We were together a good bit of the time, andwhen we had come to the end of our course we both went to engage injournalism at Glasgow. We had a mighty conceit of ourselves--you knowhow it is, Brower, with a green lad--but we were a mind to be modest, with all our learning, so we made an agreement: I would blaw his hornand he would blaw mine. We were not to lack appreciation. He was on onepaper and I on another, and every time he wrote an article I went up anddown the office praising him for a man o' mighty skill, and he did thesame for me. If anyone spoke of him in my hearing I said every word offlattery at my command. "What Tom Douglass?" I would say, "the man o'the Herald that's written those wonderful articles from the law court?A genius, sir! an absolute genius!" Well, we were rapidly gainingreputation. One of those days I found myself in love with as comely alass as ever a man courted. Her mother had a proper curiosity as to mycharacter. I referred them to Tom Douglass of the Herald--he was theonly man there who had known me well. The girl and her mother both wentto him. 

"Your friend was just here, " said the young lady, when I called again. "He is a very handsome man. "

'"And a noble man!" I said. 

'"And didn't I hear you say that he was a very skilful man, too?"

'"A genius!" I answered, "an absolute genius!"

McClingan stopped and laughed heartily as he took a sip of water. 

'What happened then?' said Miss I-lull. 

'She took him on my recommendation, ' he answered. 'She said that, whilehe had the handsomer face, I had the more eloquent tongue. And they bothwon for him. And, upon me honour as a gentleman, it was the luckiestthing that ever happened to me, for she became a brawler and a scold. Mymother says there is "no the like o' her in Scotland". 

I shall never forget how fondly Margaret Hull patted the brown cheek ofTrumbull with her delicate white band, as we rose. 

'We all have our love stawries, ' said McClingan. 

'Mine is better than yours, ' she answered, 'but it shall never be told. '

'Except one little part if it, ' said Trumbull, as he put his hands uponher shoulders, and looked down into her face. 'It is the only thing thathas made my life worth living. '

Then she made us to know many odd things about her work for the childrenof misfortune--inviting us to come and see it for ourselves. We were togo the next evening. 

I finished my work at nine that night and then we walked through noisomestreets and alleys--New York was then far from being so clean a city asnow--to the big mission house. As we came in at the door we saw a groupof women kneeling before the altar at the far end of the room, and heardthe voice of Margaret Hull praying' a voice so sweet and tender that webowed our heads at once, and listened while it quickened the life in us. She plead for the poor creatures about her, to whom Christ gave alwaysthe most abundant pity, seeing they were more sinned against thansinning. There was not a word of cant in her petition. It was full ofa simple, unconscious eloquence, a higher feeling than I dare try todefine. And when it was over she had won their love and confidence sothat they clung to her hands and kissed them and wet them with theirtears. She came and spoke to us presently, in the same sweet manner thathad charmed us the night before' there was no change in it We offered towalk home with her, but she said Trumbull was coming at twelve. 

'So that is "The Little Mother" of whom I have heard so often, ' saidMcClingan, as we came away. 

'What do you think of her?' I enquired. 

'Wonderful woman!' he said. 'I never heard such a voice. It gives mevisions. Every other is as the crackling of thorns under a pot. '

I came back to the office and went into Mr Greeley's room to bid himgoodbye. He stood by the gas jet, in a fine new suit of clothes, readinga paper, while a boy was blacking one of his boots. I sat down, awaitinga more favourable moment. A very young man had come into the room andstood timidly holding his hat. 

'I wish to see Mr Greeley, ' he said. 

'There he is, ' I answered, 'go and speak to him. '

'Mr Greeley, ' said he, 'I have called to see if you can take me on theTribune. '

The Printer continued reading as if he were the only man in the room. 

The young man looked at him and then at me--with an expression thatmoved me to a fellow feeling. He was a country boy, more green and timideven than I had been. 

'He did not hear you--try again, ' I said. 

'Mr Greeley, ' said he, louder than before, 'I have called to see if youcan take me on the Tribune. '

The editor's eyes glanced off at the boy and returned to their reading. 

'No, boy, I can't, ' he drawled, shifting his eyes to another article. And the boy, who was called to the service of the paper in time, but notuntil after his pen had made him famous, went away with a look of bitterdisappointment. 

In his attire Mr Greeley wore always the best material, that soon tookon a friendless and dejected look. The famous white overcoat had beenbought for five dollars of a man who had come by chance to the officeof the New Yorker, years before, and who considered its purchase agreat favour. That was a time when the price of a coat was a thing ofno little importance to the Printer. Tonight there was about him a greatglow, such as comes of fine tailoring and new linen. 

He was so preoccupied with his paper that I went out into the big roomand sat down, awaiting a better time. 

'The Printer's going to Washington to talk with the president, ' said aneditor. 

Just then Mr Greeley went running hurriedly up the spiral stair on hisway to the typeroom. Three or four compositors had gone up ahead ofhim. He had risen out of sight when we heard a tremendous uproar abovestairs. I ran up, two steps at a time, while the high voice of MrGreeley came pouring down upon me like a flood. It had a wild, fleeringtone. He stood near the landing, swinging his arms and swearing like aboy just learning how. In the middle of the once immaculate shirt bosomwas a big, yellow splash. Something had fallen on him and spatteredas it struck We stood well out of range, looking at it, undeniably thestain of nicotine. In a voice that was no encouragement to confession hedared 'the drooling idiot' to declare himself. In a moment he opened hiswaistcoat and surveyed the damage. 

'Look at that!' he went on, complainingly. 'Ugh! The reeking, filthy, slobbering idiot! I'd rather be slain with the jaw bone of an ass. '

'You'll have to get another shirt, ' said the pressman, who stood near. 'You can't go to Washington with such a breast pin. '

'I'd breast pin him if I knew who he was, ' said the editor. 

A number of us followed him downstairs and a young man went up theBowery for a new shirt. When it came the Printer took off the soiledgarment, flinging it into a corner, and I helped him to put himself inproper fettle again. This finished, he ran away, hurriedly, with hiscarpet-bag, and I missed the opportunity I wanted for a brief talk withhim. 

Chapter 39

My regiment left New York by night in a flare of torch and rocket. Thestreets were lined with crowds now hardened to the sound of fife anddrum and the pomp of military preparation. I had a very high and mightyfeeling in me that wore away in the discomfort of travel. For hoursafter the train started we sang and told stories, and ate peanuts andpulled and hauled at each other in a cloud of tobacco smoke. The trainwas sidetracked here and there, and dragged along at a slow pace. 

Young men with no appreciation, as it seemed to me, of the sad businesswe were off upon, went roistering up and down the aisles, drinking outof bottles and chasing around the train as it halted. These revellersgrew quiet as the night wore on. The boys began to close their eyesand lie back for rest. Some lay in the aisle, their heads upon theirknapsacks. The air grew chilly and soon I could hear them snoring allabout me and the chatter of frogs in the near marshes. I closed my eyesand vainly courted sleep. A great sadness had lain hold of me. I hadalready given up my life for my country--I was only going away now toget as dear a price for it as possible in the hood of its enemies. Whenand where would it be taken? I wondered. The fear had mostly gone outof me in days and nights of solemn thinking. The feeling I had, with itsflavour of religion, is what has made the volunteer the mighty soldierhe has ever been, I take it, since Naseby and Marston Moor. The soul isthe great Captain, and with a just quarrel it will warm its sword in theenemy, however he may be trained to thrust and parry. In my sacrificethere was but one reservation--I hoped I should not be horribly cut witha sword or a bayonet. I had written a long letter to Hope, who was yetat Leipzig. I wondered if she would care what became of me. I got asense of comfort thinking I would show her that I was no coward, withall my littleness. I had not been able to write to Uncle Eb or to myfather or mother in any serious tone of my feeling in this enterprise. I had treated it as a kind of holiday from which I should return shortlyto visit them. 

All about me seemed to be sleeping--some of them were talking in theirdreams. As it grew light, one after another rose and stretched himself, rousing his seat companion. The train halted, a man shot a musket voicein at the car door. It was loaded with the many syllables of 'AnnapolisJunction'. We were pouring out of the train shortly, to bivouac forbreakfast in the depot yard. So I began the life of a soldier, and howit ended with me many have read in better books than this, but my storyof it is here and only here. 

We went into camp there on the lonely flats of east Maryland for a dayor two, as we supposed, but really for quite two weeks. In the longdelay that followed, my way traversed the dead levels of routine. WhenSouthern sympathy had ceased to wreak its wrath upon the railroads aboutBaltimore we pushed on to Washington. There I got letters from Uncle Eband Elizabeth Brower. The former I have now in my box of treasures--atorn and faded remnant of that dark period. 

DEAR SIR 'pen in hand to hat you know that we are all wel. Also that wewas sorry you could not come horn. They took on terribul. Hope she wrotea letter. Said she had not herd from you. Also that somebody wrote toher you was goin to be married. You had oughter write her a letter, Bill. Looks to me so you hain't used her right. Shes a comm horn inJuly. Sowed corn to day in the gardin. David is off byin catul. I hopeGod will take care uv you, boy, so goodbye from yours truly

EBEN HOLDEN

I wrote immediately to Uncle Eb and told him of the letters I had sentto Hope, and of my effort to see her. 

Late in May, after Virginia had seceded, some thirty thousand of us weresent over to the south side of the Potomac, where for weeks we tore theflowery fields, lining the shore with long entrenchments. 

Meantime I wrote three letters to Mr Greeley, and had the satisfactionof seeing them in the Tribune. I took much interest in the camp drill, and before we crossed the river I had been raised to the rank of firstlieutenant. Every day we were looking for the big army of Beauregard, camping below Centreville, some thirty miles south. 

Almost every night a nervous picket set the camp in uproar bychallenging a phantom of his imagination. We were all impatient ashounds in leash. Since they would not come up and give us battle wewanted to be off and have it out with them. And the people were tired ofdelay. The cry of 'ste'boy!' was ringing all over the north. They wantedto cut us loose and be through with dallying. 

Well, one night the order came; we were to go south in themorning--thirty thousand of us, and put an end to the war. We did notget away until afternoon--it was the 6th of July. When we were off, horse and foot, so that I could see miles of the blue column before andbehind me, I felt sorry for the mistaken South. On the evening of the18th our camp-fires on either side of the pike at Centreville glowedlike the lights of a city. We knew the enemy was near, and began to feela tightening of the nerves. I wrote a letter to the folks at home forpost mortem delivery, and put it into my trousers pocket. A friend in mycompany called me aside after mess. 

'Feel of that, ' he said, laying his hand on a full breast. 

'Feathers!' he whispered significantly. 'Balls can't go through 'em, yeknow. Better n a steel breastplate! Want some?

'Don't know but I do, ' said I. 

We went into his tent, where he had a little sack full, and put a goodwad of them between my two shirts. 

'I hate the idee o'bein'hit 'n the heart, ' he said. 'That's too awful. 

I nodded my assent. 

'Shouldn't like t'have a ball in my lungs, either, ' he added. ''Tain'tnecessary fer a man t'die if he can only breathe. If a man gits hisleg shot off an' don't lose his head an' keeps drawin' his breath rightalong smooth an even, I don't see why he can't live. 

Taps sounded. We went asleep with our boots on, but nothing happened. 

Three days and nights we waited. Some called it a farce, some swore, some talked of going home. I went about quietly, my bosom under its padof feathers. The third day an order came from headquarters. We wereto break camp at one-thirty in the morning and go down the pikeafter Beauregard. In the dead of the night the drums sounded. I rose, half-asleep, and heard the long roll far and near. I shivered in thecold night air as I made ready, the boys about me buckled on knapsacks, shouldered their rifles, and fell into line. Muffled in darkness therewas an odd silence in the great caravan forming rapidly and waiting forthe word to move. At each command to move forward I could hear onlythe rub of leather, the click, click of rifle rings, the stir of thestubble, the snorting of horses. When we had marched an hour or so Icould hear the faint rumble of wagons far in the rear. As I came high ona hill top, in the bending column, the moonlight fell upon a leagueof bayonets shining above a cloud of dust in the valley--a splendidpicture, fading into darkness and mystery. At dawn we passed a bridgeand halted some three minutes for a bite. After a little march we leftthe turnpike, with Hunter's column bearing westward on a crossroad thatled us into thick woods. As the sunlight sank in the high tree-tops thefirst great battle of the war began. Away to the left of us a cannonshook the earth, hurling its boom into the still air. The sound rushedover us, rattling in the timber like a fall of rocks. Something wentquivering in me. It seemed as if my vitals had gone into a big lumpof jelly that trembled every step I took. We quickened our pace; wefretted, we complained. The weariness went out of our legs; some wantedto run. Before and behind us men were shouting hotly, 'Run, boys! run!'The cannon roar was now continuous. We could feel the quake of it. Whenwe came over a low ridge, in the open, we could see the smoke of battlein the valley. Flashes of fire and hoods of smoke leaped out of the farthickets, left of us, as cannon roared. Going at double quick we beganloosening blankets and haversacks, tossing them into heaps along theline of march, without halting. In half an hour we stood waiting inbattalions, the left flank of the enemy in front. We were to charge ata run. Half-way across the valley we were to break into companies and, advancing, spread into platoons and squads, and at last into line ofskirmishers, lying down for cover between rushes. 

'Forward!' was the order, and we were off, cheering as we ran. O, it wasa grand sight! our colours flying, our whole front moving, like a bluewave on a green, immeasurable sea. And it had a voice like that of manywaters. Out of the woods ahead of us came a lightning flash. A ring ofsmoke reeled upward. Then came a deafening crash of thunders--one uponanother, and the scream of shells overhead. Something stabbed into ourcolumn right beside me. Many went headlong, crying out as they fell. Suddenly the colours seemed to halt and sway like a tree-top in thewind. Then down they went!--squad and colours--and we spread to passthem. At the order we halted and laid down and fired volley after volleyat the grey coats in the edge of the thicket A bullet struck in thegrass ahead of me, throwing a bit of dirt into my eyes. Another brushedmy hat off and I heard a wailing death yell behind me. The colonel rodeup waving a sword. 

'Get up an' charge!' he shouted. 

On we went, cheering loudly, firing as we ran, Bullets went by mehissing in my ears, and I kept trying to dodge them. We dropped againflat on our faces. 

A squadron of black-horse cavalry came rushing out of the woods at us, the riders yelling as they waved their swords. Fortunately we had nottime to rise. A man near me tried to get up. 

'Stay down!' I shouted. 

In a moment I learned something new about horses. They went over us likea flash. I do not think a man was trampled. Our own cavalry kept thembusy as soon as they had passed. 

Of the many who had started there was only a ragged remnant near me. Wefired a dozen volleys lying there. The man at my elbow rolled upon me, writhing like a worm in the fire. 

'We shall all be killed!' a man shouted. 'Where is the colonel?'

'Dead, ' said another. 

'Better retreat, ' said a third. 

'Charge!' I shouted as loudly as ever I could, jumping to my feet andwaving my sabre as I rushed forward. 'Charge!'

It was the one thing needed--they followed me. In a moment we had hurledourselves upon the grey line thrusting with sword and bayonet. 

They broke before us--some running, some fighting desperately. 

A man threw a long knife at me out of a sling. Instinctively I caughtthe weapon as if it had been a ball hot off the bat. In doing so Idropped my sabre and was cut across the fingers. He came at me fiercely, clubbing his gun--a raw-boned, swarthy giant, broad as a barn door. Icaught the barrel as it came down. He tried to wrench it away, but Iheld firmly. Then he began to push up to me. I let him come, and in amoment we were grappling hip and thigh. He was a powerful man, but thatwas my kind of warfare. It gave me comfort when I felt the grip of hishands. I let him tug a jiffy, and then caught him with the old hiplock, and he went under me so hard I could hear the crack of his bones. Oursupport came then. We made him prisoner, with some two hundred othermen. Reserves came also and took away the captured guns. My comradesgathered about me, cheering, but I had no suspicion of what they meant. I thought it a tribute to my wrestling. Men lay thick there back of theguns--some dead, some calling faintly for help. The red puddles aboutthem were covered with flies; ants were crawling over their faces. Ifelt a kind of sickness and turned away. 

What was left of my regiment formed in fours to join the advancingcolumn. Horses were galloping riderless, rein and stirrup flying, somehorribly wounded. One hobbled near me, a front leg gone at the knee. 

Shells were flying overhead; cannonballs were ricocheting over the levelvalley, throwing turf in the air, tossing the dead and wounded that laythick and helpless. 

Some were crumpled like a rag, as if the pain of death had witheredthem in their clothes; some swollen to the girth of horses; some bentbackward, with arms outreaching like one trying an odd trick, somelay as if listening eagerly, an ear close to the ground; some like asleeper, their heads upon their arms; one shrieked loudly, gesturingwith bloody hands, 'Lord God Almighty, have mercy on me!

I had come suddenly to a new world, where the lives of men were cheaperthan blind puppies. I was a new sort of creature, and reckless of whatcame, careless of all I saw and heard. 

A staff officer stepped up to me as we joined the main body. 

'You ve been shot, young man, ' he said, pointing to my left hand. 

Before he could turn I felt a rush of air and saw him fly into pieces, some of which hit me as I fell backward. I did not know what hadhappened; I know not now more than that I have written. I rememberfeeling something under me, like a stick of wood, bearing hard upon myribs. I tried to roll off it, but somehow, it was tied to me and kepthurting. I put my hand over my hip and felt it there behind me--my ownarm! The hand was like that of a dead man--cold and senseless. I pulledit from under me and it lay helpless; it could not lift itself. I knewnow that I, too, had become one of the bloody horrors of the battle. 

I struggled to my feet, weak and trembling, and sick with nausea. I musthave been lying there a long time. The firing was now at a distance: thesun had gone half down the sky. They were picking up the wounded in thenear field. A man stood looking at me. 'Good God!' he shouted, and thenran away like one afraid. There was a great mass of our men back of mesome twenty rods. I staggered toward them, my knees quivering. 

'I can never get there, ' I heard myself whisper. 

I thought of my little flask of whiskey, and, pulling the cork with myteeth, drank the half of it. That steadied me and I made better headway. I could hear the soldiers talking as I neared them. 

'Look a there!' I heard many saying. 'See 'em come! My God! Look at 'emon the hill there!

The words went quicidy from mouth to mouth. In a moment I could hear themurmur of thousands. I turned to see what they were looking at. Acrossthe valley there was a long ridge, and back of it the main positionof the Southern army. A grey host was pouring over it--thousand uponthousand--in close order, debouching into the valley. 

A big force of our men lay between us and them. As I looked I could seea mighty stir in it. Every man of them seemed to be jumping up in theair. From afar came the sound of bugles calling 'retreat, the shoutingof men, the rumbling of wagons. It grew louder. An officer rode by mehatless, and halted, shading his eyes. Then he rode back hurriedly. 

'Hell has broke loose!' he shouted, as he passed me. 

The blue-coated host was rushing towards us like a flood' artillery, cavalry, infantry, wagon train. There was a mighty uproar in the menbehind me--a quick stir of feet. Terror spread over them like thetravelling of fire. It shook their tongues. The crowd began caving atthe edge and jamming at the centre. Then it spread like a swarm of beesshaken off a bush. 

'Run! Run for your lives!' was a cry that rose to heaven. 

'Halt, you cowards!' an officer shouted. 

It was now past three o clock. 

The raw army had been on its feet since midnight. For hours it hadbeen fighting hunger, a pain in the legs, a quivering sickness at thestomach, a stubborn foe. It had turned the flank of Beauregard; victorywas in sight. But lo! a new enemy was coming to the fray, innumerable, unwearied, eager for battle. The long slope bristled with his bayonets. Our army looked and cursed and began letting go. The men near me werepausing on the brink of awful rout In a moment they were off, pell-mell, like a flock of sheep. The earth shook under them. Officers rode aroundthem, cursing, gesticulating, threatening, but nothing could stop them. Half a dozen trees had stood in the centre of the roaring mass. Now afew men clung to them--a remnant of the monster that had torn away. Butthe greater host was now coming. The thunder of its many feet was nearme; a cloud of dust hung over it. A squadron of cavalry came rushing byand broke into the fleeing mass. Heavy horses, cut free from artillery, came galloping after them, straps flying over foamy flanks. Two ridersclung to the back of each, lashing with whip and rein. The nickof wagons came after them, wheels rattling, horses running, voicesshrilling in a wild hoot of terror. It makes me tremble even now, as Ithink of it, though it is muffled under the cover of nearly forty years!I saw they would go over me. Reeling as if drunk, I ran to save myself. Zigzagging over the field I came upon a grey-bearded soldier lying inthe grass and fell headlong. I struggled madly, but could not rise tomy feet. I lay, my face upon the ground, weeping like a woman. Save I belost in hell, I shall never know again the bitter pang of that moment. I thought of my country. I saw its splendid capital in ruins; its peoplesurrendered to God's enemies. 

The rout of wagons had gone by I could now hear the heavy tramp ofthousands passing me, the shrill voices of terror. I worked to a sittingposture somehow--the effort nearly smothered me. A mass of cavalry wasbearing down upon me. They were coming so thick I saw they would trampleme into jelly. In a flash I thought of what Uncle Eb had told me once. I took my hat and covered my face quiddy, and then uncovered it as theycame near. They sheared away as I felt the foam of their nostrils. I hadsplit them as a rock may split the torrent. The last of them went overme--their tails whipping my face. I shall not soon forget the lookof their bellies or the smell of their wet flanks. They had no soonerpassed than I fell back and rolled half over like a log. I could feela warm flow of blood trickling down my left arm. A shell, shot at theretreating army, passed high above me, whining as it flew. Then my mindwent free of its trouble. The rain brought me to as it came pelting downupon the side of my face. I wondered what it might be, for I knewnot where I had come. I lifted my head and looked to see a newdawn--possibly the city of God itself. It was dark--so dark I felt as ifI had no eyes. Away in the distance I could hear the beating of a drum. It rang in a great silence--I have never known the like of it. I couldhear the fall and trickle of the rain, but it seemed only to deepen thesilence. I felt the wet grass under my face and hands. Then I knew itwas night and the battlefield where I had fallen. I was alive and mightsee another day--thank God! I felt something move under my feet I hearda whisper at my shoulder. 

'Thought you were dead long ago, ' it said. 

'No, no, ' I answered, 'I'm alive--I know I'm alive--this is thebattlefield. 

''Fraid I ain't goin' t' live, ' he said. 'Got a terrible wound. Wish itwas morning. '

'Dark long?' I asked. 

'For hours, ' he answered. 'Dunno how many. '

He began to groan and utter short prayers. 

'O, my soul waiteth for the Lord more than they that watch for themorning, ' I heard him cry in a loud, despairing voice. 

Then there was a bit of silence, in which I could hear him whispering ofhis home and people. 

Presently he began to sing:

 'Guide me, O thou great Jehovah! Pilgrim through this barren land I am weak but thou art mighty'

His voice broke and trembled and sank into silence. 

I had business of my own to look after--perhaps I had no time tolose--and I went about it calmly. I had no strength to move and began tofeel the nearing of my time. The rain was falling faster. It chilled meto the marrow as I felt it trickling over my back. I called to the manwho lay beside me--again and again I called to him--but got no answer. Then I knew that he was dead and I alone. Long after that in the fardistance I heard a voice calling. It rang like a trumpet in the stillair. It grew plainer as I listened. My own name! William Brower? It wascertainly calling to me, and I answered with a feeble cry. In a momentI could hear the tramp of someone coming. He was sitting beside mepresently, whoever it might be. I could not see him for the dark. Histongue went clucking as if he pitied me. 

'Who are you?' I remember asking, but got no answer. 

At first I was glad, then I began to feel a mighty horror of him. 

In a moment he had picked me up and was making off. The jolt of his stepseemed to be breaking my arms at the shoulder. As I groaned he ran. Icould see nothing in the darkness, but he went ahead, never stopping, save for a moment, now and then, to rest I wondered where he was takingme and what it all meant. I called again, 'Who are you?' but he seemednot to hear me. 'My God!' I whispered to myself, 'this is no man--thisis Death severing the soul from the body. The voice was that of the goodGod. ' Then I heard a man hailing near by. 

'Help, Help!' I shouted faintly. 

'Where are you?' came the answer, now further away. 'Can't see you. 'My mysterious bearer was now running. My heels were dragging upon theground; my hands were brushing the grass tops. I groaned with pain. 

'Halt! Who comes there?' a picket called. Then I could hear voices. 

'Did you hear that noise?' said one. 'Somebody passed me. So dark can'tsee my hand before me. 

'Darker than hell!' said another voice. 

It must be a giant, I thought, who can pick me up and carry me as ifI were no bigger than a house cat. That was what I was thinking when Iswooned. 

From then till I came to myself in the little church at Centreville Iremember nothing. Groaning men lay all about me; others stood betweenthem with lanterns. A woman was bending over me. I felt the gentle touchof her hand upon my face and heard her speak to me so tenderly I cannotthink of it, even now, without thanking God for good women. I clung toher hand, clung with the energy of one drowning, while I suffered themerciful torture of the probe, the knife and the needle. And when it wasall over and the lantern lights grew pale in the dawn I fell asleep. 

But enough of blood and horror. War is no holiday, my merry people, whoknow not the mighty blessing of peace. Counting the cost, let us havewar, if necessary, but peace, peace if possible. 

Chapter 40

But now I have better things to write of things that have some relish ofgood in them. I was very weak and low from loss of blood for days, and, suddenly, the tide turned. I had won recognition for distinguishedgallantry they told me--that day they took me to Washington. I lay threeweeks there in the hospital. As soon as they heard of my misfortuneat home Uncle Eb wrote he was coming to see me. I stopped him by atelegram, assuring him that I was nearly well and would be home shortly. 

My term of enlistment had expired when they let me out a fine day inmid August. I was going home for a visit as sound as any man but, inthe horse talk of Faraway, I had a little 'blemish'on the left shoulder. Uncle Eb was to meet me at the jersey City depot. Before going I, withothers who had been complimented for bravery, went to see the president. There were some twenty of us summoned to meet him that day. It was warmand the great Lincoln sat in his shirt-sleeves at a desk in the middleof his big office. He wore a pair of brown carpet slippers, the rollingcollar and black stock now made so familiar in print. His hair wastumbled. He was writing hurriedly when we came in. He laid his pen awayand turned to us without speaking. There was a careworn look upon hissolemn face. 

'Mr President, ' said the general, who had come with us, 'here are someof the brave men of our army, whom you wished to see. 

He came and shook hands with each and thanked us in the name of therepublic, for the example of courage and patriotism we and many othershad given to the army. He had a lean, tall, ungraceful figure and hespoke his mind without any frill or flourish. He said only a few wordsof good plain talk and was done with us. 

'Which is Brower?' he enquired presently. 

I came forward more scared than ever I had been before. 

'My son, ' he said, taking my hand in his, 'why didn't you run?'

'Didn't dare, ' I answered. 'I knew it was more dangerous to run awaythan to go forward. '

'Reminds me of a story, ' said he smiling. 'Years ago there was a bullyin Sangamon County, Illinois, that had the reputation of running fasterand fighting harder than any man there. Everybody thought he was aterrible fighter. He'd always get a man on the run; then he'd ketchup and give him a licking. One day he tadded a lame man. The lame manlicked him in a minute. 

'"Why didn't ye run?" somebody asked the victor. 

'"Didn't dast, " said he. "Run once when he tackled me an I've been lameever since. "

"How did ye manage to lick him?" said the other. 

'"Wall, " said he, "I hed to, an' I done it easy. "

'That's the way it goes, ' said the immortal president, 'ye do it easy ifye have to. 

He reminded me in and out of Horace Greeley, although they looked nomore alike than a hawk and a handsaw. But they had a like habit offorgetting themselves and of saying neither more nor less than theymeant. They both had the strength of an ox and as little vanity. MrGreeley used to say that no man could amount to anything who worriedmuch about the fit of his trousers; neither of them ever encounteredthat obstacle. 

Early next morning I took a train for home. I was in soldier clothes Ihad with me no others--and all in my car came to talk with me about thenow famous battle of Bull Run. 

The big platform at Jersey City was crowded with many people as we gotoff the train. There were other returning soldiers--some with crutches, some with empty sleeves. 

A band at the further end of the platform was playing and those near mewere singing the familiar music, 'John Brown's body lies a mouldering in the grave. 

Somebody shouted my name. Then there rose a cry of three cheers forBrower. It's some of the boys of the Tribune, I thought--I could seea number of them in the crowd. One brought me a basket of flowers. Ithought they were trying to have fun with me. 

'Thank you!' said I, 'but what is the joke?'

'No joke, ' he said. 'It's to honour a hero. '

'Oh, you wish me to give it to somebody. '

I was warming with embarrassment

'We wish you to keep it, ' he answered. 

In accounts of the battle I had seen some notice of my leading a chargebut my fame had gone farther--much farther indeed--than I knew. I stooda moment laughing--an odd sort of laugh it was that had in it the saltof tears--and waving my hand to the many who were now calling my name. 

In the uproar of cheers and waving of handkerchiefs I could not findUncle Eb for a moment. When I saw him in the breaking crowd he wascheering lustily and waving his hat above his head. His enthusiasmincreased when I stood before him. As I was greeting him I heard alively rustle of skirts. Two dainty, gloved hands laid hold of mine;a sweet voice spoke my name. There, beside me, stood the tall, erectfigure of Hope. Our eyes met and, before there was any thinking ofpropriety, I had her in my arms and was kissing her and she was kissingme. 

It thrilled me to see the splendour of her beauty that day; her eyes wetwith feeling as they looked up at me; to feel again the trembling touchof her lips. In a moment I turned to Uncle Eb. 

'Boy, ' he said, 'I thought you. .. ' and then he stopped and beganbrushing his coat sleeve. 

'Come on now, ' he added as he took my grip away from me. 'We're goin' t'hev a gran' good time. I'll take ye all to a splendid tavern somewheres. An' I ain't goin' if count the cost nuther. 

He was determined to carry my grip for me. Hope had a friend with herwho was going north in the morning on our boat. We crossed the ferry andtook a Broadway omnibus, while query followed query. 

'Makes me feel like a flapjack t'ride 'n them things, ' said Uncle Eb aswe got out. 

He hired a parlour and two bedrooms for us all at the St Nicholas. 

'Purty middlin' steep!' he said to me as we left the office. 'It is, sartin! but I don't care--not a bit. When folks has if hev a good timethey've got t' hev it. 

We were soon seated in our little parlour. There was a great glow ofhealth and beauty in Hope's face. It was a bit fuller but had nobleroutlines and a colouring as delicate as ever. She wore a plain greygown admirably fitted to her plump figure. There was a new and splendid'dignity in her carriage, her big blue eyes, her nose with its littleupward slant. She was now the well groomed young woman of society in thefull glory of her youth. 

Uncle Eb who sat between us pinched her cheek playfully. A little spotof white showed a moment where his fingers had been. Then the pinkflooded over it. 

'Never see a girl git such a smack as you did, ' he said laughing. 

'Well, ' said she, smiling, 'I guess I gave as good as I got. '

'Served him right, ' he said. 'You kissed back good 'n hard. Gran sport!'he added turning to me. 

'Best I ever had, ' was my humble acknowledgement. 

'Seldom ever see a girl kissed so powerful, ' he said as he took Hopehand in his. 'Now if the Bible said when a body kissed ye on one cheekye mus' turn if other I wouldn't find no fault. But ther's a heap odiffer'nce 'tween a whack an' a smack. 

When we had come back from dinner Uncle Eb drew off his boots and satcomfortably in his stocking feet while Hope told of her travels and I ofmy soldiering. She had been at the Conservatory, nearly the whole periodof her absence, and hastened home when she learned of the battle and ofmy wound. She had landed two days before. 

Hope's friend and Uncle Eb went away to their rooms in good season. ThenI came and sat beside Hope on the sofa. 

'Let's have a good talk, ' I said. 

There was an awkward bit of silence. 

'Well, ' said she, her fan upon her lips, 'tell me more about the war. 

'Tired of war, ' I answered; 'love is a better subject. 

She rose and walked up and down the room, a troubled look in her face. Ithought I had never seen a woman who could carry her head so proudly. 

'I don't think you are very familiar with it, ' said she presently. 

'I ought to be, ' I answered, 'having loved you all these years. 

'But you told me that--that you loved another girl, ' she said, her elbowleaning on the mantel, her eyes looking down soberly. 

'When? Where?' I asked. 

'In Mrs Fuller's parlour. '

'Hope, ' I said, 'you misunderstood me; I meant you. 

She came toward me, then, looking up into my eyes. I started to embraceher but she caught my hands and held them apart and came close to me. 

'Did you say that you meant me?' she asked in a whisper. 

'I did. '

'Why did you not tell me that night?

'Because you would not listen to me and we were interrupted. 

'Well if I loved a girl, ' she said, 'I'd make her listen. '

'I would have done that but Mrs Fuller saved you. '

'You might have written, ' she suggested in a tone of injury. 

'I did. '

'And the letter never came--just as I feared. '

She looked very sober and thoughtful then. 

'You know our understanding that day in the garden, ' she added. 'If youdid not ask me again I was to know you--you did not love me any longer. That was long, long ago. 

'I never loved any girl but you, ' I said. 'I love you now, Hope, andthat is enough--I love you so there is nothing else for me. You aredearer than my life. It was the thought of you that made me brave inbattle. I wish I could be as brave here. But I demand your surrender--Ishall give you no quarter now. 

'I wish I knew, ' she said, 'whether--whether you really love me or not?

'Don't you believe me, Hope?

'Yes, I believe you, ' she said, 'but--but you might not know your ownheart. 

'It longs for you, ' I said, 'it keeps me thinking of you always. Onceit was so easy to be happy; since you have been away it has seemed as ifthere were no longer any light in the world or any pleasure. It has mademe a slave. I did not know that love was such a mighty thing. 

'Love is no Cupid--he is a giant, ' she said, her voice trembling withemotion as mine had trembled. 'I tried to forget and he crushed me underhis feet as if to punish me. 

She was near to crying now, but she shut her lips firmly and kept backthe tears. God grant me I may never forget the look in her eyes thatmoment. She came closer to me. Our lips touched; my arms held hertightly. 

'I have waited long for this, ' I said--'the happiest moment of my life!I thought I had lost you. 

'What a foolish man, ' she whispered. 'I have loved you for years andyears and you--you could not see it, I believe now. '

She hesitated a moment, her eyes so close to my cheek I could feel thebeat of their long lashes. 

'That God made you for me, ' she added. 

'Love is God's helper, ' I said. 'He made us for each other. 

'I thank Him for it--I do love you so, ' she whispered. 

The rest is the old, old story. They that have not lived it are to bepitied. 

When we sat down at length she told me what I had long suspected, thatMrs Fuller wished her to marry young Livingstone. 

'But for Uncle Eb, ' she added, 'I think I should have done so--for I hadgiven up all hope of you. '

'Good old Uncle Eb!' I said. 'Let's go and tell him. 

He was sound asleep when we entered his room but woke as I lit the gas. 

'What's the matter?' he whispered, lifting his head. 

'Congratulate us, ' I said. 'We're engaged. 

'Hey ye conquered her?' he enquired smiling. 

'Love has conquered us both, ' I said. 

'Wall, I swan! is thet so?' he answered. 'Guess I won't fool away anymore time here in bed. If you childen'll go in t'other room I'll slipinto my trousers an' then ye'll hear me talk some conversation. 

'Beats the world!' he continued, coming in presently, buttoning hissuspenders. 'I thought mos' likely ye'd hitch up t'gether sometime. 'Tain't often ye can find a pair s'well matched. The same style angaited jest about alike. When ye goin' t' git married?

'She hasn't named the day, ' I said. 

'Sooner the better, ' said Uncle Eb as he drew on his coat and sat down. 'Used if be so t'when a young couple hed set up 'n held each other'shan's a few nights they was ready fer the minister. Wish't ye could fixit fer 'bout Crissmus time, by jingo! They's other things goin'if happenthen. ' s pose yer s'happy now ye can stan' a little bad news. I'vegot if tell ye--David's been losin' money. Hain't never wrote ye 'boutit--not a word--'cause I didn't know how 'twas comin' out. 

'How did he lose it?' I enquired. 

'Wall ye know that Ow Barker--runs a hardware store in Migleyville--hesold him a patent right. Figgered an' argued night an' day fer more 'nthree weeks. It was a new fangled wash biler. David he thought he see achance if put out agents an' make a great deal o'money. It did look jestas easy as slidin' downhill but when we come slide--wall, we found outwe was at the bottom o the hill 'stid o' the top an' it wan't reel goodslidin. He paid five thousan' dollars fer the right o'ten counties. Thenbym bye Barker he wanted him t'go security fer fifteen hunderd bilersthet he was hevin' made. I to!' David he hedn't better go in no deeperbut Barker, he promised big things an' seemed if be sech a nice man 'atfin'ly David he up 'n done it. Wall he's hed 'em t' pay fer an' the factis it costs s'much if sell 'em it eats up all the profits. 

'Looks like a swindle, ' I said indignantly. 

'No, ' said Uncle Eb, ''tain't no swindle. Barker thought he hed a gran'good thing. He got fooled an' the fool complaint is very ketchin'. Gotit myself years ago an' I've been doctorin' fer it ever sence. 

The story of David's undoing hurt us sorely. He had gone the way of mostmen who left the farm late in life with unsatisfied ambition. 

'They shall never want for anything, so long as I have my health, ' Isaid. 

'I have four hundred dollars in the bank, ' said Hope, 'and shall givethem every cent of it. 

'Tain' nuthin'if worry over, ' said Uncle Eb. 'If I don' never losemore'n a little money I shan't feel terrible bad. We're all young yit. Got more'n a million dollars wuth o' good health right here 'n thisroom. So well, I'm 'shamed uv it! Man's more decent if he's a leetle bitsickly. An' thet there girl Bill's agreed t'marry ye! Why! 'Druther hevher 'n this hull city o' New York. 

'So had I, ' was my answer. 

'Wall, you am'no luckier 'n she is--not a bit, ' he added. 'A good man'sbetter 'n a gol'mine ev'ry time. 

'Who knows, ' said Hope. 'He may be president someday. 

'Ther's one thing I hate, ' Uncle El continued. 'That's the idee o hevin'the woodshed an' barn an' garret full o' them infernal wash bilers. Ye can't take no decent care uv a hoss there 'n the stable' they'reso piled up. One uv 'em tumbled down top o' me t'other day. 'Druther'twould a been a panther. Made me s'mad I took a club an' knocked thatbiler into a cocked hat. 'Tain't right! I'm sick o' the sight uv 'em. 

'They'll make a good bonfire someday, ' said Hope. 

'Don't believe they'd burn, ' he answered sorrowfully, 'they're tin. 

'Couldn't we bury 'em?' I suggested. 

'Be a purty costly funeral, ' he answered thoughtfully. 'Ye'd hev if diga hole deeper n Tupper's dingle. 

'Couldn't you give them away?' I enquired. 

'Wall, ' said he, helping himself to a chew of tobacco, 'we ve triedthet. Gin 'em t'everybody we know but there ain't folks enough' there'ssuch a slew o'them bilers. We could give one if ev'ry man, woman an'child in Faraway an' hex enough left t'fill an acre lot. Dan Perry druvin t'other day with a double buggy. We gin him one fer his own fam'ly. It was heavy t'carry an' he didn't seem t' like the looks uv it someway. Then I asked him if he wouldn't like one fer his girl. "She ain'tmarried, " says he. "She will be some time, " says I, "take it along, " sohe put in another. "You've got a sister over on the turnpike hain'tye?" says I. "Yes, " says he. "Wall, " I says, "don' want a hex her feelslighted. " "She won't know 'bout my hevin' 'em, " says he, lookin' 's ifhe'd hed enough. "Yis she will, " I says, "she'll hear uv it an' mebbemake a fuss. " Then we piled in another. "Look here, " I says after that, "there s yer brother Bill up there 'bove you. Take one along fer him. ""No, " says he, "I don' tell ev'ry body, but Bill an' I ain't on goodterms. We ain't spoke fer more'n a year. "

'Knew he was lyin', ' Uncle Eb added with a laugh, 'I'd seen him talkin'with Bill a day er two before. 

'Whew!' he whistled as he looked at his big silver watch. 'I declareit's mos' one o clock They's jes' one other piece o' business if comebefore this meetin'. Double or single, want ye if both promise me t'behum Crissmus. 

We promised. 

'Now childern, ' said he. ''S time if go if bed. B'lieve ye'd stan' thereswappin' kisses 'till ye was knee sprung if I didn't tell ye t' quit. 

Hope came and put her arms about his neck, fondly, and kissed himgood-night. 

'Did Bill prance right up like a man?' he asked, his hand upon hershoulder. 

'Did very well, ' said she, smiling, 'for a man with a wooden leg. 

Uncle Eb sank into a chair, laughing heartily, and pounding his knee. Itseemed he had told her that I was coming home with a wooden leg! 'Thatis the reason I held your arm, ' she said. 'I was expecting to hear itsqueak every moment as we left the depot. But when I saw that you walkedso naturally I knew Uncle Eb had been trying to fool me. 

'Purty good sort uv a lover, ain't he?' said he after we were donelaughing. 

'He wouldn't take no for an answer, ' she answered. 

'He was alwuss a gritty cuss, ' said Uncle Eb, wiping his eyes with a bigred handkerchief as he rose to go. 'Ye'd oughter be mighty happy an' yewill, too--their am'no doubt uv it--not a bit. Trouble with most youngfolks is they wan'if fly tew high, these days. If they'd only fly clusenough t'the ground so the could alwuss touch one foot, they'd be allright. Glad ye ain't thet kind. 

We were off early on the boat--as fine a summer morning as ever dawned. What with the grandeur of the scenery and the sublimity of our happinessit was a delightful journey we had that day. I felt the peace and beautyof the fields, the majesty of the mirrored cliffs and mountains, but thefair face of her I loved was enough for me. Most of the day Uncle Eb satnear us and I remember a woman evangelist came and took a seat besidehim, awhile, talking volubly of the scene. 

'My friend, ' said she presently, 'are you a Christian?

''Fore I answer I'll hex if tell ye a story, ' said Uncle Eb. 'Irecollec' a man by the name o' Ranney over 'n Vermont--he was a piousman. Got into an argyment an' a feller slapped him in the face. Ranneyturned t'other side an' then t'other an' the feller kep' a slappin' hot'n heavy. It was jes' like strappin' a razor fer half a minnit. ThenRanney sailed in--gin him the wust lickin' he ever hed. 

'"I declare, " says another man, after 'twas all over, "I thought you wasa Christian. "

"Am up to a cert in p'int, " says he. "Can't go tew fur not 'n theseparts--men are tew powerful. 'Twon't do 'less ye wan'if die sudden. Whenhe begun poundin' uv me I see I wan't eggzac'ly prepared. "

''Fraid 's a good deal thet way with most uv us. We're Christians up toa cert'in p'int. Fer one thing, I think if a man'll stan' still an' seehimself knocked into the nex' world he's a leetle tew good fer this. '

The good lady began to preach and argue. For an hour Uncle Eb satlistening unable to get in a word. When, at last, she left him he cameto us a look of relief in his face. 

'I b'lieve, ' said he, 'if Balaam's ass hed been rode by a woman he never'd hev spoke. '

'Why not?' I enquired. 

'Never'd hev hed a chance, ' Uncle Eb added. 

We were two weeks at home with mother and father and Uncle Eb. It wasa delightful season of rest in which Hope and I went over the slopingroads of Faraway and walked in the fields and saw the harvesting. Shehad appointed Christmas Day for our wedding and I was not to go again tothe war, for now my first duty was to my own people. If God prosperedme they were all to come to live with us in town and, though slow topromise, I could see it gave them comfort to know we were to be for themever a staff and refuge. 

And the evening before we came back to town Jed Feary was with us andUncle Eb played his flute and sang the songs that had been the delightof our childhood. 

The old poet read these lines written in memory of old times in Farawayand of Hope's girlhood. 

 'The red was in the clover an' the blue was in the sky: There was music in the meadow, there was dancing in the rye; An' I heard a voice a calling to the flocks o' Faraway An' its echo in the wooded hills--Go'day! Go'day! Go'day!

 O fair was she--my lady love--an' lithe as the willow tree, An' aye my heart remembers well her parting words t' me. An' I was sad as a beggar-man but she was blithe an' gay An' I think o' her as I call the flocks Go'day! Go'day! Go'day!

 Her cheeks they stole the dover's red, her lips the odoured air, An' the glow o' the morning sunlight she took away in her hair; Her voice had the meadow music, her form an' her laughing eye Have taken the blue o' the heavens an' the grace o' the bending rye. 

 My love has robbed the summer day--the field, the sky, the dell, She has taken their treasures with her, she has taken my heart as well; An' if ever, in the further fields, her feet should go astray May she hear the good God calling her Go'day! Go'day! Go'day!

Chapter 41

I got a warm welcome on Monkey Hill. John Trumbull came to dine withus at the chalet the evening of my arrival. McGlingan had becomeeditor-in-chief of a new daily newspaper. Since the war began Mr Forcehad found ample and remunerative occupation writing the 'Obituaries ofDistinguished Persons. He sat between Trumbull and McGlingan at tableand told again of the time he had introduced the late Daniel Webster tothe people of his native town. 

Reciting a passage of the immortal Senator he tipped his beer into thelap of McClingan. He ceased talking and sought pardon. 

'It is nothing, Force--nothing, ' said the Scotchman, with great dignity, as he wiped his coat and trousers. 'You will pardon me if I say that Ihad rather be drenched in beer than soaked in recollections. 

'That's all right, ' said Mr Opper, handing him a new napkin. 'Yes, inthe midst of such affliction I should call it excellent fun, McClinganadded. 'If you ever die, Force, I will preach the sermon without charge. 

'On what text?' the obituary editor enquired. 

'"There remaineth therefore, a rest for the people of God, "'quothMcClingan solemnly. 'Hebrews, fourth chapter and ninth verse. 

'If I continue to live with you I shall need it, ' said Force. 

'And if I endure to the end, ' said McClingan, 'I shall have excellentChristian discipline; I shall feel like opening my mouth and making aloud noise. 

McGlingan changed his garments and then came into my room and sat withus awhile after dinner. 

'One needs ear lappers and a rubber coat at that table, ' said he. 

'And a chest protector, ' I suggested, remembering the finger of Force. 

'I shall be leaving here soon, Brower, ' said McGlingan as he lit acigar. 

'Where shall you go?' I asked. 

'To my own house. 

'Going to hire a housekeeper?

'Going to marry one, ' said he. 

'That's funny, ' I said. We're all to be married--every man of us. 

'By Jove!' said McClingan, 'this is a time for congratulation. God saveus and grant for us all the best woman in the world. 

Chapter 42

For every man he knew and loved Mr Greeley had a kindness that filledhim to the fingertips. When I returned he smote me on the breast--anunfailing mark of his favour--and doubled my salary. 

'If he ever smites you on the breast, ' McClingan had once said to me, 'turn the other side, for, man, your fortune is made. '

And there was some truth in the warning. 

He was writing when I came in. A woman sat beside him talking. Animmense ham lay on the marble top of the steam radiator; a basket ofeggs sat on the floor near Mr Greeley's desk All sorts of merchandisewere sent to the Tribune those days, for notice, and sold at auction, tomembers of the staff, by Mr Dana. 

'Yes, yes, Madame, go on, I hear you, ' said the great editor, as his penflew across the white page. 

She asked him then for a loan of money. He continued writing but, presently, his left hand dove into his trousers pocket coming up full ofbills. 

'Take what you want, ' said he, holding it toward her, 'and please go forI am very busy. ' Whereupon she helped herself liberally and went away. 

Seeing me, Mr Greeley came and shook my hand warmly and praised me fer agood soldier. 

'Going down town, ' he said in a moment, drawing on his big whiteovercoat, 'walk along with me--won't you?

We crossed the park, he leading me with long strides. As we walkedhe told how he had been suffering from brain fever. Passing St Paul'schurchyard he brushed the iron pickets with his hand as if to try thefeel of them. Many turned to stare at him curiously. He asked me, soon, if I would care to do a certain thing for the Tribune, stopping, to lookin at a shop window, as I answered him. I waited while he did his errandat a Broadway shop; then we came back to the office. The publisher wasin Mr Greeley's room. 

'Where's my ham, Dave?' said the editor as he looked at the slab ofmarble where the ham had lain. 

'Don't know for sure, ' said the publisher, 'it's probably up at thehouse of the--editor by this time. 

'What did you go 'n give it to him for?' drawled Mr Greeley in a tone ofirreparable injury. 'I wanted that ham for myself. 

'I didn't give it to him, ' said the publisher. 'He came and helpedhimself. Said he supposed it was sent in for notice. 

'The infernal thief!' Mr Greeley piped with a violent gesture. 'I'llswear! if I didn't keep my shirt buttoned tight they'd have that, too. 

The ham was a serious obstacle in the way of my business and it wentover until evening. But that and like incidents made me to know the manas I have never seen him pictured--a boy grown old and grey, pushing thepower of manhood with the ardours of youth. 

I resumed work on the Tribune that week. My first assignment was a massmeeting in a big temporary structure--then called a wigwam--over inBrooklyn. My political life began that day and all by an odd chance. Thewigwam was crowded to the doors. The audience bad been waiting half anhour for the speaker. The chairman had been doing his best to killtime but had run out of ammunition. He had sat down to wait, an awkwardsilence had begun. The crowd was stamping and whistling and clappingwith impatience. As I walked down the centre aisle, to the reporters table, they seemed to mistake me for the speaker. Instantly a greatuproar began. It grew louder every step I took. I began to wonder andthen to fear the truth. As I neared the stage the chairman came forwardbeckoning to me. I went to the flight of steps leading up to that higherlevel of distinguished citizens and halted, not knowing just what to do. He came and leaned over and whispered down at me. I remember he was redin the face and damp with perspiration. 

'What is your name?' he enquired. 

'Brower, ' said I in a whisper. 

A look of relief came into his face and I am sure a look of anxiety cameinto mine. He had taken the centre of the stage before I could stop him. 

'Lathes and gentlemen, ' said he, 'I am glad to inform you that GeneralBrower has at last arrived. 

I remembered then there was a General Brower in the army who was also apower in politics. 

In the storm of applause that followed this announcement, I beckoned himto the edge of the platform again. I was nearer a condition of mentalpanic than I have ever known since that day. 

'I am not General Brower, ' I whispered. 

'What!' said he in amazement. 

'I am not General Brower, ' I said. 

'Great heavens!' he whispered, covering his mouth with his band andlooking very thoughtful. 'You'll have to make a speech, anyway--there'sno escape. 

I could see no way out of it and, after a moment's hesitation, ascendedthe platform took off my overcoat and made a speech. 

Fortunately the issue was one with which I had been long familiar. Itold them how I had been trapped. The story put the audience in goodhumour and they helped me along with very generous applause. And sobegan my career in politics which has brought me more honour than Ideserved although I know it has not been wholly without value to mycountry. It enabled me to repay in part the kindness of my former chiefat a time when he was sadly in need of friends. I remember meeting himin Washington a day of that exciting campaign of '72. I was then inCongress. 

'I thank you for what you have done, Brower, ' said he, 'but I tell youI am licked. I shall not carry a single state. I am going to beslaughtered. 

He had read his fate and better than he knew. In politics he was a greatprophet. 

Chapter 43

The north country lay buried in the snow that Christmastime. Here andthere the steam plough had thrown its furrows, on either side of therailroad, high above the window line. The fences were muffled in longridges of snow, their stakes showing like pins in a cushion of whitevelvet. Some of the small trees on the edge of the big timber stoodoverdrifted to their boughs. I have never seen such a glory of themorning as when the sun came up, that day we were nearing home, and litthe splendour of the hills, there in the land I love. The frosty nap ofthe snow glowed far and near with pulsing glints of pale sapphire. 

We came into Hillsborough at noon the day before Christmas. Father andUncle Eb met us at the depot and mother stood waving her handkerchiefat the door as we drove up. And when we were done with our greetingsand were standing, damp eyed, to warm ourselves at the fire, Uncle Ebbrought his palms together with a loud whack and said:

'Look here, Liz beth Brower! I want if hev ye tell me if ye ever see alikelier pair o' colts. 

She laughed as she looked at us. In a moment she ran her hand down theside of Hope's gown. Then she lifted a fold of the cloth and felt of itthoughtfully. 

'How much was that a yard?' she asked a dreamy look in her eyes. 'Wy!w'y!' she continued as Hope told her the sum. 'Terrible steep! but itdoes fit splendid! Oughter wear well too! Wish ye'd put that on if ye got' church nex' Sunday. 

'O mother!' said Hope, laughing, 'I'll wear my blue silk. 

'Come boys 'n girls, ' said Elizabeth suddenly, 'dinner's all ready inthe other room. 

'Beats the world!' said Uncle Eb, as we sat down at the table. 'Ye dolook gran' if me--ree-markable gran', both uv ye. Tek a premium at anyfair--ye would sartin. '

'Has he won yer affections?' said David laughing as he looked over atHope. 

'He has, ' said she solemnly. 

'Affections are a sing'lar kind o' prop'ty, ' said Uncle Eb. 'Hain'tgood fer nuthin till ye've gin em away. Then, like as not, they git veryvalyble. 

'Good deal that way with money too, ' said Elizabeth Brower. 

'I recollec' when Hope was a leetle bit uv a girl' said Uncle Eb, 'sheused if say 'et when she got married she was goin' if hev her husban'rub my back fer me when it was lame. 

'I haven't forgotten it, ' said Hope, 'and if you will all come you willmake us happier. 

'Good many mouths if feed!' Uncle Ebb remarked. 

'I could take in sewing and help some, ' said Elizabeth Brower, as shesipped her tea. 

There was a little quiver in David's under lip as he looked over at her. 'You ain't able t' do hard work any more, mother, ' said he. 'She won'tnever hev to nuther, ' said Uncle Eb. 'Don't never pay if go bookin' fertrouble--it stew easy if find. There ain' no sech thing 's trouble 'nthis world 'less ye look for it. Happiness won't hey nuthin if dewwith a man thet likes trouble. Minnit a man stops lookin' fer troublehappiness 'II look fer him. Things came puny nigh's ye like 'em here 'nthis world--hot er cold er only middlin'. Ye can either laugh er cry erfight er fish er go if meetin'. If ye don't like erry one you can finfault. I'm on the lookout fer happiness--suits me best, someway, andon't hurt my feelin's a bit. 

'Ev'ry day's a kind uv a circus day with you, Holden, ' said DavidBrower. 'Alwuss hevin' a good time. Ye can hev more fun with yerseif 'nany man I ever see. '

'If I hev as much hereafter es I've hed here, I ain't a goin'if fin' nofault, ' said Uncle Eb. ''S a reel, splendid world. God's fixed it up soev'ry body can hev a good time if they'll only hev it. Once I heard uv apoor man 'at hed a bushel o' corn give tew him. He looked up kind o' sadan' ast if they wouldn't please shell it. Then they tuk it away. God'sgin us happiness in the ear, but He ain't a goin' t' shell it fer us. You n 'Lizabeth oughter be very happy. Look a' them tew childern!

There came a rap at the door then. David put on his cap and went outwith Uncle Eb. 

'It's somebody for more money, ' Elizabeth whispered, her eyes filling. 'I know 'tis, or he would have asked him in. We're goin't lose our home. 

Her lips quivered; she covered her eyes a moment. 

'David ain't well, ' she continued. 'Worries night 'n day over moneymatters. Don't say much, but I can see it's alwuss on his mind. Woke upin the middle o' the night awhile ago. Found him sittin' by the stove. "Mother, " he said, "we can't never go back to farmin'. I've ploughedfurrows enough if go 'round the world. Couldn't never go through itag'in. " "Well, " said I, "if you think best we could start over see howwe git along. I'm willin' if try it. " "No, we re too old, " he says. "Thet's out o' the question. I've been thinkin' what'll we do there withBill 'n Hope if we go t'live with 'em? Don't suppose they'll hev anyhosses if take care uv er any wood if chop. What we'll hev if do ismore'n I can make out. We can't do nuthin; we've never learnt how. "

'We've thought that all over, ' I said. 'We may have a place in thecountry with a big garden. 

'Well, ' said she, 'I'm very well if I am over sixty. I can cook an washan' mend an' iron just as well as I ever could. '

Uncle Eb came to the door then. 

'Bill, ' he said, 'I want you 'n Hope if come out here 'n look at thisyoung colt o' mine. He's playful 's a kitten. 

We put on our wraps and went to the stable. Uncle Eb was there alone. 

'If ye brought any Cnssmus presents, ' he whispered, 'slip 'em into myhands. I'm goin' if run the cirkis t'morrow an' if we don't hev fun aplenty I'll miss my guess. 

'I'll lay them out in my room, ' said Hope. 

'Be sure 'n put the names on 'em, ' Uncle Eb whispered, as Hope wentaway. 

'What have ye done with the "bilers"?' I enquired. 

'Sold 'em, ' said he, laughing. 'Barker never kep' his promise. Heardthey'd gone over t' the 'Burg an' was tryin' t' sell more territory. I says if Dave, "You let me manage 'em an' I'll put 'em out o businesshere 'n this part o' the country. " So I writ out an advertisement ferthe paper. Read about this way: "Fer sale. Twelve hunderd patentedsuction Wash Bilers. Anyone at can't stan' prosperity an' is learnin' ifswear 'll find 'em a great help. If he don't he's a bigger fool 'n I am. Nuthin' in 'em but tin--that's wuth somethin'. Warranted t' hold water. "

'Wall ye know how that editor talks? 'Twant a day 'fore the head man o'the biler business come 'n bought 'em. An' the advertisement was neverput in. Guess he wan't hankerin' if hev his business spilt. 

Uncle Eb was not at the supper table that evening. 

'Where's Holden?' said Elizabeth Brower. 

'Dunno, ' said David. 'Goin' after Santa Claus he tol' me. 

'Never see the beat o' that man!' was the remark of Elizabeth, as shepoured the tea. 'Jes' like a boy ev'ry Crissmus time. Been so excitedfer a week couldn't hardly contain himself. '

'Ketched him out 'n the barn if other day laffin' like a fool, ' saidDavid. 'Thought he was crazy. '

We sat by the fire after the supper dishes were put away, talking ofall the Christmas Days we could remember. Hope and I thought our last inFaraway best of all and no wonder, for we had got then the first promiseof the great gift that now made us happy. Elizabeth, sitting in hereasy-chair, told of Christmas in the olden time when her father had goneto the war with the British. 

David sat near me, his face in the firelight--the broad brow wrinkledinto furrows and framed in locks of iron-grey. He was lookingthoughtfully at the fire. Uncle Eb came soon, stamping and shaking thesnow out of his great fur coat. 

'Col'night, ' he said, warming his hands. 

Then he carried his coat and cap away, returning shortly, with a littlebox in his hand. 

'Jes' thought I'd buy this fer fun, ' said he, holding it down to thefirelight. 'Dummed if I ever see the like uv it. Whoa!' he shouted, asthe cover flew open, releasing a jumping-jack. 'Quicker n a grasshopper!D'ye ever see sech a sassy little critter?

Then he handed it to Elizabeth. 

'Wish ye Merry Christmas, Dave Brower!' said he. 

'Ain't as merry as I might be, ' said David. 

'Know what's the matter with ye, ' said Uncle Eb. 'Searchin' aftertrouble--thet's what ye're doin'. Findin' lots uv it right there 'nthe fire. Trouble 's goiti' t' git mighty scurce 'round here this veryselfsame night. Ain't goin' t' be nobody lookin' fer it--thet's why. Fer years ye ve been takin' care o' somebody et I'll take care 'o you, long's ye live--sartin sure. Folks they said ye was fools when yetook 'em in. Man said I was a fool once. Alwuss hed a purty fair ideeo'myself sence then. When some folks call ye a fool 's a ruther goodsign ye ain't. Ye've waited a long time fer yer pay--ain't much longerif wait now. '

There was a little quaver in his voice, We all looked at him in silence. Uncle Eb drew out his wallet with trembling hands, his fine old face litwith a deep emotion. David looked up at him as he wondered what joke wascoming, until he saw his excitement. 

'Here's twenty thousan' dollars, ' said Uncle Eb, 'a reel, genuwine bankcheck! Jist as good as gold. Here 'tis! A Crissmus present fer you 'nElizabeth. An' may God bless ye both!'

David looked up incredulously. Then he took the bit of paper. A big tearrolled down his cheek. 

'Why, Holden! What does this mean?' he asked. 

''At the Lord pays His debts, ' said Uncle Eb. 'Read it. '

Hope had lighted the lamp. 

David rose and put on his spectacles. One eyebrow had lifted above thelevel of the other. He held the check to the lamplight. Elizabeth stoodat his elbow. 

'Why, mother!' said he. 'Is this from our boy? From Nehemiah? Why, Nehemiah is dead!' he added, looking over his spectacles at Uncle Eb. 

'Nehemiah is not dead, ' said the latter. 

'Nehemiah not dead!' he repeated, looking down at the draft. They turnedit in the light, reading over and over again the happy tidings pinned toone corner of it. Then they looked into each other's eyes. 

Elizabeth put her arms about David's neck and laid her head upon hisshoulder and not one of us dare trust himself to speak for a little. Uncle Eb broke the silence. 

'Got another present, ' he said. 'S a good deal better 'n gold ersilver. ' A tall, bearded man came in. 

'Mr Trumbull!' Hope exclaimed, rising. 

'David an' Elizabeth Brower, ' said Uncle Eb, 'the dead hes come if life. I give ye back yer son--Nehemiah. '

Then he swung his cap high above his head, shouting in a loud voice:

'Merry Crissmus! Merry Crissmus!'

The scene that followed I shall not try to picture. It was so full ofhappiness that every day of our lives since then has been blessed withit and with a peace that has lightened every sorrow; of it, I can trulysay that it passeth all understanding. 

'Look here, folks!' said Uncle Eb, after awhile, as he got his flute, 'my feelin's hev been teched hard. If I don't hev some jollificationI'll bust. Bill Brower, limber up yer leather a leetle bit. '

Chapter 44

Nehemiah, whom I had known as John Trumbull, sat a long time between hisfather and mother, holding a hand of each, and talking in a low tone, while Hope and I were in the kitchen with Uncle Eb. Now that fatherand son were side by side we saw how like they were and wondered we badnever guessed the truth. 

'Do you remember?' said Nehemiah, when we returned. 'Do you rememberwhen you were a little boy, coming one night to the old log house onBowman's Hill with Uncle Eb?

'I remember it very well, ' I answered. 

'That was the first time I ever saw you, ' he said. 

'Why, you are not the night man?'

'I was the night man, ' he answered. 

I stared at him with something of the old, familiar thrill that hadalways come at the mention of him years agone. 

'He's grown a leetle since then, ' said Uncle Eb. 

'I thought so the night I carried him off the field at Bull Run, ' saidNehemiah. 

'Was that you?' I asked eagerly. 

'It was, ' he answered. 'I came over from Washington that afternoon. Yourcolonel told me you had been wounded. 

'Wondered who you were, but I could not get you to answer. I have tothank you for my life. 

Hope put her arms about his neck and kissed him. 

'Tell us, ' said she, 'how you came to be the night man. '

He folded his arms and looked down and began his story. 

'Years ago I had a great misfortune. I was a mere boy at the time. Byaccident I killed another boy in play. It was an old gun we were playingwith and nobody knew it was loaded. I had often quarrelled with theother boy--that is why they thought I had done it on purpose. Therewas a dance that night. I had got up in the evening, crawled out of thewindow and stolen away. We were in Rickard's stable. I remember how thepeople ran out with lanterns. They would have hung me--some of them--orgiven me the blue beech, if a boy friend had not hurried me away. It wasa terrible hour. I was stunned; I could say nothing. They drove me tothe 'Burg, the boy's father chasing us. I got over into Canada, walkedto Montreal and there went to sea. It was foolish, I know, but I wasonly a boy of fifteen. I took another name; I began a new life. NehemiahBrower was like one dead. In 'Frisco I saw Ben Gilman. He had been aschool mate in Faraway. He put his hand on my shoulder and called me theold name. It was hard to deny it--the hardest thing I ever did. I washomesick; I wanted to ask him about my mother and father and my sister, who was a baby when I left. I would have given my life to talk with him. But I shook my head. 

'"No, " I said, "my name is not Brower. You are mistaken. "

'Then I walked away and Nemy Brower stayed in his grave. 

'Well, two years later we were cruising from Sidney to Van Dieman'sLand. One night there came a big storm. A shipmate was washed away inthe dark. We never saw him again. They found a letter in his box thatsaid his real name was Nehemiah Brower, son of David Brower, of Faraway, NY, USA. I put it there, of course, and the captain wrote a letter to myfather about the death of his son. My old self was near done for andthe man Trumbull had a new lease of life. You see in my madness I hadconvicted and executed myself. 

He paused a moment. His mother put her hand upon his shoulder with aword of gentle sympathy. Then he went on. 

'Well, six years after I had gone away, one evening in midsummer, wecame into the harbour of Quebec. I had been long in the southern seas. When I went ashore, on a day's leave, and wandered off in the fields andgot the smell of the north, I went out of my head--went crazy for a lookat the hills o' Faraway and my own people. Nothing could stop me then. I drew my pay, packed my things in a bag and off I went. Left the'Burg afoot the day after; got to Faraway in the evening. It wasbeautiful--the scent o' the new hay that stood in cocks and rows on thehill--the noise o' the crickets--the smell o' the grain--the old house, just as I remembered them; just as I had dreamed of them a thousandtimes. And--when I went by the gate Bony--my old dog--came out andbarked at--me and I spoke to him and he knew me and came and licked myhands, rubbing upon my leg. I sat down with him there by the stone walland--the kiss of that old dog--the first token of love I had known foryears' called back the dead and all that had been his. I put my armsabout his--neck and was near crying out with joy. 

'Then I stole up to the house and looked in at a window. There satfather, at a table, reading his paper; and a little girl was on herknees by mother saying her prayers. He stopped a moment, covering hiseyes with his handkerchief. 

'That was Hope, ' I whispered. 

'That was Hope, ' he went on. 'All the king's oxen could not have draggedme out of Faraway then. Late at night I went off into the woods. The olddog followed to stay with me until he died. If it had not been for himI should have been hopeless. I had with me enough to eat for a time. We found a cave in a big ledge over back of Bull Pond. Its mouth wascovered with briars. It had a big room and a stream of cold watertrickling through a crevice. I made it my home and a fine place itwas--cool in summer and warm in winter. I caught a cub panther that falland a baby coon. They grew up with me there and were the only friends Ihad after Bony, except Uncle Eb. 

'Uncle Eb!' I exclaimed. 

'You know how I met him, ' he continued. 'Well, he won my confidence. Itold him my history. I came into the clearing almost every night. Methim often. He tried to persuade me to come back to my people, but Icould not do it. I was insane; I feared something--I did not know what. Sometimes I doubted even my own identity. Many a summer night I sattalking for hours, with Uncle Eb, at the foot of Lone Pine. O, he waslike a father to me! God knows what I should have done without him. Well, I stuck to my life, or rather to my death, O--there in thewoods--getting fish out of the brooks and game out of the forest, andmilk out of the cows in the pasture. Sometimes I went through the woodsto the store at Tifton for flour and pork. One night Uncle Eb told meif I would go out among men to try my hand at some sort of business hewould start me with a thousand dollars. Well, I did--it. I had alsoa hundred dollars of my own. I came through the woods afoot. Boughtfashionable clothing at Utica, and came to the big city--you know therest. Among men my fear has left me, so I wonder at it. I am a debtor tolove--the love of Uncle Eb and that of a noble woman I shall soon marry. It has made me whole and brought me back to my own people. 

'And everybody knew he was innocent the day after he left, ' said David. 

'Three cheers for Uncle Eb!' I demanded. 

And we gave them. 

'I declare!' said he. 'In all my born days never see sech fun. It'stree-menjious! I tell ye. Them 'et takes care uv others'll be took careuv--'less they do it o'purpose. '

And when the rest of us had gone to bed Uncle Eb sat awhile by the firewith David. Late at night he came upstairs with his candle. He came overto my bed on tiptoe to see if I were awake, holding the candle above myhead. I was worn out and did not open my eyes. He sat down snickering. 

'Tell ye one thing, Dave Brower, ' he whispered to himself as he drewoff his boots, 'when some folks calls ye a fool 's a purty good sign yeain't. '

Chapter 45

Since that day I have seen much coming and going. 

We are now the old folks--Margaret and Nehemiah and Hope and I. Thoseothers, with their rugged strength, their simple ways, their undyingyouth, are of the past. The young folks--they are a new kind of people. It gives us comfort to think they will never have to sing in choirs or'pound the rock' for board money; but I know it is the worse luckfor them. They are a fine lot of young men and women--comely andwell-mannered--but they will not be the pathfinders of the future. Whatwith balls and dinners and clubs and theatres, they find too great asolace in the rear rank. 

Nearly twenty years after that memorable Christmas, coming from Buffaloto New York one summer morning, my thoughts went astray in the northcountry. The familiar faces, the old scenes came trooping by and thatvery day I saw the sun set in Hillsborough as I had often those lateyears. 

Mother was living in the old home, alone, with a daughter of GrandmaBisnette. It was her wish to live and die under that roof. She cooked mea fine supper, with her own hands, and a great anxiety to please me. 

'Come Willie!' said she, as if I were a small boy again, 'you fill thewoodbox an' I'll git supper ready. Lucindy, you clear out, ' she said tothe hired girl, good-naturedly. 'You dunno how t'cook for him. '

I filled the woodbox and brought a pail of water and while she wasfrying the ham and eggs read to her part of a speech I had made inCongress. Before thousands I had never felt more elation. At last Iwas sure of winning her applause. The little bent figure stood, thoughtfully, turning the ham and eggs. She put the spider aside, tostand near me, her hands upon her hips. There was a mighty pride in herface when I had finished. 

I rose and she went and looked out of the window. 

'Grand!' she murmured, wiping her eyes with the corner of herhandkerchief. 

'Glad you like it, ' I said, with great satisfaction. 

'O, the speech!' she answered, her elbow resting on the window sash, herhand supporting her head. 'I liked it very well--but--but I was thinkingof the sunset. How beautiful it is. 

I was weary after my day of travel and went early to bed there in my oldroom. I left her finishing a pair of socks she had been knitting forme. Lying in bed, I could hear the creak of her chair and the low sung, familiar words:

'On the other side of Jordan, In the sweet fields of Eden, Where thetree of life is blooming, There is rest for you. 

Late at night she came into my room with a candle. I heard her comesoftly to the bed where she stood a moment leaning over me. Then shedrew the quilt about my shoulder with a gentle hand. 

'Poor little orphan!' said she, in a whisper that trembled. She wasthinking of my childhood--of her own happier days. 

Then she went away and I heard, in the silence, a ripple of measurelesswaters. 

Next morning I took flowers and strewed them on the graves of David andUncle Eb; there, Hope and I go often to sit for half a summer day abovethose perished forms, and think of the old time and of those last wordsof my venerable friend now graven on his tombstone:

 I AIN'T AFRAID. 'SHAMED O'NUTHIN' I EVER DONE. ALWUSS KEP'MY TUGS TIGHT, NEVER SWORE 'LESS 'TWAS NECESSARY, NEVER KETCHED A FISH BIGGER 'N 'TWAS ER LIED 'N A HOSS TRADE ER SHED A TEAR I DIDN'T HEV TO. NEVER CHEATED ANYBODY BUT EBEN HOLDEN. GOIN' OFF SOMEWHERES, BILL DUNNO THE WAY NUTHER DUNNO 'F IT'S EAST ER WEST ER NORTH ER SOUTH, ER ROAD ER TRAIL; BUT I AIN'T AFRAID.