3'. 
 
fyt same 0utljor* 
 
 ADIRONDACK STORIES. 
 
 BY P. DEMING. 
 " Little Classic ' ' style. i8mo, 75 cents. 
 
 CONTENTS. Lost ; Lida Ann ; John's Trial ; Joe 
 Baldwin; Willie; Benjamin Jacques; Ike's Wife ; 
 An Adirondack Neighborhood. 
 
 HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO. 
 
 Publishers, 
 BOSTON. 
 
Tompkins and Other Folks 
 
 STORIES OF THE HUDSON AND 
 THE ADIRONDACKS 
 
 P. DEMING 
 
 BOSTON 
 
 HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY 
 New York: 11 East Seventeenth Street 
 
 1885 
 
Copyright, 1884, 
 BY P. DBMINQ. 
 
 All rights reserved. 
 
 The Riverside Press, Cambridge : 
 Electrotyped and Printed by H. 0. Houghton & Co. 
 
NOTE. 
 
 THREE of these sketches originally appeared in 
 The Atlantic Monthly, two in Lippincott's Maga- 
 zine, and one in Harper's Christmas. 
 
 M811433 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 TOMPKINS 1 
 
 RUBE JONES 34 
 
 JACOB'S INSURANCE 75 
 
 MR. TOBY'S WEDDING JOURNEY .... 103 
 
 HATTIE'S ROMANCE 138 
 
 THE COURT IN SCHOHARIE 153 
 
 AN ADIRONDACK HOME 186 
 
TOMPKINS. 
 
 BE was a small, wiry man, about forty 
 years of age, with a bright young 
 face, dark eyes, and iron-gray hair. 
 We were reclining in a field, under a clump 
 of pines, on a height overlooking Lake Cham- 
 plain. Near by were the dull-red brick build- 
 ings of the University of Vermont. Burling- 
 ton, blooming with flowers and embowered in 
 trees, sloped away below us. Beyond the 
 town, the lake, a broad plain of liquid blue, 
 slept in the June sunshine, and in the farther 
 distance towered the picturesque Adirondacks. 
 " It is certainly true," said Tompkins, turn- 
 ing upon his side so as to face me, and prop- 
 ping his head with his hand, while his elbow 
 
 rested on the ground. " Don't you remember, 
 
 1 
 
TOMPKINS. 
 
 I used to insist that they were peculiar, when 
 we were here in college ? " 
 
 I remembered it very distinctly, and so in- 
 formed my old classmate. 
 
 "I always said," he continued, "that I 
 could not do my best in New England, because 
 there is no sentiment in the atmosphere, and 
 the people are so peculiar." 
 
 " You have been living in Chicago ? " I re- 
 marked inquiringly. 
 
 " That has been my residence ever since we 
 were graduated; that is, for about seventeen 
 years," he replied. 
 
 " You are in business there, I believe ? " I 
 questioned. 
 
 Tompkins admitted that he was, but did not 
 name the particular line. 
 
 " Halloo ! " he suddenly called out, rising to 
 his feet, and looking toward the little brown 
 road near us. I looked in the same direction, 
 and saw a plainly dressed elderly couple on 
 foot, apparently out for a walk. Tompkins 
 went hastily toward them, helped the lady 
 over the fence, the gentleman following, and a 
 
TOMPKINS. 
 
 moment later I was introduced to Mr. and 
 Mrs. Pember, of Chicago. 
 
 Tompkins gathered some large stones, pulled 
 a board off the fence in rather a reckless 
 manner, and fixed a seat for the couple where 
 they could lean against a tree. When they 
 were provided for, I reclined again, but Tomp- 
 kins stood before us, talking and gesticulat- 
 ing. 
 
 " This," said he, " is the identical place, 
 Mrs. Pember. Here you can see the beauties 
 I have so often described. Before you are the 
 town and the lake, and beyond them the 
 mountains of Northern New York ; and (if 
 .you will please to turn your head) that great 
 blue wall behind you, twenty miles away, is 
 composed of the highest mountains in Ver- 
 mont. The mountains in front of you are the 
 Adirondacks, and those behind you are the 
 Green Mountains. You are at the central 
 point of this magnificent Champlain Valley ; 
 and you are comfortably seated here beneath 
 the shade, on this the loveliest day of sum- 
 mer. Dear friends, I congratulate you," and 
 
TOMPKINS. 
 
 Tornpkins shook Lands with Mr. and Mrs. 
 Pember. 
 
 "And there, Timothy," observed the old 
 gentleman, pointing at the University build- 
 ings with his cane, "is actually where you 
 went to college." 
 
 "It was in those memorable and classic 
 halls, as my classmate here can testify," re- 
 plied Tompkins. " And here we roamed in 
 4 Academus' sacred shade,' and a good deal 
 beyond it. We went fishing and boating dur- 
 ing term time, and made long trips to the 
 mountains in the vacations. In the mean time, 
 this wonderful valley was photographed upon 
 the white and spotless seiisorium of my youth- 
 ful soul." 
 
 " Going, going, going ! " cried Mrs. Pember, 
 with a light, rippling laugh, glancing at me. 
 " That is the way I stop Mr. Tompkins when 
 he gets too flowery." 
 
 Tompkins looked at me and reddened. " I 
 own up," he remarked, " I am an auctioneer in 
 Chicago." 
 
 I hastened to say that I felt sure he was a 
 
TOMPKINS. 
 
 good one, and added, in the kindest way I 
 could, that I had just been wondering how he 
 had become such a good talker. 
 
 "Is it a good deal of a come-down ? " asked 
 Tompkins, with a mixture of frankness and 
 embarrassment. 
 
 I replied that the world was not what we 
 had imagined in our college days, and that the 
 calling of an auctioneer was honorable. 
 
 A general conversation followed, in the 
 course of which it appeared that Tompkins 
 had boarded at the home of the Pembers for 
 several years. They evidently looked upon 
 him almost as their own son. They were 
 traveling with him during his summer rest. 
 
 " This is a queer world," observed Tomp- 
 kins, dropping down beside me, and lying flat 
 on his back, with his hands under his head. 
 " I came to college from a back neighborhood 
 over in York State, and up to the day I was 
 graduated, and for a long time afterward, I 
 thought I must be President of the United 
 States, or a Presbyterian minister, or a great 
 poet, or something remarkable, and here I am 
 an auctioneer." 
 
TOMPKINS. 
 
 Occasional remarks were made by the rest 
 of us for a while, but soon the talking was 
 mainly done by Tompkins. 
 
 Said he, " Since I was graduated, I never 
 was back here but once before, and that was 
 four years ago next August. I was traveling 
 this way then, and reached here Saturday 
 evening. I was in the pork business at that 
 time, as a clerk, and had to stop off here to 
 see a man for the firm. I put up at the best 
 hotel, feeling as comfortable and indifferent 
 as I ever did in my life. There was not the 
 shadow of an idea in my mind of what was 
 going to happen. On Sunday morning I 
 walked about town, and it began to come 
 down on me." 
 
 " What, the town? " asked Mrs. Pember. 
 
 " No ; the strangest and most unaccount- 
 able feeling I ever had in my life," answered 
 Tompkins. " It was thirteen years since I 
 had said good-by to college. It had long ago 
 become apparent to me that the ideas with 
 which I had graduated were visionary and im- 
 practicable. I comprehended that the college 
 
TOMPKINS. 
 
 professors were not the great men I had once 
 thought them, and that a college president was 
 merely a human being. I had been hardened 
 by fighting my way, as a friendless young man 
 has to do in a great city. As the confidential 
 clerk of a large pork house in Chicago, I felt 
 equal to the ' next man,' whoever he might be. 
 If a professor had met me as I got off the 
 cars here Saturday night, it would have been 
 easy for me to snub him. But Sunday morn- 
 ing, as familiar objects began to appear in the 
 course of my walk, the strange feeling of 
 which I have spoken came over me. It was 
 the feeling of old times. The white clouds, 
 the blue lake, this wonderful scenery, thrilled 
 me, and called back the college dreams." 
 
 As he spoke, my old classmate's voice trem- 
 bled. 
 
 " You may remember that I used to like 
 Horace and Virgil and Homer," he remarked, 
 sitting up, crossing his feet tailor-fashion, and 
 looking appealingly at me. 
 
 I replied, enthusiastically and truly, that he 
 had been one of our best lovers of the poets. 
 
8 TOMPKINS. 
 
 " Well," continued Tompkins, " that Sunday 
 morning those things began to come back to 
 me. It was n't exactly delightful. My old 
 ambition to do something great in the world 
 awoke as if from a long sleep. As I prolonged 
 my walk the old associations grew stronger. 
 When I came near the college buildings it 
 seemed as if I still belonged here. The hopes 
 of an ideal career were before me as bright as 
 ever. The grand things I was going to do, the 
 volumes of poems and other writings by Tomp- 
 kins, and his marvelous successes were as clear 
 as day. In short, the whole thing was con- 
 jured up as if it were a picture, just as it used 
 to be when I was a student in college, and it 
 was too much for me." 
 
 Tompkins seemed to be getting a little 
 hoarse, and his frank face was very serious. 
 
 " Timothy," suggested Mr. Pember, " may 
 be you could tell us what that big rock is, out 
 in the lake." 
 
 " Why, father, don't you remember ? That 
 is rock Dunder," said Mrs. Pember. 
 
 "I guess it is," said the old gentleman, mus- 
 ingly. 
 
TOMPKINS. 
 
 " Well," resumed Tompkins, " as I was say- 
 ing, on one side were Homer and Virgil and 
 Horace and Tompkins, and on the other was 
 pork. I cannot explain it, but somehow there 
 it was. The two pictures, thirteen years apart, 
 were brought so close together that they 
 touched. It was something I do not pretend to 
 understand. Managing to get by the college 
 buildings, I came up to this spot where we are 
 now. You will infer that my eyes watered 
 badly, and to tell the truth they did. Of course 
 it is all very well," explained Tompkins, un- 
 crossing his legs, turning upon his side, and 
 propping his head on his hand again, "of 
 course it is all very well to rake down the col- 
 lege, and say Alma Mater does n't amount to 
 anything. The boys all do it, and they believe 
 what they say for the first five or six years after 
 they leave here. But we may as well under- 
 stand that if we know how to slight the old 
 lady, and don't go to see her for a dozen years, 
 she knows how to punish. She had me across 
 her knee, that Sunday morning, in a way that 
 I would have thought impossible. After an 
 
10 TOMPKINS. 
 
 hour I controlled myself, and went back to the 
 hotel. I brushed my clothes, and started for 
 church, with a lump in my throat all the while. 
 My trim business suit did n't seem so neat and 
 nobby as usual. The two pictures, the one of 
 the poets and the other of pork, were in my 
 mind. I shied along the sidewalk in a ner- 
 vous condition, and reaching the church with- 
 out being recognized managed to get a seat 
 near the door. Could I believe my senses? 
 I knew that I was changed, probably past all 
 recognition, but around me I saw the faces of 
 my Burlington friends exactly as they had been 
 thirteen years before. I did not understand 
 then, as I do now, that a young man in busi- 
 ness in Chicago will become gray-headed in 
 ten years, though he might have lived a quiet 
 life in Vermont for quarter of a century, with- 
 out changing a hair." 
 
 " It is the same with horses," suggested Mr. 
 Pember. " Six years on a horse-car in New 
 York about uses up an average horse, though 
 he would have been good for fifteen years on a 
 farm." 
 
TOMPKINS. 11 
 
 " Exactly," said Tompkins. " You can im- 
 agine how I felt that Sunday, with my hair 
 half whitewashed." 
 
 " You know I always said you might have 
 begun coloring your hair, Timothy," said Mrs. 
 Pember kindly. 
 
 " Yes," replied Tompkins, with an uneasy 
 glance at me ; " but I did n't do it. There 
 was one thing in the church there, that morn- 
 ing, that I shall never have a better chance to 
 tell of, and I am going to tell it now, while you 
 are here." 
 
 This last sentence was addressed to me, and 
 my old classmate uttered the words with a gen- 
 tleness and frankness that brought back my 
 best recollections of him in our college days, 
 when he was " little Tompkins," the warmest- 
 hearted fellow in our class. 
 
 " Do you remember Lucy Gary ? " he asked. 
 
 I replied that I did, very well indeed ; and 
 the picture of a youthful face, of Madonna-like 
 beauty, came out with strange distinctness from 
 the memories of the past, as I said it. 
 
 " Well, I saw Lucy there," continued Tomp- 
 
12 TOMPKINS. 
 
 kins, " singing in the clioir in church, looking 
 just as she did in the long-ago days when we 
 used to serenade her. I am willing to tell you 
 about it." 
 
 Tompkins said this in such a confiding man- 
 ner that I instinctively moved toward him and 
 took hold of his hand. 
 
 " All right, classmate," he said, sitting up, 
 and looking me in the eyes in a peculiarly win- 
 ning way that had won us all when he was in 
 college. 
 
 " Why, boys ! " exclaimed Mrs. Pember, 
 with her light laugh. 
 
 Tompkins found a large stone, put it against 
 a tree, and sat down on it, while I reclined at 
 his feet. He said, 
 
 " You have asked me, Mrs. Pember, very 
 often, about the people up here, and now I will 
 tell you about some of them. Do you notice 
 that mountain away beyond the lake, in be- 
 hind the others, so that you can see only the 
 top, which is shaped like a pyramid ? That is 
 old Whiteface, and it is more than forty miles 
 from here. It used to be understood that there 
 
TOMPK1NS. 13 
 
 was nothing whatever over there except woods 
 and rocks and bears and John Brown. But 
 the truth is, right at the foot of the mountain, 
 in the valley on this side, there is a little vil- 
 lage called Wilmington, and it is the centre of 
 the world. Lucy Gary and I were born there. 
 It was not much of a village then, and it is 
 about the same now. There was no church, 
 and no store, and no hotel, in my time ; there 
 were only half a dozen dwelling-houses, and a 
 blacksmith shop, and a man who made shoes. 
 Lucy lived in the house next to ours. Her 
 father was the man who made shoes. Lucy 
 and I picked berries and rambled about with 
 Rover, the dog, from the time we were little. 
 Of course you will naturally think there is 
 something romantic coming, but there is not. 
 We were just a couple of children playing to- 
 gether ; and we studied together as we grew 
 older. They made a great deal of studying 
 and schooling over there. They had almost as 
 much respect for learning then in Wilmington 
 as they have now among the White Mountains, 
 where they will not allow any waiters at the 
 hotels who cannot talk Greek. 
 
14 TOMPKINS. 
 
 " It was quite an affair when Lucy and I 
 left Wilmington and came to Burlington. 
 The departure of two inhabitants was a loss to 
 the town. It was not equal to the Chicago fire, 
 but it was an important event. I went to col- 
 lege, and Lucy came over the lake to work in 
 a woolen factory. There is where she worked," 
 pointing to the beautiful little village of Wi- 
 nooski, a mile away behind us, in the green 
 valley of Onion River. 
 
 " And she had to work there for a living, 
 while you went to college?" asked Mrs. Pem- 
 ber. 
 
 " That was it," said Tompkins. " We used 
 to serenade her sometimes, with the rest ; but 
 she seemed to think it was not exactly the 
 right thing for a poor factory girl, and so we 
 gave it up. I used to see her occasionally, but 
 somehow there grew up a distance between us." 
 
 " How was that? " inquired Mrs. Pember. 
 
 " Well, to tell the truth," answered Tomp- 
 kins, " I think my college ideas had too much 
 to do with it. I did not see it at the time, but 
 it has come over me lately. When a young 
 
TOMPKINS. 15 
 
 chap gets his head full of new ideas, he is very 
 likely to forget the old ones." 
 
 " You did not mean to do wrong, I am sure," 
 said Mrs. Pember. 
 
 " The excuse I have," continued Tompkins, 
 " is that I had to work and scrimp and suffer 
 so myself, to get along and pay my way, that 
 I hardly thought of anything except my studies 
 and how to meet my expenses. Then there 
 was^hat dream of doing some great thing in 
 the world. I taught the district school in 
 Wilmington three months during my Sopho- 
 more year to get money to go on with, and I 
 think that helped to make me ambitious. It 
 was the sincere conviction of the neighborhood 
 over there that I would be president of the 
 college or of the United States. I do not think 
 they would have conceded that there was much 
 difference in the two positions. I felt that I 
 would be disgraced if I did not meet their ex- 
 pectations. By one of those coincidences which 
 seemed to follow our fortunes, Lucy made a 
 long visit home when I was teaching in Wil- 
 mington. She was one of my pupils. She was 
 
16 TOMPKINS. 
 
 a quiet little lady, and hardly spoke^ a loud 
 word, that I remember, all winter." 
 
 "Did you try to talk to her, Timothy?" 
 asked Mrs. Pember. 
 
 " I do not claim . that I did," answered 
 Tompkins. " I was studying hard to keep up 
 with my class, and that was the reason. But 
 I wish I. had paid more attention to Lucy Gary 
 that winter. I would not have you think there 
 was anything particular between Lucy anct me. 
 It was not that." 
 
 " We will think just what we please," inter- 
 rupted Mrs. Pember, in a serious tone. 
 
 " Well," continued the narrator, " it would 
 be absurd to suppose there was any such thing." 
 
 There was a long pause. " You had better 
 tell the rest of the story, Timothy," said the 
 old gentleman, persuasively. 
 
 " Yes, I will," responded Tompkins. " After 
 I came back to college I got along better than 
 before I had taught. The money I received 
 for teaching helped me, and another thing 
 aided me. The folks in Wilmington found 
 out how a poor young man works to get through 
 
TO MP KINS. 17 
 
 college. Some of us used to live on a dollar a 
 week apiece, and board ourselves in our rooms, 
 down there in the buildings ; and we were 
 doing the hardest kind of studying at the same 
 time. We would often club together, one do- 
 ing the cooking for five or six. The cook would 
 get off without paying. It was one of the most 
 delightful things in the world to see a tall 
 young man in a calico dressing-gown come out 
 on the green, where we would be playing foot- 
 ball, and make the motions of beating an imagi- 
 nary gong for dinner. In order to appreciate 
 it, you need to work hard and play hard and 
 live on the slimmest kind of New England fare. 
 But there is one thing even better than that. 
 To experience the most exquisite delight ever 
 known by a Burlington student, you ought to 
 have an uncle Jason. While I was teaching 
 in Wilmington, my uncle Jason, from North 
 Elba, which was close by, came there. When 
 he found out what an important man I was, 
 and how I was fighting my way, he sympathized 
 wonderfully. He was not on good terms at 
 our house, but he called at my school, and 
 
18 TOMPKINS. 
 
 almost cried over me. He was not a man of 
 much learning, but he looked upon those who 
 were educated as a superior order of beings. I 
 was regarded in the neighborhood as a sort of 
 martyr to science, a genius who was working 
 himself to death. I was the only public man 
 ever produced by the settlement up to that 
 date. It was part of the religion of the place 
 to look upon me as something unusual, and 
 uncle Jason shared the general feeling. I 
 could see, as he sat there in the school-house 
 observing the school, that he was very proud 
 of me. Before leaving, he called me into 
 the entry and gave me a two-dollar bill. It 
 was generous, for he was a poor man, and 
 had his wife and children to support. It 
 brought the tears to my eyes when he handed 
 me the money, and told me I was the flower of 
 the family and the pride of the settlement. I 
 felt as if I would rather die than fail of ful- 
 filling the expectations of my friends. There 
 was great delight in it, and it was an inex- 
 pressible joy to know that my relatives and 
 the neighbors cared so much for me. 
 
TOMPKINS. 19 
 
 " To comprehend this thing fully, Mrs. Pem- 
 ber, you ought to be in college, and when you 
 are getting hard up, and see no way but to 
 leave, get letters, as I did from uncle Jason, 
 with five or six dollars at a time in them. 
 Such a trifle would carry you through to the 
 end of the term, and save your standing in the 
 class. If you were a Burlington college boy, 
 while you might be willing to depart this life 
 in an honorable manner, you would not be will- 
 ing to lose your mark and standing as a student. 
 You would regard the consequences of such a 
 disaster as very damaging to your character, 
 and certain to remain with you forever. 
 
 " I may as well say, while it is on my mind, 
 that I do think this matter of education is a 
 little overdone in this part of the country. A 
 young man is not the centre of the universe 
 merely because he is a college student, or a 
 graduate, and it is not worth while to scare 
 him with any such idea. The only way he can 
 meet the expectation of his friends, under such 
 circumstances, is to get run over accidentally 
 by the cars. That completes his martyrdom, 
 
20 TOMPKINS. 
 
 and affords his folks an opportunity to boast 
 of what he would have been if he had lived." 
 
 " Tell us more about Lucy," said Mrs. Pem- 
 ber. 
 
 " Yes, certainly," replied Tompkins. " Lucy 
 had a wonderful idea of poetry and writing. 
 It is really alarming to a stranger to see the 
 feeling there is up here in that way. The im- 
 pression prevails generally that a writer is su- 
 perior to all other people on earth. I remember 
 to have heard that one of our class, a year after 
 we were graduated, started a newspaper back 
 here about ten miles, on the bank of the Onion 
 River. He might just as well have started it 
 under a sage bush out on the alkali plains. He 
 gave it some queer Greek name, and I heard 
 that the publication was first semi- weekly, then 
 weekly, and then very weakly indeed, until it 
 came to a full stop at the end of six months. 
 It would have been ridiculous anywhere else ; 
 but being an attempt at literature, I suppose 
 it was looked upon here as respectable." 
 
 " And did you use to write poetry ? " que- 
 ried Mrs. Pember. 
 
TOMPKINS. 21 
 
 " Not to any dangerous extent," replied 
 Tompkins. " I do not deny that I tried while 
 in college, but I reformed when I went West. 
 I think uncle Jason always had an idea that it 
 might be better for me to be Daniel Webster. 
 He stood by me after I left college, and for 
 three years I continued to get those letters, 
 with five or six dollars at a time in them. They 
 kept me from actual suffering sometimes, before 
 I got down off my stilts, and went to work, 
 like an honest man, in the pork business." 
 
 " I thought you were going to tell us some- 
 thing about that girl," suggested Mrs. Pember. 
 
 " Yes, I was," rejoined Tompkins. " When 
 I saw Lucy here, four years ago, in the gallery 
 with the singers, I felt as if it would be im- 
 possible for me to face her and talk with her. 
 She would not have known me, for one thing. 
 When I was a brown -haired boy, making 
 poetry and being a martyr, and doing sere- 
 nading, and living on codfish and crackers 
 and soup, I could meet Lucy with a grand air 
 that made her shudder ; but, as I sat there in 
 church, gray and worn, I dreaded to catch her 
 
22 TOMPKINS. 
 
 eye, or have her see me. Although there was 
 not three years' difference in our ages, yet it 
 seemed to me that I was very old, while she 
 was still blooming. Then there was the feel- 
 ing that I had not become a great poet, or 
 orator, or anything really worth while. On 
 the contrary, I was just nobody. It seemed 
 like attending my own funeral. I felt dis- 
 graced. Of course it was not all true. I had 
 been a good, square, honest, hard-working 
 man." 
 
 " Yes, you had indeed, Timothy," assented 
 Mrs. Pember, with an emphatic nod. 
 
 " Yes indeed, I had," repeated Tompkins, 
 his chin quivering. " It was not the thing for 
 a fair-minded man to think so poorly of him- 
 self ; but I was alone, and the old associations 
 and the solemn services were very impressive. 
 There was Lucy in the choir; she always 
 could sing like a nightingale. When I heard 
 her voice again, it overcame me. I did not 
 hear much of the sermon. I think it was 
 something about temptation and the sugges- 
 tions of the evil one ; but I am not sure, for 
 
TOMPKINS. 23 
 
 I had my head down on the back of the pew 
 in front of me most of the time. I had to 
 fight desperately to control my feelings. One 
 minute I would think that as soon as the ser- 
 vices closed I would rush around and shake 
 hands with my old acquaintances, and the next 
 minute would be doing my best to swallow the 
 lump in my throat. It was as tough a sixty 
 minutes as I ever passed. But finally the ser- 
 vices were ended. I felt that it was plainly 
 my duty to stop in the porch and claim the 
 recognition of my friends. I did pause, and 
 try for a few seconds to collect myself ; but 
 the lump grew bigger and choked me, while 
 the tears would flow. Besides that, as the 
 adversary just then, in the meanest possible 
 manner, suggested to my soul, there was that 
 pork. I knew I would have to tell of it if I 
 stopped. But I did not stop; I retreated. 
 When I reached my room in the hotel I felt 
 a longing to get out of town. Fortunately, I 
 could not leave on Sunday. So in the after- 
 noon I sat with the landlord on his broad front 
 platform, or piazza. It was not the person 
 
24 TOMPKINS. 
 
 who keeps the place now, but one of the oldest 
 inhabitants, who knew all about the Burling- 
 ton people. He guessed that I was a college 
 boy; he thought he remembered something 
 about my appearance. I did not mind talking 
 freely with a landlord, for hotels and boarding- 
 houses had been my home in Chicago. I had 
 always been a single man, just as I am to this 
 day. This landlord was a good- hearted old 
 chap, and it was pleasant to talk with him. 
 While we were sitting there, who should come 
 along the street but Lucy, with a book in her 
 hand. She was on the opposite sidewalk, and 
 did not look up. She would not look at a 
 hotel on Sunday. I asked the landlord about 
 her, and he told me all there was to tell. She 
 was living in one end of a little wooden cot- 
 tage over toward Winooski, another factory 
 woman occupying the other part of the house. 
 They made a home together. The landlord 
 said Lucy was an excellent woman, and might 
 have married one of the overseers in the fac- 
 tory any time she chose for years back, but 
 that she preferred a single life. 
 
TOMPKINS. 25 
 
 " When I got back to Chicago I kept think- 
 ing about Lucy Gary. The old times when we 
 used to live in Wilmington came back to my 
 mind. The truth of it was, I was getting 
 along a little, at last, in Chicago in the way 
 of property, and I found myself all the while 
 planning how I could have Lucy Gary near 
 me." 
 
 " Did you want to marry her, Timothy ? " 
 inquired Mrs. Pember. 
 
 " It was not that," he replied ; " but I 
 wanted to become acquainted with her again. 
 I knew she was the best girl I had ever seen. 
 She always was just as good and pious as any- 
 body could be. We were like brother and 
 sister, almost, when young ; and when I 
 thought of home and my folks and old Wil- 
 mington and the college days, somehow Lucy 
 was the centre of it all. In fact, almost 
 everything else was gone. My folks were 
 scattered, and Lucy and uncle Jason were 
 nearly the only persons up this way that I 
 could lay claim to. There is a kind of lone- 
 some streak comes over a man when he has 
 
26 TOMPKINS. 
 
 been grinding away in a great city for a good 
 many years, and comes back to the old places, 
 and sees them so fresh and green and quiet, 
 and he can't get over it. He will cling to 
 anything that belongs to old times. I was 
 strongly influenced to write to Lucy, but 
 finally I did not. I determined that I would 
 get all I could for two or three years, and then 
 I would come here and face things. I would 
 get something comfortable, and would have 
 a place I could call my own in Chicago. 
 Then, when I had it fixed, I would come and 
 see uncle Jason and Lucy, and stand the 
 racket. Of course it was nonsense to feel shy, 
 but it seemed to me that I could not say a 
 word until I had sometLing to brag of. They 
 knew, in a general kind of way, that I was in 
 Chicago, dealing in pork, or doing auctioneer- 
 ing or something, and that was as much humil- 
 iation as I could endure. To be sure, it was 
 nothing to be ashamed of, for I had been an 
 honest, faithful man ; but to come back to my 
 friends empty-handed, without money or fame, 
 and gray -headed at that, was more than I 
 
TOMPKINS. 27 
 
 could stand. If I had had anything or been 
 anything, just to take the edge off, I could 
 have managed it. As it was, I looked ahead 
 and worked. If any man in Chicago has 
 tried and planned and toiled during the last 
 three years, I am that man. There has been 
 a picture before my mind of a pleasant home 
 there." 
 
 " And have you calculated to marry Lucy 
 Gary ? " inquired Mrs. Pember, in an eager 
 voice. 
 
 "Perhaps it was not just in that way I 
 thought of it," replied the narrator, very 
 seriously. " You know I told you that the 
 landlord said she preferred a single life." 
 
 " Timothy Toinpkins," exclaimed the old 
 lady apprehensively, " don't deny it, don't ! 
 *fhink how dreadfully you will feel if you 
 know you have told a lie ! " 
 
 " It is nothing to be ashamed of, Timothy," 
 said Mr. Pember, in a kind and sympathetic 
 voice. 
 
 " If you put it in that way," answered my 
 old classmate, in strangely mournful tones, 
 
28 TOMPKINS. 
 
 " all I can say is, there was never anything 
 between us, nothing at all." 
 
 " And did you come here this time to see 
 her ? " inquired Mrs. Pember, almost starting 
 from her seat, and with the thrill of a sudden 
 guess in her voice. 
 
 " I suppose it was as much that as any- 
 thing," replied Tompkins doggedly, looking 
 down, and poking with a short stick in the 
 ground at his feet. 
 
 " And that is what has made you act so 
 queer," mused Mrs. Pember. " Have you seen 
 her?" 
 
 " Let him tell the story, Caroline," urged 
 the old gentleman peevishly. 
 
 Tompkins looked gloomily out upon the lake 
 and the broad landscape for a few moments ; 
 and then, resuming his narrative, said, 
 
 "As I was saying, I have worked hard, and 
 have got a nice little pile. I am worth thirty- 
 five thousand dollars. When I made up my 
 mind to come East this summer, the money to 
 pay uncle Jason for what he had done was all 
 ready. It made me choke to think how long 
 
TOMPKINS. 29 
 
 I had let it run. I figured it up as near as I 
 could, the two hundred that came to me in 
 college, and the two hundred after that ; and 
 I put in the simple interest at seven per cent., 
 according to the York State law, which brought 
 the sum total up to nearly nine hundred ; and 
 to fix it all right I made it an even thousand 
 dollars. Then I bought a new buckskin bag, 
 and went to a bank in Chicago and got the 
 money all in gold. I knew that would please 
 uncle Jason. He once talked of going to Cal- 
 ifornia to dig. I suppose he had never seen a 
 pile of the real yellow coin in his life. I wrote 
 to him that I was to be in Burlington, and that 
 I would be ever so glad if he would come over 
 and see me. I met him yesterday afternoon, 
 as he got off the boat, down at the steamboat 
 landing. He knew me, and I knew him, al- 
 though we were both changed a good deal. 
 After we had talked a little, and got used to 
 each other, I took him up to my room in the 
 hotel. I was in a hurry to get at the business 
 part of my visit with him first ; for it seemed 
 to me that it would be better to let hint see, to 
 
30 TOMPKTNS. 
 
 begin with, that I was not exactly poor, nor 
 such an ungrateful cub as may be he had 
 thought I was. It was my resolve that before 
 we talked of anything else I would get that 
 money off my conscience. I knew that then I 
 could hold up my head, and discuss our neigh- 
 borhood and old times, and it would be plain 
 sailing for me. I had pictured to my mind a 
 dozen times how uncle Jason would look with 
 that new yellow buckskin bag crammed with 
 gold on his knee, steadying it with his hand 
 and talking to me. So when I got him up to 
 my room, and seated him in a chair, I began 
 the performance. I got red in the face, and 
 spluttered, and flourished round with the bag 
 and the gold ; and, to tell the truth, I fully ex- 
 pected to make the old man's hair rise right 
 up. But it did not work. He got shaky and 
 trembled, and somehow did not seem to want 
 the money at all, and finally owned how it was. 
 He said that he had never given me a cent ; it 
 was all Lucy Gary's doing. And she had made 
 him promise, on his everlasting Bible oath, as 
 he called it, that he would not tell. She had 
 
TOMPKINS. 31 
 
 put him up to the whole thing ; even that first 
 two-dollar bill had come from her wages." 
 
 My old classmate ceased speaking. He was 
 becoming flushed and excited. He gazed ab- 
 stractedly at the broad blue mirror of old 
 Champlain, upon which he and I had looked 
 together so often in the days of our youth. 
 
 Mr. Pember sat silently. Mrs. Pember was 
 whimpering behind her handkerchief. 
 
 I ventured the inquiry, " Have you seen 
 Lucy yet ? " 
 
 Tompkins' face quivered ; he was silent. 
 
 Mrs. Pember 's interest in the question re- 
 stored her. " Tell us, have you seen her ? " 
 she asked. 
 
 " I heard of it yesterday," Tompkins replied 
 huskily, with an effort. 
 
 " Why, Timothy, what is the matter?" cried 
 Mrs. Pember, rising from her seat and coming 
 to him, as he bent his head and buried his face 
 in his hands. The motherly woman took off 
 his soft hat, and stroking his hair said, " You 
 had better tell ; it will do you good." And 
 then she put his hat on again, and stood wiping 
 
32 TOMPKINS. 
 
 her eyes in sympathy, while he struggled with 
 himself. 
 
 The storm of feeling passed away, and Tomp- 
 kins, having gained control of his emotions, 
 slowly lifted his face from his hands, and sat 
 peering out under his hat brim, looking appar- 
 ently at a boat upon the lake. At last he said 
 in a calm voice, " She is dead." 
 
 It was very still after this announcement. 
 The softest breath of June scarcely whispered 
 in the pines overhead, and the vast landscape 
 below seemed strangely at rest in the fervid 
 brightness of the summer noon. 
 
 My old classmate was the first to break the 
 silence. 
 
 " Well," said he wearily, " it must be about 
 time for dinner ; let us go to the hotel." 
 
 We took the little brown road, and walked 
 down a long, shaded, quiet street. Memories 
 of college days and romantic summer nights, 
 with music and starlight, and the long, long 
 thoughts of youth came back to me, as I looked 
 at the houses and gardens familiar in college 
 days, and chatted about them with Mrs. Pem- 
 ber. 
 
TOMPKINS. 33 
 
 " Timothy always means well," said she to 
 me confidentially, reverting to the subject of 
 which we were all thinking, " but it was very 
 wrong for him to neglect that poor factory 
 girl ; don't you think so ? " 
 
34 
 RUBE JONES. 
 
 IE was a fine, large man, with wavy 
 white hair and blue eyes. I thought 
 I had never seen a better specimen of 
 genuine white oak. It was a winter evening 
 in January, 1864, and we were at widow Mor- 
 gan's in Chapel Street, Albany. Jones and I 
 were the only boarders. We were sitting with 
 Mrs. Morgan in the cosy front parlor, before 
 an open-grate fire. 
 
 "Fact is," said Jones, continuing the con- 
 versation, " this is not my first visit to Albany. 
 I was here when I was eighteen years old ; I 
 came then from my home in New Hampshire 
 to find work. They were building the Capitol 
 (which you now call the old Capitol, because 
 you talk of having a new one), and I worked 
 on the building. I do not mind telling you 
 that some things happened to me that year in 
 
RUBE JONES. 35 
 
 this city which I have never felt quite right 
 about, and I came here three weeks ago to look 
 at the old landmarks and review my youth, as 
 you may say. Of course you two have won- 
 dered what I have been looking about Albany 
 for, and perhaps it will be as well for me to 
 tell you all about it." 
 
 " We do not urge it," said Mrs. Morgan. 
 
 "Well, have it that I am anxious to tell, if 
 you want to," said the narrator sharply. " Fact 
 is, it was my first experience away from home, 
 when I came here, so long ago. Albany was 
 just a neat, queer Dutch place then. The 
 houses were for all the world like those sharp 
 old wooden hen-coops we had in New Hamp- 
 shire. When I. got my first sight of the place, 
 that comparison occurred to me. And all 
 around, on the sandy hills and in the hollows, 
 were pine-trees and wild-briars and evergreens. 
 And this beautiful verdure was profusely be- 
 spangled with the wild rose." 
 
 " Please don't get flowery, Mr. Jones," said 
 Mrs. Morgan softly, with a slow, delicious utter- 
 ance. 
 
36 RUBE JONES. 
 
 " I will try to avoid it, by special request," 
 replied Mr. Jones ; " but I wish both of you 
 to understand how fine it was. All along the 
 river were stately elms and lines of willows, 
 and there was the greenest grass in the world. 
 There were no railroads, or excavations, or 
 dumping grounds, or decayed cabbages on the 
 island, or dead cats in the river, Everything 
 was just as neat and smooth and pretty as a pic- 
 ture on an old fashioned piece of china ware. 
 
 "Well, the way all this comes in," continued 
 Jones, " is this. It was a wonderfully good 
 place for a young fellow to go wandering around 
 with his girl. And days when I was off work 
 I used to wander ; and evenings too, for that 
 matter. It is just impossible to tell you of the 
 delightful hours I enjoyed with little Blandie, 
 the girl I cared so much for, and the dear little 
 creature who I am sure cared for me." 
 
 " Mr. Jones," said Mrs. Morgan, with a mis- 
 chievous smile, " if you are going to be senti- 
 mental, I cannot give my time to it ; really, I 
 cannot." And Mrs. Morgan took her work 
 from her lap and resumed her needle. 
 
RUBE JONES. 37 
 
 " Go on with your sewing, madam," said Mr. 
 Jones tartly. " I will try not to disturb you. 
 As I was saying, sir, when the lady inter- 
 rupted," he went on, turning to me, "my en- 
 joyment of that spring and summer was be- 
 yond what I can explain. I doubt not that at 
 your age you will comprehend something of it" 
 (with a deprecating glance toward Mrs. Mor- 
 gan, as if she were too old to understand). "It 
 was the golden summer, the culmination of my 
 life. But there came a cloud. In those days it 
 required about a week to travel from New York 
 to Albany. The man who had seen New York 
 had something to boast of, and any New Yorker 
 was a person of distinction, when he came to 
 this city. In July, two men came here from 
 New York. One of them won, or seemed to 
 win, little Blandie away from me. It was not 
 the older one, whose name was Dudley, but it 
 was the young fellow, Harry. I was just a 
 poor working-lad, but Harry was a gentleman 
 from New York ; what could I do ? It may be 
 that you, my dear young friend, have never 
 passed through what I suffered, and I hope you 
 
38 RUBE JONES. 
 
 never have and never will. It just hurt me 
 deep down in my heart, One thing about it 
 was, I could not blame Blandie much. She 
 was always so good, and so kind, and so yield- 
 ing ! Very likely it was her mother, more than 
 it was Blandie, who encouraged him. We had 
 not been engaged, although I knew I would 
 have died for her," said Jones huskily, with 
 tears in his eyes and his handsome face flushed. 
 
 Mrs. Morgan stopped sewing, and looked at 
 the narrator. 
 
 " Well," continued the story-teller, "the 
 short of it was, I could do nothing. If I do 
 say it, the honest heart of a poor country boy 
 had been cruelly wounded. It was hard getting 
 through the days, when I felt the life going out 
 of me, as if the blood were oozing, drip, drip, 
 drip, from the wound in my heart. I resolved 
 to leave Albany. My old home among the 
 Granite Hills had been broken up, and I had 
 only the wide world before me. I determined to 
 go to New York. Two days before I started, 
 I sent a boy with a polite little letter to Blandie's 
 house, saying I was going away, and bidding 
 
RUBE JONES. 39 
 
 her good-by. She knew where I boarded, and 
 I hoped she might send me a good-by, too, but 
 she never did. I have always thought her 
 mother kept my letter from Blandie. How- 
 ever it was, on a day in August I got on board 
 a sloop leaving Albany, and started to work my 
 passage to New York, feeling more dreadfully 
 sad and lonely than can be told." 
 
 " And did n't you hear from Blandie ? " in- 
 quired Mrs. Morgan, with eager interest. 
 
 " Not a word, madam," replied Mr. Jones, 
 " not a single word. And the three or four 
 days following my departure from this city 
 were the most miserable I ever experienced. 
 I tried to blame the dear girl, but couldn't, 
 not to amount to anything ; and then I tried 
 to blame myself. The wonders of the Hud- 
 son River and the great world into which I 
 was going, and about which I felt dreadfully 
 frightened whenever I thought of it, helped to 
 lift her off my heart a little, as we sailed down 
 the stream. 
 
 " Let me see," continued Mr. Jones, reflect- 
 ing. " We started from Albany on Thursday, 
 
40 RUBE JONES. 
 
 and it was* on the Monday night following that 
 we got the great scare. We were just about 
 entering the Highlands, and it was near eleven 
 o'clock at night. There was a little breeze di- 
 rectly down the river. Suddenly there came 
 around the bend in the stream, just below us, 
 something so terrible that we were all nearly 
 scared to death, as you may say. You may 
 have read, Mrs. Morgan, of the strange spec- 
 tres in the form of ships, that sailors tell of, 
 which haunt the seas. This was one of those 
 spectre ships. It was, however, much more 
 terrible and substantial than you can imagine. 
 It came right on, against the wind, as no vessel 
 could sail, and its glare was unearthly. I shall 
 never forget how our captain looked in that 
 strange light, as he stood, ghastly and trem- 
 bling, facing it. We fell upon our knees in 
 supplication, as it passed us ; and with a ter- 
 rible roaring sound it moved away up the river. 
 It was, in fact, madam," said Mr. Jones, with 
 great emphasis, turning toward the lady as he 
 spoke, "it was, in fact, Fulton's steamboat 
 on that first trip up the river, in August, 1807." 
 
RUBE JONES. 41 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Jones, why did n't you tell it that 
 way first, and not try to make me nervous ?" 
 said Mrs. Morgan. 
 
 " I only told it just as it was," replied Jones 
 curtly. "Fact is, we knew nothing about such 
 a thing as a steamboat ; had n't even imagined 
 there could be such a thing. I venture to say 
 there were not ten people along the Hudson 
 River who had ever even heard of a steam- 
 engine. I know, when we got to New York, 
 the commonest inquiry was how the vapor 
 could possibly make the wheels go round. We 
 had never known of anything of the sort, and 
 thought the steam was turned on loose some 
 way, like the water on a water-wheel." 
 
 44 We don't care so much about the steam- 
 boat," interrupted Mrs. Morgan, " but tell us 
 more about Blandie." 
 
 " Oh yes, certainly," responded Mr. Jones 
 politely. " Fact is, I have always thought, to 
 look at it from a critical point of view, that the 
 big scare helped me about Blandie. It shook 
 me up so that I could think of something 
 besides the dear girl, and so it gave a chance 
 
42 RUBE JONES. 
 
 for the hurt I had suffered to heal. The short 
 of it was, I went to Bermuda soon after arriv- 
 ing in New York, and I remained on the island. 
 It is a curious old place, as you know, where 
 the people are more than half blacks, and the 
 rest of them more dead than alive. But I 
 stayed there, working hard, raising onions and 
 potatoes. There was nothing to rouse me. It 
 was just a quiet, dreamy climate. We do not 
 have frost or snow there. The Gulf Stream 
 keeps us warm all the year round. One day 
 is just like another, and so it makes no differ- 
 ence whether you stay there a week or fifty 
 years : it is one long dreamy blur, as you re- 
 member it. Now and then a shipwreck on the 
 reefs or some political disturbance helps a little 
 to mark off the time. But for the most part 
 you have only the boom of the ocean, the buzz 
 of the mosquito, the prospect of the potato crop, 
 and the smell of the onion. Fact is," said 
 Jones putting his hands in his pockets and tilt- 
 ing back his chair, " I have got to be pretty 
 well off." 
 
 " And did you not hear from Blandie ? " 
 asked Mrs. Morgan. 
 
RUBE JONES. 43 
 
 " There is a circumstance about that which I 
 have not related. I received a newspaper, 
 saying that Blandie was married. It was an 
 Albany paper, a very small, dingy sheet in those 
 days, but quite large enough to settle my busi- 
 ness. Somebody had marked the place in it 
 for me to see. My little Blandie was married ; 
 and whom do you guess it was to? " 
 
 " Was it not to Harry ? " I inquired. 
 
 " No," was the reply ; " it was to the older 
 man of the two New Yorkers, Mr. Charles 
 E. Dudley. It was not to Harry. Now you 
 know who Blandie was. Of course I can't tell 
 you Albany folks anything new about Mrs. 
 Blandina Dudley. You know that she founded 
 your Dudley Observatory, and that she did an 
 amazing amount of good, before she died, with 
 her large property. But the fact that Blandie 
 married well did n't help me a great deal, in 
 that long ago time when I got the newspaper 
 from the post-office in Bermuda. My view of 
 the world was simply to the effect that I was 
 done for, flattened out and finished. 
 
 " However," resumed Mr. Jones, after a long 
 
44 RUBE JONES. 
 
 pause, taking his hands to lift one leg over the 
 other, " I gradually picked up, found I was 
 still available for some minor purposes, and 
 traveled on. That is, I stayed at Bermuda." 
 
 "And did you ever see Blandie again?" 
 asked Mrs. Morgan. 
 
 " Well, no," said Jones, " I did n't ; but I 
 studied her up, as you may say. Fact is, I got 
 over my conniption, and was able to look at an 
 Albany newspaper again, after a few years. As 
 the potato crop came in good, I began to take 
 the New York and Albany newspapers. That 
 was a matter of a dozen years or so after Blandie 
 was married. You would be really pleased, 
 Mrs. Morgan, I dare say, to see what a kind of 
 museum I managed to work up out of the things 
 I found in the newspapers about the husband, 
 Mr. Dudley, and, after his death, about the 
 Observatory and Blandie. When the Obser- 
 vatory was inaugurated, or dedicated, I had the 
 proceedings in the papers. I saved Edward 
 Everett's great speech, and what the others said. 
 And I followed up the goings-on afterward, 
 about getting the instruments and making the 
 
RUBE JONES. 45 
 
 observations. That performance Professor 
 Gould, the astronomer in charge, went through, 
 in fighting your Albany trustees, who wanted 
 to boss him, was better than any play. Then 
 when Professor Peters, who was the astronomer 
 under Gould, found a comet which was flirting 
 around among the stars, it gave the Observa- 
 tory a start, set them up in business, as it 
 were. Perhaps you were as much interested 
 as I was in the fun they had trying to name 
 that comet, just for all the world as if a child 
 had been born. They talked at first of naming 
 it after one of the trustees, a real good, solid 
 man, who had been liberal in giving money to 
 buy the instruments. But then the scientific 
 fellows took fire, and wanted it named after 
 one of them. They said that such a thing as 
 naming a comet after a business man was never 
 heard of, and that it would not do at all. Well, 
 there was pulling and hauling and jealousy 
 among the relatives, so to speak. If that comet 
 had really been a child, I think the father and 
 mother would have hitched on to it a string of 
 names that would have made it necessary to 
 
46 RUBE JONES. 
 
 keep a catalogue of them, or to get out a second 
 volume to the directory. The parents would 
 have had to do it, to keep the uncles from be- 
 coming enemies and killing each other or mur- 
 dering the child. 
 
 " And now, there was just one point those 
 selfish creatures never thought of. Why on 
 earth did n't they do the right thing, and name 
 that comet Blandie? She had given more 
 money to the Observatory than all the rest put 
 together. Her husband was dead ; she was a 
 lone woman ; she never had any children, and 
 here was a chance for a kind of heavenly off- 
 spring, as it were, which she would have ap- 
 preciated. I was so riled up on the subject 
 at the time that I sent a letter to the editor of 
 a newspaper here about it. But he did n't 
 print it, and I don't know whether he got it 
 or not. Blandie would be too timid to speak 
 for herself ; I knew that. She was always so 
 good, and so kind, and so yielding! " And 
 Mr. Jones's eyes filled with tears. 
 
 " Let me see, what did they call it ? " said 
 Mrs. Morgan. " I don't seem to remember." 
 
RUBE JONES. 47 
 
 " Did n't call it anything," said Jones tes- 
 tily. " Parcel of big fools ! They just fought 
 over it till they were ashamed of themselves, 
 and then put it down as comet number so and 
 so of that year. Think of it!" said he, with 
 a sniff of contempt. " How would you like 
 it, Mrs. Morgan, to have your children just 
 named number so and so of that year ? " 
 
 " I would n't have it," said Mrs. Morgan 
 decidedly. 
 
 " Nobody would n't," said Mr. Jones. " Well, 
 as you know, early in March last Mrs. Dud- 
 ley died. I saw by the papers that there 
 was going to be some contest over her will, 
 and I said to myself, ' Now, Jones, you may 
 just as well see this thing through. You are 
 well off, and can afford it.' And so 'I came 
 up here to Albany to review my youth, as I 
 told you before, and to see the fun, if there 
 was any," said Jones, a little hoarsely, "in 
 fighting over the bones. 
 
 " In. the course of these last three weeks I 
 have wandered all around the city. I have 
 been to the Observatory, and seen the boss 
 
48 RUBE JONES. 
 
 telescope, and the calculating machine, and 
 the picture of the Inauguration, and the clocks, 
 and all the wonders. And I have seen that 
 block of great houses in Hawk Street which 
 Mrs. Dudley built, when she did n't know 
 what to do with her money. I have worn out 
 a good pair of taps stubbing along over these 
 rough sidewalks. I have seen about all there 
 is to see, and I am going home." 
 
 " You have taken a good deal of interest in 
 the contest over the will," I remarked. 
 
 " Yes, I have. It has not been my way to 
 hang around the surrogate's office when the 
 fight was going on. A stranger among the 
 mourners might excite remark. But I do not 
 mind telling you that I took board at this 
 house because I found out that you were an 
 attorney in the case, and were stopping here. 
 You see now why I have cultivated you so ex- 
 tensively. I really felt that I ought to tell 
 you about myself before I went away. I have 
 a good mind to show you my museum." 
 
 I expressed an ardent wish, in which Mrs. 
 Morgan joined, that he would do so. He went 
 
RUBE JONES. 49 
 
 to his room, and returned to the parlor with a 
 huge scrap-book, and a box of photographs 
 and stereoscopic views illustrating Albany, 
 the Observatory, and the Island of Bermuda. 
 The scrap-book contained the newspaper ex- 
 tracts of which he had spoken relating to the 
 Dudley Observatory and the Dudley family 
 and estate, besides many little gems of poetry 
 and pictures. 
 
 " Just thought I would bring them along in 
 my trunk," said Jones. " Did n't know but 
 I might find somebody in Albany that would 
 like to see them." 
 
 We were beginning (Mrs. Morgan and I) 
 to admire Jones's curious collection, when he 
 hesitatingly took from the inside breast pocket 
 of his coat a little case, and said, with a slight 
 tremor in his voice, " I brought this down, too, 
 thinking may be you would like to see Blandie, 
 that is Mrs. Dudley, as she looked when she 
 was a girl." 
 
 He opened the antique case, and showed us 
 one of those old-fashioned miniatures painted 
 on ivory, which were in vogue before the 
 4 
 
50 RUBE JONES. 
 
 daguerreotype and photograph were known. 
 The face was that of a brunette, apparently 
 about sixteen. Aside from a little piquancy 
 of expression, and a few gay ribbons which 
 the painting had preserved in their original 
 vividness, I failed to see anything especially 
 noticeable in the picture. 
 
 " That is just the way she looked," said 
 Jones, his voice trembling, "so many, many 
 years ago, when she was so good, and so kind, 
 and so yielding." 
 
 It was quite still in the room for half a 
 minute. 
 
 " Fact is," he added, clearing his throat, 
 "I have been just on the edge of stepping off 
 into matrimony three times since, down there 
 in Bermuda ; but it was kicked over every 
 time, and I just knew each time that it was 
 the hurt I got with Blandie that did it. I 
 could never really care for any other girl as I 
 ought to, after losing Blandie Becker." 
 
 I glanced at Mrs. Morgan, as we all stood 
 grouped by the centre table, looking at the 
 pictures. There was an odd, puzzled expres- 
 
RUBE JONES. 51 
 
 sion on her face. She had straightened up, 
 and was gazing intently at Jones. It was 
 evident that some recognition, or some re- 
 markable thought or idea, had suddenly oc- 
 curred to her. At length, out it came from 
 her lips, in a hard, quick, excited utterance : 
 " Why ! Be you Eube Jones ? " 
 
 Mr. Jones was not looking towards her at 
 the moment. He was startled by the exclama- 
 tion and the tone of voice. He turned to the 
 questioner with an air almost of alarm, and 
 replied, " Well, yes, madam ; that is what 
 they call me at home." 
 
 " Well," resumed Mrs. Morgan, speaking 
 very quickly and excitedly, " that is n't Mrs. 
 Dudley's picture you have got there. She 
 never looked like that." 
 
 " It 's likely I might know," broke in Jones 
 testily. " I had two of them painted, and 
 gave Blandie one and kept the other." 
 
 " Yes," said Mrs. Morgan, swallowing hard, 
 and snapping her eyes in a way peculiar to 
 herself ; " but Mrs. Dudley was n't Blandie 
 Becker." 
 
52 RUBE JONES. 
 
 " What 's that, what 's that ? " exclaimed 
 Mr. Jones. " Mrs. Dudley was n't Blandie 
 Becker?" 
 
 " No, she was n't," replied Mrs. Morgan. 
 
 " Well, I say she was ! " roared Jones. 
 
 " Oh ! " said Mrs. Morgan, and she paused, 
 and looked hard at Jones, and frowned. 
 " Well, may be she was." 
 
 " Of course she was," said Jones triumph- 
 antly. 
 
 It was clear to me that our hostess had 
 changed her mind, and had decided not to tell 
 what she knew ; and I happened to know that 
 Mrs. Dudley had been Miss Blandina Bleecker, 
 and not Miss Blandina Becker. Was here 
 some important mistake, or had they merely 
 pronounced a name wrongly ? 
 
 Jones talked on for a while, but it soon be- 
 came evident that Mrs. Morgan's excitement 
 and subsequent reticence had not escaped his 
 attention. 
 
 " How did you know my name was Rube 
 Jones ? " he suddenly asked her. 
 
 " I did n't," she replied evasively. 
 
RUBE JONES. 53 
 
 "Well, why did you ask? " he persisted. 
 
 She did not explain this very fully, but 
 merely said that she thought there was a young 
 man in the city, long ago, of that name. 
 
 " Very likely it was I," said Jones. 
 
 Mrs. Morgan did not seem inclined to dis- 
 cuss this. 
 
 " What was your maiden name ? " he asked. 
 
 " You might call it Smith, or some such 
 name," said Mrs. Morgan, with an embarrassed 
 laugh. 
 
 This was a rebuff, but Jones did not with- 
 draw. He went to the verge of politeness in 
 trying to get further information, but his ef- 
 forts only resulted in a little snubbing to him- 
 self. Mrs. Morgan declined to gratify Yankee 
 curiosity, as she termed it. 
 
 The harmony which had prevailed was some- 
 how gone. Mr. Jones had now little to say, 
 and seemed to feel that he had been too free 
 and talkative. Was Mrs. Morgan inclined to 
 be disagreeable ? Or was there some mystery 
 casting its shadow upon that social intercourse 
 which had been so delightful in the early part 
 
54 RUBE JONES. 
 
 of the evening? The time dragged. Jones 
 gathered up his museum, and went to his room. 
 
 " What an awfully obstinate man ! " was 
 Mrs. Morgan's comment the moment he had 
 gone. " I was just on the point," she added, 
 " of letting some facts out, but I am glad I 
 did n't. Very likely he will find them out." 
 
 " Is he mistaken about something? " I asked 
 persuasively. 
 
 '"I should rather think he was," said my 
 landlady, with a sly, secretive smile, seeming 
 to imply a great deal more than the words ex- 
 pressed. 
 
 I waited silently. 
 
 " I will tell you some other time, after he 
 has gone home," she said. 
 
 I knew from previous experience of Mrs. 
 Morgan's temper that urging would be use- 
 less, and, bidding her good-night, I withdrew. 
 
 During the next three days I saw Jones only 
 at the table. That he and Mrs. Morgan were 
 watching each other intently was clear to me. 
 Another thing was unpleasantly apparent : Mr. 
 Jones was suffering in some way to such a de- 
 
RUBE JONES. 55 
 
 gree that his face, handsome, rosy, and well 
 preserved as it was ordinarily, had become 
 pale, and almost haggard. It could readily be 
 seen that he took his meals only for form's 
 sake, and without appetite. I could not help 
 observing also, as time went on, that he was 
 shunning me, and that his glances toward Mrs. 
 Morgan were furtive, and indicated a shrink- 
 ing feeling on his part. It was not easy for me 
 to make advances, under the circumstances ; 
 but I tried to show him by my manner, and 
 by little attentions at table, that I would like 
 to be sociable, and that I desired to befriend 
 him. Mrs. Morgan was very attentive, also, 
 and was evidently sympathizing with him in 
 his trouble, whatever it might be. 
 
 On the fourth day, in the morning, the land- 
 lady beckoned me mysteriously into the par- 
 lor. This was her customary way of intimat- 
 ing that something momentous was impending. 
 She began the interview by crying a little, and 
 then said she desired to counsel with me about 
 Mr. Jones. 
 
 I expressed the warmest sympathy, and told 
 
56 RUBE JONES. 
 
 her that I should be only too glad to do any- 
 thing in his behalf. 
 
 " Well, the fact is," said Mrs. Morgan (it 
 occurred to me that she had caught the phrase 
 from Jones), " the fact is, he has found it 
 out ; I am satisfied of it ; and he is so awfully 
 proud that he is afraid to own it." 
 
 " Perhaps we could find some way to make 
 it easier for him," I suggested vaguely, well 
 knowing that direct questions were not the 
 best way to fathom Mrs. Morgan. 
 
 " That is just it," she declared, with enthu- 
 siasm. " If you could persuade him gently, 
 you know into the parlor, this evening, by 
 telling him that we know all about it, and urg- 
 ing him not to care for us, and not to feel so.'' 
 
 "Certainly," I replied. "And what had I 
 better tell him ? " 
 
 " Tell him it is not so very wonderful that 
 he did n't know, and that we sympathize with 
 him, and want to talk it over," she suggested. 
 
 I perceived that I wotdd have to ask the di- 
 rect question. 
 
 "He has found out that Blandie was not 
 Mrs. Dudley, I suppose ? " I queried. 
 
RUBE JONES. 57 
 
 " I am sure he has ; but I don't know 
 whether he has found out who I am or not. 
 You see, when my sister Blandie and I knew 
 Mr. Jones, he took a great notion to Blandie, 
 and it is her that he means ; and now to come 
 back here, and tell all that stuff about Mrs. 
 Dudley, and make such an awful fool of him- 
 self ! " said Mrs. Morgan, laughing through 
 her recent tears. 
 
 " Oh, yes, I see," said I. "It was your sis- 
 ter, Blandie Becker, and not Blandie Bleecker, 
 that is Mrs. Dudley, that Mr. Jones took a 
 fancy to." 
 
 " That is just it," said Mrs. Morgan. And 
 she added, with a laugh that had a touch of 
 derision and merriment in it, " The idea that 
 he should get Mrs. Dudley in$o his head, and 
 get up that museum ! She never even heard 
 there was such a man as Rube Jones. She 
 did n't get her money from Mr. Dudley. She 
 was n't a poor girl ; she was the youngest 
 daughter of Eutger Bleecker, one of the rich- 
 est men that ever lived in Albany." 
 
 I assured Mrs. Morgan that these matters 
 
58 RUBE JONES. 
 
 interested me very much, and that I would do 
 everything in my power to aid her in getting 
 Mr. Jones safely through his difficult situa- 
 tion ; and that I would, if the circumstances 
 favored, try to induce him to come into the 
 parlor that evening. Having made this ar- 
 rangement, I went away to my office. 
 
 All that day, as I was at work at my desk, 
 thoughts of Rube Jones were in my mind. I 
 no longer wondered at his suffering and his 
 changed apperaance. A delicate and beautiful 
 structure, built up by the noblest passion of 
 his nature, and by years of dreaming and be- 
 lief, had been shattered as if by a blow. The 
 more I thought of it, the more wonderful the 
 incident seemed, and the more sympathy I 
 felt for the man. I became a good deal in- 
 terested in the matter, and a little nervous in 
 regard to the part I had in prospect in the af- 
 fair, as I reflected upon it. But when evening 
 came, the pleasant supper-table and the encour- 
 aging glances of Mrs. Morgan gave me back 
 to myself, and I felt that success would be 
 achieved. 
 
RUBE JONES. 59 
 
 After supper, as Mr. Jones went into the 
 hall and took his hat to go out, I stepped to 
 his side. There was no one near. I said 
 quietly, u Mr. Jones, we really hope you will 
 favor us with your company in the parlor some 
 of the time. Mrs. Morgan and I have talked 
 it over, and of course we know of those little 
 things you got mixed about. I hope you will 
 excuse me, but really we would like to chat 
 with you if you are willing." 
 
 The color came in a quick flush to his face. 
 I thought he would refuse me. I hastened to 
 say, " I beg your pardon." 
 
 But Mr. Jones did not go out. He stood 
 quiet, and I saw that his face quivered. With 
 an effort he said, " Thank you." He seemed 
 to hesitate ; a moment more, and he laid aside 
 his hat, and went with me into the parlor. 
 We took chairs, and sat down near Mrs. 
 Morgan, who was sewing by the table. She 
 said, with some feeling, " I am very glad you 
 have come in this evening." 
 
 There was an embarrassing silence. I was 
 about to launch into a premeditated discourse, 
 when Jones spoke. 
 
60 RUBE JONES. 
 
 " Well," he said, huskily, with a glance at 
 our landlady, "so you are Polly Becker, 
 Blandie's little sister, that I used to buy 
 presents for." 
 
 " Yes," answered Mrs. Morgan, looking at 
 him, at first surprisedly, and then very kindly ; 
 and she added, " I have got some of your 
 presents yet, Rube Jones." 
 
 There seemed to be something pathetic 
 about this, for I noticed that soon both of the 
 old people were in a melting mood. 
 
 " And I suppose it is Blandie," said Jones, 
 hitching nervously in his seat, and clearing 
 his throat, " who is living just round the 
 corner in Lodge Street." 
 
 "Yes," said Mrs. Morgan, feeling for her 
 handkerchief, and beginning to sob. 
 
 " And she always taught school, and never 
 was married," said Jones, breaking down, and 
 the tears pouring over his handsome face. 
 
 " Oh, Rube Jones ! " exclaimed Mrs. Mor- 
 gan, in an outburst. 
 
 This was the climax. The air was cleared, 
 and a very pleasant and emotional conversa- 
 
RUBE JONES. 61 
 
 tion about the affairs of long ago followed 
 between the parties. There were explanations 
 and statements of little matters, frivolous in 
 themselves, but which these good people 
 laughed and cried over as if they were more 
 to them, as doubtless they were, than anything 
 else in the world. Jones dwelt quite largely 
 upon the evening walks and the doorstep con- 
 versations and the roses of the old times, and 
 the pleasant little surprises, in the way of 
 presents, which he prepared for Polly. Did 
 she remember ? Yes, she had not forgotten ; 
 and she remembered how Rube carried her 
 on his shoulder, and the tricks she played, 
 and how she pulled his ears and his hair. In 
 laughing and crying over these reminiscences, 
 Jones was as simple-hearted as a child. 
 
 Wishing to take some part in the conver- 
 sation of the evening, I interposed a remark 
 upon my premeditated topic. I spoke of the 
 important part which the mistaken identity 
 of persons has played in the courts. But I 
 regretted my venture immediately, for I saw 
 a look of pain cross the face of Mr. Jones. 
 
62 RUBE JONES. 
 
 He said, " I have seen earthquakes and I have 
 seen hurricanes, but I never knew what it was 
 really to tear up things until the last few 
 days." 
 
 Mrs. Morgan perceived my mistake, and 
 skillfully turned the conversation into its for- 
 mer channel. I saw that the subject of Mrs. 
 Dudley, and the error in regard to her, was 
 not a matter to be profitably alluded to in the 
 presence of Mr. Jones. It dawned upon me 
 that my mission in the parlor that evening 
 was ended. I excused myself, notwithstand- 
 ing entreaties to remain, and left .the friends 
 to their own devices. They made a late even- 
 ing of it, and, as I subsequently learned, ar- 
 ranged their plans for the morrow. 
 
 By the arrangement, it fell to my lot, the 
 next day, to show Mr. Jones the house where 
 his old sweetheart resided. Mrs. Morgan had 
 told her sister about matters, and she went 
 that morning and gave her notice, so that 
 Jones was expected. It was thought by Polly 
 that it would be easier for Blandie to see Rube 
 first without other company. So I piloted him 
 
RUBE JONES. 63 
 
 to the little wooden house where Miss Blaiidie 
 Becker had her home, and where she had a 
 school - room, and had taught very young 
 children for many years. She had, however, 
 ceased to teach her infant school, and was 
 now living in the house with only a servant- 
 girl. 
 
 As we walked toward the place, Eube told 
 me that the discovery that Blandie was still 
 living had overwhelmed him at first, and that 
 he was still nervous. I encouraged him all I 
 could, but it was easy to see that he was agi- 
 tated. When we reached Blandie' s house, I 
 stepped to the lowly door-way and rapped, for 
 there was no bell. A woman's voice said, 
 " Come in ; " and I entered, Mr. Jones follow- 
 ing close behind. 
 
 Seated in the middle of the room was the 
 old lady, dark, bent, and thin. She had a 
 book in her lap. 
 
 I said, "Miss Becker, this is Mr. Jones," 
 and presented him. 
 
 She glanced up timidly, and rose somewhat 
 totteringly from her chair. She stepped to 
 
64 RUBE JONES. 
 
 the other side of the room, to put her book 
 away, before welcoming us, but she did not 
 return. She stood with her face to the wall 
 and her back toward us, and we knew that 
 she was crying. She seemed like a poor 
 frightened child. She told us afterward that 
 she thought just then how poor an apology 
 she was for that rich woman, Mrs. Dudley. 
 
 " Oh, it 's little Blandie ! " said Mr. Jones, 
 softly crying in sympathy. " I know by the 
 way she acts." 
 
 "I will be back in half an hour, Mr. 
 Jones," I said ; and I went out and closed the 
 door after me. At the expiration of the half 
 hour, when I returned, I found that Mrs. 
 Morgan had come, just as I knew she would. 
 What woman would have stayed away ? There 
 was Jones happy as a Turk, with the two 
 women, one on each side of him, evidently ad- 
 miring him, and regarding him as the hand- 
 somest old boy in the world. But little more 
 of the details of this affair came to my knowl- 
 edge. I noticed, however, for the next six 
 weeks, that every evening Jones and the two 
 
RUBE JONES. 65 
 
 sisters were together, either in the parlor at 
 Mrs. Morgan's, or at Blandie's house. Their 
 talk was in regard to events remote in time, of 
 which I understood but little. But I saw that 
 the little presents Rube had given them long 
 ago had been preserved by the two sisters. 
 The duplicate of the picture Rube had cher- 
 ished was still in Blandie's possession. This 
 and all the little trifles were examined, and 
 their preciousness dwelt upon as if they had 
 some sacred quality, as indeed they had in the 
 eyes of these people, who saw in them their 
 own vanished youth. The season, as it went 
 by, was evidently a lovely Indian summer to 
 these friends, though the outward weather was, 
 in fact, like the period in life at which they 
 had arrived, of a wintry character. There 
 seemed no end to their explanations and con- 
 jectures as to how it was and how it must have 
 been, in that time so many years ago, when 
 they were young, and when Rube and Blandie 
 ought to have married. Each time they dis- 
 cussed the subject it yielded a fresh crop of 
 recollections and surmises, all of which in- 
 
 5 
 
66 RUBE JONES. 
 
 variably led to the delightful conclusion that 
 nobody was to blame except Providence and 
 the post-office. As the trio became more and 
 more familiar and happy in discussing these 
 themes, the Dudley subject would sometimes 
 be touched upon inadvertently. It was so in- 
 termingled with the affair that this could not 
 be avoided. It was a long time, however, be- 
 fore Rube ceased to wince when that matter 
 was referred to, and it was as far as possible, 
 in kindness to him, allowed to rest in silence. 
 
 There was a theory, which Jones advanced 
 in the latter part of the winter, founded upon 
 a discovery of his at the State Library, which 
 made some stir among us, and helped him very 
 much upon this subject. He brought to light, 
 in a bound volume of old Albany newspapers, 
 the very notice of the marriage of Mrs. Dud- 
 ley which had misled him so many years be- 
 fore. The Bleecker was spelled with a single 
 e. By erasing the I with a knife, the name 
 could be made Becker, with only a slight mis- 
 spacing, very common in newspaper print. 
 Jones claimed that his rival, Harry Day, had 
 
RUBE JONES. 67 
 
 played this trick upon him. Polly remem- 
 bered, young as she was at the time, that there 
 was some conspiracy on the part of her mother 
 and Harry against poor Blandie and her rustic 
 lover. Polly also thought she remembered 
 hearing Harry laugh, some year or two after- 
 ward, on one occasion when he came up from 
 New York, about some newspaper joke he had 
 played upon somebody. 
 
 Whatever the facts may really have been, 
 this theory of a newspaper trick helped Jones 
 wonderfully. It restored his confidence, so 
 that he became much less sensitive upon the 
 subject of Mrs. Dudley. He said that any 
 man might be the victim of a practical joke, 
 or, if we would allow the expression, of prac- 
 tical villainy. 
 
 As Harry was " dead and gone," and as 
 Polly said that, with all his fine airs and hand- 
 some clothes, he never amounted to anything, 
 and as it was known that Blandie never fa- 
 vored his suit, Jones found it possible to for- 
 give him. The trio, indeed, as they became 
 more and more interested in recalling the 
 
68 RUBE JONES. 
 
 past, forgave everybody, and spoke of " poor 
 Harry " and all the others who were deceased 
 with feelings of kindness and admiration. 
 The satisfaction with which their lives were 
 reviewed by these friends was a very pleas- 
 ant thing to contemplate. As the overflow of 
 kindly sympathy was increased by their com- 
 panionship from day to day, the discovery was 
 somehow made that all must have been for the 
 best, and that Providence, grim as it seemed 
 to them, had really no hostile intentions. 
 
 As the winter drew to a close, Rube lin- 
 gered, protracting his visit far beyond his 
 original purpose. He confessed to me that he 
 had never really known what home was before, 
 since he had left his father's house, and said 
 that he had not supposed he could ever be so 
 contented and happy as he now found himself. 
 The only time he recalled that he could com- 
 pare with it was that golden summer which he 
 had spent in Albany, in his early youth. 
 
 In April Mr. Jones announced that he must 
 return to his home in Bermuda. His parting 
 with his old sweetheart was witnessed by jio 
 
RUBE JONES. 69 
 
 vulgar eyes, but Mrs. Morgan confided to me 
 the fact that Blandie, old as she was, put her 
 arms around Rube's neck, and that he cried 
 as if he had been one of those infants whom 
 Blandie had been accustomed to instruct in her 
 younger days. Rube promised that he would 
 come back the next winter, and if possible ar- 
 range to live permanently in Albany; and 
 doubtless he would have done so if Blandie 
 had lived. He remarked to me, as I walked 
 with him to the train to see him off, and give 
 him the last hand-shake for the household, that 
 he would certainly come again the next season. 
 But he added, in a general way, and with that 
 air of independence which single gentlemen 
 seem to affect, that, as there was not much go- 
 ing on in business, he didn't know but he 
 might as well be " fooling around among the 
 women " as doing anything else. I did not 
 mean to remember this against him, for, after 
 all, it was probably only " his way." He per- 
 haps desired to impress me with the idea that 
 he was an independent bachelor. I could not 
 help seeing, however, from various indications. 
 
70 RUBE JONES. 
 
 that he emerged from the scenes he had passed 
 through, unsubdued and elastic. 
 
 As already intimated, Blandie did not last 
 long. She died the next summer, just faded 
 away, as yielding people so often do, with a 
 submission that seems to divest the skeleton 
 king of his terrors. Jones was duly informed 
 of her decease by a communication directed 
 to his home in Bermuda. He sent in return 
 a letter of condolence to Mrs. Morgan. It 
 was a model of its kind. I had not given 
 him credit for so much good judgment as it 
 evinced. 
 
 But Jones's real response came to me, in a 
 private letter, which I was not to exhibit to 
 Mrs. Morgan. He gave me an urgent invita- 
 tion to visit him at his island home. He in- 
 timated that he should never visit Albany 
 again. " The fact is, my dear boy," he wrote, 
 "if I were to come to your city, now that 
 Blandie is gone, just one thing would be inev- 
 itable : old as I am, I would certainly have to 
 marry Polly, and that would never do. No 
 woman shall ever come between me and the 
 
RUBE JONES. 71 
 
 little girl I chose so many years ago, who is 
 now waiting for me in the better country." 
 
 Jones informed me that, after getting back 
 to his old home, he found that many of his old 
 thoughts came back to him, and he could not 
 get rid of the idea that the Blandie of whom 
 he had dreamed so many years was in some 
 way connected with the Observatory. 
 
 Subsequently, I received letters from him 
 upon various subjects, and they gave me great 
 pleasure. He was a good correspondent. The 
 sound of the sea and the charm of Bermuda, 
 the roses and the coral and the warmth of the 
 Gulf Stream, seemed to be conveyed in his let- 
 ters. I saw in them, also, memories of that 
 early love which had haunted him so long, and 
 the shifting dreams which he still cherished. 
 He referred often to the problem which his 
 history presented. It was not easy to under- 
 stand why an item in a newspaper should have 
 been allowed by Providence to mislead him, 
 and so change the color and fortunes of his 
 whole life. Why was it, he asked me, that he 
 and Blandie had lived apart, when they seemed 
 
72 RUBE JONES. 
 
 so clearly to have been intended for each 
 other ? And why was it that when he had so 
 unexpectedly and wonderfully found her again 
 she so soon faded away ? But my old friend 
 never complained of these strange dealings of 
 Providence with him ; he only sought rever- 
 ently to understand them. I cannot recall a 
 word of murmuring, although to me he re- 
 vealed unconsciously the loneliness of his life. 
 Truth to tell, there was something pathetic in 
 the figure of Rube Jones as I saw him in his 
 letters, carrying about in his thoughts, as the 
 long years went round, in the narrow bounds 
 of his island home, the constant memory of his 
 thwarted affection. 
 
 Mr. Jones confessed that he still made clip- 
 pings from the newspapers, and continued to 
 increase his museum. He claimed that the 
 history of Mrs. Dudley was a part of the his- 
 tory of his own mind, and that it was well to 
 follow it up for that reason, if for no other. 
 
 As the years passed, our correspondence 
 ceased, and Rube Jones was forgotten. Mrs. 
 Morgan had died, and it would have been nat- 
 
RUBE JONES. 73 
 
 ural to suppose that Mr. Jones had gone the 
 way of all the earth, also. But a recent event 
 recalled him. My clerk, a handsome, impul- 
 sive young fellow, bounded into my office one 
 morning last March, bursting with the intelli- 
 gence that his young friend Charlie Wells, 
 who had recently entered the Dudley Obser- 
 vatory as an assistant, had immortalized his 
 name by finding a comet. He said it was the 
 second comet ever found at the Observatory. 
 
 Some ten days later, there appeared in my 
 morning's mail a letter with the Bermuda post- 
 mark. It contained about a dozen words of 
 congratulation from Jones on the fact that 
 " Blandie's Observatory " had found another 
 comet. I answered the letter wonderingly. 
 Could it be that my old acquaintance was still 
 living ? My curiosity was excited. I remem- 
 bered a correspondent who had business which 
 took him often to Bermuda. I was at some 
 pains to find out through him about my old ac- 
 quaintance. The report was a eulogistic one 
 in regard to Jones. His excellent constitution 
 and careful living had carried him into the 
 
74 RUBE JONES. 
 
 nineties, and he was still able to get about. I 
 learned, however, of his death shortly after- 
 ward. The new comet (the Wells comet of 
 1882) was his last enthusiasm. 
 
75 
 JACOB'S INSURANCE. 
 
 j]T resulted in a lawsuit. 
 
 The culmination was on the sixth 
 day of September, 1881, that strange 
 yellow day that attracted so much attention 
 in the Eastern and Middle States, and the 
 place of the trial was Albany. 
 
 Jacob's farm-house was near the Cove, about 
 seven miles below Albany. From his door he 
 could look down on the Hudson. The Cove, 
 by the old landing, with its decayed houses, 
 was also visible. The cars racing along the 
 farther shore of the river were a lively feature. 
 A dozen miles lower down the valley the river 
 hides behind the Catskills. 
 
 In the house thus picturesquely situated, 
 Jacob and his ancestors had lived for ninety 
 years. The family name was an inheritance. 
 
 Jacob was forty-two years old, tall, blonde, 
 
76 JACOB'S INSURANCE. 
 
 with a mobile face, and a dash of red in his 
 cheeks. 
 
 On the seventeenth day of September, of the 
 year previous to that of the yellow day, Jacob 
 was awakened in the night. He heard his pigs 
 squealing and "bucking," as he termed it, 
 against his house. He went out, half dressed, 
 and found the pig-pen a heap of embers. Mary, 
 his wife, and William, his boy, came out. They 
 found all the pigs, but they were scorched and 
 knocking about, and one died in a few minutes 
 of his burns. The family went to bed again, 
 but did not sleep much. 
 
 In the morning Jacob got out his insurance 
 policy, and he and Mary and Willie looked it 
 over. They did not see anything about a pig- 
 pen in it, and so he put it away again. 
 
 A week later Jacob's small barn, four rods 
 south of his house, was burned. It was in the 
 daytime, in the afternoon. Jacob came back 
 from Albany at five o'clock, and saw only the 
 vacancy. Willie said that at three o'clock it 
 was on fire. Some of the neighbors had come, 
 but nothing could be done. It was of pine 
 boards, thirty years old, and empty. 
 
JACOB'S INSURANCE. 77 
 
 The insurance policy had " all about the 
 barns" in it. Jacob therefore went down to 
 " Silas's," at the Cove, and made an applica- 
 tion for an award. They had a local insurance 
 company in town. They had seen " enough " 
 of large companies ; the mutual affair at home 
 was better. Jacob's policy was in the home 
 company. 
 
 As soon as Jacob told his story, Silas said it 
 was all right. 
 
 The committee came next day. They award- 
 ed Jacob a hundred dollars. It was satisfac- 
 tory. 
 
 Five days later Jacob's large barn, farther 
 away from the house and on the other side, 
 north (towards Albany), where all his hay and 
 wagons and implements and crops were, sud- 
 denly took fire and burned up. 
 
 It was " astonishing " ! What could have 
 caused it ? It was a heavy loss this time. 
 Jacob had hard work to get his horses out and 
 save them ; all else was consumed. It was a 
 very mysterious fire ; all three of the fires had 
 been mysterious. This last fire occurred in 
 
78 JACOB'S INSURANCE. 
 
 the edge of the evening, just as it was grow- 
 ing dark. Jacob was at home in his house, 
 and did not know of the conflagration until a 
 woman came from the next house, screaming. 
 
 " I did n't know you had any enemy, Jacob," 
 said old William Kamfer, just after the fire. 
 
 " I did n't, either," said Jacob gloomily. 
 
 There was comfort in the fact that the prop- 
 erty had been insured. The day after the burn- 
 ing, Jacob went again to the Cove and made 
 his application. 
 
 " Something seems to be after you, Jacob," 
 said Silas, eying him keenly. 
 
 " Yes," said Jacob sadly. 
 
 Silas wrote the required papers, and said the 
 committee would come up soon. The very 
 next morning, at nine o'clock, the committee 
 were on hand and examining the place where 
 the barn had stood. They were "at it " more 
 than two hours. There was a great deal of 
 measuring and making inquiries ; they said it 
 was a heavy loss. Besides the long examina- 
 tion of the place where the large barn had been, 
 they had the curiosity to go and look once more 
 
JACOB'S INSURANCE. 79 
 
 where the small barn had been, and took some 
 measurements there, and they poked in the 
 ashes of the hog-pen, and walked about the 
 premises. One of them carried a book, and 
 jotted down the measurements and other items. 
 
 The committee delayed making any award. 
 They said it was an important matter, and they 
 would take time. 
 
 After three days Jacob went down to the 
 Cove and inquired of Silas. The answer was 
 that the board would meet before the end of 
 the week, and that then something would be 
 done about it. Some of Jacob's own immediate 
 friends and neighbors belonged to the board. 
 He spoke to them about it ; they seemed reticent. 
 
 There was delay, and another visit of the 
 committee, with more measuring, and a first 
 and then a second meeting of the board. After 
 about fifteen days, however, Silas walked up 
 from the Cove, a distance of two miles, and 
 left a letter with Mary for Jacob. 
 
 When Jacob came in to dinner he got the 
 letter. It had the insurance company head- 
 ing, and said : 
 
80 JACOB'S INSURANCE. 
 
 MR. JACOB WILSON : 
 
 SIR, In the case of the barn on your 
 premises, which, burned on the 29th of Sep- 
 tember, 1880, it is decided, in view of all the 
 circumstances, that no award will be made. 
 
 This was signed by Silas, as secretary of 
 the company. 
 
 A week later Jacob was in a lawyer's office 
 in Albany, in private consultation. 
 
 " I don't want no la wing," said Jacob, " and 
 my wife says so, too, although we cannot stand 
 it to lose eighteen hundred dollars." 
 
 " Are you going to let them say you burned 
 the buildings? " said the lawyer. 
 
 " They dar' n't say it," replied Jacob, 
 fiercely. . 
 
 " That is the meaning of it," said the lawyer. 
 
 Jacob was silent. The old family name, 
 distinguished for honesty, was at stake, as well 
 as the property. 
 
 The papers were served in November, and in 
 January the cause was on the calendar at the 
 Albany circuit of the supreme court of the 
 
JACOB'S INSURANCE. 81 
 
 State. The calendar is always crowded, and 
 there is delay in coming to trial. The cause 
 was not reached until September the 5th, 1881, 
 at an adjourned circuit, the day before the fa- 
 mous yellow day, already alluded to. 
 
 The city hall, in which the courts were held, 
 having been destroyed by fire a short time 
 before, the circuit was held in the Assembly 
 chamber of the old Capitol. It seemed to Jacob 
 an imposing scene, as he entered the famous 
 room where so many laws were made, and in 
 which the law was to be administered in his 
 case. He had to wait, hanging around the 
 court for three days before his case was reached. 
 The time was not lost to him. He heard several 
 trials, which were as interesting as story-books. 
 
 At five o'clock, on the evening of the 5th of 
 September, number ninety on the calendar, 
 which was Jacob's case, was reached. Jacob's 
 lawyer and the opposing counsel announced 
 themselves ready. Jacob was invited forward 
 to a seat by the side of his lawyer, and the 
 drawing of a jury began immediately. A few 
 were rejected, but before six o'clock the hour 
 
82 JACOB'S INSURANCE. 
 
 for adjournment twelve men who were satis- 
 factory to both sides had been secured, and 
 Jacob's lawyer had opened the case, and the 
 trial was fairly begun. 
 
 The court accompanied its announcement of 
 the recess until morning with a warning to the 
 jury not to allow any one to talk with them 
 about the case. 
 
 Jacob did not sleep that night. He was at 
 the American Hotel, a quarter of a mile down 
 State Street, in front of the Capitol. He and 
 his wife were on the third floor, at the end of 
 the hall, in room No. 241. As Jacofe was 
 going to his room, a large man, with dark, 
 piercing eyes, standing in the door of room 
 No. 239, said, " Your case is on, hey ? " 
 
 " Yes," said Jacob, as he was passing. 
 
 " You 'd better look sharp," said the large 
 man. 
 
 "Why?" inquired Jacob wonderingly, as 
 he paused. 
 
 " Eough business, burning down buildings," 
 said the large man harshly ; and he closed 
 the door of his room with a bang. 
 
JACOB'S INSURANCE. 83 
 
 Jacob passed on to his own apartment. 
 There he talked over the events of the day 
 with his wife. When he tried to sleep that 
 night, the Assembly chamber and the face of 
 the large man in room No. 239 haunted him. 
 
 In the morning, after breakfast, down in 
 the front hall, Jacob met the large man again. 
 
 " Try a twist at it to-day, I s'pose," said the 
 large man sharply to Jacob. 
 
 " Yes, the trial," answered Jacob, nervously. 
 
 " Somebody has been committing an awful 
 crime," observed the large man. " Have you 
 seen the sky? " 
 
 " Yes ; it is strange," said Jacob, not per- 
 ceiving the connection. 
 
 " They say it is the end of the world, 
 Sodom and Gomorrah," said the large man ; 
 and he turned and walked away. 
 
 At ten o'clock the court convened. As 
 Jacob approached the Capitol steps, he saw a 
 chubby person, on the brick pavement at the 
 foot of the steps, explaining to a group of 
 people his views of the weather. " I do not 
 think myself," said the chubby person, glanc- 
 
84 JACOB'S INSURANCE. 
 
 ing at the yellow canopy, " that it is anything 
 supernatural, but I have seen fifty people this 
 morning who think it is the end of the world." 
 
 Jacob found it oppressive in the court. 
 The judge said it was a gloomy room and' a 
 gloomy day, and directed the officers to light 
 the gas. The artificial light did not relieve 
 the atmospheric pallor very much, although it 
 enabled the judge and the lawyers to read 
 their papers. 
 
 Jacob, and Mary his wife, and Willie, and 
 the woman who saw the fire first, and came to 
 Jacob's house, screaming, testified to the facts. 
 This, with the documentary evidence, made 
 the plaintiff's case. The short-hand writer of 
 the court took down the evidence very rapidly, 
 and at about twelve o'clock noon the plain- 
 tiff's side of the case was before the jury. 
 
 Then the opposing counsel proceeded to 
 open the defense. After a few general state- 
 ments he began to hint that there was a pain- 
 ful revelation to be made bearing upon the 
 character of the plaintiff. The intimation 
 was that Jacob had burned his own buildings 
 to get the insurance. 
 
JACOB'S INSURANCE. 85 
 
 " That is a mean and contemptible insinua- 
 tion," exclaimed Jacob's lawyer, springing to 
 his feet, " and you have no right to suggest 
 such a thing, when you know you can't prove 
 it!" 
 
 " Sir" rejoined the opposing lawyer, utter- 
 ing the words with a pause after each, and a 
 scathing hiss that made Jacob's flesh creep, 
 " we will prove it ! " 
 
 Jacob felt as if the very ground was open- 
 ing beneath him, as the lawyer went on, with 
 diabolical coolness, to state that they had, al- 
 though with some difficulty, secured the very 
 witness who saw " this miscreant " (indicating 
 Jacob) fire his own buildings. Happening to 
 turn his head just then, Jacob saw the large 
 man sitting within six feet of him, and watch- 
 ing him closely. This completed his con- 
 fusion. The subsequent proceedings upon the 
 trial were not very clearly apprehended by 
 Jacob. 
 
 The court took a recess for dinner. As 
 Jacob went to his room the large man stood in 
 the door of room No. 239 again. " Hard at 
 it, hey ? " he said, as Jacob passed. 
 
86 JACOB'S INSURANCE. 
 
 " Yes, but they can't prove it," said Jacob, 
 with a determined accent. 
 
 " Sir," said the large man severely, " they 
 can prove anything, if they have the evi- 
 dence," and the large man went into his room 
 and banged the door again. 
 
 In the afternoon the evidence upon the part 
 of the defense was given. The first witnesses 
 called upon that side did not seem very im- 
 portant to the case. They were, however, 
 some of Jacob's neighbors, and the evidence 
 was very painful to him on that account. One 
 testified that there could not have been as 
 much hay in the barn when it was burned as 
 Jacob insisted there was. Another thought 
 that Jacob had exaggerated the size of the 
 bay where the hay was stored, and he thought, 
 for that reason, there could not have been as 
 much as was represented. Still another had 
 walked over Jacob's farm when the hay and 
 grain were growing, and was confident that 
 there was only a "middlin' crop," and by no 
 means as much as the plaintiff claimed. 
 
 The opposing counsel explained, with a 
 
JACOB'S INSURANCE. 87 
 
 glance at the jury, that this evidence was pre- 
 sented not only as bearing upon the question 
 of the amount of the loss, but as showing 
 more clearly the nature of the attempt, "on 
 the part of this wretched man," to defraud 
 his neighbors. 
 
 There was a significant pause. The oppos- 
 ing counsel held a whispered conversation with 
 his assistant attorney, and with some men 
 whom Jacob recognized as members of the 
 board; he then rose and said impressively, 
 " We call Gotlieb Jansen." 
 
 A short, elderly man, rather thin than full- 
 faced, but evidently a German, was sent for- 
 ward from the back seats. Jacob recognized 
 him; he was a "hired man," who worked 
 about the neighborhood at the Cove. 
 
 Jansen gave his testimony through an officer 
 of the court, who acted as interpreter. His 
 statement was that, standing " over beyond " 
 a hollow, a quarter of a mile away, in the 
 field back of Jacob's large barn, he had seen 
 Jacob come behind the barn, deliberately 
 strike a match, and set the straw and hay and 
 barn on fire. 
 
88 JACOB'S INSURANCE. 
 
 The cross-examination of this witness by 
 Jacob's counsel was the interesting feature of 
 the trial. 
 
 "Ask him," said the counsel, "if he could 
 see how Jacob was dressed." 
 
 " He says ' yes, he could,' " responded the 
 interpreter, after putting the question to the 
 witness. 
 
 " Ask him what color his clothes were." 
 
 " He says he wore brown, or a kind of red, 
 iron-cloth overalls." 
 
 " Ask him whether Jacob had on boots or 
 shoes." 
 
 " Dey vos poots, dey vos poots," said the 
 witness, making a cross-lots answer in broken 
 English to save time. 
 
 " You understand my question ? " said the 
 counsel. 
 
 " Yaas, yaas, I untersthan," said Gotlieb. 
 
 " Ask him in German," said the court to the 
 interpreter. 
 
 The interpreter complied, and responded, 
 " He says they were boots." 
 
 " Ask him what time of day it was," said 
 the counsel. 
 
JACOB'S INSURANCE. 89 
 
 " He says it was just getting dark." 
 
 " Ask him what Jacob had around his neck, 
 when he saw him strike the match and set the 
 fire." 
 
 " He says it was a black handkerchief." 
 
 "Ask him if he could see him plain." 
 
 " He says 'yes.' ' 
 
 "Ask him whether he had on stockings," 
 said the counsel. 
 
 This question caused a slight ripple of mer- 
 riment. Old Gotlieb glanced around, saw the 
 fun, and laughing and shaking his head said, 
 " Naw, naw, could not tell de shtockings." 
 
 There was a brief re-direct examination, in 
 which Gotlieb stated that he did not mean 
 that he actually saw the match, but only saw 
 Jacob stoop over and strike, as if it was a 
 match, and then saw it kindle, and saw it grow 
 to a large fire. He also explained that the 
 overalls were blue instead of red. 
 
 It was apparent that Gotlieb's left eye had 
 been injured or lost. His examination was 
 concluded by a single question, asked by Ja- 
 cob's lawyer, which drew out from Gotlieb the 
 
90 JACOB'S INSURANCE. 
 
 answer, " Naw, naw, can only see from von 
 eye." 
 
 As the concluding evidence in the case Ja- 
 cob was now recalled formally to deny, as the 
 rules of evidence require, the statements made 
 by the witnesses against him. As he came 
 upon the witness-stand, it was apparent that a 
 great change had come over him. Was there 
 such a pallor upon his face, or was it the 
 strange yellow light of that strange day ? His 
 voice had sunk almost to a whisper, and he 
 seemed weak and uncertain in his steps. He 
 quietly answered " No " to the long, formal 
 questions involving the statements which had 
 been made against him, and that closed the 
 evidence in the case. 
 
 The counsel " summed up : " the opposing 
 counsel assuming and urging to the jury that 
 Jacob was the profoundest rascal and hypo- 
 crite in the county, and Jacob's lawyer assert- 
 ing that Gotlieb was a perjurer. In a few 
 words the court charged the jury, and they 
 were sent out, in the keeping of three officers, 
 to a committee-room, to deliberate and find a 
 verdict. 
 
JACOB'S INSURANCE. 91 
 
 It was nearly six o'clock; the court ad- 
 journed for the day. It had been a dreadful 
 day to Jacob. He had not imagined that his 
 old and near neighbors could look upon him 
 as a rascal, and he had not supposed any man 
 living would have dared to assail his good name 
 as the opposing lawyer had assailed it. The 
 revelation of these facts, the strange story told 
 by Gotlieb, and the gloom of the strange day 
 seemed to mingle in a dreadful nightmare as 
 he walked to the hotel. He went to his room, 
 and lay down, and closed his eyes, hoping to 
 rest. The scenes of the day were as vivid be- 
 fore him as a picture. And, through them, he 
 would remember from time to time, with a 
 sudden sharp throb, the dreadful suspense he 
 was under. " Suppose the jury should find 
 against him ! " His father had been one of the 
 consistory of a church when living, and Jacob 
 himself had long been a church member. The 
 hurt to his reputation and to the family name 
 was the sharpest sting. 
 
 Jacob got up, and went to the " far end " of 
 the hall to ask Willie to come. Willie's room 
 
92 JACOB'S INSURANCE. 
 
 was empty. Jacob came back, and with his 
 wife had family prayers in their room. It was 
 ten o'clock. His anxiety was intense. He 
 knew where the jury-room was. He knew that 
 when the jury agreed they would seal up their 
 verdict and separate, because the judge had 
 told them to do so, and to bring in their ver- 
 dict in the morning. He walked up to the 
 Capitol, and, looking at the windows, saw that 
 all was dark. On his return the large man 
 was in the hall, up-stairs near his door. 
 
 " I think the jury must have agreed," sug- 
 gested Jacob falteringly. " I see it is all dark 
 in their room." 
 
 " Sir," said the large man, glaring at him, 
 and speaking with a withering severity in his 
 tone and manner that made Jacob shrink as if 
 he had received the cut of a whip-lash, " the 
 jury has found against you ; I heard of it half 
 an hour ago." 
 
 Jacob's eyes fell, and the great misery set- 
 tled down upon his heart. He turned silently, 
 and walked away to his room. What was the 
 night that followed to Jacob "Wilson? Those 
 
JACOB'S INSURANCE. 93 
 
 who have suddenly lost a good name may per- 
 haps understand it. 
 
 Jacob did not stir out of his room until 
 court-time, next morning. Then, as he de- 
 scended the hotel stairs, every one seemed to 
 him to be looking at him, and shunning him. 
 He was very pale and weak, and walked slowly, 
 breathing short. He had a century of family 
 pride behind him ; and he felt that he was go- 
 ing to meet his doom, to pass under a cloud, 
 that might never be lifted. 
 
 As he walked up the Capitol steps, a man 
 near inquired of another, " Did that jury agree 
 last night?" 
 
 " Yes," was the reply. 
 
 " How did they find ? " 
 
 "Ain't supposed to know," said the other, 
 indifferently. 
 
 Jacob passed on into the court-room. The 
 judge was just taking his seat. 
 
 " Mr. Clerk," said the judge, "you may take 
 the verdict of that jury that was out last night. 
 I see they are all here." 
 
 Jacob had not yet sat down. He stood by 
 
94 JACOB'S INSURANCE. 
 
 a seat, looking. He had steeled himself ; he 
 was white and firm. 
 
 " Gentlemen," said the clerk, " have you 
 agreed upon your verdict ? " 
 
 " We have," replied the foreman, rising, 
 and handing a buff envelope to an officer. 
 The officer carried it to the clerk. The clerk 
 offered it to the judge. 
 
 " Open it," said the judge, sententiously. 
 
 Jacob saw the clerk tear open the envelope, 
 unfold the paper it contained, and give it a 
 long, earnest look. 
 
 " Gentlemen of the jury," said the clerk, 
 " you will listen to your verdict as the court 
 hath recorded it." 
 
 Jacob held his breath. 
 
 "You say you find," continued the clerk, 
 "in favor of the plaintiff, in the sum of eigh- 
 teen hundred and fifty dollars ; and so you all 
 say." 
 
 The jurymen nodded. 
 
 " You will please vacate the box, gentle- 
 men," said the judge. " Mr. Clerk, you may 
 now draw a jury in ninety-seven." 
 
JACOB'S INSURANCE. 95 
 
 Jacob stood, his eyes glassy for a moment, 
 as if unconscious. 
 
 " Well, you are all right," said an officer 
 who stood near him ; and the officer offered to 
 shake hands with him. Jacob put out his 
 hand mechanically, and got a shake. 
 
 A hot flush was seen starting up from Ja- 
 cob's neck. His sensitive, mobile face twisted 
 and worked ; his chin quivered. He turned 
 and walked toward the door. He staggered j 
 his step was almost that of an intoxicated 
 person. 
 
 " What 's the matter with that man that 
 just went out ? " said a lawyer, who came in a 
 moment later, to an officer near the door. 
 
 " Got a verdict in that insurance case, 
 full amount. Did n't expect it, I s'pose," said 
 the officer, indifferently. 
 
 " Kind of upset him, hey ? " said the lawyer, 
 laughing. 
 
 " Katherly," said the officer. 
 
 Jacob went down the sidewalk toward the 
 hotel. People did in reality look at him now, 
 as he passed, trying to hide his glad, flushed 
 
96 JACOB'S INSURANCE. 
 
 face and the tears. He got to the room and 
 told Mary, and they had what the landlord de- 
 scribed as " a time." The landlord said that 
 he happened up there, and there was more 
 praying and crying than was allowable in 
 that hotel. As the painful, nervous strain 
 was taken off, Jacob became faint, and lay 
 down, and Mary went out and got him a 
 lemon. 
 
 * Soon there came a knock at Jacob's door. 
 It was the large man. Jacob sat on the edge 
 of the bed, eating the lemon. 
 
 " I really must beg, Mr. Wilson, the privi- 
 lege of making an apology," said the large 
 man, advancing to the middle of the room, 
 resting his hand upon a table, and speaking 
 with a courtliness and respect that seemed to 
 lift Jacob up into a position of importance. 
 
 He continued, " I must have been mis- 
 informed by the officer about that verdict last 
 night. Of course we know there has been too 
 much tampering with juries, and a habit of 
 finding out verdicts before they are rendered. 
 It is all wrong, certainly, though it is often 
 
JACOB'S INSURANCE. 97 
 
 done. We accept the deception which the 
 jury employed to mislead the officer as a 
 very proper rebuke. I don't want you to lay 
 up anything against me about it." 
 
 " Oh, no," said Jacob. 
 
 " It 's dreadful, ain't it ? burning people's 
 buildings in this way," suggested the large 
 man, confidentially. 
 
 " Yes ; seems to be a sort of a crime," 
 ventured Jacob, hesitatingly. 
 
 " Seems to be a sort of a crime ! " echoed 
 the large man explosively ; " why, man alive, 
 it 's arson, state-prison, long term ! And I will 
 find him out. He may fool the people down 
 your way, with his blind Dutchman, who can 
 see the pegs in a man's boots a mile off in the 
 dark, but he can't fool me. There is a villain 
 behind this, and we are after him. I know 
 him now ; I am sure of him. I am watching, 
 and I '11 jug him within twenty-four hours ; " 
 and in saying this, by way of emphasis, the 
 large man brought his fist down upon the 
 table in a manner that made the whole room 
 jar. 
 
 7 
 
98 JACOB'S INSURANCE. 
 
 " And that was what you were watching me 
 for ? " asked Jacob timidly, shuddering as he 
 saw the gulf. 
 
 "Why, my dear, good fellow," said the 
 large man, softening, u what else on earth 
 did you suppose I was watching you for ? " 
 
 Jacob pondered, and was silent. The large 
 man turned, and walked out of the room. 
 
 Within half an hour the president of the 
 insurance company came in. He said he de- 
 sired to congratulate an honest man, and ex- 
 plained, mysteriously, that they were on the 
 right track at last. He remarked, speaking in 
 a confidential manner, that he had always told 
 the folks that Jacob was " not that kind of a 
 man." 
 
 " Thank you," said Jacob huskily. 
 
 " You and your father before you have lived 
 in our town too long to be treated in this 
 way," said the president, wiping a tear from 
 his eye. 
 
 The president went away. 
 
 One by one, Jacob's old neighbors and 
 various members of the company dropped in, 
 
JACOB'S INSURANCE. 99 
 
 and went through with about the same for- 
 mula the president had indulged in. Each 
 explained so fully and satisfactorily that he 
 had all the while told the folks that it " could 
 not be Mr. Wilson " that did it that Jacob 
 really began to wonder how it had come about 
 that there had ever been any difficulty. Jacob 
 also gathered, from the remarks which were 
 made, that some clew had been gained in con- 
 nection with the trial, and that soon all would 
 be made plain. 
 
 After a good dinner Jacob began to be him- 
 self again. With an old friend and neighbor 
 he went up to the Capitol once more, as a 
 matter of curiosity. He saw another case on 
 trial, that of a suitor who was struggling to 
 get his rights from a railroad corporation. He 
 heard the lawyer for the railroad company al- 
 lude to the suitor as the most barefaced, un- 
 scrupulous, and designing villain who had ever 
 perjured himself in that court-room. Looking 
 at the party thus described, Jacob saw only a 
 thin, pale face, on which anxiety was painfully 
 written. Jacob perceived that his own case 
 
1 00 JACOB'S INS URANCE. 
 
 was only one of many, and that in the court- 
 room it had already been forgotten. 
 
 There was no reason why Jacob should re- 
 main longer in town. At four o'clock in the 
 afternoon, he and Mary were in their wagon, 
 in front of the hotel, about to leave. Just 
 then Willie came running down the sidewalk 
 in great excitement. He came to the side of 
 the wagon, his warm brown eyes dancing, and 
 said, with what breath he had left, " Oh, father, 
 father, they have found it all out ! It 's Andrew 
 Venner, and they have got him in jail." 
 
 " Andrew Venner? " said Jacob, surprised ; 
 and he added, turning inquiringly to Mary, 
 " I never had any trouble with Andrew." 
 
 Just then the large man came down the 
 sidewalk, walking very rapidly. He said 
 pleasantly to Jacob, "Got him sure. I told 
 you so. By the way," he added, turning back 
 after he had passed, " did you ever have any 
 difficulty with Andrew Venner ? " 
 
 " No," answered Jacob ; " only he worked 
 for me one time, and my woman here did n't 
 seem to " 
 
JACOB'S INSURANCE. 101 
 
 " Oh oh ! that unspeakable wretch ! " 
 said Mary, coloring painfully. " I never told 
 anybody, and I never will, only if Jacob " 
 
 " Very proper, very proper indeed, Mrs. 
 Wilson," said the large man politely. " If we 
 should need you on the trial I will " and he 
 nodded to complete the sentence. 
 
 A boy stopped on the sidewalk, evidently 
 listening curiously. 
 
 "Drive on, Jacob," urged his wife, in a 
 flurry. 
 
 William climbed in at the back end of the 
 wagon, and Jacob started. He had gone but 
 a few steps when he pulled up his horses, and 
 calling back said, 
 
 "Oh, say!" 
 
 The large man heard it, and came down the 
 walk to where the wagon was. 
 
 " Would you mind telling me, now that it is 
 all over," said Jacob pleasantly, " whether you 
 really heard anything about that verdict last 
 night, or whether you told me just to see how 
 I would " 
 
 " My dear sir," said the large man deprecat- 
 
102 JACOB'S INSURANCE. 
 
 ingly, " I beg that you will not think that I 
 would willingly distress you by Hullo, there 
 is a man I must see before he goes," and the 
 large man dashed off across the street. 
 
 Jacob looked after him a few moments, then 
 gave his horses a cut with the whip, and started 
 for home. 
 
MR. TOBY'S WEDDING JOURNEY. 
 
 1. JOHN TOBY was a strong, hearty 
 man, I think a lumberman and 
 ship - builder. I made his acquaint- 
 ance in the course of a winter that I spent in 
 Augusta, Maine. 
 
 His next appearance to me was in Hudson, 
 a city of ten thousand people, situated on the 
 east bank of the river, thirty miles below 
 Albany. I was attending court in Hudson, 
 and had my boy clerk, Cookie, with me. There 
 came a rest because the cases were not ready, 
 and we went away for a walk upon a public 
 square or promenade. It was upon a bluff, 
 which has a perpendicular face rising seventy 
 feet above the river. Cookie and I seated our- 
 selves upon a long bench placed there for the 
 convenience of visitors, and gazed at the wide 
 prospect. 
 
104 MR. TOBY'S WEDDING JOURNEY. 
 
 In the foreground, at our feet, were the 
 river and the boats, and on the farther shore 
 the little village of Athens. Still beyond, a 
 dozen miles away, we saw a wide, green, undu- 
 lating valley, shut in by the bold, wooded Cats- 
 kills. We saw the Mountain House, like 
 a white sheep dotting a green hill-side, and 
 knew that just below it is found the place 
 where Eip Van Winkle slept so long. As we 
 were speculating upon the exact place which 
 Irving intended, Mr. Toby came climbing up 
 a side path from the landing to where we were. 
 Cookie and I were alone upon the promenade. 
 Mr. Toby knew me at once, and I remembered 
 his kind, genial face and keen, gray eye, and 
 after a little I placed him correctly, and we 
 shook hands very cordially. 
 
 " Glorious view, is n't it ? " he exclaimed 
 with enthusiasm, turning toward the wide land- 
 scape. 
 
 We sat down and drifted into conversation. 
 
 After some general remarks Mr. Toby 
 said, 
 
 " I never was here but once before, and that 
 
MR. TOBTS WEDDING JOURNEY. 105 
 
 was twelve years ago. I had the queerest 
 time then I ever had in my life, and it comes 
 back to me in the strangest way ! Seeing this 
 scenery is the reason, I suppose." 
 
 I encouraged him as adroitly as I could to 
 tell us what he had on his mind. 
 
 "The truth is," he said, "I was on my 
 wedding journey at that time. I may as well 
 tell you about it. We came up the Hudson 
 from New York on the day-boat, and of all 
 delightful rides that is the best. It was in the 
 middle of summer, just as it is now. They 
 had music on board, harps and fiddles ; and 
 it seemed to me the most entrancing combina- 
 tion of sounds I ever listened to. I suppose it 
 is good on the water. There is a glory about 
 a hot summer day here, as you ride along, and 
 see the cities and mountains go by, that I 
 never saw anywhere else. I imagine it must 
 be like traveling in the Holy Land, or riding 
 in a barge on the Nile in the time of Cleopatra. 
 
 " We left the boat here at Hudson, and 
 came up on this promenade, and sat on this 
 very bench. Sarah, because of being a little 
 
106 MR. TOBTS WEDDING JOURNEY. 
 
 near-sighted, put on her glasses for a long 
 shot, and was greatly taken with the view. 
 She thought the mountains over there were 
 the most interesting and beautiful sight she 
 ever beheld. When we found in the guide- 
 book that right down there below the Moun- 
 tain House was where Rip Van Winkle slept, 
 it seemed to us like fairy-land. I do not think 
 it is possible to convey any idea of how happy 
 we were. We had read of these things times 
 enough, but to actually see them was more of 
 a show than you might suppose. 
 
 " But there was one thing in the mean time 
 that seemed strange. Right down there, near 
 those iron-furnaces, by the landing, I got a 
 glimpse of a fellow I had seen on the boat. I 
 had not noticed him on the steamer particu- 
 larly, but I remembered his looks when I saw 
 him by that old building. He had a way of 
 dodging behind something, whenever I turned 
 my face toward him, that I had noticed on 
 the boat, and I saw he did the same here, al- 
 though he was so far away. My attention was 
 called to him by that. 
 
MR. TOBY'S WEDDING JOURNEY. 107 
 
 " After a while Sarah and I went down to- 
 ward the landing to take the ferry and go over 
 the river. We crossed, and one of the first 
 things I saw after we got to Athens was that 
 same young man, dodging behind a building. 
 He must have sneaked across in some way 
 without my seeing him. I thought that Sarah 
 did not notice him, and I did not trouble her 
 about it. 
 
 " We took a team, and had the most de- 
 lightful wagon ride I ever had in my life, to 
 Catskill village, and over toward the moun- 
 tains. Sarah's aunty, Mrs. Robinson, a widow 
 woman, was living in a little house near the 
 foot of the mountain, and there was where we 
 were going to put up. We had made arrange- 
 ments to spend a month there. It is just im- 
 possible, I say again, to give you any idea of 
 what a fairy-land it seemed to me. Sarah and 
 I had both read up on this wonderful country 
 just before we came. We almost expected to 
 see Rip Van Winkle in the place they show, 
 where he slept, about half-way up the moun- 
 tain. Aunty Robinson was one of the kindest 
 
108 MR. TOBFS WEDDING JOURNEY. 
 
 souls that ever lived. She took care of us as 
 if we had been her own children. She got a 
 team and driver and took us to the Mountain 
 House, and we went and saw the Falls and all 
 the wonders. There were city people on the 
 mountain and through the country everywhere, 
 as there always are, I understand, up here at 
 this time of year. It is handy by New York, 
 you know, and a good place to run to in hot 
 weather. 
 
 " Well, in the midst of all this, I saw, every 
 now and then, that young man dodging out 
 of sight. I would not have thought so much 
 of it had it not been for one circumstance 
 that gave point to it. The circumstance was 
 this. One evening I went out of aunty's 
 house to walk up the road a little ways alone, 
 by moonlight. The mountains and the spruce- 
 trees seem strangely like a panorama or a 
 show-picture, when seen in that way. As I 
 stepped out of the house and off the piazza, I 
 saw that young man in the door-yard, speering 
 around, and looking in at the windows. There 
 was lamp -light inside, and he could see the 
 
MR. TOBTS WEDDING JOURNEY. 109 
 
 folks. As I went across the yard to the front 
 gate he turned and climbed the low fence and 
 went off up the road. I confess that this 
 worried me a little. I do not believe that any 
 man who has been married less than a month 
 can help thinking* that his wife is a little more 
 than common, and that the people are all 
 anxious to get a look at her. I know my im- 
 pression was that Sarah was better than other 
 folks, and I never left her without feeling that 
 it would be safer to lock her up so that no- 
 body could carry her off. It seemed ridiculous 
 to be jealous of that young man, and yet the 
 question would come up, What he could be 
 watching us for? I did not like it. If he 
 was just a summer visitor, he ought to have 
 manners. I determined to speak to him if he 
 came around again looking into our windows. 
 I do not think any ordinary affair would have 
 made me bother aunty and Sarah with my 
 troubles, but I did speak of this matter as 
 soon as I got back to the house. I told them 
 that a young man had been looking in at the 
 windows, and had run away when I saw him. 
 
110 MR. TOBTS WEDDING JOURNEY. 
 
 Aunty thought it was nothing uncommon in 
 the summer time, -when so many visitors were 
 in the neighborhood. But when I told her he 
 had been in the door-yard she looked at it 
 differently. She had missed a few things 
 around the house, including some clothes 
 spread on the grass to dry, and her suspicions 
 were aroused. 
 
 " The next evening, and the next, I got a 
 glimpse of the young man again, hanging 
 about the premises after dark. As he started 
 off up the road in his customary manner, the 
 third evening, I made bold to call out to him, 
 6 Hullo there ! ' The moon was getting up a 
 little later then, so that I had only a very 
 dim sight of him. I could see, however, that 
 he walked on without paying any attention, 
 and disappeared in the shadow of the woods. 
 I went into the house and related the incident. 
 We felt that the thing was getting serious. It 
 seemed clear that something ought to be done. 
 We tried to get a little fun out of it by com- 
 paring the mysterious stranger to Rip Van 
 Winkle, but Aunty said it was no joking mat- 
 
MR. TOBTS WEDDING JOURNEY. Ill 
 
 ter. She insisted that this appearance was 
 connected with the pilfering which had been 
 going on for several weeks. When I presented 
 the idea that the young man had probably 
 come to the neighborhood only a few days be- 
 fore, as I had seen him on the boat near New 
 York, she was not convinced. 
 
 " It was decided that the mystery ought to be 
 fathomed in some way. We thought of telling 
 the neighbors and stirring up public sentiment 
 and organizing a watch, to catch the young 
 man ; but Aunty said she would not have the 
 thing get out for the world. She thought it 
 would be as bad as if the house were haunted. 
 There was a multitude of idle people on the 
 mountains and in the valley, who had come 
 from the city for recreation, and they would 
 catch up anything for a sensation. The idea 
 of a house haunted by a mysterious young man 
 would be as good as a ghost, and there would 
 be an account of it in the newspapers within 
 twenty-four hours if we made it known in the 
 neighborhood. Aunty was really alarmed by 
 the thought that the house might gain an un- 
 
112 MR. TOBTS WEDDING JOURNEY. 
 
 pleasant notoriety. Sarah and I promised 
 that, whatever might happen, we would keep 
 still about the young man. We all agreed in 
 the opinion that the matter should be investi- 
 gated. The plan was for me to stay out on 
 the piazza in the shadow and watch, and 
 Aunty, with her hired girl and Sarah, to be in 
 the house in the usual way. If the mysterious 
 stranger came into the yard, I was to speak to 
 him, and if he started away, it would be my 
 duty to follow him and get some sort of ex- 
 planation. Sarah suggested that it was not 
 safe for me to follow an unknown man off alone 
 in the dark, and indeed it was not, but I was 
 willing to risk it. The young fellow did not 
 seem to me dangerous. He had a rather boy- 
 ish face. It did come into my mind that a 
 revolver would be handy, but I never carried 
 one, and concluded to get along without it in 
 this instance. 
 
 " It was quite dark when I took my place 
 on the piazza under the shadow of some vines. 
 Just at my right hand the window was partly 
 open, and the light was streaming out. I had 
 
MR. TOBTS WEDDING JOURNEY. 113 
 
 not been there ten minutes before the fellow 
 put in an appearance. He came to the yard 
 fence, and climbed over slowly. Then he ad- 
 vanced toward the piazza, and stood looking 
 with the light from the window full in his face. 
 He had a good enough countenance. It was 
 plump and hard, without any great expression, 
 and his mouth was straight and hard drawn. 
 He had short, dark hair. I would say he was 
 not much used to being in the weather. He 
 had no beard on his face, and seemed in other 
 ways boyish. He wore a rough suit of dark 
 woolen, and had a small, white, soft hat on his 
 head. 
 
 " ' Well, my friend,' said I, after a few mo- 
 ments, 6 what can we do for you ? ' 
 
 " He was startled by the sound of my voice, 
 and, turning away, went to the fence, put his 
 hands on it, and climbed slowly over. Then he 
 walked up the road toward the mountain. The 
 three women inside, hearing my voice, came to 
 the door. They were just in time to see me 
 start in pursuit. I had provided myself with 
 a very stout cane, which was in fact a club. 
 8 
 
114 MR. TOBTS WEDDING JOURNEY. 
 
 Going out through the front gate into the dark- 
 ness, I could see the young man, not more than 
 two rods from me. It was pokerish, pursuing 
 an individual who might turn at any moment 
 and shoot me ; but having undertaken the pur- 
 suit, it would not do for a newly married man 
 to hesitate. The stranger quickened his pace 
 until he began to run, and I followed him, 
 keeping about a rod behind and talking to him. 
 I asked him what he meant by haunting our 
 premises night after night, and told him if he 
 would stop and give an account of himself, tha^ 
 was all I wanted. I did not talk loud, but in 
 a persuasive way, feeling a little scary, I con- 
 fess. He ran for a quarter of a mile, until 
 we came to where there was woods on both 
 sides of the road. Then he slowed up, kind of 
 breathing hard, and I stepped a little nearer 
 to him. By and by he stopped right in the 
 road. It was not my plan to go close up, but 
 I went within six or eight feet, keeping a good 
 clinch hold of my club. 
 
 " ' Who are you ? ' said I. ' What are you 
 hanging around houses for in this way ? ' 
 
MR. TOBY'S WEDDING JOURNEY. 115 
 
 " He answered in a light voice, ' You had 
 better let me alone.' 
 
 " The moment he spoke, all the fear I had 
 of him left me. To tell it just as it was, I be- 
 gan to scold him. It would do no harm if 
 Aunty Robinson heard me. He did n't answer 
 a word, but just stood and took it. Finally I 
 told him, as I became eloquent, that it was a 
 cowardly thing to sneak around and look into 
 windows in the night, that he ought to be 
 ashamed of himself ; and that I would have him 
 arrested. That seemed to rouse him, and he 
 said again in that light voice of his, * You had 
 better let me alone.' I used a few more rough 
 words, and he put his hand into the breast- 
 pocket of his coat. I thought he was after a 
 pistol, and partly turned to run. But it was 
 not that. He took out a large, yellow letter 
 envelope, and handed it to me, saying", ' You 
 may as well have it first as last. You can see 
 me here to-morrow night if you come.' 
 
 " I was quite near to him, and took the en- 
 velope from his hand. The next moment he 
 went into the woods, and I heard the brush 
 
116 MR. TOBTS WEDDING JOURNEY. 
 
 crack as he poked his way in the darkness, 
 until the sound died in the distance, and he 
 was gone. 
 
 " With the envelope in my hand, I went 
 back to the house, pluming myself on my bold- 
 ness in the adventure, but feeling puzzled in 
 regard to its termination. As I came to the 
 gate the women were there waiting, and I re- 
 member to this day how Sarah welcomed me 
 with a sly caress in the dark. I knew she was 
 proud of me, and glad to have her aunty see 
 that I was such a tremendous fellow. In the 
 still summer night they had heard me talking 
 loud up the road. I told them all about my 
 hostile expedition, so to speak, and about the 
 envelope, and we went into the house. We 
 gathered around the table on which the lamp 
 was standing, and examined the outside of the 
 little package. There was no writing on it. 
 It was not sealed, and Aunty pulled out the 
 contents. Some old letters, apparently much 
 worn by carrying, and a fresh piece of paper 
 with a little writing on it, and a tin-type came 
 to the light. 
 
MR. TOBTS WEDDING JOURNEY. 117 
 
 " Now it is of no manner of use for me to 
 tell you about women and how they act under 
 trying circumstances. I will merely say that 
 when Sarah saw the letters and the tin-type, 
 and glanced at the writing on the fresh piece 
 of paper, she gave a screech and everything 
 was turned into confusion. Aunty Robinson 
 began crying and yanking Sarah around, and 
 they did everything that women could do to 
 make a disturbance. The hired girl flew here 
 and there in a fright. I tried to pull things 
 into shape, but I could not seem to do the least 
 thing, any more than if they had never seen 
 me in their natural lives. Sarah did n't seem 
 to even know who I was. It was half an hour 
 before I could begin to get the thing through 
 my head at all. And this was what the row 
 was about. When I married Sarah she was, 
 in a certain way, a kind of a widow. She came 
 to Augusta, where I courted her, and told 
 everybody about it. There was no conceal- 
 ment. I knew it perfectly well. There had 
 been a boy in Portland, where she was brought 
 up, named Amos Smith. He and Sarah had 
 
118 MR. TOBY'S WEDDING JOURNEY. 
 
 an engagement, boy and girl fashion. Along 
 toward the last of the war, Amos got fired up 
 with patriotism and a big bounty, and fear of 
 the draft, and went to fight the battles of his 
 country. But before he went, Sarah said she 
 was not going to stay behind and risk being 
 one of the girls who had to dangle along in 
 the hope of a soldier by and by. She had seen 
 too much of that sort of thing. It was now or 
 never. And so, two hours before Amos started 
 with his company for the South, he and some 
 of the boys went over to Smith's, and the knot 
 was tied good and strong. 
 
 " I may as well say here that I never had 
 seen Amos Smith. But I am told that he was 
 very pious, and everybody liked him. Young 
 as he was, he used to lead the conference meet- 
 ings sometimes. Perhaps they have made him 
 out handsomer and better than he was. It is 
 human nature to think well of the departed. 
 
 " As near as I can find out there was some 
 crying and one thing and another, between 
 Amos and Sarah when he left ; but after the 
 news came that he was among the crowd of 
 
MR. TOBY'S WEDDING JOURNEY. 119 
 
 killed and buried in the battles of the Wilder- 
 ness, they tell me that she acted like a very 
 sensible girl. She mourned of course, but she 
 was proud of her noble boy, and his glorious 
 death. 
 
 "And now you see the point. I married 
 Sarah, or supposed I did, more than four years 
 after Amos left this mortal sphere. And here 
 he was coming to life again, by lamp-light, 
 there in Aunty Robinson's house at the foot 
 of the mountain, and those women were in a 
 more distracted state than any other human 
 beings I ever saw. Aunty Robinson had al- 
 ways lived in Portland, until two years before, 
 so that she took in the whole thing at a glance. 
 
 " She finally explained it to me. That is, 
 she did what she could toward it, between what 
 you might call fainting spells, and sniffing at 
 the camphor-bottle. I gave up trying to get 
 anything out of Sarah, quite early in the in- 
 vestigation. She and Aunty had managed to 
 put the papers and the tin-type out of sight, 
 and they seemed entirely unable to comprehend 
 my desire to examine them. Of course I ought 
 
120 MR. TOBTS WEDDING JOURNEY. 
 
 to have looked at them first, but I was newly 
 married, and did not understand that then. I 
 had to take their word for it that Amos was 
 still in the flesh. With a view to seeing the 
 proofs, I took the liberty of doubting the fact ; 
 but I was showered with reproaches by aunty, 
 and Sarah became more and more cold and 
 forbidding. I had supposed, up to that time, 
 that a married man, or one who had supposed 
 he was married, still had the right to exercise 
 private judgment, but I found out my mistake. 
 It became clear to me that if I was intending 
 to do anything with these women, I must be- 
 lieve that which they passionately asserted in 
 regard to the bodily existence of Amos Smith. 
 It was long after midnight before we got down 
 to anything like rational talk. They did show 
 me one thing at last. Aunty had received, that 
 very afternoon, from Portland, a letter signed 
 by an old neighbor, Jared Babcock, which con- 
 veyed a mysterious warning, that a strange 
 thing had happened, and that we must be pre- 
 pared for it. I will not deny that this let- 
 ter knocked me completely over. We had a 
 
ME. TOBY'S WEDDING JOURNEY. 121 
 
 rough night of it, as you may guess. Aunty 
 said, as it drew toward morning, that it seemed 
 to her there could be only one right way. She 
 looked wistfully at me as she said it. ' In the 
 mean time,' she suggested, as if her meaning 
 had been clear, ' Mr. Toby will not consider 
 himself Sarah's husband.' 
 
 " Sarah was as pale as a white apron, and 
 looked down and never said a word. 
 
 " It is not my way," explained Mr. Toby, 
 taking his handkerchief from his pocket, " to 
 make fun of serious subjects. If anybody 
 wishes to know how I felt just then, all I can 
 say is that I felt the very worst way, the 
 very worst." 
 
 I noticed that a tear stole down the cheek 
 of the talker as he said this, and Cookie's 
 bright, sympathetic face was very sorrowful. 
 
 " I had begun to understand," continued Mr. 
 Toby, " that it was hard to be a bachelor before 
 I married. I was thirty-four years old. I had 
 never known what it was to really live until 
 the last few months. It had been a great deal 
 more to me than I can explain, to get away 
 
122 MR. TOBY'S WEDDING JOURNEY. 
 
 from a life of loneliness into the social sun- 
 shine. I had tried as a single man to carry 
 my head high, but after I was thirty, the joke 
 was always against me. And then there are 
 sacred feelings which I will not mention. It 
 seemed a bitter, cruel thing, to have all this 
 end in a farce. 
 
 "But I was not wholly selfish. I do not 
 mean to show myself worse than I was. I 
 could not look at Sarah and think how she 
 stood in the affair without a shudder. People 
 would pity and they would laugh. 
 
 " As it began to be daylight, we pretended 
 to go to rest. Aunty Robinson showed me into 
 a little back bedroom, and took ' Mrs. Smith ' 
 with her, to her own room. 
 
 " This was felt to be right, but it was very 
 trying to my feelings. It was my notion, first, 
 to call Sarah Mrs. Smith. Perhaps there was 
 a spice of malice in it. I do not think any 
 man could keep his temper under the circum- 
 stances I have described. Of course I was 
 sorry immediately after I had said Mrs. Smith. 
 Yet it was received as all right and proper, 
 
MR. TOBTS WEDDING JOURNEY. 123 
 
 which hurt me a great deal more than I would 
 have been hurt by tears or reproaches. 
 
 " About ten o'clock in the morning we were 
 moving about the house again. I do not think 
 any one of us had touched a bed, but we made 
 believe. We said, ' Good morning,' very cere- 
 moniously. That is, Mrs. Robinson and I did. 
 Sarah did not appear. Mrs. Robinson said, 
 speaking in a formal manner, that Mrs. Smith 
 was not feeling very well, as if that was 
 news ! It soon appeared that Mrs. Robinson 
 had reached a consoling conclusion, at which I 
 also had arrived in my nightly reflections. 
 She said, as we sat down to breakfast, that 
 Amos must be induced to give up Sarah, if 
 possible. The ceremony by which he had 
 united himself to her had been merely a form, 
 while Sarah and I were like old married folks, 
 and it would not do in families of such high 
 standing as ours, to break up the union. It 
 must not be, on Sarah's account, if for no 
 other reason. The good, kind soul urged and 
 argued this point, just as if I were not already 
 convinced, and more eager to accept the doc- 
 trine than she could be to have me. 
 
124 MR. TOBY'S WEDDING JOURNEY. 
 
 " ' I know Amos well,' " said Aunty. " ' He 
 is generous, and true-hearted, and poor. And 
 he always was so conscientious ! I hope it 
 will not kill him to give up Sarah. I have al- 
 ready telegraphed to Sarah's father to come, 
 and if he had not started for home, but was 
 still in New York, he will be here to-morrow, 
 you can be sure. The thing for you to do is 
 to see Amos this evening, and talk the mat- 
 ter up. He has some claim. He let Sarah's 
 brother have part of his bounty money, two 
 hundred dollars, when he went away; and of 
 course he ought to have it again, and you 
 must be liberal.' 
 
 " * Dear Aunty Robinson,' said I with tears 
 in my eyes, ' do you suppose money is of any 
 account in such a matter as this ? ' 
 
 " She put down her knife and fork, looked 
 at me through her glasses for a few seconds, 
 and began to cry. 
 
 " The breakfast did not help us much. As 
 to dinner, I do not think we had any; and 
 how it ever came to be evening I cannot tell. 
 But undoubtedly the sun went down as usual ; 
 
MR. TOBY'S WEDDING JOURNEY. 125 
 
 for I remember that, after the longest day I 
 ever spent in my life, it began to grow dark, 
 and I started out toward the woods to meet 
 Amos. There was one little circumstance 
 occurred, just as I was starting, that married 
 men will understand the force of. Sarah came 
 out on the piazza in the dark, and took hold of 
 me. I had not seen her at all during the day. 
 When she slid from the door unexpectedly, 
 and got me around the neck, it produced an 
 effect on my feelings and nervous system that 
 I will not try to describe. It makes me cry if 
 I think of it too long, even now. It is enough 
 to say, without going into particulars, that it 
 became clear to me from that moment that I 
 was still a married man, and I felt that Amos 
 had no chance. I will merely mention, leav- 
 ing out the details, that when Sarah left me, I 
 found my club and started up the road, ready 
 to smash Amos to flinders. 
 
 " I reached the appointed place in the 
 edge of the woods, and waited a quarter of an 
 hour in the dark and the stillness. In the 
 mean time my surplus courage ebbed away, 
 
126 MR. TOBTS WEDDING JOURNEY. 
 
 and the real facts came before me. Just as I 
 was reflecting upon the need of caution, I 
 heard the brush crack in the woods, and a 
 minute later I descried a form in the road. 
 
 " ' Is that you ? ' I asked. 
 
 " ' I am here,' replied Amos, in the same 
 light voice, which I now remembered so well. 
 
 " We got into conversation immediately, and 
 I said, 'You are Amos Smith, of Portland,' 
 and he said, ' Yes, Mr. Toby, I am.' One thing 
 led on to another, until at last I asked him 
 whether he could give up Sarah, or what his 
 ideas were. He seemed to be a still kind of 
 fellow, and did not answer me directly. It 
 appeared as if he was willing to let me do all 
 the talking. Finally, he asked if I would go 
 with him into the woods, to his caboose as he 
 termed it, where he said we could talk it over. 
 I did not really like the idea, but I poked 
 through the brush after him. He took me 
 nearly half a mile to a kind of camp, where 
 he liad fixed a warm-weather sleeping place. 
 There was a little fire burning on the ground, 
 and some old boards leaning against a log, 
 
MR. TOBTS WEDDING JOURNEY. 127 
 
 making a shelter under which he could crawl. 
 He explained that he was hard up, and obliged 
 to camp. We kind of lay down on the ground 
 by the fire to talk. It was as strange a place 
 as I ever was in. The queer thing about 
 Amos was his extreme reticence. I had to in- 
 troduce every subject. Finally, I asked him 
 square whether there was not some way we 
 could arrange it about Sarah, provided prop- 
 erty matters could be made all right in his 
 favor. Then, for the first time, Amos made a 
 speech. He said he knew it was a dreadful 
 thing for him to come down on me the way he 
 had, but that he had been compelled to do it. 
 Sickness and other terrible calamities of some 
 indefinite sort were alluded to. It was on my 
 tongue to ask him where he had been all this 
 time, and how it happened that he was not 
 killed, and why they had not heard from him 
 in Portland ; but before I had time to do that, 
 he concluded his speech in the following re- 
 markable words, which knocked everything 
 else out of my mind : 
 
 " ' And now, Mr. John Toby, of Augusta, 
 
128 MR. TOBY'S WELDING JOURNEY. 
 
 Maine, I am not a man who trifles. If you 
 bring me seven hundred dollars within three 
 days, you will never see me again. I will go 
 West, and send you a copy of the divorce pa- 
 pers, so that you can marry your wife legally 
 and all right. But if you don't, I shall go and 
 see her ; and if she and I, or her folks and I, 
 meet, that is the end of it. I shall claim her 
 and have my rights. You can take your 
 choice. There it is, and I mean just what I 
 say. If you have any change with you to bind 
 the bargain, that will be our contract.' 
 
 " I do not claim to be unusually bright," 
 said Mr. Toby, looking keenly at me and then 
 at Cookie ; " but when I heard that speech I 
 comprehended. The words and manner, and 
 everything about it, seemed like a dime-novel. 
 It was anything but natural. And I claim 
 that the fact that I was sitting by a miserable, 
 lying, thieving vagabond was made just as 
 plain to me that minute, as though I had 
 known him a thousand years. The whole 
 thing flashed upon me, as if I had been struck 
 by lightning. The folks will try to have it to 
 
MR. TOBTS WEDDING JOURNEY. 129 
 
 this day, that I did n't understand it at the 
 time ; but I did, although I had presence of 
 mind enough to restrain my feelings. If the 
 other fellow had been reticent, it was my turn 
 now, and I sat as glum and still as a stump, 
 and looked at the fire. Of course I don't 
 deny that I agreed with him that I would see 
 about raising the seven hundred dollars, and I 
 was justified in doing that. But what I claim 
 is, that after he made that speech the whole 
 thing seemed to me like the side-show to a cir- 
 cus. I did not believe in it. 
 
 " It would be nonsense for me to deny," con- 
 tinued Mr. Toby, reddening, " that I gave him 
 what loose change I had in my pocket. But 
 then he was in destitution, and I would have 
 given him that any way. It is true I had left 
 my pocket - book at the house, but the idea 
 that I would have given that scamp any great 
 amount of money is preposterous. We ar- 
 ranged that I could come at any time and see 
 him at his caboose, and pay him the money. 
 He said he would be there most of the time, 
 and if he was away I could wait for him. I 
 
 9 
 
130 MR. TOBY'S WEDDING JOURNEY. 
 
 was to meet him every evening at any rate, in 
 the road. He showed me the way for a few 
 rods, and then we parted, and I went back, all 
 rignt, to the house. 
 
 " Now I knew perfectly well that it would 
 be useless to try to convince those women that 
 the chap I had talked with was not the sainted 
 Amos, and I had no proof but what he was. 
 I did not know of any way to make it plain to 
 them that he was a vagabond and a fraud. 
 And so I let it go that he was Amos, and told 
 them it was all right, and that he only wanted 
 seven hundred dollars. Aunty was dissolved 
 in tears at the moderation of the conscientious 
 young man, and hoped I had not been too hard 
 with him. Sarah wiped her eyes with her 
 apron, and said she was sure her father would 
 pay it, because he and her brother had part of 
 Amos's bounty money. When I explained that 
 Amos was camping in the woods because he 
 was without means, Mrs. Eobinson was so af- 
 fected by the noble character suggested, that 
 she not only shed tears, but went to her pantry 
 and lighted her globe lantern, insisting that I 
 
MR. TOBY'S WEDDING JOURNEY. 131 
 
 should take it and go back through the woods 
 and pilot the poor boy to the hotel, which was 
 a mile away. It was all I could do to persuade 
 her out of it. 
 
 " There is no use of spinning out a story," 
 said Mr. Toby, rising and gazing up the river, 
 with the avowed object of seeing whether the 
 down boat for New York was coming. As the 
 boat was not in sight, he sat down again, and 
 resumed as follows : 
 
 " Well, we slept some that night, and the 
 next day waited for Sarah's father to come, 
 before doing anything. He came in the after- 
 noon. He was a cool-headed man, and had 
 seen a thing or two. He heard all the women 
 had to say, and compelled them to let him see 
 all they had to show in the way of evidence. 
 Then he and I went out in the wood shed. He 
 looked me straight in the eye, and, said he, 
 ' John, do you think that fellow is Amos 
 Smith?' I said, 'No, I don't.' And he 
 said, ' Nor I either.' And he said, ' Amos 
 was killed in the war. And how it happens 
 that this fellow has got hold of Sarah's letters 
 
132 MR. TOBY'S WEDDING JOURNEY. 
 
 I don't know, but I dare say he was acquainted 
 with Amos in the army. It is queer all round. 
 I think some of the writing is a forgery. I 
 don't believe Jared Babcock ever wrote that 
 letter ; and that new letter cannot have been 
 written by Amos, although it is like his writ- 
 ing, I must say.* " 
 
 The narrator paused a moment, as if re- 
 flecting. 
 
 " Did you find out who it was afterward ? " 
 asked Cookie eagerly. 
 
 " Wait until you hear," said Mr. Toby. 
 " The short of it is, I was sent at evening to 
 meet Amos, or whoever he was, again. But he 
 failed to come that time. So the next morn- 
 ing I went up to his caboose before breakfast, 
 bound to find out the facts. I had more than 
 a hundred different things enjoined upon me 
 to do and to ask before I started. Between 
 Aunty and Sarah's father, there was 110 end 
 to the instructions. They were laying all kinds 
 of traps to find out whether it was Amos. 
 
 " Well, I got to the place all right, and 
 looked around. It did not seem so pokerish 
 
MR. TOST 8 WEDDING JOURNEY. 133 
 
 by daylight. There was no fire burning, and 
 I could see that it had been out a good while, 
 for there was no smoke. 
 
 " We had been planning, before I left the 
 house, to have the whole party creep up some- 
 time during the day behind the bushes, and 
 see if it was Amos, while I talked with him. 
 So I looked around to find out if there was a 
 place handy where they could hide. Then I 
 stepped up to where the boards were, and 
 stooped down and looked under them. I saw 
 something there, and stooping lower, it became 
 clear that it was a man, and then, that it was 
 the one I was looking for. He did not move 
 when I spoke. I thought at first he was 
 asleep, and imagined I heard a snore." 
 
 " Was he drunk? " asked Cookie. 
 
 " I am not going to work up an excitement 
 over this thing," continued Mr. Toby, with a 
 serious air. " To be plain about it, he was just 
 lying under there, a stark, cold, dead man. Of 
 course it gave me an awful kind of shock to 
 find him there alone. But I had found a boy 
 that way once before, off in a lot up in Maine ; 
 
134 MR. TOBTS WEDDING JOURNEY. 
 
 and I don't think I was as much worked up 
 over it this time as most folks would have 
 been. I had seen a good deal of that kind of 
 thing too, in a hospital, at one time. 
 
 " We gave notice, and there was an inquest 
 according to law. And it was found out that 
 the fellow was just that kind of a vagabond I 
 had thought he was. Whether he died of heart 
 disease, or by taking some of the drugs found 
 in his vest pocket, was not exactly clear. It 
 was told by somebody, and found to be true, 
 that he had served a three years' term at Sing 
 Sing, just down the river here, and had only 
 been out of prison two months." 
 
 Mr. Toby ceased his narrative, and looked 
 contemplatively toward the mountains, appar- 
 ently absorbed in thought. I was about to 
 speak when he said, 
 
 " I have told you this just as it seemed at 
 the time. But there was a secret in it that we 
 kept close for a long while, and nobody sus- 
 pected. Before we gave notice, Sarah's father 
 and Aunty and Sarah and I went to get a 
 look at the dead man. They wanted to see 
 
MR. TOBY'S WEDDING JOURNEY. 135 
 
 who it was. We crept slyly through the 
 woods. It was a bright sunshiny morning. 
 As we came near the place, there was a dry, 
 mossy spot where Aunty and Sarah sat down 
 to wait, while Sarah's father and I went ahead 
 to see. When we got to the caboose I pulled 
 a board away, and let in the bright light. 
 Sarah's father put on his specs and got down 
 pretty close to look. When he straightened 
 up, I could see that something was the matter. 
 And as true as I sit here, and after all I have 
 told you, that poor, miserable, prison -bird 
 and vagabond was Amos Smith, of Portland, 
 Maine, and may God have mercy on his 
 soul ! " 
 
 Mr. Toby evidently felt this announcement 
 to be a very important one. His voice was 
 broken as he uttered it ; his large hands trem- 
 bled, and soon his feelings found relief in tears. 
 
 We sat for a while longer, and heard how 
 Amos had been put away in a corner of a little 
 yard, where his folks could find him if they 
 should ever care to, and how his history had 
 been concealed from them until the sharpest 
 
136 MR. TOBTS WEDDING JOURNEY. 
 
 sting of it had passed away. All the public 
 ever knew of it was that a tramp from Sing 
 Sing had been found dead near the road. It 
 was not an unusual occurrence in this thronged 
 and busy valley. A careless newspaper para- 
 graph was the sole record of the event. 
 
 " Didn't want to live, did he?" suggested 
 Cookie, in a pause of the conversation. 
 
 "That is just what I tell the folks," re- 
 sponded Mr. Toby. " When he saw Sarah, I 
 suppose it brought back old times. I do not 
 wonder that he crept around and peeked in 
 through the window. It is my opinion that he 
 ended his days with the drugs; I have no 
 doubt of it. And it makes my heart ache when 
 I think of the boy dying alone over there in 
 the woods, Hullo, there comes the down 
 boat, and I must go. I am traveling alone 
 this time, and just walked up here to wait. 
 This talk has done me a world of good. If 
 you ever come our way, call. Good-by, sir, 
 good-by." And with a shake of the hand for 
 each of us, he was gone. 
 
 We watched him as he hastened down the 
 
MR. TOBTS WEDDING JOURNEY. 137 
 
 path to the landing, and as he went on board ; 
 then we watched the steamer as it bore him 
 southward, while he stood on deck waving 
 his yellow handkerchief and bowing farewell. 
 The soft notes of a flute and the music of harps 
 and of viols came back to us from the boat, as 
 it was slipping away through the blue gleam- 
 ing water. 
 
 As we looked and listened the form of Mr. 
 Toby blended with the crowd, and the dulcet 
 sounds fainted and died in the sunshine. Then 
 Cookie and I discussed our visitor's story 
 Except the wedding feature, how like it was to 
 the dull monotony of a narrative that is con- 
 stantly repeated in the cities of the valley : 
 
 A poor boy from a far country came to this 
 fairy-land ; he dreamed, he forgot the light of 
 home, he wandered and is lost. 
 
HATTIE'S ROMANCE. 
 
 jjT began in that little brick house near 
 the willows, on the margin of the river, 
 just within the southern bounds of 
 Albany. From those upper windows Hattie 
 looked out upon the Hudson and the distant 
 Catskills. 
 
 Hattie's romance seemed unfortunate. She 
 gave her heart away to a young man before she 
 had seen him half a dozen times, and while yet 
 there was scarcely a speaking acquaintance 
 between them. She, with her widowed mother, 
 had started out upon that dangerous womanly 
 enterprise, " taking a few boarders." Such an 
 enterprise is justly termed dangerous in a large 
 and wicked city, because of the social risks in- 
 volved. In this very instance beautiful little 
 Hattie was fascinated by the second boarder 
 who came to the house. He was a handsome 
 
HATTIE'S ROMANCE. 139 
 
 man, a Frenchman, twenty-three years of age, 
 with dark curling hair, blue eyes, and red cheeks. 
 Hattie was sixteen, well read in the " New York 
 Weekly," and looking for a hero. Within 
 three days after Monsieur Leclerc, the French- 
 man, presented himself, this girl was his secret 
 worshiper. She thought of him constantly 
 when awake, and dreamed of him when asleep. 
 Her pretty hazel eyes watched for his coming 
 and going as if he had been the only man in 
 the whole world. 
 
 In the course of a couple of months this 
 affair became very serious. Hattie, without 
 any basis in reality, was feeding her heart with 
 wishes, they could hardly be called hopes. 
 She was reserved and retiring. As time wore 
 on she did not make the familiar acquaintance 
 of her hero, and received little or no attention 
 from him. Her fancies resulted in an increase 
 of sensitiveness and in shyness on her parjb 
 which tended to prevent the acquaintance she 
 desired. Her way seemed to her youthful in- 
 experience hedged up. She wildly imagined at 
 times in her anxiety that she would do so in- 
 
140 HATTI&S ROMANCE. 
 
 discreet a thing as to write a letter to her idol, 
 imploring his pity and regard, or, if that were 
 impossible, his departure. She even went so 
 far on one occasion, at midnight, as to write 
 such an epistle, when she ought to have been 
 asleep. And a very poorly written letter it 
 was, no doubt. She had enough discretion re- 
 maining, however, to burn the letter at the last 
 moment, instead of leaving it in the young 
 man's room, as she had intended. 
 
 Hattie was a Sunday-school scholar, and was 
 rarely absent from her class at the little stone 
 church around the corner. She had too much 
 conscience and too much good training to really 
 think of drowning herself in the Hudson River. 
 Nevertheless, she eventually reached a state of 
 mind in which the wish to become an angel was 
 not a musical or poetic aspiration merely ; it 
 was a very sincere desire in her case. And it 
 is not to be concealed that on a particular Sun- 
 day afternoon, when monsieur was out walking 
 with a young lady, Hattie went down by the 
 river and stood on the dock, and looked pen- 
 sively into the deep water for a long time. This 
 
HATTIE'S ROMANCE. 141 
 
 was observed by others. It was noticed also 
 that she was becoming anxious. Her mother 
 did not suspect the cause. Hattie's secret was 
 known only to herself. 
 
 In the mean time monsieur went to his busi- 
 ness in the city every day, came to his meals 
 regularly, and enjoyed a good appetite. Was 
 he unconscious of the influence he was exert- 
 ing? 
 
 Here the scene changes. 
 
 Soon after matters had taken the shape just 
 described, Hattie found herself in the City Hall, 
 in the court-room. She was sitting among the 
 witnesses, and was dazed and bewildered by 
 the strange sights which met her unaccustomed 
 gaze. 
 
 The County Judge and two Associate Justices 
 constituted a Court of Sessions for the trial of 
 criminals. A disagreeable crowd surged and 
 swayed in the farther part of the long, lofty 
 room. The crowd was prevented, by a high 
 railing and by court officers, from intruding 
 upon the broad open space in front of the bench. 
 This space was reserved for the lawyers, the 
 
142 H ATT IKS ROMANCE. 
 
 jurymen, and the witnesses. Hattie noticed 
 that there was no woman in the room except 
 herself. The prosecuting officer was the Dis- 
 trict Attorney of the county. The hour was 
 ten A. M. It seemed to our heroine that the 
 Judge and the lawyers were very rude and 
 harsh in their treatment of each other. 
 
 " Mr. District Attorney," said the Judge, 
 " you ought to have your cases ready, and not 
 delay the Court. This is the third morning 
 we have been here without business." 
 
 " I do not receive any reprimand from this 
 Court, sir," said the District Attorney, sharply. 
 " I do not accept it or submit to it in any de- 
 gree. I wish to suggest that I am not a crea- 
 ture of this Court. I am elected by the people 
 of this county, and I am responsible to them 
 for the manner in which I discharge my duties." 
 
 " All right ; keep cool," said the Judge, with 
 laconic brevity and provoking indifference, as 
 he stroked his long white mustache. 
 
 A policeman came into the room, and step- 
 ping up to the District Attorney, whispered to 
 him. The District Attorney nodded mysteri- 
 ously. 
 
HATTIE'S ROMANCE. 143 
 
 " We are ready in that burglary case in River 
 Street, if the Court please," said the District 
 Attorney, brightening. 
 
 " Do you move the case ? " asked the Judge, 
 taking a pen and hitching forward to his desk. 
 
 " Yes, your Honor, I move the case of The 
 People against M. Adolphe Leclerc," re- 
 sponded the public prosecutor, in a loud, per- 
 functory tone. 
 
 " Is the prisoner in court ? " inquired the 
 Judge. 
 
 " He will be here in a moment ; an officer 
 has gone after him," explained the Sheriff, who 
 stood near. 
 
 It was but a step to the jail. Very shortly 
 the officer returned, bringing with him hand- 
 some, well-dressed, lithe, quick-stepping, dark- 
 haired, red-cheeked Adolphe Leclerc. 
 
 " Who defends ? " asked the Judge, curtly. 
 
 " I was assigned by the Court," said a mod- 
 est, boyish lawyer. 
 
 A jury was at once impanelled, and the 
 trial proceeded. 
 
 The evidence against Monsieur Leclerc was 
 
144 H ATT 'IE 1 8 ROMANCE. 
 
 that he, a stranger in the city, had boarded for 
 three months in River Street, at Hattie's home, 
 and that on Christmas Day (two weeks before 
 the trial) the house next to Hattie's home had 
 been broken into, and household goods taken. 
 It had been done between the hours of one and 
 two o'clock in the day. The family had gone 
 out at one, and at two o'clock the goods ap- 
 peared in a pawnbroker's shop on the next 
 block. This fixed the hour when the crime had 
 been committed. Monsieur Leclerc being a 
 stranger and foreigner, and boarding in the 
 house adjoining that from which the goods 
 were taken, was naturally enough suspected. 
 But the clinching thing about it was that the 
 pawnbroker in whose shop the goods were found 
 was confident that monsieur was the identical 
 young man who had brought them there. 
 
 As this evidence came out, monsieur whis- 
 pered with great earnestness to his boyish coun- 
 sel the words, " I can prove zat I vas not zare." 
 
 " No loud talking," said the Judge, glancing 
 in the direction of the prisoner and his counsel. 
 
 " Silence ! " proclaimed the blind Crier from 
 
H ATT IPS ROMANCE. 145 
 
 his low seat in front of the bench, echoing the 
 command of the Court. The young French- 
 man repressed his vivacity. 
 
 The evidence on the part of the people was 
 all in at eleven o'clock. Then came the de- 
 fense. There was a brief opening by the boy- 
 ish counsel to the effect that an alibi would be 
 proven. The time of this trial was before the 
 change in the law of the State of New York by 
 which a prisoner is allowed to testify in his 
 own behalf. Monsieur, therefore, could not 
 speak for himself. Little Hattie was his main 
 witness. She testified that during the hour in 
 question namely, from one o'clock until two 
 on Christmas Day monsieur had been out 
 skating. She had watched him from an upper 
 window as he went with his skates, at a few 
 minutes before one, to the Island Creek, a re- 
 tired place beyond the south bound of the city. 
 She explained that he had gone to this lonely 
 place for his first lessons, because he knew 
 nothing of the art of skating, and did not wish 
 to be seen or laughed at. ( She saw him from 
 the upper window while he was upon the ice, 
 10 
 
146 HATTI&S ROMANCE. 
 
 and saw him return promptly at two o'clock to 
 the house, where all the family knew that he 
 met them at the Christmas dinner. 
 
 As Hattie told her story in a simple, unaf- 
 fected manner, shyly avoiding any look toward 
 monsieur, the practiced eye of the District 
 Attorney at once divined her secret. When 
 he came to cross-examine her, he asked the di- 
 rect question whether she loved the prisoner. 
 Hattie, with a scared look, remained silent. 
 
 The boyish attorney objected to the question. 
 
 The public prosecutor urged his point. He 
 sincerely believed that women unnumbered had 
 on that very witness stand perjured their souls 
 to save their lovers from the just penalty of the 
 law. Whatever he might think in regard to 
 Hattie, he knew that his duty as a public officer 
 required him to examine her upon this subject. 
 
 There was a brief argument. Then the 
 Court ruled that any feeling or bias on the part 
 of the witness for or against the prisoner was 
 a fact which the jury had a right to know. 
 
 And thus Hattie ^found herself face to face 
 with the demand that she should make confes- 
 
HATTI&S ROMANCE. 147 
 
 sion of her love for monsieur. It had been a 
 great trial to her to come to the court. She 
 had dreaded it for nights and days. It was 
 very hard to stand alone and publicly in favor 
 of one who had been arrested and confined in 
 jail, and who was spoken of by everybody as 
 undoubtedly a criminal. Her simple appear- 
 ance in Tsuch a connection had been a sorrow 
 both to Hattie and her mother. They feared 
 that they and their house might lose caste by 
 it. But her mother had courageously said that 
 they ought to stand by their boarder, the un- 
 friended foreigner, if facts were known to them 
 which tended to prove his innocence. 
 
 It was under these circumstances that Hattie 
 had come, shrinkingly yet gladly, into court, 
 secretly hoping and praying that she might be 
 the means of helping Monsieur Leclerc. That 
 she might betray her secret by an inadvertence 
 had been among her fears ; but that a state- 
 ment of it would be demanded of her had not 
 been among her calculations of the things that 
 were possible. When, therefore, the demand 
 was made, she felt at first a shock as of a sur- 
 
148 HATTIE'S ROMANCE. 
 
 prise or something incredible. But as the mat- 
 ter was discussed by the lawyers the thought 
 became more familiar, and her womanly cour- 
 age rose to the emergency. 6 * What if this 
 should be the turning-point, the opportunity 
 she had longed for to save monsieur?" she re- 
 flected. And so by the time the discussion was 
 ended, and the Judge had decided, she was 
 ready. And when his Honor said, very kindly, 
 " Tell us how it is ; you need not be afraid : 
 do you care much for him ? " she replied, with 
 blushes, but very frankly, " Yes, sir." 
 
 After this the District Attorney strove in 
 vain to confuse her. She felt that she was en- 
 gaged in a warfare for the man she loved, and 
 she shrank from no sacrifice. She confessed, 
 not by a consenting silence, but in words fully 
 and plainly, that she loved Monsieur Leclerc 
 with her whole soul, though he had never 
 known it. 
 
 There was an unusual silence in the court- 
 room. People leaned forward to hear. Un- 
 veilings of human hearts, showing hatred and 
 revenge, were quite ^common there ; but to look 
 
HATTIE'S ROMANCE. 149 
 
 upon a secret love, the innocent, virtuous, pure 
 affection of a young girl, was an incident with- 
 out precedent. As Hattie courageously an- 
 swered the questions, modestly but fearlessly 
 admitting the depth and sincerity of her passion 
 for Monsieur Leclerc, and declaring her belief 
 in his integrity and honor, a thrill ran through 
 the court-room. It was not a very grand arena, 
 nor was she a remarkable character ; but the 
 light which the world sees and honors in its he- 
 roes and heroines was recognized in her youth- 
 ful daring and in the expression of her face. 
 Even the District Attorney was a little abashed 
 before the glow and enthusiasm of her dauntless 
 avowal. The weapon which he had thought a 
 means of controlling the witness was turned 
 against himself. When beautiful little Hattie, 
 stung by a taunting question, bravely and ear- 
 nestly said, with tears, that she knew monsieur 
 was innocent, and that she would love him and 
 stand by him though all others should deride 
 and forsake him, the hearts of the spectators 
 were touched; a murmur of applause ran 
 through the room, and the blind Crier had to 
 command silence. 
 
150 HATTIE\S ROMANCE. 
 
 And so the secret that Hattie had cried over 
 and prayed over, the sweet yet torturing secret 
 she would have died to conceal, came to the 
 light of day in this strange fashion. She told 
 in her evidence of her looking for all the com- 
 ings and goings of the prisoner. She described 
 the watch-tower she had contrived with a low 
 stool and an attic window, from which she had 
 each day gained a view of her hero as he came 
 to his dinner. She remembered the days when 
 he was late or early, and on some occasions the 
 minute of his appearance, as accurately as if 
 she had been an astronomer and he a comet 
 or a star. The whole story was so frank and 
 simple-hearted that to doubt it and harass little 
 Hattie by asking ill-natured questions seemed 
 like trampling upon flowers. However unfor- 
 tunate it might be for the District Attorney's 
 fame and success, it was felt by all present that 
 a little love story and the heroism of a pure 
 young girl had been more than a match for his 
 astuteness and learning. 
 
 Hattie was very much excited as she stepped 
 down from the witness stand, and resumed her 
 
H ATT IPS ROMANCE. 151 
 
 former seat in the space near the door, assigned 
 to the waiting witnesses. She heard the talk- 
 ing in the court-room for a few moments, and 
 then the room seemed to grow strangely dark. 
 An officer who was observing her came and 
 kindly suggested that she would find it pleas- 
 anter to sit for a while with Germania, the 
 apple- woman, out in the hall, where she could 
 get fresh air. So Hattie went with him, and 
 had a chair beside Germania. 
 
 Now and then the men came out and bought 
 apples and pea-nuts, and told Germania how 
 brave Hattie had been, and praised monsieur, 
 saying he had an honest face, and was a hand- 
 some man. 
 
 Hattie enjoyed these compliments, but there 
 was a deeper joy of which she was becoming 
 more and more conscious. The crisis in her 
 brain was passed. She had gained her chance, 
 had made her declaration, had told her story, 
 and, oh, joy ! monsieur the grand, the immor- 
 tal, had heard it ! She believed that her 
 prayers had been answered in a way she had 
 never dreamed of, and that her cup would be 
 full. 
 
15.2 HATTIE'S ROMANCE. 
 
 As matters turned out, it seemed that Hattie 
 was not far wrong in these views. The Judge 
 complimented her in his charge to the jury, 
 and the jury, believing her story, thought the 
 pawnbroker must have been mistaken in the 
 matter of identity, and acquitted monsieur. 
 
 Soon after the trial, it came to light that 
 another person besides Hattie had seen mon- 
 sieur upon the ice that Christmas Day, so 
 that Hattie's evidence was fully confirmed. 
 And it came to pass that on the next Christ- 
 mas Day there was but one boarder at the lit- 
 tle house by the willows, with Hattie and her 
 mother, and that one was Monsieur Leclerc, 
 much honored and respected, and he was there 
 to stay. 
 
THE COURT IN SCHOHARIE. 
 
 a bright, warm day the Judge and I 
 take the train, and are whirled away 
 from the toiling city to the rich, fer- 
 tile, grassy valley of old Schoharie. It is sunk 
 deep among the highlands, far back in a re- 
 mote corner, behind the blue Catskills. Tne 
 Judge has to submit to being lionized a little 
 as we draw near the end of the journey ; for a 
 justice of the Supreme Court of the State of 
 New York, on his way to hold a circuit in this 
 slumberous valley, always finds himself an ex- 
 ceedingly great man. The little hotel at Scho- 
 harie has been dreaming of him and of the 
 coming circuit for weeks past. The lawyers 
 and the people from all parts of the county 
 are waiting to do homage to the Supreme 
 Court and to his Honor. Court-week is a 
 prodigious affair in Schoharie : it comes but 
 
154 THE COURT IN SCHOHARIE. 
 
 twice in the year. The fat of the land has 
 been gathered in at the hotel to feed the Court 
 and the multitude who come to the county-seat 
 for justice. 
 
 When we reach the nearest railroad station 
 and step off the cars, we discover a large, old- 
 fashioned carriage and a pair of magnificent 
 grays ready to receive us. The alert hotel 
 proprietor has come all the way from his 
 house to greet us, and his cheery voice says, 
 " This way, Judge, with your friend, if you 
 
 As the grays prance along, the little valley 
 opens to our view. It seems hardly more than 
 a mile wide. The heights on either side are 
 clothed with bright green woodlands, and 
 along the highest line is a dark, rich fringe of 
 pines. A sluggish stream winds through the 
 middle of the valley. Just before us sleeps 
 the hamlet, and soon we see the gleaming tin 
 upon the church spire, and then we distinguish 
 the court - house and other buildings. A 
 dreamy blue in the air hangs sleepily over the 
 landscape, imparting a sense of deep repose. 
 
THE COURT IN SCHOHAR1E. 155 
 
 We turn a corner of the road, and here we 
 are, right at the hotel. What a crowd of 
 people ! and what hand-shaking from the chief 
 men of the county ! The crowd smile a vast, 
 substantial welcome as the Judge is ushered 
 into the house and conducted to the best apart- 
 ments. How could there be a warmer recep- 
 tion ? The shining black faces of the servants 
 are unctuous with good nature and the desire 
 to please. The negroes have clung to this 
 rich, warm spot ever since the days when the 
 old Dutch farmers owned them as slaves. 
 They still have a corner of the little village 
 for their own, and upon great occasions a few 
 of the comeliest are gathered in with the other 
 supplies to add to the magnificence of the hotel. 
 
 After an hour comes the dinner. The law- 
 yers have been called, and are gathered in a 
 huddle around the outside of the dining-room 
 door. But no one is admitted until the Judge 
 has made his appearance. Then the group 
 parts to the right and left, his Honor passes 
 through, the door is opened, he goes in and is 
 seated at the head of the table ; and then the 
 
156 THE COURT IN SCHOHARIE. 
 
 lawyers are admitted and assigned seats in the 
 order of their supposed rank and importance. 
 
 From dinner there is an adjournment to the 
 court-house. The temple of justice is densely 
 packed with people. In the little niche of a 
 gallery high up in the wall, opposite the bench 
 where the august court is seated, are groups of 
 beautif id country girls and women, gazing in 
 rapt wonder at what seems to them, doubtless, 
 the brilliant pageant below. The lawyers also, 
 at the bar, concede in a pleasant way, by their 
 dress and manner, the importance of the oc- 
 casion. Nate, who is, legally speaking, the 
 pride and flower of Schoharie, appears in a 
 bright new suit, with blue coat and gilt but- 
 tons. He is known far and wide as one of na- 
 ture's noblemen. If Nate would only try, the 
 people say, he would be a giant. As it is, he 
 is regarded as another Daniel Webster, with a 
 great dash of the impulsive, wayward, reck- 
 less boy in him, that too often defeats him in 
 the far-reaching, solemn purposes of life. 
 
 The business of the court proceeds. Several 
 petty matters are disposed of. Then the prose- 
 
THE COURT IN SCHOHARIE. 157 
 
 cuting officer of the county comes forward 
 with a case that requires a trial by jury. Nate 
 is counsel for the defendant. The utmost po- 
 liteness prevails. It is very pleasant to see 
 the lawyers so kind and brotherly in their 
 treatment of each other. It is a relief to the 
 Judge and his comrade, accustomed as they are 
 to endure the rasping manner which is popu- 
 larly supposed to be professional. 
 
 The case turns out to be merely the taking 
 of an old coat and a turkey by a black boy 
 from his employer. As the evidence is given, 
 the names of localities mentioned by the wit- 
 nesses are provocative of curiosity. They are 
 also enjoyable. One has need to suffer for 
 months from the dreary aridity of proceedings 
 in the city courts in order to comprehend how 
 such morsels of verbal greenness as Clover 
 Way and Polly Hollow can refresh the legal 
 mind. It appears that Clover Way is a nook 
 where the clover grows in great luxuriance. 
 Then the Judge desires to know about Polly 
 Hollow ; but it would be simply dreadful for 
 the great Court to express publicly its curiosity 
 
158 THE COURT IN SCHOHAR1E. 
 
 upon such a trivial matter in Sehoharie. A 
 lawyer is therefore privately interviewed, and 
 states that Polly Hollow is a clove in the moun- 
 tains having the general style and description 
 of a breech - loading gun - barrel, inasmuch as 
 things going in at one end must go out at the 
 other ; there is not room in the clove to turn 
 around. He says the hollow was named after 
 Aunt Polly, a negress who resided there for 
 many years. He further takes occasion to 
 point out to us a young man, who has been 
 brought into court charged with a misde- 
 meanor, and whose face has a curious expres- 
 sion of sheepishness and low cunning. That 
 man, he informs us, is a Sloughter. He ex- 
 plains that the Sloughters are a band or tribe 
 as marked and peculiar as the gypsies. They 
 have developed into a distinct people in this 
 valley during the present century. They are 
 so immoral that to be seen frequenting the 
 Sloughter settlement is a disgrace to any citi- 
 zen. To call an upright man a Sloughter is a 
 provocation that greatly mitigates an assault 
 and battery in the eyes of a Sehoharie jury. 
 
THE COURT IN SCHOBAR1E. 159 
 
 As the case draws to a close, Nate pleads 
 for his client with a good deal of feeling. His 
 fine eyes melt into tears when he urges that 
 old Schoharie may not be disgraced by having 
 a citizen sent to the State prison. 
 
 Just as Nate is waxing eloquent, a very 
 pretty little girl, about six years of age, with 
 brown cheeks, and a sun-bonnet dangling by 
 its string from her hand, comes in at the large 
 open doors, walks up the aisle and into the in- 
 closure of the bar, and, going up to Nate, pulls 
 at his coat. Nate stops and glances down- 
 ward, begs in his courtly manner to be excused 
 for a moment, and pours out a glass of water 
 for the little maiden from a large white pitcher 
 on the table before him. She drinks it, and 
 goes tripping away down the aisle again, ut- 
 terly unconscious of the eyes looking at her, 
 or of any impropriety in asking Uncle Nate at 
 such a moment for a glass of water. 
 
 The case takes a favorable turn : the black 
 boy escapes with only a light sentence of con- 
 finement in the county jail. 
 
 In the next proceeding we see how Cupid 
 appears in this temple of justice. 
 
160 TEE COURT IN SCHOHAR1E. 
 
 The prosecuting officer says, " May it please 
 the Court, we must see about this man who re- 
 fuses to support his wife. It is a matter for 
 our county authorities, of course, but there are 
 circumstances which" 
 
 A small, active attorney from the city 
 springs to his feet, and, interrupting, says, " If 
 the Court please, I appear in this case. The 
 learned and ingenious gentleman need not ex- 
 plain how he gets this matter here. It is a 
 proceeding that ought not to be tolerated any- 
 where. This man that the prosecuting offi- 
 cer talks about is Georgie Wilson, and he is 
 hardly fifteen years old." 
 
 The Judge whispers with the Associate Jus- 
 tices of the county, who sit with him, and then 
 says, "Where is the accused? Let him be 
 brought forward." 
 
 " Stand up, Georgie," says his counsel. 
 
 A dandyish, sprightly little fellow, tastily 
 dressed in handsome clothes from the city, with 
 a bright face, light clustering curls, and blue 
 eyes, jumps up and stands before the court. 
 
 " Won't take care of his wife, hey ? " says 
 the Judge, with an amused smile. 
 
THE COURT IN SCHOHARIE. 161 
 
 The girls and women in the gallery lean for- 
 ward with their mouths half open and titter. 
 A light breeze from the meadows back of the 
 court-house comes in at an open window, and 
 tosses Georgie's light curls very prettily. 
 
 "If your Honors please," says the prosecut- 
 ing officer in a solemn voice, " this man has 
 persistently refused and entirely neglected to 
 support this woman, although proceedings have 
 been taken against him." 
 
 " What woman ? Where is his wife ? " in- 
 quires the Judge, interrupting. 
 
 A bright-eyed and prettily-dressed little girl 
 is sent forward from the back seats, and comes 
 and stands by Georgie. A glance at her face 
 reveals the fact that she may be fifteen, but 
 she is very petite for so many years. As they 
 stand together, Georgie takes hold of her dress, 
 pulls it, and whispers to her. The little beauty 
 jerks away coquettishly, and will not look at 
 him. 
 
 " Now, your Honors, look at these children," 
 says the counsel for Georgie imploringly. " Is 
 this a case to bring before the Supreme Court 
 11 
 
162 THE COURT IN SCHOHARIE. 
 
 of the State of New York ? This boy, who is 
 well connected and respectable, has been kept 
 in jail two weeks on this charge. His relatives, 
 who are in good circumstances in the city, are, 
 of course, very much annoyed by these pro- 
 ceedings. The boy came out here into the 
 country one sunshiny day and was entrapped 
 into this marriage." 
 
 The prosecuting officer replies sharply to 
 this, and a discussion springs up which contin- 
 ues for ten minutes. Meanwhile, the two chil- 
 dren are apparently making up their quarrel. 
 Lucy begins to whisper to Georgie, and they 
 sit down close together in two chairs handed 
 them by counsel. Georgie' s light curls look 
 very pretty as he nods his approval of what 
 Lucy is saying to him. Instead of listening to 
 the counsel, all are slyly watching the manoeu- 
 vring of this little pair of robins. Georgie 
 makes advances, and Lucy chirps and twitters 
 in a very bewitching way. Counsel, in whis- 
 pers, compare them to the Babes in the Wood. 
 As the prosecuting officer fulminates and 
 thunders, the little romance in progress just 
 
THE COURT IN SCHOHARIE. 163 
 
 in rear of his position is the real subject to 
 which the Court directs its attention. The 
 Judge, on the sly, is absorbed in the way 
 Georgie manages the making up, and is ob- 
 serving how the little beauty reveals her in- 
 born tendency to be " flirtatious." The curl of 
 Lucy's lip and the flash of Georgie's eyes are 
 much more potent than the eloquence of pug- 
 nacious attorneys. 
 
 The reconciliation seems happily completed, 
 to the great enjoyment of the spectators, who 
 have been feasting upon the scene, just as the 
 wordy contest of the legal athletes closes. 
 
 " I think I will have the woman sworn, and 
 see what the Court thinks about it," says the 
 prosecuting officer. " I do not like to do it ; 
 but, after what has been said, I feel that I 
 must show how this man has treated this wo- 
 man. Mrs. Wilson, take the stand, if you 
 please." 
 
 Either because she is not yet accustomed to 
 the title " Mrs. Wilson," or more likely be- 
 cause she is too much absorbed with Georgie 
 to hear the request, Lucy pays no attention to 
 it. 
 
164 THE COURT IN SCHOHARIE. 
 
 " Go around there by the Judge and be 
 sworn, Sissy," says Georgie's counsel persua- 
 sively. 
 
 Lucy hears this, and obeys, and the clerk 
 mumbles the oath to her. At the close of the 
 formula " You will tell the truth, the whole 
 truth, and nothing but the truth, kiss the 
 book," her cherry-red lips meet the calf -skin 
 cover of the ancient volume with a delicious 
 smack, while she looks sweet and smiling at 
 Georgie. Then follows her examination. The 
 prosecuting officer persuades her into the 
 truthful acknowledgment that she has made 
 complaint against Georgie for not supporting 
 her. She admits that soon after they were 
 married, about a month ago, Georgie left her 
 at the hotel and went away home to his 
 mother, " and did not come back for a week," 
 she says, pouting ; but she adds that when he 
 did come back he gave her two dollars, and 
 paid her board at the hotel besides. 
 
 She admits also that he often asked her to 
 walk down by the creek after they were mar- 
 ried, and that she would not go, because she 
 
THE COURT IN SCHOHARIE. 165 
 
 thought he had got tired of her and wanted to 
 push her into the river. This touch of nature 
 slightly amuses the bench and bar ; but the 
 public prosecutor assumes a horrified aspect, 
 seeming to regard it as evidence of a very se- 
 rious character. 
 
 Lucy concedes also that Georgie finally went 
 away home to his mother, and did not come 
 back at all ; and then she had no way to pay her 
 board, and had to leave the hotel and work out, 
 as she used to do before she was married, and 
 so she complained of him to the authorities. 
 
 Then Georgie's counsel takes the witness and 
 cross-examines her. She admits that she is 
 older than Georgie, and that she is a little 
 French girl from Canada, and accustomed to 
 work out. She claims that Georgie told her 
 he was rich and that she could live like a lady 
 at the hotel. She says she would not have 
 cared for not having much, if he had only told 
 her the truth, for she was quite able to take 
 care of herself, she thanks fortune ; but she 
 was angry at Georgie for acting so ; but now 
 they have made it up, and she would like to 
 have him set at liberty, if they please. 
 
166 THE COURT IN SCHOHARIE. 
 
 Lucy comes down from the stand and sits 
 by Georgie again, and he takes her hands, and 
 they look wonderingly into each other's faces, 
 as children do. 
 
 " Now, your Honors," says Georgie's counsel, 
 " you must see how this is. This little girl, 
 who is older than she appears, and was a ser- 
 vant, has caught this boy and privately married 
 him. He is of good family : he could not take 
 this girl home with him, probably because his 
 mother would not want her there. Let this 
 proceeding stop, and Georgie and his friends 
 will make the best of it. He is married to 
 the girl, and they will try to take care of her 
 in some way. I am authorized by them to say 
 this to the Court." 
 
 The Court takes a lenient view of the case. 
 Georgie is directed to stand up, and the Judge 
 delivers a lecture to him in regard to his duties 
 as a husband. Georgie is informed that it is 
 perhaps unfortunate for him that he has mar- 
 ried " this girl " (the little beauty's cheeks 
 burn at this), but that he must nevertheless 
 take care of her. He is permitted to go at 
 
THE COURT IN SCHOHARIE. 167 
 
 large for the time being without punishment ; 
 but he must remember that he is on probation 
 and under the watchful eyes of the officers of 
 the law. 
 
 Georgie and Lucy, happy and side by side, 
 go chirpingly out of the court-room, and many 
 kind wishes and the mirth of the happy hour 
 go with them. 
 
 Other cases are presented and disposed of, 
 until the business of the day is closed. It is 
 said that to-morrow a breach of promise case 
 will come on for trial. 
 
 In the evening there is a pleasant walk along 
 the one street of the town, and a chat in our 
 rooms with the lawyers. We are reminded 
 by them of the fact that one of the Associate 
 Justices, coming from a remote corner of the 
 county where the people still continue to vote 
 for General Jackson, presented himself with 
 his boots unblacked. It is remarked also that 
 he wore no cravat, and not even a paper collar, 
 as he sat in dignity upon the bench with the 
 Judge of the Supreme Court of the State. We 
 are informed that he has been mischievously 
 
168 THE COURT IN SCHOHARIE. 
 
 notified that a committee of the Democratic 
 party will be appointed to consider the matter. 
 It is said that we will see the result in the 
 morning. 
 
 We retire to rest. The fragrance of grasses 
 and clover is wafted in at our open windows. 
 Across the meadows back of the hotel, in a 
 grove, we see lights flitting here and there, 
 and the sound of far-off tinkling music is 
 borne to our ears. It is the negro population 
 enjoying a dance, as part of the festivities of 
 the week. 
 
 The lawyers of Schoharie County are found 
 to be wonderfully pleasant fellows. The Judge 
 and his comrade discover that these gentle- 
 men sleep but little. It is a habit with them 
 to spend their nights in the valley upon great 
 occasions in hilarity and good fellowship. The 
 Judge and his comrade virtuously keep aloof 
 from these nightly carousings. But how can 
 this sanctimonious pair, with their faces pale 
 and worn with city life, foul air, and excite- 
 ment, hint to these strong, healthy, vigorous 
 gentlemen that nightly rejoicing is not calcu- 
 
THE COURT IN SCHOHARIE. 169 
 
 lated to promote health ? Their ancient owlish 
 custom has its poetic side. It is pleasant for 
 a cheerful person to awake in the night and 
 faintly hear the deep voice of a distinguished 
 lawyer pronouncing a solemn discourse in some 
 remote room of the hotel. The voices of many 
 members of the bar, and of the black servants, 
 and a far-off clapping of hands, are occasionally 
 distinguished, as the orator bears down with 
 mock solemnity upon the vanity of earth and 
 the folly of all human affairs. When the ora- 
 tion is completed, the long-drawn notes of " Old 
 Hundred " steal solemnly along the dark halls 
 of the hotel to the ears of the lodgers. Then 
 all is quiet, and the Schoharie County Bar re- 
 tires to rest. 
 
 Next morning at breakfast we are informed 
 that the ceremonies of a grand initiation of a 
 new member into the strange mysteries of the 
 " Schoharie Circle " were performed at some 
 hour of the night. 
 
 After breakfast we have an hour before 
 court-time. Shall the Sheriff take us for a ride, 
 or will we have Esquire John to show us the 
 
170 THE COURT IN SCHOHAR1E. 
 
 curiosities of the place ? We elect to have 
 John, and soon he comes to the hotel. He is a 
 robust, medium-sized man, a quaint scholar, a 
 genuine lover of nature, and has the quick step 
 and merry eye of a boy. He tells us that he 
 had part in the grand initiation we overheard 
 in the night. When we compliment him upon 
 his vigorous health, he suggests that it may be 
 due to the fact that he eats a meal of delicious 
 oysters every night at eleven o'clock. 
 
 John takes us first half a mile away through 
 the green fields back of the hotel, up to a shelf 
 or natural terrace projecting from the steep 
 hill-side that walls in the valley. Here we find 
 ourselves among the white marble slabs of a 
 cemetery; and John points out the graves 
 where the German forefathers of the hamlet 
 sleep. He tells us that some of the Palatines 
 came across the country from the Hudson in 
 1710 and discovered this beautiful valley, and 
 in 1713 they came here and settled. Then he 
 traces the history of monumental art in the 
 valley, pointing out the old gray limestone ceme- 
 tery slabs of ancient date with their queer carv- 
 
THE COURT IN SCHOHARIE. 171 
 
 ings, and then the lighter sandstone, and at 
 length the monumental marble. He calls our 
 attention also to the cedar-trees and the arbor 
 vita3 in the cemetery grounds. Forty years 
 ago, he tells us, he planted these trees with his 
 own hands, and they are his gift to the people. 
 
 John points out a place hard by where the 
 first settlers erected their church in 1750. 
 All their names, he assures us, were carved 
 upon the foundation-stones of the sacred edifice. 
 
 From the cemetery John takes us higher up 
 the hill-side to a rocky place and a stone-quarry. 
 Here he points out abrasions and long scratches 
 in the surface of the polished rock. These, he 
 explains, are glacier-marks. He demonstrates 
 with the fine enthusiasm of a true lover of 
 science where the icy stream must have flowed 
 in the dim and faded centuries of an unknown 
 past. He pictures very vividly the glacier in 
 its grinding progress over the rock when the 
 Catskills were as high as the Alps and Scho- 
 harie a mass of ice. He paints with glowing 
 words an unknown world. The Judge politely 
 asks him how he knows all that he describes 
 
172 THE COURT IN SCHOHARIE. 
 
 to be true. John points triumphantly to the 
 scratches in the rock, and his eloquence is re- 
 newed with tenfold fervor. He overwhelms 
 our doubts, and we are convinced. 
 
 Then he calls attention to the features of the 
 valley as it now exists. Across upon the other 
 side we discern terraces which he tells us are 
 graperies. The view, he assures us, is some- 
 what like what may be seen along the Rhine or 
 in Switzerland. He has never been to those 
 distant places, but travelers have declared to 
 him that in his native valley he has in minia- 
 ture the scenery of the world. He is satisfied 
 with this, and has no desire to leave his home, 
 until his friends shall bear him to his last rest 
 beneath the cedars and the arbor vitaB upon 
 the hill-side. 
 
 Returning toward the hotel, we pass near 
 the present church edifice, built in 1776. The 
 date is seen in huge iron figures upon the 
 tower. John tells us that the stones that were 
 the foundation of the church first erected by 
 the settlers were taken out and brought down 
 and used for the foundation of this modern 
 
THE COURT IN SCHOHARIE. 173 
 
 structure. We go and examine the foundation, 
 and find carved in rude German letters the 
 names of the forefathers. 
 
 John tells us that the stone church, a mile 
 away down the valley, was once used as a fort, 
 and that a cannon-ball fired in time of war is 
 embedded in the tower. He enlarges upon the 
 history of the valley, rendering it apparent that 
 not only the scenery but the history of the 
 world is to be found in miniature in Schoharie. 
 Even the emancipation experiment has been 
 tested there by fifty years of trial. He is 
 bound to add that the two hundred negroes in 
 Schoharie retain their prodigal and shiftless 
 habits to this day. He does not think any im- 
 portant change has been effected in their pros- 
 pects or character. 
 
 John has one more curiosity to show us. We 
 will go with him to a little building which he 
 calls his office, where he has gathered and ar- 
 ranged the fossils and minerals and curious 
 historical relics of the region. He presents for 
 our inspection the ancient vane that adorned 
 the spire of the church built by the early set- 
 
174 THE COURT IN SCHOHARIE. 
 
 tiers. This vane is of iron, and in the form 
 of a crowing cock, with magnificent flowing 
 tail-feathers. John assures us that this cock 
 crowed for many years upon the banks of the 
 Ehine before the Palatines brought it with 
 them to Schoharie. 
 
 While we are looking, the court-house bell 
 surprises us, and we hasten away. Reaching 
 the court-room, we find the crowd even denser 
 than on the previous day. A little formal busi- 
 ness is first transacted. A sly glance reveals 
 that the Associate Justice has been frightened 
 into a paper collar, but resists other innova- 
 tions. He is making his stand upon the boots : 
 they remain unblacked and brown and rusty. 
 
 The formal matters having been disposed of, 
 the breach of promise case is taken up. The 
 defendant is a stout, honest - faced country- 
 man. His lawyer is the attorney from the 
 city. It seems that the affair occurred years 
 ago, when the defendant was a bachelor. ~A 
 neighborhood quarrel has now revived it. The 
 sharp points are brought out upon the cross- 
 examination. 
 
THE COURT IN SCHOHARIE. 175 
 
 It hardly seems worth while to take so deep* 
 an interest in so simple a matter ; but there 
 we all are, the court, the bar, the jury, and 
 the spectators, all drinking in with great ea- 
 gerness Miss Sallie Brown's story as she is 
 persecuted by the attorney from the city. 
 
 " Do you swear that he promised to marry 
 you, Sallie? " asks the counsel cross-examining. 
 
 " Yes, I do," says Sallie sharply. 
 
 " How old are you, Sallie ? " continues her 
 inquisitor. 
 
 " I don't know what that has to do with it," 
 protests the witness ; " but I would just as 
 soon tell you. I am forty-six ; but I was only 
 forty-two when he promised to marry me, and 
 he was forty-four." 
 
 " Now, Miss Sallie," says the counsel, " do 
 you really mean to swear that John entangled 
 your maiden affections and plighted his troth 
 to you, after an acquaintance of only three 
 weeks, having seen you but twice, he being a 
 steady blacksmith, and you a country maiden 
 of forty-two summers? do you mean that, 
 now, Sallie?" 
 
176 THE COURT IN SCHOHAR1E. 
 
 " Yes, I do mean it," responds the irate 
 spinster. 
 
 "How did he say it? What did he say 
 first ? " inquires the lawyer. 
 
 " Why, the first time when he went away 
 he asked me to remember him in my prayers ; 
 and I told him I would." 
 
 "Did you do it?" demands the lawyer, in- 
 terrupting. 
 
 " Certainly I did," says the witness, " and 
 I always have. And the next time he came 
 we were in the parlor, and he said, ' Sallie, 
 will you have me ? ' and he took his hand into 
 mine, and I said, ' Yes ; ' and he said he hoped 
 I would never be sorry, and I said I never 
 would if he did as he agreed to." 
 
 " Did he squeeze your hand ? " asks the coun- 
 sel. 
 
 " Not enough to hurt it, I guess," responds 
 the maiden snappishly. 
 
 " Did he press your hand in a manner that 
 indicated peculiar affection for yourself ? " in- 
 quires the Judge, with impressive blandness 
 and evident relish. 
 
THE COURT IN SCHOHARIE. Ill 
 
 " Oh, yes, certainly," says the maiden 
 sweetly. 
 
 " And," continues the Judge, smiling and 
 looking squarely into the blue eyes of the wit- 
 ness, "did he use ah terms of endear- 
 ment to you, Miss Sallie ? " 
 
 " He only said what I have told you," re- 
 plies the lady, in a soft voice. 
 
 " Ahem ! " says the Judge, with a disap- 
 pointed air, as he turns away and makes a 
 note upon his papers. 
 
 " And did he kiss you ? " asks the counsel 
 roughly. 
 
 " Yes, he did kiss me, if you are so anxious 
 to know," jerks out the injured female. 
 
 " Do I understand you to testify," says the 
 Judge, brightening up, " that he pressed your 
 hand caressingly and kissed you ? " 
 
 "Yes, sir," answers the maiden, with a 
 grateful glance. 
 
 " And," continues the Judge slowly, dwell- 
 ing with evident pleasure upon the words, 
 " did he by his manner express endearment 
 and attachment and peculiar affection, that 
 
 12 
 
178 THE COURT IN SCHOHARIE. 
 
 is, a sentiment of especial and endearing re- 
 gard for you, as lie caressingly pressed your 
 hand ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir," replies the lady softly, dropping 
 her eyelids as she meets the keen, searching 
 gaze of his Honor. 
 
 " Where did he kiss you ? on your cheek 
 or your lips ? " now resumes her tormentor. 
 
 Sallie thinks she is badgered, and remains 
 silent. 
 
 " Please tell us where he kissed you, Miss 
 Sallie," says the Judge kindly. 
 
 " It was on my lips, sir," says the lady, in 
 a very low voice, to the Judge. 
 
 " She says it was on her lips," announces 
 the Judge, with an air of great satisfaction, as 
 he turns to his papers and makes a note of the 
 fact. 
 
 " Now, perhaps you will tell me how many 
 times he kissed you," says the tormentor. 
 
 " He kissed me once, and that is enough for 
 you to know," responds the indignant woman. 
 
 " When was that ? " continues the interro- 
 gator. 
 
THE COURT IN SCHOHARIE. 179 
 
 " When he went away," replies the witness. 
 
 " Do I understand you," says the Judge ap- 
 prehensively, " to say that he did not kiss you 
 at the time he pressed your hand endearingly 
 and affectionately and asked you if you would 
 have him ? " 
 
 " It was not then," replies the witness ; 
 " but it was when he went away." 
 
 " And," says the Judge anxiously, " did he 
 kiss you only once ? " 
 
 "That was all," replied the witness. 
 
 And the Judge, apparently disconcerted and 
 unhappy, turns to his papers and makes a note, 
 which he regards for a moment with great 
 gravity. 
 
 " And na-ow," says the torturer, with a pro- 
 voking drawl, " to sum up, you mean to swear, 
 do you, that, after three weeks' acquaintance, 
 Swackhammer John here won the innocent, un- 
 tried, and maiden affection of your too suscep- 
 tible heart, and, having squeezed your hand, 
 promised to marry you, and then, trying the 
 taste of one kiss upon your virgin lips, scud 
 for home, and never came back ? Is that it, 
 Miss Brown?" 
 
180 THE COURT IN SCHOHARIE. 
 
 "I did not come here to be insulted," retorts 
 the jilted female angrily ; and she flounces off 
 the witness-stand, to the great amusement of 
 the spectators. 
 
 After further proceedings it comes to John's 
 turn to tell his side of the story. He " swears " 
 with the same energetic force with which he is 
 accustomed to wield the sledge-hammer in the 
 shop. He declares, with a whack of his great 
 fist upon his knee, that he never did promise 
 to marry Sallie, no, never, so help him his 
 Maker, he never did ! He admits that he was 
 introduced to her by friends when he was look- 
 ing for a wife, and that he called upon her 
 twice, as she says. 
 
 " And did you," says the Judge, with a slow, 
 delicious utterance of every syllable, " did you 
 at any time press her hand caressingly in an 
 affectionate and endearing manner, or indicate 
 feelings of peculiar interest or attachment ? " 
 
 " No, your Honor, I did not," says John. " I 
 looked her over by lamplight and then by day- 
 light, and I see it did n't take ; and I said as 
 much to the folks as introduced me. She 
 
THE COURT IN SCHOHARIE. 181 
 
 skeered me some, she did, the second time I 
 called. She turned on me sudden, after we 
 had set a few minutes, and said, sez she, ' Mr. 
 Poget, what is your intentions ? ' It kind of 
 took my breath away." 
 
 " And what did you answer ? " inquires the 
 counsel. 
 
 " I was all struck of a heap for a while," 
 says the witness ; " but when I got my wind 
 ag'in, I asked her if I could have two weeks 
 to consider it, and she said I might ; and so 
 then I corned away." 
 
 " And did you kiss her ? " inquires the 
 Judge. 
 
 " No, I never did in my life, so help me my 
 Maker ! " with a great whack of the fist upon 
 his knee again. 
 
 " Did you go to tell her what your inten- 
 tions were, at the close of the two weeks?" 
 asks the counsel. 
 
 " I tried to tell her," says John, " but she 
 dodged. She sent me word she would not be 
 at home. But I was bound to keep my ap- 
 pointment, and I walked over there on time, 
 square." 
 
182 THE COURT IN SCHOHARIE. 
 
 " And how far was it ? " says the counsel. 
 
 " Better than four mile," replies the witness. 
 " As I was sayin', I walked over there, and she 
 was not there. I found her father there, and 
 talked to him awhile, and then went home. I 
 saw Sallie the next week, at the store, and I 
 told her I had my mind made up not to give 
 up my bachelorship quite yet, and I did not 
 want to marry her. She cried, and I told her 
 not to feel bad, and I left her ; and she and 
 I never spoke no more." 
 
 The Judge, in charging the jury, says, " And 
 although, gentlemen, this proceeding, even upon 
 the plaintiff's own statement, is not as warm 
 and ardent as our experience might lead us to 
 expect, and although there is a frigidity about 
 it which does not perhaps fully satisfy the 
 mind, yet, if you believe this man did gently 
 press this woman's hand in a manner denoting 
 and intended to denote peculiar affection, and 
 if they did mutually promise marriage, that 
 promise is binding." 
 
 As the jury go out, John's counsel smilingly 
 remarks that the Court evidently regards this 
 
THE COURT IN SCHOHARIE. 183 
 
 as an interesting case. A pleasant ripple of 
 merriment testifies that the shot tells, and a 
 pretty blush upon the noble, time-worn face 
 of his Honor reveals the still youthful suscep- 
 tibility of his heart. 
 
 The jury are out all night. In the mean 
 time, John and his family are sleepless and 
 trembling through the lone night watches. The 
 comedy in the court-room has for them its ter- 
 rors. Their little shop and farm may be swept 
 from them by a verdict awarding damages to 
 Sallie. 
 
 In the morning, the court -room is again 
 crowded. It is whispered that the jury have 
 agreed, and soon they are brought in. John 
 sits with his counsel, trembling and fearing. 
 
 The clerk of the court says to the jury, 
 " Gentlemen, have you agreed upon your ver- 
 dict ? " 
 
 The foreman rises, and replies, "We have 
 agreed." 
 
 " How do you find ? " asks the clerk. 
 
 " For the defendant," replies the foreman. 
 
 John's head goes down upon his hands, and 
 
184 THE COURT IN SCHOHARIE. 
 
 he buries his face between his knees. The sud- 
 den joy and relief is too much for him. His 
 great shoulders heave and sway in his efforts 
 to repress his sobs. The counsel laugh and 
 jog him and tell him to " hold up," they want 
 to speak to him. 
 
 John rises to his feet with a great swing and 
 a jerk designed to throw his long hair back 
 from his red, excited face, which is seen to be 
 all wet with tears, and, grabbing his hat, he 
 rushes from the court-room. 
 
 Ten minutes later, the counsel find him and 
 his family at the hotel where they have put up, 
 crying and laughing and hugging each other 
 in the excess of their great joy. The avalanche 
 of an angry woman's vengeance, which has 
 threatened them for a year past in the shape of 
 this lawsuit, can never crush them now, and 
 they look into a future without a cloud. 
 
 A day later, the court adjourns sine die. 
 The crowd of people in wagons and on foot 
 make their way out of town, and the hamlet 
 seems almost deserted. The carriage and the 
 grays are brought to the door, and we prepare 
 
THE COURT IN SCHOHARIE. 185 
 
 to leave Schoharie. A group of lawyers and 
 their friends gather around and give us each 
 the final hand-shake and kind words at part- 
 ing. We take our places in the carriage, and 
 the landlord sits with the driver to escort us to 
 the depot. He tells us confidentially that it 
 has been a magnificent court; that he has not 
 slept two hours during the entire week ; that 
 the strain has been tremendous, but that he 
 has made seven hundred dollars. 
 
 We arrive at the depot, and soon the train 
 comes thundering along and puffs and shrieks 
 and awakens all the echoes of the highlands. 
 It seems like a brazen and impudent affront 
 offered to the slumbering spirits of the valley. 
 The train pauses a moment : we secure seats, 
 and are whirled away toward the dust and the 
 noise and toil of the city. As we look back- 
 ward through the car -window and catch a 
 flying glimpse of the blue, fading valley, we 
 sigh, and say that our summer court at Scho- 
 harie is over. 
 
AN ADIRONDACK HOME. 
 
 BAR off, crossing the vast, dim valley 
 below us, the St. Lawrence River is 
 seen, a thread of silver creeping 
 through the verdure to the sea. 
 
 We are at an Adirondack homestead, where 
 I spend a part of every summer. It is a re- 
 mote place among the mountains, and just in 
 the edge of the great woods. My brother Ed- 
 ward now resides here. 
 
 In the bottom of a deep, wooded valley, 
 through which flows our little river, a quarter 
 of a mile back of the house, is the saw-mill. 
 We (three brothers) built it when we were 
 boys. We still treasure a large flat bottle 
 filled with sawdust, the first cut by the saw, 
 when the mill was started, more than twenty 
 years ago. In order to comprehend the sen- 
 timent involved in this sawdust, it is impor- 
 
AN ADIRONDACK HOME. 187 
 
 taut to know that we picked out this place 
 in the forest, and paid for it by our industry, 
 and built the mill, from ground-sills to ridge- 
 pole, including the machinery and everything 
 about it, with our own youthful hands. We 
 were millwrights, carpenters, and builders, 
 learning the trades as we went along. 
 
 The rest of the farm is now cleared, but we 
 still keep the deep valley in woods, as it was 
 in the good old tiines. It is a very cool, leafy 
 retreat in summer, and many old associations 
 are connected with it. 
 
 In coming here for my vacation, I brought 
 with me from the city my office-boy, Salsify 
 Kanifer, aged fourteen, a slim and handsome 
 lad, with a sweet face, brown eyes, and dark 
 hair. 
 
 I learned early in our journey that the care 
 of this city boy in the country was likely to be 
 enlivening. Although a docile Sabbath-school 
 scholar at home, and full of good impulses, his 
 city-bred soul revolted against the country. 
 As we left metropolitan surroundings and the 
 railroad dwindled to a single track and the 
 
188 AN ADIRONDACK HOME. 
 
 telegraph to a single wire and the stations to 
 mere sheds of rough boards, Salsify could not 
 forbear expressions of contempt. He also told 
 me very frankly that the people were the most 
 disagreeable he had ever seen. He said they 
 were afraid to talk. When I explained to him 
 that quiet living in solitary places induced 
 habits of taciturnity and reserve, he insisted 
 that it was not reserve, but sulkiness. 
 
 The morning after our arrival, when I en- 
 deavored to impress Salsify with a sense of the 
 grandeur of the landscape that stretches away 
 to a dim horizon in Canada, he conceded all I 
 claimed for it, but was evidently much more 
 interested in a couple of guinea-fowls that 
 were rambling about the door-yard with the 
 chickens and turkeys. We were informed 
 that these " guineas " kept the hawks off. 
 The harsh clangor of their voices was supposed 
 to have this effect. But Salsify was chiefly in- 
 terested in the fact that the guineas were 
 great fighters. He remarked that their heads 
 were more like snakes' heads than like the 
 heads of other fowls. When, two days after 
 
AN ADIRONDACK HOME. 189 
 
 our arrival, it was discovered that the male 
 guinea had a leg broken and the big Plymouth 
 Rock rooster had lost an eye in a mutual un- 
 pleasantness, Salsify began to manifest for the 
 first time a genuine respect for the country. 
 The female guinea has an ugly trick which in- 
 terests the boy. When quietly feeding near 
 the chickens, she suddenly brings her reptilian 
 head to a level, pointing toward a chicken, and 
 then, making a rush, strikes the unsuspecting 
 victim. The feathers fly, also the chicken. 
 After suffering a few attacks of this kind, the 
 persecuted innocent begins to limp, and event- 
 ually grows weak in the back and dies. 
 
 Salsify, in a dim, unconscious way, sym- 
 pathizes with the guinea-fowls. He admires 
 their neat appearance and their exhibitions of 
 power. They resemble the city demagogue, 
 who stands for the boy's idea of a hero. 
 
 If Salsify is in fault in his admiration, per- 
 haps I am equally so in mine. My favorite is 
 the tall, gaunt, bluish -gray fox -hound who 
 guards the house and premises. This dog, 
 Plato by name, has an enemy the strangest 
 
190 AN ADIRONDACK HOME. 
 
 and most absurd that ever afflicted a quadru- 
 ped. He has battled with it for many years. 
 The bitterness of these contests has sunk deep 
 into his mentality, and is now apparent in his 
 long, melancholy visage. His enemy is not a 
 burglar or another dog : it is simply and 
 vaguely the thunder of the heavens. Plato's 
 battles with the thunder-storms are widely 
 known and often talked of in the neighbor- 
 hood. As we came here in the heart of the 
 summer, I have had opportunity to see Plato 
 in full operation. 
 
 As the first low muttering of a storm is 
 heard, Plato's warm brown eyes, which I have 
 perhaps just then caressed into a peaceful and 
 affectionate expression, darken and contract, 
 the wrinkles on his face deepen, his long, slim 
 tail suddenly becomes a crow-bar, and, jerking 
 away from me and throwing up his head, his 
 mouth opens, and the long, moaning, bell-like 
 note peculiar to his race echoes through the 
 clearing. If he happens to be in the house, it 
 makes no difference : his voice cannot be sup- 
 pressed. The only relief is to get him out as 
 
AN ADIRONDACK HOME. 191 
 
 soon as possible. He is, presumably, inspired 
 with the vision of some grisly terror from the 
 moment he hears the thunder coming. This 
 thing has apparently become the nightmare of 
 his existence. 
 
 Having uttered his premonitory howl, Plato's 
 next proceeding is to dash off as far as the 
 boundary line of the premises. Here he sta- 
 tions himself, and pours out his soul in long, 
 dismal, defiant notes, facing the storm. As 
 each fresh peal is heard, his excitement in- 
 creases, until he runs at his utmost speed, tear- 
 ing from side to side along the line, throwing 
 his head skyward, and pouring out great vol- 
 leys of sound against the advancing foe. Dur- 
 ing these exercises, Plato (who is in all else a 
 very obedient dog) is equally regardless of en- 
 treaties and threats, or even blows. He seems 
 to remember only that the family and the 
 premises must be protected, and that he alone 
 is responsible. 
 
 As the storm progresses and crosses the line 
 of battle, a scene ensues generally designated 
 and known as " Plato's circus." It is evidently 
 
192 AN ADIRONDACK HOME. 
 
 clear to him that his enemies are coming in all 
 directions. He turns this way and that to repel 
 and pursue them. The dog's ambition is ap- 
 parently to catch always the last thunder-bolt 
 before it has time to leave the clearing. In 
 this mad pursuit he charges around the house 
 and across the premises in all directions in a 
 howling frenzy of excitement. As the deluge 
 comes down, Plato may be dimly seen through 
 the sheets of water flitting past, drawing him- 
 self out into a blue line in his efforts to increase 
 his speed sufficiently to overtake that last 
 thunder-bolt. As the bolts come thicker and 
 faster, Plato's howl is sometimes broken short 
 off, ending with a squeak, as he twists himself 
 to a sharp angle, leaving the old and turning 
 to pursue the new arrival. In the midst of 
 such terrors his voice also becomes " choky," 
 and seems almost articulate in its expression, 
 this effect being due doubtless to his feelings 
 and to the fact that his mouth is likely to be 
 partly filled with rain-water. 
 
 Frequently it becomes evident that Plato is, 
 in his own opinion, getting the worst of it. The 
 
AN ADIRONDACK HOME. 193 
 
 contest upon his part degenerates into almost 
 a squabble. The strange ; invisible powers of 
 the air press heavily upon his imagination. 
 There is a tradition that when very young he 
 was sometimes driven to the barn with droop- 
 ing tail and scared wits by an unusually sharp 
 clap of thunder. But in later years, although 
 at times almost pulverized by fear, he has never 
 retreated. He not only maintains his ground, 
 but makes a point of always pursuing the last 
 bellowing monster until its voice dies away be- 
 hind the hills. 
 
 When all is over, the poor dog comes into 
 the house whimpering and whining like a sick 
 child, begging for sympathy, and evidently un- 
 der the impression that he has warded off a 
 dreadful calamity. It is now past the middle 
 of the dog-days. Plato has become worn and 
 haggard. Thunder-storms are frequent. He no 
 sooner subdues one than another more hideous 
 and awful is discovered stealing insidiously 
 upon him from behind the horizon. Like all 
 his race, however, he is very enduring ; and it 
 is the general impression that he will be able 
 
 13 
 
194 AN ADIRONDACK HOME. 
 
 to continue, as in previous years, with forces 
 unabated, to the dose of the summer cam- 
 paign. 
 
 One of Plato's peculiarities is that his intel- 
 ligence resides chiefly in his nose. He refuses 
 to accept the testimony of his eyes unsupported 
 by his more trustworthy nasal organ. He has 
 even failed to recognize his master at sight ; 
 and usually on meeting any of the family away 
 from home he circles around to the leeward 
 and takes a sniff before making his approaches. 
 
 Plato is at his best when hunting the foxes 
 which abound in the neighborhood. He never 
 hunts them alone, but always in company with 
 his cousin Hero, who belongs upon an adjoin- 
 ing farm. The exploits of the two dogs are 
 noteworthy. The pair, when allowed to go at 
 large, are well-mated vagabonds. If not pre- 
 vented, they would do nothing but hunt foxes 
 all the year round, except, of course, at such 
 times as Plato is engaged in his thunder-storm 
 business. To prevent an extensive waste of 
 dog-power, Hero is, as a rule, kept chained at 
 home. Plato, however, is at liberty to visit 
 
AN ADIRONDACK HOME. 195 
 
 him at any time and cheer him with reminis- 
 censes or with the hope of a good time coming. 
 The good time always conies in the autumn. 
 When the summer heats are over and the 
 golden brown of October appears, it is proper 
 and decorous to chase the foxes. On a fine 
 frosty morning Hero is unchained and per- 
 mitted his freedom. It is a joyful moment in- 
 deed to the two friends. There is an immense 
 wagging of tails, and a manifestation of hilarity 
 that seems a little out of place in dogs of so 
 grave and solemn a character as these hounds 
 are. 
 
 Within fifteen minutes after Hero is liber- 
 ated, the two friends start upon their first hunt 
 of the season. They generally go first to a 
 piece of woods at the east of the house and 
 about half a mile distant. Usually within half 
 an hour the first wild yelp announcing a fresh 
 track is heard. A few minutes later, the fox, 
 closely followed by Plato, is seen crossing a 
 long level which is just beyond the road in 
 front of the house. The foxes, having had 
 rest from the dogs since the previous autumn 
 
196 AN ADIRONDACK HOME. 
 
 or winter, are not very shy. Last autumn the 
 first fox started in this manner seemed almost 
 to have been caught napping, for Plato was 
 close upon his heels. As they were seen cross- 
 ing the wide, open stretch of meadow, it seemed 
 inevitable that Plato, who is a very fast dog, 
 would catch the game ; but the fox was a very 
 cunning animal and a great dodger. As we 
 looked upon the race from the piazza, it was 
 jump and dodge and squirm and twist and zig- 
 zag all across the field, until at last Reynard 
 reached a rail-fence at the boundary. Here 
 the fox had a trick which gave him an advan- 
 tage. He went through the fence, and the dog 
 went through after him. Then the fox dodged 
 back again to the other side of the fence, and 
 so continued threading the fence back and forth 
 like a needle, and the dog, trying to follow with 
 his greater bulk, was embarrassed and confused. 
 The fox, skittering along the line of fence in 
 this alternate manner, secured a respectable 
 start, and the dog was left behind to pick up 
 the track and follow the scent in the usual way, 
 which he did with eager yelps and howlings. 
 
AN ADIRONDACK HOME. 197 
 
 In the mean time, the heavy " boom, boom " of 
 old Hero's voice, as he steadily and soberly fol- 
 lowed the track across the meadow and along 
 the fence, would have told any expert in these 
 matters that Hero, though the slower dog, had 
 better staying qualities. Hero has been in at 
 the death of a great many deer, a few bears, 
 one catamount, and a variety of other game, in 
 his years of hunting among the Adirondack 
 Mountains. It is observable that he now 
 leaves all the lighter play and the circling- 
 round to his less experienced friend, while he 
 himself follows along the regular line. 
 
 In some instances the men of the family at 
 our farm-house, induced by the entreating 
 voices of the dogs, go out with their guns to 
 secure the fox. The method is to listen to the 
 course the dogs are taking, and to stand in the 
 line of approach. Ere long the fugitive will 
 be seen coming, and he will approach until 
 within easy range, if the hunter remains quiet. 
 In this way many foxes are secured each year. 
 But in the majority of instances the two dogs 
 are not seconded by the men. Then they go 
 
198 AN ADIRONDACK HOME. 
 
 chasing on and baying hour after hour, until 
 they have worn out the day, and perhaps the 
 night, in the pursuit. 
 
 Sometimes the fox, tired of the chase, takes 
 to his hole. The men, hearing the baying at a 
 fixed point, know what has happened. Occa- 
 sionally they go to the assistance of the dogs. 
 Then, with a long withe or pole, cut from the 
 woods, they explore to find the direction of the 
 hole, and, cutting down from above, reach the 
 fox in his home. In unearthing the fox there 
 is usually a tussle. Plato, in an agony of ex- 
 citement, perceiving by his exquisite sense of 
 smell that the fox is just in advance of the 
 shovels, in spite of all prohibitions dives in 
 among the implements, crams his long, slim 
 head into the hole, and a moment later, with 
 a smothered yell, pulls backward. What has 
 happened? The little hunted fugitive has 
 turned upon his pursuer and has planted his 
 small, sharp, foxy teeth in the most sensitive 
 part of that wonderful nose which is Plato's 
 grandest characteristic. Plato continues to 
 pull and yell, and the fox, finally, rather than 
 
AN ADIRONDACK HOME. 199 
 
 be drawn out into open day, lets go. Plato's 
 nose has become quite crooked in consequence 
 of these encounters. The shovels resume. 
 Then old Hero comes up warily, and, as the 
 fox is unearthed, Hero's ponderous jaws close 
 upon poor Reynard's cranium, and it is crushed 
 like an egg-shell ; and the men, saying that 
 there is " one varmint the less " in the neigh- 
 borhood to kill the turkeys, go triumphantly 
 home. 
 
 There is another issue which often results 
 to the hounds from "holing " a fox. The men 
 occasionally pay no attention to their beseech- 
 ings, but leave the two canine friends to their 
 own devices. In that case Plato sometimes 
 turns himself into an excavator. He uses his 
 strong fore-legs and broad paws in digging. 
 Holes made by his work and running several 
 yards into the hill-side have been discovered. 
 Notwithstanding his uniform failures to reach 
 the game by this method, he continues to prac- 
 tice the art of digging with unabated enthu- 
 siasm. The notion that he will ultimately dig 
 out a fox is evidently one of his cherished hal- 
 lucinations. 
 
200 AN ADIRONDACK HOME. 
 
 The tenacity and endurance of the hounds 
 are best seen when they are left wholly to 
 themselves in their hunting, as they often are 
 for weeks together. They will be absent from 
 home upon one of their " hunting sprees " for 
 perhaps thirty-six hours, and engaged during 
 all that time in the chase, pursuing by night as 
 well as by day. Plato returning from such a 
 dissipation is a sight to see. He went away 
 full-fleshed and sleek ; he returns a mere sack 
 of bones, so terrific have been the excitement 
 and exertion. If it is cold and wet, as it is apt 
 to be in this mountain region in autumn, he is 
 permitted to come into the kitchen and lie 
 down behind the stove with the cat. For a 
 season he is merely sluggish clay, sleeping con- 
 stantly, or waking only to eat voraciously or to 
 avoid the broom of the housewife. After about 
 three days he is recuperated, and starts off 
 again, fresh as ever, to meet his cousin Hero, 
 doubtless by appointment, and the pair set out 
 for another episode in their wild career. Such 
 a life would speedily destroy any animal or- 
 ganization less enduring than that of the 
 hound. 
 
AN ADIRONDACK HOME. 201 
 
 The gentle side of Plato's nature is best 
 seen in his dealings with Miss Sylvia, the cat. 
 As we are sitting upon the piazza, a gleam of 
 pure milk-white comes whirling and dancing 
 suddenly around the corner of the house upon 
 the green lawn. A glance tells us that it is 
 Miss Sylvia in pursuit of some imaginary ob- 
 ject. As she sees her canine friend recumbent 
 at our feet, with a quick, joyful step and seri- 
 ous air she comes up on the piazza to greet him. 
 She is a very affectionate creature. She ad- 
 vances to Plato slowly, and, softly purring, 
 walks directly under his raised head, touches 
 his jowls with her arched back, and coquet- 
 tishly flirts her tail in his face. Then she 
 turns and walks backward and forward, pur- 
 ring and rubbing her furry sides against his 
 throat and breast, while he elevates his nose 
 a little disdainfully to give her room to pass. 
 If he still remains stern and cold as he usu- 
 ally does and utterly regardless, she then 
 looks up in his face, raises her right fore-paw 
 daintily and gives a soft pat with it upon one 
 of his long, pendulous, silken ears. This, as 
 
202 AN ADIRONDACK HOME. 
 
 Salsify says, generally " fetches him." Plato 
 rises and glances upward at us sheepishly, as 
 if he would say, " What does she want with 
 me ? I despise this nonsense ; " and then he 
 puts his long nose down against Miss Puss and 
 gently pushes her off the piazza on to the grass. 
 Then Plato returns and sits gravely down by 
 us upon his haunches with a very dignified air, 
 as if he had performed an important family 
 duty. Miss Puss endures this cheerfully. She 
 is evidently a little afraid to trifle with her 
 friend, and quite^ willing to be treated by him 
 as an inferior if she can retain his good opin- 
 ion. It is quite clear, also, that Plato is a 
 little ashamed of the sentimentality of their 
 friendship. It is asserted that upon one occa- 
 sion when Miss Sylvia was unusually familiar 
 Plato went so far as to take her in his mouth 
 and drop her into a tub of rain-water which 
 stands just at the corner of the house ; but, 
 upon cross-examination, the evidence of this 
 did not seem to me sufficient. There can be 
 no doubt, however, that Plato does not like 
 publicly to own his friendship for the cat. He 
 
AN ADIRONDACK HOME. 203 
 
 would unquestionably be very unwilling to have 
 his cousin Hero know of it. 
 
 I have not been able to impress Salsify with 
 my ideas of Plato. He regards " that fool of 
 a dog " as a failure. Salsify is to me a per- 
 petual delight. His utter ignorance of the 
 different varieties of trees and of the bircls we 
 see is amazing. 
 
 As soon as we came here I established a lit- 
 tle camp for picnicking about a mile below the 
 mill, in the deep, wooded ravine through which 
 flows the river. Here Salsify and I have spent 
 many of the warmest days, entirely free from 
 the heat. We occupy the time with fishing, 
 conversation, reading, and athletic games. We 
 have but few callers : a solitary crane hangs 
 round, and a kingfisher claims an adverse pos- 
 session. We could easily take along the rifle 
 which is at the house and kill the kingfisher 
 and the crane, and perhaps some of the red and 
 black squirrels that frequent the cool, wooded 
 valley ; but we are both opposed to such pro- 
 ceedings, and object to them when they are 
 suggested by our country friends. As we sit 
 
204 AN ADIRONDACK HOME. 
 
 on the piazza at the house with the family and 
 the neighbors in the cool of the day, and talk 
 of our little camp where we picnic, and of 
 farming, and hunting, and other topics, there 
 is greater freedom and enjoyment than I have 
 known anywhere else, except, perhaps, among 
 the girls and boys at a district school. The 
 families of the neighborhood seem to constitute 
 only one large family. They run in and out 
 and about each other's houses as if they were 
 common property. Salsify is beginning to en- 
 joy this free life, and says he never found so 
 much pleasure in any other. The freedom of 
 the place has extended to our camp, rendering 
 the long talks which Salsify and I enjoy there 
 free and confidential. My own burden the 
 knowledge that life is so far advanced with me 
 and I have accomplished so little has been 
 placed frankly before my office-boy during the 
 days we have spent together in the leafy soli- 
 tude of the woods lying on the bank of the 
 river. We have also read a few books to- 
 gether ; but there is a difference in our tastes 
 which works against success in this direction : 
 
AN ADIRONDACK HOME. 205 
 
 he stills clings to sea-stories and delights in 
 piratical adventures. We get along better in 
 relating our experiences. He exerts himself to 
 impress me with a sense of the daring character 
 of his adventures. The days at school when he 
 " licked " all the other boys, and the days in 
 the streets when he . fought with the " mud- 
 larks " and was himself "covered with gore" 
 and glory, are dwelt upon for my edification. 
 
 This extravagant talk on the part of Salsify 
 has to be taken with a good deal of allowance. 
 He is a fine young chap, with generous im- 
 pulses, and his reckless boasting is in part 
 the result of a pardonable purpose. For this 
 youth is trying to ward off what he regards 
 as a dire calamity, and he thinks this kind of 
 talk may help him. 
 
 The calamity which Salsify dreads, and the 
 fear of which is a burden to him, is the impu- 
 tation of goodness. Vague as the danger is, 
 and perhaps to most minds shadowy, it is as 
 much a reality to him as my burden is to me, 
 or the thunder-storm to Plato. It appears that 
 on several occasions at the Sunday-school and 
 
206 AN ADIRONDACK HOME. 
 
 elsewhere Salsify has been called " a good 
 boy." No other appellation could so humiliate 
 or depress him. " I am no saint," he pleads 
 indignantly, as he discourses of his grievance 
 in our camp. And then he proceeds to lay 
 before me the lies he has told, the battles he 
 has fought, and the small thefts he has com- 
 mitted. I discover also that he has a list of 
 semi-profane words, which he explodes like 
 fire-crackers in his vehement talk. In reply to 
 Salsify I am compelled to admit that, taking 
 all the sins together which he has committed 
 since his babyhood, the array is perhaps suf- 
 ficient to constitute a barrier against goodness. 
 But I do not tell him that which I cannot help 
 thinking, that, with his extremely impulsive 
 nature, sweet disposition, and honesty of pur- 
 pose, he is not likely wholly to escape the im- 
 putation which he so much dreads. 
 
 Salsify's criticism of those who have been his 
 instructors at school is interesting. " There is 
 Miss Williams," he exclaims patronizingly, 
 " who might be a real nice girl, but she is a 
 slave to duty, and has no more idea of free- 
 dom or a good time than a machine." 
 
AN ADIRONDACK HOME. 207 
 
 I suggest that she is discreet. 
 
 He replies that she makes an old hen of her- 
 self, and that if any one has got to be always 
 discreet like that, it is 110 use to live. 
 
 I remark that I have heard her speak well 
 of him. 
 
 " Yes," says Salsify, a little conceitedly, " I 
 know she likes me." And then, after a mo- 
 ment's reflection, he adds indignantly, " I don't 
 like her : she thinks I am good : she thinks I 
 am a little tin angel on wheels." 
 
 Two miles east of our farm-house, on a hill- 
 side, is a small hut, which can be distinctly 
 seen in a clear day, and which is brought out 
 very plainly by using a spy-glass. This hut 
 interests Salsify and the rest of us, because it 
 is the hunting-lodge of the Alaska-saple-man. 
 (The word sable is always pronounced saple 
 in this region.) 
 
 The authorities in such matters here say 
 that of course there is no such animal as the 
 Alaska saple ; but they add, with a laugh, that 
 the fur of the Alaska saple is obtained from 
 an odorous animal not convenient to stumble 
 
208 AN ADIRONDACK HOME. 
 
 over on moonlight nights. The fur of the 
 Alaska saple in the market might not seem 
 as sweet by another name. Therefore there 
 is, as a convenient fiction, such an animal as 
 the Alaska saple, and his fur is very fine, and 
 happens now to be in fashion. 
 
 For some months in autumn and winter the 
 Alaska-saple-man pursues his lucrative calling. 
 He lives a hermit-life, and is not likely to be 
 troubled with visitors. At the termination of 
 his exile he deodorizes himself, his dog, and 
 his peltry, manages to get into a new suit of 
 clothes at some intermediate point, and returns 
 to his fellow-beings. 
 
 I have not stated hitherto the fact that our 
 little camp and general location are in and 
 near a belt of woods which connects (with 
 some slight breaks caused by clearings) the 
 Adirondack forest with the forests of Canada. 
 More or less deer are seen every season passing 
 over this territory or run- way in their journey- 
 ings, and now and then a bear is discovered 
 along the same line. These are often pursued 
 and killed. Sometimes the hunt and capture 
 
AN ADIRONDACK HOME. 209 
 
 are in sight of the houses. The story of each 
 of these incidents is valued as an important 
 part of the history of the neighborhood. The 
 oldest bear-story relates a capture four miles 
 away, at the Corners. There is a small church 
 at the Corners. Soon after it was built, forty 
 years ago, one Sunday, while the people were 
 in church, they heard suddenly a great noise 
 outside on the green. Looking out, they saw 
 an immense black bear, fighting with three 
 dogs. The meeting closed unceremoniously, 
 and the people went out to see the fight. In 
 a few minutes the hunters who were pursuing 
 came up, and the bear was killed. 
 
 It would require a pretty thick volume to 
 set forth the store of good things in the way of 
 hunting adventures and incidents which have 
 accumulated in our neighborhood within the 
 last thirty years. They can be told worthily 
 only by the hunters themselves, in the cool 
 Adirondack summer twilight or by the winter 
 fireside. 
 
 Salsify's interest in the narrations we heard 
 of hunting-exploits evening after evening on 
 
 14 
 
 7 
 
210 AN ADIRONDACK HOME. 
 
 the piazza, the first week after our arrival, was 
 extreme. Moved by curiosity and the stories, 
 he naturally desired to explore, and resolved, 
 among other things, to attend church at the 
 Corners, where that bear was killed on the 
 green. On Sunday morning, before I was 
 aware of it, he had arrayed himself and had 
 gone alone to the place. He returned early in 
 the afternoon, and explained to me that the 
 church-services did not amount to anything, 
 and that he had never been so stared at in all 
 his life before. He professed, however, not to 
 care for the staring, and said he could look 
 any man, woman, or child of them all, includ- 
 ing the preacher, out of countenance in ten 
 seconds. 
 
 I did not venture at the time to tell Salsify 
 why he had attracted so much attention. I 
 enlightened him gradually in the course of the 
 week, as I thought he could bear it. When 
 I had told him all, he was, to my surprise, not 
 abashed, but pleased, and gloried in the sensa- 
 tion he had created. The fact was, he had 
 decked himself out in what he supposed to be 
 
AN ADIRONDACK HOME. 211 
 
 real country style. Whether he had gained 
 his ideas from Buffalo BiD as seen on the 
 stage, or from some book, I did not learn. 
 However it was, he had brought the things 
 with him in his trunk, and his suit consisted 
 of blue flannel pants, a handsome blue flannel 
 shirt, with broad collar and silver st. rs, and a 
 pair of brilliant red suspenders, without coat 
 or vest. It was a neat rig for fancy yachting, 
 or for a hero on the stage ; but for a quiet 
 little country church, in which there were not 
 five people who had ever seen the sea or a 
 theatre, it was not quite the thing certainly. I 
 learned afterward that Salsify was variously 
 taken by the plain people who saw him for a 
 drummer-boy, a sailor, an actor, an escaped 
 circus-performer, and a vender of patent medi- 
 cines. 
 
 As Salsify came to know of these misappre- 
 hensions, he rejoiced in them, and was de- 
 lighted with the sensation he had produced. 
 
 The next Sabbath, when I went with him to 
 the same church, he urged so strongly his right 
 to wear the brilliant suit again that (with 
 
212 AN ADIRONDACK HOME. 
 
 some modifications) it was permitted. I 
 noticed that lie sat during the entire service in 
 a belligerent attitude, breathing defiance. The 
 religious exercises, simple and majestic in their 
 homely setting, entirely failed to reach down 
 to the current of his youthful life. His im- 
 aginary contest with the worshipers entirely 
 absorbed him. 
 
 Another of Salsify's explorations consisted 
 in seeing how near he could get to the hut of 
 the Alaska-saple-man. With this object in 
 view, he wandered off alone, intending to 
 make his way through the woods in a direct 
 line to the locality. He was absent all day, 
 and returned from " somewhere down toward 
 Canada," having gone astray. Coming out on 
 a road, he paid a man who knew the country 
 a dollar and a half to bring him home, where 
 he arrived after nightfall. 
 
 Perhaps it was this experience on the part 
 of Salsify that led him and all of us to take so 
 deep an interest in the boy who was lost near 
 Blue Mountain. Blue Mountain is about 
 twenty miles from where we are located. The 
 
AN ADIRONDACK HOME. 213 
 
 news that a boy was lost in the woods spread 
 very rapidly. The huckleberry-plains at the 
 foot of the mountain are visited every year by 
 farmers who come with their families, and 
 camp in this wild section and pick berries, and 
 make a holiday time of it. The boy who was 
 lost, Andrew Garfield by name, was in one of 
 these camps. He went out toward evening to 
 hunt partridges, and did not come back. His 
 parents and the camps were, of course, alarmed. 
 Quite a disturbance was made, and a good 
 many people were said to have gone to the 
 place next day. The second day after Andrew 
 disappeared, my brother Edward and Salsify 
 and I went to the scene. Edward drove his 
 team, taking us with him in a rough lumber- 
 wagon. The twenty miles of road we trav- 
 eled was smooth and hard, and the bright air 
 and mountain-landscapes were a perpetual en- 
 joyment. 
 
 Edward gave a man who was walking in our 
 direction a ride. This custom of giving a ride 
 to any one on foot is universal in the locality. 
 The man who accepted the ride was named 
 
214 AN ADIRONDACK HOME. 
 
 Sam Curley. Mr. Curley said there was a new 
 joke down where he lived. Tom Powell had 
 sold a cow to Bill Worden for a six-year-old an- 
 imal, when she was no such thing. The cow had 
 only one horn. Bill looked at his purchase 
 and noticed that there were thirteen wrinkles 
 on her horn. One wrinkle comes every year : 
 so that it appeared to him the cow must be 
 thirteen years old. He felt bad about it, and 
 spoke to Tom, charging that Tom had mis- 
 represented the age of the animal. Tom re- 
 plied indignantly, asking Bill if he really was 
 such a numskull and did not know anything. 
 " Why," said Tom, " the animal has but one 
 horn, and of course both wrinkles come on one 
 horn." Bill had to accept the explanation. 
 
 About an hour before noon we reached the 
 huckleberry-plains. We found a dozen little 
 tents clustered together, and there were twenty 
 or thirty teams and nearly a hundred people. 
 It was on the bank of the St. Eegis Eiver. 
 There was a fine view of the mountain, and 
 miles and miles of woods stretching away in 
 every direction. 
 
AN ADIRONDACK HOME. 215 
 
 The story about the lost boy was that, he 
 having gone after the partridges and not re- 
 turning, a dozen men had gone into the woods 
 that same night, making more or less noise, and 
 trying to call loud enough for the boy to hear 
 them. But they could do nothing. The tall, 
 raw-boned man, with red hair, who answered 
 our questions, said they might as well have 
 tried to walk right through a mountain of tar 
 as to go through " them woods " that night. 
 
 On the following morning four parties of 
 men, with guns, had gone into the woods in 
 four different directions and commenced firing 
 the guns. There was one solitary report of a 
 gun heard, apparently in reply, far off up the 
 river, but after that no response. As they 
 could not find the boy, two surveyors had been 
 sent for, and in the afternoon of the day after 
 the boy was lost the surveyors arrived. They 
 were familiar with the entire region. They 
 said the boy was probably wandering off up 
 the river, and that the single report of a gun 
 which had been heard in reply was from his 
 gun. They took a party of four men, with 
 
216 AN ADIRONDACK HOME. 
 
 provisions, and immediately plunged into the 
 woods. 
 
 When we arrived upon the scene, the boy 
 had been out one day and two nights (about 
 forty hours), and the surveyors had been 
 nearly twenty-four hours in the woods. We 
 pitched the little tent we had brought, tied our 
 horses to the back end of the wagon, where 
 they could feed from the wagon-box, and made 
 ourselves at home among the huckleberry- 
 pickers and those who were waiting to hear 
 from the lost boy. 
 
 In the evening it was pleasant at the camps. 
 Fires were built in front of some of the tents, 
 and the men, gathering round them, chatted, 
 and a few sung songs. Some of the older ones 
 talked of old times on the Potomac. They 
 said camping revived memories of their days 
 in the army. 
 
 About an hour after dark there was an ex- 
 citing incident. The report of a rifle was heard 
 a quarter of a mile away in the bush. It was 
 replied to by several of the men at the camps 
 by discharging guns and by loud calls. A few 
 
AN ADIRONDACK HOME. 217 
 
 minutes later two men came out of the woods, 
 saying they had felt their way in the intense 
 blackness for two hours, having almost reached 
 the camps before dark. They were two of the 
 men who had gone out with the surveyors. As 
 the people gathered round them and listened 
 with breathless interest, they explained that 
 the surveyors had come upon the track of the 
 boy and were following it up the river in a line 
 parallel with the stream and about two miles 
 distant from it. They had followed the track 
 about six miles when the two men were sent 
 back with the news. The men said they saw 
 where the boy had picked blueberries, and that 
 there was no doubt that it was the track of 
 Andrew. 
 
 At this point in the narrative a little shriek 
 was heard, and attention was drawn to the 
 shrieker. She was a compact little woman, 
 with light hair and a neat blue calico dress. 
 She was Andrew's mother. She was soothed 
 by the other women. Her husband said, " Don't 
 cry, Jane : maybe he ain't dead, after all." 
 
 After Jane and her husband had gone away 
 
218 AN ADIRONDACK HOME. 
 
 to their tent, there was some discussion in re- 
 gard to the probability of the boy being found 
 alive. The red-haired man thought it would 
 be possible. This man seemed to be an ex- 
 citable individual. He declared that he would 
 not sleep a wink that night, because he would 
 be thinking all the while about Andrew. 
 
 The two men who had brought the intelli- 
 gence said the surveyors had sent out word 
 that the boy would very likely get to the bank 
 of the river in his wandering, and they thought 
 if he did he would keep along by the side of it. 
 They wished, therefore, that some of the men 
 would take a boat and go up the St. Eegis River 
 a dozen miles or more, searching and calling 
 as they went. They thought it possible that 
 the boy might be found in that way. 
 
 By midnight all had been said that could 
 well be suggested, and the company around the 
 fires dropped away to the tents to sleep. The 
 next day was Sunday. It still remained clear 
 and bright weather. The day was spent in 
 various ways by the people, but the majority 
 remained quietly at the camps. Divine service 
 
AN ADIRONDACK HOME. 219 
 
 was suggested, but, on inquiry, it appeared 
 that there was no one present who was willing 
 to address the people or to lead them in relig- 
 ious exercises. There were, however, several 
 good singers present, and groups of people 
 spent a part of the day in singing Moody and 
 Sankey hymns and other selections that they 
 had in memory. Salsify somewhat distin- 
 guished himself in these exercises. 
 
 The great event of the day occurred at about 
 five o'clock in the afternoon. It seemed that 
 the red-haired man and a friend of his, acting 
 on the suggestion of the surveyors, had taken 
 a boat on Sunday morning at the dawn of day 
 and had gone up the St. Regis River. As it 
 was mostly " still water," they had penetrated 
 a dozen miles or more along the river into the 
 woods. Some time after noon they turned and 
 came down the river again. A little while be- 
 fore five o'clock they had nearly got back to 
 camp, and were coming around the last bend 
 of the river, three quarters of a mile above the 
 camps. There was some wild grass growing 
 on the shore just at the bend. Something 
 
220 AN ADIRONDACK HOME. 
 
 rustled, and then a boy put his head up above 
 the grass : it was Andrew, the lost boy. He 
 called out lustily, asking the men for a ride in 
 the boat down to camp. Fifteen minutes later, 
 down at camp, a hum, a buzz, a roar began off 
 toward the river, and the next we knew there 
 was the red-haired man and a handsome, light- 
 haired boy with his cap off right in our midst, 
 and it was known that the boy was Andrew, 
 who had been found. There we all were, 
 shouting and crying and laughing. The first 
 individual movement that I distinctly recall was 
 that of the mother of Andrew. Coming from 
 a tent, she rushed forward like a projectile 
 from a catapult, but seemed to weaken after a 
 moment, and actually fell down on her face in 
 the midst of the tumult. She was helped up, 
 and had a chance to put her arms about her 
 boy's neck, after which she sat down on the 
 ground and cried. 
 
 Immediately after this, attention was called 
 to the red-haired man, who was making his 
 arms go and trying to tell the story, how they 
 had found the lad. "I tell you what, boys," 
 
AN ADIRONDACK HOME. 221 
 
 said he, " when the grass wiggled and he put 
 his head up and I see it was Andrew a-sittin' 
 there, like little Moses in the bulrushes, it just 
 made my hair pull." 
 
 Andrew, who was about Salsify's age, evi- 
 dently did not like all this excitement. His 
 mother's sympathy compelled him to cry a 
 little, but it was clearly disagreeable to him. 
 When asked if he was starved, he said no, he 
 was not hungry much. 
 
 Andrew's supper was not long in coming. 
 He was annoyed by the attention bestowed 
 upon him while eating. After supper he ad- 
 mitted that he had been " a little bit holler " 
 toward the last, but insisted that huckleberries 
 and winter-green and birch-bark would do very 
 well for three or four days. When asked how 
 he could sleep in the woods alone, he said the 
 only trouble was to keep awake, and that " it 
 slept itself," if he only let it. The boy ob- 
 stinately asserted that he liked it in the woods 
 and had " enjoyed it first-rate." He admitted 
 that he had got his head turned, but declared 
 when he struck the river he understood how it 
 
222 AN ADIRONDACK HOME. 
 
 was, and came back. When asked if he had 
 heard the guns fired by the various parties 
 that went into the woods the morning after he 
 disappeared, he said he did, but they confused 
 him. He would hear firing in one direction 
 and would go toward it, after which there 
 would be firing in another direction and he 
 would turn toward that, and so it " mixed him 
 all up." He had fired his gun once in reply, 
 but, having lost his box of percussion-caps, 
 could fire no more. 
 
 Edward and Salsify and I started on our re- 
 turn to the farm-house the next morning. 
 There was an incident that amused us just as 
 we were starting. Mr. Pinkham came to the 
 plains to pick huckleberries, provided with a 
 bundle of slips of paper, and on each slip was 
 written, " Tobias Pinkham, Lost ! " He 
 was going to tack these notices to the trees as 
 he traveled, if he got lost, and he had a paper 
 of small tacks in his pocket for that purpose. 
 He agreed with some hunters that in case he 
 should be missing they would search for him, 
 looking out sharp for the notices. It was a 
 
AN ADIRONDACK HOME. 223 
 
 very serious agreement upon Mr. Pinkham's 
 part. He emphasized the point that he would 
 pay the hunters for their trouble, either in 
 money or in maple sugar. Mr. Pinkham's 
 notices were looked upon as a great joke, and 
 the news of them was spread abroad by us as 
 we met the neighbors on our return journey. 
 We reached the farm-house in time for dinner. 
 That was three days ago. To-morrow we will 
 return to the city. 
 
14 DAY USE 
 
 RETURN TO DESK FROM WHICH BORROWED 
 LOAN DEPT. 
 
 This book is due on the last date stamped below, or 
 
 on the date to which renewed. 
 Renewed books are subject to immediate recall. 
 
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 5Mar'59CSj 
 
 MAR 9 - 1959