LIBRARY 
 
 University of California 
 
 IRVINE.
 
 IRobert Cameron TRogers 
 
 WiU o' the Wasp. A Sea Yarn of the War 
 of 1812 
 
 Old Dorset : Chronicles of a New York 
 Country Side 
 
 The Wind in the Clearing, and Other Poems 
 
 G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS, New York & London
 
 OLD DORSEI 
 
 CHRONICLES OF A NEW YORK 
 COUNTRY-SIDE 
 
 BY 
 
 ROBERT CAMERON ROGERS 
 
 Author of " Will o' the Wasp," ""The Wind" 
 in the Clearing," etc. 
 
 NEW YORK AND LONDON 
 G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS 
 
 ^897
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1896 
 
 BY 
 
 G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS 
 Entered at Stationers' Hall, London 
 
 Ube fcntcfcerbocher press, "Mew ]Qorh
 
 To THE MEMORY OF JOHN DAVENPORT 
 
 OF BATH 
 IN THE STATE OF NEW YORK
 
 Contents. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 A DORSET PRODIGAL 3 
 
 THE DENISON VENDUE .... 29 
 
 MADAM CALLANDER 53 
 
 THE EXPIATION OF EZRA SPICER . .113 
 THE CASE OF PINCKNEY TOLLIVER . .159 
 THE LAST OF THE OLD CHURCH . . 183
 
 a Dorset
 
 a 2>orset 
 
 i. 
 
 ONE evening, in the early part of 
 August, some thirty years ago, 
 Major Cooper entered the bar-room of 
 the Eagle Tavern. This hostelry, the 
 oldest, if not the best, in Dorset, was a 
 favorite halting spot in the Major's 
 nightly orbit. Silsbee, the proprietor, 
 was his friend and admirer, and among 
 the little assemblage of gossips who 
 gathered at the " Eagle " with each 
 evening's advent, the Major was the rec 
 ognized oracle ; a distinction due to his 
 age, he was over seventy ; his title he 
 had served in the army, and still wore 
 his brass buttons upon his waistcoat ; 
 and the social eminence of his family in 
 3
 
 15 Dorset 
 
 Dorset. Beside the already mentioned 
 attractions of the Eagle Tavern, it may 
 be stated that Silsbee's Monongahela 
 was the best to be obtained in the 
 county. 
 
 It will be readily seen, therefore, that 
 the Major, whose tastes were autocratic 
 and epicurean, derived much comfort 
 from his visits to the old-time tavern, 
 whose architecture, of the order which 
 may be styled early Southern New 
 York, recalled to the few old residents 
 the bygone glories of Dorset. 
 
 Few villages in Central or Southern 
 New York were so picturesque as Dor 
 set. It lay in a veritable cradle of hills, 
 its broad meadows stretching to where 
 the forest hid the steep ascent of the 
 mountain sides. Its little river slipped 
 clear and noisy over the pebbles, 
 shaded on its long pilgrimage to the 
 distant Chesapeake by overhanging 
 branches of elm and butternut, bass- 
 wood and sycamore, and many a tree 
 or shrub of less degree, across whose 
 4
 
 Dorset 
 
 tangle here and there the wild grape 
 spread its web of emerald. 
 
 Dorset was famous for its hospitality, 
 for its pretty women, for its kitchens, for 
 its negroes. Some of the earliest set 
 tlers were from Maryland and Virginia, 
 and had brought with them so many of 
 their slaves that the town was invested 
 with much of that picturesqueness and 
 local human color so prevalent in the 
 villages south of Mason and Dixon's 
 line. Aunts and uncles by courtesy 
 of complexion and white wool were 
 common in Dorset. In the early days 
 this little town was reached only by 
 the medium of a yellow stage, and 
 morning and evening horns tooted gaily 
 as six horses swung merrily along the 
 old post -road and halted before the 
 Eagle Tavern. Such was Dorset 
 forty years ago. 
 
 Now, time and fortune have wrought 
 their changes in the once remote, old- 
 fashioned village. Many of the old 
 families have moved away, others have 
 5
 
 ID IDorset 
 
 fallen upon evil days. White frame 
 houses, with Grecian pillars upholding 
 the gabled roof, under whose eves a 
 half-moon window gazes upon the 
 street, are no longer in vogue, for the 
 Queen Anne cottage has appeared in 
 the land. There are several factories 
 now in Dorset ; two railroads meeting 
 there have gained it notoriety as a 
 " Junction," and all day long the shriek 
 of whistles and snorting and clangor 
 of engines call out angry remonstrance 
 from the indignant hills. 
 
 II. 
 
 But we must return to the Major. 
 
 Return is perhaps not the word, as 
 one cannot ramble among the mem 
 ories of old Dorset without coming 
 presently upon Major Cooper. He was 
 a repository of all that had interested 
 the last three generations, and though 
 he took to-day good-naturedly and even 
 glanced with tolerance at to-morrow, he 
 6
 
 2>orset 
 
 was plainly in the present merely as a 
 delegate from the past. 
 
 This particular evening he was full of 
 the importance an interesting and still 
 fresh item of news imparts. 
 
 " Homer," said he, addressing Silsbee, 
 whose parents had named him with that 
 ruthless classicism once so common in 
 many rural districts in New York State, 
 in the nomenclature both of individuals 
 and places ; " Homer," repeated the 
 Major, " you can reck'lect Jimmy Bar 
 ton, can't you ? " 
 
 " Wai, I guess so, Major," replied 
 Silsbee, " him 'n' I went to school to 
 gether." 
 
 " What, you 'n' young Jimmy ? " 
 questioned the Major. 
 
 " Wai, Major," laughed the other, 
 " he aint young Jimmy no longer. He 
 was every day of twenty when he left, 
 an' it 's nigh twenty years sence, an' I 
 guess we 've kep' on gettin' old 'bout 
 even, him 'n' I." 
 
 " You 're right, you 're right," said 
 7
 
 <S>U> Dorset 
 
 the Major. " I was thinking you were 
 your father, I guess. Well, poor Jim 
 has turned up." 
 
 " You don't tell me," exclaimed Ho 
 mer. " I want to know." 
 
 " Fact," continued the Major. " He 's 
 down to his old nurse, Aunt Susan Tolli- 
 ver's. Young Pete, her grandson, let 
 the thing out, and he says poor Jimmy 
 looks like a dead man. Poor boy ! So 
 long as his folks lived here I s'pose he 
 would n't come back. He was an awful 
 takin' boy an' they were mighty proud 
 of him. What a voice he had ! Funny, 
 but I can reck'lect the sound of his laugh 
 yet. Why, I 'd rather hear Jimmy 
 Barton laugh than most people sing." 
 
 The Major paused a moment, and 
 taking a silver tobacco box from his 
 waistcoat pocket, opened it, helped 
 himself to a generous mouthful and 
 chewed for a moment meditatively. 
 Chewing, in the Major's prime, had 
 been as customary as smoking among 
 the people of his acquaintance. 
 8
 
 B S>orset prodigal 
 
 During this brief interlude several 
 new-comers, who had been listening 
 afar off, drew near. The tavern-keeper 
 turned to one of them, a little, weaz 
 ened-faced man, upon whose counte 
 nance, colored by indefatigable tippling, 
 an expression of great curiosity was 
 visible : " You remember Jim Barton, 
 don't ye, Ezry ? " 
 
 " Wai, I guess I kin," replied Ezra, 
 whose name was Spicer. " I guess I 
 kin; why him V me was " 
 
 Here the Major, with a slight frown 
 in the direction of the adventurous 
 Spicer, resumed the reins of the con 
 versation. Nothing was further from 
 the worthy gentleman's intention than 
 to permit another to discourse upon the 
 theme he himself had inaugurated. 
 
 " You remember Jim Barton, Seely, 
 and you too, Balcom," he said, address 
 ing the remainder of the group. " Well, 
 he 's come back at last, come back to 
 die, I guess down to his old nurse, 
 Susan Tolliver's." After a moment's
 
 ID Dorset 
 
 melancholy satisfaction in the exclama 
 tions of surprise and commiseration fol 
 lowing this disclosure, the Major went 
 on : " I was talkin' about his laugh 
 clear as a bell you reck'lect him laugh- 
 in' out in meetin' at Colonel Denison's 
 tipsy coachman, Black Tony ? An' how 
 the old judge walked him out for it ? 
 Well, he was a limb, was Jimmy, always 
 up to something. He could imitate any 
 livin' animal or bird. Why, he used to 
 put his head out of the window, about 
 nine at night, when the town was about 
 ready to go to sleep, an* crow, an", my 
 word for it, they 'd be twenty-five old 
 roosters singing out revellee in five min 
 utes. Then Jim, he 'd laugh an' go to 
 bed. Why, you all rek'lect that trick, 
 of course." 
 
 The Major paused a moment, then 
 resumed in a little different voice : 
 
 " Well, he went to college, an' he got 
 
 wild there, I guess. When he came 
 
 home he quarrelled with the Judge an' 
 
 got turned off. But you know it all 
 
 10
 
 a Dorset prodigal 
 
 just as well as I do. Mrs. Barton died 
 first, then the family lost their money, 
 then they went West. The poor old 
 Judge 's buried in Ohio somewhere. 
 The girls are married, the old house is 
 torn down, an' here 's poor Jim come 
 back at the last, to die at an old nigger 
 woman's. There 's a history for you. 
 Here 's old Susan now," exclaimed the 
 Major, " an' you can get the news first 
 hand." 
 
 III. 
 
 As he ceased speaking a negress of 
 almost any age between sixty and 
 eighty entered the room. She was 
 coal-black with white hair, and was one 
 of the few negroes in Dorset who re 
 membered the slave days in the North. 
 She walked up to the counter and placed 
 a tin pail upon it. 
 
 " Mist' Silsbee," she said, " I want 
 'bout a quahtah of dat pail o' wisky. I 
 want you' porest ; hit 's fo' extu'nal
 
 ID Dorset 
 
 app'cation. Good evenin', Majah," she 
 added with a dignified courtesy to that 
 gentleman. 
 
 " Good evening, Susan," said he. " I 
 am told that my old friend, Judge Bar 
 ton's son is at your house." 
 
 The old woman's face assumed a 
 look of mingled grief and importance. 
 She saw herself the centre of a curious 
 throng, and her vanity was not a little 
 gratified. At the same time it was evi 
 dent that she felt keenly the melancholy 
 occurrence which had given her this 
 present prominence. She addressed 
 herself to the Major, as he represented 
 to her mind the only element in the 
 little group to be deferred to. 
 
 " Oh, fo' de Lord's sake, yes, Majah," 
 she exclaimed, lifting her hands and 
 letting them fall with the gesture of 
 one who scarcely hopes to recover from 
 some great and recent shock " Mast' 
 Jim 's come back, you see" after a 
 short pause, during which the Major 
 had asked for the particulars of the 
 
 12
 
 21 Dorset 
 
 event, " My gal Flora's boy, he sez to 
 me to-day, sez he, ' Gramma/ sez he, ' I 
 seen a tramp 'sleep in de ole Barton lot, 
 down in de cem'tery,' sez he. ' Wai/ sez 
 I, ' I can't help dat/ sez I ; 'you run 'long 
 now ; I aint got no time fo' you.' Wai, 
 dis evenin'/' the old woman paused a 
 moment and permitted her hearers' in 
 terest to intensify " dis evenin', 'bout 
 six, Pete, dat 's Flora's boy, cum runnin' 
 to me an' sez, ' Gramma, dat tramp I 
 seen dis maw'n' jist gone inter de ketch- 
 in.' I went to the do' an' open it, an' 
 sure 'nough dere he stan', eating de suc 
 cotash he 'd tuk off de stove like he was 
 stahvin. I was jess 'bout to call out 
 wen he turn an' see me, an' kin* o' 
 laugh an' say, 'you mak' de succotash 
 de same old way, Aunty Sue ! ' Lord, I 
 did 'n' know yet who de man was, an' 
 den he walked towahd me and sez he, 
 'Aunt Susan, doan you know me?' 
 an' den I see hit was Mast' Jim. 
 
 " But, oh Lord ! Majah," cried the old 
 woman, breaking into as ob, " hit wa' n't 
 13
 
 l> Dorset 
 
 de same ole han'some Mast' Jim what 
 we all knowed. He was pore, an' white, 
 an' his ha'r was half gray, an' his clo's 
 like a sure 'nough tramp's. An' he 
 look like de wind blow him away. I 
 sat down an' fah'ly cried. ' Oh, Mast' 
 Jim,' sez I, 'wharyou come from, whar 
 you been? I 's mighty glad to see you, 
 I is, but you look so pore an* sick, fo' 
 de Lord's sake, Mast' Jimmy ! ' Den he 
 come clost up to me, an' sez he : ' Aunty, 
 I 's from most ev'rywhar' an' I 'se ben 
 goin' most anywhar fo' de las fifteen 
 yeahs,' sez he, ' an' I got kind o' tiahed 
 an' cum back to see you 'n' old Dorset 
 agin ; an' I 'm precious glad to fine you 
 'live, too, you deah ole niggah,' sez he ; 
 an' den he stoop an' kiss me. ' You 's 
 de fust woman I 've kissed in a long 
 time, Aunty,' sez he, 'an' I guess you 's 
 like to be de last I evah will kiss ; ' an' 
 den he fah'ly break down an' cry, an' 
 laugh, an' cough, 'till he most die o' 
 chokin'." 
 
 Aunt Susan stopped a few moments
 
 B 2>oreet 
 
 and wept quietly into a corner of her 
 old plaid shawl. The group of listeners 
 were silent. Silsbee concealed two 
 misty eyes by appearing to be busy with 
 something under the counter. The 
 tears were coursing freely down the 
 Major's withered face; Balcom and 
 Seely were gazing with dimmed vision 
 and ill-assumed indifference at the floor, 
 while old Ezra Spicer was sobbing 
 audibly. 
 
 No one seemed to care to speak first, 
 and presently the old negress continued : 
 " I got him supper an' put him to bed, 
 an' he kin' o' chippered up a little an' 
 ask 'bout all his ole frens. I say, ' you 
 people 's gone West, Mast' Jim,' and he 
 say he know it. And den he say slowly : 
 ' Not all, dey is n't Aunty ; I ben to de 
 cem'tery to-day,' sez he. Den he stop. 
 In a minute he say an' kin o' choke 
 up : ' Mother tole me she gwine to wait 
 fo' me heah,' sez he, ' an' she 's kep' her 
 word,' sez he. After a while he ask 
 whar 's his cousin John Denison, an' I 
 15
 
 ID Dorset 
 
 say, killed in de wah ; an* he say, he was 
 in de wah too. An' he say ' whar 's 
 'Lizabeth Taylor ;' an' I sez, 'why Mast' 
 Jim,' sez I, ' she ben Missus dis fifteen 
 yeah.' ' Missus who ? ' sez he. Why, 
 ' Mis' Thorne Cooper,' sez I ; an' den 
 he say to hisself like, 'den hit must 'a 
 ben her little girl I see dis maw'n.' 
 Aftah dat he keep still a minute and 
 den he say, * Aunt Susan kin you git 
 me something fo* to rub my chest wiv ? 
 I aint got no money,' sez he, ' but yere 's 
 my ole silvah watch I done carry fo' 
 thirty yeah,' sez he. But Susan aint 
 askin' no money to look out fo' old 
 Mis' Barton's chil'en, so bimeby he 
 laugh an* say, ' Wai Aunty,' sez he, 
 ' when I get froo wiv dis yere, you give 
 it to Pete,' sez he, 'an' tell him look out 
 he doan waste de time like I did,' says 
 he. And bimeby he say he was sleepy 
 an' tu'n on his side, an' I come fo' dis 
 yeah wisky." 
 
 The old woman took the pail off the 
 counter, when she had ended her re- 
 
 16
 
 B Dorset prodigal 
 
 cital, and turned to the door, saying: 
 " Charge dis yere to me, Mist' Silsbee." 
 
 " No, no, no, Silsbee," exclaimed the 
 Major ; " no, no, no, put that to me. 
 That 's all right, Susan, an' you tell 
 Jimmy I '11 be in to see him in the 
 morning." 
 
 "And you tell Jimmy fer me, Mis' 
 Tolliver," added old Spicer, following 
 the negress to the door, " that I '11 be 
 round to-morrow, too, an' if he wants 
 anything I '11 I '11 borrow it fer him." 
 Ezra had ended with an anti-climax, for 
 the poor old toper, soft-hearted as a 
 woman, had a credit founded upon 
 sand. 
 
 The others had adjourned to the bar, 
 and were about to indulge solemnly in 
 a round of Monongahela. Ezra watched 
 them from the door. No one noticed 
 him apparently nor invited him to be a > 
 party to the libations, and his last nickel 
 had left his society earlier in the even 
 ing. But the old man hardly felt the 
 oversight or regretted his impecuniosity. 
 17
 
 ID Dorset 
 
 His face wore a meditative look, and his 
 eyes, whose vision was usually limited 
 by the whiskey bottle, seemed to be 
 gazing far beyond that amber-colored 
 fetich, beyond its worshippers, beyond 
 the open window, the garden, the 
 meadow, the river and the hills, away 
 into the past. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Some time after, when the Major 
 and his satellites had passed the tav 
 ern door to suffer eclipse in the dark 
 ness beyond, Silsbee, coming to the 
 counter which opened into the office, 
 noticed old Ezra Spicer asleep in his 
 customary chair, the marks of emotion 
 staining his weazened cheeks. It was 
 growing late and Homer was sleepy. 
 
 " Wai, Ezry," he called, " better wake 
 up fust you know ole Mis' Spicer '1 be 
 'long lookin* fer ye with a club." 
 
 Ezra roused himself. "Crotch all 
 hemlock," he said with a stretch and 
 
 18
 
 a Dorset iproDfgal 
 
 a yawn combined, " ef I haint be'n 
 dreamin.' Dremp I was fishin', at the 
 ole fishin' hole on Colonel Denison's 
 bank of the river you 'n' Jimmy Bar 
 ton was along, jess as yer used ter be. 
 Kin you remember when you 'n' Jim 
 snared that dern big mullett that 
 would n't bite at no bait an' how Jim 
 laughed ? " 
 
 "Wai', I do," replied Homer with a 
 grin. 
 
 " Why, of course ye do," continued 
 Ezra. " I was goin' to call it to yer 
 mind to-night when the Major was 
 speakin' of Jim's laugh, but the ole 
 Major 's so dern uppity when he gets 
 talkin' wants to do it all. I guess we 
 kin reck'lect poor Jimmy's ways jess 
 'bout as well as he kin ef we aint so 
 high-toned." 
 
 Homer laughed. " Why, of course, 
 we kin. He used to train with us most 
 the time. Guess the ole Jedge did n't 
 like it much, nuther, but Jim wa' n't no 
 'ristocrat. Ye aint goin' be ye, Ezry ? " 
 19
 
 Old 5>Or3Ct 
 
 he added, gazing with a softening look 
 at the old man, who was walking slowly 
 towards the door ; " ye have n't had no 
 night-cap yit," and he put the amber 
 bottle upon the counter again and pro 
 duced a minature tumbler. 
 
 Ezra paused spell-bound, but timid : 
 " I haint no cash, Homer," he began. 
 
 " Who said ye had ? Come here 'n' 
 have a drink," said the other gruffly. 
 The old tippler came up to the counter 
 and took his whiskey, shaking his head, 
 rubbing his chest, and coughing per 
 functorily afterwards. Homer filled the 
 glass again, and again the liquor disap 
 peared with similar concomitant phe 
 nomena. When Ezra set his glass down 
 the second time he was evidently much 
 invigorated. " That fixes me," said he. 
 " Homer, I 'm yours truly. I wish I 
 could pay ye." 
 
 " I don't want no pay," growled the 
 other ; " but don't ye forgit to drop in 
 to-morrow mornin' an' we '11 go see how 
 Jim 's a-comin' on." 
 
 20
 
 B Dorset 
 
 V. 
 
 When the old negress reached her 
 cottage she found the wanderer awake, 
 and sitting upright on the bed, talking 
 with animation to her grandson Peter, 
 who was perched at the foot of the 
 couch. 
 
 James Barton must at one time have 
 been a handsome man, but now his 
 form was bent and spare ; his hair was 
 mottled with gray, and his face thin and 
 pinched, with the bright red spot of the 
 consumptive upon either cheek. His 
 eyes were blue and full of a preter 
 natural glimmer. It was easy to see 
 that his mind was half-wandering as he 
 talked rapidly with the little darkey, 
 and the old woman attempted to send 
 the boy away, fearful of the effect of 
 too much excitement upon the sick 
 man. But Barton exclaimed queru 
 lously, and with all an invalid's peevish 
 ness, against her wish. He wanted to 
 hear about the woods, and the river, 
 
 21
 
 Dorset 
 
 and whether the fishing was good. And 
 he rattled on, asking the lad a hun 
 dred questions, speaking of groves long 
 fallen under the axe, of fishing-holes 
 and swimming-pools for years disused 
 and forgotten. Occasionally he would 
 seem to be a boy again himself, and call 
 the little negro, " Thome," or " Jack," 
 or " Homer," or other names of his 
 boyhood friends. 
 
 After a while, however, he seemed to 
 grow weary and turned silently upon 
 his side. The little boy slipped from 
 his place and stole out of the room, and 
 the old negress again entered. She 
 offered to rub his throat and chest with 
 the whiskey, but he shook his head ; and 
 presently thinking him asleep she sat 
 down quietly in the outer room. In a 
 few moments she heard the sick man 
 call her. She came close to the bed. 
 
 " Sit by me, Aunty, won't you ? " he 
 said, "like you used to when I was 
 afraid of the dark." 
 
 " Lord bless you, chile, 'cose I '11 set
 
 Dorset 
 
 by ye." She brought an old easy chair, 
 the gift, many years before of, Mrs. 
 Barton. " I '11 set yere, doan you fret, 
 honey." The man laid his hot palm 
 upon the hard black hand of his old 
 nurse. " God bless you, Aunt Susan," 
 said he, " I '11 be soon asleep." 
 
 Some hours passed. 
 
 The candle, burned out, was smoul 
 dering in its socket, the old woman 
 slept noisily in her chair, and the man 
 upon the bed was also sleeping. Sud 
 denly he wakened with a start, and for 
 a moment stared in a dazed manner 
 about him. Then recollecting himself, 
 he turned towards his old nurse. A 
 smile stole over his face as he noticed 
 her deep slumber, and he half raised 
 himself upon his pillow. The window 
 was open, and the breeze had filled the 
 room with fragrance from a bush of 
 late roses. The night was already lift 
 ing, and he could see far down the 
 road, past the walls of gardens over 
 which peered the sunflowers with their 
 23
 
 ID Dorset 
 
 dusky aureoled faces, just as years be 
 fore, how many years he was too weak 
 to care to reckon, they had peered at 
 him, a little white-haired boy, slipping 
 away with his fish-pole to the river. 
 He could see the fringe of trees that 
 marked the river's course, and on be 
 yond them the silent, wooded hill. He 
 could see no new buildings the clatter 
 of the factories had not yet begun. 
 The railroad was silent new faces were 
 not yet upon the street. Only his old 
 friends were present. The great south 
 hill, the trees beside the river, the sun 
 flowers along the post-road, and by his 
 side, sleeping heavily in her chair, his 
 old black nurse. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Perhaps it was an hour later, when 
 a light, boyish laugh sounded through 
 the room. Stirring at the sound, the 
 aged negress half awakening, muttered 
 indistinctly, and at once resumed her 
 sleep. 
 
 24
 
 B Dorset prodigal 
 
 She was dreaming confusedly of the 
 past, and the laughter coming into her 
 dream seemed a part of it. She was 
 dreaming of an old-fashioned, white- 
 pillared house surrounded by a garden 
 of dahlias, hollyhocks, and sunflowers. 
 Down the garden paths she seemed pur 
 suing a boy with yellow hair, who con 
 tinually laughed at and eluded her. 
 Suddenly the boy was a youth, and the 
 youth a man, and then, as the figure 
 drifted away and was lost amid a mist 
 of vague, uncertain visions, once more 
 the face of the boy appeared, faintly 
 upon the background of her dream. 
 
 When the sun, through an eastern 
 window, flooded the room, the old 
 woman awoke. 
 
 She leaned forward to look at the 
 man upon the bed. His lips were half 
 open, and the trace of a smile lingered 
 upon his emaciated face. She took one 
 of his hands, and, with a cry, rose to 
 her feet, for the hand was the hand of 
 the dead. 
 
 25
 
 <S>1> Dorset 
 
 " I heahd him laugh in his sleep," 
 she said, that day, to Major Cooper as 
 he stood beside the body of his old 
 friend's son ; " I heahd him laugh like 
 he was a boy agin. 'Foh de Lord ! 
 like he was a boy agin."
 
 H)eni0on IDentwe.
 
 IDenison 
 
 ONE sunny September afternoon, 
 it was many years ago, in the 
 fifties, a number of people were assem 
 bled in the front yard of the Denison 
 mansion, hearkening, and occasionally 
 yielding, to the humorous eloquence 
 of Lemuel Edwards, the village auc 
 tioneer, as he held forth concerning 
 the various chattels to be acquired at 
 prodigious bargains from the Denison 
 vendue. 
 
 The broad front door of the old man 
 sion stood open, and, in the uncarpeted 
 hall beyond, chairs, and tables were 
 huddled uncomfortably together, seem 
 ingly conscious of an impending crisis, 
 and towering above these an aged ma- 
 29
 
 Dorset 
 
 hogany clock, unwound for many days, 
 gazed in gloomy silence at " Time's re 
 venges," disdaining to chronicle these 
 supreme hours of disgrace. 
 
 In a corner, upon a sideboard, where 
 of old stood the silver and glass of 
 prosperity, a few nicked tea-cups and 
 four or five long-stemmed wine-glasses, 
 " strayed revellers," feminine and mas 
 culine, from a remote and happy period, 
 cast their melancholy reflections into 
 the burnished surface upon which they 
 stood. A bedstead or two, a few books 
 and prints, several carpets and mat 
 tresses, and a number of minor articles 
 of household utility, littering the wide 
 porch, completed the tale of salvage 
 from that wreck which once was known 
 as the Denison estate. 
 
 For Mrs. Colonel Denison, the relict 
 of one of Dorset's earliest and most in 
 fluential citizens, had finally followed 
 her husband and children to the grave, 
 leaving no heirs, but many creditors, 
 and no assets but the few articles of 
 30
 
 Denison IDen&ue 
 
 personal property contained within the 
 four walls of the old house. 
 
 In the white-pillared porch where of 
 old Colonel Denison had told his sto 
 ries, aired his politics and hobnobbed 
 merrily with his cronies, the peremptory 
 ring of the auctioneer's hammer sounded 
 dismally, and the coarse-grained plati 
 tudes of Lemuel Edwards mocked the 
 echoes of old-time wit and wisdom. 
 
 By four o'clock the " Vandoo " as the 
 term was popularly pronounced among 
 the hills of southern New York, was al 
 most ended, and as yet but few if any 
 of the crowd had left the sale. It was 
 apparent that some crowning attraction 
 was in store for them. The auctioneer 
 was working leisurely, with a fund of 
 humor still unexhausted. 
 
 " Here 's an ice-pitcher, a real plated 
 silver ice-pitcher aint no spout left to 
 it, but it 's a nice pitcher, you take me, 
 gents ? Come, Ezry, how much do you 
 offer ? You 're great on ice-water, you 
 be." 
 
 31
 
 U> Dorset 
 
 A laugh from the assemblage greeted 
 this sally. 
 
 " S'prised ye should know one, when 
 ye see it, Lemuel," retorted the indi 
 vidual addressed as Ezry, (whose last 
 name was Spicer,) and again the crowd 
 indulged in its mirth. 
 
 Ezra Spicer was one of Dorset's char 
 acters. He was a little, withered, stoop- 
 shouldered man of sixty, whose face, 
 ornamented by a sandy-gray chin whis 
 ker, bore the imprint of liberal princi 
 ples regarding the use of ardent spirits. 
 He had at one time occupied a position 
 which uncompromising frankness might 
 style that of village drunkard, but the 
 advance of civilization had brought 
 competition for this post in Dorset, and 
 Ezra had profited by the levelling spirit 
 of the age. 
 
 "Say, Lem," added Ezra, having 
 permitted his friends to appreciate his 
 retort. " Aint it abaout time to come 
 down to serious bizness? " 
 
 " Come, Lem," from another of the 
 32
 
 Cbc Dentdon IDenbue 
 
 crowd, " no one wants that old trash, 
 git down to work." 
 
 " Hear, hear," from a number of 
 voices. The auctioneer yielding 
 promptly to the popular will, thumped 
 loudly upon the box before him, which 
 served as a desk, and began : 
 
 " Fellow-citizens " 
 
 "This aint 'lection time," interposed 
 Spicer. 
 
 " Fellow-citizens," repeated Edwards, 
 heedless of the interruption, " when 
 Mrs. Colonel Denison departed this life 
 she left among her personal effects an* 
 chattels one keg of the famous brandy 
 brought into this here county by ole 
 Guv'nor Craig an' by him presented to 
 Colonel John Denison, our lamented 
 townsman." 
 
 " Speak for yourself when you say 
 ' lamented,' Lemuel Edwards." 
 
 The auctioneer turned in surprise to 
 wards the speaker, an elderly woman, 
 though her hair was barely touched 
 with gray, her heavy, high arching eye- 
 
 33
 
 10 Dorset 
 
 brows black, and her eyes clear and 
 steady. She was dressed in shabby 
 mourning, an umbrella gripped tightly 
 in one hand, in the other a rusty leath 
 ern bag. 
 
 Lemuel was justly indignant at the 
 interruption, for besides the displeasure 
 he felt at being checked whilst under 
 full headway, he resented the slur upon 
 the memory of a man to whom for 
 many acts of kindness both he and al 
 most half of Dorset were debtors. 
 
 " I s'pose ye come in all the way from 
 Rileyville jest to say that, did n't ye, 
 Mis' Stanbro," he exclaimed with much 
 acerbity, "jest because ye did n't like 
 him, had an ole grudge mebbe, ye have 
 come in now to git even with a man 
 dead these ten years a man me nor 
 half Dorset can't never pay all we 
 owe to him." 
 
 "Nor I can't neither," said the old 
 woman calmly. 
 
 " I guess ye come jest to be spite 
 ful," continued the auctioneer wrath- 
 
 34
 
 IDentson IDenOue 
 
 fully. " I see yer bosses hitched out 
 yonder this three hours, but I haint 
 seen ye a buyin' nothin' yet." 
 
 " Not yet you haint," replied Mrs. 
 Stanbro. 
 
 "So I cal'clate its jest ol'-time 
 spite what "s brought ye here, unless 
 it 's true what I hear folks say about 
 the widow Stanbro gettin' a little 
 crazy an' ef that 's the case, why the 
 county-house '11 kind o' have to look 
 after ye." 
 
 " Here, that 's enough, Lemuel," said 
 Major Cooper, a slight, gray-haired, 
 ruddy-nosed gentleman, whose blue 
 coat and military buttons hinted broadly 
 at his one-time profession " that 's 
 enough you leave Mrs. Stanbro alone 
 recollect she 's a lady go on with 
 what you 've got to say, but let 's get 
 to the point." 
 
 " Hear, hear, let 's get to the pint," 
 
 ejaculated Ezra Spicer, who frequently 
 
 played the part of an humble corollary 
 
 to the Major. " No she aint crazy, 
 
 35
 
 Old IDorsct 
 
 neither, Balcom," he added emphati 
 cally, to the man at his right. " An* 
 she 's ben mighty good to Mis' Spicer 
 at odd spells, too." 
 
 Here Edwards having swallowed 
 his indignation in deference to Major 
 Cooper resumed his address. " This 
 here keg it 's more like a bar'l must 
 hold twenty gallon was left in the 
 cellar by ole Mis' Denison mebbe she 
 forgot it, mebbe she done it intentional 
 I guess if the old Colonel had ben 
 the survivor ye would n't ha' found 
 much except keg." 
 
 " I guess you would n't," said the 
 widow Stanbro dryly. 
 
 Lemuel paused again as if to renew 
 the battle, but apparently thought 
 better of it. " Now," he continued, 
 " I 'm goin' to start the bids remember 
 it 's fine old Otard DuPuy, (the pro 
 nunciation of the auctioneer was in 
 accordance with the principles of com 
 mon school English as taught in Pul- 
 teney County,) an' the best liquor in 
 36
 
 Cbe Denteon 
 
 the Southern Tier. What am I offered, 
 gentlemen ? " 
 
 " I '11 give ye ten cents for the keg, 
 for firewood," said the widow contempt 
 uously. 
 
 " Ten cents. Ten cents. I 'm offered 
 ten cents," began Edwards, holding 
 himself under with an effort. 
 
 " Twenty-five," said Ezra Spicer, de 
 lighted that the bidding had started 
 within the latitude of his limited 
 finances. 
 
 " Five dollars," said the Major, lift 
 ing the contention into an atmosphere, 
 as regarded Spicer, hopelessly remote 
 and rarified. The Major was aware 
 that Homer Silsbee, the proprietor of 
 the Eagle Tavern, was prepared to go 
 to considerable expense in order to ob 
 tain the coveted cognac, whose exist 
 ence recently discovered was already 
 well known about the village, and so 
 was desirous of bringing on the engage 
 ment at once. 
 
 " Five dollars !" sighed the old tip- 
 37
 
 5>oreet 
 
 pier to his neighbor. " Wai' I guess I 
 drop out but I had one clip at it, an' 
 that 's more 'n I looked fer." 
 
 " Yes, owin' to yer crazy friend." 
 
 " Tell ye she aint crazy," retorted 
 Ezra hotly. 
 
 " Six dollars," said Silsbee. 
 
 " Seven," returned the Major. 
 
 " Eight," from Silsbee. 
 
 " Nine," said the Major. 
 
 " Ten," said the tavern-keeper. No 
 one present save the four already men 
 tioned had taken part in the bidding, 
 and Spicer and the widow Stanbro 
 seemed disposed to become mere spec 
 tators, permitting the Major and his 
 antagonist to bear the burden of the 
 contest. It was generally understood 
 among the men present that should 
 Silsbee prove victorious the famous 
 liquor would not be relegated to the 
 cellar of the " Eagle " untasted by the 
 friends of its possessor. Accordingly 
 considerable interest was evinced as the 
 Major called out, " eleven," to which 
 38
 
 Denfson WenDue 
 
 Silsbee promptly returned "twelve.*' 
 Each of them now, in his turn, lifted 
 the bidding until Silsbee, amid much 
 excitement, had cried, " Thirty." 
 
 There was a pause. " Thirty, thir 
 ty, thirty," vociferated the auctioneer. 
 I 'm offered thirty dollars for the best 
 stuff in seven counties; old cognac that 
 kin recollect Gineral Lafayette. Major, 
 you 've drunk it a hundred times in the 
 Colonel's dinin'-room; you wont let it go 
 fer thirty dollars thirty dollars thirty 
 goin' at thirty goin' goin' ." 
 
 " Thirty-five," said the Major, with 
 an effort. 
 
 He could ill-afford such an outlay 
 from his slender capital, but the tempta 
 tion was too great to be withstood. He 
 remembered the taste of that brandy. 
 He remembered the old days when, 
 across the mahogany in the dining- 
 room of the Denison house, he hurled 
 his Jacksonian Democracy into the 
 teeth of his old whig friend, feeding 
 at intervals the flames of his enthusiasm 
 
 39
 
 Dorset 
 
 with the famous Otard cognac. Why, 
 the thought of it made him tipsy 
 with the memories of three decades. 
 "Thirty-five," repeated the Major, 
 huskily. He trusted by such a sweep 
 ing advance to discomfit the ambitious 
 Silsbee. 
 
 " Thirty-six," said the tavern-keeper, 
 imperturbably. 
 
 The Major's face fell. He had lost 
 he realized it. It was plain to him and 
 to the others that Silsbee carried too 
 heavy an armament. " Goin' at thirty- 
 six, goin' at thirty-six any one say 
 thirty-seven ? " The auctioneer's face 
 wore a contented expression. It was 
 proper that such a trophy as the old 
 Denison brandy should be in the pos 
 session of what was in those days 
 almost a municipal institution the 
 village tavern. " Goin'," he con 
 tinued "goin', goin', goin' - " 
 
 " Thirty-six an' ten cents," said a 
 sharp, metallic voice. The bidder was 
 the widow Stanbro. 
 40
 
 Gbe Denfson WenDuc 
 
 The crowd stared and the auctioneer 
 paused, open mouthed. The Major, 
 who had turned away, came quickly 
 back. 
 
 " What was that ye bid, Mis' Stan- 
 bro?" asked Edwards at length. 
 
 " I said ' thirty-six an' ten cents.' " 
 
 " Thirty-six DOLLARS an' ten cents, 
 reck'lect, Mis' Stanbro," said Silsbee, 
 patronizingly. 
 
 " Don't trouble 'bout me, Homer 
 Silsbee," said the widow tartly. " I 
 offered ten cents for the keg alone 
 when the biddin' begun that 's all the 
 thing was wuth to me now I 'm biddin' 
 on what it 'pears to be wuth to some of 
 you folks." 
 
 " Forty," said Homer, sullenly, think 
 ing by adopting the Major's tactics to 
 silence his new opponent. 
 
 " Forty an' ten cents," returned Mrs. 
 Stanbro promptly. " Oh, I 'm goin' to 
 bid above you, if it takes to Christmas, 
 young man," she added, looking tri 
 umphantly towards Silsbee. 
 41
 
 OIO Dorset 
 
 " Did n't I tell ye she was crazy," 
 said Balcom once more to Ezra Spicer. 
 
 " I dunno, I dunno, mebbe she be," 
 said the individual addressed, gazing 
 wonderingly at the old woman as she 
 sat, her chin high in the air, her mouth 
 set aggressively. 
 
 " Goin," began Edwards. 
 
 " Forty-five," said the tavern-keeper. 
 
 " Forty-five an' ten cents." 
 
 " Fifty," cried Silsbee, furiously 
 that 's all I kin pay, that 's all it 's 
 worth to me an' more ef you kin 
 beat that the stuff 's yourn." 
 
 " Fifty dollars an' ten cents, what 
 it 's wuth to you, plus what it 's wuth 
 to me," said the widow, placidly. 
 Homer plunged his hands into his 
 breeches pockets, and turned angrily 
 away. 
 
 " Fifty an' ten. Fifty an' ten, goin' 
 at fifty an' ten goin'. Edwards 
 stopped a moment and gazed appeal- 
 ingly at Silsbee. The latter shook his 
 head sulkily. " Goin' at fifty an' ten, 
 42
 
 Cbc Bentscn DenCme 
 
 goin', goin', gone. Gone at fifty an* 
 ten. Mis' Stanbro, this is your liquor 
 on receipt of fifty dollars an' ten 
 cents." 
 
 As the tall, spare form of the widow 
 Stanbro took its way to the auctioneer's 
 desk the crowd broke into a buzz of 
 surprise and speculation, but the old 
 woman was imperturbable. 
 
 "Caleb!" she called in her shrill, 
 metallic voice, while she busied herself 
 with the leathern bag which she carried. 
 A lank, raw-boned farm boy sprang 
 from a wagon outside the gate and 
 hurried towards her. 
 
 " One minute," she said, and counted 
 out the money upon the box before 
 the auctioneer. " Now," she continued, 
 " roll that keg into the street." Caleb 
 obeyed her command. 
 
 " Now," she said again, turning to 
 the throng behind her, " if you '11 all 
 just come down as far as the fence, I '11 
 show you what use I have for the fine 
 old Denison brandy." She turned and 
 43
 
 I& Dorset 
 
 walked towards the gate, the crowd 
 following. " Caleb," she said, address 
 ing her farm hand again, " got that 
 sledge? " With a grin the young man 
 lifted a heavy hammer from the wagon. 
 " Now, stave that keg in." 
 
 But before the hammer had been 
 swung the Major, rushing forward, had 
 stayed the impending blow. " One 
 minute," he cried, " one minute, Mrs. 
 Stanbro, in the name of common 
 sense why, my dear madam you 
 know I would n't offend a lady, but 
 really this will be an awful, a shameful 
 waste." 
 
 " Major Cooper," began the old 
 woman sternly. 
 
 " But, my dear madam ." 
 
 " Did I pay you the right sum ? " 
 said the widow, addressing Edwards. 
 " I guess ye did," growled the auction 
 eer. " Well, then, just let me be. 
 Caleb?" 
 
 " But, Mrs. Stanbro," persisted the 
 Major, " here 's Silsbee and I will give 
 44
 
 Denfson IDenDue 
 
 you sixty dollars for it together, wont 
 we, Silsbee ? Ten more than you gave 
 for it only think." 
 
 " It 's an awful waste, Mis' Stanbro," 
 put in Ezra Spicer, who with the Major 
 and Silsbee had drawn close to the 
 widow. " Why just think how valyble 
 it is, medic'nally, f'r instance." 
 
 " Is this my brandy ? " exclaimed 
 the woman once more. " You, Major 
 Cooper, is it ? " 
 
 "Yes, Madam," said the Major, 
 gloomily, falling back and dragging the 
 other two with him, " I regret to say 
 it is." 
 
 "Caleb," said the widow, shortly, 
 " stave that keg in." 
 
 The brawny farm hand swung the 
 sledge high in the air, then brought it 
 down with a crash upon the head of the 
 cask. It yielded. 
 
 " Now, turn it upon its side." 
 
 The young man did as he was or 
 dered, and the pungent liquor plashed 
 and rippled musically forth, mingling 
 45
 
 Ifc Dorset 
 
 with the dust of the village street and 
 filling the whole air about with its po 
 tent fragrance. The crowd, save for 
 some muffled profanity from the tav 
 ern-keeper, was silent. Presently the 
 widow broke forth : 
 
 " I s'pose you all would like to know 
 why I spilt that brandy. I '11 tell you 
 why. You, some of you, will remem 
 ber my husband, Joe. As handsome a 
 man an' as good a farmer as ever lived 
 in Pulteney County. Well, listen to 
 me, I won't keep you long. He was a 
 whig, so was Colonel Denison. He was 
 strong in his part of the county an' 
 the Colonel knew it. An' so when 
 Colonel Denison wanted the nomina 
 tion for Congress, he asks Joe to his 
 house an' flatters him up an' gets his 
 influence. Joe was pleased an' proud, 
 that 's human nature, an' it was all right 
 till he begun to get so deep in that he 
 forgot his farm, till he began to drink, 
 an' forget his wife. And where did he 
 
 begin " 
 
 4 6
 
 Cbe DeniBon 
 
 The woman's eyes were flaming under 
 her swarthy brows. 
 
 "Where did he begin his drinkin'? 
 Right in that house there, right on 
 that porch, there with old Colonel 
 Denison, an' Governor Craig, an' 
 Homer Silsbee's father. Oh, they were 
 in politics, that 's all. That 's what Joe 
 said to me that 's why he come home 
 smellin' of liquor; an' he told me a man 
 would be a fool to refuse that fine old 
 brandy of the Colonel's. That 's what he 
 said ; my poor ruined Joe." The stern 
 face of the old woman was for a mo 
 ment convulsed with a spasm of emo 
 tion and tears which she was too proud 
 to notice rolled down her face. " I hear 
 him now, tellin' me it was only there he 
 ever drank an* it was such fine old 
 brandy, an' it could n't harm him. You 
 know it did you know he soon drank 
 everywhere an' anything! Why are 
 my boys without the education that be 
 longed to them ? Why does my girl 
 work like a drudge at the farm ? You 
 
 47
 
 ID Dorset 
 
 know why. The whole town of Dorset 
 knows why. An' so I said to myself 
 when I heard there was a keg of this 
 stuff to sell, I '11 buy it, and I' 11 stave 
 it in, an' I '11 spill it, that liquor Colonel 
 Denison started my poor man with ; 
 I '11 spill it, every drop of it, an' never 
 another shall taste it for a help to 
 ruin. An' then he thought so much of 
 it, the old Colonel, an' look at it now, 
 makin' mud in the village street keep 
 back, you ! " 
 
 She addressed these last words to 
 Ezra Spicer, who, with a pail obtained 
 from a neighboring kitchen, had ap 
 proached the keg with the evident pur 
 pose of securing a few drops of the fast- 
 escaping fluid. " Stand back, I tell 
 you ! " She advanced upon Spicer 
 who beat a sullen retreat. " Not a soul 
 shall taste it," she said, and then stood 
 motionless and silent as the cask slowly 
 yielded its life-blood to the soil. A 
 dog, shaggy and yellow, inserted him 
 self inquisitively among the throng, ob-
 
 Cbe Benlson IflenDue 
 
 served the flowing brandy, cautiously 
 sniffed at it, and retired with sneezes 
 and a look of reproach. The crowd 
 laughed. 
 
 " You can laugh if you like," said the 
 old woman, suddenly ; " but that dumb 
 beast is wiser than you be. Caleb turn 
 the keg on end so any left now ? " 
 
 " Aint no more left, Mis' Stanbro, " 
 said the farm boy. 
 
 " Get in then an' take the reins. " 
 The young man obeyed, and the widow 
 stepped into the wagon after him. Her 
 face was full of stern satisfaction. A 
 ray of humor shot suddenly across it 
 as she noted the forlorn expression 
 upon Spicer's face. 
 
 " The keg 's mine as well as the liquor, 
 I s'pose," she said ; " you can have it, 
 Ezry. " 
 
 A few minutes later the wagon was 
 vanishing in a cloud of dust of its own 
 raising, and the crowd, marvelling, were 
 dispersing in various directions. Ezra 
 Spicer alone remained, seated upon the 
 
 49
 
 ID Dorset 
 
 inverted cask, into whose butt was 
 burned the legend, " Otard DuPuy." 
 
 " Guess Balcom was right," he solilo 
 quized, "jest about ez crazy ez they 
 make ' em an' yit, an' yit, " he mur 
 mured to himself, " I kind o' wish 
 there 'd ben some o' that partickler in 
 sanity in my fam'ly."
 
 Callanfcer.
 
 flfeabam Callan&er. 
 
 i. 
 
 RICHARD COOPER had always 
 looked forward to the time when 
 he should find himself in love, an 
 event placed by him in his day-dreams 
 midway in the sequence of fortune be 
 tween admission to the bar and standing 
 for the legislature. 
 
 He was ambitious and able, and his 
 entry upon the profession was made 
 not successfully alone, but with credit ; 
 yet two years' practice, in waiting, found 
 him in no way nearer the second stage 
 of his self-appointed destiny. His mind, 
 was at times given to dreaming ; and 
 the first briefless years of his career af 
 forded ample opportunity to lay out 
 a varied future for himself. Somehow 
 
 53
 
 Dorset 
 
 he always made courtship and mar 
 riage the corner-stone of his Spanish 
 castle. Sometimes he went so far as to 
 choose a best man, and to fill the old 
 church with his friends ; and, on one 
 occasion at least, to ponder upon the 
 fitness of a flowered waistcoat. But he 
 never allowed his fancy to depict the 
 bride. She was not even tentatively 
 represented by any of the daughters of 
 Dorset of Dorset, too, when famous 
 for its pretty women. She did not yet 
 exist even in nebulous shape within the 
 scope of his mind's eye. 
 
 Had he possessed greater prospects 
 he might have been regarded and criti 
 cised as hard to please in the choice 
 of a wife, but having no claim to pecul 
 iar eligibility he was looked upon only 
 as a shy young man of much self-control, 
 evidence of the latter quality being 
 found in the fact that having barely 
 visible means of support, he did not 
 utterly obscure them by marrying. 
 
 He was not unattractive personally. 
 
 54
 
 CallanOcr 
 
 Celtic-Scotch and New England blood, 
 a mixture not infrequent in Pulteney 
 County, gave him a certain virile come 
 liness of face, and a strong, well-knit 
 figure. Dorset believed in matrimony 
 and he might easily have ended his 
 single existence. Among his family a 
 suspicion grew up that his thoughts 
 were drifting to some remote region, 
 beyond the county limits. " Marry 
 your neighbors' daughters and then '11 
 you know what you 're getting," said 
 his grand-aunt pointedly on several 
 occasions. This was thought sterling 
 advice by all who heard it, save him for 
 whom it was meant. To him it was 
 distinctly unpalatable. He was wait 
 ing for Destiny, and Destiny far from 
 attending upon his wishes spun her own 
 web, and in her own way. 
 
 One afternoon, in latter September 
 there was unusual stir in the main 
 street of Dorset. A coach had drawn 
 up before the doors of the " Dorset 
 Patriot." A yellow coach drawn by 
 55
 
 ID 2>orset 
 
 four sorrels, and surrounded by a score 
 of horsemen, all residents of the county, 
 from Joe Stanbro in farmer's homespun, 
 upon a horse better used to the plow, 
 to Judge Caldwell in sober black pre 
 siding with ill-concealed anxiety over a 
 bay mare whose contempt of court, as 
 sitting at the time, was unmistakable. 
 All were friends, boon companions and 
 clients of Colonel Callander, who had 
 ridden out to meet him and his wife, 
 a bride of a week, to escort them with 
 fitting honor to Dorset. 
 
 Richard Cooper shut the book he had 
 been reading and went to the window. 
 
 Colonel Callander was a well-known 
 figure in Dorset, and indeed in all the 
 " Southern Tier." Fancy a well-pre 
 served man of fifty standing five feet 
 and eight inches in his pumps eyes 
 hazel-brown and hair of the same hue. 
 He had, too, 
 
 " A Roman nose, 
 And his cheek was like the rose 
 In the snow." 
 
 56
 
 flba&am CallanDet, 
 
 Dress him with some care in garments 
 apt to be affected by a middle-aged 
 bridegroom of seventy years ago, and 
 you have the Colonel. 
 
 More attention must be given to the 
 description of his wife. 
 
 Unfortunately, no portrait of her at 
 the period exists, and tradition does 
 not always deal in detail. When Dor 
 set was still enough of the past to 
 value the evidence of an oldest inhabi 
 tant, that dignitary Marcus Aurelius 
 Tolliver, one time body-servant to Col 
 onel Callander was wont to say of his 
 master's second wife : 
 
 " Dey aint nevah been beauty in de 
 town sence. You see de Kernal, an' 
 you suah to say, ' dar 's blood you look 
 at Mis' Kernal an' you 'bleege to 'low 
 dar 's beauty ! " But when the aged 
 Tolliver was called upon for particulars, 
 he rambled away into various by-paths 
 of recollection, vague and ill-defined. 
 He always ended, however, with a bit 
 of real description " Her ha'r had de 
 
 57
 
 Dorset 
 
 feel ob de co'n silk, an' de colah ob de 
 ripe husk." 
 
 It was not strange that the old negro 
 was at a loss to describe, categorically, 
 the beauty of Mrs. Callander. Feature 
 by feature there was nothing far out 
 of the ordinary. It was the harmony of 
 all, and the charm of a perfect skin, blue 
 eyes full of esprit, and a manner some 
 times criticised as insincere, because 
 of its uniform cordiality. But her hair 
 was magnificent. She wore it massed 
 upon her head in a great coil of gold, 
 drawn off her brow, which was low and 
 broad, and giving her an air of bland 
 dignity, charmingly in contrast with 
 her youthful looks. 
 
 She had descended from the coach 
 at her husband's request, and stood 
 among his friends and constituents, bow 
 ing, smiling, courtseying when some 
 elderly man was presented, and ac 
 knowledging a flood of compliment. 
 58
 
 fliaDam CailanDcc 
 
 Suddenly, for no accountable reason, 
 she looked up and caught Cooper's eye 
 as he stared at her from his window. 
 He was gazing with so much intentness 
 that he was not aware that his regard 
 was too fixed in its nature. Smiling 
 slightly, she looked away ; but presently 
 raised her eyes towards the window 
 again, and finding Cooper still spell 
 bound, turned with a slight movement 
 of impatience towards her husband. 
 
 Cooper turned from the window, took 
 his hat, arranged a few papers upon his 
 table, and left his room. He went 
 slowly from the stairs to the street. 
 He had no wish to join the throng 
 below. He needed no introduction to 
 that shining, smiling woman. He did 
 not at the time, nor till long after, 
 realize that this was another man's wife. 
 He had a wild desire to escape from 
 the four walls of a house, to be by him 
 self in the fields, in the woods any 
 where. He wanted no roof above him 
 but the blue sky nothing about him 
 
 59
 
 Dorset 
 
 but the breadth of nature. He could 
 not account for his feeling. It seemed 
 to him as though he had seen but half 
 the light of day before, and now it all 
 poured into his soul. 
 
 As he passed through the group be 
 fore the door, the Colonel caught sight 
 of him. " Why, Dick, my boy," he 
 called, " come here and give me joy, 
 this is my wife. Letty, this is my friend 
 Mr. Cooper, one of our leading law 
 yers." 
 
 Mrs. Callander looked up at Dick 
 who was blushing violently, partly be 
 cause of her presence, partly from the 
 Colonel's somewhat complimentary de 
 scription of him. She smiled very 
 cordially as she gave him her hand. 
 Cooper bowed low above it. " I saw 
 you from my office," he said awkwardly, 
 as he released her hand. He wished to 
 say something, and this bald statement 
 was all that would come to him. 
 
 " I saw you too," she answered sim 
 ply ; then again she smiled. Something 
 60
 
 CallanDec 
 
 there seemed to be about the young man 
 unlike all others she had met, something 
 so ingenuous and intrinsically sincere 
 that her eyes followed him as he slipped 
 away through the throng. She believed 
 herself in love with the excellent gentle 
 man whose wife she was. She thought 
 herself perfectly happy, and one of the 
 daughters of men to be envied, and yet 
 for the first time since her wedding, she 
 found herself thinking of marriage as a 
 serious matter, entailing duties, curtail 
 ing liberties. She soon forgot Dick 
 Cooper's name, but that evening at din 
 ner she asked her husband about him : 
 " that young man with light hair and 
 blue eyes the lawyer." 
 
 " George Thornton, I suppose," said 
 the Colonel. 
 
 " No, that was not the name." 
 
 " Oh, little Dick Cooper, a very nice 
 boy." 
 
 For the next week Cooper did but 
 little upon the work he had in hand, and 
 indeed it did not press him. With a 
 
 61
 
 <SHD Dorset 
 
 well-thumbed copy of Shakespeare in 
 his pocket he spent many hours on the 
 river-bank under the elms and butter 
 nuts of the Denison farm. One day, 
 prompted perhaps by recent reading of 
 "As You Like It" he cut deep into the 
 bark of an oak, the letters, L. C. He 
 had half a thought of placing his own 
 initials beside them but a moment's con 
 sideration showed him the folly and im 
 pertinence of such an act. 
 
 He saw the Colonel's bride several 
 times during the next few weeks, at 
 church. He found cause to loiter out 
 side the door until she came out, and 
 each time she recognized him and 
 bowed with a cordiality on which, had 
 he been a vain man, 1 he might have 
 congratulated himself. Once as the 
 Colonel stopped to speak a moment to 
 the parson, with whom at the time 
 Cooper was talking, Mrs. Callander was 
 left at the young man's side. His agi 
 tation, had it not become him, would 
 have been ludicrous. But a blush 
 62
 
 Aadam Gallan&er 
 
 looked well upon his face and his eyes 
 were eloquent though his tongue was 
 not. Mrs. Callander " liked good eyes," 
 she told her husband that night, and 
 added that young Cooper had the hon- 
 estest pair she ever saw " of blue that 
 is," she hastened to explain, for the 
 Colonel's were as brown as ripe chest 
 nuts. A less clever woman than Mrs. 
 Callander might have seen compliment 
 in Dick's eyes, with half a glance of her 
 own, as she waited that day till the 
 Colonel completed his chat with the 
 parson. 
 
 " You are coming to us to-morrow 
 night, are n't you, Mr. Cooper?" she said 
 after a moment of silence that followed 
 the exchange of greetings. 
 
 " To the reception, Madam ? Oh yes, 
 I shall be very glad." 
 
 "Dick," said the Colonel he had 
 bade the parson good-day and rejoined 
 them "come over and dine with 
 me; just two old people there, Madam 
 and I, but I '11 give you a good drop of 
 63
 
 10 Dorset 
 
 sherry, and the best brandy in five 
 counties. Will you come ? " 
 
 Dick looked at the Colonel, then at 
 his wife whose face reflected the Colo 
 nel's hospitable invitation. He wanted 
 to accept was on the point of doing so, 
 when he remembered it was Sunday. 
 His people were strict in their observ 
 ance of the day, with that strenuous- 
 ness that came down unrelaxed from 
 early New England. 
 
 " I I am afraid I cannot, thank you, 
 Colonel," he said, " I have an engage 
 ment that is I well, sir, they look for 
 me home on Sundays ; " he bowed 
 very red and flurried and hastened 
 away. 
 
 " Queer little Puritan," said the Col 
 onel, laughing. 
 
 " A very nice boy," said his wife, 
 thoughtfully. 
 
 " Had an engagement, ha, ha, ha ! " 
 laughed Callander, " an engagement for 
 a cold lunch at Elder Cooper's I 
 reckon." 
 
 64
 
 Aadam GallanDcc 
 
 " Well, he said so ; he told the truth 
 and he did n't want to either," said 
 Mrs. Callander. " He 's a very nice 
 young man." 
 
 " Hey ! " said the Colonel, looking 
 down at her humorously " 'Pears to 
 me I hear a good deal of ' nice young 
 man.' "' She smiled fondly at him in 
 return, and clasped his arm a little 
 closer. The Colonel was not a jealous 
 man, and indeed had little cause to be. 
 
 Cooper never before had been in the 
 Callander house. When he appeared 
 there the night of the reception there 
 was a glitter of mirrors and a shimmer 
 of mahogany everywhere that im 
 pressed him, and made him unhappy. 
 He drifted from room to room trying 
 to appear perfectly at his ease, and at 
 supper found himself in a corner of the 
 dining-room not far from the coffee-urn 
 over which Mrs. Callander presided. 
 Do what he could, it was impossible to 
 keep his eyes from her, and knowing 
 that she noticed this and was fully 
 65
 
 Dorset 
 
 aware of his presence, he ransacked 
 his mind for some appropriate speech. 
 It was one of the unlovely pranks of 
 fortune that his post was also near 
 to a bowl of generous proportions 
 about which was gathered a knot of 
 merry gentlemen led thither from time 
 to time by their host. During one of 
 his advances upon the punch, the Col 
 onel caught sight of young Cooper 
 silhouetted against the wall. " Here, 
 Dick," he said, " you look thirsty, 
 come, fill up yes, one ; with me, with 
 me. You know, Sunt qui nee pocula " 
 (the Colonel knew his Horace when in 
 convivial mood), " come, my boy." So 
 Dick came, and having swallowed one 
 cupful with his host, drank another 
 with Judge Caldwell, for he always 
 concurred with the Court. 
 
 Then he went back to his place and 
 less furtively than before continued to 
 watch his hostess as she bent above the 
 coffee-cups. Presently he found that 
 he had thought of several things to say 
 66
 
 /lib a Dam CallauDcc 
 
 to her, had he the chance. In a few 
 moments she looked across at him 
 again. This time she laughed out 
 right the laugh of an innocent and 
 vivacious woman amused by the freaks 
 of a boy. 
 
 " Mr. Cooper," she said, and beckoned 
 to him. He came at once, dimly con 
 scious that the law of gravitation was 
 in some way weakening its grasp upon 
 his feet. " Was there something you 
 wanted to say to me ? " Mrs. Callander 
 asked with a gleam of amusement upon 
 her face. She intended to play a little 
 with the young man, and had hit upon 
 a question best fitted to bring the inci 
 dent to an untoward finish. Cooper 
 was not versed in the coquetry of men ; 
 he did not understand it in women. 
 
 " Yes, Madam," he said with a low 
 bow, " I wished to say that, that, you 
 are beautiful you are adorable." 
 
 " Mr. Cooper ! " Mrs. Callander 
 stared at him in angry surprise. She 
 had meant to amuse herself and had 
 67
 
 ID Dorset 
 
 been fitly rewarded. In a moment she 
 admitted to herself that the fault lay 
 with her, and as she looked upon the 
 straightforward countenance of the 
 young man she knew that intentional 
 disrespect was impossible from him. 
 The displeasure faded from her beauti 
 ful face : 
 
 " Mr. Cooper," she said, " I must 
 warn you against the punch. It 's a 
 brew for men of my husband's age." 
 
 It gave her a satisfaction to bring her 
 husband in at the close of the episode, 
 for she felt he had not figured in her 
 thoughts at its beginning, and a cer 
 tain malicious pleasure in warning 
 Cooper from the punch. She liked his 
 quaint manner, and what he had said 
 did not in the least offend her, coming 
 from him. But he must not be over 
 bold and she had rebuked him. When 
 she looked for him again, having at 
 tended to the cups of a group of elderly 
 beaux, he was gone. 
 
 Cooper left the Callanders without 
 68
 
 flbadam Callan&er 
 
 bidding good-night to the hostess. He 
 slept but little that night. He saw 
 with a startling clearness the channel in 
 to which he had turned his dearest 
 thoughts. He was thankful to the 
 humiliation of the evening, for it took 
 the edge from his misery, with its little 
 acid of wounded amour propre. 
 
 But he knew that he could not re 
 main in Dorset and do himself justice 
 in his chosen profession. He had 
 thought before of a clerkship with a 
 well-known law firm of New York City, 
 open to him through a kinsman, and he 
 determined to accept it. Two days 
 later he took coach for Albany. 
 
 II. 
 
 The third winter of Mrs. Callander's 
 life in Dorset was an uncommonly 
 severe one. Twenty-five years ago it 
 was still remembered. Wolves filled 
 the woods upon the south hill, and 
 many sheep, in the valley below, fell 
 69
 
 ID Dorset 
 
 victims. Early in the winter Colonel 
 Callander was taken ill, and the malady 
 lingered on into the spring. His young 
 wife was all to him that could be asked. 
 She was undoubtedly very fond of him. 
 He was still a personable man, and in 
 address and polish there were few in 
 that part of the State who ranked with 
 him. Again, his social position, his 
 reputed wealth, his political honors, 
 brought him a deference even in demo 
 cratic Dorset that also, in a way, was 
 accorded to his wife. So far as her 
 nature had ever been awakened, she 
 loved her husband, though his dignities 
 did not render him personally less 
 acceptable to her. Sometimes she 
 thought of Dick Cooper, and mused 
 with rather more than ordinary abstrac 
 tion upon his impetuosity and sim 
 plicity. She regretted his absence, for 
 she would have liked to see him occa 
 sionally, and the days were long and 
 uneventful. 
 
 One morning in April, Death came to 
 70
 
 CallanOcr 
 
 the most hospitable threshold in Dorset, 
 and like every comer was received. 
 Colonel Callander, of whom with all his 
 foibles it might well have been written, 
 
 ' ' Not a better man was found 
 By the cryer on his round 
 Through the town," 
 
 was gathered not to his fathers, but sad 
 as it reads, to his sons, all of whom, his 
 first wife's children, had died before 
 him. In the great white-pillared house, 
 with only servants to keep her company, 
 Mrs. Callander entered upon her widow 
 hood. 
 
 The details of the first year have no 
 place in this chronicle. She had be 
 come " Madam " Callander to the 
 village, in place of " Colonel Callan- 
 der's second wife," for it was now cer 
 tain that she would have no successor. 
 If she had been proud of her husband's 
 social and political eminence before his 
 death, this pride intensified with each 
 month of her widowhood. The Colonel, 
 71
 
 5)orset 
 
 one of the least pompous of men, would 
 scarce have known how to accommo 
 date himself to his consort, had he 
 arisen from the dead, and reappeared, 
 at a year's end. In some quarters her 
 naive certainty that her husband had 
 been the " roof and crown of things," 
 and that she was his sole legatee in the 
 matter of personal importance, excited 
 comment, amusement, and backbiting. 
 With most people, however, it was 
 taken with good nature. The Colonel 
 had been an excellent neighbor, his 
 purse-strings were never drawn tight, 
 and many a rough farmer whose Jack- 
 sonian democracy would have resented 
 condescension or patronage from an 
 other, suffered it good-naturedly from 
 Madam Callander. It was believed 
 in Dorset, that in time, the Colonel's 
 widow would forget his compounding 
 of finer clay to the extent of taking 
 another mate ; and when Judge Hen- 
 shaw of a neighboring county offered 
 his honored name and position, and was 
 72
 
 CallanDec 
 
 refused, the town felt genuine surprise. 
 Not long after George Thornton, of 
 South Tiberius, a young man of good 
 family and wealth met a similar denial 
 and Dorset entertained doubts as to the 
 proper balance of Madam Callander's 
 mind. 
 
 She made no secret of her reason for 
 deciding as she had. She did not gra 
 tuitously express herself, but when two 
 matrons whose curiosity and conscience 
 had become hopelessly commingled, 
 felt it their duty to call and ask, she 
 spoke with candor. " Women marry," 
 she said, " usually for one of three 
 causes: love, wealth, or position." She 
 neither loved the Judge nor Mr. Thorn 
 ton ; she was fairly well to do, and as to 
 position, why, with many ruffles and 
 rising, she was Madam Callander, and 
 liked the name. People, the maxim 
 says, " usually take you at your own 
 valuation," and she was taken at hers, 
 which was that of her deceased husband, 
 plus. She lived quite alone, among her 
 73
 
 ID 2>orset 
 
 servants, and this doubtless helped her 
 to over estimate her position in the 
 little world in which she moved. She 
 was finally credited with having no 
 heart. It was simpler, after all, to be 
 lieve in her incapacity to love, than 
 that she could not be suited, or that 
 she was satisfied with her present lot. 
 
 III. 
 
 One day in September, when the 
 doors of the houses stood open for what 
 wind was stirring ; a very warm day a 
 stray dog-day as it were Madam Cal- 
 lander sat upon the west porch of her 
 mansion, reading with great inattention, 
 for she was in no way bookish. The 
 sun through the elms traced shifting 
 arabesques upon the broad path to the 
 gate, and the maples fluttered their 
 leaves, just turning, in the occasional 
 breeze. The great gate clicked as it 
 swung shut, and Madam Callander 
 looked down the walk. A young man 
 74
 
 CallanDcr 
 
 faultlessly dressed in the mode of the 
 city, was coming towards the door. 
 She stared a moment in surprise, then, 
 recognizing him, rose and went on tip 
 toe into the house, curiously conscious 
 of a blush that spread across her face. 
 
 Dick Cooper had returned from New 
 York for the first time in several years. 
 He was greatly improved personally. 
 His place though a very subordinate 
 one, in the office of a city lawyer of 
 prominence, had done much for him. 
 He considered himself, in a way, a man 
 of the world, and wore his clothes with 
 as much nonchalance as though they 
 had not been his best. As he moved 
 about the shadowy drawing-room of the 
 Callander house, managing every few 
 moments to pass in review of the great 
 mirror, he felt a sense of amusement 
 in recalling his first evening there the 
 fictitious elation of the latter part of 
 
 75
 
 Dorset 
 
 the evening, and its mortifying sequel. 
 He was full of a confidence, born of 
 deep inexperience, that he had attained 
 the s avoir fair e of a worldling, and was 
 ready to meet upon her own or even a 
 loftier footing, the woman whom absence 
 and determined effort had not brought 
 him to forget. 
 
 He was preening himself at the glass, 
 adjusting his stock and collar, and ad 
 miring the fit of his coat, when in the 
 mirrored background, he saw the form 
 of Madam Callander. He turned, blush 
 ing to his hair, and went a step towards 
 her. Shame at being found before the 
 mirror, and a sudden rush of memories, 
 made him almost speechless. She saw 
 his discomfiture and profited by it to 
 hide a little confusion of her own. She 
 had intended to treat him as Madam Cal 
 lander might have treated the Cooper 
 of four years since. He had determined 
 to meet her as one who knew the great 
 world, and would not be condescended 
 to. A certain quantity, as unmeasured 
 76
 
 CallanDci- 
 
 in its varying potency as the symbol x 
 to nth power, had been overlooked by 
 both. There can be no doubt that the 
 love which Cooper frankly admitted to 
 himself, was felt in an undefined way 
 by the woman who stood before him. 
 She was the first to speak. 
 
 " You are a great stranger, Mr. 
 Cooper; you are here upon a vacation, 
 I suppose ?" 
 
 " No, Madam," replied Dick, nettled 
 at what he considered a suggestion that 
 he was not his own master, " I am here 
 permanently." 
 
 " Indeed ! As a lawyer still ? " 
 
 " As a lawyer still." There was a 
 moment's silence. Cooper felt he was 
 being talked down to, but could not get 
 upon a loftier footing. 
 
 " You will find many changes," said 
 Madam Callander, noting with ap 
 proval the young man's garb " many 
 changes." 
 
 " You have not changed," said Dick 
 bluntly. His society-manner, which he 
 77
 
 OIC> Dorset 
 
 supposed fully acquired, had deserted 
 him, and his old directness, one of his 
 chief charms, flashed out unguardedly. 
 He could not have made a more fortu 
 nate speech. Compliment, even when 
 not so sincere as this, was dear to 
 Madam Callander. 
 
 " Ah, yes," she said, smiling gra 
 ciously. " I fear I have, and you cer 
 tainly have. I should know at once 
 you were from New York. I hardly 
 recognize you. Yes, you have surely 
 changed." 
 
 " Not in oneway, Madam," said Dick, 
 looking her full in the face. 
 
 She may or may not have understood 
 him. There had always been a certain 
 magnetism between them, and it is 
 probable she did not miss his meaning. 
 She rose, and ringing a bell, " Will you 
 take some refreshment, Mr. Cooper? " 
 she asked, in her most winning manner, 
 then with a smile of raillery, "not 
 punch, we don't brew it here these 
 days." 
 
 78
 
 CallanDer 
 
 Cooper laughed and rose too, and 
 side by side they strolled up and down 
 the room. " I came here to-day to beg 
 pardon," he said ; " 't is better late than 
 never," and again they laughed. Mar 
 cus Aurelius answering the bell, noticed 
 several things with the eye of an 
 observer. 
 
 " Mist' Coopeh done pick up in he 
 looks ! Mis' Kernal blushin', blushin', 
 fo' suah ! " He saw evidences of what 
 seemed to him an impending complica 
 tion. He was devoted to his mistress 
 and to the memory of his master, the 
 Colonel. As he brought in upon a 
 salver that used to bend under the ro 
 bust drink of the late Ewen Callander 
 the new-fashioned beverage ordered, 
 his face wore an added shade, of gloomy 
 apprehension. But the disapproval of 
 Marcus Aurelius Tolliver did not per 
 vade the atmosphere, which was charged 
 with friendliness ; the ice was broken 
 and for an hour the talk rattled merrily 
 along. At last, when Cooper took his 
 
 79
 
 Dorset 
 
 leave, it was tempered by a request that 
 it should be but au revoir. 
 
 As for the widow of the late Colonel 
 Callander, she did not understand her 
 self. Half indignant, half pleased, she 
 sat alone at her supper. The heavy 
 silver which shone before her had origi 
 nally belonged to the Colonel's first wife. 
 At his second marriage it had been 
 re-cast in a more fashionable mold and 
 her monogram wrought upon it. She 
 found herself, and blushed vividly at 
 the discovery, reflecting that, in a cer 
 tain event, a change of monogram would 
 be unnecessary. And a few moments 
 later it seemed ominous to her the 
 voice of Marcus was heard, terminating 
 in a higher key a long but suppressed 
 conversation with the cook : 
 
 " Change de name and not de lettah, 
 Change fo' wuss and not fo' bettah." 
 
 She was greatly annoyed, more perhaps 
 at the prophecy than at what may have 
 inspired it. 
 
 80
 
 CatlanDec 
 
 IV. 
 
 It was a curious courtship ; full of the 
 bitter sweet to Cooper. It need not 
 be supposed because for once Madam 
 Callander descended from her pinnacle 
 that she was always minded to walk the 
 earth. Dick was compelled to avail 
 himself of these occasions with what 
 patience he was master of. 
 
 One of his errors at the outset was in 
 asserting that he had seen in New York, 
 or elsewhere, men of as much address 
 and presence as Colonel Callander. And 
 his anecdotes, most of them second 
 hand to him, of the splendor of city 
 houses were received with inattentive 
 disbelief, and did not advance his suit. 
 He wished to win in his capacity of " fin 
 ished " man, but he at last came to know 
 that in his case, as always, the " real " 
 succeeds in the end. Himself honest, 
 direct, simple, and truthful, was the 
 better man in the contest upon which 
 he had entered. 
 
 81
 
 R> Dorset 
 
 Meantime the town looked on in 
 wonder. It might be thought that the 
 success of one born in Dorset and con 
 nected with its traditions, in an affair 
 in which influential outsiders had failed, 
 might have aroused some degree of 
 satisfaction. But the village, like many 
 others of its kind, had much local envy 
 to little local pride. Many concluded 
 that Madam Callander was a fool 
 others, that she was making one of 
 Cooper. Some who had marvelled at 
 her loyalty to her husband's name were 
 now incensed to think she should for a 
 moment forget it. 
 
 That she had many returns of her 
 devotion to the Colonel's memory is 
 certain. It was trying to know that she 
 would have to sink, should she marry 
 again, to plain Mrs., from her assured 
 title of Madam. Her circumstances 
 though straitened since her husband's 
 death, were supplemented by her social 
 position. A life of modest felicity 
 with a practically briefless lawyer 
 82
 
 CallanDer 
 
 seemed, at times, to present an attrac 
 tion decidedly tempered. Colonel 
 Callander had a distinct charm about 
 him, the charm of the gentleman of the 
 old school, and of the old world, and 
 its remembrance was often strong in 
 his widow's mind. 
 
 Thus it happened upon several occa 
 sions when Cooper had tried to urge 
 his suit to an understanding, that ca 
 price and coquetry and unworthy pride 
 stood in his path, and turned the op 
 portunity away into the limbo of lost 
 chances. He was not always patient 
 under these rebuffs. Had he been even 
 less patient he would have fared better. 
 He was not what is known as " master 
 ful " towards women. He had much of 
 the old-time impracticable chivalry that 
 submits to tyranny from a woman, 
 whilst smarting under it. 
 
 The winter passed swiftly, and with 
 spring came the determination to bring 
 affairs to a crisis. 
 
 One May evening at the edge of 
 83
 
 ID Doreet 
 
 dusk, he crossed the little river that ran 
 between the town and the Callander 
 house. Before he left the bridge he 
 stopped and looked westward up the 
 stream at the afterglow above the hills. 
 He had a feeling that he was approach 
 ing some turning point in his life and 
 that these familiar sights, the willow- 
 bordered banks, the garrulous brown 
 riffles, the pebbly bars, these boyhood 
 friends, were in a sort of undefined 
 sympathy with him. Upon McRae's 
 hill he saw the lone tree black against 
 the fading light, a tree that in his 
 boyhood seemed at sunset as myste 
 rious as the tree of the knowledge of 
 good and evil. He stood some mo 
 ments at the bridge-end, in the fading 
 twilight. As he walked in the dusk up 
 the path to the Callendar house, there 
 was an earthy smell from the garden, 
 and the earlier lilacs lent their fra 
 grance to the air. 
 
 Madam Callander was expecting him. 
 Some instinct, perhaps, told her that it 
 84
 
 GallanDer 
 
 was a critical hour. She hastened nerv 
 ously to fence herself round as she had 
 often done before, with constant allu 
 sion to the Colonel's virtues. She en 
 tered upon a history of the Callander 
 family, and proved to her own content 
 that the county out of which the Colo 
 nel had made his money, owed him a 
 debt of gratitude for enriching himself 
 from its broad acres. Scarce space for 
 a word was given Cooper. Only when 
 called upon to assent or concur did he 
 find opportunity of speech. His deter 
 mination, which he had resolved should 
 this night prevail, retired baffled. Any 
 word as to a husband future seemed 
 out of keeping in this atmosphere of 
 husband past. He was discomfited 
 and also incensed, and it was a burst of 
 temper that finally cleared the course 
 for plainer sailing. 
 
 " He was the first gentleman of the 
 county," said Madam Callander, wav 
 ing her fan dreamily ; " the first, and in 
 deed the only one, I mean," she added 
 85
 
 ID Dorset 
 
 hastily, for she saw the quick flash of 
 resentment in Cooper's eye, " the only 
 one according to old-world ways of 
 thinking." The first part of her sen 
 tence had been enough without its ill- 
 chosen ending. 
 
 Cooper rose. 
 
 " Madam, you and I think very dif 
 ferently. I believe there were a score 
 as good, yes, and some better, than 
 Colonel Callander ! " 
 
 "Sir!" 
 
 " Yes, Madam, I mean it. What was 
 he more than we? and he was no Ameri 
 can, by birth at least." 
 
 " Ah, no, he could n't be President, 
 as you may be, some day, could he Mr. 
 Cooper? But he was a gentleman, and 
 there is no one in this town worthy of 
 being thought of in the same minute 
 with him." 
 
 "No one?" 
 
 " No one that is " Cooper was too 
 angry to notice the tremulous look 
 about Madam Callander's mouth, or to 
 86
 
 flbaDam Callan&er 
 
 heed the little shake in her voice. He 
 was very proud, falsely so, in some de 
 gree. His family was as good as any 
 in the county, better than many, aware 
 of its respectability but bitterly con 
 scious of its poverty as well. 
 
 He turned and went a few steps tow 
 ards the door. Then he faced about 
 and bowed low. " I wish you had told 
 me before, Madam," he said. She had 
 risen and come a few steps nearer him. 
 " Why should I, pray ? " she asked in a 
 fine tone of disdain which was far from 
 sincere, and which did not conceal a 
 pang of regret and alarm. The words, 
 not the voice, touched Cooper. 
 
 " Why ? Madam, why ? Because for 
 the last six months, day after day, I 've 
 been hoping, believing, that at some 
 time you, you might, as you 've some 
 times acted, learn to love me." 
 
 " Mr. Cooper ! " 
 
 " Yes, Madam, you have, indeed you 
 have ! You can't deny it." 
 
 "You are forgetting " 
 
 87
 
 5>orset 
 
 " I know I am ; I can't help it. Ah, 
 Madam, Letty," he cried taking her 
 hand which she passively left to him, 
 " why can 't you be yourself for once 
 for once, dearest, just once ! " 
 
 Madam Callander disengaged her 
 hand and seated herself. She was 
 pleased with Cooper's fervor and 
 gratified with his spirit, but she had 
 no intention of sudden capitulation. 
 Cooper came to her side and bent over 
 her. " Ah, Letty ! " he said, " Letty ! 
 I Ve loved you so long, since I first 
 saw you and none but you. Care for 
 me a little, tell me you will just a 
 little, even ! I '11 do anything, every 
 thing, to be worthy of you. Can't 
 you, dearest ? " 
 
 She had been listening in a rapt, at 
 tentive way to what he said, but her 
 eyes were fixed upon some distant 
 object. Suddenly she sobbed and 
 raised her hands to her face. Cooper 
 turned hastily in the direction that her 
 eyes had held and saw gazing benig-
 
 Callan&er 
 
 nantly from the canvas, the portrait of 
 Colonel Callander. He looked down 
 at her. Her face was bent forward, 
 and her hair had fallen about her 
 temples. 
 
 " Have I made a mistake ? " he said 
 huskily. She did not answer. 
 
 " Well," he said, after a moment, " I 
 have forgotten myself, Madam I wish 
 to God I might forget you. Oh, Letty," 
 he cried holding out his hands once 
 more " why can't it be, why will you 
 not come out of your past and leave 
 him ? Let him be the one forgot ! 
 What right has he between us now ? " 
 
 She was silent still, but was leaning a 
 little towards him, her face bent upon 
 her breast. He would have kissed the 
 ground she trod upon, but he dared 
 not, unbidden, touch her lips. 
 
 It is an old saying about the faint 
 heart and the fair lady and there is a 
 kind of restraint, half chivalric respect, 
 half inexperience, that is at times as 
 fatal as faint-heartedness. 
 89
 
 ID Dorset 
 
 There was another moment of silence, 
 and then a sudden belief that he had 
 been played with sprang up in Cooper's 
 mind. " Well," he said, " I was mis 
 taken. Good-bye." He went into the 
 hall, took his hat, then said again, 
 " Good-bye." There was still no 
 answer and he went out into the 
 darkness. The path reeled before him, 
 his eyes were burning, but as yet un- 
 dimmed ; his throat seemed parched. 
 In the shadow of the great stone gate 
 post he stopped, let the gate swing to 
 again without passing it, and leaned 
 against the wall to recover his self-com 
 mand. Presently he heard footsteps, 
 then his name called. It was Madam 
 Callander, and in a moment she stood 
 by the gate, opened it and ran down the 
 dark road, " Dick ! Dick ! " he heard 
 her cry. His name had never sounded 
 so sweet to him before, and there was a 
 ring in her voice that he had never 
 heard till then. The light dawned 
 upon his mind and he understood. 
 90
 
 Callan&ct 
 
 At first he started to follow her, then, 
 supposing that she would return at 
 once, he drew back. A little tingling of 
 wounded self-pride still teased him. He 
 had run after her, been her dog, her 
 shadow, so long, it was not unpleasant 
 to think of her now pursuing him, so 
 he waited in shadow of the wall. 
 
 Some minutes passed, hours they 
 seemed to him. His resentment, his 
 desire for petty revenge, had left him 
 showing to him as it went the un 
 manly thing it was. He became fearful 
 that some harm might have come to her, 
 when suddenly, as he was about to go 
 in search, he heard her coming up the 
 road. In the light of the rising moon, 
 a light that did not yet disclose his 
 shelter, he saw her. Her beautiful hair, 
 " yellow like the husk of the ripe corn," 
 had fallen about her shoulders, her 
 hands were clasped in front of her, and 
 she was crying unrestrainedly. As she 
 came to the gate his impulse was to 
 step forward, open it, and take her in 
 91
 
 Doreet 
 
 his arms. Then he felt a sense of being 
 an eavesdropper, one who had unfairly 
 surprised her in a mood he had by his 
 pettishness lost the right to enter. He 
 knew her pride and feared its workings, 
 should she know he had seen her in 
 humiliation. 
 
 She came into the yard and stood a 
 moment looking across the gate, the 
 tears bright upon her face in the moon 
 light. Then she turned, so near him 
 he could almost touch her, shivered 
 slightly and went up the path to the 
 house. He waited until he heard the 
 click of the door as it swung shut, 
 then softly opened the gate and took 
 his way to the village. 
 
 That night he wrote a long and 
 polite letter to his friend in New 
 York, stating that his determination to 
 practice his profession in Dorset would 
 be final, and thanked him for his past 
 favors and courtesies. He also, before 
 closing his letter, asked that his friend 
 would purchase for him, repaying him- 
 92
 
 CnllanDcc 
 
 self out of certain moneys then due and 
 owing him from the firm, a piece of silk 
 of flowered pattern, designed for waist 
 coats, one in all ways suitable to a man 
 of thirty, contemplating matrimony. 
 Then he sealed the letter, marked it 
 personal, with heavy underscorings, and 
 went to bed. 
 
 IV. 
 
 At four o'clock the following after 
 noon, Cooper was again upon the bridge. 
 Half way across he saw the doctor's 
 gig moving sedately towards him. It 
 did not occur to Dick that the doctor's 
 countenance as he nodded to him was 
 grave from aught but professional cares. 
 The great gate to the Callander place 
 stood wide open, and as he entered the 
 other physician of the village drove by 
 him to the road. Then in an instant 
 fear fell upon him and he stopped, 
 startled and faint. He looked towards 
 the windows of the room he knew was 
 Madam Callander's. The shutters were 
 93
 
 Olc> Dorset 
 
 closed. He went eagerly to the porch 
 and mounted the steps. The great 
 knocker was swathed and muffled. As 
 he stood trembling before the well- 
 known threshold, black Phebe came 
 tiptoeing around a corner of the broad 
 porch. " For God's, sake what 's 
 wrong ? " said Cooper tremulously. 
 The woman sobbed hoarsely and came 
 nearer. " Mis' Kernal very bad, suh," 
 she whispered, crumpling and kneading 
 her apron in her hands. " She done 
 have two doctahs. Fevah, suh, typhoy 
 fevah. She done fergit us all, suh." 
 Phebe covered her face with her apron 
 and cried softly. 
 
 Cooper leaned, sick and silent, against 
 the house. He remembered in a flash 
 that she had been bareheaded as she ran 
 by him the night before that she had 
 no wrap about her light evening gown, 
 no protection against the treacherous 
 damp of spring. And he had let her 
 go, in his childish fit of spleen and 
 wounded self-love ! 
 94
 
 CallanDer 
 
 His voice was thin and hollow as he 
 turned again to the old servant. 
 
 " Can I do anything; any little thing, 
 even, to help, Phebe ? " he said. 
 
 " Oh, no, suh ; thank you kindly, suh. 
 Evyting ben looked foh. Mis' Wes- 
 ton ben hyar, an' Mis' Denison. Dey 
 done look out foh evyting. She done 
 speak yo' name dis maw'n, suh. She 
 done speak it twice, but now she fergit 
 us all, an' talk, talk, talk 'bout de Ker- 
 nal, like he was hyar still. Oh, befoh 
 de Lord, ef de Kernal was hyar fer jess 
 a little, he done make her well." 
 
 Cooper left the porch and went un 
 steadily to the gate. Oh, the ghastly 
 beauty and freshness of everything ! 
 The river sparkled, and how green the 
 fields lay, stretching against the base of 
 the south hill ! He saw things, as he 
 hurried aimlessly along, but all under a 
 film of nightmare. She would die and 
 it would be he who killed her, he with 
 his silly, wicked, childish pride. And 
 she had called his name that very 
 95
 
 ID Dorset 
 
 morning, when he perhaps was sleeping 
 dreaming of assured success. And it 
 was small wonder she spoke of him no 
 more, but called for the dead. Better 
 call for the dead Colonel. He had 
 never let her risk her life, to gratify a 
 senseless pride. He had been a man, a 
 a man, a man ! 
 
 It was well that Cooper's course lay 
 away from the village among the mead 
 ows, whither he had unwittingly turned, 
 for he was little better than a madman, 
 muttering, crying out, tossing his hands 
 as he went. 
 
 After a long half hour, calmer but 
 wild looking and haggard, he came to 
 the river-bank, to the spot where stood 
 the oak upon which he had once cut the 
 initials of the woman he loved. 
 
 Half asleep in the slanting sunlight, 
 his back propped against an outcrop 
 ping root from the great tree that 
 shaded the deep water of " Denison's 
 Hole," lay a man. It was Ezra Spicer, 
 the village outcast and drunkard, popu- 
 96
 
 CallanDcr 
 
 lar with parents as a warning, and fur 
 tively beloved by many a boy for his 
 kind offices in the gentle art of an 
 gling. 
 
 As Cooper stopped and stood a mo 
 ment near him, Ezra turned, nodded in 
 a friendly way, and resumed watching 
 his float. Presently he turned again 
 and looked more carefully at the other. 
 
 "Ye aint sick, be ye, Dick ? " he asked 
 gently. 
 
 " No, Ezra," replied Cooper, with a 
 forced laugh ; " only played out tired 
 out no sleep lately." 
 
 Ezra shook his head. " Wai, I s'pose 
 that 's from too much lawin'. I used 
 to worry some myself till I took to 
 fishin'. Set down, wont ye?" 
 
 Cooper shook his head. " Wai, '/ is 
 damp, bad weather fer chills an' ager. 
 Say there 's sickness up to Mis' Cal- 
 lander's. Is it Mis' Callander herself ? 
 'T is, hey ! Wai, now, as I was goin' 
 home last night, I seen some one set- 
 tin' by the bridge-end nighest Kernal 
 97
 
 ID Dorset 
 
 Callander's, no shawl ner bonnet on, 
 cryin' oh, cryin' so I could hear her ; 
 an' I kind o* thought she looked 
 like Mis' Callander, an' I told Liza so. 
 She said I wa'n't in no fit way to see 
 who 't was, an' mebbe that 's so ; but 
 I sez to myself, whoever 't was, ' it 's a 
 bad time fer chills and ager,' an' I " 
 Suddenly across the speaker's slow- 
 moving mind came the recollection of 
 the reports that were in many quarters, 
 of Cooper's devotion to Madam Cal 
 lander. He broke off his rambling 
 talk at once, drew his line in with great 
 comparative activity, and examined 
 the bait. " I thought I had a bite just 
 now, an' I guess I did" he said, then 
 turning, saw that Cooper was walking 
 swiftly along the river-path towards 
 the bridge. " Wai, I am a derned bass- 
 wood fool," he muttered to himself. 
 " So 't was Mis' Callander an' she was 
 lookin' fer some one too an' I guess 
 Dick Cooper aint fur from his name, 
 nuther." 
 
 9 8
 
 jflfcadam CallanOec 
 
 So certain facts from circumstantial 
 evidence passed into local history. 
 
 V. 
 
 Mrs. Callander did not die, but 
 recovery was very slow. As time 
 went on, indeed, it was whispered that 
 recovery would never be complete. 
 Cooper was as regular each day at the 
 Callander house, as the doctor himself. 
 From Phebe he was able to learn the 
 daily news with moderate exactness. 
 She had long known his secret and 
 suspected her mistress's inclinations. 
 She scorned her husband's forebodings 
 as to change of name without change 
 of initial letter, partly because she dis 
 agreed with any statement dogmatically 
 advanced by Marcus. Again and again 
 Cooper would ask her, " Does she ever 
 speak my name, or mention me?" And 
 at first Phebe answered truthfully, but as 
 the weeks ran on and convalescence be 
 gan slowly to assert itself, and no name 
 of man but that of Ewen Callander 
 99
 
 ID Dorset 
 
 passed the sick woman's lips, the negress 
 in sheer pity drew upon her fancy. 
 
 " Oh, yas, honey, she done speak ob 
 yd foh suah ; yas suh, yas, indeed," and 
 poor Cooper would go home comforted. 
 
 At last the doctor announced that 
 Madam Callander might again see her 
 friends, and Cooper, meeting Dr. Gra 
 ham, asked leave to call. The doctor 
 looked at him in such a way that the 
 other saw he understood his anxiety 
 and its cause and then said, " She should 
 have nothing to excite her." 
 
 " Well perhaps well, I can wait, I 
 can wait, " said Dick. The tone of dis 
 appointment in his voice touched the 
 doctor's heart. He was an elderly man, 
 a cousin of Cooper's father, and Dick's 
 love affair was well known to him. 
 
 " No," he said hesitatingly, a curious 
 look upon his face, " I think you may go, 
 in fact you 'd better go as soon as you 
 can." 
 
 Cooper thanked him and went his 
 way wondering somewhat at the doc-
 
 fl&afcam Caltan&er 
 
 tor's words, but that same afternoon 
 found him at the gate of the Callander 
 house, his heart beating almost to pain, 
 his hands cold and nerveless. He saw 
 Phebe upon the porch. She showed 
 him into the drawing-room, answering 
 his questions in a way that seemed to 
 him constrained and unnatural. 
 
 Everything in the great, dim room 
 spoke to him of his past, his past so 
 brief a time gone by, but so remote. 
 He had no set speech this day to utter. 
 He had parted with what little arti 
 ficiality he had once assumed. . . . 
 
 She was coming he heard the rustle 
 of skirts, the tap, tap, of feet upon the 
 stair, a shadow crossed the threshold of 
 the door, and now she herself stood 
 there. He sprang forward, both his 
 hands outstretched, a voiceless cry in 
 his throat ; then he dropped his hands 
 to his side. 
 
 She was not greatly changed physi 
 cally, thinner of course, and the roses 
 not yet in her cheeks. Her beautiful 
 
 101
 
 Borset 
 
 hair, which had not been sacrificed, was 
 drawn as of old from her low white 
 forehead, her eyes were bright and blue 
 as ever, and she was smiling. 
 
 But in those eyes, not one ray beyond 
 the light of mere recognition shone ; 
 in that smile sedate and kindly, were 
 only complaisance and the half con 
 descension she had displayed to the 
 Richard Cooper of years before. As 
 he stood in frozen silence she came 
 toward him. 
 
 " It 's Mr. Cooper, is it not," she said, 
 as she put out her hand, " and when did 
 you return ? " He murmured some re 
 sponse and sank into a chair she 
 pointed to. 
 
 " It is your vacation, I suppose," she 
 went on, in a voice as passionless and 
 devoid of remembrance as falling water. 
 Then in the same weird echo of words 
 she had spoken once before she said. 
 
 " You will find many changes." 
 
 " I find them," he said hoarsely. She 
 stared a moment, rather at his voice
 
 /JfeaDam CallanOcr 
 
 than at the words, then rising, went 
 towards the mantle-shelf. 
 
 "That is an excellent portrait of 
 him," she said. "Ah, what a man he 
 was and what a loss to Dorset." . . . 
 
 Cooper never could recall without a 
 shudder the few minutes that elapsed 
 before he could make his farewells. 
 Stunned and heartbroken he found his 
 way to the village. In the broad shady 
 street near the church he again met 
 Doctor Graham. "Dick," called the 
 latter. Cooper went to him. 
 
 " Did she know you ? " said the 
 doctor bluntly. 
 
 Cooper looked at him, flushed, and 
 turned away. "Yes," he answered 
 stiffly. 
 
 "Stop," called the other. "Dick, 
 this is my business even if you don't 
 think so. Your secret 's no secret to 
 me, and I must ask you what I do, as 
 a doctor. Now, tell me ; how much 
 had she forgotten ? " 
 
 " Forgotten ! " cried Cooper bitterly, 
 103
 
 ID Dorset 
 
 " oh, Doctor, Doctor, she 'd forgotten 
 all I hoped she might remember." 
 
 He took hold of the muddy spokes 
 of the wheel and swayed himself back 
 wards and forwards in his anguish, the 
 tears streaming down his face. The old 
 man put a kind hand upon his shoulder. 
 " Dick," he said, " be a man. She 
 never will remember, I 'm afraid, my 
 boy but be a man, make new memo 
 ries, don't give up." Cooper shook his 
 head and turned away. He knew that a 
 little divine spark that glows but once 
 for every man and woman, had gone 
 out. He felt that some memories once 
 lost are never replaced, and he was 
 but too right. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Madam Callander never caught up 
 the lost stitches. What power of lov 
 ing had been in her in that time so 
 vanished, so effaced, seemed now 
 changed to a morbid devotion to her 
 dead husband, a devotion that excluded 
 104
 
 CallanDet 
 
 all things else. It must not be thought 
 that Cooper at once abandoned hope. 
 But during the several occasions follow 
 ing, upon which he saw Madam Callan- 
 der, she was so oblivious of him in any 
 character but that of young Dick 
 Cooper, the lawyer, that he eventually 
 gave way. Other aspirants for her 
 hand in the course of the next few 
 years appeared, but he felt no envy. 
 He knew what the result must be. 
 And their rejections were so final in 
 character, so abrupt in manner, that 
 suitors grew wary. Whereas Madam 
 Callander had once been wont to say 
 "no " courteously, sometimes compas 
 sionately, her present attitude was one 
 of indignation upon being asked to take 
 a successor to the Colonel. It was in 
 comprehensible to her, either that she 
 should be considered by any chance in 
 the way to be comforted, or that any 
 man should deem himself worthy to fill 
 Colonel Callander's place. As time 
 went on, her old predilection for Cooper 
 105
 
 ID 2>orset 
 
 had a sort of shadowy revival in a de 
 cided liking she grew to have for him. 
 She was glad to have him call upon her 
 she used to confide in him. 
 
 He had become a rather prematurely- 
 old looking man with serious eyes, and 
 an expression half quizzical, half sad. 
 He would listen to her by the hour 
 while she talked of the Colonel's merits 
 and of the past. It cut him to the 
 heart at first, but he grew used to it. 
 And it was a joy in a half tragic way, 
 merely to sit and watch her, and to 
 know that she was really his, his own, 
 if but those chords of memory should 
 once awaken. 
 
 So years drifted by. With the Mexi 
 can war a regiment was formed in the 
 Southern Tier, and Cooper went out as 
 captain of a company. He distin 
 guished himself at Molino del Rey and 
 again at Chapultepec, and two years 
 later returned, a major, to Dorset. He 
 had contemplated exchanging into the 
 regular service, certain influences being 
 106
 
 CallanDcr 
 
 powerful at his back, but the tendrils of 
 the past were too strong to break, and 
 the desire to be near his love too keen 
 to resist. Had he been formally re 
 jected, had he found that he had never 
 been loved, he could not have remained 
 in his native town. But he had been 
 loved ; she was his, though she could 
 not know it, could not be told of it, and 
 he would stay as near her side as he was 
 permitted and never leave her again. 
 
 He never did. 
 
 Years went and came. Cooper grew 
 gray and somewhat infirm. Time 
 treated him with no more than ordinary 
 deference, but it touched Madame Cal- 
 lander lightly and lovingly. She never 
 entirely lost her beauty. 
 
 She grew more prone, as she grew 
 older, to prattle of the Colonel. She 
 treated Cooper upon his return from 
 Mexico, bringing honor and title, with 
 great respect, and the gray-haired 
 Major with his patient sad eyes would 
 listen to her, twice a week, with mili- 
 107
 
 ID Dorset 
 
 tary regularity, as she spoke of the well- 
 known past, her past and the Colonel's. 
 He never failed to assent to any eulogy 
 of the departed, however extravagant, 
 and Madam Callander once said that 
 he was the only man in Dorset who 
 had not been jealous of her husband. 
 
 The garden of her memory was grown 
 up to old-time flowers, like a country 
 door-yard, where pinks, and hollyhocks, 
 and dahlias, and peonies bloom and 
 thrive. 
 
 VII. 
 
 She died suddenly, almost painlessly. 
 Her maid Phebe, a woman past eighty 
 years of age, was by her side. The 
 negress heard her mistress say softly to 
 herself part of the church service, and 
 saw her suddenly raise herself in the 
 bed and put her hands to her eyes. 
 The old woman leaned over towards 
 her and as she did her mistress flung 
 herself with a sob upon her breast. 
 
 "Oh, Phebe, Phebe, he has gone," she 
 108
 
 dfca&am Callan&et 
 
 cried. " I Ve lost him, I 've lost him." 
 The memory so long asleep had 
 wakened. 
 
 The two women, the black and the 
 white, whose hair time had turned the 
 same shade, and whose hearts had been 
 always of a color, sobbed together in 
 the darkness of the sick-room. 
 
 Presently Madam Callander slipped 
 back upon her pillow. She was quiet a 
 moment, murmured something to her 
 self, quivered, and then lay still. . . . 
 
 This Phebe told to Major Cooper, 
 and during the rest of the day, and the 
 next, to the hour of the obsequies, his 
 face wore a look serene and happy, such 
 a look as had not been upon it for many 
 years. Some people wondered at this, 
 and said that age turns blood cold, and 
 when the Major, though he went to the 
 church, refused to go to the grave, un 
 kind things were said. But they did 
 not touch him in any way. He had 
 pondered upon the matter, and he could 
 not get himself to see the woman he 
 109
 
 10 Dorset 
 
 had loved so truly and for so long laid 
 by the dust of a man he felt had not 
 the real right. He had loved her 
 longer than Ewen Callander. He had 
 loved her a lifetime, and now she must 
 sleep by the side of a man whose un- 
 awakened wife she had been. 
 
 He did not follow to the grave, but 
 went instead to the river-bank, to the 
 old oak he knew and loved. From his 
 pocket he took a chisel and hammer 
 and recut the letters, almost untrace- 
 able now from the outgrowth of bark. 
 Then, below, he put his own initials. 
 He had the right now at the last, for at 
 the last she had returned to him. 
 
 no
 
 Expiation of J6sra Spicer.
 
 Eypiation of iBstti Spicer. 
 
 i. 
 
 HPHE sun of early June was two 
 1 hours above the highest pines 
 along the ridge of the south hill. 
 
 The slanting rays lighted the shallow 
 waters of the Connedaga and lured the 
 fish from pools below the banks into 
 the riffles. The steers and yearlings in 
 the Denison meadows, straying in vari 
 ous directions from their night huddle, 
 were laying with steadfast industry 
 foundations for their noon-tide cuds. 
 The milkers were reappearing from the 
 lane which led to the great gambrel- 
 roofed red barn, and with their lowing 
 mingled at times the distant bay of a 
 hound. 
 
 "3
 
 The valley of the Connedaga was at 
 its best tibe day was growing in 
 IM Ij bat there was one at least 
 from whom the smile of nature gained 
 
 n I r ^rr^l 'I r~ ~c .*"*". * . - " ? 
 
 that set up their screen along the river 
 coarse, and filed like a tapestried web 
 the spaces between the trees, crouched 
 man of middle age, whose 
 almost gentle, face was piti 
 fully wrought upon by terror. He was 
 gasping hoarsely for breath and his 
 eyes were fixed with painful eagerness 
 upon the skirt of wood about the base 
 of MacRae's Hffl. FnaiBilj his wind 
 |KUtiy restored, but still panitng deeply, 
 he slipped into the stream, pushed rap- 
 idljr across, the water about his knees T 
 aad disappeared among the alders on 
 the other bonk. A minute later he 
 reappeared in the meadow a few rods 
 beyond, and ran, stooping, along its 
 bonier, keeping ia the half shelter of a 
 fence of stumps. At a point in the 
 stream perhaps a quarter of a mile from 
 "4
 
 ID Dorset 
 
 the water, ordered the others to follow 
 and the company were presently upon 
 the opposite shore, when a clamor from 
 the hound showed the trail once more 
 established. 
 
 A short digression is needed to ex 
 plain the presence of a scene like the 
 one described within the boundaries 
 of New York State. . . . 
 
 II. 
 
 When Major Norris, late of Din- 
 widdie County, Virginia, attracted by 
 the ardent representations of his friend 
 Colonel Callander, followed the great 
 waterway of the Susquehanna to remote 
 Pulteney County, he brought with him 
 a large household of blacks. 
 
 A score of years went pleasantly by 
 in the pursuit of such pleasures as the 
 little backwoods county-seat afforded 
 before the Major found need and leisure 
 to count the cost. When at last he did 
 so, he discovered himself face to face 
 
 116
 
 Cbe Bipfatlon of Esra Spfcec 
 
 with facts as unpleasant as creditors 
 and harder to shun. He had run his 
 horses into premature old age, and him 
 self into inextricable debt. His farm 
 plantation he chose to call it was 
 heavily mortgaged, and his only unin- 
 cumbered property a score of " likely " 
 negroes. Such of these as were needful 
 to the Major as grooms or house serv 
 ants lived upon his place, and were de 
 pendents upon his kitchen but nearly 
 half of them had long been in practical 
 emancipation. Major Norris, in his days 
 of prosperity, was an easy master and 
 permitted such of his " people " as he 
 had no immediate employment for to 
 toil for themselves, live in their own 
 way, and enjoy the fruits of their labor. 
 But with the coming of the evil day, 
 and the final departure of the last hours 
 of credit, the Major turned his eyes, al 
 though regretfully, upon his servants 
 whose market-value, in Maryland or Vir 
 ginia, might yet recoup him, and bridge 
 the way to better days. What hesita- 
 117
 
 <$>ID Dorset 
 
 tion he felt at the outset vanished 
 promptly when the rumors came with 
 continually increasing volume that the 
 State of New York was about to free 
 all negroes within its limits. 
 
 As yet it had done little more than 
 forbid the traffic in slaves and provide 
 for the gradual emancipation of children 
 of slave parents born within the State 
 after Independence Day, 1799. The 
 exportation of slaves was also forbidden, 
 though a master removing permanently 
 from the State, by observing certain 
 legal formalities, might take his slaves 
 with him. 
 
 It was still remembered twenty-five 
 years ago by the oldest inhabitant, 
 how, one by one, the negroes of the 
 Norris's household disappeared, ostensi 
 bly to be employed upon a farm said to 
 be owned by the Major near the 
 Pennsylvania line. And long time in 
 the ears of the early inhabitants echoed 
 the indignation that arose from a 
 whisper to a full-voiced outcry, when
 
 Bjpiation of B3ta Sptcer 
 
 the Major, relying upon his prerogative 
 of master, began to impress for the same 
 farm service the negroes who had been 
 permitted by him to enjoy for years a 
 half-freedom. 
 
 This indignation however was mainly 
 among the younger men Cyrus Wes- 
 ton, Richard Cooper and others of their 
 age or rough-and-ready rustic charac 
 ters like Captain Ball, whose upland 
 farm to the south of the roll-way hill 
 had served more than once as a refuge 
 for fugitive blacks. The older, more 
 conservative and perhaps more repre 
 sentative men in Dorset belonged to 
 two sorts. Men like Judge Barton, 
 who took an Old Testament view of 
 slavery, while guarding a conscience 
 and morality of the strictest New Eng 
 land type, and others who with Colonel 
 Calander opposed anything approaching 
 radicalism and a further extension of the 
 rights of man even then encroaching, 
 as the honest Colonel held, upon the 
 rights of men. As yet too though no 
 119
 
 Dorset 
 
 one doubted its speedy enactment 
 emancipation was still in the future. 
 The opposition, therefore, which Major 
 Norris had to combat was hardly more 
 than passive and he urged his enter 
 prise with the energy of a man whose 
 time is limited and whose conscience is 
 clear for it is only fair to say that the 
 Major, fully believing that he possessed 
 all the rights of a Virginia master, had no 
 doubts as to the probity of his conduct, 
 though he regretted its necessity. 
 
 Two days previous to the morning 
 upon which this chronicle opens, a 
 burly, keen-eyed, fat-faced man, well- 
 dressed, but with the look of a drover 
 in broadcloth, took lodging at the Eagle 
 Tavern, signing himself Captain Faxon, 
 Culpepper, Virginia. He was no stran 
 ger to John Silsbee, the proprietor. 
 Twice before had the Captain visited 
 Dorset, and on each occasion addi 
 tional harvesters had been needed at 
 Major Norris's somewhat mythical farm 
 upon the Pennsylvania border.
 
 Bjpiatton of B3ra Spicer 
 
 On the following day it was known 
 that Carter Sampson, a negro nominally 
 the property of Major Norris, but for 
 years practically a free man, had left 
 his home and was supposed to be in 
 hiding. 
 
 Now Carter Sampson was already pos 
 sessed of a small competence he was 
 a leading member of the negro contin 
 gent in the congregation over which 
 Parson Knowles was established, and 
 he had many friends among the poor, 
 both white and black, by reason of his 
 unpretending charity. 
 
 It is a curious commentary upon the 
 time, however, that no measures were 
 taken to block Faxon's activities. The 
 slave-trader, for so he actually was, pos 
 sessed a certain diplomacy and cunning 
 that carried him unimpeded along the 
 line of his efforts. To his mind Samp 
 son was as much an animal and a chat 
 tel as the beagle the trader had borrowed 
 to track him, but he half met the gen 
 eral disapproval of his quest by dwell- 
 
 121
 
 R Dorset 
 
 ing, with men of the better element in 
 Dorset, upon the injustice of a man's 
 not being allowed to do as he would 
 with his own, and among the less re 
 spectable by a profuse hospitality dis 
 pensed before the " Eagle " bar. He had 
 obtained some assistance on his other 
 visits by the liberal use of money, and 
 it was by bribing that he had induced 
 the negro, Lucas John, a man of great 
 strength and personal courage though 
 of little principle, to assist him ; a 
 treachery to his color that was for 
 years bitterly laid up against the black. 
 It was through this renegade's informa 
 tion, and by his assistance, that Faxon, 
 with two white followers, stablemen in 
 the Major's employ, laid the beagle's 
 nose to a true scent this morning in 
 June, 18 . 
 
 III. 
 
 Ezra Spicer had half filled his pail 
 with suckers, and was beginning to 
 meditate upon a homeward course. It 
 
 122
 
 Ejpiation of E3ra Spicec 
 
 was four o'clock in the afternoon, and 
 by the time he could reach the Eagle 
 tavern, whither, in funds or not, he in 
 variably repaired at the day's close, it 
 would be nearly supper-time. He had 
 seen Faxon and his following that morn 
 ing beating the undergrowth of the 
 swampy meadows a quarter of a mile 
 from his fishing-ground, and then had 
 lost them, as the cry of the hound 
 sounded fainter in the distance. In 
 the early afternoon he had sought an 
 other fishing-hole, almost opposite the 
 spot where Sampson for a second time 
 had entered the stream. And here he 
 sat, with his eyes intent upon his float, 
 when the trample of feet in the cleared 
 field behind him caused him to look 
 quickly around. 
 
 The Virginian and his companions 
 were returning empty-handed from the 
 chase. The tired hound no longer 
 tugged at the leash, and Faxon wearied 
 and thirsty from his long quest, was in 
 an evil temper. He cursed frequently, 
 123
 
 ID 2>orset 
 
 and with no apparent reason, and rode 
 sullenly in front of his party. As he 
 caught sight of the fisherman he pulled 
 in his horse and stared at him. The 
 renegade negro Lucas, discovering Spi- 
 cer at the same time, ran to Faxon's 
 side and said a few words hurriedly in 
 an undertone ; then he came to the 
 worm fence that separated the field 
 from the river bank and accosted Ezra. 
 
 " Aint seed no one passin', has you, 
 Ezry ? " he asked with a shamefaced 
 grin. 
 
 " Seen you an' yer crowd this morn- 
 in','' said Spicer, shortly. 
 
 " Ye aint happened to see any o' 
 Major Norris's folks ? " 
 
 Ezra shook his head. 
 
 " Wai, now, dat 's extr'odny," said 
 Lucas, with a glance towards Faxon. 
 " We foun' tracks like dey was Carter 
 Sampson's dis maw'n' jist across from 
 dis yer place, an' den we lose 'em 
 done look all day down de rivah an' we 
 caint someways pick em' up." 
 124
 
 Bjpiatton of B3ra Spicer 
 
 Faxon, who had got from his horse, 
 came to the side of the negro. 
 
 " Cap'n Faxon, dis yer 's Mist' Spisah, 
 he knows de rivah, knows it well, suh." 
 
 " Reckon you 'd like to make a little 
 money, an' make it right easy, my man?" 
 said Faxon. Ezra gazed straight before 
 him and did not reply. He had already, 
 the night before, been approached by 
 one of Norris's men, and, while he had 
 refused to be of active aid, the thought 
 of the easy money had teased his 
 memory the entire day. " All you 've 
 got to do," said Faxon persuasively, 
 " is to give us a quiet tip. If he came 
 this way, you saw him. Now just tell 
 me where and when. I '11 take care of 
 the rest, and you get well paid ; is it a 
 bargain ? " 
 
 While he was speaking there was a 
 sudden sound beneath the bank as of 
 an animal moving softly in the still 
 water of the hole. Ezra's eyes turned 
 swiftly upon the screen of bushes that 
 reached out its green arms above the 
 125
 
 15 Dorset 
 
 water. His first thought was that the 
 noise had been made by one of the 
 colony of water-rats that inhabited the 
 locality, but an instant's glance was 
 enough to show him a man a negro, 
 Carter Sampson the water almost cov 
 ering his head, his chilled lips quivering 
 piteously and his eyes gleaming through 
 the covert of leaves, fixed upon Spicer 
 with a mute, despairing appeal. 
 
 " Well," said Faxon, " what do you 
 say!" 
 
 " I aint seen him Cap'n," said Ezra 
 huskily ; " I aint seen no one." 
 
 " Come, come," said the other. " Of 
 course you have, and you 're helping 
 cheat a gentleman of his property by 
 not lending a hand now and talk of 
 seeing things, look at this ! " Ezra's 
 eyes, do what he could, turned upon 
 the tempter. A bright piece of gold 
 representing more than Spicer ever at 
 any one time had possessed, shone in 
 Faxon's palm. " Look at that ; think 
 what that would git ye. There 's a 
 126
 
 Bjpiation of B3ta Spicet 
 
 power of good times and good whiskey 
 in that think of it." 
 
 Ezra had thought of such a thing be 
 fore ; all the long morning he had 
 striven to convince himself that his 
 refusal of the day before, to assist in 
 the capture of the fugitive Sampson, 
 was better than renewed credit and a 
 hearty welcome at the tavern. " So 
 help me God ! " he said again, but still 
 with his eyes upon the coin, " I aint 
 seen no one at all." 
 
 The Captain withdrew his hand 
 slowly, and suddenly the unhappy 
 Spicer struck a hasty bargain with the 
 devil. He could not, in cold blood 
 point out the hidden negro trembling 
 almost within touch of him ; and he 
 could not face the disappearance of 
 that shining fortune. " I haint seen 
 him," he reiterated, " but," in a lower 
 voice and with half a nod towards the 
 water below him, " you better look 
 under the banks where the deep holes 
 be, that 's my advice." A sickening 
 127
 
 Dorset 
 
 sense made up of disappointment and 
 remorse came over him as the coin was 
 slipped back into the Captain's breeches. 
 " Good advice," said Faxon shortly ; 
 " no market here for advice though ; 
 reckon /know enough to hunt him out 
 if he 's around." He turned with an im 
 patient curse, and with Lucas rejoined 
 his party. 
 
 It was the good fortune of the man 
 in the water that Faxon had not seen 
 the half nod which Spicer directed 
 toward the pool, and that annoyance 
 at what seemed the fisherman's ob 
 stinacy took the Captain in a pet from 
 the spot. That nod, however, had not 
 escaped the fugitive's eye. In a few 
 moments the dog broke out into a yelp, 
 and the group turned with renewed 
 interest into a patch of timber, and dis 
 appeared. The good angel had his 
 wing about Sampson, and the demon of 
 remorse sat side by side with Ezra 
 Spicer as he again flung his line into 
 the stream. " Let 'em go," he said 
 128
 
 Gbe Expiation of 3ta Spicet 
 
 aloud, " they '11 git nothin' from me." 
 He gazed shamefacedly at the screen of 
 bushes above the eddying water, then 
 looked quickly away. The eyes were 
 still there ; the glance was that of a 
 frightened animal, but it was full, as 
 well, of scorn unutterable. Spicer 
 turned hot from head to foot. That 
 glance was as loud as a cry. 
 
 The yelp of the hound in the dis 
 tance had changed to a steady bay. 
 Ezra despite his shame could not resist 
 a chuckle. " They've struck Stanbro's 
 Run, I guess," he said again aloud. " I 
 seen fox tracks there this mornin'. If 
 they will use fox-dogs they must expec' 
 to have 'em chase foxes." The pursuit 
 same suddenly into view, several mead 
 ows distant, the hound, escaped from 
 his leash, running free, and Faxon fol 
 lowing alone at a canter. "They tell 
 me them Virginny folks is great on fox 
 huntin'," chuckled Ezra. "Wai, he 's 
 after one now, I guess, an' there '11 be 
 no more man huntin' fer a spell." 
 129
 
 ID 2>orset 
 
 He looked shyly towards the hidden 
 man as he said this, and laughed in a 
 tentative, deprecating way. The silence 
 of deep contempt brooded above the 
 pool and Spicer's soul writhed within 
 him. He was sure now that Sampson 
 had seen his attempted treason. For a 
 few minutes longer he strove to fish, 
 but the thought of those scornful eyes, 
 that he felt still burned upon him from 
 the bush curtain below, seared his con 
 science as with a white-hot iron. At 
 last he rose, gathered up his pail and 
 bait-can, and climbed the fence into the 
 cleared lot. Then, as though checked by 
 a sudden thought, he turned, came back 
 again to the bank, reseated himself and 
 began again to fish. This time he de 
 voted himself to his occupation, keeping 
 his eyes resolutely before him. For 
 awhile he sat as though utterly unmind 
 ful of another's presence. Suddenly he 
 looked round as though a sound had 
 caught his ear, then jumping up he ran 
 to the fence. " What ! " he called, as 
 130
 
 Bi'ptatfon of j3ra Sptcer 
 
 though in reply to a hail. " No ! no ! 
 I aint seen him yit. No he haint 
 showed himself 'long here, sence ye left. 
 What! Oh, all right! Tell the Cap 
 tain I Ve got my eye on that coin yit 
 all right ! " 
 
 A crow on the limb of a buttonwood 
 took cognizance of this sudden clamor 
 and winged lazily towards the hill ; a 
 woodchuck, seated as nearly midway 
 between the two doors to his burrow as 
 he was able to estimate, ran to one en 
 trance and sat up, looking enquiringly 
 towards the bank. The cattle in the ad 
 jacent meadows heard but paid no notice 
 to the shouts. No other living creature 
 was visible and Faxon and his hench 
 men were some two miles away upon 
 the trail of a widely peripatetic dog-fox. 
 
 Ezra returned to his seat beside the 
 river and resumed fishing. One de 
 prived of the use of his eyes would have 
 gathered that chance had brought the 
 pursuers back within earshot of the 
 fisherman that they had again sought 
 131
 
 ID Dorset 
 
 information, and had been sent upon 
 their way in ignorance. 
 
 That the only human being within 
 reach of Ezra's monologue thought 
 so was presently apparent. A brief 
 time had elapsed since Spicer last re 
 sumed his rod, when a splash sounded 
 beneath the bank and the head and 
 shoulders of Sampson appeared through 
 the bushes. " Ezry," he whispered, 
 "are dey gone?" His eyes had lost 
 their hostile glitter and were once more 
 friendly and trustful. Spicer saw the 
 change and his heart leaped. He had 
 only for a moment yielded to the 
 tempter, and his feeble but kindly nature 
 had already suffered keenly from re 
 morse. "All clear, Carter all clear," 
 he said briskly, taking the black's hand 
 and helping him up the bank. " Climb 
 up here and lie out in the sun. Gosh, 
 how wet ye be got a good right to be, 
 I guess been in all day ! Crotch all 
 hemlock! Jest get them clothes off, 
 and I '11 wring em out." 
 132
 
 fcbe Bjpiation of Ejra Spicer 
 
 When Sampson had struggled out of 
 his wet garments the repentant Spicer 
 wrung them as best he could and hung 
 them where the slanting sun could 
 reach them. Then he came to the 
 negro who was stretched shivering 
 upon the grass. "Be ye hungry?" 
 said he ; " here 's a little lunch I got left." 
 Sampson with eager thanks seized it and 
 ate ravenously. " I aint eat since las' 
 night," he said finally. " An' I 'se 
 feah'd I 'se gwine to have chills an' 
 agah." Then he opened one hand 
 which he had held closed, and displayed 
 a five-dollar piece. " Ezry," he said, 
 " will ye go to town for me, an' git me 
 a blanket an' a shirt an' a little whiskey 
 too ? " Ezra got briskly to his feet. 
 " Course I will, Carter," he said, " ef ye 
 kin trust me with all that cash." 
 
 He blushed suddenly, for it was a coin 
 of the same denomination as that which 
 Faxon had shown him half an hour be 
 fore. Then, as the negro hastened to 
 assure him of his confidence and put 
 133
 
 ID SJorset 
 
 the money into his hand, he said, look 
 ing steadfastly towards the hill and 
 avoiding the other's eyes. " Ye did n't 
 think I was goin' to tell on ye to Faxon 
 just now did ye, Carter ? " Sampson 
 hesitated a moment. "Yas, Ezry," he 
 said presently, " fer a while I did ; yas, I 
 did, but praise de Lord, I was mistook 
 yas, praise de Lord ! When I heah'd 
 you call to de Cap'n de secon' time, 
 den I knew I was wrong." Ezra had 
 climbed the worm-fence and was about 
 to start homewards. " Carter," he said, 
 still looking anywhere but in the 
 negro's face, " don't you never fear fer 
 Ezry Spicer ; they '11 git nuthin' from 
 me," he went on, and this time he felt 
 that the truth was in his heart, " an' 
 I '11 be back soon 's dark. Better run up 
 and down back of them saplings an' git 
 warm. Ol' Faxon wont be back this 
 way soon. I know that there fox he 's 
 a chasin', an' it lives in the nex' 
 county ! " 
 
 134
 
 tlbe Expiation of Esra Spicet 
 
 IV. 
 
 It was characteristic of Ezra Spicer 
 that he should make the whiskey the 
 first of his purchases. Aside from the 
 ordinary magnetism the threshold of 
 the Eagle Tavern exerted upon his feet 
 he had a natural desire to display him 
 self before Silsbee as a purchaser, with 
 ready cash. He turned lovingly in his 
 pocket the coin which Sampson had 
 given him, and pictured old John 
 Silsbee's surprise when he heard it 
 ring upon the bar. One thing he had 
 determined upon, and that was that 
 none of the material benefits of wealth 
 should come to himself through this 
 money. He felt that a divine inter 
 position had saved him from the basest 
 treachery, and that he owed utter and 
 complete reparation to Carter Sampson 
 reparation, which from its complete 
 ness should, in a way, approach ex 
 piation. 
 
 He entered the Eagle Tavern with 
 125
 
 2>orset 
 
 an important air, in spite of his humbled 
 condition of mind, and accosted Silsbee 
 as the latter stood behind the bar, his 
 back towards the door. 
 
 " I 'd like a quart of whiskey, Mr. 
 Silsbee," he said with an attempt at 
 nonchalance. 
 
 " Guess ye would," said Silsbee 
 dryly, not lifting his eyes from a book 
 in whose pages were marshalled an 
 array of ill-formed figures representing 
 such aridity in Dorset as received 
 credit. " Guess ye most always would, 
 Ezry." Spicer spun the coin nosily 
 upon the bar ; the tavern-keeper looked 
 quickly up. His eyes went from Ezra's 
 face to the gold piece and back again 
 several times and finally fixed them 
 selves with an angry glance upon the 
 man. " Wai," said Spicer, a trifle dis 
 quieted by the other's manner, " are ye 
 goin' to let me have that whiskey ? " 
 " Where did ye git that money ? " 
 " Wai, that 's my bizniss, I guess ! " 
 " Where did ye git it, I say ? See 
 136
 
 Cbe jEipfatton ot Bara Sptcet 
 
 here, Ezry Spicer, you hain't been takin' 
 that there Faxon's money to hunt 
 down Sampson have ye ? Ef ye have, 
 by the Lord Harry, I '11 never '' 
 
 " Wai, now Silsbee," said Spicer back 
 ing away from the bar, " of course I 
 haint ; why, how you talk ! Sampson 's 
 been a good friend to me allus ; of course 
 I haint teched the Cap'n's money, so 
 help me John Rogers ! You kin ask 
 him when he comes in to-night. Why, 
 you aint got no call to holler ; you 're a 
 boardin* him ! " 
 
 " That 's different," said Silsbee quick 
 ly. " Boardin' folks is my bizniss, an' 
 nigger huntin' aint your'n. Wai, I '11 
 take yer word fer it ; pooty coin ! " He 
 spun it into the air and caught it as he 
 spoke, then flung it into a cash drawer ; 
 "I wisht I could see a few more of 
 'em." 
 
 Ezra watched the decanting of the 
 whiskey from a keg behind the counter, 
 and in his parched condition envied the 
 functions of the funnel. " Wisht' my
 
 ID Dorset 
 
 throat was that there tin thing," he 
 muttered to himself ; then sighing 
 deeply he crossed the room and looked 
 steadily out of the rear window. He 
 knew that Silsbee would offer him a 
 horn of the whiskey, after filling the 
 bottle, as he usually did in the case of 
 patrons who purchased in quantity, and 
 he could not face refusing it. To his 
 quaint sense of right and justice it had 
 seemed to him from the first that to 
 touch a drop of his favorite beverage, 
 brought to his reach by means of the 
 money of a man whom, for a brief mo 
 ment, he had thought to betray, would 
 be almost unbearable. It was now an 
 impossibility, since the scathing manner 
 of the inn-keeper all the more scathing 
 because adopted by a man for whom 
 Ezra himself had no great respect. 
 And yet he felt, should he return to 
 the side of the bar, see the little tum 
 bler turn amber as the Monongahela 
 brimmed it, and smell the fragrance 
 of the rye, that even the impossible 
 138
 
 ttbe Bjpiation of Bsra Spicet 
 
 might be surmounted. So he remained 
 by the window watching abstractedly 
 the life in a paddock at the rear of the 
 tavern. " Ezry," said Silsbee presently, 
 " here 's a drop of the stuff, just a sample 
 to show ye it 's all right." 
 
 " No, I no, thank ye not now no 
 well say, Silsbee," said Spicer, des 
 perately evading the temptation, " that 
 duckwing game of your 'n has lost a 
 spur, haint he?" "What? "said Silsbee, 
 who was a keen sportsman and looked 
 upon cock-fighting as justifiable under 
 certain circumstances ; if two birds hap 
 pened to meet in Squire Weston's cow 
 shed, for example. " Let 's see 'im." 
 He started to leave the bar by a little 
 door at one end " Say, jest fetch my 
 bottle along, will ye," said Ezra, and in 
 a moment it was in his keeping. 
 "Where's that duckwing?" said Sils 
 bee. " Oh, why he got both spurs all 
 right ye must be gittin' blind, Ezra ; 
 here 's yer change." Spicer took the 
 money and started for the door. 
 139
 
 2>or0et 
 
 " What 's yer hurry ? Ye haint had yer 
 drink yet." Ezra made no reply, and 
 in a moment the puzzled tavern-keeper 
 saw him go rapidly past the porch 
 towards the stores. 
 
 V. 
 
 It was not far from nine o'clock when 
 Ezra Spicer, a bundle in his arms and a 
 quart bottle of whiskey bulging one of 
 his jacket-pockets, took his way through 
 the Cooper meadows to the river. The 
 moon was not yet atop the hill though 
 its light already was outlining against 
 the sky the pines that fringed the sum 
 mit. He walked rapidly but stealthily. 
 He did not wish to be seen, for he was 
 a personage upon the river-bank to 
 whom any lad in Dorset would eagerly 
 join himself in hope of learning from 
 a master the gentle art of night-lines. 
 He had already, in the early evening, 
 refused to explain to certain of the 
 youth of Dorset his theory of eel-traps,
 
 Cbe Ejpiation of Bsra Spicer 
 
 for his present mission demanded 
 secrecy. 
 
 As he came to the river a flare of light 
 shone round a bend above him, and half 
 a dozen boys with pronged spears and 
 torches came into view. Convinced 
 that the negro would see the peril 
 which the blazing pine knots would in 
 evitably bring upon him and retire into 
 the meadow, but resolved, none the 
 less, to take no chances, Ezra dropped 
 his bundle and ran out upon a spit of 
 shingle that stretched towards the mid 
 dle of the river. " Hello, Ezry ! " 
 came a chorus " say, we 're havin' 
 great luck (there he goes, Dan, quick ! 
 Gosh, he 's a big one !) Say, Ezry, 
 show us where ye got the big shiner 
 last week, will ye ? " " No, I wont," 
 said Spicer promptly, " unless ye come 
 out o' that still water; ye '11 be in my 
 eel-lines in a minute. Come ashore an' 
 I '11 tell ye where the big shiners be." 
 The lads came splashing and scram 
 bling to the bank. " Now, then," said 
 141
 
 Dorset 
 
 Ezra, with the air of a man on his own 
 property, "jest ye cut across the 
 medder there, to the bend where the 
 riffles be. Under the alders, where the 
 water 's deep an* swift, too, ye '11 git 
 the big shiners. Now run along I 
 aint goin' to let ye see where my night- 
 lines be run along ! " 
 
 The boys were midway of the mea 
 dow, heading eagerly towards the alders, 
 when Ezra wading hip-deep across the 
 quiet water reached the bank a few rods 
 above the spot of Sampson's conceal 
 ment. Then he went softly along the 
 meadow path and called. In a moment 
 Sampson came forward. " Thank de 
 Lord," he said fervently, " thank de 
 Lord, you Ve come back, Ezry ! " 
 There was something in his tone that 
 to Spicer's conscience indicated that a 
 fear had lingered in Sampson's mind of 
 the entire fidelity of his white friend, 
 and the fisherman's face burned in the 
 darkness. He had been proud of his 
 abstinence at the tavern he was now 
 142
 
 Bjpiation of J63ta Spicet 
 
 glad as well. " Wai, Carter," he said 
 busily, " it 's 'bout time to git a movin*. 
 Here 's the blanket an' the flannel shirt. 
 Why, yer breeches is most dry ! An' 
 here 's some crackers an' cheese I stole 
 from Liza. Put 'em in yer pockets an' 
 eat 'em as ye travel. An' here 's the 
 whiskey. Now ye aint got much time, 
 fer the moon 's comin' over ol' Baldy. 
 Why, man, yer shiverin' yit. Take a 
 good drink o' this." The negro took a 
 few swallows of the liquor then put 
 the bottle down. " Dey 's a pain in my 
 chest," he said coughing, " an' de 
 roomatiz in my hip am pow'ful bad to 
 night. I 'se gwine rub me wiv de 
 whiskey stid o' drinkin' it." " What ! " 
 said Ezra, almost sternly " rub yerself 
 with Monongahela? " "Deed I is, 
 Ezry," said Sampson simply. " I done 
 do dat befor', plenty times." 
 
 " Wai, by gosh," said Spicer leaning 
 against the fence, watching the external 
 application of the liquor with ill-con 
 cealed disapproval, " ef ye 'd said what 
 us
 
 Dorset 
 
 ye wanted it fer I 'd a' got rotgut. 
 Why, Carter, that there 's Mononga- 
 hela ! D' ye understand ? " 
 
 The negro was too busy to reply 
 pouring the spirits freely into his broad 
 hands, chafing his hip vigorously and 
 treating his chest in a like manner. At 
 last he put the bottle down with a 
 sigh of evident relief, and drew on his 
 new flannel shirt. " Now, Ezry," he 
 said presently, " if ye '11 direct me to 
 Cap'n Ball's, I '11 be goin' along, an' 
 God be praise', an' thank ye ! " Ezra 
 gave the required information, while 
 making up the fugitive's bundle. " It 's 
 a tough climb," said he, " an' it 's steep 
 but you '11 git to the wood-road 
 all right, an' then all 's plain sailin'. 
 Don't ye be afeard o' the wolves they 
 aint hungry, nor they aint plenty this 
 spring, an' take care ye don't slide down 
 the roll-way hill." 
 
 He slipped the bottle into the bundle 
 as he ended speaking. Sampson stooped 
 over, took it out, saw there were but a 
 
 U4
 
 Cbe Ejpiation of Esra Spicer 
 
 couple of inches left, and put it by 
 Spicer's side. " It '11 be broke in de 
 climb," he said ; " I don' counten'ce de 
 use of ahjus licohs gen'lly, but you 
 dun get wet crossin' de river ; you kin 
 take it, Ezry." " I don't want it," said 
 Spicer, roughly and with a sort of 
 desperation. It seemed to him that 
 temptation, this day, was relentless as 
 fate. " An' here 's a dollar change fer 
 ye that I forgot," he said, suddenly 
 remembering its existence. Sampson 
 reached out to take it, then withdrew 
 his hand. " Ezry," he said, " dat 's foh 
 you. Don' yo' refuse me, for it 's balm 
 to mah conscience. For, Ezry, I dun 
 mak' a mistake an' errah 'bout yo' dis 
 mawn'. I dun mak' a misjustice. An' 
 when I heah'd yo' settin' de boys away 
 from de rivah an' seed yo' tak' all this 
 trouble foh me I yes it 's balm for 
 mah conscience, deed it is." He gripped 
 Ezra's hand suddenly with real feeling, 
 climbed the fence, and was soon out of 
 sight in the darkness.
 
 CID Dorset 
 
 Ezra sat still for some minutes on the 
 grass by the side of the river. He real 
 ized with renewed shame that he had 
 not been strong enough vigorously to 
 refuse the gifts pressed upon him, but 
 he told himself again and again that he 
 would not, come what might, profit by 
 them. After a while he rose, looked 
 at the whiskey bottle, which seemed 
 to jeer at him from the side of the 
 fence, then, with an impulse he could 
 not restrain, he picked it up, clambered 
 into the pasture lot and took a home 
 ward course. He was tired and chilled 
 and there, in his very hand, was pana 
 cea for weariness and cold. He had 
 already resisted the tempter, and the 
 tempter had not fled. After all, where 
 was the harm ? One drink that 's all 
 that was left and he had not, really 
 anyhow, only for a second meant harm 
 to Sampson. Why, the negro would n't 
 grudge the drop of liquor even if he 
 knew all ! 
 
 With a quick movement he lifted the 
 146
 
 Bjpiation of E3ta Spicec 
 
 flask to his lips, and at the same mo 
 ment his foot slid into the burrow of a 
 woodchuck and he fell prostrate. When 
 he picked himself up the bottle was 
 still in his hands and the remnant of 
 whiskey unspilled. He gave it but a 
 glance, then poured it deliberately into 
 the hole that had thrown him. " It 
 wan't meant I should have it," he said, 
 with a superstitious shake of his head. 
 " You kin have it, ye basswood ground 
 hog. I hope ye '11 take to it, that 's 
 the wust I kin wish ye an' here 's the 
 bottle fer yer family to smell!" He 
 dropped the empty flask, as a supple 
 ment to this irony, into the burrow of 
 the slumbering rodent, and again re 
 sumed his way, crossing the river at the 
 shallows, a quarter of a mile distant. 
 As he neared the Eagle Tavern he was 
 conscious once more of a stress of spirit. 
 The Mexican dollar given him by 
 Sampson burned in his pocket. As it 
 touched his fingers he seemed to feel 
 the devil jog his elbow. But he was 
 147
 
 to Dorset 
 
 stronger now than before his last temp 
 tation. He passed the tavern door 
 with head averted, quickened his pace 
 into a trot, and in a few moments 
 reached his own abode. There he took 
 the coin from his pocket, and, without 
 looking at it, carried it to a corner of 
 the shabby room and hid it beneath a 
 chest. " Thank God ! " he said sud 
 denly ; "to-morrer's the Sabbath," a 
 sentiment new to the lips of Ezra 
 Spicer, and prompted rather by the rea 
 son that the tavern would be closed, 
 than that the house of worship would 
 be open. Then he went to bed, but 
 not to slumber. 
 
 It was almost morning when Ezra, 
 who had not yet closed his eyes in 
 sleep, arose and went to the chest 
 under which the coin was hidden. He 
 took from within a faded, threadbare 
 coat whose appearance betokened the 
 Sunday garment. Then he stooped, 
 picked up the coin and slipped it em 
 phatically into a pocket in the coat, 
 148
 
 Zbe Expiation of E3ra Spicer 
 
 which he laid across a chair. After 
 this he went again to bed, and slept. 
 
 VII. 
 
 The congregation were dispersing in 
 various directions across the square, 
 chatting with that decorous cordiality 
 and chastened but relieved expression 
 that follows a fifty-minute sermon. As 
 the figure of Parson Knowles came 
 from the church door, Ezra Spicer, who 
 had lingered timidly about the vesti 
 bule, approached the minister and 
 taking off his hat spoke a few words 
 falteringly to him. A knot of men of 
 Spicer's age and acquaintance, who 
 were crossing the street into the little 
 public square, catching sight of the in 
 terview, paused and stared in legiti 
 mate surprise. Ezra Spicer had been 
 to church for the first time in months 
 he had given to the collection, 
 for the first time in years, and now as 
 though to crown this unprecedented be- 
 149
 
 Dorset 
 
 havior, he was speaking for the first 
 time in his life with Parson Knowles. 
 
 As the two passed slowly to the 
 street from the church steps, and turned 
 in the direction of the parsonage, it 
 was seen that Spicer was speaking, to 
 judge from his nervous gesticulation, 
 with more earnestness than fluency, and 
 that a curious expression, half pity, half 
 amusement, dwelt upon the parson's 
 face. 
 
 . . . " So, sir," said Ezra, " I 
 could n't give it back to Carter an' 
 tell what I 'd been. I s'pose I ought to 
 ha' done so, but I somehow could n't do 
 it. An' if I 'd spent it fer myself I 'd 
 been worse 'n Benedick Arnol', an' so 
 I thought I 'd kind o' give it to the 
 plate." 
 
 " Well, Ezra," said the parson gently, 
 " it seems to me you Ve atoned for what 
 little wrong no, it was more it was 
 more it was a great wrong but there 
 was strong temptation, and you yielded 
 but a moment after all. I think you Ve 
 150
 
 Gbe Bjpiation of B3ra Spicet 
 
 atoned, and the money will not be 
 missed by Sampson. There are plenty 
 to see that he has all he needs to take 
 him out of danger." 
 
 " But you see, sir," Ezra began again, 
 then stopped, looking sheepishly away. 
 
 "Well!" 
 
 " Why, you see, sir," Spicer went on 
 hurriedly, " I was goin' to tell you 
 before, but I could n't make out to. I 
 give that money jest as if 't was reelly 
 mine. I dropped it in so 's every one 
 could see like Deacon Stovey does." 
 He stopped, alarmed at his boldness in 
 commenting upon the action of 
 one of the pillars of the church, and 
 looked shyly at the parson. Dr. 
 Knowles's back was turned and he was 
 looking fixedly across Squire Weston's 
 fence towards a barn at the rear of the 
 yard. Mrs. Weston, from a front 
 window, saw, not without a slight sense 
 of scandal, that the good pastor's face 
 was convulsed with most unsabbath- 
 like silent laughter. " Well," said Par- 
 151
 
 ID Dorset 
 
 son Knowles, after a convulsive but 
 successful effort at self-control, " well, 
 the Squire's old barn looks like new in 
 its fresh coat of paint and Ezra I 
 think your ostentation will be forgiven 
 it 's very human and it 's human to 
 err; why, deacons do," he said with a 
 quick catch in his breath and a gleam 
 in his eyes that surprised Spicer " and 
 just one thing more, my boy," he said, 
 kindly laying his hand with a gentle 
 touch upon the young man's shoulder, 
 " it would do no harm and it might do 
 good, who knows, if you came regular 
 ly to church, even though you haven 't 
 a single copper for the plate." He 
 turned into his gate as he said this and 
 Ezra, bowing reverently, turned in his 
 homeward direction. As he passed the 
 group of curious spectators, still stand 
 ing at the edge of the square, various 
 pleasantries assailed him. 
 
 " Say, Ezry, is it a fac' that y' re 
 goin' to take charge o' the new meetin'- 
 house to South Tiberius?" 
 152
 
 Cbe Expiation of Bsra Spicec 
 
 "Oh, Ezry, did ye set parson right 
 about that there ninthly o' his 'n?" 
 
 " Wai, Ezry, what 's yer hurry ? 
 Eagle bar aint open Sabbath ! " 
 
 Proof to these shafts of humor, Ezra 
 held silently upon his way. " I never 
 seen the beat o' that," said one of the 
 group as they strolled across the square. 
 " You 'd think he was parson's right 
 hand deacon. And did ye see him drop 
 a dollar in the plate? " "That's what 
 s'prizes me," said another " give a 
 hull dollar ! There was a week's drink in 
 that fer Ezry." " Give it jist like Deac 
 on Stovey, too," said a third " held his 
 hand high an' dropped it so 's all could 
 see. Ezry must ha' come into prop'ty." 
 The group paused in the centre of the 
 square. A fourth who had not yet 
 expressed an opinion rubbed his chin 
 diffidently and summed up the entire 
 matter. " Wai, ye can't never tell what 's 
 goin' to happen ! Goin* my way, Is- 
 sachar ? " And the knot resolved itself 
 into its individual strands.
 
 10 Dorset 
 
 VIII. 
 
 The following Sunday Ezra Spicer 
 was again in church. Although his 
 appearance there had not the galvanic 
 effect it had caused the previous Sab 
 bath among his acquaintance, the sur 
 prise was distinct, and those who knew 
 him breathed heavily and settled them 
 selves with patience and confidence to 
 await the relapse. Their confidence 
 was not ill-grounded. 
 
 The second Sunday from the first 
 herein described was a sultry, overcast 
 day. Flies were in the air the wild 
 flies of the fields and woods. The trout 
 were leaping in Wolf Run, and no one 
 knew it better than Ezra Spicer. 
 
 The church bell was ringing, and 
 from out a side street whither he had 
 gone to visit an ailing friend, Parson 
 Knowles was hastening churchwards. 
 Presently he was aware that a familiar 
 figure bearing rod and creel had rounded 
 a corner a few rods away and was com-
 
 Cbe Eiptatton of 3ta Spicer 
 
 ing towards him. It was Ezra Spicer, 
 and the parson knew that in a moment 
 they would meet. He saw the discom 
 fited fisherman pause, turn round, and 
 linger miserably as though awaiting 
 some one who followed. Pitying the 
 distress of the backslider, and with an 
 instinct as refined as it was compassion 
 ate, he turned into the first gateway 
 at hand, followed the sidewalk to the 
 house, and finding the door ajar, 
 knocked and entered. 
 
 It was Deacon Stovey's mansion, and 
 that sainted man was about to sally 
 forth to worship. The parson held him 
 a moment in converse, and presently 
 Ezra drifted furtively but swiftly by. 
 The Deacon saw him through a hall 
 window. " There," he said, " I did n't 
 calkilate he y d keep up church goin' 
 long ! Goin' to Wolf Run, /'//warrant." 
 " Well," said the parson reflectively, 
 "you know some people worship better 
 in the fields and woods." 
 
 "Yes, but parson," said the deacon 
 155
 
 ID 2>orset 
 
 irascibly, "he need n't be a-fishin', 
 too." 
 
 "Why, St. Peter was a fisherman," 
 said Parson Knowles merrily, and the 
 reply silenced the deacon, although the 
 comparison invoked was not in all ways 
 a close one. 
 
 156
 
 Case of JMncfene^ Golliver. 
 
 157
 
 Gbe Case of JMncfenep GoIHver. 
 
 WOLF RUN is not tributary to 
 the river. While the other 
 brooks of the vicinity swell the voice 
 of the stream, piping treble of the sixth 
 age compared to its once sonorous tone, 
 Wolf Run, from a higher level, holds a 
 winding course to a deep lake whose 
 broad expanse terminates a valley to 
 the west of Dorset. 
 
 In this brook the trout yet find an 
 abiding place. The undergrowth is 
 still rank about the feeding springs, 
 and saw-mills have not defiled the cool 
 runnels with their piny refuse. Under 
 alders, under willows, slow and deep 
 where elm and buttonwood throw their 
 shade, swift and shallow through sunny 
 pasture land, discoursing noisily to half-
 
 15 2>orset 
 
 sunken fallen trees whose water-logged 
 branches have bred dams and minia 
 ture cataracts, Wolf Run seeks the an 
 swer to its twelve-mile questioning in 
 the cool heart of the lake. 
 
 Along the brook, one midday in early 
 June, I wandered, now picking a trout 
 from a quiet hole by aid of the humble 
 earthworm, again with " brown hackle " 
 tossing upon a riffle deceiving some 
 more athletic fish as he lay watching 
 the swift water. I thought in the 
 morning it would rain ; at noon I was 
 sure of it, and more than casual ac 
 quaintance with the thunder-storm 
 brewed among the Pulteney hills, 
 warned me that the rain, though per 
 haps brief, would be drenching. With 
 this thought in mind I had lingered, as 
 the sky grew darker, in the neighbor 
 hood of an ancient gambrel-roofed 
 barn, situated in a pasture lot through 
 one corner of which the brook ran. 
 The barn had been red in its prime, 
 but stress of weather and flight of time 
 160
 
 ZFbe Case of pfnclmeg uolltvcr 
 
 had tarnished, and dimmed and the 
 sides showed streaks and patches of 
 gray. The great doors opened east 
 and west and two sheds formed with 
 the main structure three sides of a 
 quadrangle. It was one of those 
 mighty barns which have about them 
 an air of grandeur as though conscious 
 of being the trusted repository of the 
 riches inherited from man's natural 
 benefactress and common mother. 
 
 There was a house not distant. It 
 was neither distinctive nor impressive, 
 and I felt sure its owner in describing 
 his premises would say, " The house is 
 not far from the barn." 
 
 While making a mental inventory of 
 the neighborhood a flash, followed by a 
 rumble, caused me to reel hastily in, 
 adjust my creel and scramble over the 
 worm-fence which separated me from 
 the pasture lot. I made quick way to 
 the barn and reached it just as the first 
 big drops rattled upon its roof. 
 
 The broad east door was wide open, 
 161
 
 ID 2>orset 
 
 showing against a dusky background, a 
 fanning-machine, a democrat wagon 
 and a row of portly oat sacks. Upon 
 these sacks sat two young men, either 
 of whom might have been twenty-five 
 years of age, while upon a keg and near 
 the wagon whose wheels were several 
 inches deep in hay-dust, was seated an 
 oldish man in faded overalls. A man 
 of spare but powerful frame and a 
 countenance at once weather-beaten, 
 wrinkled and youthful. He was en 
 gaged in the tranquilizing business of 
 whittling a potato, and favoring his 
 occupation with an accompaniment of 
 discourse. 
 
 As I approached the barn-door, dis 
 turbing a gathering of fowls that had 
 clustered about it and that commented 
 variously upon my sudden appearance, 
 the man with the potato paused in the 
 midst of his remarks. He looked at 
 me a moment amiably but impassively 
 as though I were an ordinary conse 
 quence of a thunder-shower, then re- 
 162
 
 Cbe Case of pincfcnes Collivet 
 
 sumed the interrupted flow of his 
 words. His face, I fancied, showed 
 signs of satisfaction at the increase in 
 his audience, for I at once settled my 
 self to listen, taking a place beside the 
 younger men who with friendly glances 
 made room for me. 
 
 " So I don't never vote the demer- 
 cratic ticket unless," here the speaker 
 paused for at least a quarter of a minute, 
 looking with mild curiosity into my 
 creel, the cover of which had flapped 
 open " unless I happen to take a mind 
 to." 
 
 At this proof of conversational strat 
 agem, the original auditors laughed 
 with a sort of diffident enjoyment and 
 looked to me for encouragment. I was 
 aware of the presence of one of those 
 characters found upon American coun 
 trysides who unite in equal proportions 
 the virtues of sage, philosopher, and hu 
 morist, and I gave token of my appre 
 ciation. 
 
 " Yes," said the whittler, harking back 
 163
 
 <S>1& Dorset 
 
 to a story which I had not heard and 
 did not understand, but which had 
 seemed to its narrator of sufficient 
 merit to entitle it to a semi-resuscita 
 tion, " Yes," he repeated, " as we come 
 to the ditch, there sat the gen'er'l an' 
 his staff. They was to wind of us, an' I 
 sez to the boys, ' Boys ' I sez, ' they 's a 
 still around here somewhar', sez I." 
 Again the young rustics laughed, and I 
 laughed too. 
 
 " You were in the war ? " I asked 
 presently, as the speaker was silent a 
 moment over his whittling. 
 
 " Wai, yes, fer a little spell I was," 
 he answered ; " went out with Cap'n 
 John Denison's Comp'ny know him? 
 Wai, no ; you could n' hardly know 
 him. He was killed, to Gaines Mills, 
 when you must ha' been perty 
 young." 
 
 " Yes," I answered, " I was pretty 
 young then. John Denison, though, 
 was my mother's cousin." 
 
 " Was, hay ! Then who be you ? " 
 164
 
 3be Case of pmcfcncs 
 
 This interrogation, peremptory as it 
 may appear in print, in the slow drawl 
 of the old farmer was perfectly civil, 
 and I answered it as fully as seemed 
 necessary. 
 
 " Why, I knew yer pa when he was 
 younger 'n you be now. Knowed him 
 'fore you did, I guess." The audience, 
 myself included, acknowledged the 
 drollery. 
 
 "Yes sir; I knew yer pa 'fore he 
 went to the city. He was a handsome 
 young feller as you want to see. Some 
 how you don't look like yer pa to me." 
 
 This observation following so closely 
 upon the tribute to my father's comeli 
 ness embodied a comment unfavorable 
 but unintentional, and speaker and au 
 dience were aware of it. Amusement 
 was predominant with me; the two 
 young farmers were also suppressing 
 smiles, whilst the older man was obvi 
 ously concerned at what he had uncon 
 sciously implied and without looking 
 up redoubled his attention to the po- 
 165
 
 H>orset 
 
 tato, now about the size of a pigeon's 
 
 egg- 
 
 " Wai," he said presently, " I s'pose 
 likely you took after yer ma." 
 
 At this sad attempt at bettering 
 matters I laughed outright, to the relief 
 of the two younger men who heartily 
 joined. Had the cause of this mirth 
 been an Irishman he would even then 
 have extricated himself from his tangle, 
 but being a Pulteney County Yankee, 
 he merely reddened, smiled sheepishly, 
 and getting up, strolled to the door 
 and gazed upon the weather. 
 
 " Rainin' agin," he said presently, 
 willing to change the topic but averse 
 to losing control of the conversation. 
 " ' Rainin' agin like a dern fool,' as ole 
 Deacon Adams said when it showered 
 in hayin'. Wai, wal, so you 're the 
 Judge's son, be ye ? " Having rounded 
 the troublesome corner he was again 
 upon the original track. 
 
 " Why, I was on the jury 'n the first 
 case, pretty nigh, yer pa ever tried. He 
 1 66
 
 Case of pincfcnes (Tollivct 
 
 wa'n't so old as Lemuel there, by four 
 year. Gosh all hemlock, thet was a 
 dern amusin' case." Here the speaker 
 paused and turning his eyes full of 
 reminiscent dreaminess upon my face 
 inquired with perfect recklessness of the 
 effect of double negatives. " Didn't he 
 never tell ye 'bout the ' Pink Tolliver ' 
 law case ? " 
 
 I replied that while I recalled some 
 mention by my father of complications 
 in the life of one Pinckney Tolliver, the 
 matter was not familiar to me, and that 
 I was eager to hear the details from 
 one who doubtless knew them well, and 
 had weighed them with the impartiality 
 of a juror. I was so urgent in my re 
 quest that after a moment spent in 
 gazing pensively upon the barn-floor 
 and choking back what was evidently a 
 rising tide of merriment, he complied. 
 
 "You see," he began, " ole Pink Tol 
 liver, Susan's husband, was livin' clost 
 to Elder Rice's back line. (You know 
 the ole Rice house in Dorset ?) Wai, 
 167
 
 Dorset 
 
 just to rear was a lane full of colored 
 folks, an' they was plenty in Dorset 
 forty year back. Next to Elder Rice 
 Cap'n Weston had his house an' printin* 
 office to once. Now they wa'n't no 
 nicer woman, 'cordin to my notion, in 
 all Dorset, black or white, than Aunt 
 Susan Tolliver, but Pink was never 
 himself out o' jail. First place he was 
 allus drunk, an' nex' place it didn't seem 
 natch'l to be loose. Pink was a thief as 
 well as a sot ; anyhow he stole chickens. 
 Gen'u'lly he went up town fer his 
 thievin' had too much sense to steal 
 clost to home ; an' then the Rices an' 
 ole Cap'n Weston had been good to 
 Susan, an' I s'pose Pink had a kind o' 
 colored sense o' gratitude, or, mebbe 
 Susan made him keep his hands off 
 their fowls. He had once got away 
 with one o' Cap'n Weston's duckwing 
 games, but he swore he jess borryed it 
 fer a fight an' the chicken got hurt ac 
 cidentally an' died, an' he s'posed the 
 Cap'n would't care fer the corpse, so 
 168
 
 Jbc Caee of flMnchncp Collivcr 
 
 the Tollivers eat him. That was Pink's 
 account, I reck'lect. Wai, one night 
 Pink got tangle-foot enough to kind o' 
 mix him up an' make him fergetful, an' 
 nex' day two fine dominicks ole Mis' 
 Rice was braggin' 'bout puttin' in the 
 fair, was missin'. 'Spishun an' foot 
 prints an' feathers an' word o' mouth o' 
 young Joe Macy who seen Pink carry- 
 in' 'em over Elder's fence, pinted pretty 
 straight to the Tolliver shanty. Ole 
 Elder was kind o' pervoked ye see he 
 jess ben helpin' Pink an' his fam'ly 
 through a bad winter, an' he allowed 
 Pink could go up for a few months an' 
 live on the county. So they 'rested 
 him an' brought him to trial. I d' know 
 now why Pink didn't plead guilty, 
 'nless 't was he felt sure o' conviction 
 an* kind o' enjoyed bein' notorious ; 
 but he pleaded not guilty an' Judge 
 Caldwell, Pink havin' no cash fer law 
 yers, appointed yer pa to defend him. 
 " ' No money in it my young friend,' 
 sez the Judge, ' but they is some glory, 
 169
 
 ID Dorset 
 
 et you acquit Pinckney in the face of 
 appearances,' sez he, an' Pink he grinned 
 all over, jest tickled with his promi 
 nence. 
 
 " Wai, yer pa was younger 'n what he 
 is now, leastways 'cording to my figur- 
 in', an' he took up the case fer all it was 
 worth. I was on the jury an' so was 
 ole Cap'n Weston. 'Bijah Sears from 
 South Tiberius-way was prosecutin' 
 attorney an' he said lots 'bout yer pa 
 bein' so young. It was, ' Oh, baby, do 
 ye think so ? ' an' ' Is that so, baby ? ' 
 an', ' Why, baby, I was practisin' law 
 when you was cuttin' teeth, an' yehaint 
 cut 'em all yet, I guess' an* all sich 
 talk. 'T want right I said so to Cap'n 
 Weston, an* ole Cap'n he sez to me: 
 ' You hold your hosses, Sam,' he sez ; 
 ' the boy kin wrastle him, leave him 
 alone.' 
 
 " Wai, yer pa was pretty mad, an' 
 
 when he got good an' goin', he give 
 
 'Bijah Jessy, an' he give it to him hot. 
 
 ' Mebbe I haint cut all my teeth yit,' sez 
 
 170
 
 Case of pinchncg Golliver 
 
 he. ' I'm only twenty-one I admit,' sez 
 he, ' but,' he sez, ' what does this here 
 jury think of a man what 's got to be 
 sixty year old an' more an' haint never 
 cut a wisdom tooth yit no, nor aint 
 like to, to jedge from appearances,' sez 
 he." 
 
 Here the narrator paused a moment, 
 slapping his knee and laughing with a 
 laugh that seemed to begin upon the 
 exterior of his physiognomy and work 
 slowly in. The last chuckle swallowed, 
 and a bit of encouragment derived from 
 his amused and interested audience, he 
 went on. 
 
 "Wall, that took the crowd, an' 
 Pink he laffed too, the ole nigger 
 allus liked the boys, an' Marcellus 
 Jones from Mileyville, who was into 
 court that day, jess lay back on the 
 winder-sill an' laffed an' cussed they 
 called him swearin* Marce Jones till 
 the Judge said he 'd clear the court. 
 ' Good fer baby ! ' says Marce, an* 
 cussed an' ripped an' cussed, 'baby kin 
 17*
 
 2>orset 
 
 wrastle ye, 'Bijy Sears ! ' Yes, sir, the 
 Judge had to stop him, an' the Judge 
 he was laffin' too. 'Gentlemen,' sez he 
 I allus liked Judge Caldwell's way o' 
 speakin' ' Gentlemen, this here case 
 don't rest on priority o' practice, or 
 sen'ority of age,' sez he, an' yer pa went 
 on. I can't think of all he said, ner 
 what 'Bijy said back, but yer pa made 
 a hot fight. Still the evidence was too 
 heavy fer Pink. 
 
 " ' The feathers might ha' blown into 
 the Tolliver yard, as baby sez,' sez 
 'Bijy, ' but there haint no wind in Pul- 
 teney County high 'nuff to blow into 
 Mr. Rice's yard footprints the size o' 
 them I measured Monday last, leadin' 
 from the premises o' the plaintiff's fowls 
 to the defendant's fence. Them foot 
 prints was Pinckney Tolliver's, gentle 
 men o' the jury, an' they can't be 
 matched fer size 'tween here an' the 
 Pennsylvany line.' 
 
 " Wall, this was a pint fer 'Bijy's side, 
 an' every one, purty nigh, laffed, an' 
 172
 
 Cbe Case of pfncfeneg Golliver 
 
 the hull case was spiled by Pink, who 
 was three parts drunk, sayin' ' dat 's so 
 boss, dat 's so ; ' he was so dern puffed 
 up by what 'Bijy sez. Yer pa, he never 
 would ha' taken the case only the 
 judge appinted him, tried to shet Tolli- 
 ver up, but the cat was loose an' they 
 wan't no need o' young Joe Macy's 
 testimony hardly at all ; an' the case 
 went to the jury. 
 
 " Wai, Cap'n Weston allus had a likin' 
 fer yer pa used to get him to write 
 editorials fer his paper, The Dorset Pa 
 triot, when he was n't to home himself, 
 an* he 'd listened to the summin' up 
 fer the defense, all ears. Every now 
 an' then he 'd chuckle or grunt, never 
 takin' his eyes off yer pa. When we 
 got into the jury-room Caleb Cooper, 
 ole Major's nephew, sez, ' I guess they 
 aint no doubt 'bout Pink's guilt.' 
 
 " 1 sez ' no,' an' most the others sez 
 ' guess not ' or somethin', meanin' the 
 same. Ole Cap'n Weston spoke up 
 ' I dunnoj he sez, ' I dunno! 
 173
 
 Dorset 
 
 "'You dunno?' says Caleb. 'Did 
 ye follow the trial ? ' He was a whig 
 an' Cap'n was a demercrat an' they 
 wan't no love lost 'tween 'em. 
 
 " ' Yes I did,' says Cap'n, ' yes I did 
 sir,' sez he, 'an' /did n't find no time 
 fer nappin,' sez he. Wai, Caleb had 
 kind o' closed his eyes a spell an' so he 
 shet up, but Deacon Edwards sez : 
 
 " ' W'y Cyrus,' he sez, ' you know 
 Pink's a thievin' vagabond anyhow ; he 
 stole your chickins once. I hearn ye 
 tell on it.' 
 
 " ' Stole one chickin* from me, to be 
 exact,' says ole Cap'n, ' one duckwing 
 game rooster to match agin Cato Wat 
 son's brown red. 'T want a good fight ; 
 the duckwing run, after a little, an' I 
 disowned him, leastways I would ef I 'd 
 known he showed mongrel ; an' Pink 
 was welcome to him. 
 
 " Wai, the deacon did n't see jess how 
 the duckwing showin' yaller dog went 
 to provin' Pink was n't a thief an' he 
 said so, but ole Cap'n he kept on argy-
 
 Cbc Case of pincfencv! vlollivct 
 
 fyin' and talkin'. Bime-by he got Selah 
 Ruggles an' Alpheus Taylor onto a 
 religious discussion an' half the jury 
 takin' sides, an* when that blew over 
 an' we was takin' a ballot 'bout half- 
 past six in the evenin,' he said he 
 'bleeved some of the evidence wa'n't 
 properly interduced. 
 
 " ' Wa'n't, hay ? ' says Caleb Cooper, 
 ' wal, I 'm a good 'nuff lawyer to know 
 it was, every word of it sir/ sez he. 
 
 " ' You 're a lawyer, be ye,' sez 
 Cap'n ' You 're a lawyer, hay ? Wal, I 
 thought you called yourself an editor, 
 but ef you 're a lawyer what call have 
 you sittin' on a jury ? ' sez he. 
 
 " ' I said lawyer enough, sir,' sez 
 Caleb. 
 
 " ' Yes,' sez Cap'n, ' an' you 've said 
 most everything enough, an' perhaps a 
 leetle mite too much, 'specially in yer 
 newspaper,' sez he. 
 
 " Wal this het up Caleb, an' first we 
 knew we had all the learnin' from 
 the back files o' the Patriot an' the 
 175
 
 Old Dorset 
 
 Freeman fer six months an* mebbe 
 a year. It was eight o'clock 'fore we 
 got another ballot an' Cap'n Weston 
 voted ' no ' agin, an' the only ' no,' 
 like it was before. We all kep' at him 
 fer a spell an* he promised to think the 
 hull thing over ef we 'd leave him in 
 peace, so he went into a corner an' 
 smoked an' the rest of us sat round an' 
 felt hungry, 'cept Selah Ruggles an' 
 Alpheus. They dug up the hatchet 
 agin an' we might ha' known what 'ud 
 come of it. 'Bout nine o'clock we asked 
 Cap'n ef his mind wan 't satisfied an' he 
 sez, ' how kin I think with Selah an' 
 elder Taylor, talkin', talkin' brilliantly 
 too,' he sez, chucklin' to himself, ' on 
 subjec's so much more important. An' 
 we got no ballot. 
 
 " Wai 'bout nine-thirty he riz up an' 
 sez to Alpheus that a great light had 
 come upon his mind an' he believed 
 Pink really stole them dominick pullets. 
 
 " It did n't take long to get a-ballotin', 
 an' 'bout ten, the court-house bell rang 
 176
 
 Case of pincfcneB tTolItver 
 
 to say we had reached a verdic'. They 
 was quite a crowd come in. Everyone 
 expected a verdic' in half an hour, an' 
 when we stayed out till ten, from half- 
 past five in the afternoon, they was a 
 lot who felt kind o' curious. 
 
 " I see yer pa come in. He looked 
 contented, 's much 's to say, ' fer an 
 open an' shet thing I give 'em some- 
 thin' to chaw on.' An' there was 'Bijy 
 a-lookin' a little anxious, an' Pink too, 
 an' he seemed kind o' scared an' disap- 
 pinted ; you see he sot store by jail life, 
 Pink did. 
 
 " Of course the verdic' suited every 
 one, Tolliver, most of all, an' the crowd 
 bust up. I see Cap'n Weston shake 
 hands with yer pa an' walk off with 
 him ; they was laffin' together. Next 
 day I met the Cap'n an' I sez, ' Cap'n,' 
 I sez, ' you an' me 's both demercrats 
 an' I take yer newspaper, an' I want 
 you to do me a favor, I sez.' 
 
 " ' Wai, Sam,' sez he, ' what is it ? ' 
 
 " ' Wai,' I sez, ' you pass fer a
 
 ID Dorset 
 
 pretty smart man. What 'n the land's 
 name made ye doubt Pink took them 
 pullets, fer five long dry hours,' sez I. 
 
 " ' Doubt it,' sez he, ' I never doubted 
 it ; why Sam,' sez he, ' I seen him as 
 well as Joe Macy. I was up with my 
 youngest child an' heard the noise, an' 
 seen Pink climb the fence with them 
 dominicks. But I wan't goin' to have 
 that boy beat in his fust case without a 
 big fight in the jury-room,' sez he. 
 ' He 's as likely a young man as you 
 want to see anywhere, an' I wan't goin' 
 to have no lightnin' verdic' mortifyin' 
 him right at the start.' " 
 
 The narrator paused. His anecdote 
 was obviously at an end and I showed 
 due appreciation of his reminiscent 
 gifts. The sun was shining once more, 
 and bidding good-day to the young 
 countrymen, who had, from being quite 
 in touch with me, during the foregoing 
 narration, relapsed into diffidence again, 
 I took my rod and creel and left the 
 shelter of the barn. As I passed the 
 178
 
 Cbe Case of ptncfcnee Solltver 
 
 threshold, my friend the philosopho- 
 humorist, who had come to the door of 
 the barn, accosted me : 
 
 " See that stump-field yonder ? 
 Wai, I took 'bout thirty-five nice trout 
 down there, one Sabbath mornin' in 
 '53, 'fore breakfast. I don't know if 
 they be any there now. I s'pose I 
 would n't fish now on the Sabbath day 
 unless," here he paused and looked 
 dreamily at me for almost a quarter of 
 a minute, " unless I was sure o' gettin' 
 a nice mess." 
 
 179
 
 %ast of tbe <>K> Cburcb. 
 
 181
 
 Gbe Xast of tbe R> Cburclx 
 
 THE doors of the old church stood 
 wide open though the day was 
 not the Sabbath. The morning wind, 
 still cool and grateful to trees rusty with 
 the dust of midsummer, sent reckless 
 draughts chasing each other along the 
 aisles, and whirling the leaves of a few 
 tattered hymnals, not yet taken from 
 the church. A light dust came from 
 the open windows occasioned by the 
 removal of the pews, as one by one 
 these time-honored seats were brought 
 into the open air and huddled together 
 in front of the doors. 
 
 For the "old church" of Dorset was 
 to be levelled to the ground. 
 
 Seventy years it had stood, on the 
 183
 
 Id Dorset 
 
 south side of the shady village square, 
 fronting one of the main streets, gazing 
 benignly upon the growth of the town 
 whose sons were, many of them, its 
 god-children. For a long time it had 
 been the only place of worship in Dor 
 set, and as such had been sufficient unto 
 the needs of the townspeople. But 
 with the railroad came increase in popu 
 lation, and diversity in sect ; several 
 spires now peered from among the 
 village elms and maples, and the con 
 gregation of the old church voted al 
 most unanimously, to pull down and 
 build greater. 
 
 The word unanimously might have 
 been proper, had it not been for the 
 stubborn opposition of Major Cooper. 
 He regarded the enterprise as conceived 
 in folly, and ending in sacrilege. He 
 was a remnant of old Dorset. He had 
 seen the town enter and emerge from 
 its teens, and he was willing and indeed 
 desirous as he stated in his elaborate 
 minority report, delivered orally upon 
 184
 
 Gbe TLast of tbe CIS Cburcb 
 
 every street corner and at frequent in 
 tervals, to rescue the younger genera 
 tion from such a piece of irreverence. 
 The other members of the congrega 
 tion refused, however, to be saved by 
 the remnant, and it so happened that on 
 a morning of middle August the noise of 
 shingles wrenched from their place, and 
 clattering to the ground, disturbed the 
 usually quiet neighborhood of the old 
 church ; attracting, as the day wore on, 
 a knot of idle and curious townspeople. 
 
 At ten o'clock Major Cooper came 
 into view from the direction of the 
 " Eagle " tavern. 
 
 " Came into view " is strictly the 
 phrase to employ regarding the advent 
 of Major Cooper. He never broke 
 upon the sight with the unseemly pre 
 cipitation of a man who had business 
 and no rheumatism. His approach was 
 always gradual and full of the benignity 
 of Indian Summer. Upon this particu 
 lar morning his coming was attended by 
 an air of unusual dignity, and the spec- 
 185
 
 Borsct 
 
 tators left staring at the dismantlement 
 of the church to look at the white-haired 
 old man as he advanced. His opposi 
 tion to the new church was well known, 
 and so vigorously had he voiced his 
 sentiments, that it seemed not improba 
 ble that some new burst of eloquence 
 might add a zest to the morning's enter 
 tainment. 
 
 But Major Cooper was beyond words. 
 Heeding none of the greetings offered 
 him as he entered the group of idlers, 
 he went to the array of pews and looked 
 long and earnestly among them. At 
 last he laid hold of one, upon whose 
 back some boy's work, an initial or 
 monogram, caught his eye. It was his 
 own pew, and bore the handiwork of 
 the first Barlow knife of his boyhood. 
 With much exertion the old man 
 dragged the heavy seat from out the 
 huddle of pews to the edge of the street. 
 One of the onlookers came forward 
 and offered a hand. 
 
 " Don't you touch it, don't you touch 
 186
 
 Cbe Xast of tbe ID Cburcb 
 
 it, Balcom," panted the Major angrily, 
 "you can run the church, you boys. 
 I '11 run my pew for a while longer, any 
 way." 
 
 Balcom retired in some confusion 
 and Major Cooper slowly and amid 
 much dust dragged his old pew across 
 the street and under the shade of a 
 maple. Then he sat down in it, wedged 
 himself into a corner, and wiping his 
 face of the sweat of unusual exertion, 
 proceeded to contemplate the work of 
 destruction. 
 
 In the old church, with its white 
 washed pillars, its gleaming steeple, its 
 green blinds and square-paned windows, 
 were for him the peculiarly consecrated 
 associations of a life-time. There he 
 had been baptized, there, too, had his 
 brothers and sisters been named ; from 
 the pulpit were uttered the words of his 
 father's funeral sermon, and before that 
 pulpit he himself would have been mar 
 ried. Old bachelor though he was, he 
 could not forget what ought to have 
 187
 
 OID Dorset 
 
 been, what might have been, and where 
 it would have been. Baptisms, mar 
 riages, deaths, the recollections that 
 stand aloof and peculiar in the land of 
 memory, were represented to him by 
 the old church. 
 
 The shingles, split and wrenched 
 from the nails, rattled noisily upon the 
 ground. The Major gripped his cane 
 in gusty indignation. It seemed to him 
 as though some one were tearing leaves 
 from his family Bible. 
 
 Now during this time the only other 
 individual to whom the razing of the 
 church was a particular offense, was 
 seated by the river a quarter of a mile 
 away, upon a green rib of bank, angling 
 pensively. His location commanded 
 an excellent view of the old church, and 
 from time to time Ezra gazed fixedly 
 in its direction. Each glance was dis 
 approved by a slow shake of the head. 
 
 It was not usual with Ezra Spicer to 
 fish " Denison's Hole " of a week day. 
 It was his Sunday fishing-ground. For 
 1 88
 
 last of tbe ID Cburcb 
 
 many years it had been to the old man's 
 quaint mind an alleviation of conscience 
 to fish within sight of the church. Some 
 times through its open windows, on a 
 favoring wind, the " Portuguese " hymn 
 or " Federal Street " drifted across Coop 
 er's meadows and joined the natural 
 music of the Connedaga. On Sundays, 
 too, Ezra condemned himself to fish for 
 mullets, this fish being particularly diffi 
 cult to capture. As men who do not 
 smoke sometimes love to hold an un- 
 lighted cigar between their teeth, so 
 Ezra Spicer of a Sunday dropped into 
 the water a hook upon which he hardly 
 expected a fish to fasten himself. In 
 this way he felt that some sort of treaty 
 had been compounded with the divine 
 powers supposed to be hostile to Sun 
 day fishing. He had chosen " Deni- 
 son's Hole" this day, though it was 
 Thursday, for its location. 
 
 Across the fields, distinct against the 
 green of the little square, Ezra watched 
 the church, swarmed over by gangs of 
 189
 
 Dorset 
 
 workmen, and his keen eyes took stock 
 as well of the figure of Major Coopen 
 rigid and uncompromising, in one cor 
 ner of his family pew. The fisherman 
 chuckled furtively. " Ol' Maj.," he said 
 to himself, " Ol' Maj. ! " and wagged 
 his head. Presently he lifted a catfish 
 upon the bank, pricked his finger while 
 taking it from the hook, and indulged 
 in a little home-made expletive. He 
 was aware of no scruple regulating the 
 use of the genuine article of profanity, 
 but he belonged to that class of weak 
 characters who swear usually only upon 
 parade, and in the presence of those apt 
 to be impressed by wholesale breakage 
 of the commandment. By himself he 
 used phrases in accord with his sur 
 roundings, woody forest expletives, 
 raucous and vigorous and entailing 
 technically no penalty. 
 
 " Crotch all hemlock," said he, put 
 
 ting his thumb to his mouth. " Slab- 
 
 sided, basswood bullhead ye ! Like ol' 
 
 Major," he added, chuckling again, 
 
 190
 
 Cbc last of tbe OlD Gburcb 
 
 'mean to handle when he 's mad, an' 
 hang on to things like a pup to a root." 
 Aphorisms touching the mental and 
 physical aspects of young canines in 
 certain emergencies were rife in Ezra's 
 repertory. " Wai, I d' know as I kin 
 blame 'im," he continued, " town aint 
 nowhere nigh so pious as 't was, an' yit 
 they must have a new meetin'-house." 
 Then, after a pause, he drew his line 
 again from the water, wound it around 
 the pole, picked up his tin pail half 
 rilled with catfish and chub and ram 
 bled slowly along the bank. " Guess 
 I '11 go over an' take a look at things, 
 if water aint too deep on the riffle," he 
 muttered. 
 
 It was an easy thing, stepping from 
 stone to stone, to cross the Connedaga, 
 dryfoot, at the long reach of swift 
 water below the Cooper meadows, and 
 having traversed the fields Ezra pres 
 ently found himself in a lane at the 
 side of the church. The clapboards, by 
 this time, were partly gone from its 
 191
 
 Dorset 
 
 walls, and the old man peered, with 
 curiosity mixed with awe, into the 
 building. Through many gaps in the 
 roof and sides the sunlight gazed wan 
 tonly ; light used for several generations 
 to enter decorously by the open door 
 or through the great square windows. 
 
 " Hold on a minute, Ezry," shouted 
 a workman from the roof, " we '11 show 
 ye in a minute what th' inside of a 
 church looks like, that '11 be a kind o' 
 s'prize fer ye." Several others ampli 
 fied this sally, but it had no effect upon 
 the old man. Heedless of witticism 
 he pushed his way among the idlers 
 about the building, passed the loitering 
 boys in the street in front, and finally 
 stopped before the white-haired Major, 
 who still glowered from the corner of 
 his pew. For a time neither spoke ; 
 then the Major, as though continuing a 
 conversation already some time under 
 way, said : 
 
 " 'T aint good enough for 'em Ezry, 
 't aint good enough for "em." 
 192
 
 Cbe ILaat of tbc ID Gburcb 
 
 " Good enough for me," he went on 
 bitterly, " good enough for my father 
 and old Parson Knowles an* the others 
 up there." He waved his cane in 
 the direction of the burying-ground, 
 "Sit down, Ezry," he added with a 
 friendly glance at the other ancient, 
 " my pew 's about all that will be left 
 pretty soon of the old church. Sit 
 down, let 's do a little preachin' better 
 sit down," he reiterated, " you 're not 
 in very good standin', you know." 
 Ezra chuckled softly, laid his rod and 
 pail by the side of the old oaken seat, 
 and sat gingerly down. 
 
 " We 're gettin' old, you an' me," he 
 ventured, terminating a long pause. 
 The Major started from a reverie. 
 
 " What 's that ? " he said. 
 
 " We 're gettin' old you an' me," re 
 peated the other. 
 
 " I 've got ten years older since morn- 
 
 in'," said the Major, huskily. "I'm 
 
 losin' part of my memory, right there, 
 
 with those old beams. I never went 
 
 193
 
 <S>U> Dorset 
 
 inside the old place but I saw corners, 
 or pews, yes, or stains on the walls 
 to make me laugh at what they brought 
 up, or feel like cryin'. Look yonder at 
 that spot on the gallery wall. Know 
 who sat there ? Cap'n Riddle, for years 
 out o' mind." 
 
 Across the church, upon the wall, 
 plainly visible, in the light pouring into 
 the roofless room, was a blurred dusky 
 blotch. It was there that the town- 
 crier, who was also a blacksmith, and at 
 times performed riotously upon a bass 
 drum, rested his head during service 
 Captain Riddle. Captain by reason of 
 a manner that suggested freely the 
 pomp and circumstance of war. Him 
 had the village genius when a lad, apos 
 trophized in an heroic stanza begin 
 ning : 
 
 " Captain Riddle, son of Mars, 
 Reared amid the battle smoke," 
 
 and ending with the pertinent query, 
 
 " Why, oh why, from over eatin' 
 Will you go to sleep in meetin' ?" 
 194
 
 Cbe last of tbe U> Cburcb 
 
 " Wai, Cap'n 's gone, too," said Ezra, 
 gloomily. " He was a man I liked. 
 Now, Deacon Stovey I never could 
 stand ; used to pass plate, an' then turn 
 round to the people an' drop in a dollar 
 just to show how pious and generous 
 he was ; did it every Sunday for years." 
 
 " Every Sunday, hay," said the Major 
 enquiringly. " I suppose you saw him, 
 Ezry?" 
 
 Ezra blushed. " Wai," he said, " he did 
 once, for I seen him, an* my wife she 
 told me 'bout the other spells. Tell 
 ye Major," he added, " I may not hev 
 ben quite so regular as you was to 
 church, but I seen a sight there one 
 day you missed ; you was to Albany, I 
 recklect. You see, ol' Scott, Cap'n 
 Weston's dog, got tired o' listenin* to 
 sermon that day some new man from 
 out o' town was preachin'. Scott was 
 pretty well behaved in church, but they 
 was somethin' he did n't take to in this 
 new preacher. Wai, you remember he 
 gen'ly slep' close to the pulpit steps ; 
 195
 
 ID Dorset 
 
 he got up 'bout half through sermon, 
 looked round the church a minute, 
 then gave one o' them long yawns a 
 dog will give, 's if he was snappin' at 
 the last end of a squeak. You know 
 what I mean. Wai, Jimmy Barton 
 laughed right out, allus laughed on 
 half a chance, that boy, an' Deacon 
 Stovey comes out o' his pew and kicks 
 poor Scott into the aisle. Cap'n Weston 
 runs out and ketches hold o' Deacon. 
 ' You kickin* my dog,' sez he to 
 Deacon? 'Don't you see I be?' sez 
 Deacon. ' Wai, I '11 do my own dog- 
 kickin" sez Cap'n, 'an' I '11 do it work 
 days' sez he. ' Now they 's some men 
 that's mean enough fer ye to 
 break the Sabbath to kick 'em." 
 he sez, lookin' Deacon over. Wai, 
 Deacon wa' nt no match fer Cap'n, an' 
 he went an' sat down ; but it wa'nt ten 
 days 'fore that story 'bout the Weston's 
 havin' pie for breakfast come out an' 
 come from ol' Mis' Stovey too." 
 
 The Major was laughing heartily as 
 196
 
 ttbe Xaat of tbe <&U> Cburcb 
 
 Ezra ceased speaking a genial rem 
 iniscent laugh. For a time he forgot the 
 personal and present grievance of the 
 church's destruction, and bringing an 
 old smooth worn silver box from his 
 pocket, helped himself and handed the 
 box to Spicer. 
 
 " Well, well," he said presently. " I 
 remember hearing about that at the 
 time. An' the pie scandal ! Why it 
 bred a quarrel that lasted years. Were 
 you at church the day young Par 
 son Hawley from South Tiberius 
 preached ? " 
 
 Ezra pondered with the air of one to 
 whom the past was such a wilderness 
 of attendances upon divine worship 
 that to locate one particular occasion 
 was a work of hopeless magnitude. " I 
 think mullets was runnin', 'bout then," 
 he said at last with a shy chuckle. 
 
 " Well," said the Major, " you know 
 
 the whole story of course as well as I 
 
 do," and disregarding the fact that 
 
 Ezra admitted a full acquaintance with 
 
 197
 
 <>!& Dorset 
 
 its features he proceeded to detail them 
 with much exactness. One of the 
 notable characteristics of the good 
 Major was his infinite zest in the repe 
 tition of anecdote. The more thread 
 bare it grew, the more it was endeared 
 to him ; and his joyous smile at the 
 right moment, and the artless way in 
 which he looked around his audience 
 for appreciation, disarmed possible 
 criticism. 
 
 "You see," he began, "Parson 
 Knowles was filling a pulpit for a Sun 
 day, down Tioga way, somewhere, an' 
 Cap'n Weston got young Hawley 
 from South Tiberius to come over to 
 fill the vacancy. Rather a bright boy, 
 young Hawley just out of college, an' 
 knew almost half as much as he 
 thought he did, an' that 's sayin' a good 
 deal. He was pretty often up to 
 Weston's and people said it was a 
 match 'tween Eunice Weston an' him. 
 Well, it was about ten months after 
 Mrs. Deacon Stovey put the dictionary 
 198
 
 Cbc last of tbe OlD Cburcb 
 
 on a stool an' the stool on a table an* 
 looked through her window across an' 
 through the Weston's the day she says 
 she saw 'em have pie for breakfast. 
 Guess that story was a fact. Why, 
 old Cap'n never denied it. ' Major ' 
 says he, when the story came out ' I 
 eat pie when I like, an' I like most 
 every chance that comes my way,' says 
 he laughin'. 'T was Eunice an' Sally 
 an' Mrs. Weston made the noise. 
 Well, as I was sayin,' 't was perhaps ten 
 months after the pie disclosure an' 
 everything was pretty hot yet. Young 
 Hawley gave out as his text that 
 Sabbath in church, that verse from 
 Romans, ' For one believeth that he 
 may eat all things, another who is weak 
 eateth herbs.' 
 
 " Well, no one thought anything 
 'bout that bein' a specially pat text, 
 until young Jimmy Barton turned 
 round to John Denison just back of 
 him, an' says loud enough for half the 
 church to hear, ' an' some eat pie for 
 199
 
 Dorset 
 
 breakfast ! ' Well, 't want any use the 
 congregation came down, an* Cap'n 
 Weston laughed too, but Mrs. Weston 
 an' Sally an' Eunice. Well ! 
 
 " I saw Hawley eatin' Sunday din 
 ner alone that day, at the tavern, an' I 
 reck'lect seein' Jimmy an' young Joe 
 Weston rough-an'-tumblin', next day in 
 front the school-house. Now that Jim 
 my was a takin' boy ! " 
 
 " He was so, he was so," agreed Ezra 
 with enthusiasm. I learnt Jim to fish, 
 him an' Homer Silsbee, an' we knew 
 the river better 'n some folks knows 
 their prayers. Now ol' Judge Bar 
 ton - " 
 
 "Old Judge Barton was a leetlc bit 
 too severe with Jimmy," resumed the 
 Major, taking the conversation again in 
 hand, as one driving takes up the reins 
 laid down a moment. " He was proud 
 of the boy, but he did n 't quite make 
 him out. You see the Judge was all 
 New England, and Mrs. Barton was 
 half Scotch. There was the Judge's 
 200
 
 Gbe last of tbe ID Gburcb 
 
 pew yonder, where they 're rippin' up 
 the floor. Who 's bossin' that job ? 
 Steve Morgan, hay ! Why look at that 
 now look at that ! He never came to 
 church once in six months, that fellow 
 never belonged wouldn 't have been 
 tolerated been a drunkard beats his 
 wife been in jail an* look at him 
 there, tearin' up the floor he wasn't fit 
 to walk upon, damn him ! " 
 
 The Major, tremulous with rage, had 
 fallen back into an army habit, which 
 he discountenanced in others and usu 
 ally steered clear of himself. The slip 
 brought him to a pause, and he turned 
 with a deprecating smile towards Ezra. 
 He observed a depressed expression 
 upon the latter's face. 
 
 " Well," he said, " a man can take a 
 drink once in a while, Ezry, of course, 
 an' no great harm do myself. We '11 
 stop at the ' Eagle ' as we go down 
 town ; an' not attendin' service regu 
 larly 's no crime, but you see, Steve 
 Morgan, that . Well, well, I '11 not 
 
 201
 
 Dorset 
 
 let loose again. That 's where the 
 Judge's seat was, an' Elder Rhodes 
 just in front. You remember old 
 Madam Denison's sister, Miss Cald- 
 well ? Of course you do. She wore 
 more hoop-skirt than any woman ever 
 I saw. One Sunday, you were n't there 
 trout risin' I believe she came in 
 late. Elder Rhodes's tile-hat was just 
 outside his pew and the swirl of her 
 skirts just hauled it right in like a cob into 
 the feeder. Out jumps Elder an' follows 
 up the aisle, duckin 1 down each step an* 
 reachin' for his hat. But he never got 
 it till Miss Caldwell sat down. Oh, 
 how Johnny Denison, an' Jim Barton, 
 an' a raft of young ones laughed. So 
 did Mrs. Barton, but the Judge never 
 smiled. You know he had a square 
 pew with a table in it. Jim sat next 
 the aisle that day, then his three sisters, 
 then the Judge. They were singin' the 
 second hymn, ' Duke Street,' I think it 
 was, an' the Judge never looked up 
 from his book. He located Jim by in- 
 
 203
 
 stinct, an* took him by the ear then 
 he marched him north along one side 
 the table, west along the front, south 
 along the other side, an' sat him down 
 'tween Mrs. Barton an' himself, where 
 Jim would be more convenient, an' 
 never stopped singin' a minute, nor 
 looked up, nor smiled ! By the lord 
 Harry," laughed the Major, overcome 
 by the drollery of the recollection and 
 his own humor in relating it, " I don't 
 know now which was the funnier sight, 
 Elder Rhodes rescuing his hat, or 
 Judge Barton suppressing Jimmy ! " 
 
 "Who sat back of the Bartons, 
 Major? Oh, yes, the Denisons, then 
 come the Callanders, wa 'n't it ? An' 
 you sat where ye could see the Callan 
 ders." 
 
 Ezra's diffident chuckle met no re 
 sponse from the other. Major Cooper 
 did not permit even acquaintances from 
 his own walk in life to jest with him on 
 certain subjects, and Ezra had taken a 
 liberty, as he himself recognized. He 
 203 
 
 r
 
 010 Dorset 
 
 fumbled with his fish-pole, and yawned 
 several times elaborately, testifying em 
 barrassment in much the manner of a 
 dog who has mingled somewhat in hu 
 man society. The Major leaned back 
 in his corner, and withdrew into himself, 
 an operation beginning with the retire 
 ment of his chin almost wholly within 
 his copious collar. 
 
 " Yes," he said presently, with vague 
 stiffness of manner, " I believe I could 
 see the Callander pew from where I sat." 
 
 Not only could the Major see the 
 family pew of the Callanders, but he 
 did see it, Sunday after Sunday, year 
 in and out. It held what was more to 
 him than anything else in the little 
 town, where his "all" was to be found. 
 He used to gaze across the church, 
 openly during singing or sermon, fur 
 tively in prayer time, at Mrs. Colonel 
 Callander so beautiful, so beyond him, 
 and to him only a name a name to a 
 romance closed and laid away upon 
 the shelf of the years. When at last she 
 204
 
 cbc Xast of tbe <5>U> Cburcb 
 
 sat there no longer; when her long 
 widowhood was ended, and she was laid 
 beside her husband, the Major still 
 looked every Sunday across the church 
 to the empty corner in the Callander 
 pew. It took no conjurer's art to tenant 
 it again for him as of old. And some 
 times he would suddenly sit straight in 
 his seat, adjust his collar, tug surrepti 
 tiously at his coat, and glance quickly 
 towards the other aisle of the church, 
 as if in very truth he felt the eyes of 
 his old time and only love upon him. 
 
 The snow that invaded the Major's 
 hair, never touched his heart ; there 
 was a green spot there, though it 
 marked the grave of his one passion. 
 
 " Wai, Major, its 'bout noonin','' sug 
 gested Ezra, after a long silence. There 
 was no reply. 
 
 The old man leaned forward and 
 
 looked curiously at the Major. He was 
 
 asleep. The heat of the day, the sudden 
 
 cessation of the noise about him at the 
 
 205
 
 Dorset 
 
 noon hour, the quiet nature of his re 
 cent thoughts, all played a part in the 
 conspiracy of drowsiness. Ezra mut 
 tered discontentedly and looked wist 
 fully down the road. He made a move 
 ment towards awakening his old friend 
 but checked himself. A certain irasci 
 bility attended upon Major Cooper at 
 times that deserved and received recog 
 nition. So Ezra rose slowly, yawned 
 loudly, stretched himself, clinked his 
 rod noisily against the fish-pail and 
 looked again at the sleeper. The Major 
 slumbered as deeply as a child. With 
 a shake of his head Spicer began his 
 homeward walk, with now and then an 
 unrewarded backward glance towards 
 the pew. It was a hot day and the air 
 was filled with dust. When Ezra had 
 reached the " Eagle " tavern his natural 
 aridity was trebled. He sat down for a 
 few moments upon the steps of the 
 hostelry. From within he heard a pleas 
 ant clink of glasses, and sometimes the 
 rush of beer from the spigot. He 
 206
 
 Cbc Xast of tbe OlD Cburcb 
 
 looked up the road to where the Major 
 still dreamed of other men and other 
 days, and felt a keen sense of depriva 
 tion and wrong. 
 
 " He asked me to," he muttered, re 
 ferring to the invitation to refreshment 
 half an hour before, " He asked me to, 
 an' then goes to sleep 't aint right, 
 that 's what 't aint." 
 
 He stooped, picked up his rod and 
 pail, and resumed his way. At the 
 next corner he met Thome Cooper, the 
 Major's nephew. 
 
 "Been fishin', Ezra?" asked Thome, 
 pleasantly. " No, be'n chasin' a bee 
 swarm," returned the old man sarcas 
 tically, pointing to his tackle. Thorne 
 laughed. " Well, I allow I might have 
 known by what you 're carryin'," he 
 said, and passed on. 
 
 " Be'n to church, too," called Ezra ; 
 "sat in your fam'ly pew. I'm gettin* 
 high toned. Say, Thorne, jest wake the 
 Major up, will ye ? I 'm 'fraid he '11 
 catch cold sleepin' in the shade. 
 207
 
 " There," he chuckled as Cooper went 
 on up the street, " I '11 just go back to 
 the ' Eagle ' an let that drink ketch up 
 to me. Oh, I ain't so awful slow." 
 
 But as he stopped again by the tavern 
 door, and watched the figure of Thorne 
 Cooper nearing the old oak seat under 
 the maple, a feeling of shame came 
 over him. He had been the Major's 
 debtor so often for this or that ; for 
 meat how often, and how very often for 
 drink. Let the old man sleep his sleep 
 out! 
 
 He jumped up briskly, for his seventy- 
 odd years, and trotted up the road. 
 
 " Thorne Thorne ! " he cried. 
 
 The dust was thick, and his voice not 
 over strong. 
 
 He quickened his pace towards the 
 square, a curious feeling possessing him 
 that he must check his old friend's 
 awakening. 
 
 " Thorne, Thorne ! " he called again, 
 then lessened his pace, for he saw that 
 Cooper was at the Major's side. He 
 208
 
 Cbe Xast of tbe to Cburcb 
 
 saw him stoop, touch the old man upon 
 the arm, then shake him gently. He 
 was near enough now to hear his loud 
 exclamation as he bent his head tow 
 ards his uncle's face. 
 
 Major Cooper did not waken. He 
 was to sleep his sleep out, despite all 
 earthly interruptions. The over-exer 
 tion of the morning his struggle with 
 the heavy pew and the heat of the 
 day, and perhaps one of those sudden 
 ailments always in call of five and sev 
 enty years, had closed the old man's 
 eyes forever. 
 
 And from the corner-seat in his time- 
 honored pew, in sight of the pulpit 
 that, uncovered to the August skies, 
 and strewn with the litter of the dis 
 mantled church, had still a certain 
 mournful dignity, the spirit of Major 
 Cooper, which was the spirit of old 
 Dorset, went into another Present. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 209
 
 mill o' tbe TKIlasp 
 
 A SEA YARN OF THE WAR OF 1812 
 By ROBERT CAMERON ROGERS 
 
 Edited by Henry Lawrence, U. S. N., and now brought 
 before the public for the first time. 
 
 With frontispiece by R. F. Zogbaum, and decorative cover 
 design, izmo, $ 1.25 
 
 PRESS NOTICES 
 
 " In American^ history there are no exploits recorded that 
 fire the imagination and stir the blood as do those of the naval 
 heroes of the War of 1812 ; and among these are none that 
 shine more brightly or are invested with more romantic inter 
 est than those of the sloop Wasp in the summer of 1814. In 
 ' Will o" the Wasp,' Mr. Robert Cameron Rogers has taken 
 the audacious career of this sloop in the English Channel, 
 and her mysterious disappearance in the midst of her suc 
 cesses, as the motive of a singularly clever and powerful tale. 
 . . . One of the most vigorous, stirring, and realistic sea- 
 tales we have read in many a year. The description of the 
 memorable duel between the Wasp and the Reindeer is par 
 ticularly brilliant. . . . Three characters in this success 
 ful venture of Mr. Rogers in the field of novel-writing, we 
 think will challenge warm praise from the critics, as they 
 must interest the reader. These are Fry, old Josh Sewall, and 
 Nancy Barker, a Plymouth lass captured on a merchantman, 
 who falls in love with the modest Fry and furnishes the bal 
 last in the shape of a breezy courtship and love passages de 
 sirable in every novel. These characters are real flesh and 
 blood. They are alive." Buffalo Commercial, 
 
 " Mr. Rogers's story has the genuine salty flavor of the sea. 
 It is an entertaining yarn that he has spun. The adventures 
 of Captain Blakely's stanch little sloop-of-war Wasp along 
 the British coast are enough of themselves to hold the read 
 er's attention, but the interest of the tale is enhanced by the 
 pretty love story that runs through it. . _ . . The story ac 
 quires added attractiveness frombeing written in the first per 
 son, as from the diary of an old sea-dog." N. Y. Sun. 
 
 " It is a most interesting narrative, and the spice of life 
 love with which it is dashed here and there is ^just sufficient 
 to keep the reader on the alert. The portrait it draws of 
 Captain Blakely is generous in its proportions of patriotism 
 and daring ; and the gentleness of demeanor which it gives as 
 his chief characteristic was in keeping with the feeling which 
 animated the leaders of the Revolution, then so fresh a mem 
 ory. To peruse such a book is a rare pleasure indeed." 
 Rochester Herald. 
 
 " It is an extremely spirited and carefully written narra 
 tive." N. Y. Evening Post. 
 
 G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS, NEW YORK AND LONDON
 
 tlbe Win& in tbe Clearing 
 
 AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 BY 
 
 ROBERT CAMERON ROGERS 
 
 Second Edition, 12, $1.25 
 PRESS NOTICES 
 
 " Other young poets might have written, each in his own 
 way, no doubt, 'The Wind in the Clearing,' the concep 
 tion of which has not been fairly mastered by Mr. Rogers ; 
 but no other young poet, certainly none of American 
 growth, could have written some of the classical poems 
 which follow, and which are valuable additions to our 
 scanty store of genuine and noble classical verse. . . 
 He has something to learn, and will learn it, no doubt, 
 through future practice ; but he has not much to unlearn, 
 for he is not mannered in his diction, which is easy and 
 picturesque, and in his choice of subjects he shows the in 
 stinct of a true poet." RICHARD HENRY STODDARD, in 
 New York Mail and Express. 
 
 " There is always running through the book a vein of 
 feeling so exalted, and so well kept in hand by the shap 
 ing control of an artist, that the work will be read with in 
 terest by every lover of poetry." The Scotsman, Edin 
 burgh. 
 
 " It is most encouraging that several volumes of poetry 
 showing definite promise for the future have recently been 
 published by young, untried poets in this country, where 
 the outlook in poetry has been of late years very disheart 
 ening. Among these younger men none has shown brighter 
 promise nor better achievement than Mr. Robert Cameron 
 Rogers." Literary World. 
 
 "Exquisite, in the good sense of the word, some of his 
 poems are, and, while others are less perfect, all are ani 
 mated by a deep and manly sentiment making pure joy in 
 the mind. . . . When his motive is Greek, his verse 
 is, contrary to the usual order, most natural, most spontane 
 ous, and most personal. He does not translate, he lives in 
 'Blind Polyphemus,' 'Odysseus at the Mast,' and 'The 
 Death of Argus.' His thought is at once the Greek idea 
 and his own conception." N. Y. Times. 
 
 G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS, NEW YORK & LONDON
 
 Date Due 
 
 PRINTED IN U.S. t 
 
 CAT. NO. 24 161