An Old-Time March Meeting

ONE day in the latter part of February, Asahel Peck was observed to be abroad on horseback; for, owing to a recent thaw, sleighing was bad, and wheeling worse. Those in the neighborhood of the town house saw him alight in front of that ancient and variously used structure and nail a paper to the battered and punctured door. It read as follows : —

MARCH MEETING

These are to notify and to warn all the Inhabitants of this Town who are legal Voters in Town Meeting to meet at the Town House on the first Tuesday in March the 3rd (proximo) at ten o’clock in the forenoon to transact the following business, viz.

1st to choose a moderator to Govern said meeting, 2nd a town clerk, 3rd, three or more persons to be Select men, Also Over Seeors of the poor, a Town Treasurer, Three or more Listers, a constable and Collector of Town rates or taxes, Grand and petit jurors, One or more Grand Jurymen for the town, Surveyors of the Highways, Fence viewers, pound keepers, Sealers of weights and measures, Sealers of Leather, also one or more tything men and hay wards. Also a committee to Settle with the Overseeors of the Poor also a Committee to settle with the Treasurer and report the state of the Treasury, a Superintending committee for schools, also to consider of the Propriety of adjoining Uriah Cruttenden’s Farm to the School District known by the name of the New District and lastly to vote to defray the expenses of the Town the Current year.

ASAHEL PECK

JONATHAN YOUNG

SEYMOUR HAYS

Select

men.

Feby 18, 184-.¹

But few persons troubled themselves to read what could more easily be heard for only twelve days’ waiting; and, moreover, every proposed measure of importance had been a subject for discussion at Hamner’s tavern, the store, the blacksmith’s shop, the shoemaker’s, and the mill, as also at the town house itself, on several Sundays, before and after the services, held there alternately by the Methodists and Congregationalists: so that saints and sinners were already informed.

The days went by in sunshine and south wind. On the appointed day many voters came of choice on foot, across fields bare of snow but for drifts still enduring along the fences, while others jolted in wagons over the rutted main highways, superficially dried rough-cast memorials of former difficult travel, one wind-swept mile of it now yielding dust enough for the ransom of a whole tribe of Israel. Others came floundering and splashing along the crossroads, which were narrow lanes of mud between banks of snow sullied with the blown dust of ploughed land and muddy tracks of men and dogs. Overhead, straggling flocks of returning crows drove northward through their broad, clean, aerial thoroughfare. All terrestrial travelers tended, by different routes, toward the town house. Rows of horses lengthened along the neighboring fences. Freemen of all ages, from those newly assuming the responsibilities of voting and the burden of taxation to those beyond the demand of a poll tax, swarmed in at the door. There was a considerable attendance of boys, to whom the bustle inside was more novel and attractive than the feeble beginning of a game of ball outside.

The town house was an unpainted, weather-beaten, clapboarded building of one story, with one rough, plastered room, furnished with rows of pine seats, originally severely plain, but now profusely ornamented with carved initials, dates, and strange devices. A desk and seat on a platform at the farther end, for the accommodation of the town officers, and a huge box stove, so old and rusty that it seemed more like the direct product of a mine than of a furnace, completed the furniture of the room, wherein were now gathered a majority of the male inhabitants of the town. Its fathers, maintaining the dignity of office in stiff, high shirt collars and bell-crowned hats, were grouped behind the desk, planning in semi-privacy the business of the day, while some self-appointed guardians of the public weal stood near, craning their necks and cocking their ears to catch scattered crumbs of the wise discourse. Old acquaintances from the farthest opposite corners of the township, who rarely met but on such occasions, exchanged greetings and neighborhood gossip. Hunters and trappers recounted their exploits to one another and an interested audience of boys. Invalids enjoyed their poor health to the utmost in the relation of its minutest details. Pairs of rough jokers were the centres of applauding groups, while other pairs exchanged experiences in the wintering of stock or discussed weather probabilities. From all arose a babble of voices, the silentest persons present being two or three of the town’s poor, who had come to get the earliest intelligence of their disposal.

“Wal, I cal’late we ’re goin’ tu git an airly spring, ” said one of a knot of elderly men and middle-aged wiseacres. “ When the ol’ bear come aout he did n’t see no shadder.”

“What, the twenty-sixt’ o’ Febwary?” one of the latter chuckled. “Why, good land o’ massy, the sun was er-shinin’ jest as bright as ’t is today! ”

“The twenty-sixt’ hain’t the day! It’s the secont, an’ it snowed all day ! ”

“Sho! It’s the twenty-sixt’,” the other asserted. “Ev’ybody knows that ’at knows anythin’ abaout signs.”

“Wal, I know it’s the secont.”

“No, ’t ain’t nuther! ”

“’Tis tuther! ”

“Wal,” drawled big John Dart, “s’posin’ the’ wa’n’t no bear ary day? What then ? ”

“ What ye think o’ this fur a sign ? ” a tall newcomer asked, pushing his way into the group, carefully holding in his hand a red and yellow cotton handkerchief, gathered at its corners, which he now unfolded, displaying three fullgrown grasshoppers, not very active,but unmistakably alive. “There! I picked them up as I come across lots. What ye think o’ that ? ”

There was a general expression of wonder, and Dart exclaimed, after a critical examination of the insects, “ Good Lord, deliver us ! Ef the grasshoppers is all ready tu transack business as soon ’s the snow ’s off’n the graound, it won’t make no odds tu us if we du hev an airly spring. They ’ll eat ev’ry identical thing as soon as it starts.”

“Wal, I swanny, Billy Williams’s dressed up consid’able scrumptious fur taown meetin’,” the discoverer of the grasshoppers remarked irrelevantly, after a careful survey of the dignitaries grouped behind the desk. “S’pose he cal’lates he’s goin’ tu rep’sent the taown next fall ? ”

“Oh yes. It wouldn’t be usin’ on him well tu let him die a ye’rlin’,” another responded.

“I do’ know’s we’re ’bleeged tu send him on that accaount, ” the first speaker said. “We don’t send folks tu Montpelier fur their health, but fur aour benefit. I never hear’d o’ his duin’ anythin’ gret whilst he was up there.” “I wonder ’f he ever delivered the speech up there ’t he prepared, ” a farmer asked, with a merry twinkle in his eyes, and inquiring faces were turned toward him.

“You never hear’d on’t? Wal, I tell ye ’t was a buster. Tom Hamlin hear’d him a-practicin’ of it one day when he went there on some errant tu Billy, an’ the women folks sent him aout tu the barn tu find him; an’ he hear’d him a-talkin’ turrible airnest on the barn floor, an’ so he peeked through a crack o’ the door tu see who he was a-talkin’tu, an’ there stood Billy wi’ a paper in his hand, a-motionin’ of it aout, an’ nob’dy nor nothin’ afore him but an ol’ poll ram a-stan’in’ back in the furder eend. ‘ Mister Speaker, ’ says Billy, ‘ I rise tu make a motion ’ — Then, as he turned araound tu git the light on his paper, the ol’ ram let drive at him an’ knocked him a-sprawlin’ clean acrost the barn floor. Tom cal’lated Billy hed made his motion.”

“Ruther more of a turnaout ’n the’ was tu the fust taown meetin’ ’at I went tu in this taown,” Gran’ther Hill remarked to an old man who sat beside him, looking nearly his own age, but whose simple, almost childlike features were in marked contrast to the strong, grim visage of the veteran ranger.

“I s’pose likely,” responded the other, glancing vaguely around. “I wa’n’t there.”

“Ef you was, you hed n’t no business there, fur you wa’n’t much more ’n borned, ” said Gran’ther Hill. “No, sir, the’ hain’t a livin’ man here but me ’at was tu it.”

“I s’pose there wa’n’t a turrible sight on ye ? ” his companion suggested.

“Not over twenty on us, all told ; an’ we hel’ it in a log barn ’at stood t’ other side o’ the river, on Moses Benham’s pitch, an’ we sot raound on the log mangers, an’ the clark writ on the head of a potash berril. We hed n’t no sech fix-uppances as these ’ere,” pounding the seat with his fist; “an’ as fur that ’ere, ” punching the stove with his cane, “we jest stomped raound tu keep warm, an’ did n’t fool away much time no longer ’n we was ’bleeged tu.”

“I s’pose you git your pension right along, reg’lar? ” the younger old man asked.

“Sartainly; it comes as sure as death an’ taxes, ” said Gran’ther Hill. “An’ what in blazes is the reason you don’t git yourn ? ”

“Wal, ye see, ” said the other, “they claim ’at they can’t find the roll o’ my comp’ny, daown there tu Wash’n’ton, — Comp’ny B, ’Leventh Regiment, — but they say they can’t find hide ner hair on’t; an’ my discharge, that got burnt up ’long wi’ all I hed, time o’ the fire : so here I be, on the taown.” The old man smiled in feeble resignation.

“It’s a damned shame, an’ you’d ortu hev your pension,” Gran’ther Hill declared.

“Sarved him right fur bein’ sech a plaguy fool,” said a hard-featured man standing near, speaking not to the two old men, but for their hearing, as he explained to those about him: “ He went ’n under his bed, when the haouse was afire, an’ got a peck o’ wa’nuts ’t he’d fetched up f’m the Lake, an’ left his chist wi’ all his papers in ’t tu burn up. Yis, an’ a bran’-new pair o’ calfskin boots.”

“I s’pose I kinder lost my head,” the old soldier said apologetically, and still striving to smile in spite of a quivering of his chin; “an’ the wa’nuts, I fetched ’em a-purpose fur my tew leetle gran’childern; an’ I do’ know ’s I’m sorry ’at I saved ’em, fur they died wi’ canker rash, both on ’em, next spring, an’ the loss on ’em jest killed their mother, an’ he married agin an’ went off West, an’ here I be. The’ was one leetle chap ’at lived, but he was tew leetle tu remember me, an’ they would n’t never tell him nothin’ ’baout his ol’ gran’ther, I s’pose,” said the old man, with a sigh and a more pathetic smile.

“Lost his head!” the hard-faced man sneered. “An almighty loss that must ha’ ben! ”

Certain inarticulate sounds issued from Gran’ther Hill’s toothless jaws, accompanied by a nervous handling of his staff, which indicated a rising storm that his companion at once strove to prevent, whispering anxiously into the veteran’s ear, from which a tuft of grizzled hair bristled like an abatis: —

“Don’t fur massy’s sake say nothin’ tu mad him, Cap’n Hill. He’s a-goin’ tu run fur poormarster, an’ if he don’t git it he ’s a-goin’ tu bid for aour keepin’. If he gits a spite agin me, he ’ll gi’ me gowdy. Don’t say nothin’.”

Thus admonished, Gran’ther Hill corked the vials of his wrath, and contented himself with glowering savagely on its intended object and offering consolation to his friend.

“You needn’t be ’shamed on’t, Ros’il. Misfortin hain’t no disgrace tu a man ’at ’s fit in the ’Leventh agin the British tu Chippewa an’ that what-you-call-him’s Lane. The disgrace is fur them ’at hain’t no respect fur sech duin’s. What ye s’pose I ’d care ’f I was on the taown? By the Lord Harry, I ’ d tell ’ em ’ t was an honor tu any taown tu hev a man on it ’at took Ticonderogue, an’ was tu Hubbar’t’n an’ Bennin’ton ! The country’s goin’ tu the divil, it’s a-gittin’ so corrup’, an’ we ’ll all be on the taown in a heap in less ’n twenty year, wi’ the people’s money bein’ flung right an’ left. I hear ’em a-talkin’ o’ hevin’ ruffs over some o’ the bridges. Lord Harry, what next ? ”

“Good airth an’ seas ! ” exclaimed the good-natured-looking shoemaker, who had just taken a seat near the veterans. "’T ain’t more ’n what we ’re all lierble tu. ’T ain’t many year sen’ the constable useter warn ev’ry man jack of a newcomer tu clear aout lest he come on t’ the taown. There was ol’ Mister Van Brunt, ’at lived tu New York when he was tu hum, ’at owned more ’n tew thaousan’ acres here, come up an’ stayed quite a spell; an’ so the constable, he up an’ warned him aout o’ the taown. Van Brunt, says he tu him, ‘ You go an’ ask the selec’men what they ’ll take fur this mis’able leetle insi’nificant taown, an’ I’ll buy the hul on ’t.’ ”

“I tell ye, it don’t signify, Ros’il Adams,” Gran’ther Hill began, when reminiscences and prophecies were cut short by the clerk’s calling the meeting to order.

Comparative quiet fell upon the assembly, that was for a few moments thridded by the thin, whining voice of one of the invalids, who had not completed the details of his last bad spell. The clerk then read the warning that had been taken from the door, and announced the first business to be the choice of a moderator. Thereupon Squire Waite was nominated, and being unanimously elected, took his place beside the clerk behind the desk. He was a tall, portly old man, whose venerable presence was somewhat impaired by a curly chestnut wig. With a voice deep and strong enough to have outborne the clamor of many ordinary ones, he addressed his assembled townsmen: —

“Gentlemen, the next business afore the meetin’ is to choose a town clark. Please nomernate some one so to sarve you.”

“I nomernate the exper’enced an’ deficient present ineumberent, Joel Bartlett ! ” cried Solon Briggs, and the nomination was quickly seconded.

“Joel Bartlett is nomernated and seconted,” thundered the moderator. “You ’at’s in favor of him a-sarvin’ of you as town dark, say ‘ Aye. ’ ”

There was a loud affirmative response, and when the squire called, “Contrary-minded, say ‘No,’” only Beri Burton answered, though he endeavored to make the noise of a majority.

“ Gentlemen, the Ayes appear to hev it, and you hev made ch’ice of Joel Bartlett to sarve you as dark fur the ensuin’ year.”

The reëlected officer pursed his lips to their roundest and set himself to record the proceedings of the meeting; his choice of implements being divided between a sputtering quill pen and a lead pencil so hard that its only mark upon the paper, unless frequently moistened, was a deep corrugation. The arrangement of his lips seemed especially adapted to the moistening process.

“The next business in order,” the moderator declared, after studying the warning, “is tu choose three, four, or five selec’men. Haow many is it your pleasure tu hev ? ”

It was decided that there should be three, and two separate nominations and elections followed. According to the usual and wise custom, the first member of the old board was retired, the second elected to his place, the third to the second place, and a new man to the third place, for which there were three candidates, each with so considerable a following that a ballot was called for by three or more voters, and a spirited contest ensued. The readiest writers scribbled the names of their candidates on whatever scraps of paper came to hand, which were then cut into slips with jack-knives. These ballots were distributed to the eager voters who crowded around each writer, or were urged upon the wavering and indifferent. Each, when so provided, pushed into the swarming aisle and struggled forward, as if the fate of the nation depended on the immediate deposit of his ballot in the constable’s bell-crowned hat, which was now devoted to this sacred service under the vigilant guardianship of its owner. Here, a tall, strong man forced a passage through the crowd, with some smaller, weaker men following easily in his wake. There, a small man, nearly overwhelmed, almost within reach of the voting place, held his ballot at arm’s length above his head, like a craft, foundering within sight of port, flying a signal of distress. Having cast their votes, some got out of the press as quickly as possible, while others clung about the voting place, curious to see the last ballot dropped into the hat and to watch the counting.

“ Gentlemen, are your votes all in ? ” called the moderator.

No one responded during the five minutes of grace, and at their expiration the improvised ballot box was emptied on the desk. The counting began, by the clerk and the constable, while the hum of conversation again arose, continuing until the result of the ballot was announced. The rival candidates strove to hide their different emotions under the mask of unconcern, and their adherents soon forgot the brief contest in the strife for a board of listers and other important officers.

The old treasurer, who had through many years’ service proved faithful to his charge, was continued as custodian of the town money, kept for the most part in a canvas shot bag conspicuously marked “B. B. Twenty four lbs; ” and no one underbidding the old collector’s offer to collect the tax for two per cent thereof, he was unanimously reëlected to the dual office of constable and collector.

When it was voted that the selectmen should be overseers of the poor, Roswell Adams was greatly relieved of his anxiety, for he felt sure that at least two of the board were men who would have consideration for an unfortunate old soldier, and he entered quite heartily into the humor of some of the minor elections.

Reuben Black, a blind man, was nominated for fence viewer, and came near being elected.

“You might ha’ done wus ’n tu elec’ me,” said Reuben, “for I c’n smell aout a new fence an’ feel aout a lawful one, an’ du it in the darkest night jes’ ’s well as in daylight, an’ thet’s more ’n most on ’em c’n du.”

John Dart, whose gigantic frame was supported by a more than ample foundation, nominated the shoemaker for inspector of leather, an office without duties or emoluments, and he was unanimously elected.

“Ef I make an’ mend your boots, John Dart, I cal’late I ’ll handle the heft o’ the luther in Danvis! ” he roared, in a voice that excited the envy of the moderator.

It was a common custom in Vermont, in the first half of this century, to permit all kinds of stock to run at large in the highways, which made it necessary to appoint several poundkeepers, and as many haywards, or hog-howards, as they were commonly called, whose duty was to keep road-ranging swine within the limits of the highways. Six poundkeepers were now elected, and their barnyards constituted pounds. There was a merry custom, of ancient usage, of electing the most recently married widower to the office of hayward, and it then chanced that Parson Nehemiah Doty, the worthy pastor of the Congregationalists, had been but a fortnight married to his second wife. So an irreverent member of his own flock nominated him for hayward. The nomination was warmly seconded, and he was almost unanimously elected, even the deacons responding very faintly when the negative vote was called; for the parson was a man of caustic humor, and each of its many victims realized that this was a rare opportunity for retaliation. Laughter and applause subsided to decorous silence when the venerable man arose to acknowledge the doubtful honor which had been conferred upon him; and he spoke in the solemn and measured tones that marked the delivery of his sermons, but the clerical austerity of his face was lightened a little by a twinkle of his cold gray eyes:—

“Mr. Moderator and fellow townsmen, in the more than a score of years that I have labored among you, I have endeavored faithfully to perform, so far as in me lay, the duties of a shepherd: to keep within the fold the sheep which were committed to my care, to watch vigilantly that none strayed from it, and to be the humble means of leading some into its shelter. Thus while you were my sheep I have acted as your shepherd, but since you are no longer sheep I will endeavor to perform as faithfully the office of your hayward. ”

“Wal, haow is’t?” John Dart inquired of the nominator. “Hev ye got much the start o ’ the parson ? Or hev ye? ”

When every office of the town had been filled, a tax of eight per cent on the grand list was voted, after violent opposition by a considerable minority of economists. Then a sharp-featured man, who had for some time awaited the opportunity, perched on the edge of his seat like some ungainly bird about to take flight, arose and spoke: —

“Mr. Moderator, it ’s my ’pinion, an’ I guess ’t is most ev’rybody’s else’s, ’at we ben a-payin’ aout more money fur taown ’xpenses ’an we ortu, in p’rtic’lar fur keepin’ aour porpers. You look a’ one item, — fifty dollars fur keepin’ the Bassett boy! Fifty dollars fur keepin’ of a idjit, — as much as ’t would ha’ cost tu ha’ wintered tew yoke o’ oxen, pooty nigh! Why, it’s ridic’lous ! ” He paused to give his audience time to consider the extravagant cost of supporting the Bassett boy, who had been a town charge for many years, yet by title, at least, seemed possessed of perennial youth, having been designated in the town reports for forty years as “ the Bassett boy. ” “ Course we wanter du what ’s right an’ proper by aour porpers, but we don’t wanter parmper ’em, an’ we got tu be equinomercal. Naow what I was a-goin’ tu say is ’at we hev sometimes heretobefore let aout the keepin’ of aour poor to the lowest bidder, an’ it hes ben quite a savin’ tu the taown; an’ considerin’ haow hefty aour expenses hes ben durin’ the past year, we might du wus ’an tu try it agin. ”

As Esquire Hard parted his coat tails and resumed his perch on the edge of the seat, another thrifty townsman arose to say, “I think the idee ’s a good one, an’ if the gentleman ’ll put it in the shape of a motion, I ’ll secont it.”

Thereupon the esquire got up such a little way and for such a little while that he began at once to part his coat tails while he said, “I move ’at the s’lec’men let aout the keepin’ of the taown poor tu the lowest bidder, ” which was immediately seconded.

Yet before it could be put to vote a few made earnest protest against this barbarous but then not uncommon custom. The veteran of Ticonderoga got upon his feet with alacrity, and commanded attention with vigorous thumps of his staff as much as by his imperative voice, shaken and cracked by the heat of his indignation.

“Mr. Moderator, is the voters o’ this ’ere taown white folks, or be they a pack o’ damned heatherns?”

“ Order ! Order ! ” the moderator thundered.

“I did n’t say they was damned, but they will be if they don’t quit sech cussedness. A-biddin’ off the poor tu vandew is a cussed shame! I don ’ t keer whether they be God’s poor or the divil’s poor, or poor divils. ’T ’ould be humaner tu fat ’em up an’ boocher ’em fur the’ taller ’an what it ’ould be to starve ’em the way they will be. Yes, by a damned sight! ”

Again Squire Waite thundered, “Order ! Order ! We must hev order! ” while Gran’ther Hill continued, “You need n’t take no pride in what I say, Square Waite, but I swear I will hev vent, an’ I do’ know but I ’ve hed all I kin ’thaout hittin’ someb’dy, ” and he sat down, still snorting and growling.

His phlegmatic son declared, “It did n’t somehaow sca’cely seem Christian duin’s fur tu bid off humern white folks.”

“The heft of aour poor aire in no ways tu blame fur bein’ where they be, an’ we’d better skimp some’eres else ! ” shouted the shoemaker.

“Gol dum th’ poor tax! ” mumbled Beri Burton. “Give ’em puddin’ an’ milk the year raoun’, I say. Gol dum the poor tax ! ”

Before this many of the voters had dispersed, thinking all important business had been done, and others were impatient to get home by chore time, which was close at hand, as the waning afternoon admonished them: so that when the motion was put to vote, it was passed by a large majority. Then the first selectman announced that “bids for the support of our town’s poor would now be received, ” while the old soldier of 1812 and his fellow paupers awaited the degree of misery to which they should be consigned.

One of the minority, whose plump, good-humored face gave proof that no living thing would suffer under his care, bid a little below the last year’s cost. The anxious faces of the paupers brightened during the pause that succeeded this offer; but it only lasted while Peter Flint, the late reviler of the old soldier, after a brief mental computation, made a lower bid; and then another competitor entered the lists, and after a sharp contest of alternately decreasing bids, from which the rosy-faced farmer retired, the contract was awarded to Peter Flint.

“That means short rations fur us poor folks,” said Roswell. “Why did n’t a cannern ball knock my mis’able head off? I wish ’t it hed! ”

“No, ye don’t nuther, I tell ye,” Gran’ther Hill declared, with emphatic thumps of his staff on the floor. “An’ you hain’t a-goin’ tu starve nuther, if aour ’tater bin an’ pork berril hol’s aout. I’m a-goin’ tu take ye hum along wi’ me tu visit a year, an’ the taown may go tu the divil fur all o’ me. A-sellin’ off men ’at fit fur the’ country! By the Lord Harry, I would n’t never fit fur it if I ’d ha’ knowed what a passel o’ maggits it was a-goin’ tu breed. I swear I won’t agin, come what may! ”

“You ’re turrible good, Cap’n Hill, ” faltered Roswell, overcome by this hospitable offer of a comfortable home, “but I don’t b’lieve I ’d ortu trouble ye, an’ mebby they — they won’t let me.”

“Shet yer head, an’ go ’long an’ git int’ the waggin. I sh’ld like tu see ’em stop ye! ” Gran’ther Hill growled hoarsely, glowering fiercely on every one within range of his vision. “Jozeff, onhitch the team, an’ le’s be a-goin’ hum.”

“I p’sume like ’nough it’ll be all right wi’ M’ri, his a-comin’ in so sort o’ onexpected, ” Joseph confided to Sam Lovel as he untied the halters; “but, Sam Hill, I guess by the time father ’s put him through Ticonderogue ev’ry day for three four weeks a-runnin’, he ’ll think he ’d ortu hev tew pensions. Gosh! it ’most seems sometimes ’s ’ough I’d ortu hev one, arter all I ’ve endured in them ’ere battles.”

“Wal, if ary one on ’em gits sick on ’t, you can send Ros’ell over tu aour haouse a spell,” said Sam Lovel.

“An’ when he gits Hill’s folks an’ you all eat aout, Lovel, we ’ll give him a try down tu aour haouse,” said John Dart, in a loud, confidential whisper that was like a gust of welcome south wind to the two old men already in the lumber wagon. “Skin Flint ’ll haf ter wait awhile fur a chance tu starve Uncle Ros’ell an’ git paid for it.”

There was a stir of curiosity among the groups before the town house, and sentences were left unfinished, or finished unheard by the audience, as a stranger appeared there, a traveler, evidently, for he carried a carpet-bag, and the newness of his well-fitting clothes was worn off with far-journeying. He searched the faces that were turned toward him, not as if in quest of a familiar one, but as if for one that promised the readiest answer to a question.

“Can you tell me, sir, if old Mr. Adams is here ? ” he asked a geniallooking farmer.

“That’s him ’at’s jest got inter Joe Hill’s waggin,” was the answer, and a half dozen ready forefingers indicated the vehicle.

Giving hasty thanks for the information, the stranger, a bright, alert-looking young fellow, hurried over, and asked with some embarrassment, dividing his inquiring glances between Gran’ther Hill and the shabby old man, “Is this Mr. Adams? ”

“That’s my name, ” the latter answered, staring blankly at the questioner; and Gran’ther Hill, looking very grim, nodded in confirmation.

“Why, gran’pa, how d’ ye do?” cried the young man, in a hearty voice. “You don’t know me, do you?” he said, as the old man, still staring, responded in a maze of wonder, “Haow d’ ye du, sir ? ”

“I’m your gran’son, John White.”

“Good Lord! you hain’t! ” the old man exclaimed, half incredulous; and then, studying the smiling face: “ Oh, you be! I can see your ma’s looks in your eyes jest as plain! Oh, my good Lord! ” and he quite broke down.

The young man’s eyes were moist, and he was making futile efforts to swallow a lump in his throat. Gran’ther Hill cleared his own with a sound between a growl and a howl, and cursing under his breath his “damned ol’ dried-up gullet,” and Joseph and Sam looked intently at nothing away off in the fields, while they groped blindly in their pockets for handkerchiefs.

“I do’ know, but it kinder seems’s ’ough I ketched cold in that ’ere dumbed taown haouse,” said Joseph, snuffling. “I du reg’lar ’most every March meetin’.”

“I guess we all did,” Sam urged, with a weak little laugh.

“Well, gran’pa,” the stranger said, steadying his voice, “ where be you stayin’ ? Or shall we go over to the hotel ? ”

“I — I don’t stay nowheres, — not yit,” his grandfather replied.

“The’ hain’t no hotel!” growled Gran’ther Hill, — “nothin’ only Harmner’s cussed tarvern. You ’re a-goin’ hum ’long wi’ me, both on ye, jes’ ’s yer gran’sir sot aout tu ! Come, pile in here, young man. Hurry up yer cakes, Jozeff, an’ le’s be a-pikin’.”

The newcomer demurred in vain, and presently the party went lumbering on its homeward way.

The hand chariot of a circus could not have attracted more attention, for the news had run like wildfire through the dispersing assembly that “ol’ Uncle Ros’ell’s gran’son had come fr’m aout West arter the ol’ man, an’ was a-goin’ tu take him right off’n the taown.”

It was as wonderful as a story out of a book.

The freeholders dispersed from the town house more rapidly than they had gathered. The company of ball players on the common was reduced to the few boys whose homes were nearest. The chimney of the deserted town house was scattering on the wind the last wisp of smoke from the expiring fire as Gran’ther Hill, with his captured guests beside him, driving over the crest of Stony Brook Hill, cast a last triumphant glance back upon the scene.

Rowland E. Robinson.