SEVEN 
 
 IdreamersI 
 
 Annie-Irvji Wit; Su 
 
 Wmmmmmimm 
 
CORNELL 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
PS2859.S C 2S3 e " UniVerSi,yLibrary 
 
 Seven dreamers. 
 
 3 1924 008 904 579 
 
Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 The original of this book is in 
 the Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924008904579 
 
SEVEN DREAMERS 
 
 BY 
 
 ANNIE TRUMBULL SLOSSON 
 
 . . . "/ talk of dreams ; 
 Which are the children of an idle drain, 
 Begot of nothing but vain fantasy.''* 
 
 Romeo and Juliet 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 HARPER & BROTHERS, FRANKLIN SQUARE 
 
 1891 
 
Copyright, 1890, by Harper & Brothers. 
 
 All rights reserved. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 INTRODUCTORY I 
 
 I. HOW FAITH CAME AND WENT ... 1 3 
 
 II. BOTANY BAY 49 
 
 III. AUNT RANDY 83 
 
 iv. fishin' jimmy , m 
 
 V. BUTTERNEGGS 145 
 
 VI. DEACON PHEBY'S SELFISH NATUR . . . 1 89 
 
 VII. A SPEAKIN' GHOST 237 
 
INTRODUCTORY. 
 
 "No, I don't call Cap'n Burdick crazy," said 
 my good old friend, Aunt Charry, as we look- 
 ed out on the quiet village street. " He's right 
 enough about everything but one ; smart, fore- 
 handed, a good farmer, and a consistent church 
 member. There's only jest one little thing 
 that makes him different from other folks, and 
 that's his thinkin' that the millennium's over 
 and done with instead o' comin', and that he 
 rec'lects it all. Get him on ary other topic 
 and you'd never notice anything queer about 
 his talk. But jest as he's goin' on smooth 
 and sensible, and you thinkin' what a smart, 
 knowledgable man he is, something will be 
 sure to bring up that notion of his. And he'll 
 go on about what a beautiful time it was, and 
 how queer it looked to see the wolves dwell- 
 in' with the lambs, and the leopard layin' 
 down with the kids, and the children leadin'* 
 'em, and he'll talk so earnest about it all — his 
 voice shaky and his eyes wet — as he tells how 
 the deserts blossomed like the rose, and the 
 parched ground become a pool; how they 
 
2 INTRODUCTORY. 
 
 beat up their swords into ploughshares and 
 their spears into prunin'-hooks, that you can't 
 misdoubt he believes it every single word; 
 and when he says, real low and softly, 'And 
 sorrer and sighin' did all flee away,' why, 
 you're nigh onto believin' it yourself, and 
 wishin' you'd lived in them days. Now, that 
 isn't bein' crazy; it's jest kind o' dreamin'. 
 I've had dreams myself jest as real and nat'ral 
 as that, and couldn't scasly believe sometimes 
 after I woke up that they hadn't act'ally 
 happened. But you see I did wake up, and 
 the cap'n never has. That's the difference. 
 There's lots o' that sort ; dreamin' awake's 
 about as common's dreamin' asleep. That's 
 what I hold. And as long as the dreams are 
 pleasant, comfortable ones — not nightmares, 
 o' course — why, I sometimes think the people 
 that lives in 'em are about as happy as other 
 folks, and maybe happier. I'm sure they're a 
 sight more interestin' to talk with. You see, 
 they've got somethin' that don't change, and 
 that's a dreadful comfort in this alterin' and 
 twistin' and turnin' world. Real things allers 
 have to alter somehow here; make-believe 
 ones don't. So, with these dreamin' folks, 
 crops may fail, their creaturs die, their chil- 
 dren dishonor 'em, elections go wrong, and 
 church meetin's get off the right track — every- 
 
INTRODUCTORY. 3 
 
 thing real may be in a stir and a mix and 
 a muddle — but their dreams go right straight 
 along, allers jest the same, smooth and quiet 
 and peaceful like. 
 
 "And they've got what they want, too, in 
 them dreams, and if they waked up — in this 
 world, I mean — they wouldn't have it. There's 
 everything in the Bible, ain't they ? I'm for- 
 ever a-quotin' from it, as you know. Folks 
 laugh at me about it, but somehow there's al- 
 lers somethin' there that expresses my mean- 
 in' better'n I could put it into talk myself. 
 I'm readin' it in course, now, and only the 
 other day I come to a place in Isaiah where it 
 treats 0' this, and it says, 'A hungry man 
 dreameth, and, behold, he eateth ; but he awak- 
 eth, and his soul is empty: a thirsty man 
 dreameth, and, behold, he drinketh; but he 
 awaketh, and, behold, he is faint.' And so 'tis. 
 
 "Why, I 'most wish I could dream that way 
 myself, and so have somethin' that didn't and 
 couldn't ever happen divert my mind,'s they 
 say, from the things that allers are a-happenin'. 
 
 "There was Uncle Enoch Stark, over to 
 Derby Plains; he was one of the contentedest 
 men I ever knew. His dream was about his 
 sister Lucilly, that died a baby afore he was 
 born, and how she was still livin' and out 
 West somewheres. It don't seem much to 
 
4 INTRODUCTORY. 
 
 tell of, but I can tell you it made a wonderful 
 difference in that old man's life. You see, he 
 hadn't any folks, and he'd 'a' been mighty 
 lonesome. But there was allers somethin' 
 happenin' to Lucilly or her family — she had a 
 large one, it seems — and it give him enough 
 to think on. He was forever a-plannin' to go 
 and see her; went so fur sometimes as to 
 pack his carpet-bag. But 'twas too much of 
 a undertakin', and he give it up. When he 
 took his last sickness he wanted Lucilly sent 
 for, but he went off sudden, and hadn't any 
 time to worry about it. And I sometimes try 
 to guess what he thought and said and done 
 when he saw the real Lucilly in the next 
 world — jest a baby, you know, that died o' 
 teethin'. But there, I know 'twas all right 
 then, 'Like a dream when one awaketh,' as 
 the Bible says. 
 
 "And in New Granby, where I was born, 
 you know, there was Lucy Ann Breed, a mas- 
 ter-hand at dreamin', 1 can tell you. For 
 what do you think her notion was but that 
 she writ the Pilgrim's Progress! Poor Lucy 
 Ann! Folks called her crazy, and made sech 
 fun of her! But she was a hard-workin', pa- 
 tient, self-denyin' woman, and smarter than 
 many o' them that laughed at her. She had a 
 crippled brother with the rickets, and did for 
 
INTRODUCTORY. 5 
 
 him year after year, though 'twas a pretty hard 
 struggle sometimes. But her queer dream 
 fetched her right along through everything. 
 You wouldn't 'a' thought it so dreadful funny, 
 neither, if you'd seen her face — she was real 
 homely and hard-featur'd — kind o' light up as 
 she was talkin', like Steeple Rock there when 
 the sun shines on it. She was a Christian, 
 if there ever was one, and she was so humble 
 and thankful to think she'd gone and done so 
 much good to souls with her 'poor little book.' 
 ' 'Tain't me,' she'd say, the tears a-rainin' 
 down her thin, sailer face; 'don't praise me; 
 'twas put into my heart to do it, and I jest 
 writ what was telled me.' 
 
 "Well, she's awake now, but she's 'satis- 
 fied,' for Scripter says so. And maybe she's 
 met old Mr. Bunyan himself afore now. I 
 guess he won't begrudge her the comfort she 
 got out o' thinkin' she made up his book, for 
 he was sort o' given to dreamin' himself, you 
 know. 
 
 "Why, I haven't ever lived or been in a New 
 England village myself where there wasn't one 
 or more sech folks. You've known some 
 yourself, too. You rec'lect Wrestlin' Billy, that 
 lived on Double Pond, I know. Now, did you 
 ever meet a much better man than him ? Pi- 
 ous, pray in', quiet, peace -makin', char' table; 
 
6 INTRODUCTORY. 
 
 he was all that, and more. But some time 
 or other, you know, Billy'd dreamed that he'd 
 wrestled once with a angel, like Jacob, and he 
 never waked up out o' that dream. But what 
 harm come of it, anyway ? I hold that he 
 was a better man for it, somehow. You've 
 heard him tell about it, haven't you? Don't 
 you rec'lect how earnest and excited he'd get, 
 so proud, and yet humble at the same time, 
 tellin' o' that awful fight in the night-time, 
 when he couldn't see who he was a-strugglin' 
 with ? Wasn't it creepy and scarey to hear 
 him cry out, so loud and shrill like, ' I will not 
 let thee go except thou bless me ?' 
 
 "My! my! 1 never could keep from believ- 
 in' in that story while he was a-tellin' it, could 
 you ? nor from bein' glad, either, when 'twas 
 all over, the break o' day come, and Billy 
 had pervailed. Don't you know how tired 
 out he'd look after the wrestlin' part was end- 
 ed, and how he'd wipe off his face and catch 
 his breath and whisper out.'s well as he could, 
 'An' he blessed me there ?' 
 
 "And there was Jerry Whaples, o' Groton 
 Corners; I don't know but his idee was the 
 unusualest of any I've come acrost, for he took 
 for his motter and watchword and war-cry, 
 as you might say, through his whole life long, 
 a verse from the Bible that never seemed to 
 
INTRODUCTORY. 7 
 
 have much meanin' to anybody else. But it 
 jest helped him along through everything. 
 It's in Isaiah; I've looked it up lots o' times, 
 and tried to get some comfort out of it: 'At 
 Michmash he hath laid up his carriages.' 
 Ain't that queer, now ? Think o' that for a 
 help and a comfort and a restin'-place ! But 
 'twas all that to Jerry. He had awful troubles 
 — lost his wife and every child, one after the 
 other; had his house and barn burned down 
 — had sickness and sorrer and trouble. But 
 through everything that passage, that seems 
 so holler and empty o' comfort or even mean- 
 in' to us, by itself, carried him safe along. 
 I've heard him say it in sech dreadful times, 
 enough to make a man's faith give way, I 
 tell you. And when it come out in that trem- 
 blin' voice, and him a-smilin' through his 
 cryin', why, it some way appeared even to 
 me to have somethin' deep and holy and 
 comfortin' in the sound. 'At Michmash he 
 hath laid up his carriages.' I can't laugh about 
 it as some do. I believe some way there is a 
 meanin' to it, and 'twas showed to old Jerry 
 in his dream. For a verse that lifts a bein' 
 out o' sech dreadful pits o' sorrer, strengthens 
 him in battle, and comforts him till he can 
 smile even through his cryin', and what's 
 more, helps him to die the death o' the right- 
 
8 INTRODUCTORY. 
 
 eous — for 'twas what he stammered out, a 
 word at a time, jest before he shet his eyes 
 forever — why, it must, it must have somethin' 
 to it we're too wide-awake to get hold of. 
 Yes, he jest breathed it out at the last, so low 
 that they couldn't hardly catch it, 'At Mich- 
 mash,' says he, softly, and smilin' 's he speaks, 
 ' he — hath — laid up — his — carriages, ' and he 
 was gone! 
 
 "Reuben Davison, down Bethel way, that 
 allers had a child's high-chair put close by him 
 at table, he must 'a' been dreamin' somethin', 
 though nobody ever knew what. He'd never 
 had chick nor child of his own, as fur's any 
 one knew, and he was a hard, harsh kind o' 
 man. But they tell me there was a terr'ble 
 soft, lovin' sort o' look would come all over 
 his featur's sometimes when he looked at that 
 chair — jest a plain, cheap wooden one, you 
 know, but a child's, and high. 
 
 "Deacon Levi, as they called him, who 
 used to go to the door on dark stormy nights 
 and hold up a lantern's if he was lightin' 
 some one home, and call out so kind o' piti- 
 ful, 'Mary, Mary;' old Mis' Prentice, over in 
 Bradley, a real meek, softly little woman, who 
 allers declared to the last that she'd been a 
 pirate years ago, but was a changed woman 
 now; 'Perpetual Motion Neddy,' from acrost 
 
INTRODUCTORY. 9 
 
 the river; Dr. Weaver, that shet himself up 
 the tenth o' every month, and wore a woman's 
 bonnet from sunrise to sunset — they were all 
 a-dreamin', dreamin', every soul of 'em. 
 
 "They have different names for sech folks. 
 They say they're ' cracked,' they've 'got a 
 screw loose,' they're 'a little off,' they 'ain't 
 all there,' and so on. But nothin' accounts 
 for their notions so well to my mind as to say 
 they're all jest dreamin'. It's the way o' the 
 world to laugh at 'em, and it allers was, back 
 to the time when Joseph's brothers got to- 
 gether and whispered about him, and said, 
 'Behold, this dreamer cometh.' But they'd 
 be missed, I tell you, out o' the village they 
 live in — they're mostly country folks, you 
 know — more'n some o' the wide-awake ones. 
 I'm sure I rec'lect some o' them I've known 
 years back better than ary other folks, and I 
 think of 'em more frequent. And I'm glad — 
 I ain't ashamed to say it — that they never 
 waked up this side o' heaven, 'till the day 
 breaks and the shadders flee away,' 's Script- 
 er says. And what's more, I believe — when 
 they look back on those soothin', sleepy, com- 
 fortin' idees o' theirn, that somehow helped 
 'em along through all the pesterin' worry and 
 frettin' trouble o' this world — I believe, I say, 
 that they're glad too. You'll think I'm no 
 
IO INTRODUCTORY. 
 
 more'n a dreamer myself when I tell you that 
 sometimes as 1 set here, thinkin' I can 'most 
 hear 'em, one after another, speakin' from 'way 
 up there somewheres and sayin', in the words 
 o' Scripter, 'I awaked and beheld, and my 
 sleep was sweet unto me.' " 
 
I. 
 
 HOW FAITH CAME AND WENT. 
 
 "A dream of home, a dreatu of home.'' 
 
 Moore. 
 
HOW FAITH CAME AND WENT. 
 
 I have never told the story till now. No 
 one ever knew it all except Max and me, and 
 Max is dead. She is gone, too, poor child ; 
 so no one can be troubled by the tale, and 
 I should like to tell the whole truth before 
 I too go away. I need not go further back 
 than the day she first came to us ; the story 
 really begins there. Of Max's life before that 
 day, and of mine, no one will care to hear, 
 and I do not care to speak. Max was a doc- 
 tor, and a good one, I think, having many 
 patients, who loved and trusted him well. 
 He was not yet thirty, but he seemed older, 
 being grave and quiet — made so by things 
 which had happened in that past of which I 
 am not going to speak — and I was his sister, 
 ten years older; a plain, shy, silent woman, 
 but the only one he had ever loved, for he 
 did not remember his mother. We lived 
 together in Sudbury, a little New England 
 
14 SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 village, and there we were quietly happy in 
 our small but cosey house. 
 
 I am an old woman now, but I remember 
 as if it were yesterday just how everything 
 looked on that day — the day my story begins. 
 The village street ran east and west ; our 
 house, with its little yard in front, stood on 
 that street and faced the south. It was early 
 in June, but the season was backward ; my 
 roses were as yet only green buds, but I had 
 been at work among them, fastening a spray 
 here, picking off there a dead leaf, and brush- 
 ing the dust away. The sun was low ; it 
 was late afternoon ; I walked to the gate and 
 looked down the street, for it was time to 
 expect Max. I can see that street now just 
 as it looked then. A heavy farm wagon was 
 lumbering along, raising clouds of dust — there 
 had been little rain that spring — and as I look- 
 ed towards the west the sun, so low down 
 then, shone through that dusty cloud, and 
 made it like yellow gold in the air, and 
 through that misty brightness she was com- 
 ing to me. From the west, down the village 
 street, I saw a figure walking towards me. It 
 
HOW FAITH CAME AND WENT. 1 5 
 
 was a young girl, slight and rather tall. I 
 could not see her face plainly against the 
 brightness, and I waited for her. I knew all 
 the young folk of the village, and they had 
 ever a pleasant word or smile for the doctor's 
 old-maid sister. But as I stood at the open 
 gate looking towards her, I saw that she was 
 a stranger. I had never seen that slight young 
 form, the pretty head, with the bright loose 
 hair about the forehead, seeming part of the 
 sunset's misty glow, those soft brown eyes, 
 that wistful mouth. Yes, she was certainly a 
 stranger; but, as I thought this, a smile, which 
 was surely a recognizing one, broke over the 
 face, and the light steps were quickened. I 
 had seen that she wore a simple print gown of 
 blue and white, and that her straw hat with its 
 blue ribbon was swinging by its looped strings 
 upon one arm. With a half-impatient, weary 
 air she shook back her light loose hair, and 
 stretching out towards me her small, pretty 
 hands, she said: "You are waiting for me. 
 Oh, I am so glad to be at home!" 
 
 People nowadays are taught to take to 
 pieces and examine their feelings, and after- 
 
1 6 SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 wards explain them to others. I never learn- 
 ed this, and I cannot tell you, after all these 
 years, just how I felt when this strange young 
 thing, whom I had never before seen, looked 
 at and spoke to me thus, but I know I was 
 greatly amazed. For an instant I felt a bodily 
 dizziness, as when I had suddenly risen from 
 stooping over my flower-beds ; my head 
 swam, and before I could speak, the sweet, 
 childish voice began again: "Am I late? I 
 have taken such a long walk, and it grew so 
 warm ! You are not vexed with me ?" And 
 the two small, pretty hands clasped my arm, 
 while the brown, soft eyes looked into mine. 
 
 What I should have said I do not know 
 There is no use in trying to guess that, for at 
 that very instant I saw Max coming. He was 
 at the gate almost before I knew it, and look- 
 ing curiously at us two. Then I found my 
 voice, and gasped out, ' ' Oh, Max !" That was 
 all. But at the words the child turned towards 
 him with a bright look of welcome, but no 
 surprise, and with a faint, soft blush, said, in 
 her low, sweet voice, " Dear Max!" 
 
 When I try to remember the look that came 
 
HOW FAITH CAME AND WENT. 1 7 
 
 upon my brother's face at these words I find 
 that I am looking at it in the light of what 
 came afterwards; and it seems as if even then 
 there was no start of wonder, no amaze, only 
 gladness and answering love in that look as 
 he bent it on her. But I know that I turned 
 quickly towards him, and tried to convey by 
 a look the thought which had just come to me, 
 the feeling that the child's mind was astray, 
 and we must aid her. That he read my mean- 
 ing at once was owing to no skill of mine, but 
 to his own quickness — Max was so clever al- 
 ways. Taking the little hand she had laid 
 upon his arm, he said, in a quiet, natural voice, 
 
 "Let us go into the house now and have 
 our tea." 
 
 And we all went in. As we entered the lit- 
 tle sitting-room the girl, walking with no un- 
 certain tread, but as if she knew the place, 
 took her hand from Max's arm and stepped 
 lightly towards the looking-glass which hung 
 between the windows. 
 
 "Oh, how my hair is blown about!" she 
 said, with a laugh in her voice. "Shall I run 
 up-stairs and smooth it ?" 
 2 
 
IS SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 "No, dear. Just come into my room now, 
 you are so tired." And I led the way into my 
 little bedroom on the first floor, and left her 
 there. Then in hurried words I told Max all I 
 knew. "There is something wrong with the 
 brain," he said, "and she has wandered away 
 from her friends. Do not excite or startle her; 
 let her rest quietly to-night, and we will de- 
 cide what course to take." 
 
 Then she came back to us, and we had our 
 tea. She was quiet, seeming tired, but there 
 was no flush of fever on her face, no wild, 
 unsettled look in the soft brown eyes. Max 
 talked, told of his patients, spoke of the village 
 news, and sometimes the girl would say some- 
 thing of her walk, of the sunset, of the flowers 
 on the table — always in that strangely sweet 
 childish voice, which seemed then, as ever 
 afterwards, the best music I had ever heard. 
 Then, later, she went, quite of her own ac- 
 cord, to the piano, and ran her fingers over the 
 keys, playing little bits, some new and strange 
 to us, some old and familiar. Then her voice 
 sounded faint but sweet as she sang softly to 
 herself. Suddenly the strain grew louder, and 
 
HOW FAITH CAME AND WENT. 1 9 
 
 we knew the air and words, and looked 
 quickly at each other. 
 
 The dear old song heard so long ago, in our 
 very childhood, and never since till now. 
 
 " The old days, the dear days, where are they ?" 
 
 So it rang out, as from that far-away past, and 
 we forgot the present — forgot the strangely 
 quiet child sitting there in the dim summer 
 twilight, and thought only of our dead. 
 
 " The old days, the dear days, where are they ?" 
 
 The voice died away, the sad questioning was 
 stilled, and a little form sank quietly to the 
 floor, and lay there white and still. 
 
 That was the beginning of a long and terri- 
 ble illness, a kind of brain-fever, but with some 
 complications which seemed to puzzle the doc- 
 tors, one and all, for Max called to his aid other, 
 but I am sure not wiser, heads. And all the 
 time most careful and diligent search, was 
 made for the child's friends — for some clew to 
 the mystery of her, coming — but all in vain. 
 Advertisements, inquiries, and even the assist- 
 ance of experienced detectives all failed utterly. 
 She had been seen at the far end of the village 
 
20 SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 street, and from there onward to our door, on 
 the afternoon she came to us, but further back 
 than that we could not trace her. She herself 
 could not be questioned. For many days she 
 knew no one, and lay sometimes in a strange 
 quiet almost like death itself, then again in de- 
 lirium, with quick excited talk. But from no 
 speech of hers could we learn anything save 
 that she was gently bred, and that there seem- 
 ed nothing in her young soul that was not 
 white and sweet. So the days went on. We 
 had laid her in the airy pleasant bedroom up- 
 stairs, where years before our little sister slept, 
 the young sister whom we had laid away with 
 many tears in the sad past. And while watch- 
 ing and nursing the young stranger there in 
 that sacred room we grew at times almost to 
 think that our dead was again with us, and 
 we loved her as our own. Max was unwea- 
 ried in his care, watching day and night, and I 
 was almost always at her bedside. There was 
 nothing painful or distressing in the girl's talk, 
 even when most excited. Hour after hour the 
 sweet voice would run on, telling of childish 
 play, of country sights and sounds, of lessons 
 
HOW FAITH CAME AND WENT. 21 
 
 learned, of work, or play, or study. I need not 
 tell you that we watched eagerly for names, 
 either of people or places, which should aid 
 us in our search for her friends ; but nothing 
 came. She spoke of ' ' the hill, " "the bridge, " 
 of ' ' down the river ;" she called the ' ' girls" and 
 the ".children," she asked why the "horses" 
 did not come, and if the "grass" was cut. But 
 that was all. In her whole illness of many 
 weeks no name ever passed her lips, and all 
 her past was still a sealed book to us, when 
 one day in midsummer the wandering, far- 
 away look left her eyes, and the soul came 
 back to the child. 
 
 Max and I were both with her; no one else 
 was there. She had been sleeping a long time 
 sweetly and quietly. Again and again I had 
 bent over her, and seen the white lids still shut 
 down, and heard the soft regular breathing. 
 But at last, as I stood at her side and Max sat 
 by the window, both of us looking at the pale 
 thin face upon the pillow, the brown eyes open- 
 ed, and we saw, both of us at once, that she 
 seemed to know us. We were silent, watch- 
 ful, for an instant, and then saw the eyes 
 
22 SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 turn towards the window, a light come into 
 them, the hands reach feebly out towards the 
 sunlight and him, and she murmured, as on 
 that first June day when she came to us, 
 "Dear Max!" 
 
 Ah, well, I find 1 cannot remember it all as 
 well as I thought I could. What did Max do 
 then, what did I do, as we saw that with the 
 light of reason there yet came no light upon 
 the child's past ? I do not seem to recall the 
 steps by which we came to see that she was 
 our own, a part of our present lives, belonging 
 to us and to our history, and to no one else on 
 earth, and that we could no more send her 
 from us than we could have driven away our 
 own flesh and blood. 
 
 As far as we could see, she had no past. If 
 God had made her newly that June day, and 
 set her down fresh and sweet and unstained 
 in our village street on that golden summer 
 afternoon, she could not have seemed more 
 wholly devoid of a history, a hitherto. Her 
 convalescence was slow, she was so very 
 weak, and she could learn of us, of our life, 
 and of all her surroundings gradually, a little at 
 
HOW FAITH CAME AND WENT. 23 
 
 a time, as a child learns its home and friends. 
 She may have learned in that way; I do not 
 know; but nothingiever seemed as if new and 
 strange to her, or appeared to surprise her as 
 unfamiliar. I can never remember when she 
 first spoke my name. Max called me by it — 
 Ruth — and she soon used the name as though 
 she had always known it. In the days of her 
 great feebleness she spoke little but our names 
 and the names of the things she needed or 
 wished for. As she grew stronger she talked 
 more with us, but it was of the things about 
 her, of her illness and our loving care. 
 
 "How long have I been sick?" she asked, 
 one day, and we told her. "Yes," she said. 
 "It is August now — is it not? — and I was 
 taken ill that day in June after my long walk." 
 And again she said, "It seems like a dream, 
 these long weeks, and I remember nothing 
 distinctly since I sat singing to you and Max 
 that last evening." 
 
 Among the doctors who were called in to 
 see her during her illness was one who was 
 skilled in nervous ailments, and who knew, 
 oh, so much ! of the workings of the brain. 
 
24 SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 He seemed wonderfully interested in the pa- 
 tient, and watched her closely and curiously. 
 I used to hear him and Max talking, and tried 
 to understand, but I could not follow them. It 
 was all about the little girl's brain, and the part 
 of it which had gone wrong, and the "gray 
 matter" there, and how it would come all 
 right with returning health, and she would 
 have the past again which she had lost, and 
 know that the present and we and our lives 
 were new and foreign, and not her own. I 
 knew they were very wise, and that I was very 
 ignorant, but I could not feel that they were 
 right in this. Perhaps I did not want to be- 
 lieve it; for I loved her so, and I was begin- 
 ning to be jealous of a past in which we — Max 
 and I — had no part. I liked to think that she 
 was all our own, that God gave her to us, all 
 new and fresh in her young girlhood, and yet 
 with a kind of memory of things in eur past 
 which somehow made it her own, and drew 
 her to us. I am growing sadly confused, and 
 am quite beyond my depth, 1 see. You can- 
 not understand, and I cannot put it into better 
 words. But who could see the love that shone 
 
HOW FAITH CAME AND WENT. 25 
 
 in her face when she looked at us, the child- 
 like trust and confidence in us, and believe 
 that she had not at least dreamed of us before ? 
 And, oh, how can I tell you of her feeling tow- 
 ards Max ? No one could possibly mistake 
 that. There was no room for doubt. She gave 
 him the love a girl gives only to her promised 
 husband. Something — I know not what — 
 had given her the right to love him so, to claim 
 his love. And Max loved her. I tell it abrupt- 
 ly, but it did not come as a sudden revelation 
 to me. I seemed to know it from the first, 
 and without any surprise, as if I had watched 
 the love-story in its very beginning, and knew 
 how it would end. And so, without asking of 
 his or consent of hers (unless in some dream- 
 land we knew nothing of), they were plighted 
 lovers. Perhaps you will wonder that we did 
 not, as she grew stronger, question her as to 
 her history. We dared not, for fear of startling 
 her, and frightening away the reason which 
 had just come back. The doctors agreed in 
 this, that we should not trouble her with ques- 
 tions, but wait with what patience we could 
 for the memory which they believed would 
 
26 SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 soon return. We did not yet know what to 
 call her. Her clothing was without mark of 
 any kind, and she had never spoken of herself 
 by any name. I have said that in the years 
 gone by we had lost a young sister. That sis- 
 ter's name was Faith, and it was dearer to us 
 both than any name on earth. The dead girl's 
 picture hung in the sitting-room down-stairs, 
 and the first day that our patient was carried 
 there, and placed on the sofa under the win- 
 dows, she seemed attracted by the sweet face 
 in the picture. She lay looking at it a long 
 time silently, and at last I said, "Do you think 
 our little sister Faith is like me ?" 
 
 "No," she answered, thoughtfully; "I can 
 never see any look in her face like yours, 
 though I often look for it. I have always been 
 glad that my name was Faith, like hers. I 
 think you love me better for that." And so it 
 was we came to call her by that dear name, 
 and for her other name we gave her ours. 
 
 You will not wonder that in our quiet little 
 village the story of our strange guest made 
 much stir and talk. We said as little as pos- 
 sible of the matter, but such things come soon 
 
HOW FAITH CAME AND WENT. 27 
 
 to be known among people who have little 
 excitement in their dull lives. The notices in- 
 serted in the local papers, the inquiries made, 
 the famous doctors' visits, the general air of 
 mystery about our visitor and her illness, were 
 talked and gossiped of in spite of all we could 
 do. And I saw that this pained Max greatly. 
 As the days went on, and no word came to us 
 from any one who might claim the girl, and as 
 the tie between him and her grew stronger 
 and tenderer, he shrank from any questioning 
 into the matter, even from me, and the village 
 talk was intolerable; and so it came about that 
 he accepted an offer made him some months 
 before, and we left forever our old home, and 
 went to a town hundreds of miles distant, 
 where our story was unknown. And here 
 our little Faith, bearing our name and living 
 with us, was supposed to be some relative, 
 and known also as Max's betrothed. 
 
 You would hardly think that a person 
 without a past, or at least lacking the memo- 
 ry of one, would seem so like other people, 
 and show the want so little. I cannot tell 
 you why this was so, but certainly no one 
 
28 SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 appeared to notice anything strange about the 
 girl, and we ourselves almost forgot at times 
 how she had come to us. I can remember, 
 as I look back, some things she said, which 
 from time to time recalled the mystery of her 
 former life, and made us wonder again, as at 
 first, if we should ever know more. One day 
 we had been reading together a story which 
 told of a mother's devotion — a pretty tale 
 — and Faith was very thoughtful afterwards. 
 She sat looking into the fire silently, and then 
 startled me by asking: 
 
 " Ruth, do I remember my mother?" 
 "What do you think, dear ?" I said. 
 She answered slowly, as if trying to recall 
 something: "Sometimes I think I do, not as a 
 person whose face or form I can at all remem- 
 ber, but as a love, a tenderness, a great beau- 
 tiful care all about me, something that pitied 
 2nd was sorry for me, and — " Her voice died 
 away, and she sat thinking again; then sud- 
 denly said, "But it goes away, and then it is 
 you 1 remember, and all your goodness to 
 me." She left her seat, and coming over to 
 me, knelt down, and putting her arms about 
 
HOW FAITH CAME AND WENT. 29 
 
 me, said, "I have not needed my mother, dear 
 Ruth, you have been so good, so loving ; I 
 have not needed anything with you and Max." 
 I was so glad she said that ! Were we indeed 
 taking the place of anything bright and beau- 
 tiful she might have had in that unknown 
 world of hers ? 
 
 Certainly she was very happy. I do not say 
 much of the love which she and Max bore 
 each other; it is something I cannot talk of. 
 Max had never loved before; his had been a 
 troubled life, with many cares and some bitter 
 sorrows. And his whole heart went out with 
 a mighty love towards this fair young thing, 
 who came to him that summer day from some 
 unknown world where she had loved and 
 trusted and belonged to him while yet he 
 knew it not. They were to be married in 
 June. "I will wait a year," Max had said to 
 me. "If we hear nothing before that time, I 
 shall surely have the right to take her for my 
 wife." 
 
 I have said that during her illness no name 
 ever passed her lips. But afterwards, in the 
 winter, she spoke two or three names we did 
 
30 SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 not know. She had taken a slight cold, and 
 was somewhat feverish. I had gone to her 
 bedside before I slept to give her a good-night 
 kiss. As 1 stooped over her she said, drowsi- 
 ly, as if half asleep, "Are we going back to 
 Greenmore to-morrow?" I caught at the 
 name — the first she had ever spoken which 
 might tell us anything — and asked, "Where 
 is Greenmore, Faith ?" She opened her eyes 
 wider, looked strangely at me for just one in- 
 stant, then said, "I meant Sudbury;" and fur- 
 ther questioning brought nothing more. She 
 did not know Greenmore; she meant Sud- 
 bury, so she kept saying. But I told Max, and 
 he agreed with me that we must follow out 
 this new clew. No town bearing the name 
 of Greenmore could be found. You may be 
 sure that though Max dreaded unspeakably 
 finding those who might take our little one 
 away, still he was conscientious and pains- 
 taking in his search. But he sought in vain. 
 When we had quite given up the search there 
 was found in an old town history, among 
 some books belonging to our father, the name 
 we were looking for; but it was given as the 
 
HOW FAITH CAME AND WENT. _?I 
 
 ancient name of a village now bearing another 
 and quite different one. However, Max went 
 there, taking a long journey to the spot. He 
 found a busy manufacturing village called Mill- 
 burg, and was assured that it had never borne 
 any other name. But on looking up and ques- 
 tioning some of the oldest inhabitants he was 
 told that the first site of the town was on a 
 bleak hill several miles away. Many years ago 
 it had been deserted, and the inhabitants had 
 come down into a more fertile and better wa- 
 tered spot, and built their new village there, 
 and the old town had been called Greenmore. 
 That v/as more than sixty years ago. Max 
 visited the desolate spot, saw its few ruined 
 buildings, the wooden walls black with time 
 and wear, the windows gone, and came away 
 with a strange wonder growing upon him. 
 Where had she heard the name of this de- 
 serted, dreary, old-time place? Had she by 
 chance met it in the old book where we first 
 came across it, and which she might have 
 taken from the shelf, where she often han- 
 dled the volumes ? Perhaps so ; I cannot ex- 
 plain it thus. It is only a part of the mys- 
 
^2 SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 tery to me. It was not meant for us to under- 
 stand. 
 
 Another name came several times from her 
 lips. The first time was when, as in the case 
 I last mentioned, she was ill. She had been 
 suffering for several days with headache, and 
 had with it some fever and restlessness. It 
 was late in November, and during the night 
 a light snow had fallen, the first snow of the 
 season. Max rose early, wishing to see a pa- 
 tient before breakfast, and as the office boy 
 had not yet come, he went himself outside, 
 and wrapped in a rough, thick overcoat, not 
 worn since the last winter, began sweeping 
 the snow from the path. Just then Faith came 
 from her room, and went to the window of 
 the sitting-room. She had not known of the 
 snow, and was all unprepared for the white 
 world she saw. 1 was standing near her, and 
 saw a curious look come over her face. I can- 
 not say what made it seem so strange, but it 
 was as if a little child had waked in some 
 unfamiliar spot, and was half frightened, half 
 pleased. Then her eyes fell upon Max at his 
 work, and a cry — I shall never forget it; it 
 
HOW FAITH CAME AND WENT. 33 
 
 was made up of rapture, wonder, fear — came 
 from her parted lips: "It's John!" I caught 
 her in my arms, and in an instant — oh, I can- 
 not tell you how quickly, how suddenly — that 
 strangely mingled look fell away from her like 
 a mask, and her face, a little pale and wistful, 
 but my own little girl's face again, looked up 
 at me, as she said, "Oh, Ruth, for a minute 
 I did not know Max; I think the snow daz- 
 zled my eyes." And she was her own happy, 
 sweet self again. 
 
 In the sitting-room of our new home there 
 was an open fireplace, but it was closed by a 
 fire-board such as those in use at that time, 
 and as the weather was still warm when we 
 moved into the house, we had never had a 
 fire made there. One chilly day in late Oc- 
 tober, when Max had gone to see a patient 
 some miles away, I thought I would give him 
 a pleasant greeting when he returned from his 
 cold ride by lighting a cheery wood fire. It 
 was soon done, with the help of my little 
 maid. I had a pair of tall brass andirons which 
 had belonged to my mother, and they had 
 been carefully packed and brought with us 
 
 3 
 
^4 SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 from Sudbury. These were set in place, the 
 hickory logs piled on, the kindling laid under- 
 neath and lighted, and soon my fire was blaz- 
 ing and roaring and sending up showers of 
 sparks. I sat down before it in the large high- 
 backed chair which had been my father's, and 
 so fell to dreaming, as one does in the fire- 
 light. The time slipped away, and the room 
 grew dark, save where the light of my cheer- 
 ful fire fell. Suddenly I heard a quick, light 
 step, the door opened, and Faith came in. My 
 back was towards the door, and before I could 
 turn or speak, she called in her clear, sweet 
 voice, "Grandfather, are you there?" 
 
 1 was silent, being rather startled, and she 
 came slowly across the room feeling her way 
 in the darkness by chairs and table, and as she 
 came she said again, more softly, as though 
 afraid of waking some one: "Grandfather, is 
 it you ? Are you asleep ?" 
 
 Then I turned, and speaking very quietly 
 and naturally, said: "It's I, Faith; come and 
 see my very pleasant fire." 
 
 She was at my side in an instant, stooping 
 down and looking curiously into my face, a 
 
HOW FAITH CAME AND WENT. 35 
 
 frightened look in her eyes. I laid my hand 
 on hers and said: "You did not expect to 
 see the fire, did you ? And the lamps are not 
 lighted, so you could hardly see me." 
 
 "Yes, yes," she said; "that is the reason. 
 I am confused — it is all so strange. 1 thought 
 — I cannot remember what I thought ; but it 
 is all right now, and you are here, my dear 
 quiet Ruth." 
 
 At another time, our little servant being ab- 
 sent, I asked Faith to go down to the kitchen 
 pantry for something I needed. She did not 
 return, and after waiting some minutes I went 
 down after her. I found her standing in the 
 pantry before a large basket of winter apples 
 which had just been sent home from the mar- 
 ket, the first we had seen. They were of dif- 
 ferent sorts, and made a pretty picture with 
 their red, yellow, green, and russet tints; so 
 1 did not wonder the child was attracted by 
 them. But as I came in she said, without 
 looking up : " Isn't it too bad ? There are no 
 Dennison reddings here, and John does not care 
 much for any other apples. May I go and see 
 if there are any left on the tree by the well ?" 
 
j6 SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 How strange it sounded ! Of course there 
 was no well in our little town garden, and I 
 had never before heard of a Dennison redding 
 apple; and oh, who, who was John ? 
 
 One day Max brought home with him from 
 the hospital a little boy that had been brought 
 to the city for medical treatment, from the 
 country, some miles away. His father was a 
 farmer, and the boy was quite unused to city 
 sights and sounds, and very homesick. So 
 Max with his kindly heart brought him to us 
 for comfort. 
 
 As soon as she saw him Faith seemed 
 strangely drawn towards him. She did not 
 make many close friends outside our home, 
 but she took the little lonesome boy at once 
 into her heart. Every day she went to the 
 hospital and brought him home to spend hours 
 with us, and she was never so happy as when 
 playing with or talking to her little friend. 
 His name was Robert, but she always called 
 him David, though he strongly objected to the 
 name. 
 
 "What do you call me that for ?" he asked, 
 in blunt boyish fashion. 
 
HOW FAITH CAME AND WENT. J] 
 
 "Because you look like David," she an- 
 swered, "and I sometimes think that you are 
 really he." 
 
 1 suppose she was thinking of the boy Da- 
 vid in the Bible, "ruddy and of a fair counte- 
 nance," for his cheeks were like red apples, 
 his eyes blue, his hair like flax. Such long, 
 long talks as they had ! He was about ten 
 years old, and a real country boy — plain, prac- 
 tical, sometimes acting a little rough, though 
 good-hearted and kindly. It was odd to see 
 them together, so strongly unlike, she in her 
 pretty daintiness, with soft, loving little ways 
 of her own, and he a farmer's boy, in his 
 coarse, ill-fitting clothes, with blunt speech 
 and awkward manners. As they sat together 
 she would put her arm about him and draw 
 him close to her, often stooping to press a 
 kiss upon his yellow curls. But he would 
 push her from him, with a boy's dislike to 
 such demonstrations, and say, "Don't do that; 
 1 hate it." 
 
 "But you used to like it, David," she would 
 say, gently, with a puzzled look. 
 
 "No, I didn't," the boy would answer; 
 
j}8 SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 "and my name is Robert. I keep telling and 
 telling you." 
 
 She loved best to hear stories of his life at 
 the farm — the simple, easy life there, of the 
 cows and sheep, the pastures, the dairy, the 
 hay -making, the corn -planting. Her eyes 
 would shine, her face light up, as he told the 
 tale in homely phrases, and she would draw 
 him again to her with an almost passionate 
 fondness, and cry, "Oh, David, was it not 
 beautiful, our life at the farm ?" 
 
 You see, she thought to please the boy by 
 playing that she had been there with him, and 
 remembered it all. But he was too practical 
 for such fancies, and would retort : 
 
 " How do you know what 'twas like ? You 
 never was there ; and 1 tell you again my 
 name m«7 David; it's Robert." 
 
 And she in her turn would tell him stories. 
 I suppose she took them from books, for sure- 
 ly in such a summer- land as she must have 
 come from to us there could have been no 
 deep drifts of snow, no strayed and frost-chill- 
 ed Iambs, no ice-ponds on which to slide or 
 skate, no bright frosty mornings with jingling 
 
HOW FAITH CAME AND WENT. 39 
 
 sleigh-bells out-doors and roaring wood fires 
 within. 
 
 It was a sad day when the boy left us for 
 his home. Faith clung to him as if she could 
 never let him go, kissing his ruddy cheeks, his 
 flaxen hair, his rough, red little hands. 
 
 "Tell them — tell them," she cried out, in 
 broken, half-understood words — "tell them — 
 tell John — I — " And her words died away 
 in sobs and caresses, from which the boy, so 
 glad to go to his home and his mother, rough- 
 ly broke away. She had heard him talk so 
 much of the farm and the folk there that she 
 fancied now that she knew and loved them all, 
 for she was full of her fancies. It was many 
 a day before she ceased to mourn for her lost 
 playmate, and to speak of "dear little David" 
 and "the farm." But time and the near ap- 
 proach of her wedding-day at last banish- 
 ed her sorrow, and brought forgetfulness and 
 comfort. 
 
 They were to be married, as I have said, in 
 June. Her simple preparations were all made. 
 Many a happy hour she and I had sat together 
 sewing on the dainty garments, talking of the 
 
40 SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 future and her new life with Max. During 
 this time I ventured sometimes to question her 
 of her past life, but very cautiously, that she 
 might not be startled. 1 asked her once if she 
 remembered when she first came to us, but 
 she said she did not, she was "so very small." 
 And when, at another time, 1 asked her when 
 she first began to love Max, she blushed and 
 smiled, and answered that she could scarcely 
 place the exact time she had loved him, so 
 many years — "since she was a little child." 
 So the days and weeks slipped by, and June 
 came again with its blue skies and flowers. 
 It was the day before the wedding, which was 
 to be a very quiet one, from the little stone 
 church near us. Faith was like a bird that 
 day, in and out of the house and garden, 
 singing to herself, or throwing me a light 
 word or kiss as she came and went. Max 
 was very busy paying his last visits to patients 
 whom he must leave for a fortnight, for he 
 and Faith were to have two weeks of rest to- 
 gether in the mountains. But when he came 
 in for a hurried word at intervals there was a 
 look of such complete, such perfect content 
 
HOW FAITH CAME AND WENT. 4 1 
 
 upon his face as I had never in all his life seen 
 there before. 
 
 As the day drew to a close Faith seemed a 
 little weary, and I did not wonder, for she had 
 been busy since sunrise. As 1 sat in the door- 
 way resting she came and sat down by me, 
 and laid her head in my lap. I smoothed back 
 the bright soft hair, and as I touched her fore- 
 head I saw that it was hot, and that her cheeks 
 were flushed. 
 
 "You have tired yourself, my child," I said, 
 "and Max will scold." 
 
 "Max never scolds," she said, softly. And 
 then, raising her head, she looked into my 
 face, and spoke gravely, and with almost a 
 solemn sweetness in her tone. "Ruth, I do 
 not talk much to you of my love for Max, do 
 I ? But I want to tell you to-night that my 
 whole heart is his. If I should die before he 
 makes me his wife, if he should die before he 
 is my husband, we should still belong to each 
 other, and some day God would bring us to- 
 gether again." I could not speak, and seeing 
 the tears in my eyes, she dashed away some 
 bright drops from her own, and rose hastily. 
 
42 SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 With a radiant smile, and the pretty pink flush 
 on her face which had been there since she 
 came from her garden work, she said, "It is 
 time for Max; I am going to meet him." She 
 ran down the path, so fair and sweet in her 
 simple blue dress, her straw hat hanging on 
 her arm, and as she passed into the street she 
 said, looking back at me, "Good-bye; I am 
 going to meet — John." 
 
 That name again instead of Max! But the 
 child was tired and nervous, and I would not 
 startle her by showing that she had spoken the 
 wrong name. So 1 said nothing but "Good- 
 bye, my darling." I rarely used pet names like 
 that; it was not in my quiet, old-fashioned 
 way. I am glad I said it then. And so she 
 went down the dusty street through the sun- 
 light towards the west, and into the misty 
 glow, till I lost sight of her in the distance. 
 
 I never saw her again ! 
 
 Few words are best. All that I could speak 
 would tell you no better what came after- 
 wards. The first anxious doubt, the lingering 
 suspense, the sickening dread, the seeking, the 
 weary, weary watching for one who never 
 
HOW FAITH CAME AND WENT. 4) 
 
 came, I cannot tell of it. As vainly as a year 
 before we sought one ray of light from the un- 
 known world she had left in coming to us, so 
 all in vain we looked now for one glimpse of 
 the life into which she had gone from us. I 
 will not tell you one word of Max and his sor- 
 row. You have no right to ask it, or even to 
 guess at that grief with which a stranger in- 
 termeddleth not. I have told you how the 
 child came, and how she went away ; there is 
 nothing more. Two years later I met one day 
 a lady whom I had known slightly during the 
 year the child was with us, and who knew 
 nothing of her sudden going. 
 
 "So your pretty young cousin has left you," 
 she said. " I have always remembered her so 
 well since I met her here: Faith, I think you 
 called her. So I knew her at once when I 
 saw her again, though I caught such a hur- 
 ried glimpse of her. I was in the cars, and 
 the train stopped a minute before crossing a 
 bridge, and just there, opposite my window, 
 was your little cousin. She had run out from 
 the prettiest old farm-house — her home, I sup- 
 pose — and was calling to some one whom I 
 
44 SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 did not see. 'John! John!' she said, in that 
 clear, pleasant voice of hers. 1 heard it as 
 plainly as you hear me now ; but before I 
 could open my window or speak to her the 
 cars went on." Another clew, another vain 
 hope ! The lady could not remember just 
 where this occurred, but she told us all she 
 could recall, and search again began. But in 
 vain, of course, as I felt sure it would be. It 
 was merely a fancied resemblance ; and John 
 is such a common name! 
 
 The learned doctor who had been always 
 so interested in "the case," as he called our 
 Faith and her story, talked wisely of it all. 
 But I paid little attention to what he said, for 
 1 knew it was not true. 
 
 God sent her new and fresh to earth that 
 day from some land where she had always 
 dreamed of us, and where in some mysterious 
 way, in some vision if not in reality, she had 
 seen and loved and promised herself to Max. 
 God took her away again. I do not try to 
 guess why. But some day, through a misty 
 glow, in a land where it is always summer, 
 I shall see her coming down the golden street 
 
. HOW FAITH CAME AND WENT. 45 
 
 towards me, her soft brown eyes looking wist- 
 fully at me, her bright hair loose upon her fore- 
 head, her small, pretty hands reaching out to- 
 wards me, and she will say again, as at first 
 she said it: "You are waiting for me. Oh, 
 I am so glad to be at home!" 
 
II. 
 
 BOTANY BAY. 
 
 ' I was his soul; he lived not but in me. 
 We were so close within each other s breast. 
 The rivets were not found that joined us first. 
 
 We were so mixed 
 
 As meeting streams; both to ourselves were lost. 
 We were one man; we could not give or take 
 But from the same; for he was I, J he." 
 
 Dryden. 
 
BOTANY BAY. 
 
 His name was Balaam Montmorency. How 
 its two incongruous parts came together, who 
 gave him this name, with its union of the bib- 
 lical and romantic, I never knew, and I think 
 nobody in Stonington knew any more than I 
 did. In fact, few, even in the village itself, 
 had ever heard the whole of his name. He 
 was generally called "old Balaam" or "old 
 Bay," until some village wag hit upon the 
 title— whose fitness you will recognize as my 
 story goes on — Botany Bay, and so he was 
 called to the end of his life. 
 
 I cannot remember when I first saw him, for, 
 from my earliest childhood, he was a familiar 
 and well-known object. So short of stature 
 as almost to deserve the name of dwarf, with 
 a shock head of tangled yellow hair, bleached 
 almost white by the sun, a thin brown face, 
 and the big blue eyes of a child, who that 
 ever saw him can forget poor Botany Bay? 
 4 
 
50 SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 His business was one well known and much 
 followed in former times, but now unknown 
 save in the most primitive and rural of com- 
 munities: he was a gatherer and vender of 
 roots and herbs. Day after day, year by year, 
 he roamed through wood and swamp, by 
 stream and highway, over plain and hill-side, 
 in search of treasure. With bag on back, and 
 basket in each hand, he came every day into 
 the village from his rambles, bringing the 
 sweetness, the spiciness, the tastes and smells 
 and greenness of the forest with him. Birch, 
 sassafras, and winter-green for the home-made 
 root beer; pennyroyal and mint to "take to 
 meetin'"; sweet- clover to lay in the linen- 
 chest, or among the handkerchiefs in the bu- 
 reau drawer; boneset, prince's pine, hardhack, 
 yarrow, "injun posy," peppermint, skull-cap, 
 pokeroot, dock, snakeroot, wild-cherry, gold- 
 thread, and bloodroot, for medicines ; dande- 
 lions and cowslips for "greens"; pigeon-ber- 
 ries for red ink ; bayberries for candles — all 
 these were among his stores. He brought, too, 
 wild plants to make beautiful the village gar- 
 dens, the sweetbrier with its fragrant leaves 
 
BOTANY BAY. 5 1 
 
 and pink blossoms, the woodbine to trail over 
 fence and wall, or cover the porch with its 
 five -fingered leaves, so green in summer, so 
 brightly crimson in autumn ; the swamp hon- 
 eysuckle, with its sticky flowers of pink or 
 white, yellow and red lilies for the garden 
 borders, blueflags, and vivid cardinal -flower. 
 From his basket came the small, sweet huckle- 
 berries of the early season, the later and larger 
 blueberries with their whitey bloom, the low 
 and high blackberry, and wild raspberries, both 
 black and red. No strawberries now, from 
 garden or hot -bed, have the wild flavor of 
 those small cone-shaped ones which old Bay 
 brought us in early summer; even the puckery 
 choke -cherries were pleasant to our young 
 palates— and oh, how nice were the spicy 
 checkerberries, the aromatic sassafras, sweet 
 birch, and sarsaparilla, the wild plums, purple 
 and yellow, the fox and frost grapes ! 
 
 And how much he knew of these children 
 of the wildwood ! He could tell you of their 
 haunts, their seasons, their habits, their virt- 
 ues. He knew them, not only when in full 
 bloom or mature fruit they were most easily 
 
.52 SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 recognized, but in earliest babyhood, when 
 first their tender shoots of pale pink or delicate 
 green pierced the cold ground, or in old age, 
 when the dry and empty fruit swung on the 
 leafless stems, and when even dry fruit and 
 bare stalks were gone he found his friends un- 
 derground by root or bulb, and knew them in 
 their graves. 
 
 I have said that I cannot remember my first 
 sight of old Balaam, still less can I recollect 
 how from acquaintances we became friends. 
 I have always from boyhood loved the woods 
 and what grows in them, but whether this 
 love drew Bay and me together, or whether 
 his companionship first gave me that taste 
 for the wildwood, I do not know; but friends 
 we always were. Bay was not fond of the 
 village boys generally, and "small blame to 
 him," as the Irish say. The youngsters teased 
 him unmercifully, stole his roots and herbs, 
 called him names, played him tricks, and were 
 generally nuisances to the poor man. So he 
 avoided them, never sought their companion- 
 ship, carefully concealed from them the local- 
 ity of his rarest plants, and was obstinately 
 
BOTANY BAY. 53 
 
 silent when questioned as to where and how 
 he found them. So I considered myself very 
 fortunate to be in the old man's good graces, 
 and to be allowed, as I was, day after day, to 
 accompany him in his rambles, and I grew to 
 know, better than most boys, the woods and 
 swamps around our village, and what they 
 held. As I look back now I can see myself, 
 a small, flaxen -haired boy, with "cheek of 
 tan," trotting along by my queer little old 
 friend, and listening eagerly to his quaint talk. 
 Off the East Road, out to the Devil's Den, 
 along Anguilla Brook, towards Mystic, through 
 Flanders, to Lantern Hill, to Quiambaug Cove 
 — all these ways we took, often walking the 
 whole distance of many miles, but sometimes 
 having a lift from a friendly farmer, on hay- 
 cart or wagon. Some of the flowers we found 
 in these rambles I have never since seen, oth- 
 ers 1 have encountered in far northern or ex- 
 treme southern parts of our country, and greet- 
 ed with a strange thrill of memory as 1 thought 
 of my boyhood and poor Botany Bay. I well 
 remember as a red-letter day the July morning 
 when we first found on Lantern Hill the 
 
54 SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 rhododendron, with its thick, glossy, green 
 leaves and flowers of pale rose. Bay called it 
 "big laurel," and told me of some far-away 
 mountain country — very vaguely described — 
 where he had seen this beautiful shrub grow- 
 ing in great profusion, "close together, an' 
 taller'n a man." He carefully separated the 
 petals — for he was very tender always with 
 his flowers — and showed me that the throat, 
 or "swaller,"as he called it, was greenish, 
 and spotted with red ; and he enjoined secrecy 
 as to the discovery, as there were but few 
 plants there, and "some pesky woman might 
 want to dig 'em up for her posy-gardin." 
 And with what wonder and admiration I first 
 gazed upon the pink lady's-slipper found in a 
 dry wood near Westerly ! It seemed to me 
 such an odd flower, with its rosy pouch or 
 bag, and I was pleased with Bay's name for 
 it of whippoorwill's shoes. He gathered the 
 whole plant, giving me the flower on its slen- 
 der stalk, but keeping the fibrous root among 
 his choicest treasures as "good for narves and 
 high strikes." 
 What had he among his herbs which was 
 
BOTANY BAY. 55 
 
 not "good for" some ailment or other ? And 
 what wonderful tales he could tell of his mar- 
 vellous cures ! I remember many of these sto- 
 ries still; and so, as I go through the country, 
 I find my botanical knowledge strongly min- 
 gled with reminiscences of the henbane and 
 plantain poultice that cured Enoch Wilcox and 
 " kep' off lockjaw when the crab bit his toe;" 
 of the dandelion -tea, so beneficial for "old 
 Mis' Dewey's janders,"and the Indian turnip, 
 which, boiled in milk and "took fastin'," 
 soothed Mary Bright's "creakin' cough." 
 
 As I do not remember when 1 first saw Bot- 
 any Bay, so I cannot recall at what stage of 
 our comradeship I began to define in my own 
 young mind what made him so different from 
 other people. He was generally regarded as 
 insane, alluded to as "crazy Balaam," avoided 
 and feared by children as a dangerous luna- 
 tic. But I soon saw that he was not like 
 other madmen. There was "wild Jimmy," 
 the Scotchman, kept by his kinsfolk in an at- 
 tic-room in the small brown house near Wind- 
 mill Point, and whose ravings, yells, and un- 
 earthly peals of laughter rang out on moonlight 
 
56 SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 nights, striking terror to my soul. There was 
 Vashti,with her tall, commanding figure, flash- 
 ing black eyes, and fine features, her shrewd, 
 scarcely incoherent talk, full of humorous in- 
 congruities. And every one in the village 
 knew Zaccheus, that harmless eccentric, with 
 his unkempt hair and strangely patched, party- 
 colored garments, who muttered to himself as 
 he carried his baskets and brooms through the 
 streets, or stood in the door of his caboose- 
 house in the evening. Botany Bay was not 
 at all like these. He was taciturn, reticent ; 
 but when he talked of his plants there was no 
 sign of insanity, no incoherency or wandering. 
 1 do not think he could read or write; he knew 
 nothing of any botanical systems or artifi- 
 cial classifying of plants, but he had a sort of 
 system of his own, and by some curious in- 
 stinct seemed to recognize kinship between 
 certain herbs, which in later years I found 
 were placed in one family by more scientific 
 men — not closer observers. 
 
 Yet there was something wrong in Bay's 
 brain. My childish mind was conscious of it 
 but could not define it. There was a strange 
 
BOTANY BAY. 57 
 
 minor key in all his tones, a certain sadness 
 underlying his happiest moods. When exult- 
 ant over a new discovery, a long-sought flow- 
 er, a deep -buried root of wondrous virtues, 
 his child -smile of big -eyed delight would 
 suddenly, swiftly fade, and a strange, mingled 
 look of perplexity, fear, and melancholy take 
 its place. By -and -by I went further in my 
 analysis, and noticed what made his talk so 
 odd and puzzling. This was the frequent 
 recurrence of such expressions as "t'other," 
 "him," "that un," and like phrases, not ap- 
 parently referring to anything else in his sen- 
 tences, or to any one I knew. 
 
 "I'm awful glad to git this wild - ginger, " 
 he would say, as he dug up the aromatic root 
 of the asarum, with its singular wine-colored 
 flowers almost hidden under the earth; "old 
 Square Wheeler's tryin' to swear off chewin'. 
 It gives him spells now, an' he's had warnin's 
 o' numb palsy. But he can't swear off on 
 anything but wild -ginger root. He's tried 
 cammermile an' rheubarb an' lots o' things, 
 but he goes on hankerin' for terbacky. I'm 
 plaguy glad to git this" — all this with a 
 
58 SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 smile, or rather chuckle, of pleasure. Then a 
 shadow would fall on the thin, wizened, brown 
 face, and in a lower tone, with a kind of pa- 
 thetic ring in it, he would say, "I wonder if 
 he's found it this year, hope he has," and with 
 a heavy sigh the spicy treasure, but with half 
 its flavor gone, seemingly, for Bay, would be 
 dropped into the basket. Or while cutting, in 
 autumn, the witch-hazel twigs with their late, 
 out -of- season, unflowerlike yellow blossoms, 
 he would murmur: " I'd be sot up with gettin' 
 these, to steep for Lodowick Pen'leton's lame 
 arm, if 't wa'n't for t'other. I'm awfully 'fraid 
 he ain't got any this fall." That I did not, for a 
 long time, ask the meaning of these references 
 shows me now that I recognized in them an 
 element of mystery, something out of the com- 
 mon, which somehow awed and silenced me. 
 I remember well the day when the explana- 
 tion came. We had been roaming about the 
 lower part of the village, gathering jimson- 
 weed, the stramonium of botany and pharma- 
 cy. It grew very plentifully in waste places 
 there, with its large whitish or pale violet 
 funnel-shaped flowers and coarse leaves, and 
 
BOTANY BAY. 59 
 
 we soon had all we wanted. As the summer 
 twilight came on we wandered down to the 
 Point, near the old light-house, and finally seat- 
 ed ourselves on the rocks there, and looked 
 out over the water. There had been one of 
 those wonderful sunsets of crimson and gold 
 so well known to old Stonington, and believed 
 by her inhabitants to be quite unknown else- 
 where (old Captain Seth used to tell me it 
 was " owin' to the salt in the air, which kind- 
 er fetched the colors out an' sot 'em"). A lit- 
 tle sail-boat in the distance — a homely thing 
 enough when at the dock, and with the broad 
 unfaltering light of noonday upon its scarred 
 and dingy sides, stained and patched sail — 
 now seemed a fairy shallop of rose and gold, 
 and on this boat Botany Bay's blue, melan- 
 choly eyes were fixed. "He might be in that 
 boat," he said at last, "might jest as well be 
 there's anywheres ; jest's likely to be, fortino ;" 
 and then as I looked up at the dreary sound 
 in his voice I saw, to my amaze and distress, 
 big tears on the brown face. I could not stand 
 that. I laid my fingers on the sleeve of his 
 ragged coat, and whispered : 
 
60 SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 "What's the matter, Bay ?" I think he was 
 glad to have me ask him. I think he had 
 pined for a confidant; at any rate he turned 
 quickly towards me, and in a strangely sol- 
 emn, sad voice, the very tones of which I seem 
 to hear as I recall the scene, he said : 
 
 "Aleck, did ye know there was two o' me ?" 
 
 I scarcely understand now what there was 
 in those words to frighten me so. Perhaps 
 it was the tone and manner of the speaker, 
 our surroundings of sea and sky, as well as 
 the mysteriousness of the words themselves, 
 which alarmed me, only a boy at the time ; 
 but 1 shivered with sudden fear. 
 
 "Don't be scaret, Aleck," he said, soothing- 
 ly. 'Tain't nothin' new. I've knowed it years. 
 Ye ain't scaret at me; an' he's jest the same." 
 
 "Who is, Bay?" I said, in a frightened 
 whisper, my teeth almost chattering. 
 
 "Him," he answered, slowly, " t'other. That 
 other me, ye know;" and gradually the story 
 was told. 
 
 Many years before, how long Bay did not 
 know, a sailor, temporarily in Stonington, 
 while his ship was unloading, had told the 
 
BOTANY BAY. 6 1 
 
 simple herbalist a strange thing. He had said 
 that somewhere far away there was another 
 Botany Bay, another Balaam, in every respect 
 the same as this one. His name, his looks, his 
 pursuit, were all just the same. This is what 
 Bay understood him to say. Whether the man 
 was trying to impose upon the poor boy's cre- 
 dulity, whether in his broken tongue — for he 
 was a foreigner — he only intended to say that 
 he had seen a person who resembled the plant- 
 vender, or again, if perchance he was super- 
 stitiously inclined and himself believed in this 
 strange double, I know not. At any rate, Bay 
 accepted the tale as true, and it colored all his 
 after-life. If he was happy and exultant over 
 some simple conquest in the plant world, his 
 joy was at once shadowed by the thought that 
 "t'other" was, perhaps, denied that pleasure. 
 If troubled, if cold or hungry, or persecuted by 
 the boys, he was jealous lest "t'other" was 
 better off and free from these annoyances. He 
 was always brooding over the existence of 
 this other self, sometimes when lonesome re- 
 joicing in the twinship which seemed to give 
 him something all his own, a more than friend 
 
62 SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 or even brother, sometimes hating the thought 
 of this shadow of his he could not escape, of- 
 tenest of all fearing with a strange fear this 
 weird, mysterious duplicate of himself. After 
 my first alarm on hearing this strange story 
 the terror subsided, and 1 began soothing and 
 comforting my poor friend. 
 
 "I don't see what makes you so afraid, 
 Bay," I said, as we still sat on the rocks and 
 talked that night. "What is there so dread- 
 ful in a man's looking just like you ?" 
 
 "Tain't that, Aleck," he replied. " 'Tain't 
 jest that he favors me, but he is me, an' I'm 
 him, an' we're both on us each other. It's 
 dreffie, dreffle." 
 
 "But how can it be, Bay? How could it 
 have happened ?" 
 
 " Well, I didn't use to know 'bout that my- 
 self. But I've ciphered it out now, an' this's 
 the way on it. I see Cap'n Pollard's little gal 
 one day, Lois, you know, settin' on the stoop, 
 cuttin' out figgers out o' paper with her ma's 
 scissors, an' she went to cut out a man with a 
 peaked hat on, an' all of a suddent she says ; 
 ' Why, look here, I got two on em 'stead o' 
 
BOTANY BAY. 63 
 
 one.' An' I see she'd doubled her paper 'thout 
 knowin' it, an' so she'd got two men jest ke- 
 zackly alike, peaked hat an' all. An' then in a 
 jiffy it come over me that was how it hap- 
 pened with him an' me; God got the stuff 
 doubled, you see, an' when he went to cut me 
 out — or him, whichever 'twas he meant to 
 make — he made two on us. I guess he didn't 
 find it out till 'twas too late, or he wouldn't ha' 
 let it go. Or mebbe he thought he'd throwed 
 one away, but it — 1 mean him — or me — got 
 off somehow. But 'twas a dreffle mistake, an' 
 can't never, never be sot right." 
 
 His voice had a hopeless ring in it, and his 
 blue eyes were misty as he looked off to sea. 
 It was growing dark, and one by one the 
 lights came out on Fisher's Island, Montauk 
 Point, and farther to the westward, on the 
 Hummocks. 
 
 " How could it be sot right ?" he went on. 
 "Mebbe you think if one on us died, 'twould 
 fix it. But about his soul, how's that ? When 
 we was made double — by mistake — nobody 
 to blame, you know — there couldn't ha' been 
 but one soul pervided for. I was raised re- 
 
64 SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 spectable on 'lection an' foreordination, jest's 
 you was, Aleck, an' so I know that air soul 
 was 'lected to heaven or 'tother place, an' 
 whichever died fust would take that place per- 
 vided for Balaam Montm'rency's soul. Ther' 
 couldn't be two men 'lected guv'rior 0' Con- 
 necticut, could ther' ? No more could ther' 
 be two souls to the same man 'lected to one 
 place." 
 
 "Oh, Balaam!" I cried, in dismay; "I can't 
 follow you; I'm all mixed up." 
 
 "So'm I, Aleck, an' so's him, dreffle mixed; 
 that's the trouble." 
 
 From that night Bay and I were closer friends 
 than ever. I knew his secret now, and he was 
 glad I knew it. We often talked of "t'other," 
 and passed hours in vain surmises and imag- 
 inings as to his fate. Although I knew the 
 whole situation was impossible, and existed 
 only in poor Bay's weak brain, still there was 
 a fearful fascination for me in the subject, and 
 I loved to dwell upon it. 
 
 "Would you like to see him, Balaam?" I 
 asked one day. 
 
 Bay shook and brushed the earth from some 
 
BOTANY BAY. 65 
 
 fine large roots of the ginseng he had just 
 been digging, as he said, doubtfully, "I don't 
 hardly know. Sometimes 1 think I would, an' 
 then agin I ain't so sure. To see yourself 
 comin' up to ye jest careless like, s if 'twas 
 somebody else, would be pretty scary, out of 
 a lookin'-glass. But agin there's times when 
 I want him bad; seem's if I must have him; 
 's if I wasn't a hull man without him, but 
 on'y a piece o' one, half a pair o' scissors, you 
 know, or one leg o' these trowses." 
 
 "But, Bay," I said, with a sudden thought, 
 "it isn't, any worse than twins. Don't you 
 know Bill and Bob Hancox are twins, and they 
 look so much alike nobody but their mother 
 knows them apart." 
 
 "I've thought o'that," Bay replied, "but it 
 ain't the same. They was meant to be in 
 pairs, like pijin berries, or two-fingered grass. 
 They've got two souls, an' there's a place for 
 'em both — one for Bob Hancox and one for 
 Bill Hancox — in heaven or t'other place; I'm 
 afraid Bill's place is the bad un, for he's a 
 plaguey troublesome chap ; but us, we ain't 
 twins, we're each other, don't ye see ?" 
 5 
 
66 SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 I did not see exactly, but that there was a 
 difficulty too mighty to be explained away by 
 my young self 1 realized too well. One sum- 
 mer's day we were walking near the "Road 
 meeting-house. " Bay had been gathering Ind- 
 ian tobacco, one of the lobelias, and discours- 
 ing upon its nature and properties. Accord- 
 ing to him, although a powerful "pison,"yet 
 when steeped and combined with certain other 
 " yarbs " it had performed wonderful cures. 
 
 "There's 'nother kind," he said, " somethin' 
 like this, only it's a good deal taller, an' s got 
 big spikes o' blooms, real blue, an' han'some. 
 They call that the High Beelyer, 'cause this 
 small little one's the Low Beelyer, ye know, an' 
 it's good for the blood, like sas'p'rilla an' dock." 
 
 We sat down to rest on the church steps, 
 and were silent for a time. Then Bay said: 
 "I wish I was a perfessor; b'longed to the 
 Church, ye know ; I might get a sight o' com- 
 fort that way. But I can't be, 'tain't no use. 
 I come pretty near it once. I was at the Bap- 
 tist meetin' one Sunday night, an' there was a 
 big revival, an' Elder Swan was preachin'. I 
 was awful stirred up, an' seem'd 's if I'd foun' a 
 
BOTANY BAY. 67 
 
 way out o' all my troubles. But all on a sud- 
 dent I thought o' 'tother one. I mos' know he's 
 a heathen, for the man that told me about him 
 he was a Portugee or Kanaka, an' mos' likely 
 he'd seed t'other Balaam over in them parts. 
 So I jest thought 'twould be pretty mean for 
 me, with my priv'leges, born in a Christian 
 land an' raised in Stonin'ton Borough, to take 
 advantage of t'other poor heathen Bay just be- 
 cause he'd happened to be brought up 'mong 
 id'ls an' things, an' take his chance away. So 
 I gin' it up." 
 
 I cannot describe fully all the phases of feel- 
 ing through which Bay passed after I knew his 
 story. But sure am 1 that after doubt, fear, re- 
 pulsion, dread, sorrow, and pity, he came at 
 last into a great and tender love for this strange 
 other self. I do not think that he had ever be- 
 fore loved a human being. As far as 1 could 
 find out he had no memory of father, mother, 
 brother, or sister, and had hitherto led a friend- 
 less, lonesome life. So he had learned no ex- 
 pressions of endearment, no fond words, no 
 pet names. Such had never been addressed 
 to himself, nor had he ever used them. But 
 
68 SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 he loved, in a certain fashion, his plants, and 
 this helped him now. He grew more eccen- 
 tric, odder than ever, was more by himself, 
 and was always talking in a low tone, even 
 when quite alone. The village folk said that 
 he was " madder'n a hatter," "crazier'n a 
 coot," but I did not think so. He was only 
 talking to his other self, for I often heard such 
 words as these: 
 
 "Poor Bay, poor t'other Bay, don't mind 
 me, don't be scaret as I uster be, 'cause there's 
 two o' ye. Some meddlin' loon's up an' told 
 ye, I s'pose, an' ye feel bad; don't, now, don't." 
 
 Then his voice would sink almost to a whis- 
 per as he would say : 
 
 "Why, I love ye, Bay, I love ye; I love your 
 peaked, pindlin' face, an' your yeller mussed-up 
 hair, an' them silly blue eyes o' yourn. Ye see 
 1 know jest how ye look. I've got a bit o' look- 
 in'-glass now, an' 1 carry it round an' keep 
 lookin' in it, an' I can see us jest 's plain. 
 Don't be 'feard on me ; I wouldn't no more 
 hurt ye than I'd hurt the vilets or venuses- 
 prides in the spring." 
 
 But more and more, as this strange love 
 
BOTANY BAY. 69 
 
 grew, did the poor man grieve — agonize al- 
 most — over that other's soul, and its ultimate 
 state. His ideas of heathendom were vague, 
 and derived principally from what he had 
 heard at the "Monthly Concerts" of the Bap- 
 tist church, intensified by the pictures in il- 
 lustrated missionary papers distributed at the 
 same meetings. He sometimes fancied that 
 "t'other Bay" was discussing this matter with 
 him, and I would hear him say, as if in re- 
 sponse to another voice: 
 
 " Yer a heathen, ye say ? That ain't no mat- 
 ter. How could ye help bein', out there where 
 ye b'long ? Never min', poor old Bay, / don't 
 care 'bout yer id'ls, an' yer throwin' babies to 
 the crockerdiles, an' layin' down on the railroad 
 track to let the Jockanock train run over ye, 
 an' all that. I'd a done it, too, if 'twas the 
 fash'n in the Borough here. That's what they 
 sing over to Baptist meetin', 
 
 " ' The heathens in their blinders 
 Bows down to wooden stuns.' 
 
 'Course they do ; they don't know no better. 
 But then, Bay, 'tain't a good thing to do, an' I 
 wouldn't if 1 was you. O, Lord, I am you, I 
 
70 SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 clean forgot. But won't ye try not to do it — 
 can't ye swear off, Bay ?" 
 
 Again and again, as the months rolled on, 
 Balaam would talk with me of this matter, al- 
 ways dwelling now upon the point that there 
 was but one place " pervided for Balaam Mont- 
 m'rency's soul," and consequently but one of 
 the two Bays could have a place at all. 
 
 "But," I ventured to ask one day, "what 
 becomes of the other soul, Bay ?" 
 
 "Why, it jest goes out." 
 
 "Out where?" I naturally asked. 
 
 "Jest where the light of a taller can'le goes 
 when ye snuff it out, or the inside of a puff- 
 ball when ye squeeze it, that's where. There 
 ain't no soul no more; it's just stopped bein'." 
 
 The more the love for "t'other Bay" grew 
 and deepened, the more the trouble and per- 
 plexity increased. How could he help this 
 other — how could he set right this mighty 
 difficulty ? 
 
 One November day I had arranged to meet 
 my friend just outside the village, and go out 
 to the Baldwin Farm to dig gold-thread roots. 
 It was late in the season, but Uncle David Doty 
 
BOTANY BAY. 7 1 
 
 was suffering with a sore mouth,^nd his sup- 
 ply of gold-thread — a certain cure — was near- 
 ly exhausted, and Botany Bay knew well how 
 to find the little plant, even when snow was 
 on the ground, by its glossy, evergreen, straw- 
 berry-like leaf, which told that under the earth 
 were the bright yellow thread-like roots of bit- 
 ter virtue. As I came to the place of meeting, 
 Bay was waiting, and I at once saw that he 
 was strangely excited. His thin brown face 
 was pale, his big blue eyes wild, his lips 
 worked nervously. 
 
 "Aleck, Aleck," he said, excitedly, as soon 
 as 1 drew near, "I've had a message!" 
 
 " Who from, Bay ?" I asked. 
 
 "Why, from him, from poor Bay, dear old 
 Balaam. I thought there was suthin' comin', an' 
 I've been thinkin' an' contrivin' what 'twould 
 be, an' this mornin' as I was comin' down the 
 road 1 see old Thankful Bateese, the Injun wom- 
 an. She's a mighty cur'us creeter, an' they say 
 she has dealin's, an' she was in a field all by 
 herself, an' she was a-walkin' roun' an' roun' 
 suthin' on the ground, an' kinder singin'. An' 
 Ilissened, an' — oh, Aleck, I heerd the words." 
 
72 SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 He stopped, and caught his breath with a 
 half sob. 
 
 "What was it?" I asked, eagerly, sharing 
 his excitement. 
 
 Still pale and trembling, he began chanting, 
 in a strange, monotonous way, these rude 
 rhymes : 
 
 "Ther's room for one, but ther' ain't for two, 
 Ther's no room for me if ther's room for you ; 
 If ye wanter save me, jest up an' say 
 Ye'll gimme your chance, an' get outer the way." 
 
 As he crooned the words, swaying his body 
 and moving his head from side to side, I was 
 at once reminded of the old squaw, so well 
 known in the village, and her peculiar way of 
 chanting some strange gibberish, quite unin- 
 telligible to any of us. It at once struck me 
 that Bay had construed the Indian jargon in 
 his own way, prompted by his one pervading 
 thought. 
 
 "Are you sure she said that ?" I asked. "1 
 never could understand the words of anything 
 she sings." 
 
 "/ never could afore, Aleck, but I heerd this 
 
BOTANY BAY. 73 
 
 jest as plain. 'Twas Bay, t'other Bay, speakin' 
 right through her. An' now I know what I've 
 got ter do." 
 
 "Oh, what, Bay ?" I asked, anxiously, draw- 
 ing nearer to him. 
 
 "Why, don't ye see? I've got ter up an' 
 say I'll gin him my chance, an' git outer the 
 way," and his voice again fell into the strange 
 chant. 
 
 " But who'll you say it to, Bay ?" 
 
 His face fell, and a puzzled look came over 
 it, as he said, hesitating and troubled : 
 
 "Why — why — to him — no, I can't reach 
 him — oh, Aleck, what shall I do ? what shall 
 I do ?" and he threw himself upon the ground 
 in an agony of sorrow and bewilderment. At 
 that moment I saw the old Indian woman 
 coming along the road, and dashed after her. 
 But I failed utterly in making her respond 
 satisfactorily to my inquiries as to her song 
 and what it meant. She threatened me, with 
 alarming guttural sounds and wild gesticula- 
 tions, and I ran away frightened. 
 
 I returned to my friend, and finally succeeded 
 in persuading him to go on with me towards 
 
74 SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 the farm, after our. golden treasure. We talked 
 long and earnestly as we went on through 
 the gray November day. 
 
 "Ye see, Aleck," said Balaam at last, "it 
 must be my soul that's 'lected — I was allers 
 afraid 'twas — an' he's foun' it out, an' he sees a 
 way out on it, if 1 ' wanter save him,' he says. 
 Wanter ! Oh, Bay !" and there was such a 
 depth of tenderness in the voice. It seemed 
 as if all the love he might under other condi- 
 tions have given to father, mother, wife, or 
 child, had gone into this one affection. 
 
 "But, Bay," I said, full of love and pity for 
 my friend, "I don't want you to give up to 
 him this way. Why should you ?" 
 
 "Why, Aleck, I wanter; I'd love ter. I never 
 had anybody to take keer on, or set by, cr gin 
 up ter, but him, an' I love it. I don't guess he 
 sets so much by me ; likely's not he's got folks 
 — a fam'Iy, mebbe — an' he wants me outer the 
 way, body an' soul, both on 'em. He don't 
 want me 'roun' here, or takin' his place there, 
 an' I don't blame him a mite. But it's differ- 
 ent with me. He's all the folks I've got, an' 
 I'm dreffle glad ter do a little suthin for him. 
 
BOTANY BAY. 75 
 
 I won't say that I ain't sometimes kinder felt 
 's if I'd like ter see them places they tell about 
 at meetin', an' Scripter speaks on. Ye ain't a 
 religious boy, Aleck ; that ain't cum yit with 
 ye ; so I can't talk much about that, an' tell 
 you all my reas'ns, the whys an' whuffers ; 
 but anyway you'll understand how I'd like to 
 see them plants an' things growin' there El- 
 der Peckham told about, that heals the nations, 
 an' them trees bearin' a dozen diffunt kin's o' 
 fruits — grafted, mebbe — an' them 'never-with- 
 erin' flowers' in the hymn-book — everlastin's 
 I 'spose. But, law, 'tain't wuth talkin' about. 
 I'd do more'n that for him, poor chap. Jest 
 to go out, you know, an' not to be 'roun' any 
 more; that ain't much." 
 
 In spite of myself I could not help talking as 
 if the situation was a real one. I had lived so 
 long with Bay in this strange story of another 
 self that it was very real to me, and I could 
 hardly bear the thought of this terrible sacri- 
 fice, this strange, paradoxical, unselfish self- 
 love, this self-abnegatory immolation for an- 
 other self. But I could do nothing. 
 
 We had gathered our roots, and were resting 
 
76 SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 under the lee of a large bowlder, when again 
 Bay began his bewildering talk as to how he 
 could effect this renunciation, to whom he 
 could "up an' say" that he would gladly re- 
 sign his chance for the other's sake. Sudden- 
 ly, as we leaned against the rock, there came 
 from overhead something like a cry. To this 
 day I do not know what it was. It may have 
 been the call of some belated bird fallen behind 
 his migrating comrades, the scream of an eagle 
 or hawk, but to Bay's excited brain it seemed 
 a message from Heaven. He listened intent- 
 ly a moment, his pale face glowed, and he 
 cried: 
 
 " O' course, o' course! I'd oughter knowed 
 it. Thank the Lord, I know now." 
 " Oh, Bay, tell me, tell me, what is it ?" 
 "Why, that there voice showed me how. 
 Don't ye see that wh'ever made the mistake 
 fust — made us double, ye know — he's the one 
 to fix it now ? He'll be glad enough to have 
 the thing sot right an' off his mind, an' if 1 go 
 an' tell him 's well as I know how that I ain't 
 goin' to stan' in any one's way — that he can 
 count me out — why, the thing '11 be squared 
 
BOTANY BAY. 77 
 
 somehow." He was in a state of trembling 
 excitement. 
 
 "Go home, Aleck, that's a good boy," he 
 said, hurriedly; "1 want ter be by myself a 
 spell; I'll come down bimeby." 
 
 He took up his basket, crossed the road, en- 
 tered a piece of woods, and was soon out of 
 sight among the leafless trees. I was fright- 
 ened, and after a few minutes I stole after him, 
 and went a little way into the woods. Sud- 
 denly I heard a voice, and involuntarily stopped 
 to listen. I shall not tell you what I heard. 1 
 was not, as Botany Bay truly said, a religious 
 boy — perhaps I am not a religious man ; but 
 there was something about what came to my 
 ears in that gray and lonesome wood which 
 filled me with awe then, and has ever since 
 seemed to me a sacred, solemn thing. He 
 was talking to some one, as man to man ; he 
 was telling that some one in homely phrase, 
 which yet carried in it a terrible earnestness, 
 of his willingness to give up his place here 
 and hereafter — as he had often expressed it to 
 me to "stop bein'" — to have everything go 
 on as if there had been but one Bay, and that 
 
78 SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 one "t'other." He did not ask that this might 
 be; he made no petition, offered no plea. He 
 spoke as if only his expression of willingness 
 was lacking to make the thing a fact, to com- 
 plete the sacrifice. 
 
 Boy as I was, I felt that I was on holy ground, 
 and stole away. I would go home, I thought, 
 but to-morrow I would, at the risk of seeming 
 to betray a confidence, ask advice of some 
 older, wiser person. 
 
 As 1 came down into the village it grew 
 grayer and more black, and soon there were 
 snow-squalls, a sure sign there of increasing 
 cold. And cold it grew, bitterly cold. As I 
 sat in front of our blazing wood Tire that even- 
 ing I thought much of Bay, and longed for the 
 morning. I should know better what to say 
 to him now that 1 had thought the matter 
 over, and if I could not convince him myself, 
 why, I should go to Mr. Clifford, the minister. 
 He would know what to say. The morning 
 came clear and cold, sharply cold for that early 
 season, and thoughts of skating and 'Lihu's 
 Pond came first to me as I woke in my warm 
 bed. Then 1 remembered Bay. As soon as I 
 
BOTANY BAY. 79 
 
 could I ran up the street and down the little 
 lane opposite the doctor's to Bay's small brown 
 house. He was not there; the neighbors said 
 he had not been there since yesterday morn- 
 ing. I hurried to. David Dory's, down the 
 back street towards the Point, but he had not 
 brought to the old man the promised gold- 
 thread. Thoroughly alarmed, I ran home and 
 told my fears, and soon our team was ready, 
 and my father and I, with faithful Elam, our 
 "help,'' were on our way to the woods where 
 I had last seen poor Bay. 
 
 It did not take long to find him ; he did not 
 try to hide away. There he was, lying close 
 at hand and very still. At first we thought 
 that he was dead. Then he showed some 
 signs of life, and we lifted him tenderly and 
 carried him to our home. No pains were 
 spared to resuscitate him; good Dr. Hines 
 worked faithfully and untiringly, and by-and- 
 by the eyelids trembled and were lifted. 
 
 There was a look of dazed wonderment at 
 first; then a faint light flickered over the small, 
 quaint, brown face, and the lips moved. We 
 bent to listen. In a faint,broken whisper he said : 
 
80 SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 "Ther's room for one, but ther' ain't for 
 two. But — ther' ain't — two now, Bay; you're 
 the — one — an' I'm — goin' out. I'm dreffle 
 glad, Bay." 
 
 The big blue eyes opened with a sudden 
 smile, like that of a little child, but withal so 
 wise and deep, and Bay was still. The soul 
 had "gone out." Had it "stopped bein' ?" 
 
III. 
 
 AUNT RANDY. 
 
 Which things are an allegory." 
 
 Gal. iv. 24. 
 
AUNT RANDY. 
 
 We were on the Landaff Valley road, only 
 a mile or two out from Franconia village. Na- 
 than was driving, while Pirate and Corsair (Na- 
 than would always call the latter Horsehair), 
 in defiance of their reckless names, lounged 
 lazily along the road. It was June, and the 
 season was a little late, but along the margins 
 of the streams the early buttercups were shin- 
 ing all golden in the sun, the tiarella sent up 
 feathery spikes of white, and in the woods 
 the painted trilliums — the "Benjamins" of the 
 country-folk- — were unfolding their delicate 
 pink and white flowers. The bunchberry 
 made mounds of creamy bloom at the roots of 
 ancient trees ; star-flower, anemones and gold- 
 thread, starred the woods ; and inHhe swamps 
 tooth wort, marsh -marigold, and purple avens 
 were growing. 
 
 Again and again were the horses —always 
 obliging in this matter — made to stop by the 
 
84 SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 peculiar sound, something between hiss, roll, 
 and cluck, which to the Franconia steed means 
 "Whoa!" and 1 jumped out to secure some 
 tall stalk of baneberry flowers, a branch of 
 hobble -bush, or red -berried elder, to gather 
 a fragrant bunch of smilacina or a few white 
 violets. 
 
 Just as I had returned to the carriage after 
 one of these raids, and the horses had started 
 up in a sudden spurt of speed, "too bright to 
 last," I saw an odd sight. In the small garden 
 back of a house past which we were flying 
 was a woman who conducted herself in the 
 strangest manner. Though apparently rather 
 elderly, she was dashing frantically about, her 
 wide cap-border flapping around her face, her 
 limp calico gown twisted about her ankles by 
 the breeze, and her long arms waving in the 
 air. In one hand she held what looked to me, 
 as I was hurried by, like a banner of dingy 
 white on a long pole, and with this she per- 
 formed the wildest antics. Now it was waved 
 aloft, while its bearer stood on tiptoe, and even 
 sprang into the air, head bent backward and 
 face upturned; then it sank to the ground, or 
 
AUNT RANDY. 85 
 
 was trailed over the vegetable-beds. Stand- 
 ing up in the carriage and looking back eager- 
 ly, I could see this wild dance continue, un- 
 til suddenly the flag was quickly lowered or 
 dashed to the ground, and the strange stand- 
 ard-bearer threw herself down beside it in a 
 crouching attitude, and seemed to clasp its 
 folds in her skinny hands. 
 
 " Nathan ! Nathan !" I cried, breathless. 
 "What is it ? Oh, who is she ?" 
 
 "Aunt Randy." 
 
 "But what is the matter with her? Is she 
 crazy ?" 
 
 Nathan stooped to pick up a branch of fly- 
 honeysuckle which had fallen from the seat, 
 as he answered, impassively, "Guess not; no 
 more'n most women." 
 
 "But what is she doing ?" 
 
 "Ketchin' butterflies." 
 
 "Oh!" cried I, drawing a long breath, ex- 
 pressjve of both disappointment and relief. "I 
 see; that was a net she was holding, and she 
 is a collector." 
 
 I am a woman of hobbies myself, and had 
 lately taken up entomology with some ardor, 
 
86 SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 so I felt at once interested in this congenial 
 being, and questioned Nathan with new zeal. 
 . I soon knew all he had to tell, which was but 
 little. The woman had come to Franconia a 
 few years before from North Woodstock. She 
 was dressed in black, looked pale and wretch- 
 ed, and seemed to be alone in the world. She 
 lived by herself in the little white house where 
 we saw her, and "didn't seem to take no no- 
 tice of no one." She avoided the neighbors, 
 shut herself up in dark rooms, never went to 
 "meetin'" or "sewin' s'ciety" or any such 
 gathering, and refused to admit the minister 
 or other friendly visitors. But there was a 
 sudden change. One summer day she was 
 seen in a field near her house "chasin' a yel- 
 ler butterfly," and after that she was a differ- 
 ent being. 
 
 "She took to all kinds o' live fly in' an' 
 crawlin' an' hoppin' creeters," the story went 
 on. "She'd spend a hull day runnin' after 
 butterflies and millers, and huntin' for bugs an' 
 caterpillers an' spiders an' hoppergasses. An' 
 nights she'd be scootin' round with a lantern 
 to ketch them big hairy things like bats that 
 
AUNT RANDY. 87 
 
 flop into lights. An' she'd keep her winder 
 open every evenin', and start up an' kite 'round 
 the room with that kinder fish-net, an' ketch 
 every blamed thing that come in. An' she be- 
 gun to take notice o' people — children fust; 
 an' she'd ask the boys an' girls to come in an' 
 see her live things, an' she'd talk real nice to 
 'em — good's a book. An' somehow she's dif- 
 ferent every way, pleasanter-spoken an' con- 
 tented like. Some folks thinks she's crazy, an' 
 she does act dreffle queer sometimes. But 
 there's crazier people outside the 'sylums than 
 Aunt Randy." 
 
 "Is she married ? Has she a family ?" 
 "Well, folks say she's a widder, an' her hus- 
 band was a bad lot. She never says nothin' 
 about him, an' she don't think no great o' 
 men-folks. Her name's Mis' Gates, an' Ran- 
 dy's short for Mirandy ; but I tell folks she's so 
 independent, an' sot on not belongin' to no 
 man, she won't let any one call her My any- 
 thing, so she's left it off o' Randy." 
 
 It was not long before I made the acquaint- 
 ance of the odd entomologist. I think she 
 recognized in me a kindred spirit, saw that I 
 
88 SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 too liked "flyin' an' crawlin' an' hoppin' cree- 
 ters,"and so met my advances more readily. 
 The boys were devoted anglers that summer, 
 and there were trout to be found in Landaff 
 River. So we would all drive down the val- 
 ley road, stop in some pleasant shady spot, 
 and leaving the horses under Nathan's faithful 
 though sometimes drowsy care, amuse our- 
 selves in various ways. The boys were hap- 
 py for hours together with their rods and lines. 
 I wandered about after butterflies and moths, 
 and invariably ended by stopping before Aunt 
 Randy's door. 
 
 Strange as it may appear, Aunt Randy had 
 not only never seen a book about insects, but 
 she had never even known, until she met me, 
 that such books existed. She had never met 
 an entomologist or any one interested in the 
 study of her favorites, and all her information 
 was derived from her own experience. So her 
 talk was fresh and delightful, and quite free 
 from polysyllabic terms and the ever-changing 
 nomenclature of the study as we find it in 
 books. I remember that the first thing I ever 
 carried to her for identification was a butter- 
 
AUNT RANDY. 89 
 
 fly. It was the large dark chocolate one with 
 pale yellow borders, known as the Antiopa. 
 Now I confess I knew its name and something 
 of its habits, but 1 wished to test Aunt Randy's 
 knowledge. As she saw it her rugged face 
 lighted up with a smile of recognition, and 
 taking it gently from my hands, as though she 
 were touching a baby, she said : 
 
 ' ' Ah, you peart little feller ! Held out to this 
 time, did ye ? If you ain't hardy an' full o' 
 pluck, I don't know who is. Ye see " — look- 
 ing up at me — "this kind stands the winter 
 right through." 
 
 "Yes," I answered, perhaps a trifle patron- 
 izingly, "it hibernates, I know." 
 
 She looked a little puzzled, but went on: "I 
 don't know about that, but he jest gets along 
 somehow through our cold Francony winters. 
 Sometimes I find 'em stickin' to the rafters, or 
 snuggled two or three together in a hole be- 
 tween the stones o' the old wall there, or in- 
 side the shed, or in the wood-pile, lookin' 's if 
 they was dead as door-nails. But come to 
 bring 'em in by the fire, or hold 'em a spell in 
 my hands, they come to life agin. An' warm 
 
90 SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 sunny days they'll go crawlin' round, an' in the 
 spring, when the frost goes out o' the ground, 
 an' the weather gets settled, they come out for 
 good. But they're pretty hard -lookin' then, 
 an' they don't live long arter layin' their eggs, 
 an' the second crop don't come round till along 
 the fust o' August or thereabouts." 
 
 "What is its name ?" I asked. 
 
 "Waal, I don't know this one by his fust 
 name ; he's a stranger to me — come from fur- 
 ther down the road, I guess. The fam'ly name 
 I give em is Tough, 'cause they stan' the cold 
 so well, but I don't know all their given names. 
 Lizy an' Mary Ann spent the winter under the 
 stone out there by the wall, an' Caleb stayed 
 in the shed, but I've lost sight of 'em now, 
 though " (looking around towards the garden) 
 " I thought I see Wilbur jest now out by the 
 fence." 
 
 Shades of Linnasus and Hubner forgive her! 
 Vanessa antiopa vulgarized into Mary Ann 
 Tough ! 
 
 One day I found her in the little garden, 
 holding a saucer carefully in her hands, while 
 a ragged specimen of the common cream- 
 
AUNT RANDY. 9 1 
 
 colored butterfly of our vegetable gardens, 
 Pieris rapse, sipped at the contents. 
 
 "Posies is so scarce jest now," she said, 
 softly, without moving or looking up, lest she 
 should disturb her fluttering guest, "that I 
 bring out sugar'n water for 'em once 'n a while. 
 This one 's dreffle fond o' surrup, an' can't 
 never get too much. This is one o' the Cab- 
 bagers, 's I call 'em, 'cause o' what they raise 
 their young ones on. Her folks live 'round 
 here, an' she was born an' reared jest back o' 
 the house. Why, I rec'Iect jest 's well as any- 
 thing when she was a mite of a caterpillar that 
 couldn't do nothin' but crawl an' eat. 1 tell ye, 
 she an' her brothers an' sisters did make the 
 cabbage-leaves fly ; I never see nothin' like 'em 
 for that sort o' garden sass — cold slaw, s ye 
 might call it. An' now Malviny — that's her 
 given name — has forgot her beginnin's, an' 
 won't take nothin' but sugar, for she 's got 
 a sweet tooth — if butterflies ever have sech 
 things." 
 
 "But how do you know Malviny from any 
 other white cabbage butterfly ?" 1 asked. 
 
 "How do you know your dog Kent, that 
 
92 SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 you an' the boys is so fond on, from ary other 
 black curly dog, or your yeller horse, Pirate, 
 there, from ary other long -tailed sorril ? For 
 one thing, I know her by that split in her right- 
 hand back wing, an' that rubbed place between 
 her shoulders. But it's her ways I tell her by, 
 mostly; we've all got ways, ye know." 
 
 And so she lived on, surrounded by her in- 
 sect friends, loving them, understanding them, 
 calling each one by his Christian name, and 
 quite happy in their society. There was a big 
 dragon-fly with spotted wings whom she 
 addressed as Horace, and who, she declared, 
 had followed her weeks ago all the way from 
 Streeter's Pond as she drove home with her 
 old mare and the buck-board. And as she 
 dwelt upon the salient points of his character, 
 his sense of humor and comical disposition, 
 while he whizzed about her head, I declare he 
 did look to me quite unlike other dragon-flies. 
 I seemed to see a humorous twinkle in his big 
 eyes, and for the moment firmly believed in 
 Horace's sense of the ludicrous. Aunt Randy 
 and I soon became warm friends, and it was 
 not long before she told me her story. I need 
 
AUNT RANDY. 9^ 
 
 not dwell upon the early part of it. Her mar- 
 ried life was a hard one, her husband a shift- 
 less, idle vagabond. She did not apply these 
 epithets, but the facts spoke for themselves. 
 She worked hard, and he spent her earnings 
 at the tavern. They had one child, a boy, and 
 to him the mother's heart clung as to nothing 
 else in earth or heaven. For his sake she 
 struggled on, bore her husband's neglect and 
 ill-treatment, worked for all three, and kept 
 some little remnant of faith and hope in her 
 heart. At last one winter's day her husband 
 went away and never returned. Some weeks 
 later she heard of his death, and was free. Just 
 then a distant relative, of whom she had lost 
 sight for many years, died and left her a little 
 money; so new hope sprang up in her chilled 
 heart. She would take the child, she thought, 
 buy a little place in some quiet village, and 
 leave her wretched past far behind her. Alas 
 for human hopes! Just as the little house in 
 Franconia was secured, and she was about to 
 remove there with her child, the boy sickened 
 and died. 
 If I should write pages I could not convey 
 
94 SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 to you, as the few abrupt words of this pa- 
 tient, undemonstrative New England woman 
 conveyed to me, all the tragic meaning of that 
 loss to her. As a child she had lived in a 
 Christian home, and had some religious train- 
 ing, and amid all her trials hitherto she had 
 tried in her poor blind way to believe and trust 
 and think that somehow things were for the 
 best. But now, with this terrible blow, all 
 faith in God and man was killed. She buried 
 the boy with no more thought or hope of a 
 future reunion than has the veriest heathen, 
 left his grave and their old home — a grave, 
 too, now in which all hope and faith were en- 
 tombed — and came to Franconia, where she 
 lived for months the solitary life of which 
 Nathan had told me, a misanthropic, hopeless 
 soul. Let me try now to tell you in Aunt 
 Randy's own words, as near as may be, how 
 the change came. 
 
 "I used to shet myself up here all day an' 
 think. I couldn't have no posy gard'n or any- 
 thing like that, now the little feller wa'n't here 
 to play in it. An' I couldn't bear to hear the 
 birds singin', 'cause he used to like 'em so, 
 
AUNT RANDY. 95 
 
 an' I'd jest shet up my eyes as I went along 
 so's not to see the vi'Iets an' dand'lions an' 
 butter -'n'- eggs, an' them posies he used to 
 pick an' fetch in to me in his little fat hands. 
 But one day I had to go down the road a 
 piece, of an errand, an' before I could help it I 
 ketcht sight of a big clump o' fire-weed shinin' 
 all pink in the sun. Now, fire-weed was my 
 boy's fav'rite posy; it growed all round our 
 house in North Woodstock, an' he used to pick 
 it an' fetch in big bunches on it, an' set 'em in 
 the old blue pitcher. He was dreffle fond o' 
 that plant, an' when 1 see it — well, it all come 
 over me so, I jest bust out cryin' right in the 
 road, an' I was 'fraid somebody 'd see me, so 
 I had to stop an' purtend I was lookin' at the 
 posies. An' as I was stoopin' down a-lookin' 
 an' tryin' to get my handk'chief out, I see a big 
 worm on the fire-weed. 'Twa'n't crawlin' or 
 eatin', but jest settin' up on its hind-legs in the 
 humanest way, with its head up an' its hands 
 out, an' — You'll think I'm an old fool, but 
 what with the water in my eyes an' the sun 
 a-dazzlin' me, an' my heart just breakin' for 
 that boy, why, I kinder thought that worm 
 
96 SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 favored the young' one, an' I felt the queerest 
 drawin' to it. I reached out my finger to poke 
 it, an' it put down its head an' drawed its chin 
 in for all the world like that boy when he was 
 scaret an' bashful. I tell ye, from that minnit 
 I 'dopted that creeter an' took him right inter 
 my heart. I hadn't cared for a livin' thing 
 afore sence that little coffin went out my front 
 gate, an' I tell ye 'twas good to feel that draw- 
 in' towards suthin'. I picked the plant he was 
 on, an' I carried him home jest 's careful, an' 
 then I fixed a box o' dirt an' stuck the plant 
 in, an' jest let it alone till he'd got kind of ac- 
 quainted like. But, dear me! he made friends 
 to once; he never tried to get away; he never 
 was off his vittles from the minnit he come. 
 The fust time 1 see him eat my heart come 
 right up in my mouth, he et so like my boy, 
 jest bitin' little bites right reg'lar round an' 
 round a leaf till he'd made a place the shape 0' 
 half a cent, like the boy'd do with his cooky. 
 I named him Jacob after the other, an' — Oh, 
 I can't tell ye what a comfort he was to me! 
 1 hadn't had no pervidin' to do for so long, but 
 now I had to go down the road every single 
 
AUNT RANDY. 97 
 
 mornin' an' get fresh fire-weed for Jacob to 
 eat. I put a cup o' water for him too, but I 
 never see him drink. I guess he licked the 
 water off the leaves, for I used to wet 'em to 
 make 'em tasty an' temptin'. Another thing 
 that made him look like the boy was his color. 
 He was kind o' blacky-green, with round pink 
 spots on his sides, for all the world like my 
 other Jacob in his little tight jacket with the 
 glass buttons I made for him outer my old in- 
 visible green dress. An' he had a little pink 
 face, an' he used to look up at me so peart 
 an' knowin' when I'd talk to him. 'Twas a 
 new thing to me, after all them lonesome 
 months, to have some one at home waitin' for 
 me when I was out, an' I used to hurry back 
 's quick 's I could jest 's if the boy was watch- 
 in' at the winder with his pretty little nose all 
 flat agin the glass. 
 
 "I had a stick stan'in' up in his box, an' a 
 big piece o' mosquiter nettin' over it like a tent, 
 but I only kep' it shet down when I was out, 
 an' nights, for 1 didn't want him to think he 
 was locked up, an' every night at bedtime I'd 
 go an' draw down that nettin' snug an' tie a 
 7 
 
98 SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 string round the bottom, an' look in last thing 
 to see if he was all right. You'd scarcely 
 b'lieve how that tuckin' in helped me after I'd 
 been without it such a spell. 
 
 "'Twas gettin' late in the season — 'twas 
 the fust day o' September I took him — an' I 
 begun to think about the winter, an' how I 
 should make Jacob comfortable. I thought I'd 
 move inter the front bedroom, where there 
 was a stove, an' take him right in there to 
 sleep. An' as for food, why, I'd dig up a lot 
 o' fire-weed an' set it out in pots, an' keep him 
 in vittles till spring. I'd found by this time 
 that he wouldn't eat nothin' else : he was real 
 set in his ways. I tried him on the nicest 
 things — rose leaves an' buttercups an' lavender 
 an' diffunt yarbs — but he'd jest smell at 'em an' 
 turn away, an' look for his fire -weed. That 
 was so like the boy ! If he wanted ginger- 
 bread, he wanted it; an' dough-nuts, nor jum- 
 bles, nor sour-milk cake, nor not even meat- 
 pie would do — he must have gingerbread or 
 nothin'. 
 
 "Well, I might 's well come to the wust 
 sooner 's later. One day I see Jacob didn't 
 
AUNT RANDY. 99 
 
 seem like hisself; he stopped eatin', an' went 
 crawlin' round 's if he wanted suthin' he hadn't 
 got. I give him water an' fresh fire-weed ; I 
 set him by the north winder where the wind 
 blew in, for 'twas a hot day; but nothin' did 
 any good. All day he went crawlin' round, 
 restless an' fev'rish like, never eatin' nothin', 
 nor takin' any notice o' anything. I set up by 
 him all night long, my heart 's heavy as lead, 
 for I was goin' over again them dreffle days 
 when my boy took sick. Just at daylight he 
 crawled down onto the ground an' lay there a 
 spell, an' then I heerd him a-rustlin' about, an' 
 when I looked he was kinder diggin' in the 
 ground, pickin' up little bits o' dirt an' throw- 
 in' 'em about. ' It's like pickin' at the bed- 
 clothes,' I says, my heart a-sinkin' 'way down. 
 So he went on for hours diggin', diggin'. I 
 put him up on the leaves lots o' times, but 
 he'd crawl right down agin, so I let him alone 
 't last. Bimeby I see he'd made quite a little 
 hole, an' all on a suddent it come into my head 
 he was makin' a grave. 
 
 "An' he was. Slow an' sure he dug, an' 
 crawled in 's he dug, an' I sat watchin' hour 
 
100 SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 after hour, an' cryin' my poor old heart out 
 over him. An' late in the afternoon he'd fin- 
 ished his work, an' buried hisself, jest leavin' a 
 little hole at his head ; an' he put up his little 
 pink face an' looked at me so human-like, an' 
 then he reached out an' took a little lump o' 
 dirt an' pulled it over the hole, an' he was 
 gone, an' I hadn't anything left in all the world 
 but my two graves !" 
 
 The old woman stopped and wiped her eyes 
 before she could go on, and I assure you that 
 I forgot the hero of her story was nothing but 
 a caterpillar, and found my own eyes wet. 
 
 ' ' Well, " she at last proceeded, " 1 didn't dis- 
 turb him. Seemed 's if God had some way o' 
 tellin' dumb creeters when they was to die, an' 
 so I tied the nettin' down over his box an' left 
 him there. 
 
 "I better not say much about that time. 
 'Twas a bad spell. My heart, that had got 
 kind o' soft an' warm with somethin' to' love 
 an' take care on, got hard an' frozen agin, an' 
 oh, the hard thoughts I had o' God for takin' 
 my last comfort away, an' lettin' both my little 
 Jacobs go away to lay for ever n' ever in the 
 
AUNT RANDY. 10 I 
 
 dark an' cold ! The spring-time came, an' I 
 hated it; an' oh, I dreaded the time when the 
 fire-weed would come out all pink an' bright, 
 with him not there no more to eat it, nor my 
 curly -headed boy to pick it! One summer 
 day — I sha'n't never forget it 's long 's I live — 
 I was standin' by Jacob's little grave (I'd al- 
 ways kep' his box in my room jest 's it was), 
 when I see the dirt had got shook off the top, 
 an' the poor little body, all dried up an' brown 
 now, was kinder oncovered. I was jest a-go- 
 in' to cover it up agin softly, when I see a little 
 crack come on it, an' — oh, I can't tell it all out in 
 this slow, quiet way ! I wish 't could come on 
 you as it did on me that blessed day — Jacob was 
 comin' to life agin ! he was — he was ! I watch- 
 ed him, never touchin' or speakin' to him — 
 though I jest ached to help — till the end come, 
 an' he was big an' beautiful, brown an' buff an' 
 pink, an' with wings ! Oh, Mis' Burton, I can't 
 put it inter words how I felt when I see Jacob 
 come out o'his very grave an' spread his wings 
 an' fly round my room, nor how I cried right 
 out loud as I see it : ' Why not my boy too ? 
 O Lord, you can do that jest 's easy 's this !' " 
 
102 SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 I left Franconia at the end of summer, and 
 during the winter months heard nothing from 
 the little snow-bound village. But when June 
 came again I sought, as for twenty years I have 
 sought, the grand old mountains — old but ever 
 new. One of my earliest visits was to the lit- 
 tle white house of Aunt Randy. I spied my 
 old friend in the garden, and felt sure she was 
 having a friendly gossip with some winged 
 friends. 1 passed through the gate to join her, 
 and as 1 did so saw a man sitting on the door- 
 steps. He was unmistakably of the genus 
 tramp, had a mean, sly face, with light shifting 
 eyes, and looked a thorough vagabond. I won- 
 dered at his presence there, but forgot it in- 
 stantly in the pleasure of meeting again my 
 old comrade. She knew me at once, and her 
 rugged face, thinner and more worn than when 
 I last saw her, brightened as she met me. Af- 
 ter a few words of greeting she asked me to 
 come into the house, and we were soon seat- 
 ed in the familiar room, the scene of Jacob's 
 death and apotheosis. 
 
 ' ' Did you see him ?" she suddenly asked, with 
 a jerk of her head towards the front door. 
 
AUNT RANDY. I03 
 
 "I saw a man outside," I replied. 
 
 "It's him, "she went on, quietly — "my hus- 
 band, ye know — Mr. Gates. He wa'n't dead; 
 'twas a mistake, somehow; an' he come home 
 las' winter!" 
 
 For a minute I was speechless, and 'before 1 
 could decide what to say, whether to congrat- 
 ulate or condole with my friend, she spoke 
 again : 
 
 "I can speak plain to you, for I got to feel 
 so to home with you las' summer, an'ye'll un- 
 derstan' me. When I see him comin' in one 
 day, ragged, an' dirty, an' — well, smellin' o' 
 liquor some — I wa'n't glad to see him. There 
 was things I couldn't disremember, somehow; 
 an' I'd thought he was dead an' gone, an' got 
 used to it; an' — I didn't seem to want him. 
 Then — 'twas kinder mean of me, but I thought 
 he'd heerd o' the little property I'd come into, 
 an' mebbe he was arter that, an' I kinder hard- 
 ened my heart. But when I see how sickly 
 an' peaked he looked, an' what a holler cough 
 he had, an' how poor an' mis'rable he was, I 
 begun to feel a little more Christian-like. So I 
 took him in an' done for him. I nussed him, 
 
104 SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 got him new clo'es, fed him up, kep'him warm 
 an' comfort'ble, an' " — -with one of her quaint 
 sudden smiles, which always reminded me of 
 one of those quick darting bits of sunlight 
 which come at times, you know not how, over 
 old Lafayette's rocky brow — "an' I finished up 
 by gettin' kinder fond on him. Now, Mis' 
 Burton," she said, more gravely, "he's never 
 had no 'dvantages. He never took no notice 
 o' worms or sech creeters, an' had no idee 
 what caterpillars turned inter or outer; an' as 
 for dead things, be they worms or folks, they 
 was dead, to his thinkin', for goodenall. So I 
 considered all that, an' made 'lowances, an' 1 
 begun to learn him religion, little at a time. I 
 didn't use no Bible; he wouldn't ha' stood that 
 — none o' his fam'ly ever would; they ain't 
 Scripter folks, the Gateses ain't. But I told 
 him all about the crawlin' an' flyin' creeters an' 
 their ways, an' held 'em up as Christian 'xam- 
 ples to humans; how they went about their 
 bizness so stiddy an' reg'lar, an' pervided for 
 their fam'lies, an' built their own houses, an' 
 was always to home, an' how forehanded they 
 was, lookin' ahead an' layin' up vittles for their 
 
AUNT RANDY. IO5 
 
 child'en who's to come arter 'em, an' all them 
 things, ye know. An' las' of all, I told him 
 'bout Jacob. Ye see he liked that boy of ourn 
 better'n he ever liked anything else, an' 1 never 
 let on to the boy that there was anything out 
 o' the way with his pa; so the little feller reely 
 set by Mr. Gates. An' when the frost got outer 
 the groun' this spring I wanted to take up the 
 boy an' bring him over from North Woodstock, 
 an' keep him in the graveyard here, nigher by. 
 An' I took Mr. Gates along; an' as we was 
 bringin' the little coffin home I jest told him 
 that story about the other body and the mir'cle 
 I see with my own eyes." 
 
 "And was he impressed by it ?" I asked, as 
 she paused for breath. 
 
 "Well, I don' know. He's got sorter wa- 
 t'ry eyes nat'rally — all the Gateses have — but 
 I kinder thought they was wetter'n common 
 when I got through, but 'twas a blowy day; 
 an' he was real car'ful about liftin' the coffin, 
 an' when the men was helpin' fill up the grave 
 he stood close by, an' I heerd him ask 'em 
 not to put so much dirt on top, nor stomp it 
 down hard, an' I s'mised he was thinkin' o' 
 
106 SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 the risin', an' plannin' how the little feller'd 
 come out." 
 
 The hard, work-worn hands brushed some- 
 thing from the thin cheek as she spoke, and I 
 thought that even the "Gateses" by marriage 
 seemed sometimes to have " wat'ry eyes." 
 
 "But his cough grows hollerer an' hackier, 
 Mis' Burton, an' Dr. Sankey tells me he ain't 
 long for this world ! an' oh, I'm so dreffie pleas- 
 ed he come home when he did, an' didn't die 
 without any preparin', or hearin' 'the gospil's 
 joyful soun',' as my old mother useter sing. 
 A queer gospil, ye may say, but I never heerd 
 a better sermon preached by Elder Garrick or 
 Father Howe than that blessed caterpillar o' 
 the church preached to me when he broke 
 outer the grave that res'rection day last July. 
 An' I tell ye when I'm talkin' caterpillars and 
 bugs an' such, I throw in, without scarin' him, 
 a good deal o' Scripter religion too, an' he 
 knows mighty well — or'tain't my fault — who's 
 behind it all, an' respons'ble for their goin's on 
 an' all the good in em. An' " — with her queer 
 quick smile again — " I do a heap o' prayin' for 
 him he never has the faintest idee on. It's 
 
AUNT RANDY. I07 
 
 mean, I hold, to pray at a man, but's long as 
 he don't know what I'm doin' it can't hurt 
 him, an' it's a dreffle relief to me. 
 
 "An' he's improvin' on it, an' I've got hopes 
 on him, Mis' Burton. I've seen wuss caterpil- 
 lars 'n him turn inter real sightly flyin' things, 
 not the best nor han'somest, mebbe, not big 
 green an' buff angels like Jacob, but suthin' 
 with wings, 'tennerate, an' that's a good deal. 
 There was a fat, logy, whitish worm I knew 
 once, with a blue streak down his back, that 
 lived on a white birch across the road. His 
 name was Ad'niram Judson Birch, an' I had big 
 hopes o' him — thought he was goin' to be a big 
 stripid butterfly; he et enough to make one a 
 foot across — but he hadn't any ambition or 
 fac'lty, somehow — jest et an' stuffed, an' never 
 got on — an' he only come out a kind of a saw- 
 fly, without any bright colors on him, or feath- 
 ers, or anything. But he had wings. I tell ye 
 there's wings in us all 'f we could see 'em. An' 
 when Mr. Gates gits off his caterpillar skin, an' 
 comes up an' shakes the dirt all off, I ain't go- 
 in' tb be one mite ashamed on him, 's long as 
 he's got wings." 
 
I08 SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 I was called away unexpectedly from the 
 mountains a few days after this interview, and 
 did not return that year. Nathan, a rare and 
 reticent correspondent, wrote me a few weeks 
 after. my departure as follows : 
 
 "Old Gates, Aunt Randy's wuthless hus- 
 band, pegged out last week. Good riddunse! 
 Don't need a Yanky to guess where he's gone." 
 
 But I try to forget the one glimpse I had of 
 the mean, sly face and cringing figure, and re- 
 member only dear old Aunt Randy's faith and 
 prayers, and her simple creed: "There's wings 
 in us all 'f we could see em." 
 
IV. 
 FISHIN' JIMMY. 
 
 'He leadeth me beside the still waters.'' 
 
 Psalm xxiii. 2. 
 
FISHIN' JIMMY. 
 
 It was on the margin of Pond Brook, just 
 back of Uncle Eben's, that I first saw Fishin' 
 Jimmy. It was early June, and we were again 
 at Franconia, that peaceful little village among 
 the northern hills. 
 
 The boys, as usual, were tempting the trout 
 with false fly or real worm, and I was roam- 
 ing along the bank, seeking spring flowers, 
 and hunting early butterflies and moths. Sud- 
 denly there was a little plash in the water at 
 the spot where Ralph was fishing, the slender 
 tip of his rod bent, I heard a voice cry out, 
 "Strike him, sonny, strike him!" and an old 
 man came quickly but noiselessly through the 
 bushes just as Ralph's line flew up into space, 
 with, alas ! no shining, spotted trout upon the 
 hook. The new-comer was a spare, wiry man 
 of middle height, with a slight stoop in his 
 shoulders, a thin brown face, and scanty gray 
 hair. He carried a fishing-rod, and had some 
 small trout strung on a forked stick in one 
 
I 12 SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 hand. A simple, homely figure, yet he stands 
 out in memory just as I saw him then, no 
 more to be forgotten than the granite hills, the 
 rushing streams, the cascades of that north 
 country I love so well. 
 
 We fell into talk at once, Ralph and Waldo 
 rushing eagerly into questions about the fish, 
 the bait, the best spots in the stream, advanc- 
 ing their own small theories, and asking ad- 
 vice from their new friend ; for friend he seem- 
 ed even in that first hour, as he began, simply 
 but so wisely, to teach my boys the art he 
 loved. They are older now, and are no mean 
 anglers, I believe, but they look back gratefully 
 to those brookside lessons, and acknowledge 
 gladly their obligations to Fishin' Jimmy. But 
 it is not of these practical teachings I would 
 now speak ; rather of the lessons of simple 
 faith, of unwearied patience, of self-denial and 
 cheerful endurance which the old man himself 
 seemed to have learned, strangely enough, 
 from the very sport so often called cruel and 
 murderous. Incomprehensible as it may seem, 
 to his simple intellect the fisherman's art was 
 a whole system of morality, a guide for every- 
 
fishin' jimmy. i 13 
 
 day life, an education, a gospel. It was all any 
 poor mortal man, woman, or child needed in 
 this world to make him or her happy, useful, 
 good. 
 
 At first we scarcely realized this, and won- 
 dered greatly at certain things he said, and the 
 tone in which he said them. I remember, at 
 that first meeting, I asked him, rather careless- 
 ly, " Do you like fishing ?" He did not reply 
 at first; then he looked at me with those odd, 
 limpid, green-gray eyes of his which always 
 seemed to reflect the clear waters of mountain 
 streams, and said, very quietly, "You wouldn't 
 ask me if I liked my mother — or my wife." 
 And he always spoke of his pursuit as one 
 speaks of something very dear, very sacred. 
 Part of his story I learned from others, but 
 most of it from himself, bit by bit, as we wan- 
 dered together day by day in that lovely hill- 
 country. As I tell it over again 1 seem to hear 
 the rush of mountain streams, the "sound of 
 a going in the tops of the trees,'' the sweet, 
 pensive strain of white-throat sparrow, and 
 the plash of leaping trout ; to see the crystal- 
 clear waters pouring over granite rock, the 
 
I 14 SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 wonderful purple light upon the mountains, 
 the flash and glint of darting fish, the tender 
 green of early summer in the north country. 
 
 Fishin' Jimmy's real name was James Whit- 
 cher. He was born in the Franconia Valley, 
 and his whole life had been passed there. He 
 had always fished ; he could not remember 
 when or how he learned the art. From the 
 days when, a tiny, barelegged urchin in rag- 
 ged frock, he had dropped his piece of string 
 with its bent pin at the end into the narrow, 
 shallow brooklet behind his father's house, 
 through early boyhood's season of roaming 
 along Gale River, wading Black Brook, row- 
 ing a leaky boat on Streeter's or Mink Pond, 
 through youth, through manhood, on and on 
 into old age, his life had apparently been one 
 long day's fishing — an angler's holiday. Had 
 it been only that ? He had not cared for 
 books or school, and all efforts to tie him 
 down to study were unavailing. But he knew 
 well the books of running brooks. No dry bo- 
 tanical text-book or manual could have taught 
 him all he now knew of plants and flowers 
 and trees. 
 
FISHIN JIMMY. 1 I 5 
 
 He did not call the yellow spatterdock Nu- 
 phar advena, but he knew its large leaves of 
 rich green, where the black bass and pickerel 
 sheltered themselves from the summer sun, 
 and its yellow balls on stout stems, around 
 which his line so often twined and twisted, or 
 in which the hook caught, not to be jerked 
 out till the long, green, juicy stalk itself, topped 
 with globe of greenish gold, came up from its 
 wet bed. He knew the sedges along the bank 
 with their nodding tassels and stiff lance-like 
 leaves, the feathery grasses, the velvet moss 
 upon the wet stones, the sea-green lichen on 
 bowlder or tree-trunk. There, in that corner 
 of Echo Lake, grew the thickest patch of pipe- 
 wort, with its small, round, grayish -white, 
 mushroom-shaped tops on long, slender stems. 
 If he had styled it Eriocaulon septangulare, 
 would it have shown a closer knowledge of 
 its habits than did his careful avoidance of its 
 vicinity, his keeping line and flies at a safe 
 distance, as he muttered to himself, "Them 
 pesky butt'ns agin!" He knew by sight the 
 bur-reed of mountain ponds, with its round, 
 prickly balls strung like big beads on the stiff, 
 
Il6 SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 erect stalks; the little water -lobelia, with its 
 tiny purple blossoms, springing from the wa- 
 ters of lake and pond. He knew, too, all the 
 strange, beautiful under -water growth — blad- 
 derwort, in long, feathery garlands, pellucid 
 water- weed, quillwort, in stiff little bunches 
 with sharp-pointed leaves of olive-green — all so 
 seldom seen save by the angler whose hooks 
 draw up from time to time the wet, lovely tan- 
 gle. I remember the amusement with which 
 a certain well-known botanist, who had jour- 
 neyed to the mountains in search of a little 
 plant, found many years ago near Echo Lake, 
 but not since seen, heard me propose to con- 
 sult Fishin' Jimmy on the subject. But I was 
 wiser than he knew. Jimmy looked at the 
 specimen brought as an aid to identification. 
 It was dry and flattened, and as unlike a living, 
 growing plant as are generally the specimens 
 from an herbarium. But it showed the awl- 
 shaped leaves, and thread-like stalk with its 
 tiny round seed-vessels, like those of our com- 
 mon shepherd's -purse, and Jimmy knew it at 
 once. "There's a dreffle lot o' that pepper- 
 grass out in deep water there, jest where I 
 
FISHIN JIMMY. 1 1 7 
 
 ketched the big pick'ril," he said, quietly. " I 
 seen it nigh a foot high, an' it's jucier an' liv- 
 in'er than them dead sticks in your book." At 
 our request he accompanied the unbelieving 
 botanist and myself to the spot, and there, 
 looking down through the sunlit water, we 
 saw great patches of that rare and long-lost 
 plant of the cruciferse known to science as 
 Subularia aquatica. For forty years it had hid- 
 den itself away, growing and blossoming and 
 casting abroad its tiny seeds, in its watery 
 home, unseen, or at least unnoticed, by living 
 soul except by the keen, soft, limpid eyes of 
 Fishin' Jimmy. And he knew the trees and 
 shrubs so well : the alder and birch, from which 
 as a boy he cut his simple, pliant pole ; the 
 shad-blow and iron-wood (he called them, re- 
 spectively, sugar -plum and hardhack), which 
 he used for the more ambitious rods of ma- 
 turer years; the mooseberry, wayfaring -tree, 
 hobble-bush, or triptoe — it has all these names 
 — with stout, trailing branches, over which he 
 stumbled as he hurried through the woods 
 and underbrush in the darkening twilight. 
 He had never heard of entomology. Que- 
 
I iS SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 nee, Hiibner, and Fabricius were unknown 
 names, but he could have told these worthies 
 many new things. Did they know just at 
 what hour the trout ceased leaping at dark fly 
 or moth, and could see only in the dim light 
 the ghostly white miller? Did they know 
 the comparative merits, as a tempting bait, 
 of grasshopper, cricket, spider, or wasp ; and 
 could they, with bits of wool, tinsel, and feath- 
 er, copy the real dipterous, hymenopterous, or 
 orthopterous insect ? And the birds : he knew 
 them as do few ornithologists, by sight, by 
 sound, by little ways and tricks of their own, 
 known only to themselves and him. The 
 white-throat sparrow, with its sweet, far- 
 reaching chant; the hermit -thrush, with its 
 chime of bells, in the calm summer twilight; 
 the vesper-sparrow, that ran before him as he 
 crossed the meadow, or sang for hours, as he 
 fished the stream, its unvarying but scarcely 
 monotonous little strain; the cedar-bird, with 
 its smooth brown coat of Quaker simplicity, 
 and speech as brief and simple as Quaker yea 
 or nay; the winter-wren, sending out his 
 strange, lovely, liquid warble from the high, 
 
fishin' jimmy. 119 
 
 rocky side of Cannon Mountain ; the bluebird 
 of that early spring, so welcome to the win- 
 ter-weary dwellers in that land of ice and 
 snow, as he 
 
 "from the bluer deeps 
 Lets fall a quick prophetic strain " 
 
 of summer, of streams freed and flowing again, 
 of waking, darting, eager fish — all these were 
 friends, familiar, tried, and true to Fishin' Jim- 
 my. The cluck and coo of the cuckoo, the 
 bubbling song of bobolink in buff and black, 
 the watery trill of the stream-loving swamp- 
 sparrow, the whispered whistle of the stealthy, 
 darkness -haunting whippoorwill, the gurgle 
 and gargle of the cow-bunting — he knew each 
 and all, better than did Audubon, Nuttall, or 
 Wilson. But he never dreamed that even the 
 tiniest of his little favorites bore in the scien- 
 tific world, far away from that quiet mountain 
 nest, such names as Troglodytus hiemalis or 
 Melospiza palustris. He could tell you, too, 
 of strange, shy creatures rarely seen except by 
 the early -rising, late -fishing angler, in quiet, 
 lonesome places: the otter, muskrat, and mink 
 of ponds and lakes — rival fishers, who bore off 
 
120 SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 prey sometimes from under his very eyes — ■ 
 field-mice in meadow and pasture, blind, bur- 
 rowing moles, prickly hedgehogs, brown hares, 
 and social, curious squirrels. 
 
 Sometimes he saw deer, in the early morn- 
 ing or in the dusk of the evening, as they came 
 to drink at the lake shore, and looked at him 
 with big, soft eyes not unlike his own. Some- 
 times a shaggy bear trotted across his path and 
 hid himself in the forest, or a sharp-eared fox 
 ran barking through the bushes. He loved to 
 tell of these things to us who cared to listen, 
 and I still seem to hear his voice saying, in 
 hushed tones, after a story of woodland sight 
 or sound: "Nobody don't see 'em but fisher- 
 men. Nobody don't hear 'em but fishermen." 
 
 But it was of another kind of knowledge he 
 oftenest spoke, and of which I shall try to tell 
 you in his own words, as nearly as possible. 
 
 First let me say that if there should seem to 
 be the faintest tinge of irreverence in aught I 
 write, I tell my story badly. There was no 
 irreverence in Fishin' Jimmy. He professed 
 a deep and profound veneration for all things 
 spiritual and heavenly; but it was the venera- 
 
FISHIN JIMMY. 121 
 
 tion of a little child, mingled as is that child's 
 with perfect confidence and utter frankness. 
 And he used the dialect of the country in 
 which he lived. 
 
 " As I was tellin' ye, " he said, ' ' I allers loved 
 fishin', an' knowed 'twas the best thing in the 
 hull airth; I knowed it larnt ye more about 
 creeters an' yarbs an' stuns an' water than books 
 could tell ye; 1 knowed it made folks patent- 
 er an' common-senser an' weather-wiser, an' 
 cuter gen'ally ; gin 'em more fac'lty than all the 
 school larnin' in creation. I knowed it was 
 more fillin'than vittles, more rousin'than whis- 
 key, more soothin' than lodlum ; I knowed it 
 cooled ye off when ye was het, an' het ye when 
 ye was cold ; I knowed all that, o' course — any 
 fool knows it. But— will ye bleeve it ? — I was 
 more'n twenty-one year old, a man growed, 
 'fore I foun' out why 'twas that away. Father 
 an' mother was Christian folks, good out-an'- 
 out Calv'nist Baptists from over East'n way. 
 They fetched me up right, made me go to 
 meetin' an' read a chapter every Sunday, an' 
 say a hymn Sat'day night a'ter washin' ; an' 1 
 useter say my prayers mos' nights. I wa'n't a 
 
122 SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 bad boy as boys go. But nobody thought o' 
 tellin' me the one thing, jest the one single 
 thing that'd ha' made all the diffunce. I know- 
 ed about God, an' how he made me an' made 
 the airth, an' everything; an' once I gotthinkin' 
 about that, an' I asked my father if God made 
 the fishes. He said course he did, the sea an' 
 all that in 'em is; but somehow that didn't 
 seem to mean nothin' much to me, an' 1 lost my 
 int'rist agin. An' I read the Scripter account o' 
 Jonah an' the big fish, an' all that in Job about 
 pullin' out levi'thing with a hook an' stickin' 
 fish-spears in his head, an' some parts in them 
 queer books nigh the end o' the ole Test'ment 
 about fish-ponds an' fish-gates an' fish-pools, 
 an' how the fishers shall l'ment — everything I 
 could pick out about fishin' an' sech ; but it 
 didn't come home to me; twa'n't my kind o' 
 fishin', an' I didn't seem ter sense it. 
 
 "But one day — it's more'n forty year ago 
 now, but I rec'lect it same's 'twas yest'day, an' 
 I shall rec'lect it forty thousand year from now 
 if I'm round, an' I guess I shall be — I heerd — 
 suthin' — diffunt. I was down in the village 
 one Sunday; it wa'n't very good fishin' — the 
 
FISHIN JIMMY. 12^ 
 
 streams was too full ; an' I thought I'd jest look 
 into the meetin'-house 's I went by. 'Twas the 
 ole union meetin'-house, ye know, an' they 
 hadn't got no reg'lar s'pply, an' ye never 
 knowed what kind ye'd hear, so 'twas kind o' 
 excitin'. 
 
 '"Twas late, most 'Ieven o'clock, an' the 
 sarm'n had begun. There was a strange man 
 a-preachin', some one from over to the hotel. 
 I never heerd his name, I never seed him from 
 that day to this ; but I knowed his face. Queer 
 enough, I'd seed him a-fishin'. I never knowed 
 he was a min'ster; he didn't look like one. 
 He went about like a real fisherman, with ole 
 clo'es, an' an ole hat with hooks stuck in it, 
 an' big rubber boots, an' he fished, reely fished, 
 I mean — ketched 'em. I guess 'twas that made 
 me liss'n a leetle sharper 'n us'al, for I never 
 seed a fishin'-min'ster afore. Elder Jacks'n, he 
 said 'twas a sinf'I waste o' time; an' ole Parson 
 Loomis, he'd an idee it was cruel an' onmarci- 
 ful ; so I thought I'd jest see what this man 'd 
 preach about, an' I settled down to liss'n to 
 the sarm'n. 
 
 "But there wa'n't no sarm'n, not what I'd 
 
124 SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 been raised to think was the on'y true kind. 
 There wa'n't no heads, no fustlys nor sec'nd- 
 lys, nor fin'ly bruthrins, but the fust thing I 
 knowed I was hearin' a story, an' 'twas a fish- 
 in' story. 'Twas about Some One — I hadn't 
 the least idee then who 'twas, an' how much 
 it all meant — Some One that was dreffle fond 
 o' fishin' and fishermen, Some One that sot 
 everythin' by the water, an' useter go along by 
 the lakes an' ponds, an' sail on 'em, an' talk 
 with the men that was fishin'. An' how the 
 fishermen all liked him, an' asked his 'dvice, 
 an' done jest 's he telled 'em about the likeliest 
 places to fish ; an' how they allers ketched 
 more for mindin' him ; an' how when he was 
 a-preachin' he wouldn't go into a big meetin'- 
 house an' talk to rich folks all slicked up, but 
 he'd jest go out in a fishin'-boat an' ask the 
 men to shove out a mite, an' he'd talk to the 
 folks on shore, the fishin' folks, an' their wives, 
 an' the boys an' gals playin' on the shore. An' 
 then, best o' everythin', he telled how when 
 he was a-choosin' the men to go about with 
 him an' help him, an' lam his ways, so's to 
 come a'ter him, he fust o' all picked out the 
 
FISHIN JIMMY. I25 
 
 men he'd seen every day fishin'; an' mebbe 
 fished with hisself, for he knowed 'em, an' 
 knowed he could trust 'em. 
 
 "An' then he telled us about the day when 
 this preacher come along by the lake — a dreffle 
 sightly place, this min'ster said; he'd seed it 
 hisself when he was trav'lin' in them coun- 
 tries — an' come acrost two men he knowed 
 well ; they was brothers, an' they was a-fishin'. 
 An' he jest asked em, in his pleasant- spoken, 
 frien'ly way — there wa'n't never sech a draw- 
 in', takin', lovin' way with any one afore as 
 this man had, the minister said — he jest asked 
 'em to come along with him ; an' they lay 
 down their poles an' their lines an' everything 
 an' jined him. An' then he come along a spell 
 farther, an' he see two boys out with their ole 
 father, an' they was settin' in a boat an' fixin' 
 up their tackle, an' he asked 'em if they'd jine 
 him too, an' they jest dropped all their things, 
 an' left the ole man with the boat an' the fish 
 an' the bait, an' follered the preacher. I don't 
 tell it very good. I've read it an' read it sence 
 that, but I want to make ye see how it sound- 
 ed to me, how 1 took it, as the min'ster telled 
 
126 SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 it that summer day in Francony meetin'. Ye 
 see I'd no idee who the story was about, the 
 man put it so plain, in common kind o' talk, 
 without any come-to-passes an' whuffers an' 
 thuffers, an' I never conceited 'twas a Bible 
 narr'tive. 
 
 "An' so fust thing I knowed I says to my- 
 self, ' That's the kind o' teacher I want. If I 
 could come acrost a man like that, I'd jest fol- 
 ler him too, through thick an' thin.' Well, I 
 can't put the rest on it into talk very good; 
 'tain't jest the kind o' thing to speak on 'fore 
 folks, even sech good friends as you. I ain't 
 the sort to go back on my word — fishermen 
 ain't, ye know— an' what I'd said to myself, 
 'fore I knowed who I was bindin' myself to, 
 I stuck to a'terwards when I knowed all about 
 him. For 'tain't for me to tell ye, who've got 
 so much more Iarnin' than me, that there was 
 a dreffle lot more to that story than the fishin' 
 part. That lovin', givin' up, sufferin', dyin' 
 part, ye know it all yerself, an' I can't kinder 
 say much on it, 'cept when I'm jest all by my- 
 self, or — 'long o' him. 
 
 "That a'ternoon I took my ole Bible that I 
 
fishin' jimmy. 127 
 
 hadn't read much sence I growed up, an' I 
 went out into the woods 'long the river, an' 
 'stid 0' fishin' I jest sot down an' read that hull 
 story. Now ye know it yerself by heart, an' 
 ye've knowed it all yer born days, so ye can't 
 begin to tell how new an' 'stonishin' 'twas to 
 me, an' how findin' so much fishin' in it kinder 
 helped me unnerstan' an' bleeve it every mite, 
 an' take it right hum to me to toiler an' live up 
 to 's long s I live an' breathe. Did j'ever think 
 on it, reely ? I tell ye, his r'liging's a fishin' 
 r'liging all through. His friends was fishin'- 
 folks ; his pulpit was a fishin'-boat, or the shore 
 o' the lake ; he loved the ponds an' streams ; an' 
 when his d'sciples went out fishin', if he didn't 
 go hisself with 'em he'd go a'ter 'em, walkin' 
 on the water, to cheer 'em up an' comfort 'em. 
 
 "An' he was allers round the water; for the 
 story'll say, 'he come to the sea-shore, ' or 'he 
 begun to teach by the sea-side,' or, agin, 'he 
 entered into a boat,' an' ' he was in the stern o' 
 the boat, asleep.' 
 
 "An' he used fish in his mir'cles. He fed 
 that crowd 0' folks on fish when they was hun- 
 gry, bought 'em from a little chap on the shore. 
 
128 SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 I've oft'n thought how dreffle tickled that boy 
 must 'a' been to have him take them fish. Meb- 
 be they wa'n't nothin' but shiners, but the fust 
 the little feller'd ever ketched, an' boys set a 
 heap on their fust ketch. He was dreffle good 
 to child'en, ye know. An' who'd he come to 
 a'ter he'd died an' ris agin ? Why, he come 
 down to the shore 'fore daylight, an' looked 
 off over the pond to where his ole frien's was 
 a-fishin'. Ye see they'd gone out jest to quiet 
 their minds an' keep up their sperrits; ther's 
 nothin' like fishin' for that, ye know, an' they'd 
 been in a heap o' trubble. When they was 
 settin' up the night afore, worryin' an' won- 
 d'rin' an' s'misin' what was goin' ter become on 
 'em without their master, Peter'd got kinder 
 desprit, an' he up an' says, in his quick way, 
 says he, 'Anyway, I'm goin' a-fishin'.' An' 
 they all see the sense on it — any fisherman 
 would — an' they says, says they, 'We'll go 
 'long too.' But they didn't ketch anythin'. I 
 suppose they couldn't fix their minds on it, 
 an' everythin' went wrong like. But when 
 mornin' come creepin' up over the mountings, 
 fust thin' they knowed they see him on the 
 
FISHIN JIMMY. 129 
 
 bank, an' he called out to 'em to know if they'd 
 ketched anythin'. The water jest run down 
 my cheeks when I heerd the min'ster tell that, 
 an' it kinder makes my eyes wet every time I 
 think on't. For 't seems 's if it might 'a' been 
 me in that boat, who heern that v'ice I loved 
 so dreffle well, speak up agin so nat'ral from 
 the bank there. An' he eat some 0' their fish! 
 O' course he done it to set their minds easy, 
 to show 'em he wa'n't quite a sperrit yit, but 
 jest their own ole frien' who'd been out in 
 the boat with 'em so many, many times. But 
 seems to me, jest the fac' he done it kinder 
 makes fish an' fishin' diffunt from any other 
 thing in the hull airth. I tell ye them four 
 books that gin his story is chock full 0' things 
 that go right to the heart 0' fishermen : Nets 
 an' hooks an' boats, an' the shores an' the sea 
 an' the mountings, Peter's fishin'-coat, lilies an' 
 sparrers an' grass o' the fields, an' all about the 
 evenin' sky bein' red or lowerin', an' fair or 
 foul weather. 
 
 "It's an out-doors, woodsy, country story, 
 'sides bein' the heav'nliest one that was ever 
 telled. I read the hull Bible, as a duty, ye 
 
I30 SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 know. I read the epis'les, but somehow they 
 don't come home to me. Paul was a great 
 man, a dreffle smart scholar, but he was raised 
 in the city, I guess, an' when I go from the 
 gospils into Paul's writin's it's like goin' from 
 the woods an' hills an' streams 0' Francony into 
 the streets of a big city like Concord or Man- 
 ch'ster." 
 
 The old man did not say much of his after- 
 life and the fruits of this strange conversion, 
 but his neighbors told us a great deal. They 
 spoke of his unselfishness, his charity, his kind- 
 ly deeds; told of his visiting the poor and un- 
 happy, nursing the sick. They said the little 
 children loved him, and every one in the vil- 
 lage and for miles around trusted and leaned 
 upon Fishin' Jimmy. He taught the boys to 
 fish, sometimes the girls too ; and while learn- 
 ing to cast and strike, to whip the stream, they 
 drank in knowledge of higher things, and came 
 to know and love Jimmy's "fishin' r'liging." 
 I remember they told me of a little French- 
 Canadian girl, a poor, wretched waif, whose 
 mother, an unknown tramp, had fallen dead 
 in the road near the village. The child, an 
 
FISHIN' JIMMY. 131 
 
 untamed little heathen, was found clinging to 
 her mother's body in an agony of grief and 
 rage, and fought like a tiger when they tried 
 to take her away. A boy in the little group 
 attracted to the spot ran away, with a child's 
 faith in his old friend, to summon Fishin' Jim- 
 my. He came quickly, lifted the little savage 
 tenderly, and carried her away. 
 
 No one witnessed the taming process, but 
 in a day or two the pair were seen together on 
 the margin of Black Brook, each with a fish- 
 pole. Her dark face was bright with interest 
 and excitement as she took her first lesson in 
 the art of angling. She jabbered and chattered 
 in her odd patois, he answered in broadest 
 New England dialect, but the two quite un- 
 derstood each other, and though Jimmy said 
 afterwards that it was ' ' dreffie to hear her call 
 the fish pois'n'," they were soon great friends 
 and comrades. For weeks he kept and cared 
 for the child, and when she left him for a good 
 home in Bethlehem, one would scarcely have 
 recognized in the gentle, affectionate girl the 
 wild creature of the past. Though often ques- 
 tioned as to the means used to effect this 
 
132 SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 change, Jimmy's explanation seemed rather 
 vague and unsatisfactory. " 'Twas fishin' done 
 it," he said; "on'y fishin'; it allers works. 
 The Christian r'liging itself had to begin with 
 fishin', ye know." 
 
 But one thing troubled Fishin' Jimmy. He 
 wanted to be a "fisher of men." That was 
 what the Great Teacher had promised he 
 would make the fishermen who left their 
 boats to follow him. What strange, literal 
 meaning he attached to the terms we could 
 not tell. In vain we — especially the boys, 
 whose young hearts, had gone out in warm 
 affection to the old man — tried to show him 
 that he was, by his efforts to do good and 
 make others better and happier, fulfilling the 
 Lord's directions. He could not understand it 
 so. "I allers try to think," he said, "that 
 'twas me in that boat when he come along. I 
 make bleeve that it was out on Streeter's Pond, 
 an' 1 was settin' in the boat, fixin' my lan'in'- 
 net, when I see him on the shore. I think 
 mebbe I'm that James — for that's my given 
 name, ye know, though they allers call me 
 Jimmy — an' then I hear him callin' me, 'James, 
 
fishin' jimmy. 135 
 
 James!' I can hear him jest's plain sometimes, 
 when the wind's blowin' in the trees, an' I jest 
 ache to up an' toiler him. But, says he, ' I'll 
 make ye a fisher 0' men,' an' he ain't done it. 
 I'm waitin'; mebbe he'll larn me some day." 
 
 He was fond of all living creatures, merciful 
 to all. But his love for our dog Dash became 
 a passion, for Dash was an angler. Who that 
 ever saw him sitting in the' boat beside his 
 master, watching with eager eye, and whole 
 body trembling with excitement, the line as it 
 was cast, the flies as they touched the surface 
 — who can forget old Dash ? His fierce ex- 
 citement at rise of trout, the efforts at self-re- 
 straint, the disappointment if the prey escaped, 
 the wild exultation if it was captured, how 
 plainly — he who runs might read — were 
 shown these emotions in eye, in ear, in tail, 
 in whole quivering body! What wonder that 
 it all went straight to the fisher's heart of Jim- 
 my! "I never knowed afore they could be 
 Christians," he said, looking, with tears in his 
 soft, keen eyes, at the every -day scene, and 
 with no faintest thought of irreverence. "1 
 never knowed it, but I'd give a stiffikit o' 
 
IJ54 SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 membership in the orthodoxest church goin' 
 to that dog there." 
 
 It is almost needless to say that as years 
 went on Jimmy came to know many " fishin '- 
 min'sters," for there are many of that ilk who 
 love our mountain country, and seek it yearly. 
 All these knew and loved the old man. And 
 there were others who had wandered by that 
 Sea of Galilee, and fished in the waters of the 
 Holy Land, and with them Fishin' Jimmy dear- 
 ly loved to talk. But his wonder was never- 
 ending that in the scheme of evangelizing the 
 world more use was not made of the "fishin' 
 side " of the story. " Hain't they ever tried it 
 on them poor heathen ?" he would ask earnest- 
 ly of some clerical angler casting a fly upon 
 the clear water of pond or brook. "1 should 
 think 'twould 'a' ben the fust thing they'd done. 
 Fishin' fust, an' r'liging 's sure to foller. An' 
 it's so easy; for heathen mostly r'sides on isl- 
 ands, don't they ? So ther's plenty o' water, 
 an' o' course ther's fishin' ; an' oncet gin 'em 
 poles an' git 'em to work, an' they're out o' 
 mischief for that day. They'd like it better'n 
 cannib'ling, or cuttin' out idles, or scratchin' 
 
FISHIN JIMMY. I35 
 
 picters all over theirselves, an' bimeby — not 
 too suddent, ye know, to scare 'em — ye could 
 begin on that story, an' they couldn't stan' that, 
 not a heathen on 'em. Won't ye speak to the 
 'Merican Board about it, an' sen' out a few fish- 
 in' mishneries, with poles an' lines an' tackle 
 gen'ally ? I've tried it on dreffle bad folks, an' 
 it allers done 'em good. But " — so almost all his 
 simple talk ended — "1 wish I could begin to 
 be a fisher o' men ; I'm gettin' on now — I'm nigh 
 seventy — an' I ain't got much time, ye see." 
 
 One afternoon in July there came over Fran- 
 conia Notch one of those strangely sudden 
 tempests which sometimes visit that mountain 
 country. It had been warm that day, unusual- 
 ly warm for that refreshingly cool spot; but 
 suddenly the sky grew dark and darker, almost 
 to blackness; there was roll of thunder and 
 flash of lightning, and then poured down the 
 rain — rain at first, but soon hail in large frozen 
 bullets, which fiercely pelted any who vent- 
 ured out-doors, rattled against the windows 
 of the Profile House with sharp cracks like 
 sounds of musketry, and lay upon the piazza in 
 heaps like snow. And in the midst of the 
 
I36 SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 wild storm it was remembered that two boys, 
 guests at the hotel, had gone up Mount Lafay- 
 ette alone that day. They were young boys, 
 unused to mountain climbing, and their friends 
 were anxious. It was found that Dash had 
 followed them ; and just as some one was to 
 be sent in search of them, a boy from the sta- 
 bles brought the information that Fishin' Jim- 
 my had started up the mountain after them as 
 the storm broke. "Said if he couldn't be a 
 fisher o' men, mebbe he knowed 'nuff to ketch 
 boys," went on our informant, seeing nothing 
 more in the speech, full of pathetic meaning 
 to us who knew him, than the idle talk of 
 one whom many considered "lackin'." Jim- 
 my was old now, and had of late grown very 
 feeble, and we did not like to think of him out 
 in that wild storm. And now suddenly the 
 lost boys themselves appeared through the 
 opening in the woods opposite the house, and 
 ran in through the hail, now falling more qui- 
 etly. They were wet, but no worse, apparent- 
 ly, for their adventure, though full of contrition 
 and distress at having lost sight of the dog. 
 He had rushed off into the woods some hours 
 
FISHIN JIMMY. I37 
 
 before, after a rabbit or hedgehog, and had nev- 
 er returned; nor had they seen Fishin' Jimmy. 
 As hours went by, and the old man did not 
 return, a search party was sent out, and guides 
 familiar with all the mountain paths went up 
 Lafayette to seek for him. It was nearly night 
 when they at last found him, and the grand 
 old mountains had put on those robes of royal 
 purple which they sometimes assume at even- 
 tide. At the foot of a mass of rock, which 
 looked like amethyst or wine-red agate in that 
 marvellous evening light, the old man was ly- 
 ing, and Dash was with him. From the few 
 faint words Jimmy could then gasp out the 
 truth was gathered. He had missed the boys, 
 leaving the path by which they had returned, 
 and while stumbling along in search of them, 
 feeble and weary, he had heard far below a 
 sound of distress. Looking down over a steep 
 rocky ledge, he had seen his friend and fish- 
 ing comrade, old Dash, in sore trouble. Poor 
 Dash ! He never dreamed of harming his old 
 friend, for he had a kind heart. But he was a 
 sad coward in some matters, and a very baby 
 when frightened and away from master and 
 
138 SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 friends. So I fear he may have assumed the 
 role of wounded sufferer when in reality he 
 was but scared and lonesome. He never 
 owned this afterwards,- and you may be sure 
 we never let him know by word or look the 
 evil he had done. Jimmy saw him holding 
 up one paw helplessly, and looking at him 
 with wistful, imploring brown eyes; heard 
 his pitiful, whimpering cry for aid, and never 
 doubted his great distress and peril. Was 
 Dash not a fisherman ? And fishermen, in 
 Fishin' Jimmy's category, were always true 
 and trusty. So the old man, without a second's 
 hesitation, started down the steep, smooth de- 
 cline to the rescue of his friend. 
 
 We do not know just how or where in that 
 terrible descent he fell. To us who afterwards 
 saw the spot, and thought of the weak old 
 man, chilled by the storm, exhausted by his 
 exertions, and yet clambering down that pre- 
 cipitous cliff, made more slippery and treach- 
 erous by the sleet and hail still falling, it seemed 
 impossible that he could have kept a foothold 
 for an instant. Nor am I sure that he expected 
 to save himself and Dash too. But he tried. 
 
fishin' jimmy. 139 
 
 He was sadly hurt. I will not tell you of 
 that. 
 
 Looking out from the hotel windows through 
 the gathering darkness, we who loved him — 
 it was not a small group — saw a sorrowful 
 sight. Flickering lights thrown by the lan- 
 terns of the guides came through the woods. 
 Across the road, slowly, carefully, came strong 
 men, bearing on a rough, hastily made litter 
 of boughs the dear old man. All that could 
 have been done for the most distinguished 
 guest, for the dearest, best-beloved friend, was 
 done for the gentle fisherman. We, his friends, 
 and proud to style ourselves thus, were of dif- 
 ferent, widely separated lands, greatly varying 
 creeds. Some were nearly as old as the dying 
 man, some in the prime of manhood. There 
 were youths and maidens and little children; 
 but through the night we watched together. 
 The old Roman bishop, whose calm, benign 
 face we all know and love; the Churchman, 
 ascetic in faith, but with the kindest, most in- 
 dulgent heart when one finds it; the gentle 
 old Quakeress, with placid, unwrinkled brow 
 and silvery hair ; Presbyterian, Methodist, and 
 
140 SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 Baptist — we were all one that night. The 
 old angler did not suffer — we were so glad 
 of that! But he did not appear to know us, 
 and his talk seemed strange. It rambled on 
 quietly, softly, like one of his own mountain 
 brooks, babbling of green fields, of sunny 
 summer days, of his favorite sport, and ah, of 
 other things. But he was not speaking to us. 
 A sudden, awed hush and thrill came over us 
 as, bending to catch the low words, we all at 
 once understood what only the bishop put 
 into words as he said, half to himself, in a sud- 
 den, quick, broken whisper, "God bless the 
 man, he's talking to his Master!" 
 
 "Yes, sir, that's so," went on the quiet voice; 
 " 'twas on'y a dog, sure 'nough; 'twa'n't even 
 a boy, as ye say, an' ye ast me to be a fisher 
 o' men. But I hain't had no chance for that, 
 somehow; mebbe I wa'n't fit for't. I'm on'y 
 jest a poor old fisherman — Fishin' Jimmy, ye 
 know, sir. Ye useter call me James — no one 
 else ever done it. On'y a dog ? But he wa'n't 
 jest a common dog, sir; he was a fishin'-dog. 
 I never seed a man love fishin' mor'n Dash." 
 The dog was in the room, and heard his name. 
 
FISHIN JIMMY. 141 
 
 Stealing to the bedside, he put a cold nose into 
 the cold hand of his old friend, and no one had 
 the heart to take him away. The touch turned 
 the current of the old man's talk for a mo- 
 ment, and he was fishing again with his dog 
 friend. "See 'em break, Dashy! See 'em 
 break! Lots on 'em to-day, ain't they ? Keep 
 still, there's a good dog, while I put on a dif- 
 funt fly. Don't ye see they're jumpin' at them 
 gnats ? Ain't the water jest 'live with 'em ? 
 Ain't it shinin' an' clear an' — " The voice 
 faltered an instant, then went on: "Yes, sir, 
 I'm comin' — I'm glad, dreffle glad to come. 
 Don't mind 'bout my leavin' myfishin'; do ye 
 think I care 'bout that ? I'll jest lay down my 
 pole ahin' the alders here, an' put my lan'in'- 
 net on the stuns, with my flies an' tackle— the 
 boys '11 like 'em, ye know — an' I'll be right 
 along. 
 
 ' ' I mos' knowed ye was on'y a-tryin' me 
 when ye said that 'bout how I hadn't been 
 a fisher o' men, nor even boys, on'y a dog. 
 'Twas a — fishin'-dog — ye know — an' ye was 
 allers dreffle good to fishermen — dreffle good 
 to everybody — died — for — 'em, didn't ye ? 
 
142 SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 " Please wait — on — the — bank there a min- 
 nit; I'm comin' 'crost. Water's pretty — cold 
 this — spring — an' the stream's risin' — but — I — 
 can — do it — don't ye mind — 'bout — me, sir. 
 I'll — get — acrost." Once more the voice ceas- 
 ed, and we thought we should not hear it 
 again this side that stream. 
 
 But suddenly a strange light came over the 
 thin face, the soft gray eyes opened wide, and 
 he cried out with the strong voice we had so 
 often heard come ringing out to us across the 
 mountain streams, above the sound of their 
 rushing: "Here I be, sir! It's Fishin' Jimmy, 
 ye know, from Francony way ; him ye useter 
 call James when ye come 'long the shore o' the 
 pond an' I was a-fishin'. I heern ye agin, jest 
 now — an' I — straightway — f'sook — my — nets 
 — an' — follered — " 
 
 Had the voice ceased utterly ? No ; we could 
 catch faint, low murmurs, and the lips still 
 moved. But the words were not for us; and 
 we did not know when he reached the other 
 bank. 
 
V. 
 
 BUTTERNEGGS. 
 
 " I had a sister 
 Whom the blind waves and surges have devour d." 
 
 Twelfth Night. 
 
BUTTERNEGGS. 
 
 She was a woman of nearly seventy, I 
 should think ; tall, thin, and angular, with 
 strongly marked features and eyes of very pale 
 blue. Her hair, still dark, though streaked 
 with gray, was drawn back from her temples 
 and twisted into a little hard knot behind, and 
 she wore no cap. We had scarcely exchanged 
 greetings before her eyes fell upon my modest 
 bouquet. 
 
 "Butterneggs, I declare for't!" she exclaimed, 
 with lively interest ; ' ' fust I've seed this seas'n ; 
 mine don't show a speck o' blowth yet, an' 
 mine's gen'lly fust. Where'd it grow, ma'am, 
 'f I may ask ?" 
 
 I told her of the spot near Buttermilk Falls 
 where we had found it, but did not think it 
 necessary to inform her that we had gone 
 there in search of the plant at Jane's sugges- 
 tion, that the sight of it might prompt the old 
 woman to tell a certain tale. 1 begged her at 
 once to accept the flowers, which she did 
 
146 SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 with evident pleasure, placing the homely lit- 
 tle nosegay carefully in water. For a vase she 
 used a curious old wineglass, tall and quaint, 
 far more desirable in my eyes than a garden 
 full of the common yellow flowers it held, and 
 I bent forward eagerly to examine it. Aunt 
 Loretty seemed to regard my interest as whol- 
 ly botanical in its nature, and centred upon 
 her beloved Linaria vulgaris, and I at once rose 
 in her estimation. 
 
 "It's a sightly posy, ain't it, ma'am?" she 
 said; "jest about the likeliest there is, I guess. 
 But then it's heredit'ry in our fam'ly, so o' 
 course I like it." 
 
 " Hereditary!" I exclaimed, forgetting for a 
 moment my promise to take things quietly, 
 showing no surprise or incredulity. " Butter- 
 and-eggs hereditary in your family!" 
 
 "Yes, ma'am, 'tis; leastways the settin'by't 
 is. All the Knappses set ev'rything by but- 
 terneggs. Ye can't be a Knapp — course I mean 
 our branch o' the fam'ly — ye can't be one 0' 
 our Knappses an' not have that plant with its 
 yeller blooms an' little, narrer, whity- green 
 leaves for yer fav'rite. The Knappses allers 
 
BUTTERNEGGS. 1 47 
 
 held it so, an' they allers will hold it so, or 
 they won't be Knappses. Didn't I never tell 
 ye," she asked, turning to my companion, 
 •' 'bout my sister, an' losin' her, an' the way I 
 come to find her ?" 
 
 I do not remember just how Jane evaded 
 this direct question, but her reply served the 
 desired purpose, and Aunt Loretty was soon 
 started upon her wonderful story. 
 
 "My father was Cap'n Zenas Knapp, born 
 right here in Coscob. He follered the sea; an's 
 there warn't much sea 'round here to foller, 
 he moved down Stonin'ton way, an took ter 
 whalin'. An' bimeby he married a gal down 
 there, S'liny Ann Beebe, an' he lost sight an' run 
 0' Coscob an' the Knappses for a long spell. 
 But pa was a Knapp clear through 'f there 
 ever was one; the very Knappiest Knapp, 
 sotespeak, o' the hull tribe, an' that's puttin' it 
 strong 'nough. All their ways, all their doin's, 
 their likin's an' dislikin's, their taketos an' their 
 don't-taketos, their goods an' their bads — he 
 had 'em all hard. An' they bad ways — the 
 Knappses had, an' they've got 'em still, what's 
 left 0' the fam'ly — the waysiest ways ! Some 
 
I48 SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 folks ain't that kind, ye know; they're jest like 
 other folks. If ye met 'em 'way from hum ye 
 wouldn't know where they come from or 
 whose relations they was; they might be 
 Peckses o' Horseneck, or Noyses 0' West'ly, or 
 Simsb'ry Phelpses ; or agin they might be 
 Smithses 0' ary place, for all the fam'ly ways 
 they'd got. But our folks, the hull tribe on 
 'em, was tarred with the same stick, 's ye 
 might say ; ye'd 'a knowed 'em for Knappses 
 wherever they was — in Coscob, Stonin'ton, or 
 Chiny. Frinstance, for one thing, they was all 
 Congr'ation'l in religion; they allers had ben 
 from the creation 0' the airth. Some folks 
 might say to that that there wa'n't no Con- 
 gr'ation'l meetin's 's fur back's that. Well, I 
 won't be too sot; mebbe there wa'n't; but 'f 
 that's so, then there wa'n't no Knappses; there 
 couldn't be Knappses an' no Congr'ation'lists. 
 An' they all bleeved in foreord'nation an' 'lec- 
 tion. They was made so. Ye didn't have ter 
 lam it to 'em ; they got it jest 's they got teeth 
 when 'twas time ; they took it jest 's they 
 took hoopin'- cough an' mumps when they 
 was 'round. They didn't, ary one on 'em, 
 
BUTTERNEGGS. 1 49 
 
 need the cat'chism to Iarn 'em 'bout 'Whereby 
 
 for 's own glory He hath foreordained whats'- 
 
 ever comes to pass,' nor to tell 'em 't ' He out 
 
 o' His mere good pleasure from all etarnity 
 
 'lected some to everlastin' life;' they knowed 
 
 it theirselves, the Knappses did. An' they 
 
 stuck to their bleefs, an' would 'a' stood up on 
 
 the Saybrook platform an' ben burnt up for 
 
 'em, like John Rogers in the cat'chism, sayin', 
 
 ' What though this carcass smart a while, 
 What though this life decay.' 
 
 "An' they was all Whigs in pol'tics. There 
 wa'n't never a Knapp — our branch — who vot- 
 ed the Dem'cratic ticket. They took that too ; 
 no need for their pas to tell 'em ; jest 's soon 's 
 a boy got to be twenty-one, an' 'lection day 
 come round, up he went an' voted the Whig 
 tick't, sayin' nothin' to nobody. An' so 'twas 
 in ev'rything. They had ways o' their own. 
 It come in ev'n down to readin' the Scripters. 
 For ev'ry Knapp 't ever I see p'ferred the Book 
 o' Rev'Iations to ary other part o' the Bible. 
 They liked it all, o' course, for they was a pi- 
 ous breed, an' knowed 't all Scripter's give by 
 insp'ration, an's prof 't'ble, an' so forth ; but for 
 
150 SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 stiddy, ev'ry-day readin' give 'em Rev'lations. 
 An' there was lots o' other little ways they had, 
 too, sech as strong opp'sition to Baptists, an' 
 dreffle dislikin' to furr'ners, and the greatest 
 app'tite for old-fashioned, hum -made, white- 
 oak cheese. Then they was all 'posed to 
 swearin', an' didn't never use perfane lan- 
 guage, none o' the Knappses; but there was 
 jest one sayin' they had when 'xcited or 
 s'prised or anything, an' that was, ' C'rinthi- 
 ans !' They would say that, all on 'em, 'fore 
 they died, one time or t'other. An' when a 
 Knapp said it, it did sound like the awf'lest 
 kind o' perfan'ty ; but o' course it wa'n't. An' 
 'fore an' over all, ev'ry born soul on 'em took 
 ter flowers an' gard'ns. They would have 'em 
 wherever they was. An' ev'rything they touch- 
 ed growed an' thriv' ; drouth didn't dry 'em, 
 wet didn't mould 'em, bugs didn't eat 'em; 
 they come up an' leafed out an' budded an' 
 blowed for the poorest, needin'est Knapp 't 
 lived, with only the teentiest bit of a back yard 
 for 'em to grow in, or brok'n teapots an crackt 
 pitchers to hold 'em. But they might have all 
 the finest posies in the land, roses an' heelyer- 
 
BUTTERNEGGS. 1 5 I 
 
 tropes an' verbeny an' horseshoe g'raniums, an' 
 they'd swop 'em all off, ary Knapp would — 
 our branch — for one single plant 0' that bless- 
 ed flower ye fetched me to-day — butterneggs. 
 How 't come about 's more'n I can say, or how 
 long it's ben goin' on — from the very fust start 
 o' things fortino — but 'tennerate ev'ry single 
 Knapp I ever see or heerd on held butterneggs 
 to be the beautif'lest posy God ever made. 
 
 "I can't go myself in my rec'Iection back 
 0' my great-gran 'mother, but I r'member her, 
 though I was a speck of a gal when she died. 
 She was a Bissell 0' Nor'field, this State, but 
 she married a Knapp, an' seemed to grow right 
 inter Knapp ways ; an' she an' gran'f'ther— 
 great -gran'f'ther I mean, Shearjashub Knapp 
 — they used to have a big bed 0' butterneggs 
 in front o' the side door, an' it made the hull 
 yard look sunshiny even when the day was 
 dark an' drizzly. There ain't nothin' shinin'er 
 an' goldier than them flowers with the differ- 
 ent kinds o' yeller in 'em ; they'll most freckle 
 ye, they're so much like the sun shinin'. Then 
 the next gen'ration come Gran'pa Knapp — his 
 giv'n name was Ezry — an' he was bedrid for 
 
152 SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 more'n six year. An' he had butterneggs plant- 
 ed in boxes an' stood all 'round his bed, an' he 
 did take sech cumf t in 'em. The hull room 
 was yeller with 'em, an' they give him a sort 
 0' biliousy, jandersy look; but he did set so 
 by 'em ; an' the very last growin' thing the 
 good old man ever set eyes on here b'low, 
 afore he see the green fields beyond the swell- 
 in' flood, was them bright an' shinin' buttern- 
 eggs. An' his sister Hopey, she 't married 
 Enoch Ambler o' Greens Farms, I never shall 
 forgit her butterneggs border 't run all 'round 
 her gard'n ; the pea-green leaves an' yeller an' 
 saffrony blooms looked for all the world like 
 biled sparrergrass with chopped-egg sarce. 
 
 " Well, you'll wonder what on airth I'm at 
 with all this rigmajig 'bout the Knappses an' 
 their ways ; but you'll see bimeby that it's all 
 got suthin' to do with the story I begun on 
 'bout my sister, an' the way I come to lose her 
 an' find her ag'in. There's jest one thing more 
 I must put in, an' that's how the Knappses 
 gen'IIy died. 'Twas eenamost allers o' dum'- 
 aigger. That's what they called it them days; 
 I s'pose 'twould be malairy now; but that 
 
BUTTERNEGGS. 1 53 
 
 wa'n't invented then, an' we had to git along 
 's well 's we could without sech lux'ries. The 
 Knappses was long-lived — called threescore 'n 
 ten bein' cut off in the midst 0' your days — 
 but when they did come ter die 'twas most 
 gen'lly o' dum'aigger. But even 'bout that they 
 had their own ways; an' when a Knapp — our 
 branch I would say — got dum'aigger, why, 
 'twas dummer an' aiggerer 'n other folkses 
 dum'aigger, an' so 't got the name 0' the 
 Knapp -shakes. An' they all seemed to use 
 the same rem'dies an' physics for the c'm- 
 plaint. They wa'n't much for doctors, but 
 they all bleeved in yarbs an' hummade steeps 
 an' teas. An' 'thout any 'dvice or doctor's 
 receipts or anything, 's soon 's they felt the 
 creepy, goose-fleshy, shiv'ry feelin' that meant 
 dum'aigger, with their heads het up an' their 
 feet 'most froze, they'd jest put some cam'mile 
 an' hardhack to steep, an' sew a strip o' red 
 flann'l round their neck, an' put a peppergrass 
 pouitice to the soles 0' their feet, an' go to 
 bed ; an' there they'd lay, drinkin' their cam'- 
 mile an' hardhack, strong an' hot, an' allers 
 with their head on a hard, thin piller, till all 
 
154 SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 was over, an' they was in a land where there's 
 no dum'aigger nor any kinder sickness 't all. 
 Gran'f'ther died o' dum'aigger; great-gran'- 
 f'ther died on it — had it six year; Aunt Hopey 
 Ambler, great-aunt Cynthy, an' second cous'n 
 Shadrach all went off that way. An' pa — well, 
 he didn't die so ; but that's part o' my sister's 
 story. 
 
 "Ma, she was a Beebe, 's 1 said afore, 
 but she might 'a ben 'most anything else, for 
 there wa'n't any strong Beebe ways to her. 
 Her mother was a Palmer — 'most ev'rybody's 
 mother is, down Stonin'ton way, ye know — 
 an' ma was 's much Palmer 's Beebe, an' she 
 was more Thayer than ary one on 'em (her 
 gran'mother was a Thayer). So 't stands to 
 reas'n that when we child'en come 'long we 
 was more Knapp than Beebe. There was two 
 on us, twins an' gals, me an' my sister ; an' 
 they named us arter pa's twin sisters 't died 
 years afore, Coretty an' Loretty, an' I'm Loretty. 
 
 "Well, by the time we was four year old 
 pa he'd riz to be cap'n. He was honest an' 
 stiddy, 's all the Knappses be, an' that's the 
 sort they want for whalin'. So when the Tiger 
 
BUTTERNEGGS. I 55 
 
 was to be fitted up for a three -year v'yge, 
 why, there was nothin' fort but pa he must 
 go cap'n. But ma she took on so 'bout it — 
 for he hadn't ben off much sence she married 
 him — that jest for peace, if nothin' else, he 
 fin'Ily consented to take her an' the twins 
 along too ; an' so we went. Well, I can't tell 
 ye much about that v'yge, o' course. I was 
 on'y a baby, an' all I know about it 's what ma 
 told me long a'terward. But the v'yge 'ain't 
 got much to do with my story. They done 
 pretty fair, took a good many sperm-whales, 
 got one big lump o' ambergrease, an' pa he 
 was in great sperrits, when all on a suddent 
 there come a dreffle storm, an' they lost their 
 reck'nin', an' they got on some rocks, an' the 
 poor old Tiger went all to pieces. I never can 
 rightly remember how any soul on us was 
 saved; but we was, some way or t'other, ma 
 an' me an' some o' the crew, but poor pa an' 
 Coretty was lost. As nigh 's I can rec'lect the 
 story, we was tied to suthin' nuther that 'd 
 float, ma an' me, an' a ship picked us up an' 
 fetched us home. 'Tennerate we got here — to 
 Stonin'ton I mean — but poor ma was a heart- 
 
I56 SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 brok'n widder, an' I was half an orph'n an' 
 only half a pair o' twins. For my good pa an' 
 that dear little Coretty was both left far behind 
 in the dreadful seas. An' that's why pa didn't 
 die 0' the Knapp-shakes. 
 
 "I won't take up your time tellin' all that 
 come arter that, for it's another part you want 
 to hear. So I'll skip over to the time when I 
 was a woman growed, ma dead an' gone, an' 
 me livin' all by myself, a single woman, goin' 
 on thirty-seven year old, or p'raps suthin' old- 
 er, in Har'ford, this State. I'd had my ups an' 
 my downs, more downs than ups; I'd worked 
 hard an' lived poor ; but I was a Knapp, an' 
 never gin up, an' so at last there I was in a little 
 bit of a house, all my own, on Morg'n Street, 
 Har'ford. An' there I lived, quite well-to-do, 
 an' no disgrace to any Knapp t ever lived, be 
 she who she be. I had plenty to do, though I 
 hadn't any reg'lar trade. I wa'n't a tail'ress ex- 
 actly, but I could make over their pa's pant'- 
 loons for boys, an' cut out jackets by a pattern 
 for 'em ; an' I wa'n't a real mill'ner, but I could 
 trim up a bunnet kind 0' tasty, an' bleach over 
 a Leghorn or a fancy braid as well as a perfes- 
 
BUTTERNEGGS. 1 57 
 
 sion'l; I never Iarnt the dress-makin' trade, but 
 I knew how to cut little gals' frocks an' make 
 their black silk ap'ons; an' I'd rip up an' press 
 an' clean ladies' dresses, an' do over their crape 
 an' love veils, an' steam up their velvet ribb'ns 
 over the teakettle to raise the pile. An' I sew- 
 ed over carpets, an' stitched wristban's, an' — I 
 don't know what 1 didn't do them days, for I 
 had what ary Knapp I ever see — 1 mean our 
 branch — had all their born days, an' that was, 
 's I s'pose you know, 0' course — fac'lty. 
 
 "An' the best fam'lies in Har'ford employed 
 me, an' set by me, an' knowin' what I was an' 
 what my an'stors had ben, they treated me 's 
 if 1 was one of their own sort. An' ag'in an' 
 ag'in I've set to the same table with sech folks 
 's the Wadsworthses an' Ellsworthses an' Ter- 
 rys an' Wellses an' Huntin'tons. An' I made 
 a good deal outer my gard'nin'. I had all the 
 Knapp hank'rin' for that, an' from the time I 
 was a mite of a gal I was allers diggin' an' 
 scratchin' in the dirt like a hen, stickin' in 
 seeds an' slips, an' pullin' up weeds, snippin' 
 an' prunin' an' trainin' an' wat'rin'. An' I had 
 the beautif'lest gard'n in Har'ford, an' made a 
 
158 SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 pretty penny outer it too. I sold slips an' cut- 
 tin's, an' saved seeds 0' my best posies, puttin' 
 'em up in little paper cases, pasted over at the 
 edges, an' there was plenty 0' cust'mers for 
 'em, 1 can tell ye. For my sunflowers was 's 
 big as pie plates, my hollyhawks jest dazzlin' 
 to look at, my cant'b'ry-bells big an' blue, my 
 dailyers 's quilly 's quills — all colors : I had 
 four kinds o' pinks; I had bach'lor's-butt'ns, 
 feather -fews, noneserpretties, sweet-williams, 
 chiny- asters, flowerdelooses, tulups, daffies, 
 larkspurs, prince's-feathers, cock's-combs, red- 
 balm, mournin'-bride, merrygools — Oh, I'm all 
 outer breath, an' I 'ain't told ye half the blooms 
 I had in that Har'ford gard'n. But I could tell 
 ye! If 'twas all drawed out there on that floor 
 an' painted to life, I couldn't see it any plain- 
 er'n I see 't this minnit, eyes shet or op'n. An' 
 how I did set by them beds ! Dr. Hawes — I 
 went to the Centre to meetin' — Dr. Hawes he 
 says, one time when he come to make a pas- 
 t'ral call, says he in his way — he was kinder 
 ongraceful, ye know — pintin' his long finger 
 at me an' shakin' it up an' down, he says: 
 'Loretty, Loretty,' very loud an' solium, ye 
 
BUTTERNEGGS. 1 59 
 
 know, ' don't you set your 'fections on them 
 fadin' flowers o' earth, an' forgit the never- 
 with'rin' flowers o' heav'n,' he says. Ye see 
 he'd ben prayin' with me, an' right in the 
 midst an' 'mongst o' his prayer he ketched 
 sight o' me reachin' out to pull up a weed in 
 the box 0' young balsams 1 was startin' in the 
 house. So 'tain't no wonder he was riled, for 
 he was dreffie good, an' was one of them folks 
 who, 's the hymn says, 
 
 ' Knows the wuth o' prayer, 
 An' wishes offen to be there.' 
 
 "Well, 'twas 'bout that time, 's I was say in', 
 an' 1 was a single woman o' thirty -seven, or 
 p'r'aps a leetle more, not wuth countin' on a 
 single woman's age, when there come upon 
 me the biggest, awf 'lest, scariest s'prise 't ever 
 come upon any one afore, let 'lone a Knapp — 
 our branch. A letter come to me one day 
 from Cap'n Akus Chadwick, form'ly o' Ston- 
 in'ton, an' a friend o' pa's, but now an old man 
 in New Lon'on, an' this 's what he says: 
 Seems 't a ship 'd come into New Bedford, a 
 whalin' ship, with a r'mark'ble story. They'd 
 had rough weather an' big gales, an' got outer 
 
160 SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 their course, an' they'd sighted land, an' when 
 they come to't — I don' know how or why they 
 did come to't, whether they meant ter or had 
 ter — they see on the shore a woman, an' when 
 they landed there wa'n't ary other folks on the 
 hull island ; nothin' but four-footed critters — 
 wild ones — an' birds an' monkeys, an' all kind- 
 er outlandish bein's ; not a blessed man or 
 woman, not even a heath'n or a idle, 's fur 's 
 they could tell, in the hull deestrick, but on'y 
 jest this one poor woman. An' she couldn't 
 talk no more'n Juley Brace to the 'sylum ; an' 
 she was queer -lookin', an' her clo'es was all 
 outer fash'n, kinder furry an' skinny garm'nts, 
 an' she had a lonesome, scaret kinder look, 's 
 if she hadn't ben much in cump'ny. An' yit 
 with 't all there was a sorter r'spectable pear- 
 ance, an' — Oh, ladies, I'm all stuffed up, an' 
 can't swaller good. I'm livin' over 'n my mind 
 the fust time I read them words, an' was struck 
 all n a heap by 'em. Jest hand me them po- 
 sies a minnit, an' I'll be all right in a jiffy. 
 There, now I can go on. With it all, he says, 
 there was a strong Knapp look about this un- 
 fort'nate isl'iider; in fac', she favored 'em so 
 
BUTTERNECGS. l6l 
 
 strong 't the fust mate, a Mystic man, who'd 
 offen heerd the story o' pa's shipwreck an' 
 Coretty's drownin', thought he'd orter 'nquire 
 inter the matter. The cap'n o' the ship was a 
 Scotchman, an' the sailors was mostly Porter- 
 geese, an' Sandwidgers, an' Kannakers, an' she 
 wouldn't take no notice o' ary on 'em, an' tried 
 to run away. But when 'Lias Mall'ry, the mate, 
 went up to her she stopped an' looked 't him, 
 an' kinder gabbled a leetle bit, in a jibbery sort- 
 er way, an' when he ast her to come aboard, 
 she follered like a lamb. An' they fetched her 
 along, an' the more they see on her — I mean 
 'Lias, who was the only one 't knowed the 
 Knappses, our branch — the more 't seemed sure 
 an' sartin 't this was reely an' truly, strange as 
 't might be, Coretty Knapp, who'd ben lost 
 more'n thirty year afore. There's no use my 
 tryin' to tell you how I felt, or what I done 
 jest at fust ; when I read that letter I couldn't 
 seem to sense it one mite, an' yit in half an 
 hour't seemt's if I'd a -knowed it a year, an' 
 I never misdoubted that 'twas true 's gospil, 
 an' that my poor dear little twin sister Coretty 
 'd ben found an' was comin' home to me. 
 1 1 
 
1 62 SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 "I gin up pa t'wunst; he'd "a ben too old 
 now, even for a Knapp, an' I see plain enough 
 't he must be deader'n dead ; but oh, what 
 'twas to realize 't I had aTeel flesh an' blood 
 sister, queer an' oncivilized 's she must be a'ter 
 livin' in the backwoods so long! The letter 
 went on to say that 'Lias Mall'ry was on his 
 way to Har'ford this very minnit, 'bringin' Miss 
 Knapp to her only livin' r'lation ' — that was me. 
 An' 't said they was goin' to bring her jest 's she 
 was when they ketched her, so's 1 could see her 
 in her nat'ral state : an' who had a better right? 
 ' But land's sake !' I says to myself 's I lay that 
 letter down, 'how she'll look a-comin' through 
 Har'ford streets all skinny an' furry an'jabbery 
 's they d'scribe her! I do hope she'll take a 
 carr'ge.' Well, I couldn't stand all this alone, 
 an' I put on my bunnit an' shawl an' went up 
 to Dr. Hawes's an' to Deac'n Colt'ns's an' over 
 to Sister Pitkins's, an' I told 'em all this amazin' 
 hist'ry, wonderf'ler than Rob'nson Crusoe or 
 Riley's Narr'tive. An' sech a stir 's it made in 
 quiet old Har'ford you'd never bleeve. Afore 
 I'd fairly got hum an' took off my things, folks 
 begun to call. Ev'ry one wanted to know 'f 
 
BUTTERNEGGS. l6j? 
 
 'twas reely an' truly so, an' 'f I had a reel live 
 heath'n sister comin' home from them far- 
 away countries where ev'ry prospeck pleases 
 an' only man is vile. But this part on't I 
 wouldn't hear to for a minnit. 'Whatever she 
 ' is,' I says, ' she ain't a heath'n. She's a Knapp, 
 born 'f not bred, an' there never was a heath'n 
 mong the Knappses sence Knappses was fust 
 made. Mebbe she ain't a perfesser,' I says, 
 ' prob'ly ain't, for she, 'ain't had no settled 
 min'ster or sech priv'Ieges, but she don't have 
 nothin' to do with idles an' sech fool'shness, ' I 
 says. But I could see 't they was countin' on 
 suthin' outer this for monthly concert, an' that 
 stirred me up a leetle; but I jest waited. An' 
 bimeby — what do you think o' this ? — there 
 was a c'mitty waited on me. An' sech a time ! 
 "There was P'fessor Phelps 0' the Con- 
 gr'ational Sem'nary, an' P'fessor Spencer o' 
 Wash'n't'n Collige, an' Elder Day, the Bap- 
 tist min'ster ; an' there was one 0' the Dem'- 
 cratic ed'tors o' the Har'ford Times an' some 
 one from the Connet'cut Cur'nt, an' Dr. 
 Barnes, 0' Weth'sfield, a infiddle, who'd writ 
 a sorter Tom Painey book that was put 
 
164 SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 inter the stove by ev'ry Christian 't got hold 
 on it. An' there was Mr. Gallagher from the 
 deaf an' dumb 'sylum, an' Dr. Cook from the 
 crazy 'sylum, an' Mr. Williams, the 'Piscople 
 min'ster, an' Priest O'Conner, the Cath'lic, an' 
 Pars'n Loomis, the Meth'dist. That's 'bout all, 
 I bleeve, but there may a ben some I disre- 
 member arter all these years. An' what do 
 you think — what do you think they wanted ? 
 'Twas some time afore I could see through 
 their talk myself, for they was all big scholars, 
 an' you know them's the hardest sort to com- 
 pr'end. But bimeby I made out 't they was 
 all dreffle 'xcited about this story o' my sister, 
 for it gin 'em a chance they'd never 'xpected 
 to git, of a bran'-new human bein' growed up 
 without 'precept or 'xample,' 's they say, or 
 ary idee o' religion or pol'tics or church gov'n- 
 ment, or doctrines of any sort. An' they'd all 
 got together an' 'greed, 'f I was willin', they'd 
 jest 'xper'ment on Coretty Knapp. Well, 't 
 fust I didn't take t' the idee one speck. It 
 seemed kinder onnat'ral an' onhuman to go to 
 work pullin' to pieces an' patchin' up an' fittin' 
 in scraps to this poor, onfort'nate, empty sorter 
 
BUTTERNEGGS. 1 65 
 
 soul 't had strayed 'way off from its hum in a 
 Christian land o' deestrick schools an' meetin's, 
 an' all sech priv'leges, instead 0' takin' her 
 right inter our hearts an' 'fections, an' larnin' 
 her all t she- orter know. 'T seemed 's if we 
 orter let 'xper'ments alone, an' go to coddlin' 
 an' coss'tin' up this poor lost sheep, which 
 was wuth far more'n ninety an' nine which 
 goes not astray. 
 
 "But howsomepro — as Elder Cheeseman 
 used to say — they was all, 's I said afore, lam- 
 ed men, an' most on 'em good men too, an' 's 
 they was all 'greed, an' I was only one, and a 
 woman too, I gin up. An' afore they left 'twas 
 all settled 't they should all have a try at poor 
 sister Coretty, an' all persent their own views 
 on religion, pol'tics, an' so forth. An' me nor 
 nobody was to make nor meddle aforehand, 
 or try to prej'dice her one way or t'other; an' 
 so they 'xpected to find out what the nat'ral 
 mind would take ter, or whether there was 
 anything t all in heredit'ry ways. I could 'a 
 telled 'em that last afore they b'gun, but 1 
 thought I'd let 'em find 't out their own way. 
 
 "You might think, mebbe, I'd ben scaret 
 
1 66 SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 'bout the r'sult. For what a dreffle thing 'f 
 poor Coretty 'd ben talked over by Elder Day 
 — a dreffle glib talker, 's all Baptists be, an' a 
 reel good man, 's most on 'em is, though I say 
 't 's shouldn't, bein' a Knapp myself, with all 
 the Knappses' d'slike to their doctrines — what 
 'f she'd ben talked over to 'mersion an' close 
 c'mmunion views, an' ben dipped 'stead o' 
 sprinkled ? Or agin, 'f she'd bleeved all the 
 Cath'lic priest let on, an' swallered his can'les 
 an' beads an' fish an' sech popish things. Or 
 wuss still, s'pose she'd backslid hully, an' put 
 her trust in Dr. Barnes's talk, b'comin' an in- 
 fiddle, like unter the fool that said in his heart. 
 But some way or t'other 1 wa'n't a mite 'fraid. 
 I fell right back on my faith in a overrulin' 
 Prov'dence, an' p'r'aps more on Knapp ways, 
 an' felt all the time Coretty 'd come out right 
 at the eend. 
 
 "But you see she hadn't come yit, an' the 
 thing was ter know whether you could make 
 her un'erstan' anything till she'd larnt to talk. 
 'F she could only gabble, how was any on us 
 to know whether she gabbled Baptistry or 
 'Piscopality or whatall, an' we'd got to wait 
 
BUTTERNEGGS. 1 67 
 
 an' see. An' Mr. Gallagher, 0' the 'sylum, he 
 wanted to try her on signs fust, an' see 'f he 
 couldn't c'munnicate with her right off by 
 snappin' his fingers an' screwin' up his featur's 
 an' p'intin' at her in that dumb way they do 
 up t' the 'sylum. He said 'twas more nat'ral 
 to do that way than to talk ; but then he 
 didn't know much about the Knappses an' 
 their powers o' speech. An' Dr. Cook, the 
 crazy doctor, he said he was int'rested in the 
 brains part o' the subjick, an' he'd jest liketer 
 get at 'em ; he wanted to see what 'feet on 
 her head an' 'djacent parts this queer sorter 
 retired life 'd had. An' so they went on till 
 they went off. 
 
 "Well, might 's well come to the p'int o' 
 my story, an' the blessed minnit I fust see my 
 twin sister, my t'other half, you might say, 
 for 'twas reely her, a-comin' in at the gate. 
 'Twa'n't so bad 's I 'xpected. I'd kinder got 
 my head sot on picters o' the' Eskimoses in 
 my jography, with buff'lo robes tied round 
 'em, an' I was r'lieved when I see her get 
 outer the carr'ge with 'Lias Mall'ry lookin' 
 quite respect'ble an' Knappy. To be sure she 
 
1 68 SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 had skins on, but she'd gone an' made em 
 inter a reel fair likeness o' my plainest ev'ry- 
 day dresses, cut gorin' an' sorter fittin' in at the 
 waist, an' with the skirt pretty long, 'bout to 
 the tops o' her gaiters. An' she had quite a 
 nice-lookin' bunnit on, braided o' some kinder 
 furrin grass or straw, hum -made o' course, 
 an' not jest in the latest fash'n, but that wa'n't 
 to be 'xpected, when she'd made it 'fore ever 
 seein' one. An' she was dreffle tanned an' 
 freckled an' weather -beat like, but, oh, my ! 
 my! wa'n't she a Knapp all over, from head 
 to foot! Ev'ry featur' favored some o' the 
 fam'ly. There was Uncle Zadock's long nose, 
 an' gran'mer's square chin, an' Aunt Hopey's 
 thick eyebrows, an' dear pa's pacin' walk, an' 
 over an' above all there was me all over her, 's 
 if I was a-lookin' 't myself in a lookin'^glass. 
 I dun know what I done for a minnit. I 
 cried an' I choked an' I blowed my nose, an' I 
 couldn't say one blessed word till I swallered 
 hard an' set my teeth, an' then I bust out, ' Oh, 
 Coretty Knapp, I'm glad to see ye! how's 
 your health ?' I'd forgot for a minnit 'bout 
 her not talkin', but 1 own I was beat when 
 
BUTTERNEGGS. 1 69 
 
 she jest says, 's good 's I could say it myself, 
 says she, 'Thank ye, sister Loretty; how's 
 yourn ?' An' we shook hands an' kissed each 
 other. I'd been so 'fraid she'd rub noses or 
 hit her forrid on the ground— s'lammin', 's the 
 books o' travels says — an' then she took one 
 cheer an' 1 took another, an' we both took a 
 good look 't each other, for you know we 
 hadn't met anywheres for the longest spell. 
 An' I forgot all about 'Lias Mall'ry till he says, 
 'You see, Miss Knapp, she speaks pretty good, 
 don't she ? Them Scotch an' Portergeese an' 
 so on couldn't get a word out on her, but 's 
 soon 's she heerd good Connect'cut spoke, 
 she picked 't right up 's slick 's anything.' ' O' 
 course I did, Mr. Mall'ry,' says Coretty. 'I 
 never could abide them furriners. United 
 States ...talk 's good enough for me, ' says she. 
 'Knapp all over,' says I; 'an' now do take 
 off your things an' jest make yourself to hum, 
 an' le's have a good old-fashioned talk, for I 
 'ain't seen none o' my folks for so long.' 
 
 "But when she took off her bunnit an' I 
 see how the poor thing 'd ben an' gone an' 
 twisted up her hair behind in the same tight, 
 
170 SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 knobby, Knappy way all the Knappses — the 
 female part o' our branch, I mean — had fixed 
 theirn for gen'rations farzino, I 'most cried 
 ag'in. 'Course she hadn't no hair-pins nor 
 shoestring to fast'n 't with, but she'd tied it 
 tight 's tight with some kind 0' barky stuff, 
 an' stuck a big thorn in to keep it there. 
 
 "Well, you won't care 'bout our talk; it 
 was all folksy an' Knappy an' bout fam'ly 
 matters, for we had lots to talk about. She'd 
 lost all run 0' the fam'ly an' neighbors, never 
 hearin' a word for more'n thirty year. In fac', 
 she'd forgot all about pa an' ma an' me, 's was 
 nat'ral, with not a livin' soul to talk to, for she 
 owned right up she'd never seed a human 
 bein', or heerd a word 0' speech, or seen a pa- 
 per, sence I see her last in that dreffle spell 0' 
 weather out to sea. So I'll jest jump over to 
 where the 'xperiment was tried an' how it 
 come out. I'd kep' my prommus an' never 
 said one word about religion, or pol'tics, or 
 church gover'ment, or anything 0' that kind, 
 though I did ache to know her views. 
 
 "An' they all come in, the ev'nin' arter she 
 arriv, the c'mitty, I mean, to have it out with 
 
BUTTERNEGGS. TJl 
 
 her. Coretty didn't s'rmise 'twas an 'xperi- 
 ment — she thought 'twas a sorter visitin' time, 
 an' she was dreffle fond o' comp'ny, an' never 
 'd had much chance for 't. So there she set, 
 a-knittin' (she took to that right off, an' 'fore 
 I'd done castin' on for her she ketched it outer 
 my hands an' says, ' 'Twill be stronger with 
 double thread, Loretty,' an' she ravelled it out 
 an' done it over double). She set there knit- 
 tin', 's I said afore, an' I set close by her, an' 
 the c'mitty they set round, an' they'd 'greed 
 'mong theirselves how they'd do it, an' who'd 
 have the fust chance, an' arter a few p'lite 
 remarks about the weather an' her health, 
 an' sech, Mr. Williams, the 'Piscople min'ster, 
 begun. An' he says : ' Miss Knapp, I s'pose 
 there wa'n't no Church in your place o' res'- 
 dence, seein' 't there was so few 'nhabitants. 
 But even 'f there'd a-ben more T a parish,' 
 says he, ' there couldn't 'a ben no reel Church ' 
 (he spoke it with a cap'tle C, 's all 'Piscoples 
 does), "s there wa'n't no prop'ly fixed -up 
 priest, nor no bishop to put his hands on one,' 
 he says. (Mebbe I don't give jest the very 
 words, but I git the meanin' straight.) 'No, 
 
172 SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 sir,' says sister, 'there wa'n't a meetin'-house 
 on the hull island, nor any means o' grace o' 
 that kind; for there wa'n't no folks but me, 
 an' you can't have a prosp'rous religious s'cie- 
 ty without folks. But 'f there had ben,' she 
 says, ribbin' away at her stockin' top, two an' 
 one, two an' one, says she, ' we'd 'a lis'ned to 
 a few can'dates, an' s'lected a suit'ble party, 
 had a s'ciety meetin'. an' called him. For my- 
 self,' says she, 'I don't set much by this ap- 
 plestollic success'n.' 
 
 "Well, I was beat ag'in, spite 0' knowin' 
 the strong feelin' o' the fam'ly on that very 
 p'int; for how on airth 'd she picked up seen 
 sound an' good idees 'way off in that rurul 
 deestrick ? I tell ye, ye can't 'xplain it on ary 
 other ground than ways; 'twas Knapp ways. 
 Mr. Williams he looked a mite riled, but he 
 was a dreffle pleasant man, an' he kep' on, 
 though the others they sorter smiled. I can't 
 ree'lect all he said, but 'twas 'bout the orders 
 in the Church, the deac'ns an' presbyter'ans 
 an' bishops, an' he talked 'bout the creed an' 
 other art'cles, an' collicks an' lit'nies, an' all 
 them litigical things. He did talk beautiful, I 
 
BUTTERNEGGS. 1 73 
 
 own it myself, an' my mouth was all in my 
 heart for a spell, for Coretty kep' so still, an' 
 seemed 's if she was a-listenin' an' med'tatin'. 
 But in a minnit I see she was jest countin' her 
 stitches to set her seam, an' 1 was r'lieved. 
 An' when he got through talkin' he handed 
 her a prayer-book, jest a common one, he 
 called it, an' a little cat'chism. Coretty took 
 'em, perlite 's ye please, an' she looked 't the 
 covers, an' she says, very p'lite, 'Much obleeged 
 to ye, sir, but they don't seemter int'rest me 
 someway. I can make up prayers for my- 
 self, 'f it's all the same to you,' she says, still 
 dreffle p'lite; 'an' this cat'chism don't seem 
 to go t' the right spot, 's fur as I'm consarned,' 
 says she, not op'nin' it 't all, ' but I'm jest 's 
 much obleeged to ye;' an' she went on knittin'. 
 "Then Elder Day he op'ned the subjeck o' 
 Baptistry. Fust sister Coretty lis'ned p'litely 
 's she had afore, but he hadn't hardly got to his 
 sec'ndly afore she pricked up her ears an' jump- 
 ed 's if suthin' 'd hit her, an' she lay down her 
 stockin' an' stiffened up, an' she looked him 
 right in the eye; an' 'fore he was half-way to 
 the thirdly she broke out, an' she says : ' Elder 
 
174 SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 Day, I don't want to be imp'lite to comp'ny in 
 my sister's house, an' me jest arriv, but there's 
 suthin' in me that reely can't stand them doc- 
 trines o' yourn another minnit, they rile me so. 
 No, I won't stand it!' she says, with her face all 
 red, an' her eyes snappin', an' she b'gun to geth- 
 er up her things, and git up outer her cheer for 
 a run. But I went up ter her, an' whispered to 
 her, an' sorter smoothed her down, for I see 
 what 'twas, an' t the old Knapp feelin' 'gainst 
 Baptists that'd ben growin' up an' 'ncreasin' for 
 cent'ries was all comin' inside on her t' wunst 
 an' tearin' her up; but Elder Day he jest said, 
 's pleasant 's pie-crust, he says, ' Let her 'lone, 
 Miss Knapp, an' I'll read her a soothin' varse or 
 two,' and he up with a little leather- covered 
 book, an' he readout: 
 
 • A few drops o' water dropped from a man's nan', 
 They call it baptissum an' think it will stan' 
 On the head of a child that is under the cuss, 
 But that has no warrant in Scripter for us.' 
 
 "He was goin' on, but Coretty she jest 
 jumped up, makin' her cheer fall over with a 
 bang, an' she slat her work down an' run outer 
 the room, her knittin' bobbin' a'ter her, for the 
 
BUTTERNEGGS. 175 
 
 ball 0' yarn was in her pocket. I went a'ter 
 her to coax her back, but she kep' a-sayin', 
 'Oh, Loretty, what's the matter o' me! I'm 
 jest bilin' an' bubblin' an' swellin' up inside, 
 an' I feel 's if nothin' could help me but burnin' 
 up a few Baptists,' she says. An' I says, ' Keep 
 's quiet 's you can, sister ; it's dreffle tryin', I 
 know, an' it's all come on you t' wunst — the 
 strong Knapp feelin' agin 'em — but come back 
 to the keepin'-room an' we'll change the sub- 
 jeck.' An' she come. An' then Priest O'Con- 
 ner, the Cath'lic, he begun at her, an' he was 
 jest 's smooth 's silk, an' he talked reel fluent 
 'bout the saints, an' purg't'ry, an' Fridays, an' 
 the bach'lor state for min'sters, an' penances, 
 an' I d' know whatall. An' Coretty she was 
 hard at work at her knittin', an' when he 
 stopped to take breath, an' pull out some beads 
 an' medals an' jingly trink'ts o' that sort, she 
 kinder started 's if she'd jest waked up, an' 
 she says, "Xcuse me, Mr. O'Conner, I lost the 
 thread o' what you was sayin' for a minnit, 
 but I won't trubble ye to go over 't agin; I 
 don't seemter take to Cath'lics, an' I never 
 wear beads.' An' she went on knittin'. 
 
176 SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 "An' so 'twas with 'em all — 'Piscople, Bap- 
 tist, Meth'dist — ev'ry livin' soul on 'em, they 
 done their best, an' never p'duced any im- 
 pression 't all. But bimeby P'fessor Phelps, 0' 
 the Congr'ation'I Sem'nary,he got his turn, an' 
 b'gun. Oh, how she did jest drink it in! She 
 dropped her knittin' an' set up an' leaned for- 
 rud, an' she smiled, an' nodded her head, an' 
 beat her hands up an' down, an' tapped her 
 foot, 's if she was hearin' the takin'est music ; 
 she 'most purred, she seemed so comfort'ble 
 an' sat'sfied. Oncet in a while she'd up an' 
 say suthin' herself 'fore he could say it. Frin- 
 stance, when he come to foreord'nation an' 
 says, 'My good woman, 1 hope soon ter 'xplain 
 to you 'bout the won'ful decrees 0' God, an' 
 how they are His etarnel purpose, an' ' — 
 'Don't put yerself out to do that, p'fessor,' she 
 says. ' O' course 1 know 't accordin' to the 
 couns'l of His own will ^He 'th foreordained 
 whats'ever cometh to pass; but I'd jest like to 
 hear you preach on that subjeck.' An' when 
 he alluded to some havin' ben 'lected to ever- 
 lastin' life, she says, kinder low, to herself like, 
 ' Out of His mere good pleasure from all etar- 
 
BUTTERNEGGS. 1 77 
 
 nity, I s'pose.' The very words o' the cat'- 
 chism, ye see, an' she never goin' to weekly 
 cat'chism or monthly r'view! An' when he 
 stopped a minnit she says, all 'xcited like, 
 'Now I call that talk, an' it's the very fust I've 
 heerd to-night.' Then he took a book out of 
 his pocket. Twas a copy of the old New Eng- 
 land primer, with whity-blue covers outside 
 an' the cat'chism inside, an' he says, ' Miss 
 Knapp, p'raps you ain't f miliar with this little 
 book, but — ' She ketched it right outer his 
 hand, an' the tears they come right up inter her 
 eyes, an' she says, in a shaky voice, ' I don't 
 think I ever see 't afore, p'fessor, but it 'pears 
 to be the Westminster Shorter.' Then she 
 jest give way an' cried all over it till 'twas 
 soppin'. An' she did jest hang on ter his 
 words when he come to the prob'ble futur' o' 
 most folks, an' how the cat'chism says they're 
 ' under His wrath an' cuss, an' so made li'ble 
 to all the mis'ries o' this life, to death itself, an' 
 the pains o' hell frever.' She jest kep' time to 
 them words with her head an' her hands an' 
 her feet, 's if 'twas an old toon she'd knowed 
 all her born days. 
 12 
 
I78 SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 "An' so 'twas, right straight through; they 
 tried her on ev'rything, an' 'twas alius the same 
 come-out; she picked an' kep' all the Knappses 
 had alius stood to, an' throwed away what the 
 Knappses 'd d'sliked. She 'most pitched her 
 knittin', ball an' all, at the Dem'cratic news- 
 paper man; an' when the Connet'cut Cur'nt 
 ed'tor laid down the Whig platform, she called 
 out loud : ' I'm on that ; that's my pol'cy. 
 Who's our cand'date ?' Poor Mr. Gallagher, 
 he didn't make out to c'mmunicate with her 's 
 he 'xpected. He tried her on a Bible story in 
 signs, but a'ter lookin' at him a minnit she 
 turned 'way an' says : ' Poor creeter, can't he 
 talk any ? He must 'a ben cast away some 
 time, I guess, an' tis sorter dum'ing to the 
 speech, as I orter know. But he'll pick 't up 
 agin.' An' the doctor from the crazies, an' the 
 p'fessor from Wash'n't'n Collige, they tried all 
 kinds 0' brainy tricks on her, but her head was 
 's sound as their own, and made on the good 
 old Knapp patt'n. An' — oh, I wish you could 
 'a seen how foolish Dr. Barnes looked when 
 she says to him, a'ter he'd op'ned out his in- 
 fiddle b'liefs or unb'liefs, says she : ' Now, 
 
BUTTERNEGGS. 1 79 
 
 you jest hush up. I sh'd think you'd be 
 ashamed, a'ter livin' here in a Christian land 
 'mong Congr'ation'lists all your days, an' not 
 know who made you, an' what your chief eend 
 is, an' what the Scripters princ'p'Iy teach. 
 Even I knowed that,' she says, 'an' me in a 
 heath'n land o' grav'n im'ges.' 
 
 "I'm spinnin' out my story in reel Knappy 
 way — they're a long winded lot — but I'll try to 
 bind off now. But fust I must tell ye 'bout the 
 time I showed Coretty my gard'n. She'd ben 
 anxious to see 't, said she lotted on flowers, 
 an' had dreffle pretty ones on th' island, kind- 
 er tropicky an' queer, but she wanted ter see 
 some hum ones. So I took her out an' show- 
 ed her my beds. 'Twas July, an' my gard'n 
 was like a rainbow, or a patch-work comf'ter 
 — all colors. She walked round an' looked at 
 the roses an' pinks an' all, and smelt at 'em, 
 an' seemed pleased. * 
 
 '"But somehow I'm kinder dis'p'inted too,' 
 she says; 'I d' know why, but there's suthin' 
 Iackin'.' I jest kep' still, an' kinder led her 
 'long down the walk to the corner 'hind the 
 row 0' box, an' fust she knowed she was stand- 
 
ISO SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 in' by the bed o' butterneggs. She stood stock- 
 still a minnit, then she held up both hands an' 
 cried out, 'Oh, C'rinthians!' 
 
 " 'Twas the fust time she'd ever used the 
 'xpression ; there never 'd ben any 'casion for 
 't, for she'd had sech a quiet sorter life. A'ter 
 that she was alius hangin' round that bed, like 
 a cat round a valerium patch, 'tendin' them 
 posies, weedin' 'em, wat'rin'.tyin' 'em up, pick- 
 in' 'em, wearin' 'em, an' keepin' 'em in her 
 room. 'Twas a dreffle comfort to have her 
 with me; but 'twa'n't to last; I see that 'most 
 's soon 's she got settled down with me. She 
 b'gun to droop an' wilt down, an' to look pind- 
 lin' an' lean like, an' bleached out. I tried not 
 to see it, an' talked 's if 'twas change o' air, an' 
 givin' up her r'tired life, an' 's if she'd soon pick 
 up, an' grow to a good old Knapp age. But 
 when she b'gun to c'mplain o' feelin' creepy 
 an' goose-fleshy an' shiv'ry, to say her head 
 was het up' an her feet 'most froze, 1 couldn't 
 shet my eyes to 't no longer; I knowed the 
 sympt'ms too well; it was the old Knapp en- 
 emy, dum'-aigger. She was awful young for 
 that, not forty yit, an' the Knappses mostly 
 
BUTTERNEGGS. IS I 
 
 lived to eighty or ninety. But I'll tell you how 
 I reas'ned 't out to myself. The fam'ly — the 
 rest on 'em — was all their lives takin' in grad- 
 jal like, stronger an' stronger, 's they could 
 bear 'em, the Knapp b'liefs. One a'ter t'other 
 they got 'em, like teeth, an' so they could stand 
 it. But jest think on 't a minnit, that poor 
 dear gal took in all them b'liefs — an' strong 
 ones they was, too, the strongest goin' — in 
 jest a few days' time. Foreord'nation, 'lec- 
 tion, etarn'l pun'shment, the Whig platform, 
 Congr'ation'I s'ciety gov'nment, United States 
 langwidge, white-oak cheese, butterneggs — in 
 short, the hull set o' Knapp ways, she took 
 'em all, 's you might say, 't one big swaller. 
 No wonder they disagreed with her, an' left 
 her nothin' for 't but to take the only one 
 left 't she hadn't took a'ready — the Knapp 
 shakes! 
 
 "I didn't say nothin' 'bout it to her; I 
 never spoke o' the fam'ly trubble 't all, an' I 
 knowed she'd never heerd on 't in her life. 
 She kep' up an' 'bout for a spell, but one day 
 she come to see me, an' she says, very quiet 
 an' carm, ' Loretty, 'f ye'll give me the sarce- 
 
1 82 SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 pan I'll jest set some cam'mile an' hardhack to 
 steep, an' put a strip o' red flannel round my 
 neck an' go to bed.' My heart sunk 'way 
 down 's I heerd her; but 1 see 't she'd left out 
 some o' the receipt, so I hoped 'twa'n't so bad 
 's I feared. But jest 's she was goin' inter her 
 bedroom she turned round an' says, 'An meb- 
 be a peppergrass poult'ce on the bottoms o' 
 my feet would be a good an' drawin' thing,' 
 she says. There was a lump in my throat, 
 but I thinks to myself, ' Never mind, 'f she 
 don't 'lude to the piller.' An' I was pickin' 
 the peppergrass an' wond'rin' if 'twas the 
 smell o' that 't made my eyes so wet an' 
 smarty, when she calls me softly, an' she says, 
 ' Sister, I'm dreffle sorry to trubble ye, but 'f 
 you could give me another piller, a hard, thin 
 one, I'd be 'bleeged.' Then I knowed 'twas 
 all over, an' I never had a grain o' hope 
 ag'in. 
 
 " You'll 'xcuse me, ladies, from talkin' much 
 more bout that time. I think on't 'nough, 
 dear knows ; I dream on't, an' wake with my 
 piller all wet, but 'tain't good for me to say 
 too much 'bout it. She wa'n't sick long; her 
 
BUTTERNEGGS. 1 83 
 
 dum'-aigger wa'n't very chronic, 's the doc- 
 tors says, but sharp an' quick. An' jest three 
 weeks from the day she come home to me 
 she'd added one more to the long list o' things 
 she'd had to lam in sech a lim'ted per'od, poor 
 gal, an' took in the Knapp way o' dyin'. 
 
 "An' 'twas a quiet way, peace'ble, still like, 
 not makin' no great fuss 'bout it, but ready an' 
 willin'. She didn't want much waitin' on, 
 only fresh posies — butterneggs o' course — in 
 the wineglass on the stand by her bed; an' ye 
 may be sure she alius had 'em there. An' I 
 picked all I had, an' stuck 'em in pitchers an' 
 mugs an' bowls, an' stood 'em on the mantel- 
 shelf, an' on the chest 0' drawers, an' any place 
 't would hold 'em, an' the room was all lit up 
 with 'em — an' with her hope an' faith an' pa- 
 tient ways too — an' so she seemed to pass 
 right through a shinin' yeller path till we lost 
 sight on her, where it ended, I ain't the least- 
 est doubt, in the gold'n streets o' heav'n. 
 
 "But I 'xpect to see her ag'in 'fore very 
 long. There's more o' the fam'ly t'other side 
 than there is here now, an' when I think 0' all 
 the tribe 0' Knappses in that land 'cross the 
 
184 SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 river, why, I think I'd be kinder glad to go 
 there myself; 'twould be 'most like goin' to 
 Thanksgivin' 't the old homestid. An' I was 
 sayin' to Marthy Hustid yist'day — she looks 
 a'ter me now, ye know — 't 1 had a kinder 
 creepy, goose-fleshy, shiv'ry feelin' sometimes, 
 't my head was all het up, an' my feet 'most 
 froze, an' I guessed she better be lookin' at the 
 yarb bags up garr't, an' layin' in a little red 
 flann'l, in case o' any sickness in the fam'Iy. 
 An', ' Marthy,' I says, ' I s'pose there's a harder 
 piller in the house 'n the one I'm usin' — a thin 
 one, you know.' An' I am glad the butter- 
 neggs is comin' in seas'n." 
 
 As we came away from the little brown 
 house and drove along towards Greenwich 
 we were silent for a little. Then I exclaimed : 
 "Jane Benedict, how much truth is there in 
 that wild tale ? Was her sister shipwrecked, 
 and did she appear after many days ? For 
 pity's sake enlighten me, for my head is ' all 
 het up,' as Aunt Loretty would say!" 
 
 "She was an only child," answered Jane, 
 calmly, as she touched Billy lightly with the 
 whip. "I believe her father was a sailor, and 
 
BUTTERNEGGS. 1 85 
 
 was lost at sea. She herself lived as house- 
 keeper for many years with Dr. Lounsbury, of 
 Stamford, who wrote that queer book on he- 
 redity — Heirship, I think he called it. Perhaps 
 she imbibed some of his ideas." 
 
VI. 
 DEACON PHEBY'S SELFISH NATUR. 
 
 "Sooth I would be a woman for your sake, 
 A foolish girl, an it would give you ease." 
 
 Old Play. 
 
DEACON PHEBY'S SELFISH NATUR. 
 
 We call it the Indian burying-ground. It is 
 a piece of old pine forest along the bank of 
 Gale River, near the spot where that wild and 
 beautiful mountain stream joins its sister wa- 
 ters of Pond Brook. 
 
 It seems full of graves, for there are mounds 
 of all sizes and forms, where, I suppose, lie 
 buried ancient trees. But there was never 
 burial-place like this, so filled with color and 
 light and life. In June all the lovely wild 
 flowers of that Northern spring seem to gath- 
 er there ; and each mound is a heap of soft 
 greenness, with bits of bright color here and 
 there. The creamy blossoms of the bunch- 
 berry lie close together among their leaves, 
 making a rich mat of white and green ; the 
 soft, light plumes of tiarella are waving there, 
 white, flecked sometimes with salmon-pink; 
 the cinque-foil creeps in and out among the 
 other plants, and shows its yellow stars; the 
 
190 SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 little smilacina lifts its spike of tiny, fragrant 
 blossoms; and the delicate, pink-veined flow- 
 ers of the oxalis nestle shyly among their tre- 
 foil leaves. There, too, the clintonia opens its 
 pale yellow blossoms, and straw-lilies swing 
 their slender bells ; the twisted-stalk hangs its 
 rosy cups; the pure white starflower stands 
 lightly on its slender stem, in its circle of 
 leaves; and Indian-hemp shakes its pink coral 
 drops. There are red and white clover, Solo- 
 mon's -seal, the small yellow sorrel, golden- 
 ragwort, buttercups, gold-thread, and violets. 
 All these, and more too, I have seen and gath- 
 ered among those graves in a Franconia June. 
 Then there are feathery, graceful ferns; soft, 
 rich mosses of varied tints, from deepest, dark- 
 est hue, through olive and golden brown, to 
 palest sea-green ; and there are lichens of quiet 
 gray and soft drab touched with scarlet and 
 gold; grasses and sedges wave and sway in 
 the breeze; and the little wood -rushes raise 
 their pretty brown flowers from among their 
 downy leaves. Had ever graves a richer cov- 
 ering ? 
 And there is music there. The wind among 
 
DEACON PHEBY'S SELFISH NATUR. 191 
 
 the tall pines is like an organ sometimes, and 
 the river and brook murmur and babble and 
 rush and tinkle. One can hear the whir and 
 hum and chirp and buzz of insect life; and 
 there is always the singing of the birds. 
 
 And there are homes for the living amid 
 these very mounds. The shy hermit -thrush 
 builds her nest there in the grass, and lays her 
 eggs of turquoise blue; the Maryland yellow- 
 throat makes her little home at foot of tussock 
 of sedge or tuft of tall fern, weaving together 
 the blades or leaves over the top to roof her 
 bower; the song and vesper sparrows hide 
 their tiny dwellings in the grass along the 
 river-side, and the vireos swing their ham- 
 mocks overhead. 
 
 All this is in June, the fair month in which I 
 always seek these Northern hills. But I know 
 that this burying-spot is lovely in all seasons. 
 The summer opens the buds of the wild yel- 
 low-lilies along the river-bank; the meadow- 
 rue is then a mass of pure, soft, white bloom ; 
 and golden-daisies, with dark centre and shin- 
 ing rays, make brilliant spots of color there. 
 Then autumn spreads her gorgeous robe over 
 
192 SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 those mounds, and they are gay with red and 
 yellow, russet, wine, brown, and orange. And 
 last of all comes the pure snow, and lays a 
 soft, fleecy covering over all. 
 
 There are no stately marble monuments 
 here, or cold white tablets; but at the head 
 and foot of many a mound lies a granite block 
 or bowlder, softened and made beautiful by 
 moss and vine and tiny flower. Or a pine, 
 fir, or hemlock rears itself — a tall, straight col- 
 umn — near some quiet grave. No labored 
 epitaphs, no words which tell of hope, of res- 
 urrection, of immortality, are written there; 
 nor are they needed. The bursting chrysalis, 
 setting free the bright-winged butterfly; the 
 little egg, so still and waxen white, but hold- 
 ing within color and motion and song, which 
 shall take wings and soar upward some bright 
 June day; the creeping, sluggish caterpillar 
 patiently spinning its shroud, or digging its 
 own grave in some quiet spot, there to lie 
 through that long northern winter a frozen, 
 dead thing, but ready with the warmth of 
 early summer to wake and rise and fly in the 
 soft sunny air, a gay, fluttering moth with 
 
DEACON PHEBYS SELFISH NATUR. 1 93 
 
 feathered wings; the buried seed; the wak- 
 ing flower; the bursting bud — all these are 
 living lessons, and require no letters cut into 
 cold stone to make their meaning clearer. 
 
 No massive wall or stiff iron fence shuts in 
 this God's-acre of ours. On one side a bank 
 slopes down into a grassy meadow through 
 which Gale River comes rushing and dashing 
 over its rocky bed; another side is border- 
 ed by Pond Brook, a crystal-clear mountain 
 streamlet; along the third is a wild hedge- 
 row of trees, shrubs, and tall herbs — wild- 
 cherry, with tassels of bitter-sweet scent; 
 hazel, with odd green tufts which mean to 
 be nuts some day ; shad-blow, with leaves 
 of bluish green, white flowers, or green ber- 
 ries waiting for the sun to make them red; 
 quivering poplar with slender white trunks; 
 mountain maple, birch, and alder; and on the 
 fourth side runs a quiet country road, along 
 which pass hay -wagons with their fragrant 
 freight, the farmer's cart, the roomy chaise; 
 where merry children go to and from the vil- 
 lage school ; but where is no sound of hurry- 
 ing crowds, of traffic, of busy, bustling city life. 
 «3 
 
194 SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 It was in this peaceful spot, on a fair June 
 morning, that I first saw the hero of my 
 sketch. He was very unlike a hero as I saw 
 him then. A strange, nondescript figure, I 
 did not at first know if it were man or wom- 
 an ; for he wore over his rough brown coat a 
 small plaid shawl of faded red and black, 
 folded cornerwise with the point behind, 
 and two ends crossing over the breast; a 
 long blue-and-white checked apron was tied 
 about the waist, and hung nearly to his an- 
 kles, almost hiding the shabby, patched trous- 
 ers; his yellow hair was long, and fell over 
 his shoulders straight and lank, and upon it 
 he wore a broad - brimmed hat of coarse 
 straw, tied down over the ears by a dingy blue 
 ribbon. 
 
 On a mossy stone between two mounds, 
 one long and narrow, the other looking like a 
 child's grave, sat this quaint creature. It was 
 knitting, and did not look up as I passed, but- 
 terfly net in hand, and I tried not to stare too 
 curiously at the singular being. But as soon 
 as I went in-doors I asked eager questions as 
 to its identity. 
 
DEACON PHEBYS SELFISH NATUR. 1 95 
 
 "Oh, that's only Deacon Pheby," said Eu- 
 nice Ann. "I thought you'd seen him afore. 
 His folks used to live round here, they say; 
 the Knightses they was. His mother was the 
 Widder Knight, and there was two young 
 ones, a boy 'n' a girl. They moved 'way 
 from here 'fore I come, an' I never heerd on 
 'em till about a year ago, when this queer- 
 Iookin' feller come along, an' said he was the 
 Widder Knight's boy growed up. An' folks 
 says he really is ; but seems 's if suthin' 's 
 come over him. For they say he used to be 
 a likely, smart boy, full o' sperrits, cuttin' up 
 an' kitin' round, fishin' an' gunnin' an' trappin' 
 an' sech. But he come back this way, dress- 
 ed up in women's duds, an' callin' himself 
 Pheby ; says his ma's dead an' gone, an' the 
 girl, too ; but he don't tell much about him- 
 self, where he's been, or what he's been doin'. 
 He's a good, pious sort, too; carries a Test'- 
 ment round in his apern pocket, an' 'most al- 
 ters has a hymn-book too, an' reads 'em a lot. 
 He's allers pleasant-spoken, an' dreffle nice to 
 dumb creeters an' young ones, an' partikerly 
 to old folks, an' so they've got to eallin" 
 
196 SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 him Deacon, an' every one in Francony has 
 a good word for Deacon Pheby, crazy 's 
 he be." 
 
 This was all she, Uncle Eben, or any one 
 else could tell me of the strange man. And it 
 was only from himself, after frequent meetings 
 in the Indian burying-ground, where he was 
 a daily visitor, that I learned at last his pathetic 
 story. I had watched him for days before I 
 spoke to him. He seemed so unconscious of 
 my presence — even when I lingered near, 
 looking for wild flowers, butterflies, and moths 
 — so absorbed in his own occupations, that 1 
 shrank from intruding. He always brought 
 his knitting — a stocking of coarse blue yarn — 
 but it did not grow very fast. For his time 
 and attention were all devoted to the tending 
 of the two mounds between which he always 
 sat. He kept them so neat and bright, remov- 
 ing each dry, dead leaf, picking up the tassels 
 of birch or willow fallen there, taking away 
 the leafless bramble straying across the sod, 
 lifting and supporting any little plant beaten 
 down by rain or wind. In a dry season he 
 often brought water in an old tin pail to 
 
DEACON PHEBY'S SELFISH NATUR. 1 97 
 
 refresh the drooping flowers, and so his graves 
 were always fresh and green. 
 
 Our acquaintance began one day, as I vent- 
 ured to swing my net around his very head in 
 pursuit of a white admiral butterfly, the first 
 of the season, by his remarking, pleasantly, 
 "This 's a real nice butterflyey, gravesy kind 
 of a place, ain't it, ma'am ?" 
 
 This broke the ice, and we were soon friends. 
 But it was not on that first day, nor for many 
 days afterwards, that I gathered all his story. 
 
 "I don't rec'lect father; he was Pel'tiah 
 Knight, from Bungay way. He died when 
 we young ones was babies. Mother never 
 said no great about him, an' 1 guess he wa'n't 
 much to speak on, An' the fust thing I rec'- 
 lect was livin' with mother in the little house 
 out by Sincler's Mili. How we come to be 
 there, whether father'd worked there afore he 
 died or what all, I can't say, for I don't know. 
 'Tennerate, there we was, jest mother an' Phe- 
 by an' me." 
 
 He stopped abruptly, gave one of his quick, 
 odd glances up into the tree-tops, patted soft- 
 ly with one hand the longest mound, and 
 
198 SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 then went on: "Yes, ye might's well know 
 fust 's last, I ain't reely Pheby ; I'm t'other 
 one. We was twins — boy an' gal. 1 was 
 Phebus, an' she was Pheby. There was lots 
 o' twins in Francony 'bout that time, an' some 
 in Lisbon, an' down Lincoln way. An' 'twas 
 kinder the fash'n to name 'em names that 
 sounded 's if they b'longed together — names 
 that hitched well, ye know. There was Le- 
 on'das Peabody's babies — they died young — 
 they was both gals, an' they was named Dusty 
 an' Gusty, short for Dusdemony an' Augusty, 
 ye see. An' Mis' Deac'n Quimby, out Sugar 
 Hill way, her pair 0' boys was Val'ntine an' 
 Orson, out of a story-book; an' there was El- 
 der Bowles's Judah an' Judy; an' Dock Oakes's 
 Silly an' Quilly, arter the Bible folks, Priscilly 
 an' Aquilly, ye know; an' Mis' Bildad Richard- 
 son, she called hers — one o' each kind she had 
 — Polios an' Polly. They growed up, an' I 
 rec'lect how the boys an' gals in meetin' used 
 to look over to Mis' Richardson's pew an' 
 laugh like, when they was singin' that good 
 old hymn that goes to ' Tell Aunt Rhody the 
 gray goose's dead,' or 'Mercy, oh,'— 
 
DEACON PHEBY'S SELFISH NATUR. 1 99 
 
 ' Some for Poll an' 
 Some for Polios, 
 Some for Cephas, 
 None agree.' 
 
 " Well, 's I said afore, we was named Phe- 
 bus an' Pheby. We was twins, an' favored 
 each other in looks, but we wa'n't a mite alike 
 in ways, she an' me. For I was jest a boy, 
 with a real selfish boy natur. I set by fishin' 
 an' shootin' an' trappin'. I was allers out- 
 doors, runnin' an playin', hollerin' an' cuttin' 
 up, full of my play an' my tricks, an' not much 
 use to mother or comfort to her, I callalate. 
 But Pheby, she was jest a soft, lovin', cuddlin' 
 little thing, allers hangin' round mother, coaxin' 
 an' huggin' her, an' keepin' close to her — a real 
 house-cosset of a gal. I don't think there was 
 anything so dreffle wicked in me. I was jest 
 a self-seekin' boy, an' 1 never once thought 
 mother or anybody expected or wanted kiss- 
 in' an' cuddlin' an' takin' care on, so 'twas all 
 left to Pheby, an' she done it. Mother — well, 
 she was jest a mother, the real kind: there 
 ain't but one real sort, ye know, though there's 
 lots o' make-bleeve ones. I can't put her into 
 
200 SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 talk, somehow — you can't never with moth- 
 ers, ye know — she was — well, she was jest — 
 mother. I knowed what she was allers, 's 
 soon 's I knowed anything; I felt it inside the 
 hull time, when I was fishin' or playin' ball, or 
 settin' traps, but I s'pose I never showed it 
 much in them days, for 1 was dreffle selfish, 's 
 I tell ye. But, true 's I live, 1 jest liked moth- 
 er." He patted the long green mound again, 
 smiled a queer, tearful kind of smile, and went 
 on: "But seein' 's we was so diffunt, an' I 
 was sech a rough, ha'sh kind of a boy, an' 
 Pheby sech a lovin', coaxin' little creetur, 'twas 
 nat'ral — course 'twas — that mother should like 
 her best, set by her a heap more. An' she 
 done it. She - never could bear to have her 
 out of her sight; she wanted to see her an' 
 hear her every blessed minute. 1 might be 
 off all day long, wadin' Tucker Brook, or fish- 
 in' down Gale River in the spring, or shootin' 
 pa'tridges an' squir'ls in the fall, or trappin' 
 rabbits an' minks in the winter, an' mother 
 didn't make no fuss over me when I come 
 home. But let Pheby go blueberryin' with 
 the Quimby gals, or over to Almv Appleby's 
 
DEACON PHEBY S SELFISH NATUR. 201 
 
 to play, or even out behind the house to pick 
 dandelion greens, an' mother was allers wor- 
 ryin' an' frettin' an' watchin'. She'd go to 
 the winder an' peek out, an' she'd stand in the 
 door an' watch, an' she'd walk down to the 
 gate, an' she'd call ' Pheby ! Pheby !' long be- 
 fore 'twas time to think of her comin' home. 
 
 "When I think o' mother, seems 's if I 'most 
 allers see her that one way — standin' on the 
 door-step lookin' out, with her hand held up 
 over her eyes to keep the sunshine out, lookin' 
 an' lookin', kinder pale an' frightened like, 
 watchin' an' waitin' for her little gal. She 
 was allers kinder white an' thin, an' 1 tell ye 
 she could put a dreffle sight o' lookin'-for an' 
 scariness an' waitin' an' lovin' into them eyes 
 o' hern. They -was diffunt eyes from any I 
 ever see; dreffle soft an' — oh, I don't know 
 what they was, not even what color. They 
 wa'n't brown exackly, nor blue quite, nor gray 
 nuther; they was jest mother color, I suppose. 
 I tell you I liked mother. 
 
 "An' Pheby, she suited mother another way 
 too; she was kinder pious. Mother was real 
 religious — raised that way. Her folks was 
 
202 SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 all perfessors, 'way back 's fur 's she knowed 
 about 'em. She come from Haverill, an' her 
 gran'f'ther was deacon in the Congr'ational 
 church there. I didn't take much notice on it 
 then; thought mothers was allers pious; 'twas 
 one of the things made 'em mothers. If she 
 hadn't been so I'd 'a' thought 'twas all right — 
 that mothers hadn't oughter be. But seems 
 diffunt now, an' I like to think on't. I can 
 hear her v'ice lots o' times when I'm settin' 
 here — kind of a lonesome v'ice 'twas — singin' 
 about her kitchen work or over her sewin', 
 'How lost was my condition,' 'Lord, in the 
 mornin',' 'Oh, happy are they!' 'The Lord 
 into his gardin comes,' 'Broad is the road,' 
 an' ' What var'ous hindrances.' Some of them 
 hymns was pretty scary an' solium, I can tell 
 ye, for a young one to hear about bedtime. 
 But my! we never minded it a speck when 
 we heerd 'em in mother's kinder softly v'ice 
 to them queer old moth'ry tunes. Why, when 
 I had the earache or a stiff neck, I'd drop off 
 to sleep in a jiffy to sech hymns as ' Stop, 
 poor sinner, stop an' think, ' or ' My thoughts 
 on awful subjicks roll,' if 'twas mother sung 
 
DEACON PHEBY S SELFISH NATUR. 20J 
 
 'em; and if sometimes I heerd a word that 
 scaret me a minute about chains an' brimstun 
 an' groans an' sech, why, the next minute 
 'twould be ' His lovin'-kindness, His lovin'- 
 kindness, His lovin'-kindness, oh, how sweet!' 
 in that kinder shakin', soft, comfortin' v'ice o' 
 mother's, an' I'd see 'twas all right, an' I'd drop 
 off agin. But I was jest a boy, bent on my 
 own 'musements, an' didn't think o' bein' pi- 
 ous myself; I left that to mother an' Pheby. 
 For Pheby took to it nat'ral. She l'arnt off 
 hymns by the yard, an' she said hull chapters 
 o' Scripter, an' she allers put away her play- 
 things Sat'day nights without bein' told, an' 
 she read tracts bound up together with leath- 
 er covers, an' Doddridge's Rise 'ri Progress. 
 She'd set still for hours over a life of a mis- 
 sionary an' his wives, an' like it, too. So 
 she was a dreffle comfort to mother that 
 way 's well 's others; an' bimeby she went 
 through all the ne'ssary things — conviction 
 an' convarsion an' all the orthodox 'range- 
 ments — an' become a perfessor in the Con- 
 gr'ational church over to Francony. An' 
 mother was so tickled that Sunday, but 'twas 
 
204 SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 kind of a solium tickle, an' I felt lonesome an' 
 left out — for 1 was a mean-sperrited boy — 
 when she an' Pheby set on the door-step af- 
 ter supper, an' talked, an' read the Bible, an' 
 sung, 
 
 ' Do thou assist a feeble worm 
 The great engagement to perform.' 
 
 Arter that them two was more together 'n 
 ever, an' went off by theirselves, an' staid in 
 their bedroom, an' mother looked at me real 
 sorrerful. An' Pheby, she talked right out 
 plain to me about my sins, an' asked me real 
 pers'nal questions out o' the village hymn- 
 book, like, 'Say, have you a arm like brass 
 that you His will oppose ?' an' ' Is this the 
 kind return ?' An' she'd say pieces out o' the 
 last end o' the cat'chism about them pious 
 boys in Scripter, how 
 
 ' Young King Josiah, that blest youth, 
 He sought the Lord an' loved the truth/ 
 
 an' about 
 
 ' That blessed child, young Timothy, 
 Did 1'arn God's word most heedfully; 
 It seemed to be his recreation, 
 Which made him wise unto salvation.' 
 
DEACON PHEBY'S SELFISH NATUR. 205 
 
 "So I felt kinder 'shamed, an' staid off an' 
 fished more'n ever, an' showed pretty plain 
 that, 's Pheby said, I had a flinty heart, an' 
 was a stubbun soul. I was a dreffle bad boy, 
 ye see, an' even if I'd sometimes make up my 
 mind to be convarted an' a perfessor, jest to 
 please mother an' take that sorry look out of 
 her eyes, why, the next minute when I was 
 fishin', an' felt a twitch at my line, an' struck 
 a two-pounder, or what felt like one, an' he 
 got off, why, I'd forgit all about meetin's an' 
 mother an' Scripter, an' stay off all day long, 
 an' night too 'most, to git that fish. An' so 
 'twas — so 'twas. 
 
 "But bimeby there come a time when 
 mother decided to move 'way from Sincler's 
 Mill, an' go up into Canady, where she'd got 
 a little piece o' land that had come to her from 
 her folks, an' see if we couldn't do better up 
 there. 
 
 "So we packed up our duds an' started. I 
 never shall forgit 's long 's I live how the old 
 place looked 's I left it that day, an' how nice 
 an' snug an' quiet little Francony 'peared as 
 we saw it ahind us, ridin' towards Littleton 
 
206 SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 that mornin'. I was jest a boy then, full o' 
 my games an' my fishin' an' trappin'. I never 
 was a real boy agin. 'Twas a dreffle jour- 
 ney, 'mong strangers, 'way up into that wild 
 part o' Canady. We had a heap o' trouble to 
 find mother's land, an' when we did it was 
 'way off in the woods, fur from any folks, 
 with jest a shackly old log house on it. We 
 got a man 't the nearest town to drive us 
 there an' fetch our things, an' v/hen he driv 
 off an' left us, seemed 's if we was outside the 
 world an' all alone. I can't rec'lect much 
 about that time, the gettin' there an' all, 's 
 you'll see when I tell ye what happened. 
 We'd been trav'lin' in th^ cars with a lot of 
 em'grunts, dirty, furrern kinder folks, an' I 
 s'pose we ketched it o' them. 'Tennerate we 
 hadn't hardly got into that lonesome, empty 
 little cubby-house afore we all three took sick, 
 and found out — mother knowed it; she'd seed 
 it afore — we all had that awful thing, small- 
 pox. 
 
 "We was all alone; we couldn't go for 
 help or doctors. If we could V done it, meb- 
 be we wouldn't, we was so afraid they'd carry 
 
DEACON PHEBY S SELFISH NATUR. 207 
 
 us off an' shet us up somewhere for havin' 
 that dreffie complaint about us. So we jest 
 done 's well 's we could, dosin' with ginger- 
 tea an' boneset an' sage an' saffron, for we'd 
 fetched our yarbs along, o' course. I wa'n't 
 's sick 's t' others: I guess I wouldn't be, for 
 somebody had to keep up an' do. Mother 
 was awful sick an' crazy, an' her eyes got in a 
 dreffie state; and Pheby, she jest went into a 
 sorter stupid, sleepy kinder way, an' 1 couldn't 
 rouse her up for nothin', not to eat or drink 
 or take her physic. An' 'twa'n't more 'n a few 
 days when she fell faster asleep, an' I couldn't 
 do nothin' to wake her up, an' poor pritty lit- 
 tle Pheby was dead 's a nail. 
 
 "Dear! dear! dear! There was mother all 
 het up, an' wild, an' 'most blind, not knowin' 
 me nor nobody; little Pheby dead an' cold; 
 an' me nothin' but a boy o' fourteen, an' a real 
 selfish boy too, to do for 'em. Don't make 
 me tell all that — how I dug that little grave 
 an' all, how I put her away, an' had the fun'ral, 
 an' was sexton an' bearers an' minister an' 
 mourners an' all my own self. It's much 's I 
 can do to tell the rest, an' fact is I can't rec'lect 
 
208 SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 jest what I done, for I wa'n't very healthy 
 myself jest then, an' my head ached to split all 
 the time. 
 
 "Fust I thought mother was goin' to die 
 too, but bimeby I see she was gittin' a mite 
 better, all except her eyes; but she couldn't 
 see no more'n a mole. Then I begun to think 
 how I'd ever tell her that Pheby was dead, her 
 little gal that she set by so, an' no one left 
 to her but me, a onconvarted, selfish-natur'd 
 boy. 
 
 "1 d'know when it fust come in my head 
 what I'd do. Mebbe 'twas when I see she 
 was stun-blind an' sorter feeble-minded yit. 
 Anyhow, it seemed to come right over me 
 someways that I mustn't let on jest then that 
 'twas Pheby 't was dead, but make her think 
 'twas jest only me. 
 
 "Well, 'twa'n't so dreffle hard at fust. I 
 put on a caliker bed-gown o' Pheby's in case 
 she took hold on me, an' I used to bring her 
 doses an' drinks, an' boost up her head to take 
 'em, an' she never took no notice who done 
 it. But one day arter I'd laid her down, she 
 reached out an' took hold o' my sleeve, an' she 
 
DEACON PHEBY S SELFISH NATUR. 209 
 
 says, real faint an' whisp'ry, ' Who is it ?' I 
 waited jest a minnit to swaller afore I said it, 
 then I says right out, 'It's Pheby, mother.' 
 Somehow — it's queer, ain't it ? — I never'd told 
 a real up an' down lie afore in all my born 
 days. Mother didn't like lyin' ; an' somehow, 
 with all my dreffle sins, I hadn't 'quired that. 
 So I s'pose my v'ice was kinder shaky; but 
 mother never noticed nothin'; she was so 
 pleased she pulled me down an' kissed me, an' 
 kep' whisp'rin', 'My little gal! my own little 
 gal!' An' arter that she dropped off to sleep 
 like a baby. I set there by her, for she'd got 
 hold 0' my hand, an' I tried not to think too 
 hard, for my head wa'n't jest right yit. But I 
 couldn't scasly help wond'rin' how long I could 
 keep it up, an' when she'd find out. An' then 
 — for I was allers a mean, self-seekin' young 
 one — once in a while I'd think how she hadn't 
 said a word about me (the real me, I mean), 
 or whether I was round too. Jest 's if she 
 could be expected to when her heart was full 
 0' Pheby! An' she didn't for a good while. 
 She was jest like a baby — eat an' slept, an' 
 didn't trouble herself about nothin'. ' You're 
 14 
 
2IO SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 hoarse an' croupy, Pheby,' she says one time, 
 an' I answered 't I hadn't got my v'ice back 
 yit arter bein' sick. But one day 's I was sop- 
 pin' her face to cool it off, she seemed to rouse 
 up a mite, an' she says, ' Pheby, where's your 
 brother ?' 
 
 "I couldn't speak out jest 't fust, an' afore 
 I done it, she says agin, 'Pheby! Pheby! 
 where's Phebus, I say ?' 1 put my head down 
 on the bed, for I was afeared I should bu'st 
 right out cryin', an' afore I'd swallered 'nough 
 to speak, mother says, ' Oh, Pheby, he's dead!' 
 An' I heerd her kinder sob, an' afore I knowed 
 it I found I was goin' to up an' tell her not to 
 cry, for I wa'n't no more dead 'n she was. 
 But next minute she says, wipin' off the tears: 
 'My poor boy! my poor boy! I hope he was 
 prepared! But oh, my little gal, how glad 
 your ma is that it wa'n't you!' 
 
 "Well, I was that onwholesome an' selfish 
 that I felt a speck jealous at fust. But I see I 
 must jest grit up, for I'd got a big job o' work; 
 for, for all I could see, I'd got to be Pheby now 
 the rest o' my days, or mother's days, anyway. 
 An' arter all 's been said an' done, she did sob 
 
DEACON PHEBY S SELFISH NATUR. 2 1 I 
 
 at fust when she heerd I was dead. I tell ye, 
 rec'lectin' that sob 's been a big comfort to 
 me lots o' times. For, ye see, I liked mother. 
 Well, she didn't git her sight back, an' some- 
 how she wa'n't never so clear in her head ar- 
 ter her sickness, or mebbe I couldn't 'a' kep' 
 it up 's I did. But my ! 'twas hard 'nough 
 's 'twas. If Pheby 'd been like some gals 
 'twould 'a' been easier. If she'd been a noisy, 
 tomboy, bouncin' sorter gal, like Liz Jackman 
 now, fond o' playin' with boys an' fishin' an' 
 chasin' squir'ls an' all that, why, I might 'a' got 
 some fun out o' bein' that kind. But to be a 
 Pheby gal, soft an' quiet an' pritty-behaved an' 
 'fectionate, an', 'bove all, pious, why, it 'most 
 stumped me, I tell ye. You can't s'pose it for 
 yourself, for 't come nat'ral to you. You was 
 born that way, an' didn't have to make no ef- 
 fort; but 'twas strainin' on me. 
 
 "At fust, when I was kinder weak an' shaky 
 an' dreffle scaret about mother, 'twa'n't so diff- 
 cult. I moved round softly an' spoke whisp'ry, 
 an' wa'n't so awful diffunt from Pheby. But 
 's I got more rugged an' mother was better, 
 why, I was allers on the p'int o' doin' some 
 
212' SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 boy thing or other, an' sometimes I done 
 'em. 
 
 "Time and time ag'in mother 'd look kinder 
 mazed, an' she'd say, ' Pheby Knight, what air 
 ye doin' ? Ye seem to 'a' lost all your nice, 
 mannery ways sence I was laid up.' An' I'd 
 rec'lect myself, an' sober down, an' put on my 
 proper, gal ways ag'in, an' say, ' You must 
 scuse me, mother, that dreffle sickness upset 
 me, an' I don't seem to throw it off yit.' An' 
 that allers seemed to 'count for ary queer thing 
 I done. Anyway, I wa'n't so full o' sperrits as 
 afore we left Sincler's Mill. So much trouble 
 an' worryin' an' makin' bleeve an' deceivin' 'd 
 wore on me some, for, 's I told ye, I wa'n't no 
 great of a boy, an' let little things wear on me. 
 One thing was I missed Pheby — the real one 
 — dreffle bad. Sisters is real lux'ries, ye know, 
 any on 'em, an' when you come to a twin, a 
 kinder phillerpener sister, why, it's like a piece 
 o' your own self. An' I couldn't talk about her 
 or cry over her afore mother, for why, / was 
 Pheby, ye see, 's fur 's mother was concerned, 
 an' 'twould V seemed like sinful pride. An' 
 then— for I was a stingy, mean-sperrited boy 
 
DEACON PHEBYS SELFISH NATUR. 2\} 
 
 — I did hanker arter my fishin' an' gunnin' an' 
 trappin'. I'm 'shamed to tell ye how hard 
 'twas not to try that brook ahind our cabin. I 
 scasly darst look at one spot in it — a kinder 
 dark, deep hole near a stun. I knowed 'most 
 there was a big trout lyin' there in the shadder. 
 You'll jest despise me when I say I run off once 
 with my tackle, an' 'd jest throwed in my line 
 an' seed a break, when mother calls out through 
 the winder by her bed, * Pheby, Pheby, ye ain't 
 nigh the water, be ye ?' I jerked out my line, 
 an' throwed the pole down, an' run back, 
 dreffle 'shamed 'o myself; but I was mean 
 'nough to think a heap about that break, an' 
 s'mise an' s'mise how much it weighed. 
 
 "But the very hardest o' all was the pious 
 part. I hadn't took that into consid'ration 
 when I begun, but it had to come over me 'most 
 the fust day. ' Pheby, won't you read me a 
 chapter ?' says mother, in her quav'ry, thin v'ice. 
 Now, though I was an ign'runt, onrighteous 
 boy, I knowed what that meant, an' that ' a 
 chapter' with mother allers went for Scripter. 
 So I went an' got the Bible an' set down by 
 the bed, an' I says, ' What'll I read ye, mother ?' 
 
214 SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 'One of the old chapters, Pheby,' says she. 
 ' You know 'em all ; the ones I like.' What 
 was I goin' to do ? I wa'n'l Pheby, an' I didn't 
 know 'em all, or ary one on 'em. I never'd 
 took much notice when mother an' Pheby 
 was readin' the Bible, an' even when they'd 
 read to me I was thinkin' in my triflin' way 
 about fishin' an' playin', and didn't pay no 'ten- 
 tion. But I set my teeth an' opened the book. 
 I thought mebbe it would open itself to the 
 right kinder place, so I begun right off, jest 
 where the leaves come apart. But I hadn't 
 scasly begun afore I knowed I was wrong. For 
 it was jest a string o' long names, all Bible 
 names, o' course, an' good in their way, but no 
 more approprit to read to a poor sick Christian 
 than a school deestrick list. I stumbled 'long 
 over Hakkoz an' Hupper an' Malchijer, an' so 
 on, awful scaret, an' knowin' I was on the 
 wrong track, till mother says, ' Pheby, Pheby, 
 what makes you pick out sech a chapter as that ? 
 I want suthin' comfortin', some of our fav'rits, 
 ye know.' I tried ag'in, but I was certain I'd 
 go wrong, an' so 1 did, for I hit on a place 
 about buildin' the tab'nacle, an' it was all about 
 
DEACON PEHBY S SELFISH NATUR. 2 1 5 
 
 the len'th bein' so many cubics, an' the breadth 
 so many cubics, an' the height so many cubics 
 — int'restin' information, but no ways comfort- 
 in' to that poor blind, troubled soul. So there 
 was nothin' for 't but to make some excuse an' 
 put it off a little. So I said my head ached — 
 an' it did to split — an' I see mother thought the 
 whole thing was 'cause o' that sickness, an' she 
 must jest wait. But, I tell ye, it hurt me dreffle 
 bad to think I could'nt be a comfort to her that 
 way, an' I thought an' thought an' thought 
 what I could do. Pretty soon another thing 
 come up. Mother was low in her mind ; 'twas 
 dreffle hard for her to lay there, blind an' sickly, 
 when she'd allers been sech a hard-workin', 
 useful woman, an' when I see her a-cryin' softly 
 to herself, I ast her if there wa'n't nothin' I 
 could do for her, an' she says : ' It makes your 
 head bad to read to me, Pheby, an' ye can't see 
 straight to find the right passages, nuther. But 
 1 know ye can jest sing me one of the old 
 hymns, an' that '11 be soothin' an' comfortin'.' 
 
 "Oh, deary me! I never could sing much 
 except when playin' games with the boys, an' 
 I didn't know a single hymn or a hymn toon, 
 
2l6 SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 while Pheby had a v'ice like a thrush. But I 
 
 must do suthin', an' quick too. I got out the 
 
 hymn-book — Pheby know'd 'em all 'thout the 
 
 book — an I opened it softly ; I didn't darst turn 
 
 the leaves, I was 'feard they'd rustle, so 1 had 
 
 to take the fust varse I come to, an' it was, 'Lo, 
 
 on a narrer neck o' land.' I couldn't think o' 
 
 any toon jest that minnit but ' Oatspysbeans ' — 
 
 a kissin' game toon, ye know — an' I struck up 
 
 on that. It went pretty well to the two fust 
 
 lines, 
 
 ' Lo, on a narrer neck o' land, 
 'Twixt two onbounded seas I stand,' 
 
 but when it come to that third short one, ye 
 
 know, 
 
 ' But how insensibul,' 
 
 it wouldn't go one mite, an' I broke clear down. 
 
 "'Pheby Knight,' says mother, 'be ye cra- 
 zy ?' But afore she'd got further'n that I didn't 
 have to make bleeve ; I jest bu'st out cryin'. 
 ' I can't sing, I can't read, I can't do nothin' to 
 help ye now,' I says ; 'but oh, I do like ye, 
 mother!' An' I did. 
 
 "Well, agin she put it on to the sickness, 
 an' it passed over that time. But things kep' 
 
DEACON PHEBY'S SELFISH NATUR. 217 
 
 happenin'. I worked away at the Bible an' pick- 
 ed out cheerfler passages. I practised hymns, 
 an' got so's I could make 'em go better, an' for 
 a spell I kinder thought I was satisfyin' mother, 
 an' 'pearin' like a good avrige Christian. I felt 
 dreffle mean about it, though. There's things 
 I can't put into talk, but you'll kinder guess at 
 'em ; solium, secrety sorter things, like prayin', 
 an' all that, an' whisp'ry little talks about sub- 
 jicks I didn't know nothin' about. My ! my ! 
 arter one o' them talks, when I'd make bleeve 
 for a spell, with mother talkin' softly an' cryin' 
 — a kinder happy cryin' 'twas — I used to feel 
 for all the airth like some one that had sneaked 
 into the masons' lodge by some mean trick or 
 t'other, an' got hold o' all their secrets. An' 
 'twa'n't long afore I found 'twas all for nothin' 
 an' wuss too. For one day I come in an' found 
 mother a-cryin' 's if her heart would break, an' 
 when I teased an' pestered her to tell me what 
 the matter was, she jest throwed her arms round 
 me an' says, a-cryin' an' sobbin', ' Oh, Pheby, 
 my little gal, I'm afeard — I'm afeard you've lost 
 your 'surance an' become a backslider!' Then 
 I see I hadn't done it right, arter all, an' that 
 
.2 1 8 SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 mother'd seed through me — found me out. 
 Though anyway I hadn't exackly been a back- 
 slider, for I hadn't ever got high up enough to 
 start me on a slide, so to speak. An' then I 
 knowed that I'd got a bigger job afore me 'n 
 I'd ever 'lowed for, an' that if I kep' on bein' 
 Pheby an' pleasin' my poor old mother, I'd got 
 to gin up makin' bleeve in one matter, an' be 
 the real, true, genwine kind. 
 
 ' ' I can't tell ye about all that, an' o' course you 
 don't expect it. Somehow 'twa'n't so dreffle 
 hard, arter all, an' once I'd done it, ary other part 
 o' the hull business come easier some way. I 
 got a awful heap o' comfort out on it too. So 
 you see even that was jest part o' my selfish 
 ways. I don't s'pose there ever was a selfish- 
 er, mean-sperriteder boy than me them days. 
 But 'twa'n't all smooth sailin', I can tell ye ; 
 there's lots o' gal doin's that comes awkerd for 
 a boy. There's mendin', an' patchwork, an' 
 knittin', an' washin', an' irenin', makin' beds, 
 sweepin', dustin', an' all them house things. 
 Makin' soder biscuits 's kinder worryin', ain't 
 it, the fust time ? Drawin' tea, too. An' pie. 
 Pie's dreffle difficult till you get the hang on it. 
 
DEACON PHEBYS SELFISH NATUR. 2 1 9 
 
 But, deary me ! they was- triflin' things, arter 
 all; only I allers made so much o' little troubles. 
 
 "But I don't know but the biggest piece o' 
 work, when all's said an' done, w'an't l'arnin' 
 how to be 'fectionate, an' have Pheby's little 
 cuddlin' up, kissin', lovin' ways. I never' d been 
 used to it, ye see, an' seemed 's if I couldn't get 
 hold. I rec'lect the fust time I tried to stroke 
 mother's hair 's I'd seen Pheby do, I kep' reach- 
 in' out an' haulin' back, reachin' out an' haulin' 
 back, afore I darst touch that hair with my big 
 hard, rough hand. But I had to do it, an' lots 
 o' sech things, for o' course I wa'n't goin' to 
 have mother do without 'em 's long 's she 
 wanted 'em; an' she did; I guess mothers 
 gen'ally does. An' I got a good deal o' sech 
 treatment myself too, an' I liked it, an' was 
 mean enough sometimes to take it all to my- 
 self, an' 'most forgit 'twas all for poor little Phe- 
 by that wa'n't there to enjoy it. For, ye see, 's 
 I told ye afore, I jest liked mother. 
 
 "I don't mean to say that mother never 
 said nothin' 't all bout me — the real true me — 
 for she did. But 'twas allers about my soul, an' 
 how 'feard she was she hadn't done her duty 
 
220 SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 by it, an' how 'twas mor 'n likely 'twasn't pre- 
 pared. It was kinder shiv'ry — though that 
 don't exackly seem an approprit word for 't — 
 to hear her dwell on the prob'ble sitwation o' 
 that soul. For 'twas my soul, arter all, though 
 I was makin' bleeve 'twa'n't, an' sometimes I'd 
 try to speak for 't, an' ventur to hope 'twould 
 come out all right, bad 's 'twas. But she never 
 'peared very hopeful, an' I don't know 's I won- 
 der at it. 
 
 " Well, it didn't last very long — this time o' 
 havin' mother all to myself, bein' her fav'rit, 
 her own little gal, to be coddled an' cosseted 
 an' made much on. Mother didn't grow any 
 ruggeder. She got dreffle poor, so 's I could 
 heft her like a baby, an' I had to do for her 
 'most 's if she was one; she was so weak an' 
 helpless like. An' there come a time when she 
 kep' me close to her ev'ry minnit, night an' day, 
 an' wouldn't scasly let me out her sight. She 
 didn't sleep good, an' I'd set by her in the dark, 
 an' say hymns an' chapters, an' do for her, an' 
 make much on her in my poor rough way, 's 
 much like Pheby's 's I could make it, but pretty 
 diffunt, I guess, arter all. 
 
DEACON PHEBY S SELFISH NATUR. 221 
 
 "An' one o' them nights, 's I set there on 
 the floor, close to the bed, an' it growed kind- 
 er cold towards mornin', I drawed a piece o' 
 the counterpane up over me, an' sorter shiver- 
 ed, for 1 was a great hand to pamper my wuth- 
 less body, an' make much o' little trials. An' 
 mother, she tried to wrop the blankets round 
 me, an' she says, ' Poor little gal, poor Pheby, 
 wearin' yourself out for your old mother,' an' 
 then she drawed my face down on the piller, 
 an' she says: 'Pheby, you and me, we both 
 knows I ain't goin' to be here long; an' I'd be 
 dreffle glad to go, blind an' sick 's 1 am, an' 
 like to be, if 'twa'n't for leavin' you. You've 
 been a good darter to me, Pheby, allers. What 
 should I ever 'a' done without you all these 
 blessed years, partikler this last spell here in 
 Canady, sence your brother died ? Poor Phe- 
 bus, 'twas awful to be took off 's he was, in 
 the midst of his sins; but oh, whatever 'd I 
 done if you'd been took, an' him the one left 
 ahind ?' 'Mother,' says I, in a kinder whis- 
 per, ' mebbe he'd 'a' tried to help ye, bad 's he 
 was, for — I 'most know, mother, he — liked ye!' 
 'Well, I s'pose he did,' says mother; 'but he 
 
222 SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 never showed it much, an' anyway he never 
 could 'a' done for me 's you have, Pheby.' 
 Then she talked to me a long spell. I see she 
 was worryin' an' achin' to think o' leavin' me 
 alone, a little gai, to git on by myself; an' it 
 'most seemed 's if I must tell her the truth, 
 jest to set her mind to rest. But I knowed it 
 wouldn't do then, she was so weak an' ailin', 
 an' needed Pheby more'n ever to help her 
 through with the last o' things. For I see it 
 all plain enough now — she was goin' to die. 
 She was a-growin' weak real fast. I couldn't 
 leave her a minnit, even to get a doctor nor 
 any help ; an' 'twouldn't 'a' been any use, for 
 she was struck with death, I knowed. She 
 said a good many things 's she was able, 
 whisp'rin' most on 'em right into my ear 's I 
 set on the floor there by the bed. But, o' 
 course, 'twas all meant for Pheby. I own up 
 I jest hankered for a word for myself — Phebus, 
 ye know — afore she went off for good; but 
 that was my selfishness, born in me, and 's 
 nat'ral to me 's the breath I breathed. 
 
 "'I know,' she says — 'I know I'll like it 
 up there, an' I'm so tired out; but, Pheby, I 
 
DEACON PHEBY'S SELFISH NATUR. 22J 
 
 can't make it seem 's if I'd be contented with- 
 out you. I'm so used to ye. I'll miss ye 
 dreffly, and I'm afraid ye won't come very 
 soon nuther, for Scripter says your days shall 
 be long in the land, 'cause you've allers hon- 
 ored your mother.' Then she waits a minnit, 
 an' she says agin, puttin' her poor lean hand 
 up to my face, ' Oh, Pheby, I wish I could take 
 ye 'long too; 'twon't seem like home without 
 ye. I'm afeard.I'Il be lonesome even there. 
 
 " The fondness of a creeter's love, 
 How strong it strikes the sense !" 
 
 That's what the hymn says, an' it's true, an' 
 I'll miss ye dreffly, dreffly, Pheby.' 
 
 "'Mother,' I says, not all on my own 
 'count, but wantin' so to comfort her, 'there'll 
 be — Phebus. He ain't much, I know, but — 
 he's one o' your own folks, arter all.' 
 
 "'I hope he's there,' says she, kinder 
 mournful; 'but, 'tennerate, he ain't you, my 
 gal. He never was very 'fectionate.' 
 
 "'No, mother,' says I, 'he wa'n't; but — 
 mebbe — there's jest a chance, ye know, that 
 he's altered some up there.' 
 
224 SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 "Agin she didn't seem very sangwine, so 
 I give up tryin' to help her that way. Arter 
 all, 'twould be all right when she once got 
 there. 
 
 "Towards the last she begun to tell me, 
 over an' agin, how she should keep on watch- 
 in' over me an' interestin' herself in me, if she 
 was 'lowed. ' I guess He'll let me,' she says, 
 kinder weak an' softly. ' He'll see how 'tis, 
 an' how I'm frettin' about ye, an' He'll let me 
 keep my eye on ye.' Arter that she kep' up 
 that one thing. Over an' over she says, 'most 
 to the last minnit, ' Rec'lect, I'll be watchin' 
 ye all the time, Pheby;' an' agin, 'I'll keep my 
 eye on ye, little gal; don't forget that' So 
 'twas to the end; jest little bits o' words to 
 Pheby; kinder good-byes an' sayin's about 
 Ieavin' her, promisin's to watch her an' keep 
 run on her allers. But jest at the very last, 
 when I thought she was act'ally gone, she 
 opened them soft, moth'ry eyes o' hern, thet 
 I thought was shet forever, an' she looked 
 straight up to the rafters, an' she says, real 
 loud an' quick, an' dreffle pleased like, ' Why, 
 Pheby!' 
 
DEACON PHEBY S SELFISH NATUR. 225 
 
 "Deary me! deary me! She'd found me 
 out. 
 
 "I don't rec'lect nothin' more for a spell. 
 Seems I was took bad arter that, an' had a 
 long sickness, a sorter head fever o' some 
 kind, so 's I didn't know nothin' nor nobody, 
 an' was crazier'n a loon. But I was took care 
 on. I ain't said nothin' to ye o' the folks that 
 lived nighest our house, for it didn't seem 
 to have much to do with the story about me 
 an' mother. But they was dreffie good peo- 
 ple, kinder Frenchy, an' talkin' a queer lingo, 
 but the best o' neighbors. I don't know what 
 we should 'a' done without 'em. Mother nev- 
 er could get the hang o' their talk, but I got 
 so's I could make out a good deal on it, an' 
 they was a heap o' comfort to me afore she 
 died. When I come to myself arter my sick- 
 ness, there they was a-takin' care o' me, an' 
 doin' for me 's if I'd been their own folks. 
 Cath'lics they was too, but Christians if ever I 
 see one. 
 
 "Well, 'twas terr'ble to come to, an' rec'- 
 lect mother was gone, an' me the last one o' 
 the fam'Iy left; an' fust I couldn't scasly bear 
 15 
 
226 SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 it. But I had to; an' it helped me a good deal 
 to think how she an' Pheby was in the same 
 place now, an' dreffle pleased to be together. 
 But arter a spell there was another kinder 
 consolation come to me, but a selfish sort it 
 was. It was jest this, that mother bein' dead, 
 an' gone where nothin' could never worry 
 her, I could stop bein' Pheby or ary other 
 gal, an' be a boy agin. Oh, ye don't know 
 what that meant to me, for you've allers been 
 one kind. But arter makin' bleeve all them 
 months, wearin' gal's clothes an' actin' out gal 
 ways, why them very words, 'a boy agin,' 
 set me 'most crazy. To think o' whittlin', 
 playin' ball an' marbles, smokin' out wood- 
 chucks, goin' in swimmin', throwin' stuns, 
 settin' traps, shootin' squir'Is an' pa'tridges, 
 an' above all, fishin'. Why, I couldn't hard- 
 ly stan' it, weak 's I was then. When I laid 
 there, all het up an' thirsty an' tired, why I'd 
 keep thinkin' an' thinkin' o' Sinclers Mill, an' 
 Gale River right in front o' the ole house. I 
 could 'most hear the water a-bubblin' over the 
 stuns, an' see the moss, all soft an' wet an' 
 slipp'ry to step on, an' look down into the 
 
DEACON PHEBY S SELFISH NATUR. 227 
 
 dark holes in the shadders where the trout 
 used to lay — I knowed ev'ry single one o' 
 them holes 's well 's if I'd been raised in em 
 — an' how I jest hankered an' hankered arter 
 bein' in the old spot, a boy agin! Now you'd 
 'a' thought, arter all the lessons I'd had, an' 
 the wamin's, that some o' the old selfish ways 
 would 'a' been took out o' me; but no; there 
 they was, an' I 'most forgot mother, Pheby, 
 an' all for a spell, 's I thought over them old 
 times when I was Phebus Knight, an' all gin 
 up to my own self-seekin' pleasures. 
 
 "But I'm dreffle glad 'twas only jest for a 
 spell, an' that I come to my right mind arter 
 a little. 'Twas when I was gettin' better, 
 an' 'lottin' on startin' for the old home pretty 
 soon. I'd been thinkin' about mother, an' go- 
 in' over in my head all she said an' done, 
 till I come to that last night an' the good-by 
 talk, an' o' course I come to the thing she 
 kep' sayin' up to the end: 'I'll keep my eye 
 on ye, Pheby; I'll watch ye all the time.' 
 An' all on a sudden it come over me what 
 that meant, an' what I'd got to do. Ye see, 
 I knowed mother an' Pheby bein' together 
 
228 SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 now would talk over things, an' mother'd see 
 how 'twas, an' that Pheby was reely the one 
 that died, an' that 'twas me, Phebus, that had 
 took care on her an' done Pheby's part. I 
 knowed that mother bein' a mother, one o' the 
 real sort, an' Pheby bein' a soft-hearted little 
 gal, an' my twin too, they'd make more'n 
 they'd oughter o' what I'd done, an' me bein' 
 away an' all, they'd begin to feel kinder sorry 
 for me, an' mother in partikler 'd fret about 
 it, an' wish I hadn't had to give up all my boy 
 doin's an' be a gal so long for her sake. Oh, 
 I knowed mother, ye see, an' could tell jest 
 how she'd worry about me, an' how 'twould 
 half spile ev'rything up there in her new hum. 
 Seemed 's if I could 'most hear her sayin': 
 ' Oh, Pheby, I can't bear to think o' that poor 
 boy, how he gin up his fishin' an' all, an' 
 wored your clothes, an' jest stayed round me 
 day an' night, so's I shouldn't miss a darter's 
 care. An' he so selfish by natur an' fond o' 
 his own 'musements.' I kep' hearin' that talk, 
 in mother's fretty, sorry v'ice, an' I couldn't 
 stand it no longer. I knowed she was allers 
 a woman of her word, an' she had her eye 
 
DEACON PHEBY'S SELFISH NATUR. 229 
 
 on me now. An' when she seed me tickled 
 to death at bein' free agin, throwin' off my 
 gal duds an' my gal ways, an' goin' back to 
 my rough play an' my boy doin's, it would 
 stren'then her all the more in her 'pinion, 
 an' she'd jest fret an' fret about all I'd gone 
 through, an' how I'd done it all for her, an' 
 she never'd had a chance to thank me for't. 
 Well, 0' course you see that the selfishest boy 
 livin' wa'n't goin' to have heav'n spiled for 
 his mother jest 's she'd got there, if he could 
 do anything to help it. So 't seemed plain 
 enough that I'd got to gin up any little idee 
 I'd had about goin' back to be a boy agin, an' 
 keep on makin' bleeve. I knowed I could do 
 it; I'd kep' it up so long, it come quite easy 
 an' nat'ral now, an' I felt cert'in I could make 
 mother bleeve I reely enjoyed bein' a gal, an' 
 what's more to the p'int, that I had enjoyed 
 it, an' she'd see she needn't fret no great about 
 me an' my givin' up anything for her, for I'd 
 done it jest for fun like, an' 'cause I reely 
 liked it. 
 
 "So there ain't much more to tell, ye see. 
 Course 's soon 's I see what any right-minded 
 
2)0 SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 boy 'd a-seen at fust, why I wa'n't quite so 
 mean, arter all, 's not to do it. So I jest kep' 
 on. 'Tain't much, when ye come to think on 
 't. I'd done it for a long spell, an' I kep' on. 
 There was jest one thing I couldn't do at fust, 
 an' that was go back to Sincler's Mill. I das- 
 sent, ye see; I'd been sure to backslid, set me 
 once in sight o' Gale River, an' Tucker Brook, 
 an' the woods round the old place. So I 
 stayed round there a spell, an' then I went off 
 to one place arter another. I don't rec'lect 
 jest what I have done. It don't seem very 
 long one way; time's got by somehow. I've 
 been sick a good deal, I guess. From what 
 they tell me, I s'pdse I've had some 'tacks o' 
 that kind o' head fever that come over me ar- 
 ter mother died. But 'twa'n't a ketchin' com- 
 plaint, so folks used to take me in an' do for 
 me; an' somehow I've had a very comf 'table 
 time, consid'rin'. 
 
 "An' I callalate I've sat'sfied mother by 
 this time that I like women ways an' women 
 clothes better than t'other sort. I come back 
 here arter a spell; thought I could stand it 
 better'n at fust. An' I'm dreffle glad I done 
 
DEACON PHEBY'S SELFISH NATUR. 2}\ 
 
 it. For, ye see, this place here's such a sat's- 
 faction to me. Mother an' Pheby's buried 
 in Canady, ye know. It was pretty hard to 
 leave 'em there, an' not have nothin' to do for 
 'em to occ'py my mind like. But one time I 
 happened to drop in here an' see this place, 
 jest like a ready-made cem'tery. Course I 
 knowed it wa'n't one; but arter makin'bleeve 
 so long, what's one more bleeve makin' ? So 
 I picked out two graves for theirn — this long 
 one for mother's, an' this little one for Phe- 
 by's; an' I jest take care on 'em. It's a dreffle 
 comfort. 
 
 "I won't say that I 'ain't had a r'lapse 'ca- 
 sionally an' forgot I wa'n't a boy, but I allers 
 rec'Iected arter a spell, an' afore mother'd no- 
 ticed anything, I guess. Why, it's only jest a 
 few days sence one time I was settin' here 
 knittin', an' I heerd Snide, 'Gene Elliott's black 
 dog, ye know, a-barkin' an' whinin' an' yelp- 
 in'. An' I looked over in the medder, 'cross 
 the road, an' there he was a-scratchin' up the 
 sod, makin' the dirt fly, an' shakin' an' cryin' 
 with excitement, like a Christian. I knowed 
 he'd got a woodchuck there in his hole; an' I 
 
2)2 SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 forgot ev'ry blessed thing I'd oughter remem- 
 bered, an' started for that hole. I throwed 
 my knittin' down, held up my apern, an' run, 
 a-callin' out: 'Good old Snide! take him, 
 Snide! take him!' I was half-way there, an' 
 Snide he was waggin' his tail an' barkin' to 
 me to hurry, when all on a sudden it come 
 over me what I was a-doin'. I looked up 
 quick to see if anybody up there had her eye 
 on me; then I picked up my knittin', smooth- 
 ed my apern, an' I says, real loud an' plain : ' I 
 wonder if Nervy Eaton won't show me that 
 new stitch she was tellin' on ? I'd like to 
 make a tidy. An' mebbe I'd better set some 
 bread to-night; it's bakin' day to-morrow.' 
 
 "I don't go very frequent to Sincler's Mill. 
 It's kinder lonesome out there now. The old 
 mill's all gone to rack, an' our house *s a 
 shackly old thing — doors an' winders gone, 
 an' things tumblin' to pieces. I was out there 
 t'other day, though, Iookin' round, an' thinkin' 
 o' them times when I used to live there an' 
 was a boy, with a hum, an' a twin-sister, an' 
 — a mother. It kinder brought back things. 
 Why, come to think on't, I 'ain't lived a mite 
 
DEACON PHEBYS SELFISH NATUR. 233 
 
 like what I thought I was goin' to when I 
 used to lay out things there 's 1 was fishin' or 
 settin' round in the woods. 1 was 'most sure 
 for a long spell that I'd be a pirate; or, agin, I 
 kinder laid out to be a big hunter, to kill lions 
 an' tigers an' sech wild creeters. Seems to 
 me I was all for bein' a sea-cap'n one time, 
 an' goin' whalin', an' killin' polar-bears on the 
 ice. My! 1 'ain't done one o' them things. 
 I've jest gone on my own selfish way, allers 
 doin' nothin' for nobody. I was a-standin' 
 near the river, jest acrost from the old house, 
 a-lookin' at it. I didn't exactly like to go 
 inside on 't, 'twas so lonesome, an' yer steps 
 sounded so holler when you walked on the 
 floor. But I looked at the old place a long 
 spell. The door was gone, but the door-way 
 was there, an' part of the steps, an' 's I was 
 lookin' I see — right there, 's plain 's I see you 
 now — I see mother. She was standin' right 
 in the door-way. She had on a kinder indi- 
 ger blue dress she used to wear a good deal, 
 with white spriggles on it, an' a little hank'- 
 chief round her neck, an' she looked jest as 
 nat'ral. She was lookin' down the road, hold- 
 
234 SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 in' up her hand over her eyes to keep the sun 
 out, an' she was lookin' an' lookin', kinder 
 pale an' scairt like, with a kinder watchin' an' 
 waitin' an' wantin* look in her eyes — them 
 soft, moth'ry eyes o' hern. She didn't speak, 
 but jest 's I see her, why right out from under 
 the bank, close by me, a little brown bird 
 flew out, an' he says, loud an' clear, but kinder 
 mournful like, ' Pheby ! Pheby !' I tell ye I 
 couldn't scasly stand it; an' whenever I think 
 on 't now, it kinder upsets me. An' I look up 
 through them tree-tops, with my eyes so wet 
 it makes things all sorter dazzly, an' true 's I 
 live I can see mother's face jest 's plain. She's 
 lookin' out of a kinder door-way, an' her eyes 
 is jest the same old mother color, so soft an' 
 lovin', an' she's got a sorter anxious, waitin', 
 watchin', wantin' look in em. An' I says to 
 myself : ' Why, what's the matter o' mother 
 now ? Pheby's to hum. I wonder if she's 
 expectin' anybody else ?'" 
 
VII. 
 A SPEAKIN' GHOST. 
 
 ' ' Stay, illusion ! 
 If thou hast any sound, or use of voice. 
 Speak to me : 
 
 If there be any good thing to be done. 
 That may to thee do ease, and grace to me, 
 Speak to me /" 
 
 Hamlet. 
 
A SPEAKIN' GHOST. 
 
 Yes, I do bleeve in 'em — in one of 'em, ten- 
 nerate. An' I know why you ask me if I 
 do. Somebody's put you up to it, so's you can 
 make me tell my ghost story. Well, you're 
 welcome to that if you want it. It's no great 
 of a story, but it's true ; an' arter all, that's the 
 main p'int in a story — ghost or no ghost. 
 
 Well, I s'pose I'll s'prise you when I say it 
 all happened in New York city. Seein' me 
 here in Kitt'ry, an' knowin' my name's Jenness 
 — a real Kitt'ry an' Portsmouth an' Rye name 
 — why, o' course you'd take it for granted I'd 
 allers lived round here, an' all my happenin's 
 had been in this Iocal'ty. Well, you're right 
 one way. I was born about here, an' come of 
 good old Scataqua River stock. My father was 
 Andronicus Jenness, born an' raised in Rye, 
 an' the fust thing I rec'lect we was livin' in 
 Portsmouth, on the old Odiorne's P'int road. 
 
 There was father 'n' mother, three boys — 
 
2^8 SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 Amos, Ezry, an' Peleg — an' me, Mary Ann, the 
 oldest o' the family an' the only girl. It's the 
 ghost story you want to hear, so I ain't goin' 
 to bother you with anything else. 
 
 But that time I lived there in the old red 
 house, with my own folks round me — 'pears 
 to me now the only time I did ever reely live. 
 We was pretty well to do, we had a good 
 home, an' we was all together. Father was a 
 good man, mother the very best o' women, an' 
 I was dreffle fond on 'em. An' the boys, they 
 was just rugged, noisy, good-natur'd chaps, 
 that kep' the house lively enough, I can tell 
 you. But when 1 was nigh on to twenty-five, 
 an' the boys was twenty an' seventeen an' fif- 
 teen, it all ended, that life in the old red house. 
 Father an' my three laughin', high-sperrited, 
 pleasant -spoken boys, was all drownded at 
 once, one day in September. They went out in 
 a sail-boat, a storm come up — 'twas the begin- 
 nin' of the line. gale — an' their boat capsized; 
 an' them that went out rugged an' big an' 
 healthy, laughin' back at ma an' me as we 
 stood at the door to see 'em off, was fetched 
 back stiff an' wet an' cold, an' so dreffie still. I 
 
A SPEAKIN GHOST. 239 
 
 never'd seen the boys still afore in all their 
 lives. 
 
 Mother never held up her head arter that day, 
 an' afore the new year come in she'd follered 
 pa an' the boys. It left me dreffle lonesome. 
 You couldn't 'a' broke up a fam'ly in all that 
 section that'd 'a' took it harder. For we'd 
 allers set so much by each other, an' done ary 
 thing we could to keep together an' not be sep- 
 'rated, an' there we was, all broke up at once, 
 an' the old house nothin' now but a dry holler 
 shell. I didn't want, o' course, to rattle round 
 in it longer'n I could help. I got red on it 's 
 fast as I could, an' went over to Rye. 1 know- 
 ed how to work an' wa'n't afraid of it, an', 
 o' course, the more I had to do jest then the 
 better for me. For I was stupid an' scared an' 
 sore with the dreffle trouble that come on me 
 so quick an' suddin, an' I was so terr'ble lone- 
 some. 
 
 Well, I s'pose 'twas because I'd allers liked 
 boys, an' was used to havin' 'em round, an' be- 
 cause, too, o' my missin' my own boys so bad, 
 that I got a place at fust in Mr. Sheaf's school. 
 'Twas a boys' school, an' they took me for a 
 
240 SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 kind of house-keeper — to see to things gener- 
 ally. 'Twas a sort of comfort — as much as any- 
 thing in this world could be a comfort — to see 
 the boys an' do for 'em. I had a little place to 
 myself right off the school-room, an' there I used 
 to do my mendin' an' everything I could con- 
 trive to do for an excuse to stay right there, 
 where I could see an' hear them boys. 'Twas 
 a kind of eddication jest to hear 'em go over 
 their lessons — their jography an' rethmetic an' 
 grammar — an' partikly their readin' an' sayin' 
 pieces. Ev'ry speakin' day — Friday 'twas — I 
 was allers on hand, never losin' a word, an' 
 sometimes I'd practise the boys 'forehand till 
 they knowed their pieces perfect. I stayed 
 there about six months, an' I hoped I could stay 
 there the rest o' my days. But even that poor 
 comfort had to be took away; for Mr. Sheaf's 
 health broke down; he give up the school an' 
 moved away. So I lost even them borrered 
 boys, who'd been in a sort 0' way helpin' to 
 fill up the places 0' my own. An' so agin I 
 was left terr'ble lonesome. 1 didn't know what 
 to do, nor care much. So, when I had an op- 
 p'tunity to go to New York I took it. 
 
A SPEAKIN GHOST. 24 1 
 
 'Twas a lady who'd had a boy at the school, 
 an' had been there herself an' seen me. Mis' 
 Davis she was, an' she writ to know if I'd 
 come on to stay in her house through the 
 summer, an' do for her pa, while she an' her 
 children was off to the country. As I said 
 afore, I didn't much care what I done, I was so 
 lonesome an' mis'rable; so I said I'd go. 
 
 But if I'd been lonesome afore, I was a hun- 
 derd times lonesomer there. I never 'd been in 
 a big city afore, an' I'd kind 0' thought 'twould 
 be folksy an' 'livenin' an' cheerful. But 'twa'n't 
 a mite like that. The house was mostly shet 
 up an' dark. Mr. Rice — Mis' Davis's pa — was 
 off all day long, took his dinner an' supper to 
 a tavern somewheres, an' was only to home to 
 sleep an' eat his breakfast. I didn't have much 
 of anything to do. I had a big down-stairs 
 room they called the front basement to set in. 
 It had two windows on the street, but 'twas so 
 low down that you couldn't see much out of 
 'em without screwin' your neck an' peekin' up. 
 There was lots o' folks passin' by all the time, 
 but you couldn't scasly see anything but their 
 feet an' legs. An' oh, the noise 0' the wagons 
 16 
 
242 SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 an' cars! It made me 'most crazy at fust, but 
 bimeby I got a little used to it. But I thought 
 I should jest die o' homesickness. How I'd 
 think an' think an' think o' the old days an' the 
 old house on the Odiorne's P'int road! How 
 diff rent it was from this city one! The old 
 home was so quiet an' still outside, an' so noisy 
 an' lively in-doors ; an' the city house was so 
 noisy an' lively out-doors, an' so dreffle still an' 
 quiet inside. 
 
 An' 'twas right there in the front basement 
 o' that city house that I see the ghost. 'Twa'n't 
 like ary other ghost I ever heerd on. Them 
 I've read about mostly wore white sheets, an' 
 looked dreffle skully an' bony, an' kind o' aw- 
 ful. One o' that sort would 'a' scaret me, I 
 know; but this one — why, I never felt a mite 
 scaret from the very fust. Fact is, I never 
 knowed 'twas a ghost for a spell, for it looked 
 like a boy, jest a common, ord'nary boy ; an' 
 'twas a speakin' one. I don't mean one that 
 talked, but a speakin' one that spoke pieces. 
 
 I don't think I smelt pepp'mint the fust time 
 it come. I don't rec'Iect it anyway, but allers 
 arter that I did. I was settin' in the front 
 
a speakin' ghost. 243 
 
 basement when it come. 'Twas between five 
 an' six in the arternoon, light enough still out- 
 doors, but kind o' dusky in my down-stairs 
 room. I wasn't doin' anythin' jest then but 
 settin' in my chair an' thinkin'. I don't know 
 what 'twas exackly that made me look up an' 
 across the room, but I done it; an' there, stand- 
 in' right near the table an' lookin' at me, was 
 the ghost; though, 's I said afore, I didn't know 
 it for a ghost then ; it looked like a boy. But 
 he wasn't a city boy, nor like any one I'd seen 
 for a long spell. He was about fourteen or fif- 
 teen, I should think, an' he wa'n't no way pret- 
 ty to look at, but I liked him from the fust min- 
 ute. He was real freckled, but that never was 
 a great drawback to me ; an' he had kind o' 
 light, reddish-yellow hair, not very slick, but 
 mussy an' rough like. His eyes was whity- 
 blue, an' he hadn't much in the way 0' eye- 
 winkers or eyebrows. An' his nose was kind 
 0' wide, an' jest a mask o' freckles, like a turkey 
 egg. So, you see, he wa'n't much to look at for 
 beauty, but I took to him right off. I knowed 
 he was from the country 's soon as I see him. 
 Any one could tell that. His hands was red 
 
244 SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 an' rough an' scratched, an' he had warts. Then 
 his clothes showed it too. You could see in 
 a jiffy they was home-made, an' cut over an' 
 down from his pa's. There was a sort o' 
 New Hampshire look about him too, an' I felt 
 a real drawin' to him right off. I was jest a 
 mite s'prised to see him standin' there, for I 
 hadn't heerd a knock or anything, but afore I 
 could speak an' ask him what he wanted, he 
 stepped up in front o' me, an' says, sort o' 
 quick an' excited like, 
 
 "Don't you want to hear me speak my 
 piece ?" 
 
 An' afore I had time to say that yes, bless 
 his little heart, I jest would, he begun : 
 
 " My name is Norvle ; on the crampin' hills 
 My father feeds his flock," 
 
 an' a lot more about his folks, an' all so pretty 
 spoken an' nice. When he'd done he drawed 
 one foot up to t'other an' made a bow, real 
 polite, an' then he stood stock-still agin. 0' 
 course 1 praised him up, said he'd spoke his 
 piece beautiful, an' asked him if he wouldn't 
 like a cooky. I got up an' went to the pantry 
 
A SPEAKIN GHOST. 245 
 
 to get some, but when I turned round to ask 
 him if he liked sugar or m'lasses best, he'd 
 gone. I thought 'twas pretty suddin, but 
 then I s'posed he was bashful, an' had took 
 that way o' leavin' to save talk an' fuss. I 
 looked out o' the winder to see if he was 
 round, but there wa'n't a sign on him, an' I 
 give him up. An' 'twas jest then I begun to 
 smell pepp'mint. But I didn't put the two 
 things — the boy an' the pepp'mint — together 
 then ; not till some time arterwards. 
 
 Well, you don't know how it chirked me 
 up, that little visit. To be sure, it had been 
 real short an' unsat'sfact'ry. He hadn't never 
 told me one word about hisself — where he 
 come from, who he was, nor anything. But 
 that didn't seem to make no diff 'rence to me. 
 I felt 's if I knowed him real well, an' his folks 
 afore him; an' somehow, too, I had a feelin' 
 that he'd come agin, an' I'd find out all I want- 
 ed to about him an' his belongin's. But 
 thinkin' about him an' his call an' all made 
 the time pass real quick, an' 'twas bedtime 
 afore I knowed it — the fust evenin' sence 
 I come there that I hadn't jest longed for 
 
246 SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 nine, an' looked at the clock twenty times an 
 hour. 
 
 The next day slipped by in the same slip- 
 pety way, for 1 was goin' over in my mind 
 what he'd done an' said, an' s'posin' an' s'pos- 
 in' who his folks was, an' all that. 
 
 About the same time o' day, towards six 
 o'clock or so, I set down in the same place by 
 the winder an' begun to watch for him. He 
 hadn't said he'd come, but I had a strong feel- 
 in' inside that he was goin' to. An' he did. 
 But 'twa'n't out 0' the winder 1 see him. For 
 I begun to smell a strong pepp'minty kind 0' 
 smell agin, an' I turned to look up at the shelf 
 where I kept my med'cines to see if the bottle 
 was broke or the stopple out, an' — there stood 
 the ghost. Though even then I never dream- 
 ed 'twas a ghost. I thought 'twas jest a boy. 
 He was standin' across the room, jest where I 
 fust see him, by the table, an' lookin' straight 
 at me. An' afore I could say a word he start- 
 ed right for me, an' says, lookin' real bright 
 an' int'rested, "Don't you want to hear me 
 speak my piece ?" An' off he went as glib as 
 could be. I can't, for the life 0' me, rec'lect 
 
a speakin' ghost. 247 
 
 what 'twas he spoke that time. I get the 
 pieces mixed somehow them days, afore the 
 time come when they meant somethin', an' 
 I begun to take in their meanin's. Mebbe 
 'twas 
 
 "At midnight when the sun was low," 
 
 or it might be 
 
 "On Linden in his gardin tent," 
 
 for I know he spoke them some time. Ten- 
 nerate he said off something. An' when he'd 
 done he drawed up his foot an' bowed real 
 nice. I clapped my hands an' praised him up, 
 an' then I begun to ask questions. I wanted 
 to know what his name was, where he come 
 from, who his folks was, how he knowed 
 about me, why he come, an' lots o' things. 
 He stayed quite a long spell, an' 1 did jest en- 
 joy that talk. Bimeby I went into the closet 
 to get something to show him, an' when I 
 come back, he was gone agin. 'Twa'n't till 
 some time arter he'd left that I rec'lected that 
 though it seemed 's if I'd had a good talk with 
 him, I'd done it all my own self, an' he never 
 
248 SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 'd said one single word — nothin', I mean, 
 but that one thing he allers said, "Don't you 
 want to hear me speak my piece ?" 
 
 An' yet somehow I knowed lots more about 
 him than afore. In the fust place, I'd come 
 to feel cert'n sure his name was Norvle, an' 
 that he wa'n't only speakin' a piece about that, 
 but meant it for gospel truth. An' arter that 
 I never thought o' him by any other name. 
 An' I did think o' him lots. For even in them 
 two little visits, when I'd done most o' the 
 talk myself, I'd got dreffie fond on him. You 
 know I allers liked boys, partikerly boys 
 raised in the country deestricks. An' up to 
 this time an' quite a spell arterwards I never 
 guessed he was anything but a boy, jest a 
 common, ord'nary boy. Well, he kept corn- 
 in'. Every single arternoon, jest about six 
 o'clock, or a speck earlier or later, I begun to 
 smell a sort o' pepp'minty smell, an' in come 
 .that boy, walked up to me, with his eyes all 
 shinin', lookin' pleased an' sort o' excited, an' 
 says, "Don't you want to hear me speak my 
 piece ?" 
 
 Then he'd speak. They was diff 'rent kinds 
 
a speakin' ghost. 249 
 
 o' pieces; some was verses an' some wasn't. 
 .But they was all nice, pretty pieces. There 
 was one I remember about a boy standin' on 
 the deck of a ship afire, an' how he stood an' 
 stood an' stood, an' wouldn't set down a min- 
 ute. Another r'lated to the breakin' waves, 
 an' how they dashed up real high. An' there 
 was a long one that didn't rhyme, about Ro- 
 mans an' countrymen an' lovers; he did speak 
 that jest beautiful. 
 
 Then he'd hold out one arm straight an' tell 
 how nobody never heerd a drum nor a fun'ral 
 note the time they buried somebody in a aw- 
 ful hurry. Agin he'd start off speechifyin' 
 about its bein' a real question arter all wheth- 
 er you hadn't better be, or hadn't better not 
 be. That one seemed to be a kind o' riddle; 
 not much sense to it. An' there was a loud 
 one where he jest insisted that our chains is 
 forged. "Their clankin'," he says, "may be 
 heerd on the plains o' Boston." I b'lieve 
 'twas in that one he kep' a-sayin', "Let it 
 come; I repeat it, sir, let it come. Gentle- 
 men may cry peace, peace, but there ain't no 
 peace," an' so on. Real el'quent 'twas, I hold. 
 
25O SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 An' I growed so proud o' that boy. By this 
 time I knowed a good deal about him, for 
 I'd have long talks with him 'most every day. 
 That is, I thought I was havin' long talks with 
 him ; but allers, arter he'd gone, I*d rec'lect he 
 hadn't really said anything. But tennerate, 
 strange as it seems, I did know lots more 
 about him every time. As I said afore, his 
 name was Norvle. His folks was plain farm- 
 in' people. You know he spoke of his pa's 
 keepin' sheep the fust time he come. An' 
 'twas up in the mountins they lived; prob'- 
 ly somewheres in the White Mountins, this 
 State. I know once he spoke o' Conway 's if 
 he lived round there. \ That was in a piece 
 about there bein' jest seven children in their 
 fam'ly. He was real partikler about the quan- 
 tity, an' kep' callin' attention to the fact that 
 there was exackly seven ; no more, no less. 
 He says, 
 
 " Two of us at Conway dwells, 
 An' two has gone to sea " ; 
 
 an' he went on to say, 
 
 " Two of us in the church-yard lays," 
 
A SPEAKIN GHOST. 2<j\ 
 
 (that was him an' another, I s'pose now), but 
 still says he, 
 
 " Seven boys an' girls is we." 
 
 I was sorry he hadn't been brought up near 
 the water as my boys had, with the great big 
 sea to look at an' sail on. No wonder he 
 spoke o' the crampin' hills. It allers seemed 
 to me dreffle crampin' to be shut up amongst 
 the hills an' away from the salt-water. 
 
 An' now he wasvoff from home an' real lone- 
 some, so 'twas a comfort to him to come over 
 an' see me, a plain, self- respectin' country- 
 woman, like his ma an' his aunts. So 1 about 
 made up my mind to take charge on him, do 
 for him, an' — if his folks would let me — sort 
 o' adopt him, in the place o' my own boys 
 layin' in Portsmouth graveyard. 
 
 I never 's long 's I live shall forgit the day I 
 found out he wa'n't a boy, a common, ord'- 
 nary boy, but a ghost. He'd jest come in, an' 
 was sayin' his piece, when the grocer come to 
 the door with some things. 
 
 "Wait a minute, Norvle," I says, for I didn't 
 like to lose a word of his speeches, I liked 'em 
 
2^2 SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 all so, an* I went to the door. But as I opened 
 it an' let the man in, I heerd the boy goin' 
 right on speakin'. So I says to the grocer 
 man, in a kind o' whisper, beck'nin' as I spoke, 
 "Jest come in an' hear this boy!" For I was 
 real proud of him, an' glad of a chance to show 
 him off. 
 
 The man looked rather s'prised, but he fol- 
 lered me in, an' we both stood there by the 
 door, list'nin' to the little feller. That is, / was 
 list'nin' with all my ears, for 'twas one o' his 
 very best, about England may 's well 'tempt a 
 dam up the waters o' the Nile with bulrushes. 
 But when 1 looked round at the man, smilin' at 
 him an' noddin' my head, 's if to say, "Ain't 
 he smart ?" I see he wa'n't 'pearin' to hear 
 anything 'tall. He was lookin' at me, an' then 
 round, an' seemin' so dumfoundered. 
 
 "What's the matter o' you ?" he says. 
 "What's up?" 
 
 Norvle was jest closin' then, an' I waited 
 till he'd made his bow, an' then I says agin, 
 "Wait a minute, Norvle, an' then we'll have 
 our talk." Then I turned round to the grocer, 
 an' 1 says, "Don't he speak fust-rate ?" 
 
A SPEAKIN' GHOST. 253 
 
 "What you talkin' about ?" says he. "Got 
 a sunstroke ?" 
 
 Somehow I knowed all at once that he 
 wa'n't foolin', an' that he didn't see nor hear 
 what I see an' hear so plain, so plain. An' I 
 knowed more'n that, for that one little thing 
 opened my eyes that I jest wouldn't open till 
 then, 'an I couldn't shet 'em agin. I felt queer 
 an' dizzy, my head swum, an' I put out my 
 hands to keep from fallin'. The man stiddied 
 me, helped me into my chair, fetched me some 
 water, an' I was well enough arter a little to 
 speak. I told him I felt better, an' he could 
 go; so he went away. I looked for Norvle, 
 but he wasn't there. There was jest a little 
 smell 0' pepp'mint in the air, but the boy'd 
 gone. I was glad he had, for I wanted to be 
 all alone for a spell. 
 
 Well, you can't understand anything about 
 what I went through then ; nobody can. To 
 folks I'm jest a queer old woman who tells 
 a com'cal ghost story out of her stupid old 
 head. It wa'n't very com'cal to me that day. 
 For I'd got so fond o' that boy. I allers liked 
 'em; an' I'd lost all I ever had. An' now this 
 
254 SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 one had come to me when I was so lonesome 
 an' low in my mind, an' I'd gone an took him 
 right into my heart. An' he wa'n't a boy 
 at all, but a ghost! That meant so much. 
 Queer 's it seems, the fust thought that struck 
 me was this: he wa'n't be or him, but jest it. 
 Then I remembered how I'd planned some 
 new clothes for him. But ghosts don't wear 
 out their clothes. An' I'd meant — if his folks 
 would let me — to adopt him; bring him up 
 like my own. How ever could I adopt a ghost ? 
 Wa'n't it impossible ? Come to think o' it, 
 could I have dealin's in any way with a ghost? 
 We'd allers been a respect'ble family; none 
 more so in all New Hampshire ; a religious 
 fam'ly too, orth'dox, every single one. Never, 
 's fur 's I'd heerd, was there a ghost of any 
 kind mixed up with ary branch o' the Jen- 
 nesses for gen'rations. To be sure, there was 
 a story of one that appeared to one o' the 
 Fosses, connected by marriage with the Jen- 
 nesses, 'way back fifty years or more. But 
 that one never showed itself; 'twas only a sort 
 o' weepin' an' groanin' an' complainin' noise 
 goin' through the house at night. An' they 
 
a speakin' ghost. 255 
 
 never encouraged it a mite, but sent for old 
 Parson Williams an' had him pray at it till it 
 cleared out. Then they aired the house thor- 
 oughly, an' never had a sign of it agin. But 
 here was I talkin' with one, 'sociatin' with it, 
 gettin' fond on it, an' really talkin' of adoptin' 
 it. What was I goin' to do ? What was I 
 goin' not to do ? Over an' over in my mind 
 I went at that, an' little sleep I got that night, 
 I tell you. As I said afore, we was brought up 
 in a pious fam'ly, an' my religion, small 's it 
 was to what it oughter been, had brought me 
 through all my troubles so fur, as nothin' else 
 could 'a' done. So I prayed a good deal that 
 night, an' read my Bible lots. An' bimeby — 
 'most mornin' 'twas — I begun to get red 0' 
 that whirlin', scaret kind 0' thinkin', an' to look 
 at things stiddier an' easier. Mebbe 'twas the 
 prayin' ; anyway I got all o' a suddin so 's to 
 see the matter reasonable an' cipher it out plain 
 for myself. 'Twas about this way I went at it. 
 Fust place I says to myself: "What's a ghost, 
 anyway? Why, it's a sperrit. An' what's a 
 sperrit ? Why, it's a soul. Well, there ain't no 
 harm in a soul; we've all got 'em. But then," 
 
256 SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 thinks I to myself, "what's this soul doin' 
 here ? Where's it been sence the boy died ?" 
 Well, you see, 1 knovved too much about heav- 
 en, from Scripter an' sermons an' all, to think 
 that a soul that once got there would leave it to 
 traipse round here agin an' speak pieces. So 
 I had to feel cert'in it hadn't ever got to heav- 
 en 'tall. An' as for the other place — why, you 
 never, never in the world, could 'a' made me 
 bleeve that Norvle had been there. He wa'n't 
 that kind, 1 knowed. 'Twasn't jest because I'd 
 got so fond o' him, but 1 felt sure, sure, sure 
 that he'd never been there, in that awful suf- 
 frin' an' sin. He'd a showed it if he had. 
 Now you see I was orth'dox, an' my folks afore 
 me, an' I'd never even heerd that any one 
 thought there might be another place besides 
 them two local'ties. Sence then I've read 
 somewheres that there is sexes who bleeve 
 that, but I'd never heerd a hint of it then. But 
 seein' that he hadn't been to ary o' them two 
 places, then where had he been, an' why did 
 he come to me ? When I got to that p'int I 
 had to stop short agin, an havin' nothin' better 
 to do, I went to prayin'. An' jest 's the morn- 
 
A SPEAKIN GHOST. 257 
 
 in' light shone into my window, there come a 
 light shinin' right into my heart, an' I see it all. 
 'Twas this way. Norvle hadn't been fetched 
 up by religious folks. For, strange 's it may 
 seem, there's people Jike that, even in a Chris- 
 tian land. He'd been a well-meanin' boy, an' 
 if he'd ever been learnt he'd 'a' took right hold 
 o' religion, an' glad enough too. But he lived 
 'way off in the mountins, there wa'n't no meet- 
 in' -house within miles, an' his folks was like 
 heathen. Even the deestrick school was too 
 fur off for him to go, or else his pa wouldn't 
 spare him to 'tend. So he'd growed up ig- 
 n'runt of all he'd oughter know, never seein' a 
 Bible, hearin' a sermon, or touchin' a cat'chism 
 in all his life. He'd learnt how to read some- 
 how, an' up in the garret he'd come acrost a 
 book 0' pieces sech as boys speak to school. 
 An' he'd took to 'em, studied 'em, an' got so 
 he could say 'em alL But he'had to do it all 
 by hisself. Nobody ever heerd him say 'em. 
 Nobody would listen when he tried to show 
 off. That's terr'ble hard on a boy. They like 
 so to be praised up an' noticed when they've 
 done anything. Why Peleg, the youngest o' 
 '7 
 
258 SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 my three boys, you know, allers set so by my 
 lookin' at his whittlin', or hearin' him sing, or 
 praisin' the pictur's he drawed on his slate. 
 But bimeby Norvle died; I don't know how. 
 I never was able to find that out ; whether 
 'twas o' sickness or an accident. But he died 
 without ever havin' been grounded in the right 
 things. An' — oh, don't you see it now? Don't 
 you know what come to me that early morn- 
 in', as I laid cryin' an' prayin' in my bed 
 there ? He — I mean it, Norvle's poor little ig- 
 n'runt soul — had been let to come to me; me 
 that loved boys an' had lost 'em all. An' I was 
 to be the one to learn it what he hadn't never 
 had a chance to pick up afore he died. So I 
 see I needn't stop bein' fond 0' it, but go on 
 lovin' it harder an' harder, till I'd loved it right 
 straight up into heaven, where it would 'a' 
 been now but for lack o' information. 
 
 I tell you that was a solemn day to me. I 
 was happy one way, sorry another, an' I felt 
 such a awful responsibility. I tell you 'tain't 
 many that has sech a heft put on 'em as that. 
 Jest think of it! the hull religious trainin' of a 
 ghost! I was busy all day preparin' for it. I 
 
A SPEAKIN GHOST. 259 
 
 looked up all my books, the ones I used when 
 I learnt the boys, an' the Sabbath-school ones. 
 An' I made a kind o' plan how I was to begin, 
 an' how long 'twould take to go through all 
 the doctrines an' beliefs. Our folks was Con- 
 gregationals, an' though I wa'n't as set in my 
 ways about my own Church as some be, still, 
 as Norvle didn't seem to have any partikler 
 leanin' to ary other belief, I meant to bring 
 him up as I'd been brought. So o' course I 
 had to begin with the fall, an' I studied on that 
 'most all day. As the time drawed nigh for 
 the visit 1 was dreffle worked up. Seemed 's 
 if I couldn't scasly bear it, to see the boy I'd 
 got so attached to an' built so much on, an' 
 know that he wa'n't a boy at all, but a ghost. 
 I was settin' there, in my old seat by the win- 
 dow, an' for quite a spell arter the pepp'mint 
 scent come into the room I wouldn't turn my 
 head. Fact is, I was cryin' so 't I could hard- 
 ly see out of my eyes. But bimeby I looked 
 round, an', jest 's I thought, there it stood. 
 My eyes was pretty wet, but I winked out the 
 water 's well 's I could. An' 's soon 's I could 
 see its face plain, I knowed that it knowed I 
 
260 SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 knowed. It didn't have that pleased, shinin' 
 look in its eyes, but was sort o' doubtful an' 
 scary. It stepped slow an' softly, as if it was 
 goin' to stop every step, an' when 'twas in 
 front o' me, it said, almost in a whisper, an' so 
 mournful, " Don't you want to hear me speak 
 my piece ?" 
 
 I brushed the water out o' my eyes an' says, 
 real hearty an' cordial, "Yes, deary, course J 
 do." 
 
 He begun in sech a low, shaky voice: 
 
 " Here rests his head upon the lap of airth, 
 A youth to fortin an' to fame unknown." 
 
 Poor little feller! I jest ached for him, an' 
 my throat felt all swelled up 's if I had the 
 quinsy. I made up my mind that minute to 
 give up the rest o' my days, if it took that 
 long, to savin' that little soul o' Norvle's. An' 
 he shouldn't never feel, if I could help it, that 
 I didn't exackly approve o' ghosts, or thought 
 a mite less o' him for bein' one. Then I be- 
 gun my religious teachin'. As I said afore, 
 my startin'-p'int was the fall. But o' course I 
 had to allude to the creation fust, Adam an' 
 
A speakin' ghost. 261 
 
 Eve, an' all that. Then I Iarnt him the verse 
 out o' the New England Primer about "In 
 Adam's fall," an' that led right up, you see, to 
 'riginal sin, nat'ral depravity, an' all that relates 
 to them doctrines. I had to begin jest as you 
 would with a baby, you see, right at the el'- 
 mentary things. Then I took the Westmin- 
 ster Shorter, an' learnt him from "man's chief 
 end " to the decrees. 'Twas a short lesson, 
 but I didn't want to tire him the fust time. 
 He seemed real int'rested, an' I forgot for a 
 minute he was a ghost, an' 1 says, "Norvle, 
 s'pose you take this cat'chism home, an' — " 
 I stopped right off short, for 1 rec'lected he 
 hadn't got any home, but was jest a wand'r- 
 in', ramblin', uneasy ghost. An' oh, where 
 did he sleep nights ? Thinkin' o' that made 
 the tears come agin, an' 1 turned away to sop 
 'em up. When I looked round, it was gone. 
 
 You see I say "it" sometimes, an' then 
 agin I say "him." I know I'd oughter say 
 "it" all the time; but — well, 'way down in 
 my old heart it's "him" an' "he" allers, an' 
 he's no diff' nt from my other three boys. 
 
 I was a mite nervous next time. I wasn't 
 
2(32 SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 quite certin I'd gone to work right with my 
 lessons. I'd had some exper'ence teachin', 
 what with my own boys an' a Sabbath-school 
 class. But how did I know but a ghost's 
 mind was all diff'ent, an' couldn't take in the 
 same things in the same way ? Then he 
 didn't have no books, an' couldn't look over 
 the lesson at home. So mebbe — I kep' sayin' 
 to myself — he don't remember a single word 
 about Adam, or his sin, an' the terr'ble con- 
 sequences. But I needn't 'a' worried ; for I 
 hadn't hardly time to answer that same old 
 question, "Don't you want to hear me speak 
 my piece ?" afore he started off: 
 
 " Oh, what a fall was there, my countrymen ! 
 Then me an' you an' all on us fell down." 
 
 Could a perfessor in the the'Iogical sem'nary 
 'a' put it better ? The real cat'chism doctrine, 
 you see, "all mankind by the fall," an' so on. 
 So I begun to feel encouraged. This time I 
 took foreord'nation an' election, an' easy things 
 like that. Eternal punishment goes along o' 
 that lesson by rights, but 'twas sech a pers'nal 
 subjeck for that poor soul that I skipped it that 
 
a speakin' ghost. 263 
 
 once. So it went on day arter day. I didn't 
 allers keep to the doctrines. I made 'lowances 
 for Norvle's bringin' up, an' had more int'rest- 
 in' things now an' agin, like who was the fust 
 man, the strongest man, the meekest man, an' 
 them. An' seein' he was so fond o' pieces, I 
 learnt him pretty verses out o' the New Eng- 
 land Primer, like 
 
 "Vashti for pride 
 Was set aside," 
 or 
 
 " Elijah hid, 
 By ravens fed." 
 
 He was so tickled with that piece about 
 
 " Good children must 
 Fear God all day, 
 Parents obey, 
 No false thing say," 
 
 an' so on. An' he liked about John Rogers, 
 an' Agur's prayer, an' took right off to that ad- 
 vice at the very eend o' the Primer, by the late 
 rev'rent an' ven'rable Mr. Nathan'el Clap, o' 
 Newport, on Rhode Island. 
 
 But the days was slippin' by, an' I begun to 
 worry. 'Twas September now, an' my time 
 
264 SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 was up early in October, for the fam'ly was 
 comin' home then. An' go 's fast 's I could I 
 hadn't been able to git beyond "the mis'ry o' 
 that estate whereinto man fell " in the cat'- 
 chism, an' the buildin' o' the temple in the Bi- 
 ble. All about sin an' punishment an' the old 
 dispensation, you see, an' never a speck o' 
 light an' hope for that poor sperrit. For o' 
 course I had to go reg'lar an' take subjecks as 
 they come, an' didn't dast skip over into the 
 New Test'ment comfort till its turn come. I 
 was in a heap o' trouble about it, when all of 
 a suddin another chance was give me. Old 
 Mr. Rice come to me with a letter in his hand, 
 an' asked me if I couldn't be induced to stay 
 on an' take care o' the house through the win- 
 ter. Seems that one o' the children — Mis' Da- 
 vis's, I mean — had took cold, an' its throat or 
 lungs or something was weak. So the doc- 
 tor had ordered them to take her 'crost the 
 water, an' they was goin' right off, without 
 comin' home at all. Wasn't it wonderful? 
 A int'position o' Providence, cert'in sure, an' 
 I thanked the Ltird on my bended knees. I 
 kep' on now in the reg'lar way, not havin' 
 
a speakin' chost. 265 
 
 to hurry, givin' all the time I wanted to the 
 doctrines. For there's nothin' like bein' well 
 grounded in them. Norvle never said much, 
 but he showed plain enough that he took 'em 
 all in, by the approprit pieces he spoke arter 
 each lesson. I wish I could rec'lect 'em all; 
 they was wonderful. I know one time we 
 had free-will, an' 'twas the most excitin' occa- 
 sion. I got so worked up over it, showin' 
 how 'twas consistent with election an' fore- 
 ord'nation, an' argifyin' that we was jest as 
 free to pick an' choose as — as — anybody. An' 
 next time he up an' speaks, "Hard, hard in- 
 deed was the contest for freedom an' the 
 struggle for independence." 
 
 Oh, 'twas good as a sermon ! An' agin, ar- 
 ter a course o' lessons on the power 0' the 
 devil an' how to resist him, he spoke that 
 powerful piece, " They tell us, sir, that we are 
 weak, unable to scope with so form'dable a 
 adversary; but when shall we be stronger?" 
 An' how he did go on about "Shall we 'quire 
 the means 0' effectooal resistance by lyin' 
 s'pinely on our backs an' huggin' the d'lusive 
 phantom o' hope ?" an' all that. One day 1 
 
266 SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 talked very strong about the Cath'Iics, warned 
 him ag'inst the Pope o' Rome, an' forbid him 
 ever to go near popish folks. Next time he 
 come he up an' spoke a piece about 
 
 " Banished from Rome? What's banished but set 
 free 
 From daily contracts?" 
 
 That showed his views about the Pope plain 
 enough, I think. 
 
 Oh, I never see a boy — let alone a ghost — 
 take in truths like him. An' it done me good 
 too. I'd got a little rusty on them doctrinal 
 b'liefs myself, an' it rubbed up my knowledge 
 wonderful. 1 studied up days, an' could hard- 
 ly wait for class-time to come; an' jest 's soon 
 's I had the fust sniff o' pepp'mint arternoons, 
 I'd be ready to start off. But I'd allers give 
 him his chance fust, an' I growed to love that 
 one thing he said every time, the only thing I 
 ever heerd him reely say, "Don't you want 
 to hear me speak my piece ?" It seemed to 
 mean more an' more each day, an' bimeby 
 was 'most like a whole conversation. Jest 
 from that one remark I begun to know all 
 about his past life an' doin's, his folks, his 
 
a speakin' ghost. 267 
 
 home, an' all. A poor, empty, neglected, lone- 
 some life 'twas, an' my heart ached over it as 
 it come out day by day in our talks. To 
 think o' his never havin' had what my boys 
 had so much on, all their days: meetin's, Sab- 
 bath-schools, cat'chisms, preparat'ry lectur's, 
 monthly concerts, prayer-meetin's ; he never'd 
 had one o' them blessed priv'leges in his hull 
 narrer little life. Well, as I said, I enjoyed the 
 doctrinal teachin', the Old Test'ment an' all ; 
 but I was awful glad when with a clear con- 
 science I could turn over the leaf an' show him 
 t'other side. He'd been gettin' rather low in his 
 mind lately, an' no wonder. For I hadn't felt 
 to tell him anything yet but about our dreffle 
 state 0' sin, the punishment we deserved, an' 
 the justice o' Him who could give it to us. 
 To be sure, I got him to the p'int where he 
 knowed 'twould be all perfectly right, con- 
 sid'rin' the circumstances, if he should be sent 
 right down to the place, as the hymn says, 
 
 " Where crooked ways o' sinners lead." 
 
 He was resigned to it, but he wa'n't exackly 
 glad, an' he looked rather solemn. So I was 
 
268 SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 pleased enough when I begun "to let in a mite 
 o' sunshinin' an' told him the gospel story. 
 An' I declare it never'd meant so much to me 
 myself, church member as I'd been for more'n 
 a dozen years, as when I begun to tell it to 
 that poor little ghost. I begun way at the 
 very beginnin', an' it was quite a spell afore 
 he see what was comin'. He thought I was 
 jest givin' an account of a common, ord'nary 
 boy. I see that was the way to int'rest him, 
 so I told about Him as a little feller, with his 
 mother, an' in the carpenter's shop, an' round 
 the water an' the shore with the fishermen an' 
 sailors. I was thinkin' o' my own boys on the 
 salt-water at Portsmouth an' Kitt'ry when I 
 dwelt so on that part. But pretty soon I ree- 
 lected how Norvle was fetched up on risin' 
 ground, so I told about His bein' so fond o' 
 the hills, goin' up "into a mountin apart,' - as 
 the Bible says, to pray an' to preach, or to set 
 there alone. An' how Norvle's face did light 
 up then, an' his whity-blue eyes shine! I 
 don't doubt he was thinkin' o' the New Hamp- 
 shire hills. For crampin' 's they be, folks that 
 lives among 'em do learn to love 'em lots. 
 
A speakin' ghost. 269 
 
 So it went on,*till it come nigh the last part 
 0' the narr'tive. No need for me to remind 
 you 0' that. I'd knowed it allers, learnt it to 
 my Sabbath -school scholars, heerd it talked 
 an' preached an' sung all my born days, but 
 'twas like a bran'-new thing 's I told it to Nor- 
 vle, an' the tears jest ran down my face like 
 rain. He didn't cry. I guess ghosts never 
 does. But oh, how mournful an' sorry he 
 looked, with his eyes opened wide an' lookin' 
 straight into my face, an' his lips kind o' trem- 
 blin' ! For quite a spell now he'd been speak- 
 in' diff'ent sort 0' pieces — hymns an' sech. 
 An' now he begun to say sech beautiful ones, 
 hymns an' psalms I hadn't even thought on for 
 years. Some o' 'em I learnt afore I could read, 
 from hearin' mother say 'em over 'n' over to 
 me as I set on the little cricket at her feet. 
 How I felt as he'd say, soft an' gentle like, 
 "Don't you want to hear me speak my piece ?" 
 an' then foller it right up with one o' them 
 sweet old hymns I always reelected in moth- 
 er's voice! Oh, I loved him harder 'n' harder 
 every day ! He was jest's homely's ever, jest's 
 freckled, his hair jest 's reddish-yeller an' mus- 
 
270 SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 sy, but he looked diff'ent, somehow. There 
 was a kind o' rested, quiet, satisfied look come 
 on his face by spells that made him prettier 
 to look at. An' bimeby that look come to 
 stay. I couldn't make you understand 'f I 
 tried — an' I ain't goin' to try — how I see what 
 was happenin' in that soul. But I did see. I 
 knowed the very hour — the minute 'most — 
 when he see the hull truth an' give up to it. 
 There didn't seem to be any powerful convic- 
 tion o' sin. Mebbe ghosts don't need to go 
 through that. P'raps it's their bodies that 
 makes that work so strong in folks, an' ghosts 
 'ain't got any bodies. So 'twas a easy, 
 smooth specie o' conversion, an' Norvle his- 
 self didn't seem to know when it happened. 
 He kep' comin' jest the same, allers askin' 
 his little question, an' speakin' his piece. An' 
 allers there come with him that pepp'minty 
 scent. To this day that common, ev'ry-day, 
 physicky smell brings more things back to me 
 than even cinnamon -roses or day-lilies like 
 them in the old garden on the Odiorne's P'int 
 road. 1 went on all the time with my teachin'. 
 I knowed Norvle was all right now, an' safe 
 
A SPEAKIN GHOST. 27 1 
 
 for ever 'n' ever. But there's plenty o' things 
 even perfessors need to know, an' I did so like 
 to learn him. 
 
 'Twas gettin' past the middle o' December 
 now. One day I walked a little ways down 
 street for exercise an' fresh air, an' all to once 
 there come over me sech a strong rec'lection 
 0' Portsmouth woods. I didn't know why 
 'twas for a minute, but then I begun to smell 
 a piny, woodsy smell, an' I see right on the 
 side-walk a lot o' evergreens— pine an' hem- 
 lock an' spruce. Then I remembered that 
 Christmas was comin'. You see, pa an' ma 
 had allers made a good deal 0' Christmas. 
 Congregationals in old times never done so. 
 1 know pa said that one time old Parson Pick- 
 erin', 0' Greenland, sent back a turkey that 
 gran'fther Jenness give him Christmas, sayin' 
 he'd ruther have it some other time than on a 
 popish hollerday. But we was fetched up to 
 keep the day. Why, up to the very last 
 Christmas 0' their lives my three boys hung 
 their blue yarn stockin's up by the fireplace, 
 though Amos was past nineteen then, an' 
 Ezry goin' on seventeen. So 'twas a time full 
 
272 SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 0' rec'Iectin' for me. The year afore I'd jest put 
 it all out 0' my head an' tried to forget what 
 day 'twas. But I couldn't forget it here. 'Twas 
 in the air ; 'twas ev'rywhere you went. The 
 stores was full 0' playthings, folks was traip- 
 sin' through the streets with their hands an' 
 arms full o' bundles, ev'rybody that passed 
 you was talkin' about it, an' 'twas no use try- 
 in' to git red on it. It made me choky an' 
 wat'ry-eyed all the time, an' I couldn't see 
 nothin' ary blessed minute but the old wood 
 fire at home, with the big yarn stockin's hang- 
 in' there. But one day arter Norvle had left, 
 an' the pepp'mint scent hadn't quite gone out 
 o' the room, I begun to think why I couldn't 
 make a Christmas for him. Now don't laugh 
 at me. I wa'n't a fool. I knowed 's well 's 
 you do that ghosts don't want presents or 
 keep days. But I was so lonesome, an' jest 
 hungry for a stockin' to fill — a boy's stockin'. 
 "So why, "I says to myself, "shouldn't I make 
 bleeve — 'play ' 's the children says — that Nor- 
 vle wants a real old-fashioned Christmas, an' 
 I can give him one ?" The next time he come < 
 I led up to the subject an' found out,'s I sus- 
 
a speakin' ghost. 273 
 
 picioned, that he'd never heerd o' Christmas 
 or Santy Claus in all his born days. So I told 
 him all about it, an' he was so int'rested. 
 
 Fust I told him whose birthday 'twas, 0' 
 course, an' why folks kep' it. Then I told him 
 all about fam'Iies all gettin' together at that 
 time, an' comin' home from everywheres, to 
 be with their own folks. An' I went on about 
 hangin' up stockin's an' fillin' 'em with pres- 
 ents. "An' now, Norvle," I says, " I'm goin' 
 to make a real old-fashioned Christmas for 
 you this year, sech as we used to have in the 
 old house ; sech as we made for Amos an' 
 Ezry an' Peleg. For," I says, "you've been 
 a real good boy this winter, an' I set as much 
 by you 'most — p'r'aps jest as much — as I done 
 by my own boys." He looked dreffle tickled, 
 an' so 'twas settled. How I did enjoy gettin' 
 ready! 'Twa'n't so easy as it seems. For I'd 
 set my heart on havin' the same kind o' pres- 
 ents as we used to give the boys, an' they 
 wa'n't plenty in New York city. The stock- 
 in' was easy enough, for I had one 0' Peleg's. 
 You see, I kind o' liked to have some 0' the 
 boys' things about, an' 1 had some o' the old 
 18 
 
274 SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 blue feetin' layin' on my stockin' basket 's if 
 they was waitin' to be darned. They looked 
 nat'ral an' good, you see. Peleg was nigh 
 about Norvle's size. Then I wanted a partik- 
 ler specie o' apple, big an' red an' shiny; we 
 called 'em the Boardman reds. 1 found some 
 to the market at last. They didn't exackly 
 look like the old kind; but the man said they 
 was, he'd jest fetched 'em from Portsmouth 
 hisself. The hick'ry-nuts I got easy enough, 
 an' the maple-sugar. I was goin' to get some 
 pepp'mint lozengers, for my boys all thought 
 so much o' them, but it seemed too pers'nal, 
 an' I give 'em up. 1 got a big stick o' ball 
 lick'rish, though — boys allers like that — an' 
 some B'gundy pitch to chew. Then o' course 
 there must be a jack-knife. I found jest the 
 right kind, big, with a black horn handle an' 
 two blades. I set up late nights an' riz early 
 to knit a- pair o' red yarn mittens, like Peleg's; 
 they're so good for snowballin', you know. 
 An' I wound a yarn ball, an' covered it with 
 leather. I had a diff 'cult time findin' the fish- 
 hooks an' sinkers, for 1 hadn't been round no 
 great in New York, an' there ain't no general 
 
a speakin' ghost. 275 
 
 store there. But I found 'em at last. Right 
 on top I was goin' to put Pely's little chunky, 
 leather cover Bible. Mother give it to him 
 the day he jined the Church, an' writ his name 
 in her straight up an' down, prim handwritin'. 
 I knowed she an' him both would be willin' it 
 should go to this poor little soul the Scripters 
 meant so much to, an' had done so much for. 
 The New York greens didn't satisfy me. 
 There was some stuff with sicky green leaves 
 an' white, tallery-lookin' berries, an' some all 
 shinin' an' pricky, with red fruit. But they 
 didn't look nat'ral. Bimeby I come acrost 
 some ground-pine, sech as growed all through 
 the wood lot behind the old house, spranglin' 
 over the ground, an' some juniper, like what 
 spread amongst the rocks there, with its little 
 black berries an' sharp, scratchy needles. I 
 couldn't get any black alder nor bittersweet 
 berries, an' had to do without 'em. Oh, you 
 don't know what it was to me, an' my poor 
 empty heart that had ached till 'twas 'most 
 numb, to get that stockin' ready. Ev'ry day 1 
 talked Christmas to Norvle, never lettin' him 
 know, o' course, what I was goin! to give 
 
276 SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 him, but tellin' all about diff'ent Christmases 
 I'd knowed. I went on about how the fam'ly 
 was allers together, an' father wore his best 
 clothes an' set to the head 0' the table, an' 
 mother t'other end, an' me an' the boys all 
 there. 'Twas nat'ral I s'pose, consid'rin', that 
 I dwelt on that part of it, folks all bein' to- 
 gether that day, lovin' an' doin' for their very 
 own. Then I told him how Christmas Eve 
 we all used to stand together, the boys an' 
 me, an' sing pa's favrit piece, "Home, sweet 
 Home." I carried the toon, Peleg sung a real 
 sweet second, Ezry had the high part, an' 
 Amos the low. How it fetched it all back to 
 tell it over to him ! 
 
 The last night but one come — the twenty- 
 third 'twas. Norvle had looked real mournful- 
 like lately. Ev'ry time I spoke o' father's 
 house, or fam'lies gettin' together or goin' 
 home for Christmas, I see he looked kind o' 
 sorry an' 's if he wanted somethin'. But I 
 wouldn't see what it meant. That arternoon, 
 though, when he'd ast, in a shaky, still voice, 
 "Don't you want to hear me speak my 
 piece ?" he follered it up with the dear old 
 
a speakin' ghost. 277 
 
 hymn mother whispered part of, the very last 
 day of her life — 
 
 "Airth has engrossed my love too long, 
 'Tis time to lift my eyes." 
 
 He went on with all the verses, an' when he 
 come to 
 
 "O let me mount to join their song," 
 
 he said it 's if he was prayin' to me, an' sech a 
 longin' sound come into his voice, an' sech a 
 longin' look into his eyes, that I was all goose- 
 flesh, an' so choky. When he'd finished, 1 
 turned away to get my handk'chief, an' when 
 I looked back agin he was gone. 
 
 Well, I s'pose you see now what I'd got to 
 do, an' what my plain duty was. I really had 
 knowed it all along, but I'd shet my eyes to it 
 a purpose till now; but I couldn't no longer. 
 That poor soul 0' Norvle's was regen'rated, 
 saved cert'in sure, an' what business had I to 
 keep it down here any longer? You see it 
 plain enough, but no one but me — an' One 
 other — knows how much it meant to me 
 that night. "Couldn't I," says I to myself— 
 "couldn't I keep him only one day longer, 
 
278 SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 jest over that seas'n o' Christmas, so hard, 
 so ter'ble hard to bear without him ? Any- 
 way, couldn't I have him till mornin', an' let 
 him have his stockin' ? When he was go- 
 in' to have sech a long, long time up there, 
 would jest one day more down here make 
 any great diff'rence ?" The answer come 
 quick enough. Yes, 'twould! He b'longed 
 somewher's else, an' I must send him there, 
 an' right straight off, too, even if it broke my 
 heart all to pieces doin' it. 
 
 All the next day I went about my work 
 very softly. It seemed like the day 0' the 
 boys' fun'ral. I'd filled the stockin' two days 
 afore — I couldn't wait — an' there it laid in my 
 room, never, never to be hung up, all bulgy 
 an' onreg'lar an' knobby. I knowed what ary 
 bulge meant. That one by the ankle was the 
 jack-knife, an' that queer place nigh the knee 
 was where the stick o' lick'rish had got cross- 
 wise an' poked 'way out each side. There 
 was one Boardman red apple roundin' out the 
 toe like a darnin' ball, an' right in the top was 
 Pely's chunky little Bible jest showin' above 
 the ribbed part. I didn't empty it. Folks 
 
A SPEAKIN GHOST. 279 
 
 will keep sech things, you know, an' it's up 
 in my bedroom somewher's now, I bleeve. 
 
 Well, Christmas-eve come, an' come quick 
 —too quick for me that time. I'd made up 
 my mind 'twouldn't never do to let Norvle 
 see how I felt. I had a good deal o' Jenness 
 grit, an' I called it all up now. So, when he 
 come in, I was jest as usual, an' smiled at him 
 real pleasant; but I felt 'twouldn't do to wait 
 a single minute, for fear I'd break down, so 
 afore he could make his one little remark, for 
 the fust time sence I knowed him, I begun 
 fust, an' -he stood still an' listened. 
 
 "Norvle," I says, speakin' 's I used to to 
 the boys' playfellers that used to come an' see 
 'em an' want to stay on an' on — "Norvle, I've 
 had a real nice visit with you. I've enjoyed 
 your comp'ny lots, an' I wish I could ask you 
 to stay longer. But it's Christmas - eve, you 
 know, an', 's I've often told you, people 'd 
 oughter be with their own folks to-night. 
 You know now where your folks is, least- 
 ways your Father an' your Elder Brother. So, 
 I'm dreffle sorry to seem imperlite an' send 
 you off, but — why, this bein' Christmas Eve, 
 
280 SEVEN DREAMERS. 
 
 's I said afore, I really think — the best thing 
 for you to do — is — to go — Home!" I got it 
 out somehow; I don't see how I done it. 
 
 Norvle looked right at me, kind o' mourn- 
 fle. He stood stock-still, an' I thought he was 
 goin' to make his one little remark, but he 
 didn't. Jest 's true 's I live, that boy opened 
 his mouth an' begun to sing. An' oh! what 
 do you suppose he sung? "Home, sweet 
 Home!" He'd never sung afore; I didn't 
 know 's he could; but his voice was like a 
 wood -robin now. An' in a minute, though 
 there wa'n't anybody but him an' me in the 
 room, seemed 's if I heerd some other voices. 
 Norvle carried the toon, but I heerd a real 
 sweet second, an' then a high part an' a low. 
 'Twas jest like four boys singin' together. 
 An' while I looked at him the music sounded 
 further 'n' further off, till when he got to the 
 last "sweet — sweet — home," I had to lean 
 way forward to ketch a sound. An' when it 
 stopped — why, he stopped. He didn't go; 
 he jest wasn't there. 
 
 Well, I've got along somehow. You do 
 get along through most things, hard 's they 
 
A speakin' ghost. 281 
 
 be. It's more'n forty year now sence my 
 ghost story happened, an' I'm an old woman. 
 I'm failin' lately pretty fast, an' it makes me 
 think a good deal about goin' home myself to 
 jine pa 'n' ma 'n' the boys. I might 's well 
 tell you that when I say the boys, I mean four 
 on 'em. For, b'sides my three, I'm cert'in 
 there's goin' to be another one, a little chap 
 with rough, reddish -yeller hair, an' lots o' 
 freckles. Course I know it's all diff'ent up 
 there, an' things ain't a speck like what they 
 be here; but somehow it won't seem exackly 
 nat'ral if that little feller don't somewher's in 
 the course o' conv'sation bring in that favrit 
 remark 0' his'n, 
 
 "Don't you want to hear me speak my 
 piece ?" 
 
 THE END. 
 
A HUMBLE ROMANCE, 
 
 And Other Stories. By Mary E. Wilkins. pp. 
 iv., 436. i6mo, Cloth, Extra, $1 25. 
 
 Only an artistic hand could have written these stories, 
 and they will make delightful reading. — Evangelist, N. Y. 
 
 Such work is always welcome for its identifying and pre- 
 serving power over all that is left of the warm hearts and 
 rude ways of the earlier country life. — Boston Globe. 
 
 The simplicity, purity, and quaintness of these stories set 
 them apart in a niche of distinction where they have no 
 rivals. — Literary World, Boston. 
 
 The reader who buys this book and reads it will find 
 treble his money's worth in every one of the delightful 
 stories . — Chicago Journal. 
 
 The scenes of lowly life are described with a faithful and 
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 the sentiment mark the authoress a. writer whose message 
 to the reading public can only be healthful and beneficent. 
 — New Orleans States. 
 
 A tender pathos breathes through many of them, and a 
 delicate humor is shown in quiet touches on almost every 
 page. — Courier, Boston. 
 
 Admirably adapted for summer reading, and we heartily 
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 interesting. — Albany Press. 
 
 Miss Wilkins is a writer who has a gift for the rare art 
 of creating the short story which shall be a character study 
 and a bit of graphic picturing in one; and all who enjoy 
 the bright and fascinating short story will welcome this 
 volume. — Boston Traveller. 
 
 The author has the unusual gift of writing a short story 
 which is complete in itself, having a real beginning, a middle, 
 and an end. The volume is an excellent one. — Observer, 
 N. Y. 
 
 A gallery of striking studies in the humblest quarters of 
 American country life. No one has dealt with this kind of 
 life better than Miss Wilkins. Nowhere are' there to be 
 found such faithful, delicately drawn, sympathetic, tenderly 
 humorous pictures. — N. Y. Tributie. 
 
 Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, New York. 
 
 US" The above work sent by mail, postage prepaid, to any part of tile 
 United States, Canada, or Mexico, on receipt of ike price. 
 
By AMELIE RIVES. 
 
 A BROTHER TO DRAGONS and other Old- 
 time Tales. Post 8vo, Cloth, Extra, $i oo. 
 
 VIRGINIA OF VIRGINIA. A Story. Illustra- 
 ted. Post Svo, Cloth, Extra, $i oo. 
 
 One is permitted to discover qualities of mind and a pro- 
 ficiency and capacity in art from which something new and 
 distinctively the work of genius may be anticipated in Ameri- 
 can literature. — Boston Globe. 
 
 Miss Rives has imagination, breadth, and a daring and 
 courage oftenest spoken of as masculine. Moreover, she is 
 exquisitely poetical, and her ideals, with all the mishaps of 
 her delineations, are of an exalted order. — N. Y. Star. 
 
 How well Miss Rives has sustained and added to the repu- 
 tation she so suddenly won we all know, and the permanency 
 of that reputation demonstrates conclusively that her success 
 did not depend upon the lucky striking of a popular fancy, 
 but that it rests upon enduring qualities that are developing 
 more and more richly year by year. — Richmond State. 
 
 It is evident that the author has imagination in an unusual 
 degree, much strength of expression and skill in delineating 
 character. — Boston Journal. 
 
 There are few young writers who begin a promising ca- 
 reer with so much spontaneity and charm of expression as is 
 displayed by Miss Rives. — Literary JVorld, Boston. 
 
 The trait which the author seems to take the most pleas- 
 ure in depicting is the passionate loyalty of a girl to her 
 lover or of a young wife to her husband, and her portrayal 
 of this trait has feeling, and is set off by an unconventional 
 style and brisk movement. —Book Buyer, N. Y. 
 
 Miss Rives is essentially a teller of love stories, and re- 
 lates them with such simple, straightforward grace that she 
 at once captures the sympathy and interest of the reader. 
 . . . There is a freshness of feeling and a mingling of pathos 
 and humor which are simply delicious, — New London Tele 
 graph. 
 
 There is such a wealth of imagination, such an exuber- 
 ance of striking language in the productions of this author, 
 as to attract and hold the reader. — Toledo Blade. 
 
 Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, New York. 
 
 .GSf" The above works sent by mail, postage prepaid, to any part of 
 the United States, Canada, or Mexico, on receipt of the price.