Chapter II: Part 2

Stubbs and the boy now trudged around the store waiting on customers until about 10 o'clock, when Paul Dimock came in and engaged Stubbs in an undertone, but being directly over my head, I could hear all. "I have learned," said Dimock, "that two detectives are stopping at Deacon Hobbs', and have been several days, and no one knows who they are looking for."

"You see, Paul," said Stubbs, "that Hobbs was instrumental in Brother Burroughs' arrest, and I have been told his daughter, Abigail, swore at Salem that she saw two black devils standing behind Brother Burroughs while praying--"

At this point a third party came in, and I recognized the well-known voice of Susan Beaver.

"Isn't it awful about Deacon Hobbs?" she said. "I suppose that is your secret? Why, I do think it is just terrible."

"What news, Mrs. Beaver? What have you heard?"

"Why, last night when Tom came home late, he said he saw two strangers come out of the woods and sneak into the deacon's house. So, out of curiosity, Sarah and I slid around and peeped in at the window, and sure enough there they were, eating supper and the deacon was--hush, there comes old Hobbs now."

"Good afternoon, Deacon," said Stubbs, "what is the news?"

"Bad news, awful bad. They say Fanny Burroughs is very low. My heart aches for that family. James was a good boy, and I wonder if anyone knows for certain that he is dead. I think possibly he may be among the Indians yet, although Shepherds' folks are sure he is dead, or he would come to Fanny. I suppose you have no particulars. Then there was George, his father, that they hung down at Salem. I wonder where they got evidence to convict him? To be sure, he and I did not exactly agree as to our religious views, but I never took that to heart, and would have done all I could to have saved him, even if he was not a regular ordained minister. I think from his record here that he was honest, don't you, Mr. Dimock?"

"Yes, Deacon Hobbs, I do. And James, his son, was an honest, upright and worthy citizen, and whoever was instrumental in causing those officers at Salem to come into our midst and take them away and murder them outright will surely repent when it is too late. I believe they have imprisoned Jim, and either have or will hang him, for the report of his being killed by the Indians, or wolves, may have come direct from Salem. Oh, Mr. Hobbs, it shatters my faith, that our Heavenly Father allows such men to live. This is terrible," he uttered, as he wiped the perspiration from his face and repeated, "terrible, terrible." Then as if aroused by wrong, he raised his voice as he faced the deacon, and continued: "Deacon Hobbs, I am no more safe than they were. If an officer should come in here now and arrest me for complicity with the devil, I should consider it my death knell, would you not?"

"Well, really," began the deacon, "I do not know. You see, I have been down to Salem and talked with Cotton Mather and others prominent in the church, and they seem to be worthy Christians. I have thought George Burroughs may have been convicted of some other crime. You see, the prison is closely guarded and all we get is hearsay."

SUSAN BEAVER

The reader will remember that Susan Beaver was talking when the deacon came in, and now stood listening to his subterfuge, and Dimock's stinging insinuations. As I remember Susan, she was short, stout, with black eyes, glistening teeth, and quick movements. She tried to keep silent, but now her cup of wrath was full, and reached the high-water mark, where danger could not restrain the break, and she broke:

"Deacon Hobbs, you miserable old liar, I saw the detectives in your house myself. Maybe they're waiting to take my husband to Salem. If so, you can inform them that they can never cross our threshold unless it is over my dead body. You say you do not know much about it. Was not Abigail at Salem, swearing against the minister? Did not you both swear he was in league with the Devil? Now you say he may have been convicted of some other crime. George Burroughs, that worthy Christian minister, defile his name, now he is dead, will you? Oh, you ought not to live another minute," and suiting the action to the word, she sprang across the store to the old cheese box. Now, I knew the cheese knife was long and heavy, and in the hands of a desperate woman. Bang-slam-bang, they went around and around the store, he holding a chair before him and crying, "Help! Murder!" while she struck out wildly without speaking a word. Dimock and Stubbs sprang in to save the deacon's life, but when I peeped through the crack and saw the broad grin on Dimock's face, I concluded their interference was not genuine. The deacon worked around the counter, when she sprang on top and had him in a trap, at which he dropped his chair and ran and plunged through the window headlong. After he had escaped, and Susan had time to think, she sat down and began to cry, but on being assured by Dimock that no one would think the less of her, she left the store.

While Paul was helping board up the broken window, I overheard Stubbs ask him: "Do you consider Cotton Mather and his associates murderers?"

"Oh, no," was the reply, "not exactly that. It is a phenomenal wave of insanity. Similar waves have spread their gloomy pall over the innocent, long before Joshua put the women and children to death at Jericho. These Salemites are at war with the Devil on the same principle that one nation wars with another; they justify themselves through a spasmodic lunacy, that duty calls them to kill their fellow beings.

"God works in a mysterious way. Cotton Mather may be blind. He may be a tool in the hand of a higher power. Finite beings do not comprehend the infinite. If God permits, does He not sanction? These cruelties will have a tendency to humanize Christianity. When years have passed and Brother Burroughs thinks over earthly life he will not regret that his Maker called him home at noon. Friendship and love will increase towards the Burroughs family. They are just leaving their lights along the shore. The love of Jesus will spread when the church shall have hatched out of its shell of ignorance; then it will stand on a higher and more liberal plane; midnight to us may be morning to the angels. Do you know, Stubbs, what is the main trouble with the human family?"

"I do not, Paul. What is it?"

"It is that they know less than they are aware of."

After the store had been closed and Stubbs was working on his books, I heard the door open and some one come in.

"Good evening, doctor. How is Fanny Burroughs?"

The doctor came near and replied in an almost inaudible voice, "She is dead." The little bullet-headed doctor was affected, for I could hear his voice tremble. "Oh, well," he replied to Stubbs' inquiry, "She had no disease, the poor girl actually died of a broken heart. Such suffering I never saw before, but when she did go if you had seen her, Stubbs, you would never question the theory of life beyond dissolution of the body. She raised her eyes upwards, smiled so sweetly and said: 'Oh, father, father, where is Jim?' I am sorry, Stubbs, I have not led a better life, for I have known Fanny Shepherd since she was born and if God will forgive the past, I will turn over a new leaf and try to meet her when I die. I know now that our minister, whom I always ridiculed, was right there in the room with us when she was dying. Besides, Mr. Stubbs, I believe Jim is alive, for if he had been dead he would have been the first one for her to recognize. You see, she was expecting to see him and he was not there."

Here Jim's heart and voice seemed to fail and Winnie put her arm around his neck and they sobbed convulsively for a moment and then continued.

When all was still I crept from my hiding place, washed my face, but could not eat. As usual, the shutters were closed, so I lit a candle and began to rummage around the store. I found Stubbs had a new musket with a horn of powder and a bag of shot, and as I knew he would gladly give them to me, I took them. Then I waited until near dawn, when I went out to the hill in the woods and stayed all day, on the very spot where I had spent many happy hours with Fanny. I could look down into the room where I had courted and wedded my dear Fanny, and could see part on one of her arms, as her body lay near the window, in Father Shepherd's house. Also I saw the village carpenter making my Fanny's coffin and a stranger digging her grave. That night I slept in the store again and the next day, from the same hill, I saw them lower her body into the grave, but my heart was locked in despair; I could not weep.

REVENGE

At night I came down and went to the grave. The distant stars seemed to be shedding their soft light on a lonely world, while the moon about setting cast her ghastly beams among the chestnut trees, making the scene, oh, so lonely, in that silent little graveyard. Out upon the cold waters of the bay I could see the silver waves glisten in the moonlight among the familiar bayous, which I should never see again, while far beyond the bosom of the great Atlantic seemed to heave a sigh of grief at my loneliness. I fell upon dear Fanny's grave, kissed the clay and wondered if she was there. Then breathing a long farewell, I folded my hands in prayer, asking God to forgive me for the crime I was about to commit.

Hastily I then walked towards Stubbs' store, resolved to settle with Deacon Hobbs and then turn my back on white man forever. I entered the store and wrote on a slip of brown paper: "Obadiah Stubbs, a friend has taken your gun and ammunition," and placed the slip in the cash drawer.

When outside of the store I walked lively to the deacon's nearest storehouse, then ran from one to the other, and at last set fire to his home, then stepped back into the lilac bushes and cocked my gun.

Soon I saw great curls of smoke ascending from the storehouses on the wharf, then the barns and sheds, and now the home had caught fire. Then seeing the family in danger, to awaken them I seized a rock and dashed it through the window.

The family were now aroused and Hobbs ran to the well for water, when I raised my gun, but a shadow came before me, and I could not see him. Again he ran out and again I raised the gun, determined to kill him, just as I felt a soft pressure on my shoulder and turning quickly I found myself alone. Then I knew I must not.

As I walked away from old Chestnut Hill, I gave one last, lingering look. It was now daybreak, and as I gazed down on the little village where I had spent so many happy days I saw that all of Deacon Hobbs' wealth had ascended into smoke. Stubbs' old store looked as dingy and dirty as ever. Father's church, on which I had often looked so fondly, now seemed silently waiting to catch the first glimmer of the morning sun as it came to give light and life to the hills and valleys of old New England. Father Shepherd's house, the door through which I had passed so many times with a light heart, were all plain to my view. Once more I looked through the trees to the grave of Fanny and walked away.

ALONE IN THE WILDERNESS

About noon, the first day out, I met three Indians and we took lunch together, they furnishing bear meat and I cheese and crackers, which I had borrowed from Stubbs. After this I trudged on, following an old trail in a westerly direction, hoping to find Indians who could give me shelter for the night, but finding none, I started a fire at dark to scare the wolves away and prepared to stay in the woods alone.

As darkness came on and my fire lit up the woods, I was lonely and yearned for a friend, while a strangeness came over me which caused me to shudder. The excitement had past, and I was left to contemplate as to the course I had taken and where my pathway of life might be leading me. I saw myself, as only a short time before, a promising young man of the wild wood harbor village; but now alone in the wilderness, soon to be a ragged, friendless outcast. Was my condition better or worse than Fanny's or father's? Silently I knelt and implored the unseen to forgive all and keep me pure in heart as I wended my way over mountains of trouble and through vales of temptation.

While pondering I heard the flapping of wings, and a large owl came and lit on a dry limb above me and began its lonely hooting. The night was still, save the occasional bark of a wolf and the echo of the bird's dreary chant, which under ordinary circumstances would have startled me, but now rising to my feet I gazed at the intruder with an eye of gladness and longed to caress him as a friend, while I murmured, "Your lot on earth as compared with mine is to be envied. Carelessly and thoughtlessly your days pass with no regret for the past or anxiety for the morrow, while my sympathetic heart, actuated by an ingenious brain, dashes cold waves of sorrow against bleak rocks of cruel destiny."

I closed my eyes and again implored my Heavenly Father to increase my strength to tread the thorny way. Then I pondered over my condition again and cried, "Oh, the heart--the human heart--that beats in sympathy! Oh, the soul that longs to comfort some one and yearns to be loved in return!"

Gazing high into the far away Eternity where all seemed lovely and serene, I said, "Silence is the token of love. Fanny is; yes, she still lives, but she is silent and in her silence she loves me still."

Then the stars, hills and trees, like friends, came near and shared with me my troubles, and as I sank upon the ground overcome I thought I was a child again and mother whispered low and sweet, "Love your enemies and Jesus will love you."

Resting upon a bed of leaves with my boots for a pillow, the angel of dreams took me in her fair arms. Fanny and I were walking beside a laughing crystal stream, gathering wild flowers, whose fragrance seemed to fill the balmy air, where familiar birds came and warbled sweet notes over our heads while the soft sunshine bore upon the scene, peeping into the shady grove and forming our peaceful nook into a perfect bower of love. Here upon a bank strewn with tiny violets I kneeled at Fanny's feet and asked her to become my wife. She did not speak, but looked on me with her own sweet smile as she glided softly away. I arose to follow her, when I awoke and found myself alone in the dark woods.

Morning came at last, and not being able to taste my food, I trudged on, and in a few days reached Springfield, where I first assumed the name of James Hall. There I worked about ten days for a man named Anson Newell, but when I learned there were two families there from Salem I feared detection and decided to go.

HUNTING FOR BABY

I now abandoned the idea of living with the Indians and worked my way over the Green Mountains, then down the Hudson River to New York. During the winter my mind was continually on my baby boy, and when spring came I started East to try to locate him. At Hartford I stayed a few days, hoping to find someone from Casco Bay, but being unsuccessful I went on and spent the night with about thirty Indians in the dark grove south of Wabbaquassett Lake. Here I found a buck and his squaw, who had lived near Casco Bay, but they knew nothing of church affairs.

Next morning near Stafford, just as I was turning north from the river bend, I met a party of hunters, one of whom I recognized as Josiah Converse, from near Casco Bay. After passing, I overheard him remark--"That man looks and walks just exactly like Jim Burroughs, and if I did not know he was dead, I would swear it was he." This remark disturbed me, for I had thought that my full beard and shabby clothes had disguised me. Soon I passed near my baby boy but did not know it.

When I arrived at Casco Bay I was puzzled as to how I was to get my information. Stubbs' store could not be approached now, as I had left traces of my last visit and someone might be on the alert, so I hung around Chestnut Hill three days, secreted near the road, hoping to see someone passing who was a stranger. Several acquaintances passed each day, among whom was old Deacon Hobbs, which made my blood boil, and I almost forgot that I was to love my enemies. One day a strange boy approached and I ran up to the brow of the hill and then turned and met him.

"Does Deacon Hobbs live in this town?" I inquired.

"Yes, he lives over there in that cottage."

"Do you think he wants to hire a man?"

"Oh, no, he does not want help. He is poor now; all he had is burned up."

"Who did it?

"We do not know, but think it was an angel from heaven, and every one is glad."

"Why were they glad?"

"Oh, because he killed the minister. That was last year, and I was not here."

"How did he do it?"

"Well, he did not kill him, but he got some folks down in Salem to come up and arrest him and they hanged him."

"Did he kill anyone else?"

"Yes, he killed James Burroughs and Fanny, too, so Mr. Shepherd says."

"Who were they?"

"James was the minister's son and Fanny was his wife. I live with the Shepherds and heard them say these things."

"Did James and Fanny have any children?"

"Yes, they must have had one, for I heard Mrs. Shepherd tell how the minister's sister came on from Boston and took it home with her."

Then looking inquiringly in my face, he said, "Say, mister, are you sick?"

"Oh, no," I replied, and we passed on.

On arriving at Boston I learned that uncle had died and Aunt Hannah had gone with her sister, Abigail, who lived in Salem. In Salem, with great difficulty, I learned they had sold out all their property and gone West. All further efforts were fruitless and I returned to New York and began to work at my last winter's job, where I worked quietly, ever on the alert to gain tidings of my boy.

MULDOON

One day while I was working with an Irishman named Muldoon, the proprietor, Mr. Benjamin, came along, leading his little daughter, who, pointing to Muldoon, said, "Papa, what makes you hire paddies? I do not like them." Muldoon resented the innocent prattle, and turning to Benjamin, said: "Will ye allow that wee bit of a brat to spake that way of a gintleman?"

"You are no gentleman to call a child a brat, and if you answer back I'll discharge you at once."

Pat tugged away in silence and when Benjamin had gone he said: "I niver knew but one mon in me life as mane as ould Benjamin and that was Cotton Mather himself."

"What do you know about Cotton Mather?" I eagerly inquired.

"Nothing good, sir."

"Were you ever at Salem?"

"Do yees think that auld Ben aught to larn that wee bit of a snipe to insolt the loikes of me?"

"But, Pat, that does not answer my question."

"Thin why should a gintlemin aloix yee be axen meself quistions which I niver knew a-tal-tal?"

"Yes, you do know, and if I explain why I am so anxious you'll tell me all you can, won't you, Pat?"

"Yees moight be an officer."

"Nonsense, Pat, haven't you worked beside me for a long time?"

"Sure, but you moight be."

"No, I am not, and you should not be afraid, for you have never committed any crime."

"Oh, but it was the innocent that they murthered. But, Jim, if yees will lit me come to your room at the did o' night and yees will kiss the Holy Cross and hold the sacred Mary to your heart while ye swear niver to till, I might till yees the bit I know."

When Pat arrived at midnight he whispered in my ear, "Ye see, that if Cotton Mather hears that I till the truth he will git some one to swear I am posist with the devil and they will hang me sure."

After I had explained to him how large a dowery had been left for the Burroughs family, and that a child had been lost, he said: "Then it is not Giles Corey yees are after hearing, for I might tell yees more about him, for I lived with him both before and after he was dead."

"No, I want you to tell me all about George Burroughs. Did you ever hear about him?"

"Faith and indade, I did, I heard him make his last prayer when on the gallows, asking God to forgive his inimies and we all wipped loike babbies, we did."

"Did he have a family?"

"Yis, a son. A fair young mon. He looked so much loike yees that I think of him when yees walk along, but he is dead, poor bye. When he started home he lost his way and the wolves ate him. Some said he may not be ded, but shot up in prison to be hung, but I know he was dead, for I hilped to bury his bones."

"Did you see them?"

"No, they were in a box, but I knew he was ded, fer he did not smill like a live man, and his wife died, but they had a little one, who is alive now."

"Where is he?"

"He was first taken to Boston to his Aunt Hannah's and thin to his Aunt Abigail's in Salem, thin a man came on from Stafford, Conn., and took him to keep. His wife was Aunt Hannah's daughter and Aunt Agibail wint to Stafford hersilf."

The day I arrived at Stafford Street I walked from Hartford, and the nearer I came the faster I walked. When I arrived at the village some men were working on the road and in answer to my inquiry, said: "The widow Abigail Drake lives in that red house," which they pointed out. I called on her under the pretense of buying her home, and staid quite a while. She mentioned some of the best families, Deans, Converses, Richardsons, etc., but I could not find out who had the boy until I spoke of the church, when she mentioned that Deacon Felker had adopted a boy who was her nephew. Then I asked her who his parents were. She hesitated, and then said, "His father and mother are both dead."

"Were you acquainted with his father?"

"Yes, I was; he was a man about your build, only when I saw him last he was in trouble, and pale and thin."

"What trouble?"

"Trouble," she replied wiping the tears away with her apron. Then coming near me inquired quizzically, "What is your name?"

I saw she was on the point of detecting me, and looking straight in her eye I answered, "James Hall."

Again she hesitated and then said, "You do look so much like James Burroughs, who is dead, that I thought the dead had been raised." She then told me all about father's execution, Fanny's death and mine, after which I walked over to Deacon Felker's.

When I arrived, there was no one in but the deacon, so I struck him up for a job. Soon I saw a lady coming up the walk who I at once recognized as Cousin Phoebe, whom I had not seen for fifteen years. Beside her ran a little boy. The deacon introduced me, and in shaking hands I squeezed hers so hard that she looked up quickly, then presuming me to be very rough, she spoke pleasantly. Then I picked up my own little boy and as in some phantom mirror, Fanny seemed to look me right in the face.

While waiting for tea, Winnie Richardson came in and adroitly introduced herself by saying, "I presume our town looks tame to you, especially if you've been living in the city, but to us who have never traveled Stafford is the center of the world."

At the conclusion of Jim's story the sweet Winnie softly caressed the troubled man with her arm around his neck, and here we leave Winnie and Jim, to whirl and swirl in their frail barques of life, on the restless waves of time, until they mysteriously cross the bar out into the unknown ocean of Eternity, from whence, if they return to guide our thoughts, we do not comprehend it.

PORTRAITS OF CHILDREN, 1870, EXCEPT MARIETTE. LEFT TO RIGHT. ELIZA, ADELIA, COLLINS, CAROLINE, MERRICK, GORDON, JANETTE.]

OUR WABBAQUASSETT MOUNTAIN HOME

John, my Grandfather Richardson, son of Uriah, built his home on the east side of the Devil's Hopyard, while Abner, one of John Dimock's ten sons, built his home on the west side.

John Richardson raised a family of boys, John, Warren, Collins, Marvin, Orson, and one girl, Fanny, while Abner Dimock raised a family of girls, Lovey, Manerva, Luna, Hannah, Arminia, Abigail, and one boy, Abner.

Warren Richardson crossed the Hopyard, wooed and won Luna Dimock, and they built their nest near Wabbaquassett Lake, where the flowers bloom in early spring, wild birds awake the summer morn and the babbling brook sings through the winding vale below, all day long.

Here they raised a group of laughing, frolicing, romping backwoods mischief and their names were:

Mariette A.--Married Frank Slater.
Eliza L.--Married Lucius Kibbes.
Adelia A.--Married Epaphro Dimock.
Caroline C.--Married Lucius Aborn.
Collins W.--Married Martha Aborn.
Merrick A.--Married Mary Hoyt.
Gordon M.--Married Amanda Pitt.
Janette A.--Married George Newell.

Wabbaquassett retained its virgin bloom of nature long after the surrounding country had been occupied by white invaders.

Stafford, Ellington, Somers and Tolland Streets had become self-centered, while the sleeping beauty, Wabbaquassett, was held by the Nipmunks as a sort of rendezvous for the Pequods, Mohegans. Mohawks, Narragansetts and several other tribes who were roaming over New England, stealing fowls, cattle and even children, for the red man felt that the brooks, lakes and forests, together with all they contained, virtually belonged to him.

Wabbaquassett of old, with its broad sandy shore, dreaming in the protecting arms of a dense forest of oak, pine, chestnut and maple giants was truly the gem of New England.

When the Richardsons, Dimocks, Newells and Aborns began their encroachment into these forests the Indians were loath to leave their pow-wow home in the oak grove, on the south shore of the lake, for the American Indian dreaded the law more than the tomahawk, but the following instance routed them.

A buck named Wappa, who lived on the shore, south of the old West Rock, killed his squaw, Dianah, for which he was tried at Tolland Street and hanged. On the gallows he saw Captain Abner Dimock, my mother's father, among the spectators and called for him to come on the gallows and pray for him.

My father and mother were in the crowd and when the sheriff asked the Indian if he was ready, mother fainted. The execution took place August 22, 1816, after which the Indians left Wabbaquassett and never returned.

In those days, Wabbaquassett, since called Square Pond, and now Crystal Lake, was the nucleus of four prominent families, Dimocks, Richardsons, Newells and Aborns.

The group consisted of the following families:

Abner Dimock Anson Newell
Orwell Dimock Armherst Newell
Ephraim Dimock Charles Newell
Lorain Dimock Ezekiel Newell
Sexton Dimock Ephraim Newell

Warren Richardson Lucius Aborn
Orson Richardson Parkel Aborn
Marvin Richardson Morton Aborn
John Richardson Gilbert Aborn
Royal Richardson Jedediah Aborn

Of these twenty families in 1850 I now find, at the Lake, only one descendant, A. M. Richardson, son of my brother, Collins, who with his interesting wife, Bessie, actually holds the fort alone.

WOODCHUCK IN THE WALL

Recently when my son Arthur and myself with our families were touring with automobile over the Alleghanies, up the sea-shore, and over the Green Mountains, we spent several days at the Lake, with many old-timers who came to meet us, when they coaxed me to tell the woodchuck story, which ran as follows: Bow-wow-wow is heard on the hillside across the little meadow from our old farm house. We boys, Gordon and I, drop our hoes and run, for we knew by the sound that old Skip had a woodchuck in the wall and wanted us to come and get him out.

"Hold on, Gordon," said I, "now is the time for us to give our Towser a chance."

Towser was a young bull terrier, we boys had bought of Holmes, who had recommended him to be able to catch the largest ox by the nose and hold him, or catch a hog by the ear and hold the hog, or off would come the ear, and as for woodchucks, he would pick them up as a hen would pick up kernels of corn.

Our Towser, as we boys called him, was at once unchained and we were off to the pasture on the hillside, where in days gone by, old Skip had captured so many woodchucks.

As we ran along, the conversation ran thus:

"Hey-hey, Towser," said I, "Mr. Woodchuck don't know that you're coming; he thinks it is old Skip, but when he sees you, he will know that he's got to die."

"Oh, dear," said Gordon, "when he gets those great white teeth on to him, won't the blood fly? I hope he won't swallow him whole, for we want his hide to make shoe strings."

"You bet," said I. Then patting the dog on the head, I continued: "Won't old Skip be ashamed when he sees you, Towser?"

Skip was a little brindle cur who had watched the whole farm night and day for ten years. He would never worry the cat or chase the chickens, but would speak, roll over, sit up, or play he was dead, to please us boys. He could hustle the cattle out of the corn, keep the pigs from the door and had kept all the rabbits and woodchucks away from the garden. In fact, he was a friend to everyone except Towser. Of course, he was jealous of him.

When we boys arrived on the scene, we found old Skip bounding over the wall back and forth, barking, squealing, pawing and biting off roots in his great excitement, while the woodchuck was chattering, whistling and snapping his teeth in great shape.

"Oh, look here, Gordon," said I, as I peeped into the wall, "He is as big as two tomcats; it must be the one father said had been nibbling all our green pumpkins."

"Yes, yes," says Gordon, "Pa said Skip has been trying to get between him and his hole all summer, and now our Towser has got him at last. Say, Merrick, don't you think we had better let Skip kill him. I'm afraid that Towser will tear him all to flitters and we won't have his hide left."

Now there was a terrible yelping and we discovered that the big bulldog was shaking little Skip unmercifully. We clubbed him off, and tried to drive Skip home, as, of course, we would not need him any more, but he would not go, so we tied him to a white birch tree with Towser's chain and continued tearing down the wall.

Gordon's countenance took on a sort of a funeral aspect as he said, "Now, Mr. Woodchuck, you have got to die."

"Yes," said I, as I jammed my dirty thumb into my mouth to keep from weeping, "My heart aches for him, but it has got to be done."

Towser was anxious to get at the woodchuck. Everytime we boys rolled off a stone, he would jam his head into the wall, so anxious was he to get at his prey, while poor little Skip, who should have had the honor, was up under the white birch tree trying to break the chain and come down and help, not even minding his bleeding ear, where Towser had bit him.

At last the right stone was removed and the unfortunate old woodchuck could do no better than face grim death, and he did it bravely. Standing on his little hind legs, with his front paws extended, he chattered defiance, while snapping his white teeth and awaiting the onslaught.

Towser plunged into the wall and out came the woodchuck, but to our surprise, Towser had not got the woodchuck, but the woodchuck had Towser right by the nose.

Over and over they rolled as the blood squirted from the dog's nose, each sommersault working them farther and farther down the swale in the direction of the woodchuck's hole. Towser roared, bellowed and squealed, but the woodchuck would not let go his lucky hold.

We boys saw the danger of escape and I, seizing a club, started on to help Towser, while Gordon ran to unchain Skip, as it began to look now as if old Skip's help might be necessary after all.

The clever old woodchuck, who was watching to take advantage of the first favorable opportunity, when he saw Skip coming, let go his grip and started for his hole. Towser, who was also figuring for his own personal safety, when released, curled his tail between his legs and started for home, crying "ki-yi-yi-yi."

Skip bounded forward just in time to seize his woodchuckship by the tail, just as he was entering the hole. Now a desperate struggle ensued, the woodchuck trying to pull the dog into the hole and the dog trying to pull the woodchuck out.

Skip was losing ground, when, seizing him by the hind legs, I planted my bare feet in the gravel and pulled with all my might. The woodchuck chattered and squealed, the dog shook and growled, as I pulled them out, when the tail broke, he darted into the hole, and the game was lost.

Then we boys took Skip up to the spring and washed his poor bleeding ear and promised him right then and there that we would take Towser back to Mr. Holmes and that he, Skip, might run the farm as long as he lived.

Lemuel Warner followed up the woodchuck story by acting out, in his genial manner, the stuttering man trying to testify in prayer-meeting. Orino Richardson and Perlin Richardson came in with their extremely ridiculous tales, followed by hymns and old plantation songs.

In all this we seemed to forget ourselves, with the fifty years of ups and down on Life's tempestuous waves, and in friendly glee we were back again in that fair morning, dreamily anticipating Life's strange journey, so unlike the reality fond memory now reveals.

Together we all visited the cemeteries on the hill at the north, where the rippling waves of old Wabbaquassett click along the shore so near the feet of those whose voices we do not hear, but whose sweet smiles seem to reflect back to us their beauty as our earthly vision grows dim.

Soon the stranger will pause to read and say: "Who were all these Richardsons, Newells, Aborns and Dimocks?" In the silence reason seems to whisper: They came forth in the dawn; enjoyed a brief day; and returned to the silence of an endless Eternity.

"Now dear to my heart are the scenes of my childhood,
When fond recollections present them to view;
The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wildwood,
And every loved spot which my infancy knew.
The wide-spreading Pond, and the Mill that stood by it,
The Bridge and the Rock where the cataract fell;
The Cot of my Father, the dairy-house nigh it,
And e'en the rude Bucket which hung in the Well."

SUNDAY MORNING

Father and mother did not marry until their home had been established, but they lost no time when they got started, for, thirteen years gave them a brood of eight children.

Father was a shrewd dealer in land and cattle, through which he gained enough to purchase about 350 acres of wild land and built a house and barn, while mother, as was customary for New England women, braided palm leaf hats for the slaves of the Southern planters, until she had saved enough to furnish the house. Then they got married.

Our living room was the big kitchen, where we warmed ourselves by the old-fashioned fireplace while the pots and kettles hung on the crane before us. Beside it was a brick oven, where mother baked the good things, especially on Thanksgiving Day, when we did not fill up with old common potatoes.

The parlor, which we were seldom allowed to enter, was to a little boy dazzling. Looking-glass, with gilded frame, paper of many colors, and high-shining brass andirons in the fireplace.

Sunday morning we all gathered there for family worship and one morning father gave us a lesson on "Inspiration," which has nerved me up to fight infidelity all my days.

He had quite a collection of books and one day he brought home a book on geology, from which, after studying it evenings, he declared that the creation of the world in science and the Bible exactly agreed.

That lesson and the surroundings on that sunny Sabath morning is one of the old landmarks in my memory to which I often return in moments of reflection.

"Now children," he began, "no one knows who wrote the first chapter of Genesis, which appears to have no connection with the other chapters. It may have been written by Moses, his sister, Miriam, or some other person along about that time, say four or five thousand years ago. The strange thing about it is that, according to their new geology, the writer revealed the secrets of that which transpired millions of years ago.

"People had supposed, until about one hundred years ago, that the first chapter of Genesis was a fable, or fairy tale, but now geology proves it to have been a true history of what the writer knew nothing about.

"It must have been that an angel who had lived all through the time the world was being made, sat right beside or in some way influenced the author to write the wonderful story of the creation. This is what I call real inspiration, don't you?

"Some folks think, and I would not wonder if it might be true, that fiction is a faint glimmer of inspiration, and that composers are often led along by the spirit of some person who once lived in this world. Let this be as it may, I wish one of you children might become a novelist, but you never will, you will be farmers just like all us New England mountaineers.

"Learned men have discovered, by digging in the rocky surface of the earth, that under certain conditions, oysters or other animals, will turn to stone. They call them fossils. Scientists have also learned that each kind, wherever found, represents the age in which the animal lived. So, the fossil, you see, is an animal which died and turned to stone, perhaps millions of years ago.

"By investigation they find that one kind of rock, called azoic, contains no fossils, so they know there was a day or age when there was no life in this world, and this is the first day in the Bible, which I have been reading to you.

FIRST DAY

"They find by the conglomerate condition of the azoic rock that after the gaseous confusion of the elements had subsided, it sort of settled into one boiling mass of mixed elements. Then the heavier elements, gold, mercury, lead and the like, condensed and formed a center of attraction, while the more rare elements, such as oxygen, hydrogen and nitrogen, formed a floating band around it, then, as the Bible states, darkness must have been upon the face of the deep until the lighter elements rarefied, when the sun would feebly penetrate in the daytime and the rotation of the world would make it correspond to the first day and night of the Bible.

SECOND DAY

"This day, in which the firmament was formed, is wonderful in that it was preparation for the day when the land should appear, as it would need rain to make the vegetation grow. Man's highest imagination cannot grasp or conceive the wonders of this strange scheme. It really meant condensing part of the water to become liquid, or seas, and raising part to become clouds, or rain, as we now find them. So again the two accounts agree as to the second day.

THIRD DAY

"Seas and land appear. This Bible account exactly agrees with the carboniferous and crustacean births which followed on through the ages, when vegetation grew in such abundance that its decay, when submerged by eruptions, laid the foundations for our coal and oil fields.

FOURTH DAY

"While the former days occupied millions of years each, this day was not a duration of time, not even one moment. It was simply an illustration of the then present conditions. Had we been on earth at that time we would have seen all the heavenly bodies and their movements just as this Bible account describes, and as we see them now.

FIFTH DAY

"As the fourth Bible day did not include time to produce geological changes, the two ages divonian, or fish, and amphibious, or reptilian, ages exactly fit in to make up the fifth day.

"Could we have visited the earth when it first became solid with the sea floating over it, we would have seen at the bottom of the sea animals of the oyster family beginning to live in their shells, which later they took up and carried around on their backs, and now we call them turtles. We know they were there, for they are still sleeping in their little stone coffins on mountain tops, which God raised up when He made dry land. God called them all moving creatures, which have life, which, of course, included fish and frogs.

"Now hark, I will read the twentieth verse over again. There now, you see God did not make the birds up in the mountains and tell them to fly. He made them in the water, I guess He fixed legs where the fins were, so they could hop and crawl, and then fixed wings where the legs were, so they could fly, and this exactly corresponds to the reptilian age in geology. That transformation must have made even God stop and think, for it took millions of years. Many kinds came out of the water, so you see we have many kinds of birds on the land. Some of them were awfully large. One, geologists call the Pterodactyl, had a mouth and teeth like a horse, tail like a fish or snake, and wings which he could spread more than twenty-five feet. I imagine it flew from shore to shore catching turtles for breakfast, who were out on the sand laying eggs as big as our old peck measure.

SIXTH DAY

"God made cattle and all other big walking things, and all the creeping things.

"The family of largest animals are called Dinosaur. Their fossil bones are found in the Rocky Mountains. They must have lived there on the plains before the upheavel of the mountains. Some of them were about one hundred feet long and twenty-five feet high. In New Jersey, geologists have dug up the fossil bones of an animal they call the Iguanodon, a sort of frog with a snake tail; when he sat up his head was about thirty feet high. Had he lived on men he would have eaten three for dinner. It seems that when those animals raised up on all four, like elephants, they lost their fish-like tails, except to use as fly whiskers. Those animals lived all through what is called the mammalian age in geology, or the sixth day in the Bible.

"Now, children, this twenty-fifth verse ends up the creation of the world and all its animals. Then God called a halt and said, 'Let us make something special.' What was it?" "Man, man," we said. "What was man to be like?" "Just like God himself."

"Is God an animal?"

"No."

"What is He?"

"Nobody knows."

"Think again, what did I read last Sunday about Christ at Jacob's well?"

"Oh, yes, God is a spirit."

"Then is man a spirit or an animal?"

"Both," I said.

"How so, Merrick?"

"Why, God made she-male man and he-male man of dirt, so they could have a lot of children. Then the image man, we cannot see, who was to do the thinking, was to have dominion, that means it was to boss themselves and everything else around. That is the man that goes to Heaven when he dies."

"How is that, Luna, for a boy of eight years old?" he said to mother.

"You are all right, Merrick," she said, drawing me to her for a kiss. "Now, you must try to govern yourself and not be so stubborn, even if you do think you are in the right. Let wisdom instead of spunk be your guide, and then the angels will be with you in your dreams and our pretty school-ma'am will not have to switch you so often."

"Pretty school-ma'am, eh! Why, she walks just exactly like a cow."

HUSKING BEE

One of my earliest recollections is of hearing mother telling a neighbor housewife about the prayer meeting up at Uncle Sam's. Mother was a great tease, and to see her act out Aunt Lovey in this particular case was enough to make the bushes laugh.

In order to picture the scene at the prayer meeting, I will give one of mother's escapades by the way of contrast between Lovey, Uncle Sam's wife, and her wide-awake sisters, of which mother was accused of being the ring leader in many daring acts. Therefore, I will begin with the story of the husking bee at Grandfather Dimock's home, when mother was a girl.

At a husking in those days all in the neighborhood would gather, not so much, I imagine, to husk corn as for the frolic, and the good things they had to eat.

The custom was to set the shocks of corn around a large circle and all husk from the outside. Then if a lady found a red ear she was privileged, if she dare, to throw it across a space at a man whom, if she hit, was privileged to chase her around the outer ring, for which if he caught her while on the circuit he could kiss her.

Well, mother found a red ear and she threw it at the minister, hitting him, whack! side of the head. His name was Frink, a real minister of the Gospel, yet he could not allow such an opportunity to escape, so he dropped his dignity and started.

The arranged plan was that all should get out of the way to give the lady a chance to run, while the real plan was for all to stumble into the way and see the fun.

Mother, finding it impossible to break through, turned quickly and lit out for the orchard. This bold but admirable act caused 200 huskers to raise on tip-toe, for it was a pretty scene in the moonlight to see the daring maid, clad in a pretty white frock, dodging among the dark shadows of the apple trees, evading the terrific lunges of her eager pursuer, whose physiognomy took on a strange earnestness which betokened his consideration that the prize was worth striving for.

When the girl, by artful dodging, escaped and struck out for home, old Jasiah Bradley, forgetting his 80 years, roared out, "Stand back! Stand back! Give the girl a chance," at which two rows quickly formed, giving the girl, whose knee action betokened great speed, a clear way until as she crossed the line, Frink extended his hand to grab, but did not catch her.

This illustration represents the innocent dare of the family to which mother belonged, except the oldest Lovey, who was very sedate, and in this case said that Luna ought to be spanked and put to bed. Lovey wore her skirts very long and would walk way around to pass through the gate, while her astonishing sisters would jump or climb over the fence and whistle just like boys.

PRAYER MEETING AT UNCLE SAM'S

Lovey married Samuel Harwood. They built their home on Chestnut Hill, where they raised a fine family. Monroe was their youngest son, who figured very seriously in the catastrophy I am about to relate.

Uncle Sam and Aunt Lovey were both strictly religious, but did not agree as to the mode of procedure. She threw her whole religious weight on the sixth verse of the sixth chapter of Matthew, while he was a roaring Methodist. Together they attended church on Sunday, but Lovey never attended the weekly home prayer meetings, neither would she allow the church to have one at her home, and so they worshiped for years until Sam's grey locks and the children's clamor induced her to try it just once. Such an unusual event caused the whole church to turn out in mass for a real good spiritual uplifting.

Their house, which my wife and I rode by last time we were in Connecticut, is of the old dominion style. Kitchen, dining and living rooms all in one, and very commodious. Under the stairs to the second story were the stairs to the deep, dark cellar below, of which there was no broad stair at the top, and the cellar door opened into the cellar.

On that memorable evening the room was crammed to suffocation when the meeting opened with the hymn, "On Jordan's Stormy Banks I Stand." Then Abner Dimock, who always prayed so loud as to be heard a mile, and several others, led in prayer, which was followed by inspiring testimonials, to all of which Uncle Sam chimed in Amen, amid the shouts of halleluiah, while Aunt Lovey sat in dreamy silence, with her nose turned just a trifle askance.

The pinnacle was reached when Anise Ladd arose to testify, for every one knew Anise poured forth her feelings without reserve.

"I," she began, "was born peevish and as my neighbors can here testify, was, to say the least, irritable through my maiden and middlehood earthly career, but last winter at our revival meetings, I experienced a genuine halleluiah wave of godliness, and now I coo like a turtle dove and fret or scold no more."

To Uncle Sam, who was tipping back in his chair, this wonderful halleluiah testimony so coincided with his desires toward Lovey, that he shouted, "Glory to God," as in the expansion of his joy he lost his balance, his chair striking the cellar door, which flew open, causing him, still in the chair, to start, head downwards, on his perilous journey into the dismal region below. He did not swear, neither did he shout halleluiah, but fresh grunts followed in rapid succession as he pounded from stair to stair.

During the excitement all trying with lighted tallow candles to ascertain if he was still alive, his son, Monroe, continued roaring and laughing until some one said, "Why, Monroe, it might have killed your father," to which he replied between spasms, "I should have laughed just the same, if I had known it had killed him."

During the excitement Aunt Lovey pressed her hand to her heart, but did not speak until urged by the pastor, when she said: "Well, really, you were all talking so much about going to heaven that when I witnessed Samuel's sudden departure, I wondered, yes, I really wondered, whether my halleluiah husband had started for heaven or for the other place."

Uncle Sam survived and lived on the old place until he was 94 years old, but that was the first and last prayer meeting up to Uncle Sam's.

GOLDEN DAYS