The White Goat and his Country 



Another accurate observer had seen three 

 hundred on a hill just above Early Winter as 

 he was passing by. The cabined dwellers on 

 the Methow tied their horses to the fence and 

 talked to me — so I had come from the East 

 after Qroats, had I? — and in the store of the 

 Man at the Forks I became something of a 

 curiosity. Day by day I sat on the kegs of 

 nails, or lay along the counter devoted to his 

 dry-goods, and heard what passed. Citi- 

 zens and denizens — for the Siwash with his 

 squaws and horses was having his autumn 

 hunt in the valley — knocked at the door to 

 get their mail, or buy tobacco, or sell horns 

 and fur, or stare for an hour and depart with a 

 grunt; and the grave Man at the Forks stood 

 behind one counter while I lay on the other, 

 acquiring a miscellaneous knowledge. One 

 old medical gentleman had slain all wild ani- 

 mals without weapons, and had been the 

 personal friend of so many distinguished his- 

 torical characters that we computed he was 

 nineteen about the time of Bunker Hill. They 

 were hospitable with their information, and I 

 followed my rule of believing everything that 

 I hear. And they were also hospitable with 

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