A MOUNTAIN POND 83 



one Sunday morning in a steep, disused 

 road outside of the town. I was descend- 

 ing the hill, picking my steps, and he was 

 coming up. Eleven or twelve years old he 

 might have been, cleanly dressed, fit for any 

 company, but bare-legged to the knee. I 

 wished him good-morning, and he responded 

 with the easiest grace imaginable. "You 

 are going to church ? " said I. " Yes, sir," 

 and on he went up the hill, " progressing 

 by his own brave steps ; " a boy, as Thoreau 

 says, who was "never drawn in a willow 

 wagon ; " straight as an arrow, and with 

 motions so elastic, so full of the very spirit 

 of youth and health, that I stood still and 

 gazed after him for pure delight. His face, 

 his speech, his manner, his carriage, all were 

 in keeping. If he does not make a good 

 and happy man, it will be an awful tragedy. 

 This boy was not a " cracker's " child, I 

 think. Probably he belonged to one of the 

 Northern families, that make up the village 

 for the most part, and have settled the 

 country sparsely for a few miles round about. 

 The lot of the native mountaineers is hard 

 and pinched, and although flocks of children 

 were playing happily enough about the 



