Idben <3rass is <5reen 



man of whom I had never heard, a man nearly 

 ninety, and what wonderful tales he told ! 



" Did you ever notice," he asked, " a streak of 

 black running from the lane-field down to the 

 brook?" 



"Of course I have/' I replied, "what of it?" 



" Well, a good deal of it to me, for while I never 

 knew it as anything but a strip of sour, wet land, 

 father did, and at the beginning of it was the little 

 house he was born in, in 1778." 



"Well, that's mighty queer," I remarked, more 

 to myself than to him. 



" He was a cripple, and moved away when only 

 a little boy. This was how it came about. The 

 war was n't over yet, you know, and whenever 

 there was a strange noise they always thought the 

 British were coming, and would run off with the 

 cow or pigs. One night, in summer, the folks 

 had gone up to your folks' house and left father 

 asleep. They reckoned on coming back very 

 soon, but got to talking, and the time rattled on, 

 as it does now, faster than you think. Father 

 woke up, and being sort of afraid, crept down to 

 the door and opened it. It was pitch dark, and 

 the lightning-bugs only made it seem darker, and 

 the owls a-hooting made it lonesomer than ever. 

 Well, father put on his clothes best he could and 

 started to go to your folks, but he took the wrong 

 path and went towards Watson's. It was more 

 woodsy then, you know, and getting real scared, 

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