FARM ECHOES. 59 



in Philadelphia, he added : " That is my Chatsworth, 

 and that is my Ardwick Hall." He startled a member 

 of my family one day, who questioned him in regard to 

 the disappearance of sundry young chickens, by saying 

 that the "ox had eaten them." "Surely oxen don't eat 

 chickens, Uncle Bill." " Oh, no, ma'am ; not the hoxen, 

 but, you know, the ox." A further explanation revealed 

 the fact that the hawks had made off with some of my 

 poultry. 



Uncle Bill looked and felt old. He was an old man, 

 but not in years. The hardships and exposures of 

 his life, much of it spent in deep coal mines in England, 

 had been such as to make him prematurely aged. A 

 slight lameness, caused by an accident in a coal pit, 

 made him appear the more infirm. It was a source of no 

 little gratification to him to realize that he had my fullest 

 confidence. As a faithful watcher over the interests en- 

 trusted to him, he prized the title of " My old watch 

 dog." Woe to those whom he detected neglecting duty 

 on the farm ! All such offenders were reproved by him in 

 terms neither elegant nor mild. 



At one time, during a severe illness which he felt might 

 end in speedy death, he expressed a wish to communicate 

 something to me alone, and in confidence. He sum- 

 marily ordered the other occupants of his room to leave 

 it, and I stood at his bedside fully prepared for some im- 

 portant revelation perhaps a death-bed confession of 

 something as yet a secret to all but his God and himself. 



Could it be some dark deed in his past life, now weigh- 

 ing more heavily than ever upon his conscience, in view 

 of the near approach of death, and that he longed to 



