OLD HOMESTEAD 



tax. The young men plowed and scraped or drew gravel and 

 dirt, bragged and showed off the smartness of their teams and 

 themselves. The old men used hoes, on which they leaned and 

 with which they leveled down the uneven work left by the 

 scraper and wagon dumps, and exchanged reminiscences of old 

 times. Exhibitions of smartness were frequent in rapid scraping, 

 shoveling and drawing dirt or gravel, but it did not last long. 



They succeeded in making much good road almost impassa- 

 ble for the next six months, and they improved a few bad 

 places. They tried to so arrange that all got their tax worked 

 out at the same time. It was a pleasant job and soon over, and 

 the pathmaster closed it himself by marking off everybody's tax 

 who had cheerfully turned out and helped make the occasion a 

 pleasant one, without being too finicky about fractions of days. 

 No one was rigorously treated in computing work done, except 

 the fellow who paid only a poll tax. He had to do a good, 

 square day's work; no plow or scraper could lie beside the road 

 and work his tax. Then, as now, bare-handed labor was the 

 victim of merciless capital. 



Squire Norman Rowe was a justice of the peace and the 

 oracle of the town of New Haven. A pathmaster called on him 

 to fill out a return to his road warrant. The squire filled out 

 the blank form, closing as follows: ''And I do most solemnly 

 swear that the days' work set opposite each man's name on the 

 within warrant has been actually and faithfully performed." 

 The pathmaster read it slowly and thoughtfully. 



''Sign it there," says the squire. 



" I do not just like it," said the pathmaster. 



"It is the usual form," said Squire Rowe. "Do you see 

 where it can be bettered?" 



"Yes, I do," was the answer. " Make it read this way: ' I 



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