UNBUILDING A BUILDING 37 



joists and timber was a room. In one was a 

 huge clean nest of dried grass, much like that 

 which red squirrels build of cedar bark. An- 

 other space had been the larder, for it was full 

 of dry bones and feathers ; others were for other 

 uses, all showing plainly the careful housekeep- 

 ing of the family in the basement. 



I looked long and carefully, as the work of de- 

 struction went on, for the pot of gold beneath the 

 floor, or the secret hoard which fancy assigns to 

 all old houses ; but not even a stray penny turned 

 up. Yet I got several souvenirs. One of these 

 is a nail in my foot whereby I shall remember 

 my iconoclasm for some time. Another is a cu- 

 riously wrought wooden scoop, a sort of butter- 

 worker, the historian tells me, carved, seemingly, 

 with a jackknife from a pine plank. A third is a 

 quaint, lumbering, heavy, hand-wrought fire- 

 shovel which appeared somewhat curiously. Re- 

 entering a room which I had cleared of every- 

 thing movable, I found it standing against the 

 door- jamb. Fire-shovels have no legs, so I sup- 

 pose it was brought in. However, none of the 

 neighbors has confessed, and I am content to 

 think it belonged in the old house and was 

 brought back, perhaps by the Baptist deacon who 



