JOTHAM STORIES 203 



It is pleasant then to sit sheltered from the 

 rain just within the wide barn doors, to hear the 

 twittering of the swallows as they comfort their 

 young on the beams, and to listen to the wind 

 and to Jotham. The old-time New England 

 farm hand — he who wore the smock frock as 

 did his master while they both worked about the 

 barn and then, the chores done, stood for half an 

 hour in the dusk, either side of the barn door 

 like caryatids, drinking in the pleasures of rest in 

 the twilight — has passed, but Jotham remains. 

 He has told the tales of his grandfather's ex- 

 ploits as a hunter so many times that he not only 

 believes them himself but is equally sure that 

 everyone else believes them. 



Yet Jotham is in the main taciturn. It is only 

 when the northeaster soughs in the eaves and 

 brings him leisure that he drops into narrative. 

 His tales are grotesque fancies, simple yarns 

 withal, such as fluttered from the homely life of 

 pasture and woodland in early days of enforced 

 idleness to light on the threshing floor of some 

 great old barn, or to warm themselves at the big 

 kitchen fireplace on winter nights when the wind 

 guffawed down the throat of the big chimney and 



