14 
American Agriculturist, January 5, 1921 
The Broad Highway J , 
“ T)E you ’rn a-goin’, Prue?” inquired the Ancient mumblingly, for his pipe was in full blast. 
jLJ “ Yes, gran’fer.” 
“Then tell Simon as I ’ll be along in ’arf an hour or so, will ’ee, lass?’’ 
“Yes, gran’fer!” Always with her back to us. 
“Then kiss ye old grandfeyther as means for to see ’ee well bestowed, an’ wed, one o’ these 
fine days!” Prudence stooped and pressed her fresh, red lips to his wrinkled old cheek and, 
catching up her basket, turned to the door. Black George half rose from his seat, and stretched 
out his hand towards her burden, then sat down again as, with a hasty “Good-night,” she 
vanished. 
“She ’ll make some man a fine wife, some day!” exclaimed the Ancient, blowing out a cloud 
of smoke. 
“You speak my very thought. Ancient,” said I; “she will indeed; what do you think, George?” 
But George’s answer was to choke suddenly, and, thereafter, to fall a-coughing. 
“Smoke go t’ wrong way, Jarge?” inquired the Ancient. 
“Ay,” nodded George. 
“So ’andsome as a picter she be!” said the 
Ancient. 
“She is fairer than any picture,” said 
I impulsively, “and what is better still, her 
nature is as sweet and beautiful as her face! ” 
“’Ow do ’ee know that?” said George, 
turning sharply upon me. 
“My eyes and ears tell me so, as yours 
surely must have done long ago,” I answered. 
“’T is a fine thing to be young,” said the 
Ancient, after a somewhat lengthy pause, and 
with a wave of his long pipe-stem, “a very fine 
thing!” 
AS for George, he went on smoking. 
1 V “When you are young,” pursued the 
Ancient, “you eats well, an’ enjys it, you 
sleeps well an’ enjys it; your legs is strong, 
your arms is strong, an’ you bean’t afeard o’ 
nothin’ nor nobody. An’ when you ’m old, 
the way gets very ’ard, an’ toilsome, an’ 
lonely.” 
“But there is always memory,” said I. 
“You ’m right theer, Peter, so theer be— 
so theer be—why, I be a old, old, man, wi’ 
more years than ’airs on my ’ead, an’ yet it 
seems but yesterday as I were a-holdin’ on tu 
my mother’s skirt, an’ wonderin’ ’ow the moon 
got light. Life be very short, Peter, an’ while 
we ’ave it’t is well to get all the ’appiness out 
of it we can.” » 
“The wisest men of all ages preached the 
same,” said I, “only they all disagreed as to 
how happiness was to be gained.” 
“More fules they!” said the Ancient. 
“Why, then, do you know how true happi¬ 
ness may be found?” 
“By marriage, Peter, an’ ’ard work!—an’ 
they alius goes together.” 
“Marriage!” said I. “There I don’t agree 
with you.” 
“That,” retorted the Ancient, stabbing 
at me with his pipe-stem, “that’s because 
you never was married, Peter.” 
“Marriage!” said I; “marriage brings care, 
and great responsibility, and trouble for one’s 
self means trouble for others.” 
“What o’ that?” exclaimed the Ancient. 
“’T is care and ’sponsibility as mak’ the man, 
an’ if you marry a good wife she ’ll share the 
burden wi’ ye, an’ ye ’ll find what seemed your 
troubles is a blessin’ arter all. When sorrer 
comes, ’t is a sweet thing to ’ave a woman to 
comfort ye in the dark hour. Then, when ye 
be old, like me, ’t is a fine thing to ’ave a son 
o’ your own—like Simon—an’ a granddarter— 
like my Prue.” 
“’OUT,” said I, “to every happy marriage 
±J there are scores of miserable ones.” 
“’Cause why, Peter? ’Cause people is in 
too much o’ a hurry to marry, as a rule. If a 
man marries a lass arter knowin’ ’er a week— 
’ow is ’e goin’ to know if she ’ll suit ’im all ’is 
days? Nohow, Peter, it are n’t nat’ral—- 
woman tak’s a lot o’ knowin’.” 
“And your own marriage was a truly happy 
one, Ancient?” 
“Ah! that it were, Peter, ’appy as ever was— 
but then, ye see, there was a Providence in 
it.” So saying, the Ancient rose, sighing, and 
knocked the ashes from his pipe. 
“Talkin' 'bout Prue,” said he, taking up his 
hat and removing his snuff-box therefrom ere 
he set it upon his head. 
“Well?” The word seemed shot out of 
George involuntarily. 
“Talkin’ 'bout Prue,” said the Ancient 
again, glancing at each of us in turn, “theer 
was some folks as used to think she were sweet 
on Jarge theer, but I, bein’ ’er lawful gran'- 
feyther knowed different—did n’t I, Jarge? ” 
“Ay,” nodded the smith. 
“Many’s the time I’ve said to you a-sittin’ 
in this very corner, ‘Jarge,’ I ’ve said, ‘mark 
my words, Jarge—if ever my Prue does marry 
some ’un—which she will—that there some ’un 
won’t be you.’ Them be my very words, 
bean’t they, Jarge?” 
“ Your very words, Gaffer,” nodded George. 
“Well then,” continued the old man, “’ere’s 
what I was a-eomin' to—Prue ’s been an’ fell 
in love wi’ some 'un at last.” 
Black George’s pipe shivered to fragments 
on the floor, and as he leaned forward I saw 
that his great hands were tightly clenched. 
“Gaffer,” said he, in a strangled voice, “be 
ye sure. Gaffer—quite sure? ” 
“Ay—sartin sure. Twice this week, an’ 
once the week afore she forgot to put any salt 
in the soup—an’ that speaks wollums, Jarge, 
wollums!” Here, having replaced his snuff¬ 
box, the Ancient put on his hat, nodded, and 
hobbled away. As for Black George, he sat 
there long after the tapping of the Ancient’s 
stick had died away, nor did he heed when I 
spoke, wherefore I laid my hand upon his 
shoulder. 
“Come, George,” said I, “another hour, 
and the screen will be finished.” He started, 
and drawing from my hand, looked up at me 
very strangely. 
“No, Peter,” he mumbled, “I are n’t a-goin’ 
to work no more to-night,” and as he spoke he 
rose to his feet. 
“What—are you going?” said I, as he 
crossed to the door. 
“Ay, I ’m a-goin’.” Now, as he went 
towards his cottage, I saw him reel, and stagger, 
like a drunken man. 
CHAPTER XXXII 
BLACK GEORGE REFUSES TO GO TO THE FAIR 
Afe the days grew into weeks, and the weeks 
into months, I became reasonably expert 
at my trade, so that I could shoe a horse with 
any smith in the country. 
But, more than this, the people with whom 
I associated day by day—honest, loyal, and 
simple-hearted as they were, contented with 
their lot, and receiving all things so unques- 
tioningly and thankfully, filled my life. 
What book is there to compare with the 
great Book of Life—whose pages are forever 
a-turning, wherein are marvels and wonders 
undreamed; things to weep over, and some 
few to laugh at, if one but has eyes in one’s 
head to see withal? 
To see the proud poise of sweet Prue’s 
averted head, and the tender look in her eyes 
when George is near, and the surge of the 
mighty chest and the tremble of the strong 
man’s hand at the sound of her light footfall, 
is more enthralling than any written romance, 
old or new. 
I N regard to these latter, I began, at this 
time, to contrive schemes and to plot plots 
for bringing them together, for, being happy, I 
would fain see them happy also. 
“George,” said I, one Saturday morning, as 
I washed my face and hands, “are you going 
to the Fair this afternoon?” 
“No, Peter, I are n’t.” 
“But Prudence is going,” said I, drying 
myself vigorously upon the towel. 
“And supposin’,” said George, coming up 
very red in the face, and with the water 
streaming from his sodden curls, “supposin’ 
she is goin’ to the Fair, what ’s that to me? 
I don’t care wheer she comes, no, nor wheer she 
goes, neither!” and he shook the water from 
him as a dog might. 
“Are you quite sure, George?” 
“Ah! sartin sure. I’ve been sure of it now 
ever since she called me—” 
“Pooh, nonsense, man! she did n’t mean it— 
women—especially young ones—often say 
things they do not mean.” 
“Ay, but she did,” said George, frowning 
and nodding his head; “but it ain’t that, 
Peter. It ’s the knowin’ as she spoke truth 
when she called me ‘coward,’ that ’s wheer 
it is, Peter.” 
“Nevertheless, I ’m sure she never meant 
it, George.” 
“Then let ’er come and tell me so." 
“I don’t think she 'll do that,” said I. 
“No more do I, Peter.” Saying which, he 
fell to work with the towel. 
“George,” said I after a silence. “Has it 
ever struck you that Prudence is an uncom¬ 
monly handsome girl?” 
“To be sure, Peter—I were blind else.” 
“And that other men may see this too?” 
“Well, Peter?” 
“And some one—even tell her so?” His 
answer was a long time coming. 
“Well, Peter?” 
“And—ask her to marry him, George?” 
This time he was silent so long that I had tied 
my neckerchief and drawn on my coat ere he 
spoke, very heavily and slowly, and without 
looking at me. 
“Why, then, Peter, let. ’im. I ’ve told ’ee 
afore, she bean’t nothin’ to me no more, 
nor I to she. And now, let’s talk o’ sum- 
mat else.” 
“ T* TELLINGLY. There ’s to be boxing, 
V V and single-stick, and wrestling at the 
Fair, I understand.” 
“Well, Peter?” 
“They were talking about it at ‘The Bull’ 
last night—” 
“‘The Bull’—to be sure—you was at ‘The 
Bull’ last night—well?” 
“They were saying that you were a mighty 
wrestler, George.’ 
“Ay, I can wrestle a bit, Peter,” he replied, 
speaking in the same heavy, listless manner; 
“what then?” 
“Why, then, George, get into your coat, 
and let’s be off.” 
Black George shook his head. 
“No, Peter.” 
“And why not?” 
“ Because I are n’t got the mind to—because 
I are n’t never goin’ to wrastle no more, Peter 
—so theer’s an end on’t.” Yet, in the door¬ 
way I paused and looked back. 
“Won’t you come—for friendship’s sake?” 
Black George picked up his coat, looked at 
it, and put it down again. 
“No, Peter!” 
CHAPTER XXXIII 
WHICH DESCRIBES SUNDRY HAPPENINGS 
AT THE FAIR 
“ T SAY, young cove, where are you a-push- 
1 ing of? ” 
The speaker was a very tall individual whose 
sharp-pointed elbow had obtruded itself into 
my ribs. He was thin and bony, with a long, 
drooping nose set very much to one side, and 
was possessed of a remarkable pair of eyes—• 
that is to say, one eyelid hung continually 
lower than the other, thus lending to his other¬ 
wise sinister face an air of droll and unexpected 
waggery that was quite startling. 
All about us were jostling throngs of men 
and women, while above the merry hubbub 
rose the blare of trumpets, the braying of 
horns, and the crash, and rattle of drums—in 
a word, I was in the middle of an English 
Country Fair. 
“Now then, young cove,” repeated the 
man, “where are you a-pushing of? Don’t 
do it again, or mind your eye!” And, saying 
this, he glared balefully at me and into my ribs 
came his elbow again. 
“Suppose you take your elbow out of my 
waistcoat,” said I. 
“‘Elber,’” repeated the man, “what d’ ye 
mean by ‘elber’?” 
“This,” said I, catching his arm in no very 
gentle grip. 
“Leggo my arm!” 
“Then keep your elbow to yourself.” 
This altercation had taken place in the 
crowd, from which we now slowly won free, 
until we presently found ourselves in a veritable 
jungle of carts and wagons, where we stopped, 
facing each other. 
“I ’m inclined to think, young cove, as 
you’d be short-tempered if you been shied at 
from your youth up,” said the man. 
“What do you mean by ‘shied at’?” 
“I’m a professional Sambo.” 
“A what?” 
“Well—a ‘nigger-head’ then—blacks my 
face—sticks my ’ead through a ’ole, three 
shies a penny—them as ’its me gets a cigar.” 
“But,” said I, “does n’t it hurt you?” 
“Oh! you gets used to it—though, to be 
sure, they don’t ’it me very often.” 
“But surely a wooden image would serve 
your turn just as well.” 
“A wooden image!” exclaimed the man 
disgustedly. “Who wants to throw at a 
wooden image? When a man throws at any¬ 
thing ’e likes to ’it it—that’s ’uman—and 
when ’e ’its it ’e likes to see it flinch—that’s 
’uman too.” 
N OW, as he ended, I stooped, very suddenly, 
and caught hold of his wrist—and I saw 
that he held my purse in his hand. It was a 
large hand with bony knuckles, and very long 
fingers, upon one of which was a battered ring. 
He attempted, at first, to free himself, but. 
HI: 
^finding this useless, stood glowering at m 
with one eye and leering with the other. 
“My purse!” said I. 
“Then p’r’aps you’d better take it, you: 
cove, and very welcome, I’m sure.” 
I put away my recovered property, anl 
straightway shifted my grip to the fellow’! 
collar. 
“Now,” said I, “come on.” 
“Why, what are you a-doing of?” 
“What does one generally do with a picM 
pocket?” 
But I had hardly uttered the words wheJ 
with a sudden cunning twist, he broke nr 
hold, and, my foot catching in a guy-rope, 
tripped, and fell heavily and ere I could rise !i 
had made good his escape. I got to my feet 
somewhat shaken by the fall, yet congratulate 
myself on the recovery of my purse, and 
threading my way among the tents, was sooi 
back among the crowd. Here were eircusc 
and shows of all kinds, where one might beholi 
divers strange beasts, the usual Fat Worn® ~ 
and Skeleton Men; and before the shows wet 
fellows variously attired, but each beinj 
purplish of visage, and each possessing th 
lungs of a Stentor—more especially one, 
round-bellied, bottle-nosed fellow in a whil 
hat, who alternately roared and beat upon 
drum—a red-haired man he was, with a fiei 
eye, which eye, chancing to single me out ii 
the crowd, fixed itself upon me, thenceforti 
so that he seemed to address himself exclusivel.il 
to me, thus: 
“O my stars! [young man].” (Bang goe 
the drum.) “The wonderful wild, ’airy, am 
savage man from Bonhoola, as eats snake 
alive, and dresses hisself in sheeny serpents! 
my eye! step up! [young man].” (Bang! 
“Likewise the ass-tonishin’ and beautift 
Lady Paulinolotti, as will swallow swords 
bay’nets, also chewin’ up glass, and bottle 
I 
WHAT HAS GONE 
BEFORE 
P ETER is happily settled in a 
little English village working 
at the forge by day and sleeping by 
night in the “haunted” cottage, 
which others avoid but which he has 
made snug and comfortable. Black 
George, the smith, the Ancient, his 
son Simon the Innkeeper, and Prue, 
Simon’s daughter, are among the 
new friends Peter makes, although 
Prue and George quarreled the day 
he came. So happy is Peter that he 
has almost forgotten his uncle’s will, 
which sent him out to earn his living 
rather than marry a lady he has 
never seen and so inherit the family 
fortune. 
quicker than you can wink [young man].' I 
(Bang!) “Not to mention Catamaplasus, tin I 
Fire Fiend, what burns hisself wifh red-hot I 
irons, and likes it, drinks liquid fire with gusto I 
—playfully spittin’ forth the same, togethei I 
with flame and sulphurous smoke, and all for I 
sixpence.” (Bang!) “O my stars! step up I 
[young man] and all for a tanner.” (Bang!)! 
Presently, his eye being off me for thi 
moment, I edged my way out of the throng! 
and so came to where a man mounted upon sjj 
cart and began to harangue the crowd, some! 
thing in this wise: 
“I come before you, ladies and gentlemen, I 
not to put my hands into your pockets and 
rifle ’em of your honestly earned money; no, I 
come before you for the good of each one o! 
you, for the easing of suffering mankind—as 1 
might say—the hamelioration of stricken 
humanity. In a word, I am here to introduce! 
to you what I call my Elixir Anthropos-I 
Anthropos, ladies and gentlemen, is an old! 
and very ancient Egyptian word meaning! 
man—or woman, for that matter,” etc .' 
During this exordium I had noticed ! 
venerable man in a fine blue surtout and a 
wide-brimmed hat, who sat upon the shaft ol 
a cart and puffed slowly at a great pipe. Ami 
as he puffed, he listened intently to the quad! 
and from time to time his eyes twinkled. Th! 
cart, upon the shaft of which he sat, stood close! 
to a very small, dirty tent, towards which thi 
old gentleman’s back was turned. Now, as V 
watched, I saw the point of a knife glean! 
through the dirty canvas, which gave place! 
to a hand protruded through the slit—a veryl 
large hand with bony knuckles, and long 
fingers, upon one of which was a battered 
ring. The hand darted forward—the long 
skirts of the old gentleman’s coat hardly 
(Continued on ■page 1 7) 
