FOREST AND STREAM 
151 
other on the back of the treble armed wagon- 
chair while he awaited an answer to his hail. 
‘‘What on airth is Joel a makin’ sech a 
haowdedu for?” Uncle Lisha asked, tossing the 
broom into a corner. Then he went out to the 
road, while his wife hovered near the door with 
ears alert. 
“Wal, I say for ’t, Usher, I should think thee 
an’ thy folks was a giftin’ hard o’ bearin’,” 
said Joel. 
“You didn’t stop a puppus tu tell us on ’t did 
ye, Joel? No, mother an’ me was both on us 
in the shop, and Huldy’s took Bub an’ gone a 
barryin’ an’ the men folks is down in the med- 
der finishin’ up hayin’.” 
“It’s time for folks tu be done hayin’,” said 
Joel. “We got all slicked up day Tore yisPdy 
an’ yist’dy I went down to Leakefield tu the 
fact’ry with my taglocks an’ pulled wool. They’re 
a makin’ cloth at’s very suitable for Friends; 
fullcloth for men folks an’ flannel for women 
folks, betwixt butt’nut color an’ copp’ras color 
an the sheep’s gray is plenty good enough for 
world’s people tu go tu mill or steeple hausen 
in. Thee tell Samm’l he’d better take his refus’ 
wool down there an’ let ’em work it up on 
sheers; he’ll du full better ’n tu sell tu the wool 
buyers. 
“But that ain’t what I stopped tu tell thee. I 
staid last night tu my cousin’s, John Bartlett’s. 
We aint in unity but I’m alius welcome tu his 
haouse an’ he tu mine an’ Rebekker is an 
amazin’ good cook. Jemimer ain’t no better 
thaut be its rye n enjin, an’ I don’t b’lieve in 
kerryin’ religious diiff’ances tew fur.” 
“Not when it comes tu choosin’ ’twixt free 
lodgin s u a tavern,” the old shoemaker sug¬ 
gested. 
Joel blandly ignored the interruption and con¬ 
tinued, “An’ I felt clear ’at my hosses would be 
well took care on. But that ain’t what I stopped 
tu tell thee, Usher. We sot up late last night. 
I should say it was nigh ontu ten o’clock afore 
we went tu bed, a talkin’ about Friends ’at ben 
cool toward one side an’ t’other sence the 
Separation, an’ one an’ t’other on us, havn’t 
knowed much an ’em sence. 
“But this hain’t what I stopped tu tell thee, 
Usher. The fact on ’t is they be turribly on 't 
daown there in John’s neighborhood for some- 
b’dy tu go ’raound an’ make up the boots an’ 
shoes. The man ’at they’ve alius had shoe¬ 
maker for ’em hes hed trouble in his fam’ly an’ 
give way tu drink, an’ half the time is so dis¬ 
guised in liquor ’at he can’t du no work, an’ 
t other half he do want tu. Naow I reckoned 
thee hed n t no gre’t stress o’ work on hand 
jest,naow, an’ I tol’ ’em I thought like ’nough 
thee’d go daown an’ get em shod up. Thee 
can think it over, but I can tell thee aforehand 
they’re honest, clean folks if they be Hicksites 
an’ thee’ll be paid promp’ an’ well kep’.” 
_“Why, Usher, it is just a streak o’ luck,” cried 
his wife. 
Uncle Lisha stooped laboriously and picked 
up a scattered stalk of timothy hay and pulled 
the dried head to pieces while he considered be¬ 
fore he answered. 
Wal, Joel, if them ’ere Hicksites’s any tougher 
’n your breed o’ Quakers, I guess I hed n’t better 
resk.it.” 
Joel did not notice the twinkle in his eyes, 
nor Aunt Jerusha’s admonition, “Usher PaJigs, 
you quit a foolin’,” but took his words sincerely 
and sat down in the wagon chair to explain. 
“Wal, naow, I’ll tell thee, Usher, they hev 
ben led astray by Elias Hicks an’ run arter 
strange idils an’ they du set at naught sartain 
plain teachin’ ’o Scriptur’ an’ many formerly but 
they be well meanin’ folks in the main an’ hold 
to the usages of ancient Friends in plainness of 
speech an’ dress an’ bear testimony ag’in war an’ 
h'irelin ministry an’ so fo’th an’ s'o fo’th. If 
thee shet thy ears tu false doctrine thee won’t 
run no resk.” 
“Good airth an’ seas!” Uncle Usha roared, 
“What ye s’pose I keer for the dry bones you 
an’ them is a pickin’? Sho! I han’t afraid o’ 
none o’ your doctrines. I was a thinkin’ it ’s a 
good many year sen’ I ’whipped the cat’ an’ don’t 
scarcely know ’bout startin’ in again.” 
“Why, I don’t see why thee won’t be just as 
comf’.table workin’ in other folks’ haouses as in 
thy shop.” 
“You c’n go jest as well as not,” Aunt Jerusha 
urged. 
“What be the folks up here goin’ tu do, go 
barefoot?” asked Uncle Lisha, seeking further 
objections. 
“Let ’em du ’s they kin. They’ve hed time 
enough,” his wife announced. 
“I guess thee’ll conclude tu go.” Joel said, 
gathering up his reins and tightening the habitual 
pucker of his mouth to chirrup to the horses. 
“Yes,” he repeated as Uncle Lisha shook his 
head dubiously, “I think thee’ll go; Jerushy’s 
willin’,” and he drove away satisfied that his 
errand was well accomplished. 
The old couple watched Joel’s lumbering home¬ 
ward progress as far as the turn of the road 
and then took the path to the house, Uncle 
Lisha leading the way at the deliberate pace of 
one pondering a weighty question, while his wife, 
throwing her checked apron over her head to 
shelter it from the slanted rays of the August 
sun, followed close at iiis heels. 
“I do’ know ’baout leavin’ folks here tu the 
massies o’ that ’er shoemaker tu the village an’ 
Clapham ur’ his mis’able ready made stuff,” he 
said as he reached the door and faced about. 
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