152 
“The idea o’ makin’ up shoe leather ’ithaout takin’ 
no b’dy in particular’s measure for it! ’Tain’t a 
usin’ folks so well as hosses, but they’ll go an’ 
buy the durned hove-together paigs an’ split 
luther shinin’ showy things.” 
Jerusha absently regarded the flight of a locust 
that arose with a dry clapping of its husky wings 
till it alighted in the dust of the road and re¬ 
sumed its shrill celebration of the elrouthy day, 
before she replied. 
“Why, Lisher, the’ won't nob’dy ’at you’ve made 
for go nowhere else, you may depend. It ’s 
no wonder them folks daown tu the lake wants 
you tu come there, for I da’ say they han’t hed 
a comf’table boot or shoe tu the’ foot sen you 
whipped the cat there.” 
“I never done no work for them Quakers,” 
said he. 
“Wal, then, they hain’t never hed none, an’ 
it’s high time they did.” 
The judicious praise so honestly rendered that 
it was not flattery and a final word that —“ ’twas 
reely his duty tu go,” so far influenced Uncle 
Lisha’s decision that it scarcely needed the con¬ 
firmation of the family conclave that evening. 
“Why, if you want tu go, it’s jist what you 
was mournin’ for this mornin’—some shoemakin’ 
tu do,” Huldah declared, while Sam said: 
“Seems ’s ’ought it wouldn’t hurt none tu set 
still a spell. You paig away pretty stiddy, Uncle 
Lisher. It’s tew bad the’ haint no fishin’ naow— 
fishin’ an’ huntin’ comes when the work is 
piled up.” 
“No, the’ hain’t no fishin’,” the old man 
responded, “and when the’ hain’t, I c’n rest full 
better wi’ my awl an’ a waxed end in my hands 
n’ some good luther tu use ’em on, ’an I can a 
settin’ still suckin’ my thumbs. I do’ tcnow, I 
guess mebby I’d better go an’ try it.” 
“Wall, if you think so, there’s one thing ’at 
favors it. We’re a goin’ tu finish topplin' 
aout the stacks tu rrrorrer, an nex’ day I’ll load 
up you an’ your kit an’ the tag locks an’ pelts an’ 
take ye all ri’ daown tu one job.” 
On the morning of the appointed day the lum¬ 
ber wagon was at the door, loaded with Uncle 
Lisha’s leather-seated bench, a brass nailed hair 
trunk containing his tools and working clothes, 
a flat bale of wobbly pelts, some bundles of tag 
locks tied up in blankets and a fleece each of 
black wool and white for carding up for stocking 
yarn. Sam was already in the wagon and he 
cast a critical glance upon the cargo while he 
awaited the embarkation of his traveling com¬ 
panion who was now taking leave of the family. 
For all his previous extensive travel, the old man 
was a good deal upset by the prospect of the 
journey so suddenly undertaken and suffered 
much anxiety lest some necessary article had been 
forgotten. This was not lessened by his wife’s 
many injunctions and enquiries. 
“You got your bandana lian’kerc'her, hain’t you, 
father,” she asked, and he looked into the bell 
crown of his beaver to assure himself that the 
article was bestowed in its proper place. 
“Wal, the’s tew so’yd’y cotton han’kerchers in 
your trunk an’ the’s tew clean dickeys for Sun¬ 
days an’ one extry white shirt besides the one 
you got on,” said she, taking account of his 
outfit on her fingers, “an’ a pair o’ new socks for 
best an’ a pair o’ ol’ ones, an’ a ball o’ yarn if 
you need any mendin’, but you won’t a settin’ 
still. The’s a darnin’ needle stuck in to ’t. An’ 
le’ see: Have you got your shavin’ tools? 
You want tu shave ye twice a week.” 
FOREST AND STREAM 
“Good airth and seas! Mother, you don’t want 
tu hev me make ’em think I’m a widower, du ye, 
a dressin’ up an’ a shavin’ my face tew times a 
week?” 
“Wal, it don’t signify, Lisher, you be a nice 
lookin’ man when you’re fixed up, an’ alius 
was, an’ you want tu du yourself jestice,” she 
said, fondly regarding him with a slow and 
careful inspection from the crown of his head to 
the bottom of his scant trowsers, dwelling longest 
and with most pride on the brass buttoned blue 
coat whose high collar and tight sleeves 
and the demeanor suitable to its splendor, were 
constant discomforts to the wearer. 
"That coat looks e’enia’most as well as ’t 
did fifteen year ago, ’an’ you du, full better, 
Lisher,” she said in final approval. 
“An’ T feel jest abaout as well tin ’t as I ever 
did an’ that hain’t a sayin’ no gret,” he sighed, 
craning his neck to relieve it from the friction 
of the collar. “I swan tu man, I’ll be glad an’ 
thankful tu get intu shirtsleeves an’ luther apron - 
ag’in! Yes I got my razor an’ my strop an’ 
my brush an’ soap all in my trunk an’ naow I 
b’lieve I’ve got ev’ything, we might as well 
be a goin’. Good bye, mother, ta’ keer o’ your¬ 
self.” 
He shook his wife’s.hand and she looked wist¬ 
fully in his face but she knew he would not 
kiss her in the presence of witnesses. He had 
never done that since the old romping games at 
paring bees and huskings. 
“Good bye, Timerthy, goo’ bye, Huldy, an’ you, 
tu, Muther. But haow be Bub an’ me a goin’ 
tu git along wi’aout one’n’ other? 
He took up the little boy in his arms and 
lavished Aunt Jerusha’s kisses upon the chubby 
berry-stained cheeks. Then he put down the 
wondering Child and climbed over the wheel into 
the wagon and without looking behind was 
driven away at a brisk pace. 
“Lisher! Lisher Paiggs !” Aunt Jerusha lifted 
up her voice shrilly till she made it heard by 
the occupants of the wagon above the clatter and 
rumble of the vehicle and Sam drew rein. 
“The’s a—'bag—o’ boneset—for—you—tu—take 
in the back—left—hand corner—o’ your trunk if 
you kitch cold or git—bilious,” she called, 
measuring the words in a high keyed monotone. 
“AY a bottle—o’—opodildoc if ye—sprain ye or 
anything an’ a—roll—o’—-Conklin salve—if ye 
cut ye.” 
Uncle Lisha looking backward nodded three 
slow signals of comprehension. “Wal, I guess 
thaJt’s all an’ you c’n go ’long Samm’l,” he said 
after a moment’s watching and waiting and 
then with tender contempt as the wagon resumed 
its noisy progress: “Good land! she’s as fussy 
’baout me as if I wan’t more’n ten years ol’!” 
Presently Aunt Jerusha called again quite as 
loud but failed to make herself heard. 
“I’d outo ha’ tol’ him tu tell ’em tu put more 
bed clo’s on if he slep’ col’.” she said in a tone 
.of self reproach after watching intently till the 
failure of her attempt to call another halt be¬ 
came evident. “He wouldn’t never as’ for ’t if 
he froze but mebby they’ll think on’t ef they 
sense ’at the nights is a gettin’ fallish, if the 
days be hot.” 
“Oh, they’ll take good care of him, I’ll warrant 
ye,” said Huldah, confidently. “Quakers is g’ret 
hands for makin’ folks com'table.” 
“Yes, I spo’ so—if folks is members,” Aunt 
Jerusha admitted, “but s’posen' they’re world’s 
people?” 
“It don’t make no difference to ’em.” Huldah 
answered. “Ev’b’dy knows though she was tur- 
ible shy o’ lett'in’ it be known haow Jemimy 
Bartlett -nussed that frozen footed runaway black 
man, all winter, an’ he wa’n’t no Quaker, 
Methodist ’or Ba-btis’ I guess, by the way they 
said he use’ tu holler an’ sing which was dre’ffle 
tryin’ tu her an’ Joel, which they be turrible 
sot ag'in’ singin’ except the tone their preachin’ 
is set tu.” 
“An’ distressing sort o’ music if is, but the’ 
hain’t a better woman a livin’ what Jemimy 
Bartlett is, go where you will, an’ the’s sights o’ 
good folks ’at is wus ’n Joel.” 
“Uncle Lisher ’ll be took good care of, jist as 
he is.” Huldah again asserted. “An’ I shouldn’t 
wonder a mite if they made a regular Quaker 
of him, an’ he come back wearin’ a broad brim 
hat an’ a shad belly coat an’ theein’ an’ thaouin’ 
like all possessed.” 
Aunt Jerusha held up both hands in pretended 
consternation. “An’ I shall hafter wear one o’ 
them sugar scoop bonnets!” 
Thus discoursing, the women watched their 
husbands’ departure till the wagon was but a 
black speck on the dusty road, and its noise 
fell to a faint disjointed clatter, scarcely dis¬ 
tinguishable from the clattering of a kingfisher 
that echoed along the shrunken thread of Stony 
Brook. 
Then, accommodating their steps to those of 
the little boy who toddled before them and 
climbed the threshold on all fours, they entered 
the silent home. 
The deserted shop was pervaded by a Sunday 
silence broken like that by the idle buzzing of 
flies, and the rustling wing beats of an impounded 
dragon fly that ineffectually battered at the dusty 
window panes. 
“Ho humm, suzzy day!” Aunt Jerusha sighed 
as standing in the door, she regarded the un¬ 
tenanted room. “It doos look lunsom wi’aout 
father, but it’s some comfort to smell the luther 
—an’ say, Huldy, he can’t hender me a blackin’ 
that stove naow. It’s redder ’an a pieny.” 
The travelers had not gone far on their way 
when they descried the familiar figure of Antoine 
Bissette at a little distance before the’m, picking 
on the fence corners of the roadside with short 
jerky impatient dips o>f his scythe, till, having 
conquered the herbage in one of those cribbed 
confines, he indulged arms and eyes in the luxury 
of a few full sweeps that laid wide ranks of 
scattered timothy, crowding ferns and thistles 
and startled a flock of gold finches to sudden 
flight, like a flurry of wind blowing yellow leaves. 
“Wall, if there han’t Ann Twine,” said Uncle 
Lidia, ‘‘an’ I’m daoun glad on’t, for it lets us off 
kinder gradu’l, a meetin’ someb’dy ’at b’longs in 
the neighborhood ’fore we get clean out ’o sight 
on ’t. Hellow, you critter! what you doin’ way 
off here?” 
When the sound of the approaching wagon 
outgrew the cropping swish of the scythe and at¬ 
tracted Antoine’s attention, he found it necessary 
to whet his blade, facing the coming vehicle and 
keeping his eyes as much upon it as on the course 
of the rifle along the scythe edge, for he was as 
inquisitive as any native and as curious concern¬ 
ing the “pass.” 
He recognized the travelers before Uncle 
Lisha’s stentorian hail gave proof of identity and 
