FOREST AND STREAM 
153 
stood staring at them with the rifle dropped at 
arm’s length. This companion piece of the now 
almost obsolete scythe was not a fire arm, fcut a 
flat piece of wood coated with sand or emery, 
and used like a whetstone. In its earliest form, 
it was encased with tallow and dipped in sand as 
often as used, but later, the rough surface was 
made more enduring by an undercoat o'f glue. 
, “Bah gosh! One’ Lasha! Where you go, all 
dress up so for? Been meetin’s, fun’rals? 
vis’tin’ ? All do’ know, me,” he shouted as the 
wagon stopped in front of him. 
“Wal, you guessed three times an’ hain’t hit 
it ary once,” said the old man. “You hain’t much 
of a Yankee, Ann Twine. ‘I’m a goin’ daown 
to Lakefield a missionaryin’ 'mongst the Quakers, 
a workin’ on the’ soles, so tu speak. They sent 
for me, Ann Twine.” 
“Bah gosh! that Quaker’s pooty bad up, ’ant 
he? Well, he sent you back pooty quick, 
prob ly. Ah hope so, ’cause all me goin’ be 
lonesick for you. An’t it, Sam?” 
“Oh, I’ll be back tu rights—but du ye call it 
haym,’ Ann Twine?” 
“Yas, dat was be de nem of it,” Antoine 
replied as he complacently regarded the 
short swathes of mixed herbage. “Dey was 
more brake an’ t’istle as he was hay, but-he mek 
heat for mah caow more better as snow bank, 
prob’ly, ant he?” 
“Yes, I s’pose so. Wal, Ann Twine, ta’ keer o’ 
yourself till I get back tu ta’ keer on ye. Go 
ahead, Samm’l.” 
They passed familiar homesteads and came to 
those concerning whose present ownership they 
were in doubt—but of whose past history the 
elder man could inform the younger, till at last 
the road led them over lessening hills' and widen¬ 
ing levels where slower streams meandered, to 
a strange region whose inhabitants stared cur¬ 
iously at them between whom and them there was 
only guesswork as to each other’s business and 
identity. The fields and woods with familiar 
crops and trees were more like old acquaintances. 
Homelike swallows launched forth from barn 
eaves, skimmed the shorn meadows or billowy 
grain fields, meadow larks sang the old song from 
stack peaks and fence stakes and the cackle of 
the flicker echoed along the woodside. 
A little after noon they made an abrupt descent 
into a narrow valley through which ran a stream 
that had not yet forgotten its joyous song of the 
mountains that were its birthplace and here they 
came to the factory. This was a naked weather¬ 
beaten wooden building staring with rows of 
blank windows at green fields, bright waters and 
wooded banks. Inwardly it was shaken by the 
throb of looms and continual jar of carding and 
spinning machines and filled with an atmosphere 
burdened with a heavy odor of wool and woolen 
stuffs. 
d he two men ventured into the noisy interior 
with considerable trepidation, running the gaunt¬ 
let of machinery and the eyes of a dozen widows, 
spinsters and girls before they found the 
proprietor and arranged for the disposal of 
the wool. 
It was good to get into the fresh outdoor air 
again where the clash and whir of looms and 
spindles was overborne by the pleasant sound 
of falling water and bubbling rapids. 
“Good airth an’ seas!” said Uncle Lisha after 
refreshing himself with several long-drawn 
breaths of pure air. “Jest think o’ women ’at was 
raised on a farm a smudderin’ in such a tor¬ 
mented rattle trap. I’d a durn’d sight ’d ruther 
du haouse work for my bread ’an milk kickin’ 
caows in the rain.” 
“I s’pose they think it’s respeetabler,” Sam 
suggested, whereat the other snorted con¬ 
temptuously and repeatedly, till his thoughts were 
diverted from the subject by new objects of in¬ 
terest in the neighboring hamlet, through which 
they now passed. 
'When the hill top was gained, the horses, 
pleased with the unaccustomed level road took a 
brisker pace. Now and then the travelers ran 
through openings in the eastern hills, the noble 
outline of their familiar Camel’s Hump, far away 
in the August haze, while to the west, Lake 
Champlain shimmered between long stretches of 
forest on either side and beyond rose range 
upon range of the sharp Adirondack peaks. 
“That ’ere lake looks so high up, seem’s ’ough 
this crik water ’ould git discouraged tryin’ tu 
reach ’t,” said Sam. 
“Lak ’nough water hereabouts does run up 
hill,” said the other. “Everybody uster call it an' 
T p'sume tu say they du yit, goin’ up tu Cannedy 
an’ daoun tu Fort Cassin an’ Craoun Pint.” 
“Wall, there’s the maouth o’ Little Otter an’ 
Lewis Crik’s is close by, an there’s Garden 
Islan’ an’ them big pines wi’ the cranes nes’s 
showin’ in the tops. Mr. Bartlett tol’ me ’at when 
he was a young man, he’d caounted fifty nes’s 
f m his front door, more’n three miles away. By 
the Gret Horn Spoon! I’m glad tu see this all 
ag’in,” and Sam’s eyes wandered over the beauti¬ 
ful scenes with satisfaction. “Yes, it does look 
neat, 1 can’t deny, but I do’ know as any better’n 
aour brooks an’ woods an’ clus by hills tu hum. 
I was jist summisin’ ’at Bub hed waked up f’m 
his arter dinner nap an’ was stubbin’ on’t in ’t 
the shop, ’baout, naow,” and the old man looked 
longingly toward Shillhouse mountain, and the 
eastern sky. 
“Wal, here we be,” said Sam, drawing into 
the yard around to the back of the well-kept 
Bartlett homestead. 
”Ev’y thing’s been swep’ n’ dusted,’’ said 
Uncle Lisha looking over the neat premises and 
brushing the dust off the left sleeve of his blue 
coat. “I shan’t clash tu wear my of clo’s an’ 
luther apron, I know I shan’t.” 
The hearty welcome given them by Friend 
Bartlett and his placid-faced wife soon placed 
the newcomers at their ease- 
When the morning dawned Uncle Lisha, after 
some uneasy pondering, declared to Sam, who 
was his bed-fellow, “I’m a good min’ tu chuck 
the hull kit back ont’ the wagon an’ go hum 
wi’ you. Good airth an’ seas! It’s a month o’ 
Sundays sence Jerushy hollered arter me ’baout 
the bor.eset an’ things.” 
“Wal,” said Sam, drowsily, awakened from the 
luxury of a morning nap, “I’ll be daoun again, 
arter ye, afore a month of any kind raly goes by.” 
Two hours later, a few weeks in the lowlands 
seemed a different affair. The familiar shoe 
bench was established near an eastern window of 
the big kitchen. Rolls of leather were brought 
down from the garret and duly unpacked. A 
small tub was filled with water, and the edge 
of the cutting knife was tried to see if it was 
properly keen. At ease in his working clothes, 
the old shoemaker saw Sam start on his home¬ 
ward journey with but a faint homesick longing, 
and then turned cheerfully to his work. 
