University of Virginia Library

10. CHAPTER X.
MR. CLEMENT LINDSAY FINISHES HIS LETTER. — WHAT
CAME OF IT.

THE first thing Clement Lindsay did, when he was
fairly himself again, was to finish his letter to Susan
Posey. He took it up where it left off, “with an affection
which” — and drew a long dash, as above. It was with
great effort he wrote the lines which follow, for he had got
an ugly blow on the forehead, and his eyes were “in
mourning,” as the gentlemen of the ring say, with unbecoming
levity.

“An adventure! Just as I was writing these last words,
I heard the cry of a young person, as it sounded, for help.
I ran to the river and jumped in, and had the pleasure of
saving a life. I got some bruises which have laid me up
for a day or two; but I am getting over them very well
now, and you need not worry about me at all. I will
write again soon; so pray do not fret yourself, for I have
had no hurt that will trouble me for any time.”

Of course, poor Susan Posey burst out crying, and cried
as if her heart would break. O dear! O dear! what
should she do! He was almost killed, she knew he was,
or he had broken some of his bones. O dear! O dear!
She would go and see him, there! — she must and would.
He would die, she knew he would, — and so on.

It was a singular testimony to the evident presence of a
human element in Mr. Byles Gridley that the poor girl,
in her extreme trouble, should think of him as a counsellor.

But the wonderful relenting kind of look on his grave
features as he watched the little twins tumbling about his
great books, and certain marks of real sympathy he had
sometimes shown for her in her lesser woes, encouraged
her, and she went straight to his study, letter in hand. She
gave a timid knock at the door of that awful sanctuary.

“Come in, Susan Posey,” was its answer, in a pleasant
tone. The old master knew her light step and the maidenly
touch of her small hand on the panel.

What a sight! There were Sossy and Minthy intrenched
in a Sebastopol which must have cost a good
half-hour's engineering, and the terrible Byles Gridley
besieging the fortress with hostile manifestations of the
most singular character. He was actually discharging a
large sugar-plum at the postern gate, which having been
left unclosed, the missile would certainly have reached one
of the garrison, when he paused as the door opened, and
the great round spectacles and four wide, staring infants'
eyes were levelled at Miss Susan Posey.

She almost forgot her errand, grave as it was, in astonishment
at this manifestation. The old man had emptied
his shelves of half their folios to build up the fort, in the
midst of which he had seated the two delighted and uproarious
babes. There was his Cave's “Historia Literaria,”
and Sir Walter Raleigh's “History of the World,”
and a whole array of Christian Fathers, and Plato, and
Aristotle, and Stanley's book of Philosphers, with Effigies,
and the Junta Galen, and the Hippocrates of Foesius,
and Walton's Polyglot, supported by Father Sanchez on
one side and Fox's “Acts and Monuments” on the other,
— an odd collection, as folios from lower shelves are apt
to be.

The besieger discharged his sugar-plum, which was so
well aimed that it fell directly into the lap of Minthy, who
acted with it as if the garrison had been on short rations
for some time.

He saw at once, on looking up, that there was trouble.
“What now, Susan Posey, my dear?”

“O Mr. Gridley, I am in such trouble! What shall I
do? What shall I do?”

She turned back the name and the bottom of the letter
in such a way that Mr. Gridley could read nothing but
the few lines relating the “adventure.”

“So Mr. Clement Lindsay has been saving a life, has
he, and got some hard knocks doing it, hey, Susan Posey?
Well, well, Clement Lindsay is a brave fellow, and there
is no need of hiding his name, my child. Let me take the
letter again a moment, Susan Posey. What is the date
of it? June 16th. Yes, — yes, — yes!”

He read the paragraph over again, and the signature
too, if he wanted to; for poor Susan had found that her
secret was hardly opaque to those round spectacles and
the eyes behind them, and, with a not unbecoming blush,
opened the fold of the letter before she handed it back.

“No, no, Susan Posey. He will come all right. His
writing is steady, and if he had broken any bones he
would have mentioned it. It 's a thing his wife will be
proud of, if he is ever married, Susan Posey,” (blushes,)
“and his children too,” (more blushes running up to her
back hair,) “and there 's nothing to be worried about.
But I 'll tell you what my dear, I 've got a little business
that calls me down the river to-morrow, and I should n't
mind stopping an hour at Alderbank and seeing how our
young friend Clement Lindsay is; and then, if he was

going to have a long time of it, why we could manage it
somehow that any friend who had any special interest in
him could visit him, just to while away the tiresomeness
of being sick. That 's it, exactly. I 'll stop at Alderbank,
Susan Posey. Just clear up these two children for
me, will you, my dear? Isosceles, come now, — that 's a
good child. Helminthia, carry these sugar-plums down
stairs for me, and take good care of them, mind!”

It was a case of gross bribery and corruption, for the
fortress was immediately evacuated on the receipt of a
large paper of red and white comfits, and the garrison
marched down stairs much like conquerors, under the
lead of the young lady, who was greatly eased in mind by
the kind words and the promise of Mr. Byles Gridley.

But he, in the mean time, was busy with thoughts she
did not suspect. “A young person,” he said to himself,
— “why a young person? Why not say a boy, if it was
a boy? What if this should be our handsome truant? —
`June 16th, Thursday morning!' — About time to get to
Alderbank by the river, I should think. None of the
boats missing? What then? She may have made a raft,
or picked up some stray skiff. Who knows? And then
got shipwrecked, very likely. There are rapids and falls
farther along the river. It will do no harm to go down
there and look about, at any rate.”

On Saturday morning, therefore, Mr. Byles Gridley set
forth to procure a conveyance to make a visit, as he said,
down the river, and perhaps be gone a day or two. He
went to a stable in the village, and asked if they could let
him have a horse.

The man looked at him with that air of native superiority
which the companionship of the generous steed confers

on all his associates, down to the lightest weight
among the jockeys.

“Wal, I hain't got nothin' in the shape of a hoss, Mr.
Gridley. I 've got a mare I s'pose I could let y' have.”

“O, very well,” said the old master, with a twinkle in
his eye as sly as the other's wink, — he had parried a few
jokes in his time, — “they charge half-price for mares always,
I believe.”

That was a new view of the subject. It rather took
the wind out of the stable-keeper, and set a most ammoniacal
fellow, who stood playing with a currycomb, grinning
at his expense. But he rallied presently.

“Wal, I b'lieve they do for some mares, when they let
'em to some folks; but this here ain't one o' them mares,
and you ain't one o' them folks. All my cattle 's out but
this critter, 'n' I don't jestly want to have nobody drive
her that ain't pretty car'ful, — she 's faäst, I tell ye, —
don't want no whip. — How fur d'd y' want t' go?”

Mr. Gridley was quite serious now, and let the man
know that he wanted the mare and a light covered wagon,
at once, to be gone for one or two days, and would waive
the question of sex in the matter of payment.

Alderbank was about twenty miles down the river by
the road. On arriving there, he inquired for the house
where a Mr. Lindsay lived. There was only one Lindsay
family in town, — he must mean Dr. William Lindsay.
His house was up there a little way above the village,
lying a few rods back from the river.

He found the house without difficulty, and knocked at
the door. A motherly-looking woman opened it immediately,
and held her hand up as if to ask him to speak and
move softly.

“Does Mr. Clement Lindsay live here?”

“He is staying here for the present. He is a nephew
of ours. He is in his bed from an injury.”

“Nothing very serious, I hope?”

“A bruise on his head, — not very bad, but the doctor
was afraid of erysipelas. Seems to be doing well enough
now.”

“Is there a young person here, a stranger?”

“There is such a young person here. Do you come
with any authority to make inquiries?”

“I do. A young friend of mine is missing, and I
thought it possible I might learn something here about it.
Can I see this young person?”

The matron came nearer to Byles Gridley, and said:
“This person is a young woman disguised as a boy. She
was rescued by my nephew at the risk of his life, and she
has been delirious ever since she has recovered her consciousness.
She was almost too far gone to be resuscitated,
but Clement put his mouth to hers and kept her breathing
until her own breath returned and she gradually came to.”

“Is she violent in her delirium?”

“Not now. No; she is quiet enough, but wandering,
— wants to know where she is, and whose the strange
faces are, — mine and my husband's, — that 's Dr. Lindsay,
— and one of my daughters, who has watched with
her.”

“If that is so, I think I had better see her. If she is
the person I suspect her to be, she will know me; and a
familiar face may bring back her recollections and put a
stop to her wanderings. If she does not know me, I will
not stay talking with her. I think she will, if she is the
one I am seeking after. There is no harm in trying.”

Mrs. Lindsay took a good long look at the old man.
There was no mistaking his grave, honest, sturdy, wrinkled,
scholarly face. His voice was assured and sincere in
its tones. His decent black coat was just what a scholar's
should be, — old, not untidy, a little shiny at the elbows
with much leaning on his study-table, but neatly bound at
the cuffs, where worthy Mrs. Hopkins had detected signs
of fatigue and come to the rescue. His very had looked
honest as it lay on the table. It had moulded itself to a
broad, noble head, that held nothing but what was true
and fair, with a few harmless crotchets just to fill in with,
and it seemed to know it.

The good woman gave him her confidence at once. “Is
the person you are seeking a niece or other relative of
yours?”

(Why did not she ask if the girl was his daughter?
What is that look of paternity and of maternity which observing
and experienced mothers and old nurses know so
well in men and in women?)

“No, she is not a relative. But I am acting for those
who are.”

“Wait a moment and I will go and see that the room is
all right.”

She returned presently. “Follow me softly, if you
please. She is asleep, — so beautiful, — so innocent!”

Byles Gridley, Master of Arts, retired professor, more
than sixty years old, childless, loveless, stranded in a lonely
study strewed with wrecks of the world's thought, his
work in life finished, his one literary venture gone down
with all it held, with nobody to care for him but accidental
acquaintances, moved gently to the side of the bed and
looked upon the pallid, still features of Myrtle Hazard.

He strove hard against a strange feeling that was taking
hold of him, that was making his face act rebelliously, and
troubling his eyes with sudden films. He made a brief
stand against this invasion. “A weakness, — a weakness!”
he said to himself. “What does all this mean?
Never such a thing for these twenty years! Poor child!
poor child! — Excuse me, madam,” he said, after a little
interval, but for what offence he did not mention. A
great deal might be forgiven, even to a man as old as
Byles Gridley, looking upon such a face, — so lovely, yet
so marked with the traces of recent suffering, and even now
showing by its changes that she was struggling in some
fearful dream. Her forehead contracted, she started with
a slight convulsive movement, and then her lips parted,
and the cry escaped from them, — how heart-breaking
when there is none to answer it, — “Mother!”

Gone back again through all the weary, chilling years
of her girlhood to that hardly remembered morning of her
life when the cry she uttered was answered by the light
of loving eyes, the kiss of clinging lips, the embrace of
caressing arms!

“It is better to wake her,” Mrs. Lindsay said; “she is
having a troubled dream. Wake up, my child, here is a
friend waiting to see you.”

She laid her hand very gently on Myrtle's forehead.
Myrtle opened her eyes, but they were vacant as yet.

“Are we dead?” she said. “Where am I? This is n't
heaven — there are no angels — O, no, no, no! don't
send me to the other place — fifteen years, — only fifteen
years old — no father, no mother — nobody loved me.
Was it wicked in me to live?” Her whole theological
training was condensed in that last brief question.

The old man took her hand and looked her in the face,
with a wonderful tenderness in his squared features.
“Wicked to live, my dear? No indeed! Here! look at
me, my child; don't you know your old friend Byles
Gridley?”

She was awake now. The sight of a familiar countenance
brought back a natural train of thought. But her
recollection passed over everything that had happened
since Thursday morning.

“Where is the boat I was in?” she said. “I have
just been in the water, and I was dreaming that I was
drowned. O Mr. Gridley, is that you? Did you pull
me out of the water?”

“No, my dear, but you are out of it, and safe and sound:
that is the main point. How do you feel now you are
awake?”

She yawned, and stretched her arms and looked round,
but did not answer at first. This was all natural, and a
sign that she was coming right. She looked down at her
dress. It was not inappropriate to her sex, being a loose
gown that belonged to one of the girls in the house.

“I feel pretty well,” she answered, “but a little confused.
My boat will be gone, if you don't run and stop it
now. How did you get me into dry clothes so quick?”

Master Byles Gridley found himself suddenly possessed
by a large and luminous idea of the state of things, and made
up his mind in a moment as to what he must do. There
was no time to be lost. Every day, every hour, of Myrtle's
absence was not only a source of anxiety and a cause of
useless searching, but it gave room for inventive fancies to
imagine evil. It was better to run some risk of injury to
health, than to have her absence prolonged another day.

“Has this adventure been told about in the village, Mrs.
Lindsay?”

“No, we thought it best to wait until she could tell her
own story, expecting her return to consciousness every
hour, and thinking there might be some reason for her
disguise which it would be kinder to keep quiet about.”

“You know nothing about her, then?”

“Not a word. It was a great question whether to tell
the story and make inquiries; but she was safe, and could
hardly bear disturbance, and, my dear sir, it seemed too
probable that there was some sad story behind this escape
in disguise, and that the poor child might need shelter and
retirement. We meant to do as well as we could for
her.”

“All right, Mrs. Lindsay. You do not know who she is,
then?”

“No, sir, and perhaps it is as well that I should not
know. Then I shall not have to answer any questions
about it.”

“Very good, madam, — just as it should be. And your
family, are they as discreet as yourself?”

“Not one word of the whole story has been or will be
told by any one of us. That was agreed upon among us.”

“Now then, madam. My name, as you heard me say,
is Byles Gridley. Your husband will know it, perhaps;
at any rate I will wait until he comes back. This child is
of good family and of good name. I know her well, and
mean, with your kind help, to save her from the consequences
which her foolish adventure might have brought
upon her. Before the bells ring for meeting to-morrow
morning this girl must be in her bed at her home, at Oxbow
Village, and we must keep her story to ourselves as

far as may be. It will all blow over, if we do. The gossips
will only know that she was upset in the river and
cared for by some good people, — good people and sensible
people too, Mrs. Lindsay. And now I want to see the
young man that rescued my friend here, — Clement Lindsay,
— I have heard his name before.

Clement was not a beauty for the moment, but Master Gridley
saw well enough that he was a young man of the right
kind. He knew them at sight, — fellows with lime enough
in their bones and iron enough in their blood to begin with,
— shapely, large-nerved, firm-fibred and fine-fibred, with
well-spread bases to their heads for the ground-floor of the
faculties, and well-vaulted arches for the upper range of
apprehensions and combinations. “Plenty of basements,”
he used to say, “without attics and skylights. Plenty of
skylights without rooms enough and space enough below.”
But here was “a three-story brain,” he said to himself as
he looked at it, and this was the youth who was to find his
complement in our pretty little Susan Posey! His judgment
may seem to have been hasty, but he took the measure
of young men of twenty at sight from long and sagacious
observation, as Nurse Byloe knew the “heft” of a
baby the moment she fixed her old eyes on it.

Clement was well acquainted with Byles Gridley, though
he had never seen him, for Susan's letters had had a good
deal to say about him of late. It was agreed between them
that the story should be kept as quiet as possible, and that
the young girl should not know the name of her deliverer,
— it might save awkward complications. It was not likely
that she would be disposed to talk of her adventure, which
had ended so disastrously, and thus the whole story would
soon die out.

The effect of the violent shock she had experienced was
to change the whole nature of Myrtle for the time. Her
mind was unsettled: she could hardly recall anything
except the plunge over the fall. She was perfectly docile
and plastic, — was ready to go anywhere Mr. Gridley
wanted her to go, without any sign of reluctance. And
so it was agreed that he should carry her back in his covered
wagon that very night. All possible arrangements
were made to render her journey comfortable. The fast
mare had to trot very gently, and the old master would
stop and adjust the pillows from time to time, and administer
the restoratives which the physician had got ready, all
as naturally and easily as if he had been bred a nurse,
vastly to his own surprise, and with not a little gain to his
self-appreciation. He was a serviceable kind of body on
occasion, after all, was he not, hey, Mr. Byles Gridley? he
said to himself.

At half past four o'clock on Sunday morning the shepherd
brought the stray lamb into the paved yard at The
Poplars, and roused the slumbering household to receive
back the wanderer.

It was the Irishwoman, Kitty Fagan, huddled together
in such amorphous guise, that she looked as if she had been
fitted in a tempest of petticoats and a whirlwind of old
shawls, who presented herself at the door.

But there was a very warm heart somewhere in that
queer-looking bundle of clothes, and it was not one of those
that can throb or break in silence. When she saw the
long covered wagon, and the grave face of the old master,
she thought it was all over with the poor girl she loved,
and that this was the undertaker's wagon bringing back
only what had once been Myrtle Hazard. She screamed

aloud, — so wildly that Myrtle lifted her head from the
pillow against which she had rested it, and started forward.

The Irishwoman looked at her for a moment to assure
herself that it was the girl she loved, and not her ghost.
Then it all came over her, — she had been stolen by
thieves, who had carried her off by night, and been rescued
by the brave old man who had brought her back.
What crying and kisses and prayers and blessings were
poured forth, in a confusion of which her bodily costume
was a fitting type, those who know the vocabulary and the
enthusiasm of her eloquent race may imagine better than
we could describe it.

The welcome of the two other women was far less demonstrative.
There were awful questions to be answered
before the kind of reception she was to have could be settled.
What they were, it is needless to suggest; but while
Miss Silence was weeping, first with joy that her “responsibility”
was removed, then with a fair share of pity and
kindness, and other lukewarm emotions, — while Miss
Badlam waited for an explanation before giving way to
her feelings, — Mr. Gridley put the essential facts before
them in a few words. She had gone down the river some
miles in her boat, which was upset by a rush of the current,
and she had come very near being drowned. She was got
out, however, by a person living near by, and cared for by
some kind women in a house near the river, where he had
been fortunate enough to discover her. — Who cut her hair
off? Perhaps those good people, — she had been out of
her head. She was alive and unharmed, at any rate,
wanting only a few days' rest. They might be very thankful
to get her back, and leave her to tell the rest of her

story when she had got her strength and memory, for
she was not quite herself yet, and might not be for some
days.

And so there she was at last laid in her own bed, listening
again to the ripple of the waters beneath her, Miss Silence
sitting on one side looking as sympathetic as her insufficient
nature allowed her to look; the Irishwoman uncertain between
delight at Myrtle's return, and sorrow for her
condition; and Miss Cynthia Badlam occupying herself
about house-matters, not unwilling to avoid the necessity
of displaying her conflicting emotions.

Before he left the house, Mr. Gridley repeated the statement
in the most precise manner, — some miles down the
river — upset and nearly drowned — rescued almost dead
— brought to and cared for by kind women in the house
where he, Byles Gridley, found her. These were the
facts, and nothing more than this was to be told at present.
They had better be made known at once, and the shortest
and best way would be to have it announced by the minister
at meeting that forenoon. With their permission, he
would himself write the note for Mr. Stoker to read, and
tell the other ministers that they might announce it to their
people.

The bells rang for meeting, but the little household at
The Poplars did not add to the congregation that day. In
the mean time Kitty Fagan had gone down with Mr.
Byles Gridley's note, to carry it to the Rev. Mr. Stoker.
But, on her way, she stopped at the house of one Mrs. Finnegan,
a particular friend of hers; and the great event
of the morning furnishing matter for large discourse, and
various social allurements adding to the fascination of having
a story to tell, Kitty Fagan forgot her note until meeting

had begun and the minister had read the text of his sermon.
“Bless my soul! and sure I 've forgot ahl about the letter!”
she cried all at once, and away she tramped for the meeting-house.
The sexton took the note, which was folded, and
said he would hand it up to the pulpit after the sermon, —
it would not do to interrupt the preacher.

The Rev. Mr. Stoker had, as was said, a somewhat remarkable
gift in prayer, — an endowment by no means
confined to profoundly spiritual persons, — in fact, not
rarely owing much of its force to a strong animal nature
underlying the higher attributes. The sweet singer of
Israel would never have written such petitions and such
hymns if his manhood had been less complete; the flavor of
remembered frailties could not help giving a character to his
most devout exercises, or they would not have come quite
home to our common humanity. But there is no gift more
dangerous to the humility and sincerity of a minister.
While his spirit ought to be on its knees before the throne
of grace, it is too apt to be on tiptoe, following with admiring
look the flight of its own rhetoric. The essentially
intellectual character of an extemporaneous composition
spoken to the Creator with the consciousness that many of
his creatures are listening to criticise or to admire, is the
great argument for set forms of prayer.

The congregation on this particular Sunday was made
up chiefly of women and old men. The young men were
hunting after Myrtle Hazard. Mr. Byles Gridley was in
his place, wondering why the minister did not read his
notice before the prayer. This prayer was never reported,
as is the questionable custom with regard to some of these
performances, but it was wrought up with a good deal of
rasping force and broad pathos. When he came to pray

for “our youthful sister, missing from her pious home,
perhaps nevermore to return to her afflicted relatives,” and
the women and old men began crying, Byles Gridley was
on the very point of getting up and cutting short the whole
matter by stating the simple fact that she had got back, all
right, and suggesting that he had better pray for some of
the older and tougher sinners before him. But on the
whole it would be more decorous to wait, and perhaps he
was willing to hear what the object of his favorite antipathy
had to say about it. So he waited through the prayer.
He waited through the hymn, “Life is the time —” He
waited to hear the sermon.

The minister gave out his text from the Book of Esther,
second chapter, seventh verse: “For she had neither father
nor mother, and the maid was fair and beautiful.” It was
to be expected that the reverend gentleman, who loved to
produce a sensation, would avail himself of the excitable
state of his audience to sweep the key-board of their emotions,
while, as we may say, all the stops were drawn out.
His sermon was from notes; for, though absolutely extemporaneous
composition may be acceptable to one's Maker,
it is not considered quite the thing in speaking to one's
fellow-mortals. He discoursed for a time on the loss of
parents, and on the dangers to which the unfortunate orphan
is exposed. Then he spoke of the peculiar risks of the
tender female child, left without its natural guardians.
Warming with his subject, he dilated with wonderful unction
on the temptations springing from personal attractions.
He pictured the “fair and beautiful” women of Holy Writ,
lingering over their names with lover-like devotion. He
brought Esther before his audience, bathed and perfumed
for the royal presence of Ahasuerus. He showed them

the sweet young Ruth, lying down in her innocence at
the feet of the lord of the manor. He dwelt with special
luxury on the charms which seduced the royal psalmist, —
the soldier's wife for whom he broke the commands of the
decalogue, and the maiden for whose attentions, in his
cooler years, he violated the dictates of prudence and propriety.
All this time Byles Gridley had his stern eyes
on him. And while he kindled into passionate eloquence
on these inspiring themes, poor Bathsheba, whom her
mother had sent to church that she might get a little respite
from her home duties, felt her blood growing cold in her
veins, as the pallid image of the invalid wife, lying on her
bed of suffering, rose in the midst of the glowing pictures
which borrowed such warmth from her husband's imagination.

The sermon, with its hinted application to the event of
the past week, was over at last. The shoulders of the nervous
women were twitching with sobs. The old men were
crying in their vacant way. But all the while the face of
Byles Gridley, firm as a rock in the midst of this lachrymal
inundation, was kept steadily on the preacher, who had
often felt the look that came through the two round glasses
searching into the very marrow of his bones.

As the sermon was finished, the sexton marched up
through the broad aisle and handed the note over the door
of the pulpit to the clergyman, who was wiping his face
after the exertion of delivering his discourse. Mr. Stoker
looked at it, started, changed color, — his vision of “The
Dangers of Beauty, a Sermon printed by Request,” had
vanished, — and passed the note to Father Pemberton, who
sat by him in the pulpit. With much pains he deciphered
its contents, for his eyes were dim with years, and, having

read it, bowed his head upon his hands in silent thanksgiving.
Then he rose in the beauty of his tranquil and noble
old age, so touched with the message he had to proclaim to
his people, that the three deep furrows on his forehead,
which some said he owed to the three dogmas of original
sin, predestination, and endless torment, seemed smoothed
for the moment, and his face was as that of an angel while
he spoke.

“Sisters and Brethren, — Rejoice with us, for we have
found our lamb which had strayed from the fold. This
our daughter was dead and is alive again; she was lost
and is found. Myrtle Hazard, rescued from great peril of
the waters, and cared for by good Samaritans, is now in
her home. Thou, O Lord, who didst let the water-flood
overflow her, didst not let the deep swallow her up, nor
the pit shut its mouth upon her. Let us return our thanks
to the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, the God of
Jacob, who is our God and Father, and who hath wrought
this great deliverance.”

After his prayer, which it tried him sorely to utter in
unbroken tones, he gave out the hymn,

but it was hardly begun when the leading female voice
trembled and stopped, — and another, — and then a third, —
and Father Pemberton, seeing that they were all overcome,
arose and stretched out his arms, and breathed over them
his holy benediction.

The village was soon alive with the news. The sexton
forgot the solemnity of the Sabbath, and the bell acted as
if it was crazy, tumbling heels over head at such a rate,

and with such a clamor, that a good many thought there
was a fire, and, rushing out from every quarter, instantly
caught the great news with which the air was ablaze.

A few of the young men who had come back went even
further in their demonstrations. They got a small cannon
in readiness, and without waiting for the going down
of the sun, began firing rapidly, upon which the Rev.
Mr. Stoker sallied forth to put a stop to this violation of
the Sabbath. But in the mean time it was heard on all
the hills, far and near. Some said they were firing in
the hope of raising the corpse; but many who heard the
bells ringing their crazy peals guessed what had happened.
Before night the parties were all in, one detachment bearing
the body of the bob-tailed catamount swung over a
pole, like the mighty cluster of grapes from Eshcol, and
another conveying with wise precaution that monstrous
snapping-turtle which those of our friends who wish to
see will find among the specimens marked Chelydra Serpentina
in the great collection at Cantabridge.