University of Virginia Library

5. CHAPTER V.
HOME AS FOUND.

Autumn in New England! The idea is fraught with
glory and beauty indescribable. To-day, the forest is
green and full-leaved, as when Spring left her work to
the warm hand of Summer. Over the wide panorama
of mountain and valley shines the clear October sun,
bright, but not warm; for the north wind is abroad,
sweeping the clouds from the sky, and chilling the dews
gathering in upper air.

The sun goes down; and the wind, as if weary, sinks
to rest; and through the long night the stars seem
watching the change of nature. Sleep reigns over the
earth; the trees are motionless; the frost only is abroad.
His cold breath has chilled the heart of the forest, and
its life-blood no longer flows. The finger of Death passes
over the foliage, and the touch has left a lustre life never
displayed.

Go forth when the morning rises, and the old woods
stand before you in gorgeous robes, as though rainbows
had been lavishing their colors as a pledge of the return
of life and spring!

These wonderful changes of the autumnal forest are

seen nowhere in such beauty and variety as in the Old
Granite State; and the wild scenery of that mountainland
is then gorgeous in its magnificence. But the charm
soon passes. Winter storms are gathering, and the rich
garniture of leaves is torn off by the blast, and scattered,
trodden down, destroyed, illustrating the fate of all
human glory.

But the glory of nature never departs; and to the eye
that sees the Great Architect in his work,

the earth is still beautiful. And our autumn has a
period of peculiar and mysterious loveliness, called the
“Indian summer.” This brief season, of about twelve
days in the whole, though rarely following in consecutive
order, is most beautiful and most distinctly marked
in New England. The softness of the atmosphere is then
indescribable. The sun looks down as though dreaming
of June and its roses; while some “tricksy spirit” throws
over the faded earth a veil that, mirage-like, gives a
charm beyond the brightness of summer noon. This is
most perfect in November.

It was perfect when our story opens.

The turnpike leading from Concord, N. H., to Portsmouth,
passes directly through the retired, but romantically-situated
town of Northwood, in the county of
Rockingham. On this route, and near where the turnpike
entered the western part of the town, Landlord
Holmes had, some twenty-five or thirty years ago, established
himself: he had just opened a new tavern, and
all his thoughts were employed in contriving how to
obtain customers, or how to please them. The seasons
rolled round without bringing any pleasure to him, except
they brought company; and on that account he
considered the winter as far the most agreeable part of
the year.

So now, although he stood calmly smoking his pipe
under the “Sign of the Eagle,” (which, by the way, very
much resembled a turkey,) and gazing attentively around,

let no one imagine he was delighted with the prospect.
And yet the prospect was delightful, when the sun, suddenly
bursting forth from behind a dark cloud, which
had, for the last half hour, totally obscured his brightness,
threw his rich beams on the leafless forest trees and
seared fields, till the russet covering assumed a silvery
hue, as the flood of light quivered over its surface.

But the landlord thought not on the beauty of the
afternoon, except to wonder more heartily at the unaccountable
delay of the stage, which usually reached his
house two hours earlier.

“The dinner will be totally spoiled,” cried his wife,
in a shrill voice, from within.

“How can I help it,” replied her husband gruffly,
“except I eat it myself? But look! yonder they come,
as sure as eggs—very carefully, though—some accident
has certainly happened.”

The stage drove slowly up; and while the passengers
were alighting, the landlord inquired the reason of the
delay.

“Oh! it was all on account of a sick man, who could
not bear to be driven fast,” answered the driver; “but
he has paid me well for the delay, and now, landlord, I
shall leave him with you to provide for.”

“Provide for!” eagerly ejaculated the landlord.
“Why, does he intend staying here?”

“No longer than while you can harness your horses,”
answered the other. “He and another gentleman are
intending to go somewhere to the south part of the town,
to visit some relations, I guess; and I told them you
could doubtless furnish them with a carriage.”

“But I can't,” replied the landlord; “I have no carriage
at home, except the old wagon, and none to drive
it but little Zeb.”

“Why, where the deuce are all your carriages?” inquired
the driver.

“Oh, the boys have taken the new wagon and gone
off to the shooting-match,” said the landlord; “to-morrow
is Thanksgiving day, you know, and the gals are

gone in the chaise to the store, to buy some furbelows
for the ball; and none of 'em will be at home till pitch
dark, I dare say. There's nothing done here the day
before nor day after Thanksgiving.”

“Well, well,” replied the driver, “you can see the
gentlemen, and then conclude what to do. I shall leave
'em here, and they may take care of themselves, which
they can do pretty well, I guess, for they have money
plenty.”

This last item of information brightened the landlord's
countenance, and his step was quick and light as he entered
his house to reconnoitre the strangers.

Whether, like our own statesmen, they merely exerted
their eloquence, or whether, like British ministers in the
olden times, they offered a bribe, I am not able to say,
but it seems the means they employed were successful.
The corpulent landlord was soon seen puffing and bustling
about, exerting himself to clean and repair his old
wagon for an expedition. Zeb, too, came out, habited in
his Sunday suit, with his hat set smartly on his head,
and cracking his whip with all the importance of a veteran
postillion. Everything was planned to make the
worse appear the better—a large buffalo-skin covered
and concealed, in part, the decayed seat of the crazy
vehicle; but the sagacious landlord could devise no expedient
which would conceal the defects of a steed, that
in appearance and qualities very nearly resembled the
Vicar of Wakefield's old blackberry. Soon all was pronounced
ready, and the two gentlemen appeared to take
their seats.

One, whose countenance bore traces of recent and
severe illness, had doubtless been a stout man, for his
clothes hung loosely on him, and there were wrinkles on
his face which did not appear to be the effect of years.
He was very pale, but the brightness of his eye told that
his heart was glad with the hope of returning health, although
its current had not yet sent the glow to mantle
on his sunken cheek. His stature was rather below the
middle size, yet he had an air of conscious superiority,

usually imparted by high rank, that added dignity to his
figure, and his address and manners bore ample evidence
of the refinement and elegance to which he had been accustomed;
and, on the whole, though there was nothing
peculiarly striking or interesting either in his face or form,
yet whoever looked on him would wish to look again.

The other gentleman, on whose arm he leaned, was of
a very different appearance. Tall and symmetrically
formed, his figure was a model of elegance united with
the appearance of strength and activity; and nature, as
if disdaining, for once, the assistance of art, in striking
him off, had stamped on every lineament, and impressed
on every movement, the perfect gentlemen. His eyes
were dark hazel, yet when agitated by emotions of any
kind, either of pleasure or anger, the lighting up of his
countenance gave to them such a lustre that they were
almost always mistaken for black, and several wagers had
been lost in deciding on their color. His dark hair clustered
thickly around a high forehead, whose polished
whiteness proved the original tincture of his skin to have
possessed all the delicacy of a lady's. True, the climate
in which he had resided, or the exposure of a journey
had bronzed it a little, and his cheek did not wear the
northern freshness; yet his was a face that would excite
curiosity and admiration, and the eye that rested on him
would be loath to withdraw its gaze.

Neither did his countenance lose any of its interest
from a shade of melancholy which, at times, passed over
his fine features; for the beholder always felt an involuntary
sympathy in his fortunes, and it will, I believe, be
generally found that the world sympathizes more willingly
and sincerely with the sorrowful than the gay.
But the smile that now hovered on his lip seemed to
speak only of felicity, and the mellow tones of his clear
voice, while making inquiries of the landlord, were kind
as the accents of a friend, rejoicing to meet and learn the
welfare of beloved objects after a long separation.

The landlord was minute in his directions, and his last
words, as they started, were an order to Zeb, to “drive

slowly, remember and keep the right-hand road, and be
sure and take a long sweep when he turned.”

Phæton's example was an evil one, no doubt, but he
has found many imitators. There never yet was a youthful
hand entrusted with the reins, that always guided
them steadily, and Zeb was not exempt from the ambition
of wishing to display his skill as a coachman, now
he had mounted the box—or chair rather, such being the
substitute for the driver's scat.

Exerting all his strength, therefore, he applied his
long-lashed whip with such good will that he succeeded
for once in starting the lazy beast upon a furious trot,
which, as the road was none of the smoothest, and the
wagon seat had no springs, was rather too stirring an
exercise for the nerves of an invalid. The gentlemen
loudly ordered him to stop; and, prompt to obey the
order, the boy pulled the reins violently, and the horse,
much more willingly obeying the rein than whip, stopped
so suddenly, that the shock nearly threw them both from
their seats.

“What the devil did the fellow mean, Romilly,” cried
the sick man, as soon as he could recover himself, “by
giving us such a rumbling old ark as this? Or, perhaps,”
added he, seeing his companion's mirth, “perhaps
this is your real Yankee style.”

“True Yankee style,” replied the other, who was, indeed,
Sidney Romilly, and who had been nearly convulsed
with laughter. “Now, boy, drive on, but slowly;”
and then composing his countenance, and turning to his
friend, he added, gravely, “you will, doubtless, Mr.
Frankford, in a short time learn to appreciate our fashions.”

“Not at the expense of my bones, I hope. Oh! they
are half dislocated already. Pray, how far have we to
ride in this manner?”

“About two miles, or perhaps three.”

“And all the way over such an exercable road?”

“Why, the road that leads towards my own native
home cannot seem execrable to me,” answered Sidney.

“The objects begin, already, to look familiar. See yonder
mountain, where the rays of the sun are now striking!
I have climbed that mountain many a time, and it
looks like a friend.”

“And those ragged rocks and stumps, black as if they
had just risen from the infernal pit, are your old acquaintances,
I presume,” replied Frankford. “Come, Romilly,
you must confess your Yankee farmers are the most
slovenly people on earth that pretend to civilization.
Look at the half cleared fields, and fences falling down
before they are finished, and timber houses placed plump
in the highway; what would an English farmer say to
such management?”

“Mr. Frankford,” replied Sidney, “perhaps I might
show you the unreasonableness of expecting to find the
appearance of a country, which scarcely fifty years ago
was an unexplored wilderness, corresponding in agricultural
improvements and neatness of appearance with
one settled and cultivated for nearly twenty centuries.
But we have not time, neither do I now feel an inclination
for argument. My mind has sweeter fancies, and I
shall not even attempt to defend my country from your
criticism. I wish only to enjoy its beauties.”

He spoke with energy, and the Englishman, who really
possessed the candor and generosity which many of his
countrymen only affect, although so deeply imbued with
the national contempt for everything American, that he
sometimes forgot his good breeding and good feelings
while expressing his sentiments, immediately asked pardon
for what he had said.

“'Tis granted,” replied Sidney, smiling; “the jolting
you have just undergone, was certainly a sufficient provocation
for your severity; and it has diverted your
attention from our carriage, which, I confess, deserves all
your anathemas. But now which road do we take?”

“The straight forward one,” said the boy.

“But we are going to the south parish,” said Sidney,
and must certainly turn south to reach it.”

“I know it, sir,” replied the pertinacious Zeb, “but
we go half a mile further before we turn.”

“Look at the roads, Romilly!” cried the Englishman,
“and be sure take the best. 'Tis always my maxim. I
like to travel in a smooth road, and I have always found
such led to the most agreeable places.”

“Take that turning to the left,” said Sidney.

“You are certainly wrong, sir,” said Zeb, still holding
fast the reins, “and so you will find, for that road goes
to the mill.”

“Then to the mill we will go,” replied Frankford:
“turn, I say.”

The boy slowly obeyed the order.

“A true slip from the Puritan stock, I'll warrant him,”
continued the Englishman, “determined to have his own
way—that was their liberty of conscience.”

“Yes,” said Sidney, “and to that unconquered and
unconquerable spirit, we owe the settlement, independence,
and glory of America.”

“And its republicanism, you may add,” replied the
Englishman; “and that I like in theory but not in practice.
I like to hear and to read of liberty. It is a glorious
thing to repeat a `nation is free,' if we did not find
the tyranny of the people to be far more galling than
that of the prince. In a country where men boast of
equality, where there are no distinctions of rank, no established
customs, no certain forms of respect instituted
towards superiors, there the rabble rule, for there is
always a rabble in every community. And whose pride is
most insupportable, that of the upstart, covered with
filth, or the gentleman, who, feeling secure of his own
dignity, is not constantly puffing it about your ears?”

“If I receive a kick,” replied Sidney, “I care little
whether the foot which bestowed it be covered with a
shoe of leather or prunella. One, to be sure, may inflict
a deeper wound than the other, but a blow is a
blow. Yet I think, sir, you mistake the organization of
our society. Nor is it at all strange, as no age nor
country can produce a parallel. We really enjoy what

the Greeks and Romans, with all their boasts, never
did—rational freedom; and every person is equally protected
by mild and equitable laws; but laws which he
can neither defy nor evade. As men wish to be treated,
so they must treat others; and thus the principle of self-love
operates to prevent insults from being offered. And
this intercourse between equals is marked by a courtesy
of demeanor, equally free from fawning servility or overbearing
arrogance, which you will in vain seek where
distinctions of rank are organized and supported.”

“At least,” returned Mr. Frankford, “you must allow
that, for the rich and superior classes, the intercourse
with the world is more agreeable and refined where those
little observances are attended to. There can be no community
where all are precisely on a level. The superiority
of wealth, intelligence and virtue, even the differences
of age, and distinctions of sex, render a different
address to different persons proper and necessary. In
this particular, I think your countrymen are deficient.
For instance, this little urchin here, whose answers, I
confess, now awakened these ideas—why, he speaks to
us with just the same sang froid he would to a school-fellow.
What he says is pertinent and intelligent enough,
but there is wanting that preface of respect with which,
in every other civilized country, we should be addressed.
He has not once said `your honor,' or `your worship,'
nor do I believe he ever heard those terms used when
speaking to a superior.”

“Did you ever call any man `your honor,' or `your
worship,' Zeb?” asked Sidney, settling his countenance
with all the gravity in his power.

The boy, glancing round his roguish eye with an expression
which showed not a syllable had been lost on
him, said, “I never saw any gentleman with such names
in my life.”

The arch simplicity of his manner made the Englishman
smile, and Sidney, laughing heartily, was about to
reply, when his attention was diverted by the appearance
of a man coming towards them, to whom Zeb desired

they would speak, and inquire if that road did not lead
to the mill. There was not, however, much room for
doubt, as the man was then evidently returning from
such a place. He was driving a horse before him, laden
with bags, whistling the air of “Yankee Doodle,” and
looking around him with perfect unconcern.

“There,” said Sidney; “now, Frankford, you may see
a genuine Yankee; I know by his whistle he is a true
one. You have often enough heard him described and
beheld him caricatured; now look at the original.”

The age of the man might be about five and thirty;
he was nearly six feet in height, and rather spare; but
showed such an athletic and vigorous form as might
well entitle him to the character of being the “bone and
muscle” of the land. He was habited in a dark colored
suit, made of what is termed “home manufactured;”
for the celebrated Lucretia herself could not spin with a
more becoming grace than did, at that time, the fair wives
and daughters of the New England farmers; and, not
to keep their families comfortably clothed, would have
reflected great discredit on their industry, and consequently
on their characters. His clothes were fitted
nearly in the London fashion, though the fashion of a
year gone by; for every individual being ambitious to
appear well dressed, and antiquity not having sanctioned
any particular form for the habit, nor necessity obliging
our citizens to appear in the suits of their ancestors,
“the fashions” are, by all classes and ages, more universally
followed throughout the United States, than by
any other nation in the world. A red bandanna handkerchief
was tied around his neck, above which rose his
shirt collar, white as the driven snow; boots and a good
hat completed his array, which appeared to unite comfort
and economy with a tolerable degree of taste, and showed
the wearer was one who thought something of himself,
and meant to appear in such a manner as to claim attention
and respect from others. As they drew nearer he
ceased his whistling, and taking his horse by the bridle,

led him on one side of the road to allow the wagon to
pass more conveniently.

Zeb's steed stopped the moment he came opposite, as
if anticipating his young master's desire to learn the
route.

“Is this the direct road to the south parish?” inquired
Sidney, bowing to the stranger.

The man, raising his hat, returned the salutation, and
replied with a pleasant though inquisitive look, “No, it
is not the direct road, and you have come a little out of
your way; but you may get there by making a circuit.”

Zeb turned round and smiled.

“And which way must we go?” said the Englishman.

The farmer let go his horse and came up close to the
wagon.

“There are,” said he, “two ways which lead there,
but you will do best to take the first, turning to the left;
then go about fifteen or twenty rods and turn short round
by a guide-board, and that will bring you to Pleasant
Pond, and then the road is strait forward.”

“Yes, I shall know the way well enough, if I can
once reach the pond,” said Sidney, his eyes glistening
with emotion, “and the distance is not quite a mile.”

“Then you have been hereabouts before, I guess, sir?”
said the farmer, regarding him earnestly.

“Yes, I have,” replied Sidney; “but might not now
have found the way, without your direction. Good-bye,
sir.”

The farmer responded the farewell; Zeb snapped his
whip, and they set off.

The road, and a bad one too, for more than a mile led
through a thick wood. Frankford made many observations
on the state of the highways and the multitude of
forest trees growing in the uncultivated parts of America;
while Sidney's mind was occupied with the idea of the
approaching meeting with his family, and he scarcely
listened to the invectives of the Englishman against the
horrid roads, nor replied to the arguments he used to
prove the country would never be a pleasant place of

residence till it was better cultivated and more tastefully
adorned.

But soon, on turning the corner, the beautiful sheet
of water, called, significantly, “Pleasant Pond,” appeared,
expanding before them. Its surface, just dimpled by the
passing breeze, rose in trembling undulations; and as
the quivering water caught the last glow of the setting
sun, it shone, like Loch Katrine,

Beyond the lake or the pond, and near its eastern
edge, rose a high mountain, whose bold peak reflected
the light in strong contrast to the shadows that were
already gathering at its base. The mountain was clothed
nearly to its summit by a growth of evergreens, intermingled
with sumac and white birch; the straight, white
trunks of the latter, appearing through the dark green
of the firs and spruce, like pillars still standing, while
the edifice they had supported was overthrown. Common
willows and dwarf pines grew around the edge of
the pond, but the leaves of the former were nearly fled,
and the naked branches drooping over the water, looked
like the arm of age, still stretched to screen the loved
one from danger, although the strength that had made
such defense effectual, was withered.

The feelings of Sidney could no longer be restrained.
He started nearly upright, and extending his hand toward
the water, exclaimed:

“O, that I may find the hearts of my friends as unchanged
as the face of that lovely lake! Years have
made no alteration here—just so I have seen it look a
hundred and a hundred times. Here was my holiday
resort; fishing in the summer, and sliding in the winter.
And on that mountain—how many times have I rambled
over it in search of blueberries, or climbed on yonder
high peak and rolled down huge rocks, listening, as they
bounded thundering from crag to crag, till they fell
dashing in the waters below! Ah, those were blessed
times! But they are passed, and the change that has

come over me will forbid their return. The lake and
the mountain are beautiful and sublime as ever—the
blight of time falls only on the human heart.”

Zeb had reined in his steed, and was listening with
wondering attention to this burst of sentiment; but
Frankford, who really felt greatly fatigued, did not relish
it quite so well; and his voice was peevish as he inquired
how much farther they had to go.

“When we reach the top of yonder hill, we shall see
my father's house,” said Sidney, still keeping his eyes
fixed on the water.

“You are certainly more romantic than I imagined,
Romilly,” said the Englishman, “and this meeting with
your friends after so long a separation, will be a real
novel scene. I have a great mind to describe the
thing. Suppose I should write a book, and put the
speech you have just spoken in the mouth of some
hero returning from an expedition, or some saint from a
pilgrimage, or even a discarded lover from self banishment,
how apposite it would appear! And what answering
sympathy it would awaken in the bosoms of
my fair readers. Oh, that I possessed the skill of a
ready writer!”

“Perhaps it might do,” returned Sidney, smiling.
“I have often been told I had many traits of a novel
hero in my character, and an old sibyl once predicted
I would die for love. And so, if you wish to make
your tale truly pathetic, you must wait till that catastrophe
overtakes me.”

“Which will be shortly, I presume,” replied the
other. “You say New England is the native land of
female beauty; and some Dulcinea will soon ensnare
your susceptible heart. A lady's fair face must certainly
overpower you, if you are thus moved at the
face of a lake.”

They had now gained the height overlooking the
village, if it deserved that name, consisting of about a
dozen or so of dwelling houses, built on a street running
east and west, with a meeting-house, as it was

called, on a rise of ground at its angle with a road
from the south; the one by which Sidney should have
entered the village.

The tall steeple, whose spire was ornamented with a
fish (doing duty as a weathercock), that still reflected
the brightness of the western sky, looked like a sentinel
guarding the humble abodes beneath and around it, and
by the associations its sacred purposes inspired, served
as a memento to lift the gazer's thoughts to heaven.
What the fish was designed to represent, I am unable
to say; but from the known protestantism of the builders,
I presume it had not the most remote allusion to
St. Anthony, or his mission to the aquatic tribe.

“Which is your father's house?” said Frankford.

Sidney looked earnestly around.

“I do not recognize it,” replied he. “The road, or
the village, or both are altered. The church and half
the houses have been built since I left the village. I
cannot see a familiar object. Oh, yes, there is the
school-house; that was erected the year before I left
home. Do you know, Zeb, where Mr. Romilly resides?”

“Squire Romilly, you mean,” said the boy.

“Yes.”

“Well, I don't know exactly,” answered Zeb, “I
never was here but once, and that was to a muster, and
then there was so many folks I did'nt see any body.
But I guess it is pretty near that are store.”

“The store!” said Sidney—“there was no store there
when I left home. What an alteration a few years
will produce!”

“In such a new country,” replied Frankford, “and
where the number of inhabitants is doubled once in
fifteen or twenty years, there must, of necessity, be
great and rapid changes.”

“They don't double only once in twenty-five years,
sir,” said Zeb, looking up with an air of much self-complacency.

“And how should you know anything about statistics?”

said Frankford, regarding the boy with astonishment.

“I didn't read it in stactics, sir,” replied Zeb; “I
read it in our almanac.”

Both gentlemen laughed so heartily, that the boy,
abashed, hung his head, fearing he had said something
wrong; then brightening up as he saw an opportunity
of diverting the conversation. “Yonder,” said he,
“comes Harvey Romilly, now, riding on that are horse,”
pointing to a lad about his own age, on horseback, without
saddle or hat, and urging his spirited looking pony
to a full gallop.

As he drew nearer, the Englishman exclaimed, “He is
your relative, Romilly, without doubt. See, he is your
perfect miniature, and has your features exactly.”

And so he had, only his were blended with infantile
softness. His brown curling hair was flung back from
his fair forehead by the rushing wind that met his career;
the smile of rapture seemed issuing from his
parted lips; and his laughing eye and flushed cheek
completed a picture of innocent and wild delight, on
which even a misanthrope could not have gazed without
acknowledging there was a season when the children of
men are happy.

Before they met him, he had reached a small house
which was erected close by the road ride, and bounding
from his horse, he gave the bridle to a man who stood at
the door watching the approaching wagon, and then
turned himself to gaze on the strangers.

“Now,” whispered Frankford, “there is an excellent
opportunity, Romilly, for you to establish your favorite
doctrine of sympathy. Speak to that little fellow, and
see if his spirit will claim kindred with yours.”

“Can you inform me in which of those houses Mr.
Romilly resides?” inquired Sidney of the man who was
regarding him.

“He lives in that large yellow house, yonder,” replied
the man, pointing to a dwelling about a quarter of a mile

distant, “and here is a son of his just going home, who
can be your company.”

“Come into the carriage, my little man,” said Sidney,
extending his hand towards him. The boy hesitated,
and put his hand on his head; his countenance saying,
I feel the want of my hat. “Come, step in,” continued
Sidney, “here is plenty of room.”

The kindness of his voice and manner seemed to penetrate
the heart of the child; he bounded lightly in, but
then his bashfulness returned, and refusing the offer of
Sidney's knee, he took a seat on the side of the wagon.

No one, except him who has been long separated from
his near relatives, and who has felt the chill of unreciprocated
affection and that vacancy in the bosom which
nothing but the consciousness of kindred love can fill, is
competent to judge of the feelings of the elder brother,
while he fixed his admiring and tender gaze on the
sweet face of the little fellow now seated beside him.
How his soul yearned towards him, and how he longed
to clasp him to his heart and call him brother! But he
could not articulate a word, and taking his hand, pressed
it in silence.

“You are a fine boy,” said Frankford, who saw his
friend's emotion, and wished to divert it, “pray how old
are you?”

“Nine, sir, last June.”

“And how many brothers have you?” continued
Frankford.

“I have four, sir, Silas, and James, and Sam, and Oliver,”
answered the child.

“And have you no more?” asked Frankford.

“O! yes, sir, I've one more, Sidney; but he is in
Carolina, and I never saw him in my life.”

“Should you like to see him?” inquired the Englishman.

“O! yes, sir, indeed I should,” answered the child,
with emphasis; “and ma' says she knows he will come
home soon, and then we shall all be so glad! But there,
see Oliver now, after that old turkey!—he ha'nt catched

him yet, and he said he should before I got back. I
threw off my hat to chase him,”—and a flush passed over
his bright cheek, as if glad of an opportunity to apologize
for thus appearing bare-headed,—“but I'll help
catch him now.”

“And what are you intending to do with him?” asked
Sidney.

“Oh, kill him for dinner to-morrow. It will be Thanksgiving
day.” And he sprung from the wagon and joined
in the pursuit of the bird.

“We have come in an excellent time,” said Frankford.
“Now, I presume, the fatted calf will be killed as well
as the turkey. Don't you think, Romilly, the return of
the prodigal was on the eve of a Thanksgiving?”

“Shall I drive up to the back door?” inquired Zeb,
as they drove near the house.

“No,” replied Sidney, “we will alight here, and you
may now return, or you will be late home. I paid your
father,” he continued, and they alighted, “for our passage;
but here is something for your good behavior.”

“And here is a trifle,” said Frankford, “to buy you
an almanac for the ensuing year. Study it, and I have
no doubt but you will hereafter become a statesman.”

Zeb bowed and smiled his hearty thanks for the
money, or the compliments, then turning his wagon
with a long sweep, his horse seemed to know instinctively
the road homewards, and set off with a furious
clatter.