Newspaper Page Text
$ TRe Light
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▲ Tate of tha North
Country in the Time
qf Silas Wright
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IRVING BACHELLER
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(Copyright, 1917, Intel BacheUw)
' :n» 8YNOP8I8.
CHAPTER I—Barton Baynea, undo, Peabody orphan,
l takan to livo with bla
.ynto, and his Aunt Dost on a farm on
httloroad in a neighborhood called Llck
epHt. about the year 1*2«. Barton meets
lly Dunkelberv, about his own age, but
dally i of a class abovs the pretty Bayneses,
Is fascinated by the face
d Has clothes.
CHAPTER II—Barton the neighborhood meets Roving
Hate, “Silent known Woman.” In Amos Grimshew, as the
of the young
atm the richest man in township,
M a visitor Kate at the Baynea home, of the ana
hoy*, Bovins predicting telle the bright fortunes future for Bar- two
and a for Amo#.
Son death on the gallows
Barton Reproved for an act Intending of boyish to make mischief hla
rune away,
some village with the Dunkelberga. fall* He reaches
tbs' of Canton and Into a
sleep of exhaustion on a porch. There
he Is fount In by public SUM affairs, Wright, who, Jr., knowing promi¬
nent man
Peabody buying Baynes, him takes clothes. Barton boms af¬
ter new
CHAPTER 1H—Barton and hla uncle
and Wright aunt visit Canton and hear Bliss
read a sermon.
CHAPTER IV—Silas Wright evinces
much Interest In Barton, and sends a box
et home. books and masasines to the Baynea
the United The ejection of Bliss Wright to
States senate is announced.
CHAPTER V—When Barton la twelve
years istence old ho becomes aware of the ex¬
of a wonderful “Money,*’ and mysterious
how, power through known as and learns
hts possession of that won¬
derful thing Grimshew Is the most power¬
ful and greatly dreaded man In the com¬
debt munity, After most of visit the settlers the Baynes being In home hie
a to
Mr. Wright leaves a note in a seated en¬
velope. first night which whan Barton he leaves is to home read on the
school. to at¬
tend
CHAPTER VI—Barton Is asked to
firlvs a load to mill, arrives safely, hut
tn th*, a snowstorm, unable to see the road,
horses got into the ditch and a
wheel of the wagon to broken. Ufcclo
enough Peabody manages satisfy Grlmehaw to get together
to and obtain
an extension.
year CHAPTER Barton VH—Now in “Mr. kls sixteenth Purvis,"
the hired accompanies to the postofflee at Can¬
ton. On th# man, they rider, and
the three tourney way meet a They
held bp.a with together. who ore
the up highwayman’s man a gun, makes
demand of “Tour
fora he can use it tha robber shoota and
ktlla him. Barton’a horae throws him
and runs th* away. As tha murderer bends
over stranger Barton throws a atone
which ha observes wounds tha thief, who
s akos off that at once, but not until Barton
ed noted his gun stock was broken
neighborhood a peculiar manner. Search of the
for the Is buiiad. robber is unavailing
and the stranger
CHAPTER VIII-Barton loaves homo to
attend Michael Hacket’s school. with Amo*
Crtmshaw is arrested charged the
murder of the stranger.
CHAPTER IX—Grimshew seeks to
bribe Barton to ho silent about hla
wounding the road. the The murderer offer of spurned. the man killed
an Is
CHAPTER X—Emissaries of Ben Grlm¬
ehaw seek to kidnap <r Barton, or do worse.
He Is warned by Silent Kate,” and
espea
CHAPTER XI—Uncle celebrated Peabody, Aunt
Doe! and the neighbors Christ¬
mas. "Old Kate" la one of the party.
CHAPTER XII—Barton and Sally Dun
kelberc formally pledge their troth.
CHAPTER Xlll-Old Kate’s silent but
unrelenting its pursuit of Old Ben Grfmshaw
has effect, and goaded beyond endur¬
ance, Grimshew dies as tha “Silent Wom¬
an" points at him.
CHAPTER XIV—Barton gets a letter
riot" "Roving Kate” wbleh heartens him
doesn’t Immensely, although It at the time he
understand
CHAPTER XV—Barton move* from
boyhood Into manhood, and chooses hla
own road.
CHAPTER XVI—He meets the mother
•f fillae Wright and learns th# story of
Kata Fullerton, “Wandering Kate.”
*Tve been wallerln’ since the dew
was off gtttin’ them berries an’ vi’
lets—ayes 1” said Aunt Deel, now busy
With her work at the stove.
“Aunt, you look sb young as ever,” I
remarked.
She slapped my arm and said with
nock severity:
nave enjoyed. My faith In Sally wav
ered up and down until It settled at
Its wonted level and reassured me.
It was a perfect summer morning
and I enjoyed my walk over the famil¬
iar road and up Into the hill country.
The birds seemed to sing a welcome
to me. Men and boys I had known
waved their hats in the hayfields and
looked at me. There are few pleas¬
ures In this world like that of a boy
getting home after a long absence.
My heart beat fast when I saw the
house and my uncle and Purvis coming
In from the twenty-acre lot with a
load of hay. Annt Deel stood on
front steps looking down the road.
Now and then her waving handker
chief went to her eyes. Uncle Pea¬
body came down the standard off hia
load and walked toward me.
“Say, stranger, have you seen any¬
thing of a feller by the name o’ Bart
Baynes?” he demanded.
“Have you?” I asked.
“No, sir, I ain’t Gosh a’mightyl
Bay! what have ye done with that boy
ft our’n?”
“What have you done to our house?”
I asked again. 1 ■
"Built on an addition.”
“That’s what I’ve done to your boy,"
I answered.
"Thunder an’ llghtnln’ l How you’ve
raised the roof!” he exclaimed as be
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“Thunder an* Ughtnin’l How You’ve
Raised the Roof 1"
grabbed my satchel. Dressed like a
statesman an’ blgger’n a bullmoose.
I can’t 'rastle with you no more. But,
say, I’ll yun ye a race, I can beat ye
as’ carry the satchel, too."
We ran pell-mell up the lane to the
steps like a pair of children, t
Annt Deel did not speak. She just
put her arms around me and laid her
dear old head upon my breast Uncle
Peabody turned away. Then what a
silence I Off in the edge of the wood¬
land I heard the fairy flute of a wood
thrush.
"Purvis, you drive that load on the
floor an’ put up the hosses,” Uncle
Peabody shouted In a moment “If
you don’t like it you can hire 'nother
man. I won’t do no more till after
dinner. This slave business Is played
out”
“All right” Purvis answered.
“Yon bet It’s all right I’m fer abo¬
lition an* I've stood your domineerin’,
nigger-driver ways long enough fer
one mornln’. If yon don’t like it yon
can look for another man.”
Annt Deel and I began to langh at
this good-natured, make-believe scold¬
ing of Uncle Peabody and the emo¬
tional strain was over. They led me
into the honse, where a delightful sur¬
prise awaited me, for the rooms had
been decorated with balsam boughs
and sweet ferns. A glowing mass of
violets, framed In moss, occupied the
center of the table. The honse was
filled with the odors of the forest,
which, as they knew, were dear to me.
I had written that they might expect
me some time before noon, but I
begged them not to meet me in Can¬
ton, as I wished to walk home after
my long ride. So they were ready for
me.
I remember how they felt the cloth
on my back and how proudly they sur¬
veyed it.
"Couldn’t buy them goods ’round
these parts,” said Uncle Peabody.
“Nor nothin’ like ’em—no, sir.”
“Feels a leetle bit like the butternut
trousers,” said Aunt Deel as she felt
my coat.
“Ayes, but them butternut trousers
ain’t what they used to be when they
was young and limber,” Uncle Peabody
remarked. “Seems so they was get
tin’ kind o’ wrinkled an’ baldheaded
iike, ’specially where I set down.”
“Ayes! Wal I guess a man can’t
grow old without his pants growin’
old, too—ayes t” said Aunt Deel.
“If yer legs are In ’em ev’ry Sunday
they ketch it of ye,” my uncle an¬
swered. “Long sermons are hard on
pants, seems .tp me.”
"Stop that! Wyl You know better
yes!”
How vigorously she stirred the fire
then.
"I can’t return the compliment—my
soul! how you’ve changed—ayes!” she
remarked.
“I hope you ain’t fit no more, Bart
2 can’t bear to think o’ you flytn’ at
folks an’ poundin’ of ’em. Don’t seem
right—no, it don’t!”
"Why, Aunt Deel, what In the world
do you mean?” I asked.
"It’s Purvis’ brain that does the
poundin’, I guess,” said my uncle.
"It’s kind o’ grot the habit. It’s a reg’
lar beetle brain. To hear him talk
ye’d think he an’ you could clean out
the hull Mexican nation—barin’ acci¬
dents. Why, anybody would suppose
that yer enemies go to climbin’ trees
as soon as they see ye cornin’ an’ that
you pull the trees up by the roots to
git at ’em.”
“A certain amount of such deviltry
is necessary to the comfort of Mr.
Purvis,” I remarked. “If there is no¬
body else to take the responsibility
for It he assumes it himself. His imag¬
1 *“ at, ° n ha8 an inteasc cravln « for .
b ’ ood nnd v ‘ , 0,enc€ ’ s tbat type of
American , who, egged on by the slave
hurrying us into trouble
w tfl Mexico - ’
Purvis came in presently with a
look in his face which betrayed his
knowledge of the fact that all the cob¬
webs spun by his fancy were now to
be brushed away. Still he enjoyed
them while they lasted and there was
a kind of tacit claim in his manner
that the J were subjects regarding
which no honest man could be expect
i 6(1 t0 tel1 the truth.
As we ate our dinner they told me
.
> that an escaped slave had come Into
a neighboriing county and excited the
people with stories of the auction
| block and of negroes driven like yoked
oxen on plantations in South Carolina,
whence he had escaped on a steam
boat. _ ________
. "T blleve rm goln’ to rote for abo¬
lition,” mid Uncle Peabody. 1 won¬
der what Bile Wright will any to that”
- “He’ll probably advice against It; the
time isn’t ripe for ao great a change,”
was my answer. “He thinks that the
whole matter Should be left to the gla¬
cial action of time’s forces."
Indeed I had spoken the flew of
the sounder men of the North. The
subject Ailed them with dread alarm.
But the attitude of Uncle Peabody
wae significant The sentiment in fa¬
vor of a change was growing. , It was
now to be reckoned with, for the abo¬
lition party was said to hold the bal¬
ance of power in New York and New
England and was behaving itself like
a bull in a china shop.
After dinner I tried to put on some
of my old clothes, but found that my
nakedness had so expanded that they
would not cover it «o I hitched my
white mare on the spring wagon and
drove to the village for my trunk.
Every week day after that I worked
In the fields until the senator arrived
in Canton about the middle of August
On one of those happy days I received
a letter from old Kate, dated, to my
surprise, in Saratoga. It said:
"Dear Barton Baynes: I thought I
would let you know that my father is
dead. I have come here to rest and
have found some work to do. I am bet
terlnow. Have seen Sally. She Is very
beautiful and kind. She does not know
that I am the old witch, I have changed
so. The others do not know—it la
better that way. I think It was the
Lord that brought me here. He has a
way of taking care of some people,
my boy. Do you remember when I be¬
gan to call you my boy—you were very
little. It is long, long ago since I first
saw you In your father’s dooryard—
you said you were going to mill on a
butterfly’s back. You looked Just as I
thought nay boy would look. You gave
me a kiss. What a wonderful gift It
was te me then I I began to love you,
I have no one else to think of now. 1
hope you won’t mind my thinking so
much of you.
“God bless you,
"KATE FULLERTON *
I understood now why the strong
will and singular insight of this wom¬
an had so often exercised themselves
in my behalf. I could not remember
the far day and the happy circum
stance of which she spoke, but I wrote
her a letter which must have warmed
her heart I am sure.
Silas Wright arrived In Canton and
drove up to our home. He reached
our door at eight in the morning with
his hound and rifle. He had aged rap¬
idly since I had seen him last His
hair was almost white. There were
many new lines in his face. He
seemed more grave and dignified. He
dhl not lapse into the dialect of his
fathers when he spoke of the ancient
pastimes of hunting and fishing as he
had been wont to do.
“Bart” he said when the greetings
were over, “let’s yon and me go and
Spend a day in the woods. Ill leave
my naan here to help your uncle while
gone.”
went by driving south a few
miles and tramping in to the foot of
the Stillwater on our river—a trail
long familiar to me. The dog left us
soon after we took it and began to
range over thick wooded hills. We sat
down among small, spirelike spruces
at the river's efige with a long stretch
of water In sight while the music of
the hound’s voice came faintly to our
ears from the distant forest
“Oh, I’ve been dreaming of this for
a long time,” said the senator as he
leaned back against a tree and filled
his lungs and looked out upon the wa¬
ter, green with lily pads along the
edge and flecked with the last of the
white blossoms. “I believe you want
to leave this lovely country.”
“I am waiting for the call to go,”
Isald.
“Well, I’m Inclined to think you are
the kind of man who ought to go,” he
answered almost sadly. ‘You are
needed. I have been waiting until we
should meet to congratulate you on
your behavior at Cobleskill. I think
you have the right spirit—that is the
all-important matter, You will eu
counter strange company in the game
of politics. Let me tell you a story.”
He told me many stories of his life
in Washington, Interrupted by a sound
like that of approaching footsteps. We
ceased talking and presently a flock
of partridges came near us, pacing
along over the mat of leaves In a lei¬
surely fashion. We sat perfectly still.
A young cock bird with his beautiful
ruff standing out, like the hair on the
back of a frightened dog, strode
toward us with a comic threat in his
manner, It seemed as if he were of
■half a mind to knock us into the river.
But we sat as still as stumps and he
spared us and went o'n with the others.
The baying of the hound was nearer
now. Suddenly we saw a big buck
come down to the shore of the cove
near us and on our side of the stream.
He looked to right and left. Then he
made a long leap into the water and
waded slowly until it covered him. He
raised his nose and laid his antlers
back over his shoulders and swam
quietly downstream, his nose just
showing above tbe water. His antlers
were like a bit of driftwood. If we
had not seen him take the water his
antlers might easily have passed for
a bunch of dead sticks. Soon the buck
slowly lifted his head and turned his
neck and looked at both shores. Then
very deliberately he resumed his place
under water and went on. We watched
him as he took the farther shore be¬
low us and made off In the woods
again.
“I couldn’t shoot at him, It was such
a beautiful bit of politics,” said the
senator.
Soon the hound reached the cove’s
ndaa. and swum the fiver aud ranged
op' sadd^wnthe bank tor half an
hoar before he found the backs trail
again.
"I’ve seen many a rascal, driven to
water by the hounds, go swimming
awsy as slyly as that buck, with their
borne in the air, looking aa Innocent
as a bit of driftwood, They come In
from both shores—the Whig and the
Democratic—and they are always shot
at from one bank or the other.”
I remember It surprised me a little
to hear him say that they came in
from both shores.
"Just what do you want to dor ho
asked presently.
“I should like to go down to Wash¬
ington with you and help jrou In any
way that I can.”
“All right, partner—we’ll try it,” he
answered gravely. “I hope that I don’t
forget and work you as hard as I work
myself. It wouldn't be decent. I have
a great many letters to write. Til try
thinking out loud while you take them
down In sound-hand. Then you can
diraft them neatly and PU sign them.
You have tact and good manners and
can do many of my errands for me and
save me from those who have no good
reason for taking up my time.”
"You will meet the best people and
the wont. There’s Just a chance that
It may come to something worth while
—who knows? You are young yet It
will be good training and you will wit¬
ness the making of some history now
and then.”
What elation I feltt
Again the voice of the hound, which
bad been ringing in the distant hills,
was coming nearer.
“We must keep watch—another deer
is coming,” said the senator.
We had only a moment’s watch be¬
fore a fine yearling buck came down
to the opposite shore and stood look¬
ing across the river. The* senator
raised his rifle and fired. The buck
fell in the edge of the water.
“How shall we get him?” my friend
asked.
“It will not be difficult,” I answered
as I began to undress. Nothing was
difficult those days.
L swam the river and towed the
buck across with a beech withe in his
gambrel Joints. The hound Joined me
before J was half across with my bur¬
den and nosed the carcass and swam
on ahead yelping with delight.
Wo dressed the deer and then I
had the great Joy of carrrying him
on my back two mNes across the coun¬
try to the wagon. The senator wished
to send a guide for the deer, but I in¬
sisted that the carrying was my privi¬
lege.
“Well, I guess your big thighs and
broad shoulders can stand it,” said he.
“My uncle has always said that no
man could be called a hunter until he
can go into the woods without a guide
and kill a deer and bring it ont on
his back. I want to be able to testify
that I am at least partly qualified.”
"Your uncle didn’t say anything
about the deer
river without a boat, did he?” Mr.
Wright asked me with a smile.
1 Leaves of the beeches, maples and
basswoods—yellowed by frost—bung
like tiny lanterns, glowing with noon¬
day light, above the dim forest aisle
which we traveled.
The sun was down when we got to
the clearing.
“What a day it has been!” said Mr.
Wright when we were seated in the
wagon.
“One of the best in my life,” I an¬
swered with a joy in my heart the like
of which I have rarely known in these
many years that have come to me.
We rode on in silence with the calls
of the swamp robin and the hermit
thrush ringing in our ears as the night
fell.
“It’s a good time to think, and there
we take different roods,” said my
friend. “You will turn into the futnre
and I into the past.”
Tve been thinking about your
uncle,” he said by and by. “He is one
of the greatest men I have ever known.
You knew of that foolish gossip abopt
him—didn’t you?”
“Yes," I answered. ‘ a
“Well, npw, he’s gone about his busi¬
ness the same as ever and showed by
his life that it couldn’t be true. Not a
word out of him! But Dave Ramsey
fell sick—down on the flat last winter.
By and by his children were crying for
bread and the poormaster was going
to take chflrge of them. Well, who
should turn up there, Just in the nick
of time, but Delia and Peabody
Baynes. They fed those children all
winter and kept them In clothes so
that they could go to school. The
strange thing about it is this: It was
Dave Ramsey who really started that
story. He got up in church the other
night and confessed his crime. Bds
conscience wouldn’t let him keep it.
He said that he had not seen Peabody
Baynes on that road the day the
money was lost but had only heard
that he was there. He knew now that
he couldn’t have been there. Gosh
t’almighty! as your uncle used to
say when there was nothing else to be
said.”
It touched me to the soul—this long
delayed vindication of my beloved
Uncle Peabody.
The senator ate supper with us and
sent his hired man out for his horse
and buggy. When he had put on his
overcoat and was about to go ho
turned to my uncle and said:
“Peabody Baynes, 'if I have had any
success in the world it is because I
have had the exalted honor and con¬
sciousness that I represented men like
you.”
He left us and we sat down by the
glowing candles. Soon I told them what
Ramsey had done. There was a mo¬
ment of silence. Uncle Peabody rose
and went to the water pail for a drink.
“Bart, I believe I'll plant corn on
that ten-aree lot next spri ng— darned
If X ***," to saia ar m mw*
hla chair.
None of us ever spoke of the
•gain, to my knowledge.
(Continued).
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