Former Inhabitants and Winter Visitors

tedoneanother,andheardandtoldthenews,andwenttheirwaysagain. Breed’shutwasstandingonlyadozenyearsago,thoughithadlongbeenunoccupied.Itwasaboutthesizeofmine.Itwassetonfirebymischievousboys,oneElectionnight,ifIdonotmistake.Ilivedontheedgeofthevillagethen,andhadjustlostmyselfoverDavenant’sGondibert,thatwinterthatIlaboredwithalethargy,—which,bytheway,Ineverknewwhethertoregardasafamilycomplaint,havinganunclewhogoestosleepshavinghimself,andisobligedtosproutpotatoesinacellarSundays,inordertokeepawakeandkeeptheSabbath,orastheconsequenceofmyattempttoreadChalmers’collectionofEnglishpoetrywithoutskipping.ItfairlyovercamemyNervii.Ihadjustsunkmyheadonthiswhenthebellsrungfire,andinhothastetheenginesrolledthatway,ledbyastragglingtroopofmenandboys,andIamongtheforemost,forIhadleapedthebrook.Wethoughtitwasfarsouthoverthewoods,—wewhohadruntofiresbefore,—barn,shop,ordwelling-house,oralltogether.“It’sBaker’sbarn,”criedone.“ItistheCodmanplace,”affirmedanother.Andthenfreshsparkswentupabovethewood,asiftherooffellin,andweallshouted“Concordtotherescue!”Wagonsshotpastwithfuriousspeedandcrushingloads,bearing,perchance,amongtherest,theagentoftheInsuranceCompany,whowasboundtogohoweverfarandeverandanontheenginebelltinkledbehind,moreslowandsureandrearmostofall,asitwasafterwardwhispered,cametheywhosetthefireandgavethealarm.Thuswekeptonliketrueidealists,rejectingtheevidenceofoursenses,untilataturnintheroadweheardthecracklingandactuallyfelttheheatofthefirefromoverthewall,andrealized,alas!thatwewerethere.Theverynearnessofthefirebutcooledourardor.Atfirstwethoughttothrowafrog-pondontoitbutconcludedtoletitburn,itwassofargoneandsoworthless.Sowestoodroundourengine,jostledoneanother,expressedoursentimentsthroughspeaking-trumpets,orinlowertonereferredtothegreatconflagrationswhichtheworldhaswitnessed,includingBascom’sshop,and,betweenourselves,wethoughtthat,werewethereinseasonwithour“tub,”andafullfrog-pondby,wecouldturnthatthreatenedlastanduniversaloneintoanotherflood.Wefinallyretreatedwithoutdoinganymischief,—returnedtosleepandGondibert.ButasforGondibert,Iwouldexceptthatpassageintheprefaceaboutwitbeingthesoul’spowder,—“butmostofmankindarestrangerstowit,asIndiansaretopowder.” ItchancedthatIwalkedthatwayacrossthefieldsthefollowingnight,aboutthesamehour,andhearingalowmoaningatthisspot,Idrewnearinthedark,anddiscoveredtheonlysurvivorofthefamilythatIknow,theheirofbothitsvirtuesanditsvices,whoalonewasinterestedinthisburning,lyingonhisstomachandlookingoverthecellarwallatthestillsmoulderingcindersbeneath,mutteringtohimself,asishiswont.Hehadbeenworkingfaroffintherivermeadowsallday,andhadimprovedthefirstmomentsthathecouldcallhisowntovisitthehomeofhisfathersandhisyouth.Hegazedintothecellarfromallsidesandpointsofviewbyturns,alwayslyingdowntoit,asiftherewassometreasure,whichheremembered,concealedbetweenthestones,wheretherewasabsolutelynothingbutaheapofbricksandashes.Thehousebeinggone,helookedatwhattherewasleft.Hewassoothedbythesympathywhichmymerepresenceimplied,andshowedme,aswellasthedarknesspermitted,wherethewellwascoveredupwhich,thankHeaven,couldneverbeburnedandhegropedlongaboutthewalltofindthewell-sweepwhichhisfatherhadcutandmounted,feelingfortheironhookorstaplebywhichaburdenhadbeenfastenedtotheheavyend,—allthathecouldnowclingto,—toconvincemethatitwasnocommon“rider.”Ifeltit,andstillremarkitalmostdailyinmywalks,forbyithangsthehistoryofafamily. Oncemore,ontheleft,whereareseenthewellandlilacbushesbythewall,inthenowopenfield,livedNuttingandLeGrosse.ButtoreturntowardLincoln. Fartherinthewoodsthananyofthese,wheretheroadapproachesnearesttothepond,Wymanthepottersquatted,andfurnishedhistownsmenwithearthenware,andleftdescendantstosucceedhim.Neitherweretheyrichinworldlygoods,holdingthelandbysufferancewhiletheylivedandthereoftenthesheriffcameinvaintocollectthetaxes,and“attachedachip,”forform’ssake,asIhavereadinhisaccounts,therebeingnothingelsethathecouldlayhishandson.Onedayinmidsummer,whenIwashoeing,amanwhowascarryingaloadofpotterytomarketstoppedhishorseagainstmyfieldandinquiredconcerningWymantheyounger.Hehadlongagoboughtapotter’swheelofhim,andwishedtoknowwhathadbecomeofhim.Ihadreadofthepotter’sclayandwheelinScripture,butithadneveroccurredtomethatthepotsweusewerenotsuchashadcomedownunbrokenfromthosedays,orgrownontreeslikegourdssomewhere,andIwasplea