been committed, for
it must be acknowledged that the only indication that the grandfather
had come to his second childhood was, that, with his advancing years,
and as he approached the shadow of the other world, he seemed to have
lost all idea of the customary distinctions of rank and property, and
that very much like an old apostle, he was disposed to regard all men as
brethren, and boundary lines as of very little consequence.

He therefore promptly checked his son Oliver in his heat, and
discountenanced any further proceedings in the matter.

"Brundage," he said, "would, if he cared about him, come and take his
bull away when he was ready; we are all brethren, and have a common
country, Oliver," he added, "I hope you feel that in the West, as well
as we do here."

"Thank God, we have," Oliver rejoined with emphasis, "and we love it!"

"I thank God for that too," old Sylvester replied, striking his staff
firmly on the ground, "I remember well, my son, when your great state
was a wilderness of woods and savage men, and now this common sky--look
at it, Oliver--which shines so clearly above us, is yours as well as
ours."

"I fear me, father, one day, bright, beautiful, and wide-arched as it
is, the glorious Union may fall," said Oliver, laying his hand upon an
aged tree which stood near them, "may fall, and the states drop, one by
one away, even as the fruit I shake to the ground."

As though he had been a tower standing on an elevation, old Sylvester
Peabody rose aloft to his full height, as if he would clearly
contemplate the far past, the distant, and the broad-coming future.

"The Union fall!" he cried. "Look above, my son! The Union fall! as long
as the constellations of evening live together in yonder sky; look down,
as long as the great rivers of our land flow eastward and westward,
north and south, the Union shall stand up, and stand majestical and
bright, beheld by ages, as these shall be, an orb and living stream of
glory unsurpassable."

The children were gathered about, and watched with eager eyes and
glowing cheeks, the countenance of the grandfather as he spoke.

"No, no, my son," he added, "there's many a true heart in brave Ohio, as
in every state of ours, or they could not be the noble powers they are."

While old Sylvester spoke, Oliver Peabody wrenched with some violence,
from the tree near which they stood, a stout limb, on the end of which
he employed himself with a knife in shaping a sub