stantial knob.

"What weapon is that you are busy with, Oliver?" old Sylvester asked.

"It's for that nasty bull," Oliver replied. "I would break every bone in
his body rather than let him remain for a single minute on my land; the
furtherance of law and order demands the instant enforcement of one's
rights."

"You are a friend of law and order, my son."

"I think I am," Oliver answered, standing erect and planting his club,
in the manner of Hercules in the pictures, head down on the ground.

"I hope you are, Oliver; but I fear you forget the story I used to tell
of my old friend Bulkley, of Danbury, who, being written to by some
neighboring Christians who were in sore dissension, for advisement, gave
them back word:--Every man to look after his own fence, that it be built
high and strong, and to have a special care of the old Black Bull;
meaning thereby no doubt, our own wicked passions;--that is the true
Christian way of securing peace and good order."

Oliver threw his great trespass-club upon the ground, and was on the
point of asking after an old sycamore, the largest growth of all that
country, which, standing in a remote field had, in the perilous times
sheltered many of the Peabody family in its bosom--when he was
interrupted by the sudden appearance of Mopsey in a flutter of
cap-strings, shuffling shoes, and a flying color in her looks of at
least double the usual depth of darkness. It was just discovered that
the poultry-house had been broken into over night, and four of the
fattest hens taken off by the throat and legs, besides sundry of the
inferior members of the domicile; as wicked a theft, Mopsey said, as
ever was, and she hadn't the slightest hesitation in charging it on them
niggers in the Hills, (a neighboring settlement of colored people, who
lived from hand to mouth, and seemed to be fed, like the ravens by some
mystery of providence.)

Oliver Peabody watched closely the countenance of the patriarch, not a
little curious to learn what effect this announcement would have upon
his temper.

"This is all our own fault," said old Sylvester, promptly. "We should
have remembered this was thanksgiving time, and sent them something to
stay their stomachs. Poor creatures, I always wondered how they got
along! Send 'em some bread, Mopsey, for they never can do anything with
fowls without bread!"

"Send 'em some bread!" Mopsey rejoined, growing blacker and more ugly of
look as she spoke: "Send 'em whi