back in the days of his youth, middling
manhood and prosperity. He had ridden the country in the Campbellite
faith, bringing hundreds into the fold, with a voice as big as a bull's,
and a long beard, which he wore buttoned under his vest in winter. And
now in his speechlessness, darkness, and silence, he still preached in
his way, carving out the beast with seven heads and ten horns, and
female figures of hideous mien, the signification of which nobody
rightly knew.

Uncle John had a little slate upon which he wrote his wants, but nobody
had discovered any way of communicating with him save by taking his hand
and guiding it to the object for which he had asked. For a long time he
had written the one word "Paint" on his slate. That was the beginning of
his use of it, when one word was all that he could get on a side of it
at a time. After his fingers had become sensitive through his new art of
whittling and feeling, he improved his writing, until he made it plain
that he wanted paint to adorn his carved figures, so they could be
sold.

It was the hope of the poor old soul that he could whittle himself out
of the poorhouse, and live free and independent upon the grotesque
productions of his knife, if they would give him paint to make them
attractive, and thus get a start. He did not know how fantastic and
ridiculous they were, having only his own touch to guide him to judgment
of their merits.

Perhaps he was no less reasonable in this belief than certain painters,
musicians, and writers, who place their own blind value upon the craft
of their hands and brains, and will not set them aside for any jury that
the world can impanel.

Uncle John never came to realize his hopes of freedom, any more than he
ever came to realize the uselessness of paint for his angels when he had
no eyes for applying it. He whittled on, in melancholy dejection, ring
upon ring in his endless chains of rings, forging in bitter irony the
emblems of bondage, when his old heart so longed to be free.

It was a bright day in the life of Uncle John Owens, then, when Ollie's
lawyer called at the poorhouse and placed under his hands some slender
slips of cardboard bearing raised letters, the A B C of his age.

His bearded old face shone like a window in which a light has been
struck as his fluttering fingers ran over the letters. He fumbled
excitedly for his slate which hung about his neck, and his hand trembled
as he wrote:

"More--book--more."