ngs and small wood on
the hearth and lighted a blaze, just to induce a little trade and start
conversation on what threatened to be a dull evening. Peter Morrill,
Jed's eldest brother, had lately returned from a long trip through the
state and into New Hampshire, and his adventures by field and flood were
always worth listening to. He went about the country mending clocks, and
many an old time-piece still bears his name, with the date of repairing,
written in pencil on the inside of its door.

There was never any lack of subjects at the brick store, the
idiosyncrasies of the neighbors being the most prolific source of
anecdote and comment. Of scandal about women there was little, though
there would be occasional harmless pleasantries concerning village love
affairs; prophecies of what couple would be next "published" in the
black-walnut frame up at the meeting-house; a genial comment on the
number and chances of Patience Baxter's various beaux; and whenever all
else failed, the latest story of Deacon Baxter's parsimony, in which the
village traced the influence of heredity.

"He can't hardly help it, inheritin' it on both sides," was Abel Day's
opinion. "The Baxters was allers snug, from time 'memorial, and Foxy's
the snuggest of 'em. When I look at his ugly mug an' hear his snarlin'
voice, I thinks to myself, he's goin' the same way his father did. When
old Levi Baxter was left a widder-man in that house o' his'n up river,
he grew wuss an' wuss, if you remember, till he wa'n't hardly human
at the last; and I don't believe Foxy even went up to his own father's
funeral."

"'T would 'a' served old Levi right if nobody else had gone," said Rish
Bixby. "When his wife died he refused to come into the house till the
last minute. He stayed to work in the barn until all the folks had
assembled, and even the men were all settin' down on benches in the
kitchen. The parson sent me out for him, and I'm blest if the old skunk
didn't come in through the crowd with his sleeves rolled up,--went to
the sink and washed, and then set down in the room where the coffin was,
as cool as a cowcumber."

"I remember that funeral well," corroborated Abel Day. "An' Mis' Day
heerd Levi say to his daughter, as soon as they'd put poor old Mrs.
Baxter int' the grave: 'Come on, Marthy; there 's no use cryin' over
spilt milk; we'd better go home an' husk out the rest o' that corn.'
Old Foxy could have inherited plenty o' meanness from his father, th