ar the canal. He said he felt pains in his interior, and
drank a jigger of whisky. Then he bought half-a-gallon of the same
remedy to take home with him. It was a cheap prescription, costing
only twelve and a half cents, but it proved very effective. Old Belz
put the stuff into an earthenware bottle, which he corked with a
corncob. Michael started for home by the zigzag path which led up
the steep limestone bluff, but his steps were slow and unsteady; he
sat down on a rock, and took another dose out of his bottle. He
never went any further of his own motion, and we buried him next day.
We were of different opinions about the cause of his death; some
thought it was the cholera, others the pangs of conscience, some the
whisky, and others a mixture of all three; at any rate, he died
without speaking to the priest.

Next day another neighbour died, Mr. Harrigan. He had lost one arm,
but with the other he wrote a good hand, and registered deeds in the
County Court. I called to see him. He was in bed lying on his back,
his one arm outside the coverlet, his heaving chest was bare, and his
face was ghastly pale. There were six men in the room, one of whom
said:

"Do you know me, Mr. Harrigan?"

"Sure, divil a dog in Lockport but knows you, Barney," said the dying man.

Barney lived in Lockport, and in an audible whisper said to us: "Ain't
he getting on finely? He'll be all right again to-morrow, please
God."

"And didn't the doctor say I'd be dead before twelve this day?"
asked Harrigan.

I looked at the clock on the mantelshelf. It was past ten. He died
an hour later.

One day the young man from Vermont rose from his seat and looked at
me across the schoolroom. I thought he was going to say something.
He took down his hat, went to the door, turned and looked at me
again, but he did not speak or make any sign. Next morning his place
was vacant, and I asked one of the boys if he had seen the young man.
The boy said:

"He ain't a-coming to school no more, I calkilate. He was buried
this morning before school hours."

That year, '49 was a dismal year in Joliet.

Mr. Rogers, one of the school managers, came and sat on a bench near
the door. He was a New Englander, a carpenter, round-shouldered,
tall and bony. He said:

"I called in to tell you that I can't vote for appinting you to this
school next term. Fact is the ladies are dead against you; don't see
you at meeting on the Sabbath; say you go