iver.

Whereupon Raish Dunnell steadied himself with his pick and taking a
hatchet from his belt, cut a rude letter "L" on the side of the stranded
log.

"L's for Lucindy," he laughed. "Now you log if you git's fur as Saco,
drop in to my wife's folks and tell 'em the baby's name."

There had not been such a freshet for years before, and there had never
been one since; so, as the quiet seasons went by, "Lucindy's log" was
left in peace, the columbines blooming all about it, the harebells
hanging their heads of delicate blue among the rocks that held it in
place, the birds building their nests in the knot-holes of its withered
side.

Seventy years had passed, and on each birthday, from the time when she
was only "Raish Dunnell's little Lou," to the years when she was Lucinda
Bascom, wife and mother, she had wandered down by the river side, and
gazed, a little superstitiously perhaps, on the log that had been marked
with an "L" on the morning she was born. It had stood the wear and tear
of the elements bravely, but now it was beginning, like Lucinda, to show
its age. Its back was bent, like hers; its face was seamed and wrinkled,
like her own; and the village lovers who looked at it from the opposite
bank wondered if, after all, it would hold out as long as "old Mis'
Bascom."

She held out bravely, old Mrs. Bascom, though she was "all skin, bones,
and tongue," as the neighbors said; for nobody needed to go into the
Bascoms' to brighten up aunt Lucinda a bit, or take her the news; one
went in to get a bit of brightness, and to hear the news.

"I should get lonesome, I s'pose," she was wont to say, "if it wa'n't
for the way this house is set, and this chair, and this winder, 'n' all.
Men folks used to build some o' the houses up in a lane, or turn 'em
back or side to the road, so the women folks couldn't see anythin' to
keep their minds off their churnin' or dish-washin'; but Aaron Dunnell
hed somethin' else to think about, 'n' that was himself, first, last,
and all the time. His store was down to bottom of the hill, 'n' when he
come up to his meals, he used to set where he could see the door; 'n'
if any cust'mer come, he could call to 'em to wait a spell till he got
through eatin'. Land! I can hear him now, yellin' to 'em, with his mouth
full of victuals! They hed to wait till he got good 'n' ready, too.
There wa'n't so much comp'tition in business then as there is now, or
he'd 'a' hed to give up eatin' or hire a cle