-ar-ding,"

sang Tom quaveringly, as he hid his head in a paroxysm of fear.

"Well, there ain't no bloomin' gardings to walk in jest now, so come
along and be peaceable."

"Tom don' want to go to the poor-farm," he wailed piteously.

But there was no alternative. They dragged him off the bed and down the
ladder as gently as possible; then Rube Hobson held him on the back seat
of the wagon, while the sheriff unhitched the horse. As they were on
the point of starting, the captive began to wail and struggle more than
ever, the burden of his plaint being a wild and tremulous plea for his
pail of molasses.

"Dry up, old softy, or I'll put the buggy robe over your head!" muttered
Rube Hobson, who had not had much patience when he started on the trip,
and had lost it all by this time.

"By thunder! he shall hev his molasses, if he thinks he wants it!" said
Pitt Packard, and he ran up the ladder and brought it down, comforting
the shivering creature thus, for he lapsed into a submissive silence
that lasted until the unwelcome journey was over.

Tom remained at the poorhouse precisely twelve hours. It did not enter
the minds of the authorities that any one so fortunate as to be admitted
into that happy haven would decline to stay there. The unwilling guest
disappeared early on the morrow of his arrival, and, after some search,
they followed him to the old spot. He had climbed into his beloved
retreat, and, having learned nothing from experience, had mended the
willow door as best he could, and laid him down in peace. They dragged
him out again, and this time more impatiently; for it was exasperating
to see a man (even if he were a fool) fight against a bed and three
meals a day.

The second attempt was little more successful than the first. As a
place of residence, the poor-farm did not seem any more desirable or
attractive on near acquaintance than it did at long range. Tom remained
a week, because he was kept in close confinement; but when they judged
that he was weaned from his old home, they loosed his bonds, and--back
to the plains he sped, like an arrow shot from the bow, or like a bit of
iron leaping to the magnet.

What should be done with him?

Public opinion was divided. Some people declared that the village had
done its duty, and if the "dog-goned lunk-head" wanted to starve
and freeze, it was his funeral, not theirs. Others thought that
the community had no resource but to bear the responsibility of its