had migrated down to Heidelberg from Antwerp.

Through some strange freak of atavism the father of the boy bred back,
and was more or less of a Stone-Age cave-dweller. He was a butcher by
trade, in the little town of Waldorf, a few miles from Heidelberg. A
butcher's business then was to travel around and kill the pet pig, or
sheep, or cow that the tender-hearted owners dare not harm. The butcher
was a pariah, a sort of unofficial, industrial hangman.

At the same time he was more or less of a genius, for he climbed
steeples, dug wells, and did all kinds of disagreeable jobs that needed
to be done, and from which cautious men shrank like unwashed wool.

One such man--a German, too--lives in East Aurora. I joined him in
walking along a country road, the other day. He carried a big basket on
his arm, and was peacefully smoking a big Dutch pipe. We talked of music
and he was regretting the decline of a taste for Bach, when he happened
to shift the basket to the other arm. "What have you there?" I asked.

And here is the answer: "Oh, noddings--noddings but dynamite. I vas
going up on der hill to blow me some stumps oud." And I suddenly
bethought me of an engagement at the village.

* * * * *

John Jacob Astor was the youngest of four sons, and as many daughters.
The brothers ran away early in life, and went to sea or joined the army.
One of these boys came to America, and followed his father's trade of
butcher.

Jacob Astor, the happy father of John Jacob, used to take the boy with
him on his pig-killing expeditions--this for two reasons: one, so the
lad would learn a trade, and the other to make sure that the boy did not
run away.

Parents who hold their children by force have a very slender claim upon
them. The pastor of the local Lutheran Church took pity on this boy who
had such disgust for his father's trade, and hired him to work in his
garden and run errands. The intelligence and alertness of the lad made
him look like good timber for a minister.

He learned to read, and was duly confirmed as a member of the church.
Under the kindly care of the village parson John Jacob grew in mind and
body--his estate was to come later. When he was seventeen, his father
came and made a formal demand for his services. The young man must take
up his father's work of butchering. That night John Jacob walked out of
Waldorf by the wan light of the moon, headed for Antwerp. He carried a
big red h