ill further proof of his confidence. One
morning, in response to a cautious whisper from the sailor, we stole
stealthily upon the after deck and saw that the Tragedian was, truly
enough, "settin' on an awnin'-pole pickin' hisself."

There was a dead tree on our Brandon shore-line. It stood among tall
pines and sweet gums and beeches as far up as they went, after that it
stood alone in the blue. We called it Old Lookout. A bald eagle used it
for a watch-tower. Lesser birds dared plume themselves up there when
the king was away: crows cawed and sidled along the smooth branches;
hawks and buzzards came on tippy wing and lighted there; and even
little birds perched pompously where the big eagle's claws had been.

But when the snowy head above the dark, square shoulders tipped Old
Lookout, the national emblem had it all to himself. Occasionally he
preened his feathers; but he did it in a bored, awkward way, as if
forced on account of his valet's absence into unfamiliar details of
toilet quite beneath his dignity. Now and then he would scream. It is
hard to believe that such a bird can have such a voice. He always lost
caste in our eyes when he had his little, choked-up penny whistle
going.

The attractions of harbour life did not keep us away from the old
manor-house. Once when Gadabout ran around to the river front, she
found a yacht from Philadelphia at the pier; and so passed on a little
way and cast anchor in a cove opposite the garden.

Few other notable houses in America, still used as homes, are the
objects of so many pilgrimages as the historic places on the James.
Indeed, few people but the hospitable Virginians would so frequently
and so courteously fling wide their doors to strangers.

When the yachting visitors were gone that day and we were at the old
home engrossed in the architecture of the Harrison colonial cradle,
there came the long blasts of the steamer Pocahontas blowing for the
Brandon landing. Not that she had any passengers or freight for Brandon
perhaps, or Brandon for her, but because all these river estates are
postoffices and the Pocahontas carries the river mail. After a
considerable time (for even the United States mail moves slowly through
the sleepy old garden), a coloured boy brought in a bag with most
promising knobs and bulges all over it.

The postoffice at Brandon is over in the south wing where there are
pigeon-holes and desks and such things. But the family mail is brought
into th