aunt and
grand-uncle, who had been enjoying for some years a sequestered
retirement in the poorhouse at East Machias. They were indeed very
old. By what miracle, even as anatomical specimens, they had been
preserved during their long journey was a mystery to the camp. In some
respects they had superior memories and reminiscences. The old
man--Abner Trix--had shouldered a musket in the war of 1812; his wife,
Abigail, had seen Lady Washington. She could sing hymns; he knew every
text between "the leds" of a Bible. There is little doubt but that in
many respects, to the superficial and giddy crowd of youthful
spectators, they were the more interesting spectacle.

Whether it was jealousy, distrust, or timidity that overcame the
Saints, was never known, but they studiously declined to meet the
strangers. When directly approached upon the subject, Daddy Downey
pleaded illness, kept himself in close seclusion, and the Sunday that
the Trixes attended church in the school-house on the hill, the triumph
of the Trix party was mitigated by the fact that the Downeys were not
in their accustomed pew. "You bet that Daddy and Mammy is lying low
jest to ketch them old mummies yet," explained a Downeyite. For by
this time schism and division had crept into the camp; the younger and
later members of the settlement adhering to the Trixes, while the older
pioneers stood not only loyal to their own favorites, but even, in the
true spirit of partisanship, began to seek for a principle underlying
their personal feelings. "I tell ye what, boys," observed Sweetwater
Joe, "if this yer camp is goin' to be run by greenhorns, and old
pioneers, like Daddy and the rest of us, must take back seats, it's
time we emigrated and shoved out, and tuk Daddy with us. Why, they're
talkin' of rotation in offiss, and of putting that skeleton that Ma'am
Decker sets up at the table, to take her boarders' appetites away, into
the post-office in place o' Daddy." And, indeed, there were some fears
of such a conclusion; the newer men of Rough-and-Ready were in the
majority, and wielded a more than equal influence of wealth and outside
enterprise. "Frisco," as a Downeyite bitterly remarked, "already owned
half the town." The old friends that rallied around Daddy and Mammy
were, like most loyal friends in adversity, in bad case themselves, and
were beginning to look and act, it was observed, not unlike their old
favorites.

At this juncture Mammy died.