the two were fast friends. One day, when Will was visiting at Eugene's
house, the boys introduced themselves to a barrel of hard cider.
Temperance sentiment had not progressed far enough to bring hard cider
under the ban, and Mr. Hathaway had lately pressed out a quantity of the
old-fashioned beverage. The boys, supposing it a harmless drink, took
all they desired--much more than they could carry. They were in a
deplorable condition when Mr. Hathaway found them; and much distressed,
the good old man put Eugene to bed and brought Will home.

The family hero returned to us with a flourish of trumpets. He stood up
in the wagon and sang and shouted; and when Mr. Hathaway reproved him,
"Don't talk to me," was his lofty rejoinder. "You forget that I am to be
President of the United States."

There is compensation for everything. Will never touched cider again;
and never again could he lord it over his still admiring but no longer
docile sisters. If he undertook to boss or tease us more than to our
fancy, we would subdue him with an imitation of his grandiloquent,
"You forget that I am to be President of the United States." Indeed, so
severe was this retaliation that we seldom saw him the rest of the day.

But he got even with us when "preacher day" came around.

Like "Little Breeches" father, Will never did go in much on religion,
and when the ministers assembled for "quarterly meeting" at our house,
we never knew what to expect from him. Mother was a Methodist, and as
our log house was larger than the others in the valley, it fell to our
lot to entertain the preachers often. We kept our preparations on the
quiet when Will was home, but he always managed to find out what was
up, and then trouble began. His first move was to "sick" Turk on the
yellow-legged chickens. They were our best ones, and the only thing we
had for the ministers to eat. Then Will would come stalking in:

"Say, mother, just saw all the yellow-legged chickens a-scooting up
the road. Methodist preachers must be in the wind, for the old hens are
flying like sixty!"

"Now, Will, you call Turk off, and round up those chickens right away."

"Catch meself!" And Will would dance around and tease so he nearly drove
us all distracted. It was with the greatest difficulty that mother could
finally prevail upon him to round up the chickens. That done, he would
tie up the pump-handle, milk the cows dry, strew the path to the gate
with burrs and thistles, and stic