th, Cooper threw himself with almost
boyish eagerness into the improvement and beautifying of this
homestead,--planning the barn, building the then new zigzag, ha-ha
fence, watching the growth of shrubs and trees that he had transplanted,
and with cheering talk lightening the labors of his workmen.

[Illustration: ELIZABETH FENIMORE COOPER IN THE OLD HALL HOME.]

[Illustration: COOPER'S ANGEVINE FARM HOME.]

[Illustration: MAMARONECK CREEK SLOOPS.]

"In 1818 Cooper was made paymaster, and in the next year quartermaster
in the Fourth Division of Infantry, New York State Militia. As Governor
Clinton's aid, in blue and buff uniform, cocked hat, and sword, and
title of colonel, he would go to reviews on his favorite horse,
'Bull-head.'"

At that time each village on the Sound had its sloop which carried the
farmer's produce thrice a week through the perils of Hell Gate to Fulton
market, and brought back tea, sugar, cloth, calicoes, and silks, and,
perchance, some volume fresh from the London press,--a bit of Byron's
brilliance, a romance from the unknown author of "Waverley," one of Miss
Edgeworth's charming tales, or the more serious religious work of
Wilberforce--which had "arrived by packet-ship from England"--the next
day's papers would announce. Lucky was thought the household that could
first cut the pages of the new print.

Reading, which always enters so naturally into country life, made
pleasant their evening hours and rainy days at Angevine. Mr. Cooper was
a fine reader. His voice was deep, clear, and expressive, and during
those quiet country evenings he often read aloud to one "who listened
with affectionate interest through a long life," and he read to her with
special pleasure. For Shakespeare he was always ready. Pope, Thompson,
and Gray were also in favor, but not more than a page or two at a time
of Milton. He thought that Shakespeare should have written "Paradise
Lost." "He took the greatest delight in the 'Waverley' novels, and never
doubted they were written by Walter Scott, the poet. On one occasion a
new novel chanced to lie on the table and he was asked to read it. The
title and look of the book were not to his taste; he opened it, however,
and began. Suddenly, after reading through a few pages, it was thrown
aside in disgust: 'I can write a better book than that myself!' was his
exclamation." Mrs. Cooper laughed at the absurd idea that he, who
disliked writing even a letter, should write a book