own into--"the Potsdam clothes," we called them
often, but more often "the boughten clothes"--had been grown out of and
left behind in a way of speaking. I had an extra good-looking pair of
cowhide boots, as we all agreed, which John Wells, the cobbler, had made
for me. True, I had my doubts about them, but we could afford no
better.

When the chest was about full, I remember that my aunt brought something
wrapped in a sheet of the _St. Lawrence Republican_ and put it into my
hands.

"There are two dozen cookies an' some dried meat," said she. "Ayes, I
thought mebbe you'd like 'em--if you was hungry some time between meals.
Wait a minute."

She went to her room and Uncle Peabody and I waited before we shut the
hasp with a wooden peg driven into its staple.

Aunt Deel returned promptly with the Indian Book in her hands.

"There," said she, "you might as well have it--ayes!--you're old enough
now. You'll enjoy readin' it sometimes in the evenin', mebbe--ayes!
Please be awful careful of it, Bart, for it was a present from my mother
to me--ayes it was!"

How tenderly she held and looked at the sacred heirloom so carefully
stitched into its cover of faded linen. It was her sole legacy. Tears
came to my eyes as I thought of her generosity--greater, far greater
than that which has brought me gifts of silver and gold--although my
curiosity regarding the Indian Book had abated, largely, for I had taken
many a sly peek at it. Therein I had read how Captain Baynes--my great
grandfather--had been killed by the Indians.

I remember the sad excitement of that ride to the village and all the
words of advice and counsel spoken by my aunt.

"Don't go out after dark," said she. "I'm 'fraid some o' them rowdies'll
pitch on ye."

"If they do I guess they'll be kind o' surprised," said Uncle Peabody.

"I don't want him to fight."

"If it's nec'sary, I believe in fightin' tooth an' nail," my uncle
maintained.

I remember looking in vain for Sally as we passed the Dunkelbergs'. I
remember my growing loneliness as the day wore on and how Aunt Deel
stood silently buttoning my coat with tears rolling down her cheeks
while I leaned back upon the gate in front of the Hacket house, on
Ashery Lane, trying to act like a man and rather ashamed of my poor
success. It reminded me of standing in the half-bushel measure and
trying in vain, as I had more than once, to shoulder the big bag of
corn. Uncle Peabody stood surveying the sky in si