embattlements of the green marvel before us. Then he said in a moderate
voice:

"It's a putty good hedge, a putty good hedge."

"I've got him," I thought exultantly, "I've got him!"

"How long ago did you start it?" I pursued my advantage eagerly.

"Thirty-two years come spring," said he.

"Thirty-two years!" I repeated; "you've been at it a long time."

With that I plied him with questions in the liveliest manner, and in
five minutes I had the gruff old fellow stumping along at my side and
pointing out the various notable-features of his wonderful creation.
His suppressed excitement was quite wonderful to see. He would point his
hickory stick with a poking motion, and, when he looked up, instead of
throwing back his big, rough head, he bent at the hips, thus imparting
an impression of astonishing solidity.

"It took me all o' ten years to get that bell right," he said, and,
"Take a look at that arch: now what is your opinion o' that?"

Once, in the midst of our conversation, he checked himself abruptly and
looked around at me with a sudden dark expression of suspicion. I saw
exactly what lay in his mind, but I continued my questioning as though
I perceived no change in him. It was only momentary, however, and he was
soon as much interested as before. He talked as though he had not had
such an opportunity before in years--and I doubt whether he had. It
was plain to see that if any one ever loved anything in this world, Old
Toombs loved that hedge of his. Think of it, indeed! He had lived with
it, nurtured it, clipped it, groomed it--for thirty-two years.

So we walked down the sloping field within the hedge, and it seemed
as though one of the deep mysteries of human nature was opening there
before me. What strange things men set their hearts upon!

Thus, presently, we came nearly to the farther end of the hedge. Here
the old man stopped and turned around, facing me.

"Do you see that valley?" he asked. "Do you see that slopin' valley up
through the meadow?"

His voice rose suddenly to a sort of high-pitched violence.

"That' passel o' hounds up there," he said, "want to build a road down
my valley."

He drew his breath fiercely.

"They want to build a road through my land. They want to ruin my
farm--they want to cut down my hedge. I'll fight 'em. I'll fight 'em.
I'll show 'em yet!"

It was appalling. His face grew purple, his eyes narrowed to pin points
and grew red and angry--like the eyes of an infu