Willie,' said he. 'It may help
ye t' pass away the time once in a while.'

I thanked him warmly.

''S a reel firs'-class instrument,' he said. 'Been a rip snorter 'n its
day.' He took from his bosom then the old heart pin of silver that he
had always worn of a Sunday.

'Goin' t' give ye thet, too,' he said. 'Dunno's ye'll ever care to
wear it, but I want ye should hev sumthin' ye can carry'n yer pocket t'
remember me by.'

I did not dare trust myself to speak, and I sat helplessly turning that
relic of a better day in my fingers.

'It's genuwine silver,' said he proudly.

I took his old hand in mine and raised it reverently to my lips.

'Hear'n 'em tell 'bout goin' t' the village, an' I says t' myself,
"Uncle Eb," says I, "we'll hev t' be goin'. 'Tain' no place fer you in
the village."'

'Holden,' said David Brower, 'don't ye never talk like that ag'in. Yer
just the same as married t' this family, an' ye can't ever git away from
us.'

And he never did until his help was needed in other and fairer fields, I
am sure, than those of Faraway--God knows where.

Chapter 19

Tip Taylor was, in the main, a serious-minded man. A cross eye enhanced
the natural solemnity of his countenance. He was little given to talk or
laughter unless he were on a hunt, and then he only whispered his joy.
He had seen a good bit of the world through the peek sight of his rifle,
and there was something always in the feel of a gun that lifted him to
higher moods. And yet one could reach a tender spot in him without the
aid of a gun. That winter vacation I set myself to study things for
declamation--specimens of the eloquence of Daniel Webster and Henry Clay
and James Otis and Patrick Henry. I practiced them in the barn, often,
in sight and hearing of the assembled herd and some of those fiery
passages were rather too loud and threatening for the peace and comfort
of my audience. The oxen seemed always to be expecting the sting of the
bull whip; they stared at me timidly, tilting their ears every moment,
as if to empty them of a heavy load; while the horses snorted with
apprehension. This haranguing of the herd had been going on a week or
more when Uncle Eb and I, returning from a distant part of the farm,
heard a great uproar in the stable. Looking in at a window we saw Tip
Taylor, his back toward us, extemporising a speech. He was pressing his
argument with gestures and the tone of thunder. We listened a moment,
while a worried l