on that I drew up my
weary horse in front of a neat little dwelling in the village of N.
This, as near as I could gather from description, was the house of my
cousin, William Fletcher, the identical rogue of a Bill Fletcher of whom
we have aforetime spoken. Bill had always been a thriving, push-ahead
sort of a character, and during the course of my rambling life I had
improved every occasional opportunity of keeping up our early
acquaintance. The last time that I returned to my native country, after
some years of absence, I heard of him as married and settled in the
village of N., where he was conducting a very prosperous course of
business, and shortly after received a pressing invitation to visit him
at his own home. Now, as I had gathered from experience the fact that it
is of very little use to rap one's knuckles off on the front door of a
country house without any knocker, I therefore made the best of my way
along a little path, bordered with marigolds and balsams, that led to
the back part of the dwelling. The sound of a number of childish voices
made me stop, and, looking through the bushes, I saw the very image of
my cousin Bill Fletcher, as he used to be twenty years ago; the same
bold forehead, the same dark eyes, the same smart, saucy mouth, and the
same "who-cares-for-that" toss to his head. "There, now," exclaimed the
boy, setting down a pair of shoes that he had been blacking, and
arranging them at the head of a long row of all sizes and sorts, from
those which might have fitted a two year old foot upward, "there, I've
blacked every single one of them, and made them shine too, and done it
all in twenty minutes; if any body thinks they can do it quicker than
that, I'd just like to have them try; that's all."

"I know they couldn't, though," said a fair-haired little girl, who
stood admiring the sight, evidently impressed with the utmost reverence
for her brother's ability; "and, Bill, I've been putting up all the
playthings in the big chest, and I want you to come and turn the
lock--the key hurts my fingers."

"Poh! I can turn it easier than that," said the boy, snapping his
fingers; "have you got them all in?"

"Yes, all; only I left out the soft bales, and the string of red beads,
and the great rag baby for Fanny to play with--you know mother says
babies must have their playthings Sunday."

"O, to be sure," said the brother, very considerately; "babies can't
read, you know, as we can, nor hear Bible s