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Uncle Seth loved all living things and taught the little boy to love them. But it happened, alas, that only a few days. before the old man was called to the home for which he had been so long preparing, the little boy was laid away in his own short grave, and so the two wended their way heavenward almost hand in hand, even as they had so often journeyed up and down the pleasant ways of Whitefield. And the sorrowing father and mother of the child somehow felt that Uncle Seth would still keep his warm human interest in the little fellow now that he had gone beyond their loving care.

Many of the farmers about him, the companions of his boyhood, had grown rich in land and bank stock as the years went on, and such as were now living had no need to labor; or they had left fortunes to their children and were now growing old under their more or less willing care. But not so Uncle Seth. Industrious he had been from his youth, but the peculiar faculty which leads to adding house to house and field to field had never been his. When he owned the great farm on the hillside, whose long row of barns now looked down on his little place with its few acres, there had been many sons and daughters to care for and educate. Uncle Seth himself had known little of the education of books, though he had always yearned for it; but with all his powers he resolved to give his sons and daughters every opportunity of this sort that was possible. The high school was then unknown; but in its place, and a very excellent substitute, was the "select school," to the maintenance of which all the farmers who were interested contributed. In the early fall you might see Uncle Seth's old white horse and family wagon going over the hills from house to house; and everyone knew that he was the self-constituted agent to find out who would send pupils and contribute to the salary of a teacher, usually an undergraduate from a college near by. Uncle Seth insisted on a firstclass teacher, and his hard-earned dol

lars were freely drawn from the savings bank in the next town, where they had been painfully deposited for this very purpose. Each neighbor paid according to the number of pupils that he sent, and the sons and daughters realized what the privileges they were enjoying meant to the fathers and mothers at home, and so studied with eagerness which few students of to-day understand. And Uncle Seth with his weakened bank book cheerily took the young people down the hills to school on Monday morning, the old wagon laden with provisions and other supplies for the week, and up the hills again on Friday night, bringing them home to make ready for the coming days, exulting on the way in all they told him of the chemistry and astronomy and geology and history which they had learned.

I doubt if there were many happier homes on the Whitefield hills, or elsewhere for that matter, than this, on a Friday evening, when the family gathered around the great open fire with the backlog and forestick comfortably disposed, a generous basket of butternuts or Baldwins or Rhode Island Greenings close at hand, the mother and daughters each with her sewing or knitting grouped around the great family table, and all listening with unaffected pleasure to the recital of the events of the week, the doings on the farm and the still more important history of the school-room. The eldest daughter, Roxy, her father's favorite, and blessed with a wonderful memory, recounted a great store of what she had heard during the week, the sage maxims of the instructor and the marvels of science and literature conned from the text-book; and Uncle Seth, having covered the fire and seen the household safely bestowed for the night, often turned to look out on the sleeping valley below and trace a constellation or name a planet, as Roxy had taught him, with a delight scarcely equalled by that great astronomer who said, "I delight to think Thy thoughts after Thee, O God."

Winter rapidly followed winter in the farm household, and the sons and daughters became straight, vigorous young men and women, and one by one left the old home. But there was a black sheep in the fold, that youngest son who is so often the family curse or blessing. Young Amos was the typical prodigal, handsome, gay and winning, greatly beloved, but selfish and cruel. Many a night under the stars the father prayed for him; many a day, out in the cornfield, he laid down his hoe and, kneeling on the rough earth, committed the lad to a Higher Power. A morning came when the young man did not respond to his father's call; and from that time to the day of his death the sad-hearted father never heard from the wayward child. In those days there were no swift telegraph messengers to circumvent the ways of the foolish; not many railroads; and a man could easily lose. himself in the great world and leave no clew to his steps. For weeks Uncle Seth could not name the boy. He grew pale and haggard, and wakened in the morning from restless sleep. Only his God knew how deep was the love which had been so cruelly, wantonly wounded. But in strong crying and tears faith was born. The lad was his Father's child, and so the earthly father learned in faith to leave the boy and his burden in that wise

care.

Peculiarly sweet and rich was the religious nature in Uncle Seth, and many souls in old Whitefield will one day shine in his crown of rejoicing. It was not that his words were eloquent, for he was indeed of untrained speech; but the well-known purity and earnestness of his daily life were more eloquent than language,-and half the quarrels in town had been nipped in their infancy by the old man's influence.

The Widow Baker could tell you all about it. It so happened that the old minister of the town, a godly little man, had faded away from the sight of his congregation, leaving life as gently and sweetly as he did all things else;

and in his place, after a trying period of listening to candidates, had come a strong, tall young man, with keen eyes and an eloquent, ready tongue. He neglected no public duty; he exhorted and prayed and visited with an energy that astonished the town accustomed to the gentle ministrations of his predecessor; and it must be confessed that the younger people were agreeably awakened and that the special meetings were well attended. The Reverend Hiram was a good man; you will hear that sentence pronounced on him to this day, though he has long slept in the old burying-ground and "his soul is with the saints, we trust." To-day, when the Reverend Hiram is mentioned, the kindly disposed add nothing to their sentence of judgment; forty years ago it was customary to add, "but he is a little near."

His

The parsonage farm was small, but well situated and fertile. The dear little minister of gentle deeds cultivated a garden plot for the supply of his own small wants, and left the rest to nature and fate. Not so the Reverend Hiram. In that patch of good ground his quick eye saw possibilities, and during the first season of his ministry in Whitefield every acre was appropriated to some useful purpose. apple trees soon showed the result of careful attention. His corn and potatoes, melons and berries, peas and cucumbers, milk and butter became well known for excellence in the neighboring markets. Whatever he gave his attention to was sure to thrive. He hastened home from the conference meeting to spread his hay. He kept an eye on every living and growing thing on his acres. Whether or not his eyes wandered beyond them is a fact known best to the Recording Angel.

Next door to the parsonage and separated from it by a low, straggling fence, lived the widow Hester Baker, a tall, handsome, angular woman in middle life, whose husband had died in early manhood, leaving the little farm to her very capable hands. And

the widow Baker was a good woman; that was the verdict of the community which decided so generously in the Reverend Hiram's case. But the widow Baker, early bereft of her husband, having no children to care for, and ample leisure, had allowed her tongue to lose its bridle and, without being aware of her weakness and certainly without intending malice, had grown into a town gossip. At first, in her loneliness, she took kindly interest in the affairs of her neighbors and was genuinely glad to be of service to them after the manner of the townspeople. Then, having no one on the opposite side of the table with whom to exchange her opinions and knowledge of local passing events, she grew into the habit of running in to the neighbors' when she had a special piece of news; and after a time it began to be said that the widow Baker loved gossip for gossip's sake and that no secrets were safe in her keeping. And the widow walked in and out before the people, down the street and to the little church, or drove over the hills on her errands of mercy, and, like many of us, never dreamed that she had gained and earned an unenviable reputation.

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But there was one secret which the widow Baker carried with her to the grave; one piece of news which, had it been disseminated, would have shaken the church and town to their foundations, and caused many breach that might never have healed. It was a very small affair, however, and sprang from a choice tree of Seekno-further apples having its roots on the widow's land but leaning over for a full two-thirds of its great branches on the minister's side of the little fence. As everyone in Whitefield knows, one may rightfully gather for his own any fruit growing on his own territory, be the roots where they may, and this especial tree of Seek-no-furthers was an annual or rather a biennial grievance to the widow, not only because its greatest burden fell outside her limits, but because, instead of bearing

in what was known as the "apple year," when everybody's trees were loaded with fruit and no one cared to gather all that ripened, this aggravating tree yielded its ripe treasures on the "off year," when the markets were eager for them.

At about eight o'clock on a summer evening of the first "off year" after the new minister had come to town, the widow Baker had put out her lamp previous to retiring, when she was startled by a sound as of falling apples near the dividing fence. Adjusting her eyes to the darkness, she beheld the minister standing in the Seek-nofurther tree, and vigorously shaking the laden branches which overhung his own ground. The widow held her breath in amazement. In the days of the old minister, there had always been a little amicable quarrel about the harvest, which ended in the lion's share finding its way to the old man's cellar. The new minister had said nothing about those apples, and he was going to market in the morning. The widow's heart burned with rage as she saw him picking up the fruit and putting it in a barrel. There was no one for her to talk to; even the cat was out of hearing.

Luckily for the world, at least for the little world of Whitefield, the first person to walk past the widow Baker's house the next morning, under the great maples that shaded the sidewalk, was Uncle Seth. The widow could have wished that a more captious ear had been the first to hear her burden of wrong; but the pent-up feelings of the night must have a vent soon, and so she hastened out and Uncle Seth hung his scythe on the fence,-he was on the way to Luther's mowing,—and listened with a troubled face to the strange story. It was a fine, fresh morning, and the old man was in haste to get to the field; but here was a plain duty to admonish the "brother beloved," and save the church from disruption, which would surely occur if the widow had but one chance to tell her story to the neighbors. The task

was not an easy one. The widow's cheeks burned, though the old man's words were kind. On his knees Uncle Seth prayed for the upbuilding of the church and for the growth in grace of all its members. Resentment died out of the widow's heart, and love and good-will took its place. She gave her word that no one living should hear the story of the Seek-no-further tree from her lips. Uncle Seth shouldered his scythe and went on under the fragrant maple trees in the morning light with a shining in hist old face; and the widow, with a trifle of an ungodly sighing for what she had missed in the series of projected visits now impossible, yet sang at her ironing-table, and in her really generous heart was thankful that her fault had been revealed and that she might correct it. What Uncle Seth said to the minister no one ever knew; but it somehow happened that a great many of the remaining apples fell on the widow's side of the fence.

Thanksgiving day was the day of days in Uncle Seth's calendar. It began weeks before the governor had thought about his proclamation. All through the fall the handsomest red apples were laid aside in a special bin in the cellar; for Uncle Seth remembered that Harriet's boys were especially fond of red apples. The yellowest squashes and pumpkins, the finest onions, the whitest cakes of maple sugar, the fattest and tenderest of biddies in the farmyard, were all mentally devoted, as the days went by, to the approaching festival. They often talked about it in the short evenings together, Uncle Seth and Aunt Rachel-how Roxy's girls and Ruth's boys would make the old house lively, and what a blessing that six of the twelve children. could come home and that Joseph had recovered from the fever!

The unctuous, savory pies were baked days beforehand; great stores of mince suggesting the spices of Ceylon and the perfumes of Araby and tempting to the most severe palate; thick

layers of fine apple, which had been pared, quartered and sliced in the fall evenings by Uncle Seth while Aunt Rachel stoned the raisins that she never trusted to the curly-headed old man who doted on sweets. And there were rich, deep yellow pumpkin pies, made with spices and molasses, and with crusts of delicate flakiness. There were ginger-cakes in great number for the children, and finely scalloped, oblong cookies with little black caraway seeds straying through their white sweetness. And there was 'lection cake, and pound cake, and all sweet sorts known to the two.

Early on Thanksgiving morning Uncle Seth was outputting the finishing touches in the barn, which all the sons and daughters and especially the grandchildren would visit; and by ten o'clock the guests began to climb up the long hill. The old man's face beamed like a seraph's as Roxy and her family, Fanny and her little ones, and all the rest, one by one, unrolled themselves from the sleighs-it was the fashion, then, to have snow at Thanksgiving-were warmly kissed and welcomed, and the teams taken out to the barn, where there was good cheer for all the horses.

As the fifteen-minutes' bell from the old church pealed out its invitation to Thanksgiving service, Uncle Seth issued from his door with as many sons and daughters as could be spared, and the family pew was usually full. Uncle Seth's voice often choked as he sang, in his quavering tones:

"When all thy mercies, oh, my God, My rising soul surveys";

and in his sweet, rich heart, he doubted much whether the Heavenly Father had been more generous to any of His creatures than to him, the least worthy.

How short were all the hours of that day! Each son and daughter had something to confide to the father, or advice to seek on some matter; and the old heart was full and proud and grateful as he heard now of the promotion or honor, now of the spiritual blessing, which had come into the lives that

were a part of his own. And when the last child had been stowed away, the last kiss given, and the last sleigh tinkled its way down the dark and frosty hill, lighted only by the slender gleam from the farmhouse window, the old man and his wife sat down before the glowing wood fire and discussed each happy event of the day, from the sermon to the wishbone.

An air of great comfort and hominess filled the little house, especially in the sitting-room, where everyone stayed, ignoring the claims of the dark. parlor which was opened on special occasions. The old desk with its sloping lid, which was supported, when open, by brass-knobbed slides; the tall clock with its moon-face, which had told nearly all the hours of Uncle Seth's life; the comfortable lounge and tall old rockers; the green and smiling plants in the window,―all had an air of friendliness, born of use and good social surroundings. On the little three-legged stand with its white cover and border of knitted lace stood the old Bible, from which Uncle Seth and his father before him had read a daily chapter, and in which was kept the family record.

For a full half century, Uncle Seth had read in course, impartially, at morning prayers, beginning with Genesis and so on to the last chapter of the Revelation; and not until his sight became dim and the long names of the genealogies tripped on his tongue did it occur to him that any other course was possible. Then one morning, laying down his old spectacles on the page open at Chronicles, he said: "Rachel, I believe I'll read the New Testament and Psalms at prayers, after this." And he did.

Uncle Seth's morning prayer was, in a certain sense, hereditary; that is, the sentences were almost precisely the same as those used by his father before him. "Great and Most Merciful God, we desire to render Thee thanks," began the old man, morning after morning. He was never hur

ried, never too busy for reverent attention at the throne of grace; and as one petition followed another, until the whole world had been included, in some form, in his love and sympathy, a new sense of the Omnipotent seemed to grow in the good man's heart, and inspired the words of gratitude and wonder with which the petition invariably closed, although their phraseology had been long ago determined by an ancestor on the hills of Connecticut. His posture in prayer always interested his grandchildren, who could never quite understand why he turned his chair around to the wall, tilted it, and prayed standing upright but still leaning on the back of the chair grasped in his hands.

The poetry in Uncle Seth's nature was, for the most part, unspoken. I doubt if he ever read a poem of nature; but no aspect of the world about him escaped his observant eye. The long row of pale green pea-vines with white blossoms atilt like fairies poised for flight, the rich red clusters of cherry currants among their green leaves, the crimson beet-leaves spreading out over the brown earth, the corn when first its young tassels began to plume themselves, the great circles of pink and white apple blossoms in spring, the huge golden pumpkin blossoms hiding cheerily under their frankly coarse but healthy leaves, the nodding lilac and white flowers of the potato field, the crisp prickly green cucumbers swiftly maturing on the earth's bosom, the fields of grain shadowing the clouds,-Uncle Seth knew and loved them all, and at one time and another was heard to speak of them.

Across the little lot in the rear of his house a small and musical brook cut out a path for itself and, fed by a marvellously fine spring, kept itself in water even in seasons of great drought. Indeed the spring and Uncle Seth's heart were very much alike, for each was always full, willing, cheery, happy, beneficent; and when all the springs in the town were dry, Uncle Seth was almost ashamed of his pleasure in hav

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