22 CHRISTMAS IN AMERICA.

“Just before the beginning of the Indian war, my grandmother
offended Warmmesléey. The English had taught him bad hab-
its, and he had become a cider-drinker. He used to wander
about the country, going from farm-house to farm-house, beg-
ging for ‘hard’ cider, as old cider was called.

“One day my grandmother found him lying intoxicated under
a tree in the yard, and she forbade the giving of Warmmesley
any more cider from the cellar. A few days afterward, he
landed from his canoe in front of the grounds, and-came to the
workmen for cider. The workmen sent him to my grandmother.

““¢No, Warmmesley, no more,’ said she, firmly. ‘Steal your
wits. Wicked!’

““Warmmesley begged for one porringer,— just one.

“«Me sick,’ he pleaded.

“*No, Warmmesley. Never. Wrong.’

“*Me pay you!’ said he, with an evil look in his eye. ‘Me
pay you !’

“Just then a flock of crows flew past. Warmmesley pointed to
them and said,—

“<*Tt’s coming — fight — look up there! Ugh, ugh!’— point-
ing to the crows. ‘Fight English. Look over’— pointing to
the bay, — ‘ fight, fight — me pay you ! Ugh! Ugh!’

“ My grandmother pointed up to the blue sky, as much as to
‘say that her trust was in a higher power than man’s.

“Warmmesley turned away reluctantly, looking back with
a half-threatening, half-questioning look, and saying, ‘Ugh !
Ugh!’ He evidently hoped that my grandmother would call
him back, but she was firm.

“The upper windows of the old house overlooked the bay.

“Tt was fall. The maples flamed, and the oak leaves turned
to gold and dust; the flocks of birds gathered, and went their