Christmas in America | The Baldwin Library University RinB Florida Gtandmotier’ S Grandmother's Christmas Candle Christmas tn America Bw HEZEKIAH BUTTERWORTH BOSTON DANA ESTES & COMPANY PUBLISHERS Copyright, 1894, By Estes anD LauRIatT. Colonial Press : Blectrotyped and Printed by C. H. Simonds & Ca. Boston, Mass., U.S. A. THE PARSON'S MIRACLE. OR fifty years Parson Pool had faithfully served the little parish among the New Hampshire hills. There was not a house in the village in which he had not prayed; there was hardly a little red cottage on the road that wound through the intervale in which he had not at uN least “ married ee one and preached the funeral sermon of two,” as he _ expressed himself in a discourse at the close of | ma the half-century o his ministry. There had been but few episodes in the parson’s life. He had seldom travelled so far as to lose sight of Mount Washington, or not to hear on Sunday the ringing of his own church bell. Week by week on Friday evening and Sunday morning, 6 CHRISTMAS I[N AMERICA, his strong form was seen passing through the wicket gate that led to the church, whether the breath of June was in the air, or Chocorua’s triple peaks were obscured by a scowling sky, or rose in silence, covered with snow. But in his old age there happened to him a mzvacle. i myself saw it, though I was then a child. Parson Pool was my grandfather. { was his pet. He used to take me with him to his parishioners whenever he went. I well remember his gig and poor old Dolly, the mare, with her harness all tied up with tow strings and toggles, —a faithful animal who bore her lashings with resignation, and has long been free from her woes. Parson Pool was a very tender-hearted man, and next to his love of children was that of animals, notwithstanding . the whacks that old Dolly received. There used to be a season in the village which was called “ killing-time,’— a few weeks in December when the fatted cattle, hogs, and poultry were killed. The neighbors used to gather from house to house on the occasion of such annual slaughters, but the parson was never seen among them. He usually shut himself up in the garret on the morning that his own pig was killed. and did not appear below:stairs until the defunct animal's “liver and lights” were frying for the butcher’s dinner. If he were riding at this season and heard one of his neighbor's pigs squeal on being run down by the butcher, he would give old Dolly an extra whack, put the reins between his knees, and clap both hands over his ears, and hold them there tightly. “Mary,” I once heard him say, after such an experience, “ it does seem to me that there is something wrong in the make-up of this world; but then,” he added, “I ought not to say any- thing, —I like a piece of fresh pork myself sometimes.” CHRISTMAS I[N AMERICA. 7 The people generally remembered the parson at “ killing- time,” and generously sent him spare-ribs, turkeys, and geese, He was so well provided for with poultry at this season by others, that he was never known to kill any of his own. “T would n’t kill a chicken,” he used to say, “if I had to live on corn bread all the year. I sell all my poultry to the hen- cart.” Just what the hen-cart man did with the parson’s poultry, the good man never cared to investigate. The hen-cart always went outside of the mountain hemlocks that bordered the quiet town. Grandmother Pool was a person of different fibre. At “ kill- ing-time” at the parsonage, she went round with her sleeves rolled up, ready for the fray. When she mounted the gig, and said “ Go lang,” old Dolly put back her ears, and her stiffened legs flew like drum-sticks. Grandfather used to have to speak to me about the same thing often, but I very distinctly remem- ber that grandmother, after giving me one or two very impres- sive lessons, never had to speak to me in that way but once. Grandmother was zof a popular woman in the parish. Parson Pool liked to raise poultry. He would often bring up a large brood of chickens by hand, and his flock of hens would follow him about the farm whenever he went out to walk. In the summer afternoons we used to go up ona hill together, which commanded almost as fine a view of the green mountain walls and the bald summits of Washington and La- fayette as does the Bald Mountain itself. Then we would sit down and watch the shadows of the clouds on the pine-covered mountain sides, as they sailed along like ghosts of the air. When Grandmother Pool asked us where we were going, as we set out for these excursions, he would often answer, ‘“‘ Hens’ nesting.” 8 CHRISTMAS IN AMERICA. A mania had spread over the country. It was called the “hen fever.” It reached at last our village. Several people became the possessors of Cochin China and Shanghai hens, and Ye among them was a brisk young farmer by the name of Campbell. Just. after Thanksgiving this young man summoned Parson Pool to marry him. He paid the old man two dollars in money, and promised to make him a present of a Christmas dinner, which he assured him should be ‘“a_ sur- prise.” ~ On the day before Christ- mas young Campbell called at the parsonage, and ful- eS ar — “filled his promise. It was a surprise indeed, —a Shanghai chicken of aston- ishing weight, and seemingly fabulous length of neck and legs. “Here, parson,” said he, setting the pullet down on the kitchen floor, “I’ve brought you something for your Christmas dinner. Big as a turkey, ain’t it? Legs almost as long as yours, parson, and a neck like as it was going to peek over the meetin’ hus’ into the graveyard. Did you ever see the like of that?” The chicken ruffled its feathers, and walked about the kitchen very calmly, lifting high its feet in a very dignified way. ““« When this you see, remember me,’ parson,” said the lively CHRISTMAS IN AMERICA. 9 young man, quoting provincial poetry. ‘“ You will have zm on the table to-morrow, won't you, parson?” “Ves; but, but —” The old man held out a piece of bread. The pullet walked up to it like a child, and swallowed it so fast that it choked desperately. “ But what, i pansone 2 The pullet wiped her bill on grand- father’s dressing-gown, which seemed to please him ercatly, “ But I would kind o’ hate to cut her head off.” “Ts that so, parson? Well, I’ll save you the trouble. You just let me take your hatchet, and Ill —” “No, no,” said grandfather, with a distressed look, “Ill attend to the matter. I’Il attend to the matter. I always was kind 0’ chicken-hearted, myself.” IO ; CHRISTMAS IN AMERICA. After the young man left, grandmother came upon the scene, with a resolute look in her face and her cap borders flying. “ Samuel!” “Well?” “TI want you to cut that chicken’s head right off, right off now, so that I can have it to bake for breakfast to-morrow. Who do you think is coming to spend Christmas with us? Sophia, — Sophia Van Buren, from Boston. She spent the summer at the Crawford House, and came to the mountains again in October. But now that the hotels are closed, she is coming here.” “What is ske coming for ?” asked grandfather, with a dis- tressed look at the chicken. ‘To see Mount Washington covered with snow. She is an “artist; she exiipits pictures in the art rooms in Boston. She is my second cousin,’ “When is she coming?” “This very afternoon, in the Ossipee stage. So just take that great fat chicken, and off with its head just as quick as you can, and I will get the feathers out of the way in half an hour.” “But I never killed a chicken in my life, and I would rather hate to hack the head off of such a fine-looking bird as that.” ‘“Won’t she dvownz up well ?” said grandmother. “Rebecca, that fowl loves to live just as well as you do. Just think of it, when the day-star rises to-morrow and the cocks crow, she —” “Will be dead and baked in the larder,” said Grandmother Pool. “And when the sun rises and the other fowls are enjoying the sunlight — ” “You will be eating one of the best roast chickens you ever CHRISTMAS [N AMERICA. ies ll tasted. Here she is,’ added grandmother, catching up the plump pullet and handing her to Grandfather Pool, who looked as though he had been called upon to execute a child. Grandfather Pool went out with the pullet, which did not He went to the woodhouse where the chopping-block was, and sat down in an old arm-chair, in the sun. The woodhouse was open in front, and the chopping-block stood in the opening. “Are you really going to do it?” said I. “T wish one of those Old Testament miracles would turn that pullet into a cho p- ping- block, for she has said it must be done, and nothing but a miracle will ever save the poor thing from the ga/- lows.” Grandfather Pool rose up and laid the chicken on the block. He measured the distance with the hatchet. “Oh, let me run,” said I. 12 CHRISTMAS IN AMERICA. “T am not going to do it yet,” said he. “When I do, I_ shall measure the distance so, with my eyes open; then I shall shut my eyes tight, chop her head off quick, and throw her away, and shall not open my eyes until she is as dead as a stone. Now you run away, and write the epitaph,” he added, with a grim smile. Iran to my room. It looked out on the woodhouse, * I drew the curtain so as not to see the awful sight. I began to think of the epitaph. There was a nice fat pullet that sat upon a roost; Death came along and gave her a vost. That did not seem quite correct. There was a nice plump pullet that lay beneath the brier; Death came along and caused her to expire. This seemed to me perfectly lovely, and I felt willing that the pullet should die, that she might be honored by such an epitaph. Parson Pool was famous as a writer of epitaphs, and I now felt sure I had inherited his genius. I thought I would just open the curtain to see if the deed was done, when a most remarkable sight met my eyes. Grand- father Pool stood: by the block on which the pullet was laid, measuring the: distance to strike. He then shut his eyes, brought down the hatchet strongly, and threw the pullet away. What was my astonishment to see the fowl jump up aad run across the meadow into the hemlocks. Grandfather stood like a statue, with closed eyes, waiting for the pullet to expire. I think he stood in this position some five minutes, when he ventured to look slowly round. There was nothing to be seen but the chopping-block. CHRISTMAS IN AMERICA. 13 He walked around it, and then surveyed the yard. I never saw such a look of astonishment as came into his face. Presently I heard a shrill voice cry, — “ Samuel, ain’t that chicken ready yet? ” Then I heard him say, — “Rebecca, come here.” “ Where is the pullet, Samuel ?” “T chopped her head off, when she vanished right into the chopping-block. It is a punishment for my sins. I : never thought it quite right to kill innocent animals for y food.” i “Samuel, have you lost your senses? I am not a fool. You never cut that pullet’s head off in | if this world. It stands to reason you didn’t; ii there is n’t a drop of blood on the block.” “Rebecca, I have never told a lie since I entered the ministry. I tell you the truth: I cut that pullet’s head off; the hatchet | went clean through her neck, when she van- ished head and all, — went right into the e . chopping-block!”’ “Split open the block and you will ez find her, then.” Grandfather took up the broad-axe, sev-_/| ered the chopping-block in the middle, and iD t a 2H e 7 q/ examined it carefully as it fell apart. “There is no pullet there,” said he. “I mM feel like Balaam. I’ve read of such things \ in books, —they happened to Samuel Wesley, and he was a good man; and to Elder John Leland, and he was a good man.” “What things ?” « Supernatural things, — miracles, like.” Ta CHRISTMAS IN AMERICA. “Well, I don’t believe in them.” “What’s come of that pullet, then?” “Did n’t you fall asleep over the chopping-block, and some one steal her?” “Rebecca, you know that there isn’t a person in this whole town who would steal a hen from me in the night, to say nothing of broad daylight. What’s the use of arguing against the super- natural? Just as soon as I had cut her head off, I let go of her, and expected she would flutter and leap up into the air, just as pullets do when other folks kill them. Instead of that she never made a sound, but turned right into that there chopping- block, and never left so much as a drop of blood or a feather behind.” “Tt is very mysterious.” “ Very.” “Where’s Jamie?” “ He’s hid so as not to see the murder.” Just then the sound of wheels was heard, and the Ossipee stage stopped before the little red cottage, and Miss Van Buren, all fluffs and furbelows, appeared. As soon as I was alone with eee he said, — “Jamie, you know what has happened; don’t tell your grand- mother that rash wish of mine.” “ What wish? ” , ‘““What I said to you before the pullet vanished, —- that she might turn into a chopping-block.” I had intended to tell him what I had seen, ne a | mystery had a charm for me even in childhood. I disliked to spoil such a famous story as this was sure to become, and when my con- science began to trouble me, I stifled it by reflecting that to explain the matter too soon would cause the capture and death of the pullet. CHRISTMAS IN AMERICA. 15 The next day, a wonderfully mild Christmas in that region, grandfather, Miss Van Buren, and myself, went up the high hill to get a view of the moun- tains. The sharp peaks of Chocorua seemed to cut the air, and grandfather told Miss Van Buren as we slowly went along the awful story of Choco- rua’s curse. Had I not known. the true explanation to the pullet story, this story of the old Conway farms would ~ have chilled me, for the Conway farmers believe that Chocorua’s curse causes the cattle to die. The air was very still, only a low murmur at times in the tops of the pines. There were hunt- ers in the woods _ be- low us, and from time to time the crack of a rifle would cause us to stop to listen to the echoes. As we returned, I hurried ahead of grandfather and Miss Van Buren, and gained the highway some minutes before them. A wagon was passing, full of hunters and game. Out of one of the game bags hung the head of anoble bird; my eyes recog- nized it with astonishment, — it was Parson Pool’s Christmas pullet. MY GRANDMOTHER’S GRANDMOTHER'S CHRISTMAS CANDLE. | HERE were no Christmas celebrations in my old Puritan home in Swansea, such as we have in all New England homes to-day. No church bells rung out in the darkening December air; there were no children’s carols learned in Sun- day-schools; no presents, and not even a sprig of box, ivy, or pine in any window. Yet there was one curious custom in the old town that made Christmas Eve in many homes the merriest in the year. It was the burning of the Christmas candle; and of this old, forgotten custom of provincial towns I have an odd story to tell. The Christmas candle? You may never have heard of it. You may fancy that it was some beautiful image in wax, or like an altar-light. This was not the case. It was a candle contain- ing a quill filled with gunpowder, and its burning excited an intense interest while we waited for the expected explosion. ‘I well remember Dipping-Candle Day; it was a very inter- esting day to me in my girlhood, because it was then that the Christmas candle was dipped. It usually came in the fall, in the short, lonesome days of November, just before the new schoolmaster opened the winter term of the school. My grandmother brought down from the garret her candle- rods and poles. The candle-rods were light sticks of elder, CHRISTMAS IN AMERICA. 17 some fifty in number, and the poles were long pine bars. These poles were tied two each to two chairs; and the rods, after they had been wicked, were laid upon them at short distances apart. “Wicking the candle-rods” is a phrase of which few people to-day know the meaning. Every country-store in old times contained a large supply of balls of cotton candle-wick. This wick was to be cut, put upon the candle-rods, twisted, and tal- lowed or waxed, so as to be convenient for dipping. How many times have I seen my grandmother, on the long November evenings, wicking her candle-rods! She used to do the work, sitting in her easy chair before the great open fire. One side of the fire-place was usually hung with strings of dried or partly dried apples, and the other with strings of red peppers. Over the fireplace were a gun and the almanac; and on the hearth there were usually, in the evening, a few sweet apples roasting, and at one end of it was the dog, and at the other the cat. Dipping candles would seem a comical sight to-day. My grandmother used to sit over a great iron kettle of melted tallow, and patiently dip the wicks on the rods into it, until they grew to the size of candles. Each rod contained about five wicks, and these were dipped together. The process was repeated perhaps fifty or more times. A quill of powder was tied to the wick of the Christmas candle before dipping, and the wick was so divided at the lower end that the candle should have three legs. The young people took a great interest in the dipping as well as the burning of the Christmas candle. My grandmother's candle-rods had belonged to her grand- mother, who had lived in the early days of the Plymouth Colony. They had been used since the days of King Philip’s War. 2: 18 : CHRISTMAS IN AMERICA. There was a story of the dark times of the Indian war that my grandmother used to relate on the night that we burned our Christmas candle,—a story that my grandmother told of her grandmother, and of the fortunate and timely explosion of one of that old lady’s Christmas candles in the last days of Philip’s War, when the sight of a hostile Indian was a terror to the unarmed colonist. , “It was well that candle went off when it did,’ my grand- mother used to say. “If it had not, I don’t know where any of us would have been to-night ; not here, telling riddles and roast- ing apples and enjoying ourselves, I imagine. I have dipped a powder-candle every season since, not that I believe much in > keeping holidays, but because a powder-candle once saved the family.” She continued her story: — : ‘My grandmother was a widow in her last years. She had two children, Benjamin and my mother, Mary. She lived at Pocasset, and the old house overlooked Mount Hope and the bay. Pocasset was an Indian province then, and its Indian queen was named Wetamoo. “My grandmother was a great-hearted woman. She had a fair amount of property, and she used it for the good of her less fortunate neighbors. She had kept several poor old people from the town-house by giving them a home with her. Her good deeds caused her to be respected by every one. “The Indians were friendly to her. She had done them so many acts of kindness that even the haughty Wetamoo had once called to see her and made her a present. The old house was néar an easy landing-place for boats on the bay; and the Indians, as they came from their canoes, passed through the yard, and often stopped to drink from the well. It was no CHRISTMAS IN AMERICA, 19 uncommon thing on a hot summer’s day, to find an Indian asleep in the street or under the dooryard trees. “ Among the great men of the tribe was an Indian named Squam- maney; Warmmesley he was sometimes called, also Warmmes- ley-Squammaney. He was a giant in form, but his greatness among his people arose from his supposed magical power and his vigorous voice. It was believed: that he could whoop and bellow so loud and long as to frighten away evil spirits from the sick, so that the pa- tient would recover. All the Indians regarded old Squamma- ney with fear and awe, and he was very proud of his influence over them. “When -an Indian fell sick, Warmmesley-Squammaney was called to the bedside. If old Warmmesley could not drive the evil spirits away, the patient believed that he must die. “In his peculiar way old Warmmesley once cured of rheuma- tism a Puritan deacon who rewarded him by calling him a ‘pagan.’ The deacon had been confined to his room for weeks. Some Indians called to see him, and pitying his condition, set off in great haste for Warmmesley. The latter came, in his dried skins, with his head bristling with horns and feathers. The astonished deacon forgot his infirmities at the first sight of the terrible object; and as soon as Warmmesley began to leap and howl, and shake his beads, shells, and dried skins, POSTS SSS hi = ay s ABYSS [ CHRISTMAS IN AMERICA. 21 the white man leaped from his bed, and running to the barn, knelt down and began to pray. There his wife found him. “<«Tt is old Warmmesley,’ said she. “«The old pagan!’ said he, rising up. ‘What was it, Ruth, that was the mat- ter with me?’ “My grandmother had caught the spirit of Eliot, the Indian Apostle, and she used to hold in the old kitchen a religious meeting, each week, for the instruction of the ‘ praying Indians ’of the town. The Indians who became Christians were called ‘ praying Indians’ by their own people, and came to be so called by the English: Among the Indians who came out of curiosity was the beau- tiful Princess Amie, the youngest daughter of the great chief Massasoit, who protected Plymouth Colony for nearly forty years. ‘“‘Warmmesley came once to my grandmother’s meetings, ana tried to sing. He wished to out-sing the rest, and he did, repeating over and over again,— ‘“‘¢He lub poor Indian in de wood, Ar’ me lub God, and dat be good; I’ll praise him two times mo’!’ 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 _ CHRISTMAS IN AMERICA. 22 unknown way. The evenings were long. It was harvest time. The full moon rose in the twilight, and the harvesters continued their labors into the night. “Philip, or Pometacom, was now at Mount Hope, and Weta- moo had taken up her residence on the high shores of Pocasset. The hills of Pocasset were ine full view of Mount Hope; and be- ea = e tween lay the quiet, sheltered | waters of the bay. Philip had cherished a strong -. friendship for Wetamoo, who was the widow of his brother Alexan- der. “ Night after night the har- vesters had no- ticed canoes¥ crossing and recrossing the bay, moving like shadows silently to and fro. The moon waned; the nights became dark and cloudy; the movement across the water went on; the boats carried torches now, and the dark bay became picturesque as the mysterious lines of light were drawn across it. “From time to time a great fire would blaze up near the high rocks at Mount Hope, burn a few hours, and then fade. 24 CHRISTMAS IN AMERICA. “It was whispered about among the English that Philip was holding war-dances, and that Wetamoo and her warriors were attending them; yet Philip had just concluded a treaty of peace with the English, and Wetamoo professed to be a friend to the ee ar Colony. “War came on the following summer, stealthily at first. Eng- lishmen were found murdered mysteriously in the towns near Mount Hope. Then came the killing of the people in Swansea as they were going home from church, about which all the his- tories of the Colonies tell; then the open war. “Philip flashed like a meteor from place to place, murdering the people and burning their houses. No one could tell where he would next appear, or who would be his next victim. Every colonist during the year 1675, wherever he might be, lived in terror of lurking foes. There were dreadful cruelties everywhere, and towns and farm-houses vanished in smoke. “Wetamoo joined Philip. She had some six hundred warriors. Philip had made her believe that the English had poisoned her husband Alexander, who was also his brother, and who had succeeded the good Massasoit. Alexander had died suddenly while returning from Plymouth on the Taunton River. The mysterious lights on the bay were now explained. CHRISTMAS [N AMERICA. 25 “Before Wetamoo joined Philip, one of her captains had sent word to my grandmother that as she had been a friend to the Indians, she should be protected. “¢T have only one fear,’ said my grandmother often, during that year of terror, —‘ Warmmesley.’ “ Warmmesley-Squammaney had gone away with Philip’s braves under Wetamoo. He was one of Wetamoo’s captains. Wetamoo herself had joined Philip, like a true warrior-queen. “ The sultry August of 1676 brought a sense of relief to the Colonies. The warriors of Philip were defeated on every hand. His wife and son were captured; and broken-hearted he returned to Mount Hope — the burial-ground of his race for unknown generations —to die. Wetamoo, too, became a fugitive, and was drowned in attempting to cross to the lovely hills of Pocas- set on a raft. : “The war ended. Where was Warmmesley-Squammaney? No one knew. Annawon, Philip’s great captain, had been captured, and nearly all the principal leaders of the war were executed; but old Squammaney had mysteriously disappeared. “Peace came. October flamed, as Octobers flame, and November faded, as Novembers fade, and the snows of De- cember fell. The Colonies were full of joy and thanksgivings. “«T am thankful for one thing more than all others,’ said my grandmother on Thanksgiving Day; ‘and that is that I am now sure that old Squammaney is gone where he will never . trouble us again. I shall never forget his evil eye as he said, “Twill pay you!” It has troubled me night and day.’ “ That fall, when my grandmother was dipping candles, she chanced to recall the old custom of the English town from which she had come, of making a powder-candle for Christ- mas. The spirit of merry-making was abroad upon the return 26 CHRISTMAS [N AMERICA. of peace; and she prepared one of these curious candles, and told her family that they might invite the neighbors’ children on Christmas Eve to see it burn and explode. The village schoolmaster, Silas Sloan, was living at the old house ; and he took the liberty to invite the school, which consisted of some ten boys and girls. CHRISTMAS IN AMERICA. 27 “Christmas: Eve came. —a clear, still night, with a white earth and shining sky. Some twenty or more peopie, young and old, gathered in the great kitchen to see the Christmas candle ‘go off’ During the early part of the evening ‘Si’ Sloan entertained the company with riddles. Then my grand- mother brought in the Christmas candle, an odd-looking object, and set it down on its three legs. She lighted it, blew out the other candles, and asked Silas to tell a story. “Silas was glad of the op- portunity to entertain such an audience. The story that he selected for this novel occa- sion was awful in the extreme, such as was usually told in -those times before the great kitchen fires. “Silas — ‘ Si,’ as he was called—vwas relating an ac- count of a so-called haunted house, where, according to his silly narrative, the ghost of an Indian used to appear at the foot of an old woman’s bed; and some superstitious people declared that the old lady one night, on awaking and finding the ghostly Indian present, put out her foot to push him away, and pushed her foot directly through him. What a brave old lady she must have been, and how uncomfortable it must have been for the ghost! — But at this point of Silas’s foolish story, the dog suddenly started up and began to howl. 28 CHRISTMAS IN AMERICA. “The children, who were so highly excited over Si’s narra- tive that they hardly dared to breathe, clung to one another with trembling hands as the dog sent up his piercing cry. Even Si himself started. The dog seemed listening. “The candle was burning well. The children now watched it in dead silence. «A half-hour passed. The candle was burning within an inch of the quill, and all eyes were bent upon it. If the candle ‘sputtered,’ the excitement became intense. ‘I think it will go off in ten minutes now,’ said my grandmother. “There was a noise in the yard. All heard it distinctly. The dog dashed round the room, howled, and stopped to listen at the door. “ People who relate so-called ghost stories are often cowardly, and it is usually a cowardly nature that seeks to frighten chil- dren. Si Sloan was no exception to the rule. “ The excitement of the dog at once affected Silas. His tall, thin form moved about the room cautiously and mysteriously. He had a way of spreading apart his fingers when he was frightened, and his fingers were well apart now. “ A noise in the yard at night was not an uncommon thing, but the peculiar cry of the dog and the excited state of the company caused this to be noticed. My grandmother arose at last, and amid dead silence opened the shutter. “