and hear it from his own mouth! And as he's a real shaver, I'll have the minister or some other responsible man for an indorser." It was growing dusk when he reached the toll-house on Kimballton turnpike, about a quarter of a mile from the village of this name. His little mare was fast bringing him up with a man on horseback, who trotted through the gate a few rods in advance of him, nodded to the toll-gatherer, and kept on towards the village. Dominicus was acquainted with the tollman, and, while making change, the usual remarks on the weather passed between them. "I suppose," said the pedlar, throwing back his whiplash, to bring it down like a feather on the mare's flank, "you have not seen anything of old Mr. Higginbotham within a day or two?" "Yes," answered the toll-gatherer. "He passed the gate just before you drove up, and yonder he rides now, if you can see him through the dusk. He's been to Woodfield this afternoon, attending a sheriff's sale there. The old man generally shakes hands and has a little chat with me; but to-night, he nodded, as if to say, 'Charge my toll,' and jogged on; for wherever he goes, he must always be at home by eight o'clock." "So they tell me," said Dominicus. "I never saw a man look so yellow and thin as the squire does," continued the toll-gatherer. "Says I to myself, tonight, he's more like a ghost or an old mummy than good flesh and blood." The pedlar strained his eyes through the twilight, and could just discern the horseman now far ahead on the village road. He seemed to recognize the rear of Mr. Higginbotham; but through the evening shadows, and amid the dust from the horse's feet, the figure appeared dim and unsub stantial; as if the shape of the mysterious old man were faintly moulded of darkness and gray light. Dominicus shivered. "Mr. Higginbotham has come back from the other world, by way of the Kimballton turnpike," thought he. He shook the reins and rode forward, keeping about the same distance in the rear of the gray old shadow, till the latter was concealed by a bend of the road. On reaching this point, the pedlar no longer saw the man on horseback, but found himself at the head of the village street, not far from a number of stores and two taverns, clustered round the meeting-house steeple. On his left were a stone wall and a gate, the boundary of a wood-lot, beyond which lay an orchard, farther still, a mowing field, and last of all, a house. These were the premises of Mr. Higginbotham, whose dwelling stood beside the old highway, but had been left in the background by the Kimballton turnpike. Dominicus knew the place; and the little mare stopped short by instinct; for he was not conscious of tightening the reins. "For the soul of me, I cannot get by this gate!" said he, trembling. "I never shall be my own man again, till I see whether Mr. Higginbotham is hanging on the St. Michael's pear-tree!" He leaped from the cart, gave the rein a turn round the gate post, and ran along the green path of the wood-lot as if Old Nick were chasing behind. Just then the village clock tolled eight, and as each deep stroke fell, Dominicus gave a fresh bound and flew faster than before, till, dim in the solitary centre of the orchard, he saw the fated peartree. One great branch stretched from the old contorted trunk across the path, and threw the darkest shadow on that one spot. But something seemed to struggle beneath the branch! The pedlar had never pretended to more courage than befits a man of peaceable occupation, nor could he account for his valor on this awful emergency. Certain it is, however, that he rushed forward, prostrated a sturdy Irishman with the butt end of his whip, and found-not indeed hanging on the St. Michael's pear-tree, but trembling beneath it, with a halter round his neck-the old, identical Mr. Higginbotham! "Mr. Higginbotham," said Dominicus tremulously, "you're an honest man, and I'll take your word for it. Have you been hanged or not?" If the riddle be not already guessed, a few words will explain the simple machinery by which this "coming event" was made to "cast its shadow before." Three men had plotted the robbery and murder of Mr. Higginbotham; two of them, successively, lost courage and fled, each delaying the crime one night by their disappearance; the third was in the act of perpetration, when a champion, blindly obeying the call of fate, like the heroes of old romance, appeared in the person of Dominicus Pike. It only remains to say, that Mr. Higginbotham took the pedlar into high favor, sanctioned his addresses to the pretty schoolmistress, and settled his whole property on their children, allowing themselves the interest. In due time, the old gentleman capped the climax of his favors, by dying a Christian death, in bed, since which melancholy event Dominicus Pike has removed from Kimballton, and established a large tobacco manufactory in my native village. From Twice-Told Tales. L HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW (1807-1882) ONGFELLOW was the poet of the American fireside. He wrote about commonplace subjects and experiences in a simple style which everyone could read with ease. He was essentially optimistic and encouraged his readers to strive for success. Hence he became the most widely read of American poets. Except for the tragic death of his second wife his own life was happy and uneventful. After a service of eighteen years as professor of modern languages at Harvard he resigned to devote himself to writing poetry and enjoying the companionship of his many friends. All who knew this kindly man spoke of him in terms of affection. The service he rendered to American literature was to bring the spirit and culture of Europe to the United States. This he accomplished by his translations, the most important of which is that of Dante's Divine Comedy. His ballads also had an old world flavor and frequently took some ancient legend for their themes. Furthermore, Longfellow taught more people to read poetry and to love it than any other poet of his time. He appealed to their hearts and expressed simply and clearly what they felt. He spoke for the great American public. The Building of the Ship shows Longfellow as the poet of the Union. He was intensely patriotic and believed America could be saved only by the preservation of the Union. His poem had considerable influence in arousing his compatriots to a sense of America's true greatness and real mission. THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP "Build me straight, O worthy Master! That shall laugh at all disaster, And with wave and whirlwind wrestle!" The merchant's word Delighted the Master heard; For his heart was in his work, and the heart Giveth grace unto every Art. A quiet smile played round his lips, As the eddies and dimples of the tide That steadily at anchor ride. And with a voice that was full of glee, Upon the drawbridge and the moat. And he said with a smile, "Our ship, I wis, |