A solitary butterfly flitting to and fro, blown slightly
on its course by a cool September wind,--the coolness of which begins to
be tempered by a bright, glittering sun. There is dew on the grass. In
front, beyond the lower spread of forest, Saddle Mountain rises, and the
valleys and long, swelling hills sweep away. But the impression of this
clearing is solitude, as of a forgotten land.
It is customary here to toll the bell at the death of a person, at the
hour of his death, whether A. M. or P. M. Not, however, I suppose, if it
happen in deep night.
"There are three times in a man's life when he is talked about,--when he
is born, when he is married, and when he dies." "Yes," said Orrin
S------, "and only one of the times has he to pay anything for it out of
his own pocket." (In reference to a claim by the guests of the bar-room
on the man Amasa Richardson for a treat.)
A wood-chopper, travelling the country in search of jobs at chopping.
His baggage a bundle, a handkerchief, and a pair of coarse boots. His
implement an axe, most keenly ground and sharpened, which I had noticed
standing in a corner, and thought it would almost serve as a razor.
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