Rand, discovered the rooting out of stones to be unproductive labor, if nothing grew, or was expected to grow, in their place, except more stones; and the nature of the counsels they took may be accurately imagined. In the autumn of '56 they began ditching the swamp in the direction of the lake, and in the summer of '57 raised a crop of tobacco in the northeast corner, R. Rand, the father, making no comment the while. At the proper time he sold the tobacco to Packard & Co., cigar makers, of the city of Hamilton, still making no comment, probably enjoying some mental titillation. Tom Rand then flung a rock of the size of his fist through one of the front windows, and ran away, also making no comment further than that. The broken window remained broken twenty-five years, Tom returning returning neither to mend it nor to break another. Bob Rand, by some bargain with his father, continued the ditching and planting of the swamp with some profit to himself.

He evidently classed at least a portion of his father's manner of life among the things that are to be avoided. He acquired a family, and was in the way to bring it up in a reputable way. He further cultivated and bulwarked his reputation. Society, manifesting itself politically, made him sheriff; society, manifesting itself ecclesiastically, made him deacon. Society seldom fails to smile on systematic courtship.

The old man continued to go his way here and there, giving account of himself to no one, contented enough no doubt to have one reputable son who looked after his own children and paid steady rent for or bought piece by piece the land he used; and another floating between the Rockies and the Mississippi, whose doings were of no importance in the village of Salem. But I doubt, on the whole, whether he were softened in heart by the deacon's manner or the ordering of the deacon's life to reflect unfilially on his own. Without claiming any great knowl

edge of the proprieties, he may have thought the conduct of his younger son the more filial of the two. Such was the history of the farmhouse between the years '56 and '82.

One wet April day, the sixth of the month, in the year '82, R. Rand went grimly elsewhere, grimly elsewhere, where, his neighbors had little doubt. With true New England caution we will say that two wet April days later he went to the cemetery, the little grass-grown cemetery of Salem, with its meagre memorials and absurd, pathetic epitaphs. The minister preached a funeral sermon, out of deference to his deacon, in which he said nothing whatever about R. Rand, deceased; and R. Rand, sheriff and deacon, reigned in his stead.

Follow certain documents and one statement of fact:

Dear Sir: I did draw your father's will and enclose copy of the same, with its codicil, which may truly be called remarkable. I think it right to add, that the window in question has been mended by your brother, with evident purpose. Your letter comes opportunely, my efforts to find you having been heretofore unsuccessful. I will add further, that I think the case actionable, to say the least. In case you should see fit to contest, your immediate return is of course necessary. Very truly yours,

A. L. MOORE, Attorney-at-Law. Document 6.

Despatch.

New York, July 5th. To Robert Rand, Salem. Will be at Valley Station to-morrow. Meet me or not.

T. RAND.

People with one central pivot of character or guiding motive, such as can be indicated by an epithet, are comfortable acquaintances for a novelist. For, if A equals x and B equals y, they can be added, subtracted, taken the square root of, and introduced into equations with other quantities that are unknown. The hypocrisy of the hypocrite is to be depended on, the benevolence of the benevolent. Wildair is a rake, and Cynicus is nothing if not cynical. But as one grows older, arithmetic and algebra seem less and less interpretive of human nature. The croquet played by Alice in that delightful Wonderland, where the balls were hedgehogs and unrolled themselves, the wickets soldiers who walked away, the mallets flamingoes to knock with whose heads seemed a pathetic

thing, must after all have been a game of very great interest.

The deacon was a tall, meagre man, with a goatee. The domain of the goatee is now said to be beyond the Mississippi. It is no longer in New England. The personage who typifies the nation for the use of political illustration is solitary in his strapped trousers; and as for the goatee I speak with deference - it may be beyond the Mississippi. Deacon Rand could hardly have been imagined by his neighbors without his goatee. It seemed to accentuate him, to hint by its mere straightness at sharp decision, an unwavering line of rectitude and absence of that feebleness known as breadth of view; in fact, to hint at that simplicity and oneness of character just declared conducive to a novelist's comfort.

The deacon drove westward in his buckboard that hot summer afternoon, the 6th of July. The yellow road was empty before him all the length of the lake, except for the butterflies bobbing around in the sunshine. The deacon's lips looked even more secretive than usual: a discouraging man to see, if one were to come to him in a companionable mood desiring comments.

Opposite the spring he drew up. hearing the sound of a hand-organ under the trees. The tall man with the clipped mustache sat up deliberately and looked at him. The leathery ape ceased his funereal capers and also looked at him; then retreated behind the spring. Pietro gazed back and forth between the deacon and the ape, dismissed his professional smile, and followed the ape. The tall man pulled his legs under him and got up.

"It's

"I reckon it's Bob," he said. free quarters, Bob. Entrez. Come in. Have a drink."

The deacon's embarrassment, if he had any, only showed itself in an extra stiffening of the back.

I

"The train- I did not suppose was going to meet you." "Just so. I came by way of Westford."

The younger brother stretched himself again beside the spring and drew his hat over his eyes. The elder stood up straight and not altogether unimpressive in front of it. Pietro in the rear of the spring reflected at this point that he and the ape could conduct a livelier conversation if it were left to them. Pietro could not imagine a conversation in which it was not desirable to be lively. The silence was long and, Pietro thought, not pleasant.

"Bob," said the apparent sleeper at last, "ever hear of the prodigal son?"

The deacon frowned sharply, but said nothing. The other lifted the edge of his hat brim.

"Never heard of him? Oh, - have!

Then I won't tell about him. Too long. That elder brother, now, he had good points; no doubt of it, eh?"

"I confess I don't see your object—” "Don't? Well, I was just saying he had good points. I suppose he and the prodigal had an average good time. together when they were boys, knockin' around, stubbin' their toes, fishin' maybe, gettin' licked at inconvenient times, hookin' apples most anytime. That sort of thing, eh? Just so. He had something of an argument. Now, the prodigal had no end of fun, and the elder brother stayed at home and chopped wood; understood himself to be cultivating the old man. I take it he didn't have a very soft job of it, eh? — lifting his hat brim once

more.

The deacon said nothing, but observed the hat brim.

"Now I think of it, maybe strenuous sobriety wasn't a thing he naturally liked any more than the prodigal did. I've a notion there was more family likeness between 'em than other folks thought. What might be your idea?" The deacon still stood rigidly with his hands clasped behind him.

"I would rather," he said, "you would explain yourself without_parable. You received my letter. It referred to our father's will. I have received a telegram which I take to be threatening."

The other sat up and pulled a large satchel around from behind him.

"You're a man of business, Bob," he said cheerfully. "I like you, Bob. That's so. That will I've got it in my pocket. Now, Bob, this here is going to be a nervy game,-ain't it, Bob? I reckon you've got some cards, else you're putting up a creditable bluff. I play this here will, codicil attached. You play,-window already mended, I take it; time expired at twelve o'clock tonight. Good cards, Bob, firstrate. I play here"- opening the satchel "two panes of glass-allowin' for accidents-putty, et cetera, with statement attached, that I propose to bust that window again. Good cards, Bob. How are you comin' on?"

The deacon's sallow cheeks flushed and his eyes glittered. Something came into his face which suggested sharply the secret family likeness hinted by his brother. He drew a paper from his inner coat pocket, bent forward stiffly and laid it on the grass.

"Sheriff's warrant," he said, “for — hem covering possible trespassing on my premises; good for twenty-four hours' detention-hem."

"Good," said his brother briskly. "I admire you, Bob. I'll be blessed if I don't. I play again." He drew a revolver and placed it on top of the glass. "Six-shooter. Good for two hours' stand-off."

"Hem," said the deacon. "Warrant will be enlarged to cover the carrying of concealed weapons. Being myself the sheriff of this town, it is hem permissible for me." He placed a revolver on top of the warrant.

"Bob," said his brother, in huge delight, "I'm proud of you. But I judge you ain't on to the practical matter called getting the drop. Stand back there!"

The deacon looked into the muzzle of the steady revolver covering him, and retreated a step, breathing hard. Tom Rand sprang to his feet, and the two faced each other, the deacon looking fully as dangerous a man as the Westerner.

And then, suddenly, the wheezy old hand-organ beyond the spring began, seemingly trying to play two tunes at once, with Pietro turning the crank as desperately as if the muzzle of the revolver were pointed at him.

"Hi, you monk! Dance!" cried Pietro; and the leathery ape footed it solemnly. The perspiration poured down Pietro's face. Over the faces of the two stern men fronting each other a smile came and broadened slowly, first over the younger's, then over the deacon's.

The deacon's smile died out first. He sat down on a rock, hid his face and groaned.

"I'm an evil-minded man," he said; "and I'm beaten."

The other cocked his head on one side and listened. "Know what that tune is, Bob? I don't. How long ago was it when we followed that handorgan to Westford and slept in the woods, eh, Bob?"

"Thirty years," said the deacon, without looking up.

Tom Rand sat down in the old place again, took up the panes of glass and the copy of the will, hesitated, and put them down.

"I don't reckon you're beaten, Bob. You ain't got to the end of your hand yet. Got any children, Bob? Yes; said you had."

"Five."

"Tell you what we'll do, Bob. We'll call it a draw. I'll go you halves, countin' in the monument.'

But the deacon only muttered to himself: "I'm an evil-minded man." Tom Rand meditatively wrapped the two documents around the revolvers. "Here, Dago, you drop 'em in the spring!" which Pietro did, perspiring freely.

"Shake all that, Bob. Come along." The two walked slowly toward the yellow road. Pietro raised his voice despairingly. "No cent! Not a nicka!"

"That's so," said Tom, pausing. "Five children, by thunder! Come along, Dago. It's free quarters. Entrez. Take a seat."

The breeze was blowing up over Elbow Lake, and the butterflies bobbed about in the sunshine, as they drove along the yellow road. Pietro sat at the back of the buckboard, the leathery ape on his knee and a smile on his face, broad, non-professional, and consisting largely of front teeth.

F

ROM the famous old hostelry at Dedham, eleven miles from Boston, on one of the most frequented roads between Boston and the South and West, swung the sign of the Fishers, father and son, from 1658 to 1730. In the former year, the senior, Lieut. Joshua Fisher surveyor, apothecary and inn-holder, as well as officer of "ye trayne band," was licensed by the General Court of the colony "to sell strong waters to relieve the inhabitants being remote

from Boston, for one year." Duly authorized from year to year thus to "relieve the inhabitants," the elder Fisher continued to achieve both fame and fortune as "mine host" till gathered to his fathers in 1709.1

1 The cut of the tavern accompanying this article is a reduction by permission, from a sketch made by a Dedham artist of the tavern as it appeared in its last years, as published first in "The Almanacks of Nathaniel Ames," by Sam Briggs. It was a roomy, two-story, peaked-roofed old building, with its end to the street, the oldest part having an addition of more modern construction. The rooms were low, the windows small, the lower floor sunken a little below the ground. A large buttonwood overshadowed it. Behind was a large barn, while back to the Charles River stretched a broad field.

His son, Capt. Joshua Fisher, a representative to the Great and General Court, of higher military rank and of wider fame as a popular Boniface of the old stage road than his father, succeeded him and, marrying about 1695 Hannah Fuller, the daughter of a good Old Colony line, reared in the old tavern a family of four daughters, a fifth dying in tender

Joshua Glisher.

years. With a reasonable share of this world's goods, a man just and devout, at peace with mankind and himself, failing in health, and provident for those to come after, on the twentyfifth of March, 1729, he made his last will and testament, and died March eleventh of the following year.1 His will begins in the stereotyped form of those days:

"In the Name of God Amen. The twenty fifth day of March Anno Domini 1729 I Joshua Fisher of Dedham & within his Majestys Territories and Dominions of New England-Inn holder, being sick and weak of Body but of sound and perfect memory do make and publish," etc.; and, reaching through the overmuch verbiage of such instruments the real business in hand, it provides that "Touching such worldly estate the Lord hath lent me my Will is That it be disposed of as in and by this Will is Exprest. Imps:

"It. I will That all Just Debts That I owe shall be well and Truly paid.

"Item. I Give and bequeath unto my Well beloved wife the Improvement of my whole estate both Real and personal during her widowhood and I Give her my Best Bed and furniture with my best Silver Tankard to be at her Dispose.

"Item. I Give to my Daughter Hannah a Piece of Land at a place called Rockfield and a Bond I had of her husband for money. I Give her Eighty pounds to be paid in Curent money or Good Bills of Credit on this Province to be paid after my wife's decease That is Ten pounds a year yearly until she has received the whole.

"Item. I Give to my Daughter Judith 1 Dedham Town Recs. (pub.) p. 55.

my Land I had of Thomas Herring and also Lands I purchased of Richard Everard and a Woodlot that was my ffathers near to serjeant Jabez Ponds.

"Item. I Give to my Daughter Mary my home Lands orchards and Buildings and a Woodlot which I purchased of Asiel Smith and a Woodlot which I purchased of Jeremiah Hull.

"Item. I Give to my Daughter Rebecca the Lands I purchased of Mr. James Barnard and the Land I purchased of Capt. William Avery and a Lott I Purchased of Jonathan Avery.

"Item. I Give to the Church of Christ in Dedham twenty pounds in Bills of credit on this Province ffurther I Give to my Three youngest Daughters my moveable Estate to be Equally Distributed amongst them after my wife's decease. My Will is that my Daughter Mary shall pay to my Daughter Hannah the sum or sums before mentioned. ffinally I do Constitute and appoint my two Daughters Judith and Mary to be Executors to this my Last Will and Testament."

The will was duly witnessed by three of his friends, and was probated at Boston, April 7, 1730.1 A very ordinary sort of will and one whose "surface indications," as the mining folk say, by no means suggest the part it was to play in the overthrow of tenets and practices of law which, born at Rome, fastened themselves

firmly through the canons of the Church, upon the ecclesiastical and common law of England and, centuries old, crossed the sea, being for a time engrafted upon the early jurisprudence of all her colonies.

At the time our testator made his will, Hannah, only, the eldest daughter, had taken to herself a husband, one Benjamin Gay of Dedham, whose entire acceptability to his father-inlaw may be questioned, as he had al

Benjamin Gay

ready made inroads upon the old gentleman's confidence and cash (his wife receiving her husband's "bond" as a part of her legacy), neither himself or wife being entrusted with any share in the settlement of the estate. There seems to have been no dim1 Suffolk Wills, 5939.