He wears patched
overalls, and has sciatica in winter; but I have seen the gleam of
youth awakened, though remotely, in his eyes. I do not believe he ever
quite forgets; there are moments, now and then, at dusk or midnight,
all his for poring over those dulled pages of the past.
After we had elected to abide by our old home, we voted an enlargement
of its bounds; and thereby hangs a tale of outlawed revenge. Long years
ago "old Abe Eaton" quarreled with his twin brother, and vowed, as the
last fiat of an eternal divorce, "I won't be buried in the same yard
with ye!"
The brother died first; and because he lay within a little knoll beside
the fence, Abe willfully set a public seal on that iron oath by
purchasing a strip of land outside, wherein he should himself be
buried. Thus they would rest in a hollow correspondence, the fence
between. It all fell out as he ordained, for we in Tiverton are
cheerfully willing to give the dead their way. Lax enough is the
helpless hand in the fictitious stiffness of its grasp; and we are not
the people to deny it holding, by courtesy at least. Soon enough does
the sceptre of mortality crumble and fall. So Abe was buried according
to his wish. But when necessity commanded us to add unto ourselves
another acre, we took in his grave with it, and the fence, falling into
decay, was never renewed.
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