The Worship of
The Golden Calf.

A Story of
Wage-Slavery
in Massachusetts.

By
Charles Sheldon French.

DALTON, MASS.:
C. Sheldon French, Publisher,
35 John Street.

PITTSFIELD, MASS.:
William J. Oatman, Printer,
536 North Street.
1908.

COPYRIGHT,
1908,
By CHARLES SHELDON FRENCH.

NOTE. Since Chapter VIII was written Massachusetts law has been so amended that $10,000, instead of $5,000, may now be collected for a human life lost through the negligence of a railroad or street railway corporation.

CHAPTER I.

THE snows had begun to disappear from the far-famed valleys of Berkshire; the mountain-tops and slopes were still white; in the softening air was the promise of the return of birds and flowers; Nature was relenting from her winter harshness, but man was less kindly than Nature.

On Beauna Vista, one of the hillocks rising slightly above the level of the Housatonic Valley, the day’s work was done, and John Wycliff, a farm-laborer, was awaiting the pay for his last month’s work before returning home.

There was nothing prepossessing about Wycliff’s appearance. Short of stature, minus one eye which he had lost in an encounter with the Indians, with a bent nose, a souvenir of a cattle-stampede on the plains,—he was tough and wiry as a lynx, and his features betrayed almost as little emotion as that animal.

His experience had been largely of a kind to make him suspicious of his fellows, and alert for self-defence. He had knocked about the East in a variety of occupations, and in the West had been editor, cow-boy and gold-miner. He had seen varying fortunes, having been once part owner of a gold mine. He had lost all and was now a common laborer again. Although he still retained his interest in the mine, it was considered worthless. He had hopes that sometime it might become valuable again through the invention of cheaper methods of separating the gold from the rock.

Jacob Sharp, the farm-superintendent, was, in appearance, a typical Yankee. He was tall and angular, with blue eyes, which sometimes kindled with a kindly light, but which oftener showed a steely luster suggesting something of the serpent. The nose was the most prominent feature. It was large and sharply defined, and he had a habit, when excited, of blowing it vigorously.

On this occasion a trumpet-like blast first warned John Wycliff that Boss Sharp had something on his mind. He blew his nose loudly several times, while the blue eyes seemed to retreat more deeply into their sockets and to give out a snaky leer. After an unusually loud blast, which testified to the healthy condition of his lungs, he pulled some bank-notes from his pocket.

“Twenty-five dollars,� he said, handing the notes to Wycliff. “I have retained five dollars for Mr. Bothan on the bill which you owe him.�

“But you agreed to pay me thirty-five dollars per month,� replied Wycliff. “I am very poorly situated at this time for losing any part of my earnings. I should be glad to pay all my debts in full at once, but at present my wages will barely supply the necessities of life for my family.� Then, turning to Mr. Bothan, who stood near by, he continued, “Both law and gospel make it a man’s first duty to provide for his family. Besides, you should have no preference over my other creditors.�

But the words were wasted. Wycliff might as well have appealed to the flint boulders on the mountain side. Sharp insisted that he had agreed to pay him only thirty dollars per month, and he also insisted on paying five dollars of that sum to Richard Bothan on Wycliff’s debt. He even threatened to discharge Wycliff if the latter should take advantage of the Bankruptcy Law and thus place Mr. Bothan on a level with other creditors. Wycliff received twenty-five dollars and walked away.

Mr. Sharp then passed a five dollar note to Mr. Bothan, who returned him one of smaller denomination with the remark, “Here’s a dollar for collecting.�

The men then separated, unconscious that there had been any witness of their conversation. Only a few steps distant, where a rustic watering-trough was hidden from sight by a clump of low hemlock bushes, two horseback-riders, a lady and a gentleman, had paused to let their horses drink.

“What a spectacle that is!� exclaimed the gentleman; “Congressman Baldwin, one of the owners of this farm, belongs to the national legislative body which passed the Bankruptcy Law, and here we see his foreman threatening to discharge a workman for accepting the benefits of that law. The law is designed to relieve those who are unable to pay their debts. Congressman Baldwin is sworn to uphold the law. His foreman, Jacob Sharp, is doing his best, in this instance, to destroy the law. I don’t believe David Baldwin, the Congressman, would feel very proud of his foreman if he witnessed this scene.�

“Would his brother and partner, Zechariah Baldwin, approve of it?� asked the lady.

“I cannot say,� replied the gentleman. “Zechariah Baldwin has less sense of justice or love for his workmen than his brother David. But this is a mean act, at any rate. Mr. Sharp has no moral or legal rights to withhold the workman’s wages and it is contemptible at this time, because Mr. Wycliff has a child very sick and needs every dollar he can earn. I am surprised that such a man as Sharp, who is notorious for cheating his workmen, should hold so high a position in the church.�

“It is much easier to criticise the church than to help in the good work which the church is doing,� answered the lady tartly.

“We have a right to criticise the church if she fails to take up the work which the Master left for her to do;� replied the gentleman, but the lady was offended, and the remainder of the journey was passed in silence.

Meanwhile John Wycliff found little to comfort him on his return home.

“Robert has been growing worse all day;� were the first words of his wife: “The Doctor gives very little encouragement. He says that to-night will decide and that he is so frail and sensitive that we must gratify all his whims. Whatever he wants we must promise to get it for him. The Doctor says we must not cross him the least bit in any of his wishes.�

The wife and mother—a slight, sensitive thing—dropped upon her knees, buried her face in the bed-clothes, and prayed for her son in words which reached no ear but the Almighty’s. Then she lay down upon a couch, exhausted by days and nights of watching.

The mother slept. The boy lay for the most part quietly, his spirit fluttering as lightly as a butterfly’s wing between life and death. The father sat beside the crib where his child lay, and watched his every movement, bending down frequently and placing his ear close to the little sufferer’s face, to learn if he were still breathing. Once he woke his wife hurriedly, thinking that the end had come. But life still lingered.

There was a distant rumble of wheels. John Wycliff recognized the sound of that vehicle, and it made him for the moment desperate. Some of the rough points of his Western life had ingrained themselves in his nature, and one characteristic memento of that strenuous time was at hand in a bureau-drawer.

He glanced at his wife. She was in a sound sleep. He bent down and caught the sound of the boy’s breathing. Then he sprang to the bureau and rushed, coatless and hatless, into the street.

Jacob Sharp was alone on his way to the mid-weekly evening prayer meeting. When he came into the shaft of light thrown from the sick-room window, his horse was grasped by the bridle, while a low voice said: “Pay me the wages you defrauded me of!� and a pistol gleamed in Sharp’s face.

“Be quick!� the voice added, as Mr. Sharp’s right hand went up, as was his habit when excited, to blow his nose. The hand dropped quickly to his pocket, and a ten-dollar note was handed over.

“Take legal action about this if you choose, Mr. Sharp,� said Wycliff. “I can land you in prison and for more than one offense.�

“Say nothing, and I will say nothing;� replied Sharp as he drove on. Wycliff’s challenge uncovered a chapter in Sharp’s history which he had fancied covered up and which he did not wish exposed. This adventure filled only a very brief time, and again Wycliff was by the bedside.

The little lips moved feebly. He placed his ear close to them.

“Pop—will I—have—pony—cart—heaven?�

It was with great difficulty that he gathered the words. Heaven! What did he know about heaven? What did he care about it if such men as Jacob Sharp and Richard Bothan were its representatives here on earth? But he answered instantly, recalling the doctor’s warning, and bending close to the child’s ear:

“Yes, you will have everything you want there.�

And then, very slowly and very feebly—so slowly and so feebly that his coarse senses could hardly be sure of the scarcely whispered words—came the “Pop—will I—ever—have—pony—cart—here?�

There was but an instant’s hesitation, as the father recalled his inability to fulfil his promise, and he replied, watching his child’s face as the fluttering spirit caught the meaning:

“Yes, Robbie, if you will stay with us you shall have a pony and a cart.�

This had been the height of the child’s desire, his highest idea of happiness, his heaven—to have a pony and a cart. In sight of the other shore, and with voices, perhaps, which his father’s coarse ear could not hear, calling him thither, he was willing to stay on this side if his desire might be gratified.

The father thought he saw the slightest trace of a smile on the thin face. The boy slept. More than once there were brief intervals when the father could not detect his son’s breathing, but as the hours wore away there seemed to be a gain.

Meanwhile the father’s memory was busy. As a lightning-flash, in the night, for an instant illuminates the entire landscape, so his son’s question flashed his whole life in review before him. He recalled the day, when, with high ideals, he had pledged himself to Christ in the little country meeting-house, and the church had pledged friendship to him. Later some of these comrades in the church had defrauded him of all he possessed. To-day the worst enemies of himself and of every other workingman in the town of Papyrus, were pillars in the fashionable church of that place. These things stood out in bold relief to-night, as bold as the mountain’s rugged outline when the lightning’s flash illumines it.

“The First Church of Papyrus,� Wycliff had once said to Deacon Surface, “does not stand for righteousness. It will whitewash any wrong done by its wealthy members. Our pastor is eloquent in condemning the disfranchisement of the negroes of the South, but does not say one word to condemn the disfranchisement of mill-hands in Papyrus. Employees in the Baldwin Mills are prevented from voting appropriations for schools, roads, street-lights, and other public benefits in their own town. To be consistent, you should place the sign of the Almighty Dollar on the pinnacle of your beautiful church, and inscribe over the altar these words: ‘The rich can do no wrong.’�

Deacon Surface, who belonged, body and soul to the Baldwins, had been horrified at Wycliff, whom he regarded as little better than an infidel. Wycliff regarded Deacon Surface and his kind, as followers of the Master only for the ‘loaves and fishes.’

But the night wore away. The boy was better. The mother was worn out, and Wycliff remained at home to care for his wife and child.

Jacob Sharp was an early caller.

“Your position will be open to you, at thirty-five dollars per month, whenever you can come back;� he said.

But Wycliff was never to return.

CHAPTER II.

“GOOD afternoon, Mr. Moriarty.�

It was Deacon Surface who spoke, a gentleman who owed such influence as he possessed to the fact that he was an agent of the Baldwins, collecting their rents, superintending in a general way some of their enterprises, and administering their local charities.

He was a man of excellent intentions, but shallow. One of his best friends thus described him:—“The Deacon has as many sides as a barrel. He doesn’t want to make any enemies, but when he is cornered, he will roll toward the money every time. If the Deacon were a judge, and a man were brought before him charged with stealing one hundred dollars, and the charge were proved, he would order the money divided equally between the thief and his victim. That is just about his idea of justice.�

The Deacon’s critics, if put in his place, would perhaps do no better than he. Being the personal and confidential agent of the Baldwins, he must accept their ideas of right and wrong, adopt their conscience, as it were, or else surrender a fat job such as seldom comes to a man of common ability.

“The top of the afternoon to you!� replied the Irishman addressed, whose traits were quite different from the Deacon’s.

“Of course you are going to vote for Jacob Sharp for Selectman,� remarked the Deacon.

“The divil a bit will I vote for Jake Sharp for any office, Deacon Surface.�

“Indeed, Mr. Sharp is a fine Christian gentleman.�

“Do yez call the likes of old Jake Sharp, the slave-driver, a fine Christian gentleman? A liar, a thief, and a murderer is what he is.�

Good Deacon Surface was shocked.

“Those are pretty hard names to apply to a neighbor, Mr. Moriarty. I think you would find it very difficult to prove that Mr. Sharp is what you call him.�

“Indade I would not,� replied the indignant son of Erin. “A liar? Did he ever pay a man the wages he agreed to? Not if he could help it. Didn’t young Mike Silk knock him down flat in his tracks before Old Sharp could remember that he promised to pay him two dollars a day in haying? He remembered it all right after Mike flattened him. Oh, it’s a bad memory he has, all right.

“A thief? Sure it’s yourself he was after st’aling a shovel from. And sure it’s your own memory needs bracing up, too. It’s your own shovel he was st’aling, whittling off your name and branding on his own with a red-hot iron. Forgot all about it, have yez? Do yez forget the time when he stole his own daughter’s money, that he was guardian for, and lost it, and the poor girl was nigh going crazy over it? It’s surely a poor memory ye has, Deacon Surface.

“A murderer? I haven’t forgotten the day when he hurried young Pat Flynn in the hay-field till the poor fellow dropped dead by the side of me with sun-stroke. I niver shall forget it in this world. And when David Baldwin, the Congressman, asked Sharp why did he hurry the lad such a hot day, wasn’t the old villain after saying it was liquor that killed him? And the poor lad never tasted liquor. If that wasn’t murder, what would yez call it? An awful poor memory yez have, all at once, Deacon Surface.

“And ye’ve forgot, too, how old Sharp sold the dis’ased meat in the city, haven’t yez? Ye’ve forgot intirely how two children were killed by that same meat, so the doctors said? And that is what yez call a fine Christian gentleman in the First Church, is it?�

“But the meat charge was never proved,� protested Deacon Surface.

“And it’s yerself knows as well as anybody why it wasn’t proved—because Zach Baldwin wanted it hushed up. It can be proved to-day if John Wycliff and meself, and one other man I could name, were called as witnesses.�

Deacon Surface realized that he was not gaining ground, and changed his tactics.

“You had work on Congressman Baldwin’s new streets at Maple Heights, last fall, did you not?�

“Indade I did, and I earned ivery cint I got, too, so I did, Deacon Surface.�

“But there will be no work at Maple Heights this year unless Mr. Sharp is elected Selectman.�

“Maple Heights may go to Perdition. I’ll not vote for old Jake Sharp if I niver get another day’s work from the Baldwins. The likes of yerself cannot drive Dave Moriarty one inch. Ye may stand there and threaten till doomsday. I’ll not vote for that slave-driver, Sharp. He ought to be behind the bars.�

Deacon Surface moved on, to appeal to workmen who would “hear to reason,� as he expressed it.

As for David Moriarty, he hurried over to his neighbor, John Wycliff, to tell him of this latest game of the Baldwins. He had barely left Wycliff’s, to return, when Hugh Maxwell called to see John Wycliff.

This gentleman was fully as easy and gracious in his manner, fully as well qualified to get through the world without provoking opposition, as Deacon Surface; but, unlike the Deacon, he had to depend upon his own resources, with no millionaires to back him. He had a good business as a retail merchant, and in building up his trade had won many friends and very little enmity. Mere formalities over, Mr. Maxwell asked:

“What would be my chances in a campaign against Jacob Sharp?�

“If it were a perfectly fair election, they ought to be the very best,� replied Wycliff. “The workingmen, who form the large majority of the voters of Papyrus, are favorable to you. But Mr. Sharp is the candidate of the millionaire paper-makers, and they practically own the town. You know the methods which the Baldwins will use as well as I do. Coaxing and threatening, of the kind which Deacon Surface knows so well how to use, will have their effect. Any employee of the Baldwins who openly advocates your election will lose his job. The Baldwins are already promising employment if you are defeated, and threatening to take away employment if you are elected. Work on the new streets at Maple Heights, will not be the only job held up to the unemployed as a bribe and a threat in this election. The cry is already raised by the Baldwin agents: ‘Elect Sharp, and the Baldwins will build a sewer for Papyrus; defeat Sharp, and the Baldwins will defeat the sewer.’ This cowardly sort of bribery and threat is permitted by Massachusetts Law, and the Baldwins know full well how to use it. Still, if you wish to run against Sharp for Selectman, I will place your name before the voters of Papyrus, through the columns of the Elmfield Star.�

Wycliff obtained from Hugh Maxwell a few facts which he needed, and his caller departed; not, however, without leaving a ten-dollar note, in appreciation of the service which Wycliff was to undertake for him. Wycliff then attended to household duties, and performed little services for the sick ones, who were improving very slowly.

Then he wrote a letter to the Star, advocating Hugh Maxwell’s election as Selectman. The task was a pleasant one. He mentioned Mr. Maxwell’s lifelong residence in Papyrus; his courtesy,—“He is always and everywhere a gentleman;� his honesty,—“Who ever heard Hugh Maxwell’s word questioned in the smallest particular?�—his qualifications for office from a business point of view,—“The man who has built up, from nothing, a good business of his own, has some qualities needed in the public service;� his popularity,—“He has the good will alike of the employer and the workingman.�

Experience had taught Wycliff the folly of exaggeration, and his nomination of Hugh Maxwell for Selectman was recognized by readers of the Star as a correct description of the man, and not overdrawn.

Wycliff’s home duties were interrupted in the evening by another aspirant for political honors—Herman Schuyler, an extensive farmer, and also a dealer in a variety of goods. In one respect Schuyler was the only honest man of means in Papyrus. He had broken all known records by appearing at the office of the assessors of Papyrus, and demanding that ten thousand dollars be added to his assessed valuation.

“I am worth fifty thousand dollars,� he had said to the Assessors. “My property will sell for that, to-day. I am not so mean as to be unwilling to pay a tax on every dollar God has given me.�

Herman Schuyler was the most liberal employer in the town of Papyrus. It was not unusual for him to pay a higher wage to a workman than had been agreed upon, if the workman earned it. But he was accustomed to giving orders, and having them obeyed promptly. He wanted a service from Wycliff, and he called for it very much as he would have ordered a roast or steak at the butcher’s.

“I want to run for Assessor. I want you to write a letter to the Star in my favor. I want you to write it, because there is nobody, not even Congressman Baldwin himself, who can put words together as you can. Understand, now, I am not asking you to vote for me. A man has got pretty low down, in my own opinion, when he will ask another man to vote for him. I want my name placed before the voters in the columns of the Star, and I ask you to do it, very much as I would ask a lawyer to make out a mortgage or a deed for me.�

The speaker was a heavy, square-built man, clad to-night, as he usually was at this season, in a bearskin coat, which he did not remove. When he made a point, in speaking, the square jaws closed like a trap, and he brought a muscular fist down heavily upon the arm of the rocker in which he was seated.

“Well, Mr. Schuyler,� Wycliff replied at length, “I will do my best for you, and it will be a congenial task. Everything that I know of you is in your favor; but I fear that your very honesty will be used against you. Our leading citizens do not want a thoroughly honest man in the office of Assessor. They want the property of the town assessed at only a fraction of its true value, so that the town will not have to bear its just share of state and county taxes. It is strange that men who are leaders in the church and in society, will argue the longest for a dishonest valuation.�

“If I am elected Assessor,� exclaimed Schuyler, and he brought his fist down upon the rocker-arm so that everything about him shook, “I shall be true to my oath. It is strange, as you say, that Christian men will defend the violation of an oath. Every assessor swears that he will ‘neither overvalue nor undervalue’ property for taxation.�

Then Schuyler presented to Wycliff certain facts which he wished embodied in the letter:—How he came to Papyrus forty years before, with only a dollar in his pocket, and had built up his present fine property by industry and fair dealing.

“I tell you what,� he said, as his hearer excused himself to perform some service for the sick ones, “You write the letter to-morrow, when you have leisure. I’ll drive over in the evening and get it. By the way, how’s your coal-bin?�

“Pretty low,� replied Wycliff.

“Very well,� said Schuyler, “I’ll send a ton to-morrow and a receipt by the driver. Good night.�

And out into the night went this last candidate for political honors.

“A pretty good day financially, my dears,� said Wycliff, as he kissed his wife and son, and made everything secure for the night.

CHAPTER III.

“JOHN, do you know where Pulpit Rock is?�

“Indeed I do. It’s two or three miles into the Wilderness.�

“How near can you drive to it?�

“Perhaps within a quarter of a mile.

“There’s an old wood-road, which perhaps runs as near as that to Pulpit Rock.

“The road is very rough, gullied out by water. There might be some danger of breaking a carriage in it.�

“Never mind. I’ll run the risk. Be ready in fifteen minutes.�

It was black-eyed Eva Baldwin who gave the order, and within an hour they had left the public highway, and were following the ancient and unused wood-road through the Wilderness. The wheel of the buckboard bounded high over stones that blocked the way, and then dropped as suddenly into deep holes worn by the freshets. The riders often dodged or bent low to avoid being brushed from their seats by branches of trees. It was very far from being a pleasant ride, but never a word of complaint from the lady.

She was anxious to secure the earliest blossoms of the fragrant trailing arbutus, to grace the pulpit on the morrow.

She might send some rare and costly flowers from the greenhouse, but every one of the Baldwin greenhouses would contribute to the decoration of the church, and she, being fond of wild flowers and of nature at first hand, wished to bring something direct from the Wilderness.

Eva Baldwin was a sister of David and Zechariah Baldwin, and was worth a couple of millions easily, but she never realized how poor she was until the eloquent young clergyman, the Reverend Ralph Cutter, came to preach at the First Church.

“Many a poor girl,� she said to an intimate friend, “is richer than I am, in the love of a good honest man.�

If the Reverend Ralph Cutter had made any advances in her direction, he would have been met, frankly and honestly, by a good true woman. She admired the new preacher the moment she first saw him, and that admiration grew with every service of his which she attended, and with every opportunity for becoming acquainted with him.

The coachman noticed the fire in the black eyes, as she alighted.

“You see that path?� he asked. “It leads through a hemlock grove, over a flint ledge, and into a little valley beyond. Pulpit Rock is across the valley from the ledge. The earliest arbutus is found across the valley, on the slope below Pulpit Rock, among scattered bushes. Shall I help you?�

“Oh, no; I’ll find it easily,� she replied, and taking the basket which the coachman handed her, she followed the path, humming a favorite song, and was soon out of sight in the hemlocks.

On that same Saturday morning the Reverend Ralph Cutter entered the Wilderness from the opposite direction. Perhaps none of those who listened to the impassioned and earnest appeals of the young minister, knew that he helped to keep both his spiritual life and his oratorical powers at white heat by this weekly journey to the Wilderness, where he spent an hour in secret prayer and in speaking to the rocks and trees from the text he was to use on the morrow.

Leaving the public road, he made his way through the Wilderness, along a path not very well marked, through somber groves of pine and hemlock, through other groves of red oak, rock-maple and beech, across brooks, among large flint boulders, and through tracts where the wood had been cut off, and the thorny blackberry canes had taken its place. Part of the way the snow still covered the ground, and part of the way the floor of the Wilderness was carpeted with the blooms of the hepatica, or liverwort, with here and there an early blossom of the trailing arbutus.

He made the same journey each Saturday, that he might be alone for secret prayer, where he expected no interruption and also where he might, in the freedom of the Wilderness, give the morrow’s sermon. I do not mean that he would use the same words on Sunday that he hurled at the white birch trees and flint boulders on Saturday. But the ideas would be the same. He never used any written sermon.

One of his deacons once said of him:—“He seems to have everything connected with his subject so completely under his control, that he has only to reach out and grasp the idea that comes next, and hurl it at you with the force and speed of a thunderbolt. We used to have sleepy hearers. I have seen no one nodding under Ralph Cutter’s preaching. We used to have complaints from people who were hard of hearing. Ralph Cutter seems to think it is a part of his business to make the people hear.�

How much of Ralph Cutter’s power on Sunday was due to his hour of prayer in the Wilderness, and to his Saturday sermon to the crags and bushes from Pulpit Rock, I cannot tell.

He was heavy-hearted to-day, and the first words which were echoed back to him by the flint ledge across the valley were these:—

“This is my farewell to you. There are people in this church who attempt to dictate what I shall say from this pulpit. Not only do they attempt to dictate what I shall say here, but they attempt to dictate my actions outside. They tell me that I must not exercise the right, belonging to every citizen, of expressing my opinions in private or public, on questions of public policy.

“There is no person on this earth rich enough, or powerful enough, to dictate what I shall say, or what I shall not say, as a preacher of the gospel. You may have this pulpit, and you may secure, to fill it, some one who will be your slave; but I will wear no other bonds than those of the Master, whether in the pulpit or out, and no man, even though he be a thousand times a millionaire, will shape my words or actions, as a minister of the gospel, or as a private citizen.�

There was much in Ralph Cutter’s mind that did not find expression in words. He had been disgusted with the First Church in Papyrus, or rather with its bosses, before he had been with it a fortnight. Only the magical charm of a pair of black eyes, and the lovable personality behind them, had made life in the Paper Town endurable to him. Recently Zechariah Baldwin had given the young preacher plain notice that if he continued to occupy the pulpit of the First Church, he must cut out some of his pet hobbies from future sermons. He must cease to meddle with the relations between labor and capital, both in the pulpit and out—and, in short, he must omit everything which could possibly offend the Honorable Zechariah. This dictation the young preacher positively refused to submit to.

He tried to imagine the changed attitude of the people toward him at the close of to-morrow’s sermon. There would be faces averted from him which had always before been friendly. There would be hands withheld which had always before sought his in friendly greeting.

There was one peculiarly sharp thorn in this thorny affair. How he wished that those searching black eyes did not belong to a member of the “Royal Family�, as the Baldwin family was sometimes called.

Nature was not disturbed by his eloquence. A hawk sailed with unmoved wings, in mighty circles, high above him. The noisy blue jays were mobbing an owl in the oak grove close by. The blossoms of the trailing arbutus were as lavish of their fragrance as if no one in the world were troubled, or perplexed, or in love.

All unconscious that any human being was within hearing, the preacher continued:—

“When I first came to Papyrus I delivered a sermon against the disfranchisement of negroes at the South. After the service a workingman asked me why I did not ask a full and free ballot for the white paper-maker of Massachusetts, as well as for the negro cotton-planter of Mississippi? I was much surprised when the workman told me that mill-hands in Papyrus, who are legal voters, do not have a full vote in town-government, and cannot secure it.

“I have since investigated actual conditions here, and find that the Papyrus mill-hand, even if he owns his home, cannot vote appropriations for schools, highways, street-lights, sewers, and other public improvements for which he is taxed. The mill-hand, it is claimed, is given two hours in which to attend town-meeting. That period of two hours always includes the dinner-hour. The trip to and from the town-hall, in some cases, takes nearly the whole of the two hours.

“Two hours for the rightful monarch of Papyrus to say how the town shall be governed! A two-hour limit to prevent the real creator of all your wealth from saying how that wealth shall be taxed! Two hours limit for a free citizen of the grand old Commonwealth of Massachusetts on Town-Meeting-Day—the day that taught New England to be free! In reality, not two hours, not one hour. Barely time for the rightful monarch to mark a ballot for town-officers and return to the mill, while the usurper remains and dictates what sums shall be spent by the town for schools, highways and other needs.

“I have consulted one of the best lawyers in the state. He says: ‘The Commonwealth of Massachusetts does not guarantee to its mill-hands, who may be legal voters, the right to vote in town-affairs. The paltry two-hour provision only makes a farce of free government in mill-towns. It does not apply to town-meetings. In some towns the workman’s full rights are secured by shutting down the mills on town-meeting day, and in others by holding the business meeting, for appropriations, in the evening. But where the town authorities and the employers, as in Papyrus, are both opposed to allowing the mill-hands to vote on appropriations, they have no legal remedy. The political leaders, or bosses, of the State have been asked to correct the law, but they say the matter is of no importance,—as if anything could possibly be more important than the principle of equal rights, upon which our nation is founded.’�

“And this,� shouted the speaker in the Wilderness, “this is the boasted equal rights of Massachusetts. I do not wonder that you, manufacturers of Papyrus, are ashamed,—so ashamed that you have forbidden me to mention this subject in the pulpit,—so ashamed that you have muzzled every newspaper within fifty miles, even the usually independent Springdale Democrat. You ought to be ashamed. The State of Massachusetts, which disfranchises its own workmen, while demanding political equality for the Southern negro, ought to be ashamed.�

Soon after Miss Baldwin left the coachman heard a voice, and fearful for her safety, hurried to the ledge, where he saw and heard the speaker. He did not stay long, but long enough to learn that it was the minister’s farewell, and a very unusual discourse.

“My last word to you,� rang out the powerful voice across the valley, “shall be in favor of a pure church. Ask on the street, for the worst libertines and adulterers in town, the wreckers of happy homes, the men whose social life is a stench,—and members of this church, protected by their wealth, will be pointed out to you. Search for the employers most unjust to their workmen, and you will find them sheltered by this church. My parting advice is, to purify your church,—to drive out of it the thieves and adulterers, or to cease calling it a church of Christ.�

The lady returned with a basket of arbutus, but there was no song on her lips, and the fire had burned out of the black eyes.

“John,� she said, “drive me to the home of the Widow Fordyce. She is sick and may be glad of these flowers.�

To an acquaintance, that evening, the coachman said:—“If you want to hear Reverend Ralph Cutter’s farewell and the greatest sermon ever preached in Papyrus, go to the First Church to-morrow.�

The news spread rapidly, and Ralph Cutter was surprised when he met a congregation for which the building could not furnish standing-room. But even those in the street heard him.

CHAPTER IV.

CONDITIONS improved steadily with the Wycliffs. Mrs. Wycliff and Robert were both gaining slowly, but surely. From various sources, some of them unexpected, came sufficient income to pay all bills promptly when due. Wycliff had dabbled in literature since boyhood, and his income from this source, though small, was helpful.

While he was still at home, helping about the house, and frequently consulted by Hugh Maxwell, and by those whose political fortunes were linked with his, a stranger called. He was a keen-looking man, who wasted no time in ceremony.

“John Wycliff, I believe?�

“Yes, sir.�

“I am Wilfrid Terry, of the Elmfield Star. We are not satisfied with our sales in Papyrus. We sell only a thousand papers here, whereas we ought to sell fifteen hundred. We are told that you have had experience in newspaper work, and a gentleman who is acquainted with your former work, thinks you could bring our sales in Papyrus up to what they ought to be.�

“I don’t believe that I could work for you.�

“Indeed, and why not?�

“As I have learned it, good journalism is no respecter of persons. I could not, or rather I would not, work under your system, which tells the truth about the poor man, but conceals the truth about the rich man.�

“I don’t understand you.�

“I can tell you in a way that you will understand,� replied Wycliff sharply: “When Rudolph Hartland, a small contractor, had trouble with his workmen, and a dozen of them went on a strike, you devoted columns of valuable space to the occurrence; but when hundreds of employees in the Liberty Mill of the Baldwin Paper Company, struck against a cut in wages, your paper never mentioned it. Here was an important event, in which the public had a vital interest, but you would not allow any reference to it in the paper. You have never allowed the facts to be presented in your publication regarding the partial disfranchisement of workingmen in Papyrus, by which all mill-hands are prevented from having any voice in town-government, except to vote for town-officers, being shut out from voting for appropriations. Only a short time ago you refused to publish Reverend Ralph Cutter’s farewell sermon, the most notable sermon, perhaps, ever preached in Papyrus. Why have you refused publicity to these things, which the people want to know, and which the people are entitled to know? Simply because you are afraid of offending the Baldwins. You ought to wear a brass collar, with your owner’s name on it.�

John Wycliff’s voice and features were not expressive. He could never have been an actor. But he was getting waked up, and a little light was creeping into his one lonesome, dull gray eye. Such expression as there was in his features was of loathing and contempt. He looked as if he would have been glad to take up his visitor with a pair of tongs, deposit him gently in some out-of-the-way place, and cover him up so that he would not offend the senses of decent people.

“I didn’t come here to listen to abuse of this kind,� exclaimed Terry angrily.

“Never mind what you came here for,� retorted Wycliff. “If you stay around me you will hear a grain of truth occasionally. There may be something to be said for a man like Deacon Surface, who serves the devil for a fat salary, but you serve him for nothing. The Baldwins despise you, as such men always despise their slaves, and the public despises you, too. And what do you get out of it? You complain that you are selling only one thousand papers in Papyrus. Why not give the facts that the people are entitled to know, and sell fifteen hundred?�

Terry was angry, but the money was what he was after, and possibly Wycliff was right, after all, in what he said.

“Let’s talk business,� he said. “Come out to Lawyer Sturgis’ office to-morrow, and we’ll sign an agreement. If you can bring our circulation in Papyrus up to fifteen hundred copies, you shall have fifteen hundred dollars a year, and one year’s salary guaranteed. You shall handle the Papyrus news and comment upon it as you see fit, so long as you do not render the publisher of the paper liable to an action at law. If we differ on this point, Lawyer Sturgis’ decision shall be final.�

“It’s a bargain,� said Wycliff, and his caller departed.

The details were arranged, and contract signed, the next day. A few evenings later Wycliff was sitting in what he humorously called his “office.� It contained a few books, mostly for reference, a convenient desk, a small safe, a stuffed cougar, or mountain lion, from the Rockies, and a mounted moosehead from Maine—all of these things being reminders of more prosperous times. Frowning upon all, and seemingly out of place, was a good likeness of Congressman Baldwin, of whom Wycliff had been a great admirer.

Answering a timid knock, Wycliff found a fellow-laborer at the door, a weak-minded French Canadian, a mere boy, who went by the name of “Half-witted Joe.�

“How do you do, Joe?� he asked when his old comrade was seated.

“Mad.�

“What is the trouble?�

“Mr. Sharp no pay me. He say me no worth ten dollars.�

“Did he pay you anything?�

“Yes, five dollars for clothes.�

“You worked one month?�

“Yes, he promise me ten dollars and board.�

“I heard him.�

“Me get up early; me work late—eight o’clock, sometimes. Me work hard. Mr. Sharp say me no earn only five dollars. Damn.�

“What will you do?�

“Me go home, Canada.�

“Have you money enough to take you home?�

“No. Me sell watch, five dollar.�

He exhibited a watch, for which Wycliff thought he could safely pay that amount, and he handed Joe the money.

“Thank,� said Joe, as he stepped over the threshold, “Me fix old Sharp.�

“Don’t hurt Mr. Sharp,� Wycliff cautioned him. “Mr. Sharp has a good wife, and good children. Besides, you would go to prison.�

The tone of his visitor changed. He seemed to realize that he had blundered in making the threat.

“Me no hurt Mr. Sharp,� he finally promised, and then he went out into the darkness.

“Don’t lose your money,� was Wycliff’s parting advice.

When he was out in the night again, Joe’s anger kindled anew, as he remembered the farm-superintendent’s injustice. Although Wycliff’s warning prevented him from doing Sharp bodily harm, he was still bent on revenge. Revenge was still the uppermost idea in Half-Witted Joe’s unbalanced mind, as he approached Beauna Vista, and the dark night had its strong influence upon his thought and purpose.

He glanced in at the farm-house windows. The family and the farm-hands were busy reading. Mr. Sharp, he knew, had gone to a public meeting. The coast was clear. He stole around to the side of the barn farthest from the house. He went through an unused stable, to where the lower part of a great mow of hay was exposed.

There was the flash of a match, the sudden darting upward of the flames on the edge of the hay-mow, and then Joe hurried out through the yard, across the meadow, and reaching the railroad track, followed it to the edge of a piece of woods.

Here he halted, cowering in some bushes, and looked. He saw the light gleam from the big barn-doors, saw the flames break through the roof, saw the inmates of the house rush out, and heard the alarm sounded from farm-house to farm-house. Soon a neighboring farmer rushed past Joe, on his way to the fire, and as the flames now lit up the landscape all around, Joe realized that he might be discovered, and passed on. But while he looked, he feasted his eyes as greedily as a former savage might have done, on the destruction of a pioneer home.

“Me fix you, Jake Sharp,� he said, in a whisper, as he shook his fist in farewell at Beauna Vista. He did not realize that the loss fell upon others, and not upon Sharp. An hour later he was aboard a train on his way to Canada.

The farm-building which is fired is usually doomed. It could not be otherwise on this occasion, when the flames had their start in a forty-ton mow of hay, dry as tinder.

The farm-laborers first saved the horses. Their next move was such as might have been expected from excited men, unused to such emergencies—they began dragging out the vehicles, until Mrs. Sharp, with more forethought than the men, exclaimed: “The cows! the cows next!�

“But we cannot get at the door of the cow-stable,� the laborers protested.

“Take crowbars and break in the side of the barn!� she ordered, and under a woman’s direction the work of rescue went on.

The fire-department of Papyrus responded tardily, owing to distance, and could do but little, except to protect the farm-house. Finally, as the glowing pageant lit up the landscape for miles in every direction, half the men of Papyrus were on the scene, but could do nothing except listen to the crackle of burning timbers, and the bellowing of imprisoned and roasting cattle.

John Wycliff knew very well that the Baldwins would not wish the story of the relations of Jacob Sharp and Half-Witted Joe published, but he considered that the public was entitled to know it. The story of the poor Canadian boy, and his treatment by Jacob Sharp, was told in the Star as graphically as the story of the fire itself. In his narrative Wycliff made a clear distinction between known facts regarding the fire, and mere suspicions or rumors.

The Tribune, the Star’s Elmfield rival, the property of Congressman Baldwin, made this announcement:—

“Not a clue is obtainable regarding the origin of the fire. Mr. Sharp, the foreman of Beauna Vista, is a man who always keeps the good will of his employees, so that not a shadow of suspicion can lie in that direction.�

This way of dealing with news was entirely in harmony with the usual policy of the Baldwins, where their own interests were involved. There were several persons who were angry at the course taken by the Star. The Baldwins were angry, partly because they regarded it as an intrusion upon their private affairs and partly because the fire-story had dealt Sharp a hard blow in his fight for the office of Selectman.

As for Sharp, he threatened various things, but his own attorney told him to “pocket his wrath and say nothing,� as he could not maintain an action against the Star.

Terry was happy, as the sales of the Star, in Papyrus, had been lifted between two and three hundred, and the increase promised to prove permanent.

CHAPTER V.

“HOW are you and the lad, this morning, Mrs. Wycliff?� asked that good neighbor, Mrs. Clyde.

“Getting along nicely, thank you, and very glad to see you,� replied Mrs. Wycliff. “But how does it happen that you are not working to-day?�

“The strike. Haven’t you heard of the rag-cutters’ strike? Three hundred rag-cutters walked out of the Baldwin Mills an hour ago.�

“I didn’t know that the Baldwins ever had a strike in their mills.�

“They don’t often have one, and when they do, the world at large does not know about it, they have such a strong grip on the newspapers about here. My son, Tom, works on the Springdale Democrat, and he has told me a lot about these things. Springdale is about fifty miles from here, and the Democrat pretends to be an independent newspaper, and yet it never prints any news from Papyrus which can possibly hurt Congressman Baldwin. Some years ago, Tom began work as correspondent here for the Democrat, and there was a big strike here, in the Liberty Mill, which belongs to the Baldwin Paper Company. Tom didn’t know any better then, and he sent them a long article about the strike. Not a word of it was printed, and the editor wrote Tom that they never printed any news of that kind about the Baldwins. Then the other Springdale paper, the Universe, is owned by Congressman Baldwin; so, of course, that does not print a word regarding troubles in the Baldwin Mills.�

“But what was the cause of the strike to-day?� inquired Mrs. Wycliff.

“There were a good many things that had something to do with it,� replied the neighbor, “but fines were the worst.�

“Fines! Do you have to pay fines?� asked Mrs. Wycliff.

“Yes, in this way. Perhaps you do not understand how fast we have to work to earn what we get. We earn about one dollar per day, and to do this we must cut in the neighborhood of one hundred and twenty-five pounds of rags. Now, in cutting these rags, if we overlook a button, or a bit of rubber, we are fined a pound of rags.�

“That is, if you put in a piece of cloth having a button on it, no matter how small, you must cut an extra pound of rags, to punish you for overlooking that button. Am I right?�

“Yes, you have it exactly right, and it’s just the same if I put in a piece of cloth which has a bit of rubber in it. And here, see here is a bit of cloth that came back to me this morning,—just this little bit of a letter, sewed into the cloth.� And she showed Mrs. Wycliff a bit of white cloth, on which was a small initial, such as is used in marking garments.

“There are hundreds of pieces and consequently hundreds of motions we must make in cutting one pound of rags, for which we receive less than a cent. Working so rapidly as we are obliged to do, to accomplish our day’s task, is it any wonder that a piece of cloth, containing a button, or a bit of rubber, slips through our fingers unnoticed now and then?�

“And this is what the strike is about?�

“Yes, this is the main thing. We are willing to pay something of a fine for failure to notice rubber and buttons, but we think that the fine is now too heavy. There are some other things we don’t like—some brutal bosses, not fit to drive oxen, let alone women. Our scythes are often poorly ground. The Baldwins seem to think anything is good enough for a woman to cut one hundred and twenty-five pounds of rags a day on. Sometimes it is very dark for our work.�

“Is no light furnished at such times?�

“Never. The office force, or other departments of the mill, may have lights at noon of a cloudy day, but we are of no account. It is often too warm in our room. We don’t need much heat because we have plenty of exercise. We must be kept too warm on account of the ‘lookers over,’ who don’t have much exercise, except when they jump up on the tables, to get away from a mouse.�

“Couldn’t the ‘lookers over’ have a separate room, which could be kept warm enough for them, so that your room could be cooler and more comfortable for you?�

“I don’t know. If the matter of fines is made right, we will say nothing about the rest. When we make complaints, we are usually told that the Baldwins could get machines to cut rags, cheaper than we cut them, and that they only hire us out of charity.�

“I am surprised at the way the rag-cutters are treated,� said Mrs. Wycliff; “I have always heard that the Baldwins were very generous.�

“They are generous,� replied her visitor, “but they are not just. There is an old saying, ‘Be just before you are generous,’ which, if lived up to in Papyrus, would make a wonderful difference in favor of the working class. How have the Baldwins made their millions? Of course the whole world knows that they make a very high grade of paper. It is said that this is due, in some measure, to the pure water found in Papyrus, which is the gift of God. Then, too, it is claimed that Mack Baldwin laid the foundation of the Baldwin millions by manipulations in Wall Street, during the Civil War. But some of those millions are the fruit of low wages. If the Baldwins pay twenty-five cents a day less than a fair wage, to two thousand hands, three hundred days in a year, what is the result? It’s a yearly saving of one hundred and fifty thousand dollars, of money due the laborer, is it not? Then, perhaps, the Baldwins may spend fifteen thousand dollars a year in pensions to a very few, and in charity to the working class. Nothing can exceed the cleverness of the Baldwins, in making one dollar in charity, look bigger to the laborer, than ten dollars in wages withheld. I think the time is coming when the law will require the accounts of all such concerns as the Baldwin Paper Company, to be as open as town accounts, and then the lion’s share of profits will go to the laborer. But I guess you have had all the rag-room and paper-mill you want for one day.�

“No, I have been very much interested, and I wish you women might get justice,� replied Mrs. Wycliff. “I think there cannot be any harder or more disagreeable work in the mill than yours, and I wish that you might have better pay and kinder treatment. The Baldwins are well able to pay. I hear that this new library that Zechariah Baldwin is giving to the city of Elmfield will cost a half a million dollars.�

“Yes, I try to restrain my anger, as a Christian woman should,� said Mrs. Clyde, “but my blood boils every time I see that building. We poor women must slave in Zack Baldwin’s rag-room, and the money which ought to go to the mill-help, in higher wages, is given, with a great flourish of trumpets, to the city of Elmfield, which is already rich enough. As to our work. If we try to work a bit faster than usual, we are liable to get cut on the scythes, and there’s many a terrible gash been got in the rag-room. Then how often do you hear of contagious diseases spread by the rags of a paper-mill.

“The worst slap the Baldwins ever got was from a wealthy Southern lady, who visited their mills last summer. She said to Zack Baldwin:—‘The slaves on my father’s plantation in Georgia, were treated with more consideration, and were more contented and happy at their work than your rag-cutters. But the slave-holding system was wrong, and it fell. I think also, the system under which you Northern millionaires eat the apple, and give your employees the core, is wrong and will fall, too,’ But I have stayed too long.� And Mrs. Clyde vanished.

John Wycliff sat in his den, within easy ear-shot, and the pith of the women’s talk was woven into his account of the strike, for the Star.

More than two thousand copies of the Star were sold that day in Papyrus, and its circulation was raised permanently to a point near those figures.

The Honorable Zechariah Baldwin was furious when he read the Star’s account of the strike. Never before had a local newspaper dared to print the news of a Baldwin strike, much less to hold those “captains of industry� up to public criticism, as it had done to-day.

But Terry was happy. He had sold extra thousands of his paper, the largest edition ever sold of a Berkshire newspaper, and scores of citizens, in all walks of life, had congratulated him on his bravery in defying the Baldwins.

The most important result of the Star’s article was that it was copied, more or less fully, by other papers throughout the country, owing to Congressman Baldwin’s prominence as a public man. A strike in his mills is not a good asset for a Congressman, and David Baldwin telegraphed his brother, from Washington, to grant the rag-cutters’ demands immediately. Zechariah Baldwin reluctantly complied with the order sent by wire.

The Honorable Zechariah Baldwin appeared, a very angry man, at the office of the Star.

“I want you to discharge that Wycliff,� was his first greeting to Mr. Terry, the proprietor.

“How long have you owned this office, that you assume to run my business?� rejoined Mr. Terry.

“But you know that we’re not used to being treated as the Star treated us yesterday,� protested the paper-manufacturer.

“Then the best thing that you can do is to get used to it,� retorted the publisher, who was now beginning to get angry on his own account. “You’ve been treated as if you were superior beings, but you are no better than other people. I have been suppressing the truth about you millionaires for years, and losing thousands of dollars by doing so. I might have sold thousands of copies of the Star, in Papyrus and throughout the county, had I not truckled to you Baldwins, like a dog, instead of being a man. Hereafter the truth is to be published about you, just the same as about other folks, and Wycliff is under contract to do it for a year. He is recommended as being entirely competent to deal with such cases as yours. Perhaps I shall go out and tell you how to run your mills. There’s the door, Zack Baldwin,� and the proprietor of the Star, now thoroughly angry, motioned the millionaire out.

But the lord of Papyrus, although more surprised than he had been before in years, was not to be thus easily thwarted.

“What will you take for your newspaper—for the entire plant?� he asked, in a more conciliatory tone.

“Twenty-five thousand dollars,� replied the publisher, immediately, naming a price so far beyond its true value that he felt sure it would be declined.

“A pretty steep price, isn’t it?� asked Baldwin.

“Who asked you to buy?� retorted Terry.

“Come over to Lawyer Stimson’s and draw the writings,� said the paper-manufacturer, withdrawing.

Next day John Wycliff received this note:—

“My dear Wycliff:

“You’re a jewel. I’ve sold the Star to Zack Baldwin for $25,000. (It’s actual value is around $15,000.) I didn’t even sign the usual agreement, not to engage in the same business again in the same city.

“Enclosed you will find check for $1,500, according to agreement by which I guaranteed you one year’s salary.

“When I first met you, I thought you were a discourteous crank, but my finances and my self-respect were both badly in need of the rebuke which you gave me. Your way of dealing with such cattle as the Baldwins beats mine out of sight.�

“Yours always,
Wilfrid Terry.�

CHAPTER VI.

“WHERE are you going, pop?� asked Robert, as Mr. Wycliff drove into the yard, with a horse and carriage, one fine morning.

“Going to take you and ma for a little ride into God’s country,� replied the father.

“But I thought everywhere was God’s country,� replied the little fellow in surprise.

“Surely,� replied the father. “All this beautiful world is the Lord’s, but He seems to have given the greater part of the land about here to the Baldwins, or perhaps it would be more nearly correct to say that He has allowed them to grab it. I expect to take you to-day to see a place, which seems to me to be more especially God’s country, because He has not allowed one man, or one family, to get possession of all of it.�

“And you think it is a better country?�

“Indeed I do, in some respects.�

After passing out of the paper-manufacturing village of Papyrus, eastward, they came to a big, deserted, wooden mill, with many tumble-down houses near it.

“Say, pop, what village is this?�

“Sodom.�

“And what is that old stone mill beyond?�

“That is Gomorrah.�

“Quite a place for Bible names,� broke in Mrs. Wycliff. “Those ruins of another old stone mill, also broken down and deserted, I suppose are Babylon?�

“Exactly so, my dear, and farther up stream we shall pass Tyre and Sidon, also broken down and deserted. This entire river-valley along here is often called the Valley of Desolation.�

“Who owns it?� asked Mrs. Wycliff.

“The Baldwins, who bought it, for a very little, from the Quiet Valley Woolen Company.�

“Why don’t the Baldwins build paper-mills here?�

“I cannot tell you. It has always seemed to be the Baldwin policy to build up the other end of the town, at the expense of this end. Certainly the Baldwins have played the part of the ‘dog in the manger,’ in regard to East Papyrus. They will neither build mills here themselves, nor will they sell the property so that anyone else can build here. The Wessons, who own the paper-mills at Papyrus Center, would have built mills here, giving employment to a large number of people, if they could have secured the property. The Baldwins have already made plans for robbing East Papyrus of her water-power, which is all that this end of the town has left.�

“But how can they do that?�

“Very easily. The water-power can be transformed into electricity, and then the electricity can be transferred by wire, to the Baldwin Mills, at the west end of the town. The plans are already made. It will increase the dividends of the Baldwin Mills, which already pay enormous profits, but it makes the prospect for rebuilding East Papyrus much blacker than before.�

“But wouldn’t it be better for the town of Papyrus to have all its mills rebuilt and running at a fair profit, than to have a part of them running at an immense profit?� protested Mrs. Wycliff.

“Certainly; it is not the good of the town, but the enrichment of the Baldwins, which is to be considered. These shrewd financiers rarely spend a dollar, unless they feel sure that it will come back, leading several other dollars with it.�

“But they gave that beautiful big building to the town, pop,� put in Robbie.

“Yes. It cost the Baldwins one hundred thousand dollars, and it has cost the town twice that.�

“How is that, pop?�

“In taxes lost. The Assessors say:—‘we must tax the Baldwins lightly, because they are so generous to the town.’ Some of the Baldwin properties are not assessed for more than one-third value, an enormous loss to the town in taxes.�

Soon they left the valley, and began to climb the mountain, still going eastward.

“Wild flowers, pop. Please hold up, and let me get some.� The boy soon returned to the carriage, with his hands full of the blossoms of the coltsfoot, white, blue, and yellow violets, bell-flowers, and wake-robins. As they ascended the mountains, they found the trailing arbutus and the spring-beauty, which had bloomed earlier in the valleys.

A beautiful farm was reached.

“Who owns this?� asked Mrs. Wycliff.

“Thomas Bothan. He has retired from business, and spends some of his time here. I hope I may find him.� Then, for the first time, he told his wife of the last day at Beauna Vista,—how Sharp and Bothan had conspired to keep back a part of his wages on Bothan’s old debt. He had not dared to tell her at the time.

He soon found Mr. Bothan.

“I want a receipt in full,� he said, as he produced the money due Bothan, and then, taking leave of him, he added:—“The last debt I owe will be paid to-day, and I have paid every debt as fast as I was able to do so. You would have received yours just as promptly, had you not tried to take the bread away from my family to get it.�

For a distance their route lay through a grand old forest of large trees. The boy was jubilant as he saw, first a striped squirrel, then a red one, then a gray, and then:—

“Oh, look quick, pop; what was that? It looked like a squirrel, but it flew, or rather it sailed, from one tree to another.�

“A flying squirrel.�

“And there’s a rabbit. Oh, now I begin to see why you call this God’s country.�

About noon they reached their destination, the farm of Phillips Porter, in Sprucemont, where they were expected, and where a substantial meal was awaiting them.

“You have been very patient with me,� said Wycliff, as he paid Porter about one hundred dollars, the last debt he owed. Mr. Porter told again to-day, (and he seemed to enjoy telling it,) the story of how he came to leave Papyrus.

“It was many years ago, and Mack Baldwin, father of the present generation of paper-makers, was in control, although Zechariah and David were young men then, just learning the business. The Baldwins were not then so completely in control of the town of Papyrus as they are now. Captain Bolton Wesson, who built the paper-mills at Papyrus Center, was a broader and better man than Mack Baldwin, and the two were often opposed to one another in town-affairs.

“Captain Wesson wanted the town-hall located at the Center, the natural and proper place for it, but Mack Baldwin demanded that it be built at the West End, the part of the town which he owned. At the approaching town-meeting, every employee of Mack Baldwin was warned to vote for locating the hall at the West End. At the town-meeting Baldwin had spotters to take the names of any of his employees who voted against him. I was working in his mill then, but I voted for building the hall at the Center. Next morning I was called into the mill-office, where I met Mack Baldwin and his sons, Zechariah and David. David is the present Congressman.

“Mack Baldwin handed me my pay, at the same time calling me a vile name. Now, in those days I had never met a man who could handle me,—�

“They are not plenty, even now,� said Wycliff, interrupting him.

“Perhaps not; but in those days I looked at such things in a different light from what I do now. Since then I have learned the gospel of forbearance, and to-day I almost despise mere brute force; but in those days I did not allow anyone to call me a vile name, and Mack Baldwin had scarcely spoken the word when he lay on the floor at my feet. The two sons interfered, but they followed their father in double-quick time. I had the three wolves in a heap, in their own den, in much less time than I am telling you of it. Then the book-keepers interfered and followed their employer.�

“But I was terribly frightened when I heard of it,� said his wife. “I thought Phillips would have to go to jail. We were only engaged then.�

“Of course I was arrested,� continued Mr. Porter, “and taken before the district court at Elmfield. Judge Tuttle, who presided over that court, had been a colonel in the Union army, and lost a leg at Gettysburg. He despised Mack Baldwin, who made a million out of the government’s distress, by gambling in stocks in Wall Street. The Judge listened patiently while all the evidence was given, although there seemed to me to be a far-away look in his eyes, as if he were thinking of the days when he and Captain Wesson were fighting for the Union, while Mack Baldwin was making a fortune out of the war at home.

“‘Mack Baldwin,’ said the Judge, ‘you discharged the accused because he did not vote as you ordered him to, did you not?’ Baldwin could not deny it. ‘And you called him a vile name, to boot?’ continued the Judge. Baldwin admitted it.

“‘Discharged,’ thundered Judge Tuttle, as if he were again giving orders on the battle-field, and picking up his hat and cane, he stumped out of the courthouse to dinner, while there were roars of applause in the room which he had left.

“Captain Wesson was in the courtroom, so as to go bail for me if necessary, and I never saw a man more pleased than he was. He offered me work, if I wanted, but the girl I had left behind me, here in the country, didn’t want to live in Papyrus, so I bought this farm, and I have never been sorry I did so. We are comfortably off here, and I do not have to ask how I shall vote. Many of the mill-hands in Papyrus are little better than slaves when it comes to voting. Under the Australian ballot, they may vote for the men they prefer for town-officers, but not for town-appropriations and other measures, without making themselves liable to the wrath of their employers. The Baldwins never ceased their ancient policy of discharging and driving out of town, if possible, any of their workmen who opposed their policy in town-affairs by voice or vote.�

In the afternoon the entire party of Porters and Wycliffs drove to Twin Mountain, near by, there being a wood-road, almost to the summit, nearly as good as the average mountain highway.

Sixty miles eastward was Mount Wachusett, seen to-day very dimly, and only visible at all in the clearest weather. Nearer, guarding the Connecticut Valley, were Mount Tom and Mount Holyoke.

“Say, pop, what mountain is that? It looks like a pyramid from here.�

“That is Monadnock. What state is it in, Robbie?�

“In New Hampshire,� answered the boy, proud to exhibit his knowledge of the geography of the states hereabouts.

“And there, very dim, scarcely more than a blue line in the west, are the Catskills and Adirondacks. I don’t believe you remember where they are.�

“Surely I do. What did I go to school for? They are in New York.�

“And that beautiful mountain close by. Can you tell the name of the highest mountain in our own state?�

“Greylock, or Saddle Mountain.�

“We have a view here of portions of New York, Connecticut, New Hampshire and Vermont, besides a large portion of Massachusetts.�

“And this mountain-top is to be sold very cheap,� said Mr. Porter. “Mr. Daniels, the owner, is in California, in poor health, and has directed me to sell it for fifteen hundred dollars. There are three hundred acres in the farm, one hundred acres being heavy wood and timber, one hundred and fifty acres pasture, and fifty acres good tillage land. The house is comfortable, and the barn excellent. But I hardly need to tell you, as you are familiar with farms about here. Only for its location, so far from railroad, it would bring many times the price asked. As it is, it is the best bargain I know of. I would be glad to pay two hundred and fifty dollars for fifty acres of the pasture, which joins mine, but I don’t want the whole.�

“What do you say, ma?� asked Wycliff of his wife. “It’s the best bargain I’ve heard of in many a day. We’re not obliged to live on it, you know, we can rent it.�

“Buy it if you think best,� replied his wife. “We may be glad to use it for a summer home, if we are prospered.�