Now comes the story of the Ranger.  He was getting in years, he said, and wanted a home for his old age; so he built him a boat.  He put a little open stove in it, because an open fire felt kind o’ comfortable to his toes.  He named it the Ranger; because when he was a little boy he took a long walk to the beach with his father, the little Iulus following with unequal steps, and they saw a shipwrecked vessel, named the Ranger, and he liked the name.  He kept that name in his heart many years.  When at last, by dint of much saving and scraping together, much hoeing of Indian corn, the old stocking-foot was at last filled, all the little odd bits, poured out and counted up, came to enough to speak to the ship-builder.  Oh, the model! how the old man’s brain worked over that!  Then the timber,—­each was a chosen piece; oak, apple, cherry, pine, each tree sent a stick.  The home was builded, was launched, was christened:  The Ranger.  Alas, it was an ill-omened name to him!  Brave and young was he in heart, and loved right well his tossing, rolling home; and many a hard gale did he ride out in her alone, old as he was.

Too old was he to be trusted on the treacherous deep; and friends (?) advised and counselled, and the home of his old age was sold. (He never got the pay!) Now, with restless, wandering feet, he makes long tramps, trying to collect old debts.  Kind-hearted old man that he is, thinking always he is hard on ’em when he gets a promise to pay!  A wife has been sick; perhaps he had better not ask for it now.  His ox has died; maybe he had better wait.  Fumbling over old papers in his pocket-book, muttering something about a pension:  he was on the list, but was never called out, or somebody took his place.

Poor old Uncle Jack, with his dream of a pension, his dream of an office, his dream of a home in a boat!  With him “many a dream has gone down the stream.”

May some friendly hand at last close his eyes to that last long sleep, when his turn comes to heave down!

He is always finding Indian arrowheads and hatchets and pestles.  He picks full pails of the nicest-looking huckleberries.  He is always dressed in clean, tidy clothes, a little scant and well patched.  He pats me on the head and says, “Didn’t know you were Evelyn’s sister; thought it was a little three-year old.”  About to tell me a sad story he had read in the newspaper, he stops suddenly and says, “Believe I won’t tell you, dear!” “Did you hear the newspipe has broke?” when the Atlantic Telegraph Cable parted.  He had plans for shoving off the Leviathan when it stuck.

Shall I not tell you he brings me a little bunch of eels of his own spearing? that you must be careful at table he has enough to eat, he takes such small pieces? that he is altogether a sparse man? has rows of pins on his sleeve that he picks up?—­an old-fashioned man, whose type is fast fading out from these “fast,” “steep” times.  He tells a story of a stream of black flies which