Elnathan Pritchett, blushing and hesitating, twitched at his father’s sleeve.  “But, father—­Miss Martin—­We’re keeping her out of a position.”

That young lady made one more effort to reach these impenetrable people.  “I was about to resign,” she said with dignity.  “I am going to marry the assistant to the head of the Department of Bibliography at Albany.”

The only answer to this imposing announcement was a giggle from Jennie Foster, to whose side Elnathan now fell back, silenced.

People began to move away in little knots, talking as they went.  Elzaphan Hall stumped hastily down the street to the town hall and was standing in the open door as the first group passed him.

“Here, Mis’ Foster, you’re forgittin’ somethin’,” he said roughly, with his old surly, dictatorial air.  “This is your day to the library.”

Mrs. Foster hesitated, laughing at the old man’s manner.

“It seems foolish, but I don’t know why not!” she said.  “Jennie, you run on over home and bring a broom for Elzaphan.  The book must be in an awful state!”

When Jennie came back, a knot of women stood before the door, talking to her mother and looking back at the smoldering ruins.  The girl followed the direction of their eyes and of their thoughts.  “I don’t believe but what we can plant woodbine and things around it so that in a month’s time you won’t know there’s been anything there!” she said hopefully.

SALEM HILLS TO ELLIS ISLAND

  A single sleighbell, tinkling down
      The virgin road that skirts the wood,
  Makes poignant to the lonely town
      Its silence and its solitude.

      A single taper’s feeble flare
      Makes darker by its lonely light
  The cold and empty farmsteads square
      That blackly loom to left and tight;

      And she who sews, by that dim flame,
      The patient quilt spread on her knees,
  Hears from her heirloom quilting-frame
      The frolic of forgotten bees.

      Yea, all the dying village thrills
      With echoes of its cheerful past,
  The golden days of Salem Hills;
      Its only golden days?  Its last?

II

  From Salem Hills a voiceless cry
      Along the darkened valley rolls. 
  Hear it, great ship, and forward ply
      With thy rich freight of venturous souls.

      Hear it, O thronging lower deck,
      Brave homestead-seekers come from far;
  And crowd the rail, and crane the neck;
      In Salem Hills your homesteads are!

      Where flourish now the brier and thorn,
      The barley and the wheat shall spring,
  And valleys standing thick with corn
      (Praise God, my heart!), shall laugh and sing.

AVUNCULUS

I