He was in demand as “help” on the farms about him, on account of his great strength and faithfulness, although the farmers found him exasperatingly slow and, when it was a question of animals, not always sure to obey orders.  He could be trusted to be kind to horses, unlike most hired men we get nowadays, but he never learned “how to get the work out of their hide.”  It was his way, on a steep hill with a heavy load, to lay down the whip, get out, and put his own powerful shoulder to the wheel.  If this failed, he unloaded part of the logs and made two trips of it.  The uncertainty of his progress can be imagined.  The busy and impatient farmer and sawyer at the opposite ends of his route were driven to exhaust their entire vocabulary of objurgation on him.  He was, they used to inform him in conclusion, “the most do-less critter the Lord ever made!”

He was better with cows and sheep—­“feller-feelin,” his mother said scornfully, watching him feed a sick ewe—­and he had here, even in comparison with his fellow-men, a fair degree of success.  It was indeed the foundation of what material prosperity he ever enjoyed.  A farmer, short of cash, paid him one year with three or four ewes and a ram.  He worked for another farmer to pay for the rent of a pasture and had, that first year, as everybody admitted, almighty good luck with them.  There were several twin lambs born that spring and everyone lived.  Lem used to make frequent night visits during lambing-time to the pasture to make sure that all was well.

I remember as a little girl starting back from some village festivity late one spring night and seeing a lantern twinkle far up on the mountainside.  “Lem Warren out fussin’ with his sheep,” some one of my elders remarked.  Later, as we were almost home, we saw the lantern on the road ahead of us and stopped the horses, country-fashion, for an interchange of salutation.  Looking out from under the shawl in which I was wrapped, I saw his tall figure stooping over something held under his coat.  The lantern lighted his weather-beaten face and the expression of his eyes as he looked down at the little white head against his breast.

“You’re foolish, Lem,” said my uncle.  “The ewe won’t own it if you take it away so long the first night.”

“I—­I—­know,” stuttered Lem, bringing out the words with his usual difficulty; “but it’s mortal cold up on the mounting for little fellers!  I’ll bring him up as a cosset.”

The incident reminded me vaguely of something I had read about, and it has remained in my memory.

After we drove on I remember that there were laughing speculations about what language old Ma’am Warren would use at having another cosset brought to the house.  Not that it could make any more work for her, since Lem did all that was done about the housekeeping.  Chained to her chair by her paralyzed legs, as she was, she could accomplish nothing more than to sit and cavil at the management of the universe all day, until Lem came home, gave her her supper, and put her to bed.