To this day the railroad has not reached Coniston Village—­nay, nor Coniston Flat, four miles nearer Brampton.  The village lies on its own little shelf under the forest-clad slope of the mountain, and in the midst of its dozen houses is the green triangle where the militia used to drill on June days.  At one end of the triangle is the great pine mast that graced no frigate of George’s, but flew the stars and stripes on many a liberty day.  Across the road is Jonah Winch’s store, with a platform so high that a man may step off his horse directly on to it; with its checker-paned windows, with its dark interior smelling of coffee and apples and molasses, yes, and of Endea rum—­for this was before the days of the revivals.

How those checker-paned windows bring back the picture of that village green!  The meeting-house has them, lantern-like, wide and high, in three sashes—­white meeting-house, seat alike of government and religion, with its terraced steeple, with its classic porches north and south.  Behind it is the long shed, and in front, rising out of the milkweed and the flowering thistle, the horse block of the first meeting-house, where many a pillion has left its burden in times bygone.  Honest Jock Hallowell built that second meeting-house—­was, indeed, still building it at the time of which we write.  He had hewn every beam and king post in it, and set every plate and slip.  And Jock Hallowell is the man who, unwittingly starts this chronicle.

At noon, on one of those madcap April days of that Coniston country, Jock descended from his work on the steeple to perceive the ungainly figure of Jethro Bass coming toward him across the green.  Jethro was about thirty years of age, and he wore a coonskin cap even in those days, and trousers tacked into his boots.  He carried his big head bent forward, a little to one aide, and was not, at first sight, a prepossessing-looking person.  As our story largely concerns him and we must get started somehow, it may as well be to fix a little attention on him.

“Heigho!” said Jock, rubbing his hands on his leather apron.

“H-how be you, Jock?” said Jethro, stopping.

“Heigho!” cried Jock, “what’s this game of fox and geese you’re a-playin’ among the farmers?”

“C-callate to git the steeple done before frost?” inquired Jethro, without so much as a smile.  “B-build it tight, Jock—­b-build it tight.”

“Guess he’ll build his’n tight, whatever it is,” said Jock, looking after him as Jethro made his way to the little tannery near by.

Let it be known that there was such a thing as social rank in Coniston; and something which, for the sake of an advantageous parallel, we may call an Established Church.  Coniston was a Congregational town still, and the deacons and dignitaries of that church were likewise the pillars of the state.  Not many years before the time of which we write actual disestablishment had occurred, when the town ceased—­as a town—­to pay the salary of Priest Ware, as the minister was called.  The father of Jethro Bass, Nathan the currier, had once, in a youthful lapse, permitted a Baptist preacher to immerse him in Coniston Water.  This had been the extent of Nathan’s religion; Jethro had none at all, and was, for this and other reasons, somewhere near the bottom of the social scale.