Opening his eyes to that peculiar width appropriate to the hearing of an
Indian story, Charlie intently listened.

"My great-great-grandmother was all alone one day in the house, for the
men-folks had gone to market or somewhere. She happened to be looking out
of the window, when she saw an Indian looking over the fence. What a
customer! He was an ugly-looking crittur, I don't doubt. What could she
do, for he might be tomahawking her in less than no time? Wimmin folks, in
them days, were not like Miss Persnips, that keeps the little
thread-and-needle store on the corner, without any snap to 'em. My
great-great-grandmother just tore round that room at a lively rate. She
slammed the shutters, she banged about the chairs. Then she pretended that
there were lots of men-folks in the house, and she kept calling to Tom,
Bill, Jerry, Nehemiah. O, she had a string of 'em, all on her tongue's
end! I don't know but she pointed a gun out of the winder, man-fashion.
What did that crittur do but gather up his traps and walk off as harmless
as a bumble-bee when his sting is gone. I've heard with my own eyes my
grandmother tell that story about her grandmother."

"Heard her with your eyes?"

"Of course not! With my ears, ears. Where are yours, for pity's sake?
There is an old garrison-house on the other side of the river, and I will
show it to you some time, or I will show you what is left. They have built
over the garrison-house and back of it, making a farm-house of it, but
there is something still to be seen."

"What a blessed old aunty!" thought Charlie. And the wind, what grand
music it made! The chimney seemed to be a big bass-viol that this