The boy said:

"He ain't a-coming to school no more, I calkilate. He was buried
this morning before school hours."

That year, '49 was a dismal year in Joliet.

Mr. Rogers, one of the school managers, came and sat on a bench near
the door. He was a New Englander, a carpenter, round-shouldered,
tall and bony. He said:

"I called in to tell you that I can't vote for appinting you to this
school next term. Fact is the ladies are dead against you; don't see
you at meeting on the Sabbath; say you go to the Catholic Church with
the Irish and Dutch. I a'n't a word to say agen you myself. This is
a free country; every man can go, for aught I care, whichever way he
darn chooses--to heaven, or hell, or any other place. But I want
to be peaceable, and I can't get no peace about voting for you next
term, so I thought I'd let you know, that you mightn't be
disappointed."

In that way Mr. Rogers washed his hands of me. I said I was sorry I
did not please the ladies, but I liked to hear a man who spoke his
mind freely.

Soon afterwards the Germans brought me word that the Yankees were
calling a meeting about me. I was aware by this time that when a
special gathering of citizens takes place to discuss the demerits of
any individual, it is advisable for that individual to be absent if
possible; but curiosity was strong within me; hitherto I had never