of the woods or they would have strayed to their death in them.

A big bass viol, taller than himself, had long been the solace of his
Sundays. After he had shaved - a ceremony so solemn that it
seemed a rite of his religion - that sacred viol was uncovered. He
carried it sometimes to the back piazza and sometimes to the barn,
where the horses shook and trembled at the roaring thunder of the
strings. When he began playing we children had to get well out of
the way, and keep our distance. I remember now the look of him,
then - his thin face, his soft black eyes, his long nose, the suit of
broadcloth, the stock and standing collar and, above all, the
solemnity in his manner when that big devil of a thing was leaning
on his breast.

As to his playing I have never heard a more fearful sound in any
time of peace or one less creditable to a Christian. Weekdays he
was addicted to the milder sin of the flute and, after chores, if
there were no one to talk with him, he would sit long and pour his
soul into that magic bar of boxwood.

Uncle Eb had another great accomplishment. He was what they
call in the north country 'a natural cooner'. After nightfall, when
the corn was ripening, he spoke in a whisper and had his ear
cocked for coons. But he loved all kinds of good fun.

So this man had a boy in his heart and a boy in his basket that
evening we left the old house. My father and mother and older
brother had been drowned in the lake, where they had gone for a
day of pleasure. I had then a small understanding of my loss, hat I
have learned since that the farm was not worth the mortgage and