in the deepening gloom, watching the blank outlines of the receding
wagon, a sound was borne to me on the evening wind--a sound as of a
series of vigorous thumps--and a voice came out of the night:

"Gee-up, there, you derned old Geranium."



A JUG OF SIRUP



This narrative begins with the death of its hero. Silas Deemer died
on the 16th day of July, 1863, and two days later his remains were
buried. As he had been personally known to every man, woman and
well-grown child in the village, the funeral, as the local newspaper
phrased it, "was largely attended." In accordance with a custom of
the time and place, the coffin was opened at the graveside and the
entire assembly of friends and neighbors filed past, taking a last
look at the face of the dead. And then, before the eyes of all,
Silas Deemer was put into the ground. Some of the eyes were a trifle
dim, but in a general way it may be said that at that interment there
was lack of neither observance nor observation; Silas was indubitably
dead, and none could have pointed out any ritual delinquency that
would have justified him in coming back from the grave. Yet if human
testimony is good for anything (and certainly it once put an end to
witchcraft in and about Salem) he came back.

I forgot to state that the death and burial of Silas Deemer occurred
in the little village of Hillbrook, where he had lived for thirty-one