"'T won't burn up any faster for being chopped," Friend Barton said; and
then his wife Rachel knew that if he had a reason for being "forehanded"
with the wood, he was not ready to give it.

One rainy April afternoon, when the smoky gray distances began to take a
tinge of green, and through the drip and rustle of the rain the call of
the robins sounded, Friend Barton sat in the door of the barn, oiling the
road-harness. The old chaise had been wheeled out and greased, and its
cushions beaten and dusted.

An ox-team with a load of grain creaked up the hill and stopped at the
mill door. The driver, seeing Friend Barton's broad-brimmed drab felt hat
against the dark interior of the barn, came down the short lane leading
from the mill, past the house and farm-buildings.

"Fixin' up for travelin', Uncle Tommy?"

Vain compliments, such as worldly titles of Mr. and Mrs., were unacceptable
to Thomas Barton, and he was generally known and addressed as "Uncle Tommy"
by the world's people of a younger generation.

"It is not in man that walketh to direct his own steps, neighbor Jordan.
I am getting myself in readiness to obey the Lord, whichever way He shall
call me."

Farmer Jordan cast a shrewd eye over the premises. They wore that patient,
sad, exhumed look which old farm-buildings are apt to have in early spring.
The roofs were black with rain, and brightened with patches of green moss.
Farmer Jordan instinctively calculated how many "bunches o' shingle" would
be required to rescue them from the decline into which they had fallen,