"Have ye not heard?" said Darrel, in a whisper. "Parson Hammond
hath swapped horses."
Trove began to laugh.
"Nay, that is not all," said the tinker, his pipe in hand. "Deacon
Swackhammer hath smitten the head o' Brooke. Oh, sor, 'twas a
comedy. Brooke gave him an ill-sounding word. Swackhammer
removed his coat an' flung it down. 'Deacon, lie there,' said he.
Then each began, as it were, to bruise the head o' the serpent.
Brooke--poor man!--he got the worst of it. An' sad to tell! his
wife died the very next day."
"Of what?" Trove inquired,
"Marry, I do not know; it may have been joy," said the tinker,
lighting his pipe. "Ah, sor, Brooke is tough. He smites the
helping hand an' sickens the heart o' kindness. I offered him help
an' sympathy, an' he made it all bitter with suspicion o' me. I
turned away, an' said I to meself, 'Darrel, thy head is soft--a
babe could brain thee with a lady's fan.'"
Darrel puffed his pipe in silence a little time.
"Every one hates Brooke," said Trove.
"Once," said Darrel, presently, "a young painter met a small animal
with a striped back, in the woods. They exchanged compliments an'
suddenly the painter ran, shaking his head.
Pages:
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87