As I saunter'd along the high road yesterday, I stopp'd to watch a man
near by, ploughing a rough stony field with a yoke of oxen. Usually
there is much geeing and hawing, excitement, and continual noise and
expletives, about a job of this kind. But I noticed how different,
how easy and wordless, yet firm and sufficient, the work of this young
ploughman. His name was Walter Dumont, a farmer, and son of a farmer,
working for their living. Three years ago, when the steamer "Sunnyside"
was wreck'd of a bitter icy night on the west bank here, Walter went
out in his boat--was the first man on hand with assistance--made a
way through the ice to shore, connected a line, perform'd work of
first-class readiness, daring, danger, and saved numerous lives. Some
weeks after, one evening when he was up at Esopus, among the usual
loafing crowd at the country store and post-office, there arrived
the gift of an unexpected official gold medal for the quiet hero. The
impromptu presentation was made to him on the spot, but he blush'd,
hesitated as he took it, and had nothing to say.