Micajah Warner was owner and cultivator of a small farm in one of the
oldest, most fertile, and most beautiful counties of the State of
Pennsylvania, not far from Maryland line. Micajah was a plain Quaker,
and a man of quiet and primitive habits. He was totally devoid of all
ambitious cravings after tracts of ten thousand acres, and he aspired
not to the honour and glory of having his name given to a town in the
western wilderness (though Warnerville would not have sounded badly),
neither was he possessed of an unconquerable desire of becoming a judge,
or of going to Congress. Therefore, he had always been able to resist
the persuasions and example of those of his neighbours who left the home
of their fathers, and the comforts of an old settlement, to seek a less
tedious road to wealth and consequence, on the other side of the
Allegany. He was satisfied with the possession of two hundred acres,
one half of which he had lent (not given) to his son Israel, who
expected shortly to be married to a very pretty and notable young woman
in the neighbourhood, who was, however, no heiress. Upon this event,
Israel was to be established in an old frame-house that had long since
been abandoned by his father in favour of the substantial stone dwelling
which the family occupied at the period of our story. The house had
been taken up and transplanted to that part of the farm now allotted to
Israel, and he very prudently deferred repairing it till he saw whether
it survived its progress across the domain. But as it did not fall
asunder during the journey, it was judged worthy of a new front-door,
new window-panes, and new shingles to cover the vast chasms of the roof,
all which improvements were made by Israel's own hands. This house was
deposited in the vicinity of the upper branch of the creek, and
conveniently near to a saw-mill, which had been built by Israel in
person.
Like all of her sect, whether in town or country, Bulah, the wife of
Micajah Warner, was a woman of even temper, untiring industry, and great
skill in housewifery.
Her daughters, commonly called Amy and Orphy, were neat pretty little
Quaker girls, extremely alert, and accustomed from their earliest
childhood to assist in the work of the house. As her daughters were so
handy and industrious, and only went half the year to school, Mrs
Warner did not think it necessary to keep any other help than an
indentured negro girl, named Chloe.
Except the marriage of Israel, which was now in prospect; a flood in the
neighbouring creek, which had raised the water so high as to wash away
the brick oven from the side of the house; a tornado that carried off
the roof of the old stable, and landed it whole in an adjoining clover
field; and a visit from a family of beggars (an extraordinary phenomenon
in the country), nothing occurred among the Warners for a long
succession of years that had occasioned more than a month's talk of the
mother, and a month's listening of the children.
"They kept the noiseless tenor of their way."
The occupations of Israel and his father (assisted occasionally by a few
hired men) were, of course, those of the farm, except when Israel took a
day now and then to attend to his saw-mill. With regard to domestic
arrangements, everything connected with household affairs went on in the
same course year after year except that, as the daughters of the family
improved in capability of work, Chloe the black girl, retrograded. They
washed on Monday (with the assistance of a woman, hired for the day),
ironed on Tuesday, performed what they called "the little baking" on
Wednesday, and "the big baking" on Friday; cleaned the house on
Saturday, and clear-starched their book-muslin collars; rode on
horseback to Friends' meeting on Sunday morning, and visited their
neighbours on Sunday afternoon.
It was the day after the one on which Israel and his bride-elect had
passed meeting, and consequently, a month before the one fixed for the
wedding, that something like an adventure fell among the Warner family.
It was a beautiful evening at the close of August. The father and son
had been all day in the meadows, mowing the second crop of grass; Mrs
Warner was darning stockings in the porch, with her two daughters
knitting on the bench beside her; Amy being then fourteen, and Orphy
about twelve. Chloe was absent, having been borrowed by a relation,
about five miles off, to do the general work of the house, while the
family were engaged in preparing for a quilting frolic.
"Come, girls," said Mrs Warner to her daughter, "it's just sun-down.
The geese are coming home, and daddy and Israel will soon be here. Amy,
do thee go down to the spring-house, and bring up the milk and butter,
and Orphy, thee can set the table."
The two girls put up their knitting (not, however, till they had knit to
the middle of the needle), and in a short time, Amy was seen coming back
from the spring-house, with a large pitcher of milk and a plate of
butter. In the meantime, Orphy had drawn out the ponderous claw-footed
walnut table that stood all summer in the porch, and spreading over it a
brown linen cloth, placed in regular order their everyday supper
equipage of pewter plates, earthen porringers, and iron spoons.
The viands consisted of an immense round loaf of bread, nearly as large
as a grindstone, and made of wheat and Indian meal, the half of a huge
cheese, a piece of cold pork, a peach pie, an apple pie, and, as it had
been baking day, there was the customary addition of a rice pudding, in
an earthen pan of stupendous size. The last finish of the decorations
of the table was a large bowl of cool water, placed near the seat
occupied by the father of the family, who never could begin any of his
meals without a copious draught of the pure element.
In a few minutes, the farmer and his son made their appearance as they
turned the angle of the peach-orchard fence, preceded by the geese,
their usual _avant-couriers_, who went out every morning to feed in an
old field beyond the meadows.
As soon as Micajah and Israel had hung up their scythes and washed
themselves at the pump, they sat down to table, the farmer in his own
blue-painted, high-backed, high-armed chair, and Israel taking the seat
always allotted to him--a low chair, the rushes of which having long
since deserted the bottom, had been replaced by cross pieces of cloth
listing, ingeniously interwoven with each other; and this being,
according to the general opinion, the worst seat in the house, always
fell to the share of the young man, who was usually passive on all
occasions, and never seemed to consider himself entitled to the same
accommodation as the rest of the family.
Suddenly, the shrill blast of a tin trumpet resounded through the woods,
that covered the hill in front of the house, to the great disturbance of
the geese, who had settled themselves quietly for the night in their
usual bivouac around the ruins of an old waggon. The Warners ceased
their supper to listen and look; and they saw emerging from the woods,
and rolling down the hill at a brisk trot, the cart of one of those
itinerant tin merchants, who originate in New England, and travel from
one end of the Union to the other, avoiding the cities, and seeking
customers amongst the country people; who, besides buying their ware,
always invite them to a meal and a bed.
The tinman came blowing his horn to the steps of the porch, and there
stopping his cart, addressed the farmer's wife in the true nasal twang
that characterises the lower class of New Englanders, and inquired "if
she had any notion of a bargain."
She replied that "she believed she had no occasion for anything"--her
customary answer to all such questions.
But Israel, who looked into futurity, and entertained views towards his
own housekeeping, stepped forward to the tin-cart, and began to take
down and examine various mugs, pans, kettles, and coffee-pots--the
latter particularly, as he had a passion for coffee, which he secretly
determined to indulge both morning and evening, as soon as he was
settled in his domicile.
"Mother," said Amy, "I do wish thee would buy a new coffee-pot, for ours
has been leaking all summer, and I have to stop it every morning with
rye-meal. Thee knows we can give the old one to Israel."
"To be sure," replied Mrs Warner, "it will do well enough for young
beginners. But I cannot say I feel quite free to buy a new coffee-pot
at this time. I must consider about it."
"And there's the cullender," said Orphy, "it has such a big crack at the
bottom, that when I am smashing the squashes for dinner, not only the
water, but the squashes themselves drip through. Better give it to
Israel, and get a new one for ourselves. What's this?" she continued,
taking up a tin water-dipper.
"That is for dipping warter out of the bucket," replied the tinman.
"Oh, yes," cried Amy, "I've seen such a one at Rachel Johnson's. What a
clever thing it is, with a good long handle, so that there's no danger
of splashing the water on our clothes. Do buy it, mother. Thee knows
that Israel can have the big calabash: I patched it myself, yesterday,
where it was broken, and bound the edge with new tape, and it's now as
good as ever."
"I don't know," said the farmer, "that we want anything but a new
lantern; for ours had the socket burnt out long before these moonlight
nights, and it's dangerous work taking a candle into the stable."
The tinman knowing that our plain old farmers, though extremely liberal
of everything that is produced on their plantations, are, frequently,
very tenacious of coin, and much averse to parting with actual money,
recommended his wares more on account of their cheapness than their
goodness; and, in fact, the price of most of the articles was two or
three cents lower than they could be purchased for at the stores.
Old Micajah thought there was no actual necessity for anything except
the lantern; but his daughters were so importunate for the coffee-pot,
the cullender, and the water-dipper, that finally all three were
purchased and paid for. The tinman in vain endeavoured to prevail on
Mrs Warner to buy some patty-pans, which the girls looked at with
longing eyes; and he reminded them how pretty the pumpkin pies would
look at their next quilting, baked in scollop-edged tins. But this
purchase was peremptorily refused by the good Quaker woman, alleging
that scollop-edged pies were all pride and vanity, and that, if properly
made, they were quite good enough baked in round plates.
The travelling merchant then produced divers boxes and phials of quack
medicines, prepared at a celebrated manufactory of those articles, and
duly sealed with the maker's own seal, and inscribed with his name in
his own handwriting. Amongst these, he said, "there were certain cures
for every complaint in natur'--draps for the agur, the toothache, and
the rhumatiz; salves for ringworms, corns, frostbitten heels, and sore
eyes; and pills for consumption and fall fevers; beside that most
valuable of all physic, Swain's Wormifuge."
The young people exclaimed with one accord against the purchase of any
of the medicines; and business being over, the tinman was invited by the
farmer to sit down and take his supper with the family--an invitation as
freely accepted as given.
The twilight was now closing, but the full moon had risen, and afforded
sufficient light for the supper table in the porch. The tinman took a
seat, and before Mrs Warner had finished her usual invitation to
strangers, of--"reach to, and help thyself; we are poor hands at
inviting, but thee's welcome to it, such as it is"--he had already cut
himself a huge piece of the cold pork, and an enormous slice of bread.
He next poured out a porringer of milk, to which he afterwards added
one-third of the peach pie, and several platesful of rice pudding. He
then said, "I suppose you haven't got no cider about the house;" and
Israel, at his father's request, immediately brought up a pitcher of
that liquor from the cellar.
During supper the tinman entertained his entertainers with anecdotes of
the roguery of his own countrymen, or rather, as he called them, his
"statesmen." In his opinion of their general dishonesty, Mrs Warner
most cordially joined. She related a story of an itinerant Yankee who
persuaded her to empty some of her pillows and bolsters, under colour of
exchanging with him old feathers for new; a thing which she acknowledged
had puzzled her not a little, as she thought it strange that any man
should bargain so badly for himself. He produced from his cart a bag of
feathers which he declared were quite new; but after his departure she
found that he had given her such short measure that she had not half
enough to fill her ticking, and most of the feathers were proved, upon
examination, to have belonged to chickens rather than to geese--nearly a
whole cock's tail having been found amongst them.
The farmer pointed into the open door of the house, and showed the
tinman a large wooden clock put up without a case between two windows,
the pendulum and the weights being "exposed and bare." This clock he
had bought for ten dollars of a travelling Yankee, who had set out to
supply the country with machines. It had only kept tolerable time for
about two months, and had ever since been getting faster and faster,
though it was still faithfully wound up every week. The hands were now
going merrily round at the rate of ten miles an hour, and it never
struck less than twelve.
The Yankee tinman, with a candour that excited the admiration of the
whole family, acknowledged that his Statesmen were the greatest rogues
"on the face of the yearth;" and recounted instances of their trickery
that would have startled the belief of any but the inexperienced and
credulous people who were now listening to him. He told, for example,
of sausages being brought to market in an eastern town, that, when
purchased and prepared for frying, were found to be filled with chopped
turnip and shreds of red flannel.
For once, thought the Warners, we have found an honest Yankee.
They sat a long time at table, and though the tinman seemed to talk all
the time he was eating, the quantity of victuals that he caused to
disappear surprised even Mrs Warner, accustomed as she was to the
appetite of Israel. When the Yankee had at last completed his supper,
the farmer invited him to stay all night; but he replied, "It was
moonshiny, and fine cool travelling after a warm day; he preferred
putting on towards Maryland as soon as his creature was rested, and had
a feed."
He then, without more ceremony, led his horse and cart into the
barn-yard, and stopping near the stable door, fed the animal by the
light of the moon, and carried him a bucket of water from the pump.
The girls being reminded by their mother that it was late, and that the
cows had long since come home, they took their pails and went out to
milk, while she washed up the supper things. Whilst they were milking,
the subsequent dialogue took place between them:--
_Orphy_. I know it's not right to notice strangers, and to be sure the
man's welcome, but, Amy, did thee ever see anybody take victuals like
this Yankee?
_Amy_. Yes, but he didn't eat all he took, for I saw him slip a great
chunk of bread and cheese into his pocket, and then a big piece of pie,
while he was talking and making us laugh.
_Orphy_. Well, I think a man must be very badly off to do such a thing.
I wonder he did not ask for victuals to take away with him. He need
not have been afraid. He must know that victuals is no object. And
then he has travelled the roads long enough to be sure that he can get a
meal for nothing at any house he stops at, as all the tinmen do. He
must have seen us looking at his eating so much, and may be his pride is
hurt, and so he's made up his mind, all of a sudden, to take his meals
no more at people's houses.
_Amy_. Then why can't he stop at a tavern, and pay for his victuals?
_Orphy_. May be he don't want to spend his money in that trifling way.
Who knows, he may be saving it up to help an old mother, or to buy back
land, or something of that sort? I'll be bound he calculates upon
eating nothing to-morrow but what he slipped off from our table.
_Amy_. All he took will not last him a day. It's a pity of him,
anyhow.
_Orphy_. I wish he had not been too bashful to ask for victuals to take
with him.
_Amy_. And still he did not strike me at all as a bashful man.
_Orphy_. Suppose we were just in a private way to put some victuals
into his cart for him, without letting him know anything about it!
Let's hide it among the tins, and how glad he'll be when he finds it
to-morrow!
_Amy_. So we will; that's an excellent notion! I never pitied anybody
so much since the day the beggars came, which was five years ago last
harvest; for I have kept count ever since; and I remember it as well as
if it was yesterday.
_Orphy_. We don't know what a hard thing it is to want victuals, as the
Irish schoolmaster used to tell us when he saw us emptying pans of milk
into the pig-trough, and turning the cows into the orchard to eat the
heaps of apples lying under the trees.
_Amy_. Yes, and it must be worse for an American to want victuals than
for people from the old countries, who are used to it.
After they had finished their milking, and strained and put away their
milk, the kind-hearted little girls proceeded to accomplish their
benevolent purpose. They took from the large wire safe in the cellar a
pie, half a loaf of bread, and a great piece of cheese, and putting them
into a basket, they went to the barn-yard, intending to tell their
mother as soon as the tinman was gone, and not for one moment doubting
her approval--since in the house of an American farmer, victuals, as
Orphy justly observed, are no object.
As they approached the barn-yard they saw, by the light of the moon, the
Yankee coming away from his cart, and returning to the house. The girls
crouched down behind the garden fence till he had passed, and then
cautiously proceeded on their errand. They went to the back of the
cart, intending to deposit their provisions, when they were startled at
seeing something evidently alive moving behind the round opening of the
linen cover; and in a moment the head of a little black child peeped out
of the hole.
The girls were so surprised that they stopped short and could not utter
a word, and the young negro, evidently afraid of being seen, immediately
popped down its head among the tins.
"Amy, did thee see that?" asked Orphy in a low voice.
"Yes, I did so," replied Amy; "what can the Yankee be doing with that
little nigger? and why does he hide it? Let's go and ask the child."
"No, no!" exclaimed Orphy, "the tinman will be angry."
"And who cares if he is?" said Amy; "he has done something he is ashamed
of, and we need not be afraid of him."
They went quite close to the back of the cart, and Amy said, "Here,
little snow-ball, show thyself and speak, and do not be afraid, for
nobody's going to hurt thee."
"How did thee come into this cart?" asked Orphy, "and why does the
Yankee hide thee? Tell us all about it, and be sure not to speak above
thy breath."
The black child again peeped out of the hole, and looking cautiously
round, said, "Are you quite sure the naughty man won't hear us?"
"Quite sure," answered Amy; "but is thee boy or girl?"
"I'm a little gal," replied the child; and with the characteristic
volubility of her race she continued, "and my name's Dinah, and I'm five
years old, and my daddy and mammy are free coloured people, and they
lives a big piece off, and daddy works out, and mammy sells gingerbread
and molasses-beer, and we have a sign over the door with a bottle and
cake on it."
_Amy_. But how did this man get hold of thee, if thy father and mother
are free people? Thee can't be bound to him, or he need not hide thee.
_Dinah_. Oh, I know, I ain't bounded to him; I expect he stole me.
_Amy_. Stole thee! What, here in the free state of Pennsylvania?
_Dinah_. I was out picking huckle-berries in the woods up the roads,
and I strayed off a big piece from home. Then the tinman comed along,
driving his cart, and I run close to the side of the road to look, as I
always does when anybody goes by. So he told me to come into his cart,
and he would give me a tin mug to put my huckle-berries in, and I might
chuse it myself, and it would hold them a heap better than my old Indian
basket. So I was very glad, and he lifted me up into the cart; and I
choosed the very best and biggest tin mug he had, and emptied my
huckle-berries into it. And then he told me he'd give me a ride in his
cart, and then he set me far back on a box, and he whipped his creatur,
and druv, and druv, and jolted me so, I tumbled all down among the tins.
And then he picked me up, and tied me fast with his handkercher to one
of the back posts of the cart, to keep me steady, he said. And then,
for all I was steady, I couldn't help crying, and I wanted him to take
me home to daddy and mammy. But he only sniggered at me, and said he
wouldn't, and bid me hush; and then he got mad, and because I couldn't
hush up just in a minute, he whipped me quite smart.
_Orphy_. Poor little thing!
_Dinah_. And then I got frightened, for he put on a wicked look, and
said he'd kill me dead if I cried any more, or made the least noise.
And so he has been carrying me along in his cart for two days and two
nights, and he makes me hide away all the time, and he won't let nobody
see me. And I hate him, and yesterday, when I know'd he didn't see me,
I spit on the crown of his hat.
_Amy_. Hush! Thee must never say thee hates anybody.
_Dinah_. At night I sleeps upon the bag of feathers; and when he stops
anywhere to eat, he comes sneaking to the back of the cart, and pokes in
victuals (he has just now brung me some), and he tells me he wants me to
be fat and good-looking. I was afeard he was going to sell me to the
butcher, as Nac Willet did his fat calf, and I thought I'd axe him about
it, and he laughed and told me he was going to sell me, sure enough, but
not to a butcher. And I'm almost all the time very sorry, only
sometimes I'm not; and then I should like to play with the tins, only he
won't let me. I don't dare to cry out loud, for fear the naughty man
would whip me, but I always moan when we're going through woods, and
there's nobody in sight to hear me. He never lets me look out of the
back of the cart, only when there's nobody to see me, and he won't let
me sing even when I want to. And I moan most when I think of daddy and
mammy, and how they are wondering what has become of me; and I think
moaning does me good, only he stops me short.
_Amy_. Now, Orphy, what is to be done? The tinman has, of course,
kidnapped this black child to take her into Maryland, where he can sell
her for a good price, as she is a fat, healthy-looking thing, and that
is a slave state. Does thee think we ought to let him take her off.
_Orphy_. No, indeed! I think I could feel free to fight for her
myself; that is, if fighting was not forbidden by Friends. Yonder's
Israel coming to turn the cows into the clover-field. Little girl, lie
quiet, and don't offer to show thyself.
Israel now advanced--"Well, girls," said he, "what's thee doing at the
tinman's cart? Not meddling among his tins, I hope? Oh, the curiosity
of women folks!"
"Israel," said Amy, "step softly; we have something to show thee."
The girls then lifted up the corner of the cart-cover, and displayed the
little negro girl, crouched upon the bag of feathers--a part of his
merchandise which the Yankee had not thought it expedient to produce,
after hearing Mrs Warner's anecdote of one of his predecessors. The
young man was much amazed; and his two sisters began both at once to
relate to him the story of the black child. Israel looked almost
indignant. His sisters said to him, "To be sure we won't let the Yankee
carry this child off with, him."
"I judge we won't," answered Israel.
"Then," said Amy, "let us take her out of the cart, and hide her in the
barn, or somewhere, till he is gone."
"No," replied Israel, "I can't say I feel free to do that. It would be
too much like stealing her over again; and I've no notion of evening
myself to a Yankee in any of his ways. Put her down in the cart, and
let her alone. I'll have no underhand work about her. Let's all go
back to the house. Mother has got down all the broken crockery from the
top shelf in the corner cupboard, and the Yankee's mending it with a
sort of stuff like sticks of sealing-wax, that he carries about with
him; and I dare say he'll get her to pay him more for it than the things
are worth. But I say nothing."
The girls cautioned Dinah not to let the tinman know that they had
discovered her, and to keep herself perfectly quiet; and they then
accompanied their brother to the house, feeling very fidgety and uneasy.
They found the table covered with old bowls, old tea-pots, old sugar
dishes, and old pitchers, the fractures of which the Yankee was
cementing together, whilst Mrs Warner held the candle, and her husband
viewed the operation with great curiosity.
"Israel," said his mother, as he entered, "this friend is making the
china as good as new, only that we can't help seeing the join; and we
are going to give all the mended things to thee."
The Yankee having finished his work, and been paid for it, said it was
high time for him to be about starting, and he must go and look after
his cart. He accordingly left the house for that purpose; and Israel,
looking out at the end window, said, "I see he's not coming round to the
house again, but going to try the short-cut into the back road. I'll go
and see that he puts up the bars after him."
Israel went out, and his sisters followed him, to see the tinman off.
The Yankee came to the bars, leading his horse with the cart, and found
Israel there before him. "Are you going to let down the bars for me?"
said the tinman.
"No," replied Israel, "I'm not going to be so polite; but I intend to
see that thee carries off nothing more than belongs to thee."
"What do you mean?" exclaimed the Yankee, changing colour.
"I expect I can show thee," answered Israel. Then, stepping up to the
back of the cart, and putting in his hands, he pulled out the black
child, and held her up before him, saying, "Now, if thee offers to touch
this girl, I think we shall be apt to differ."
The tinman then advanced towards Israel, and, with a menacing look,
raised his whip; but the fearless young Quaker (having consigned the
little girl to his sisters, who held her between them) immediately broke
a stick from a tree that grew near, and stood on the defensive, with a
most steadfast look of calm resolution.
The Yankee went close up to him, brandishing his whip, but, before he
had time to strike, Israel, with the utmost coolness, and with great
strength and dexterity, seized him by the collar, and swinging him round
to some distance, flung him to the ground with such force as to stun
him, saying, "Mind I don't call myself a fighting character, but if thee
offers to get up I shall feel free to keep thee down."
The tinman began to move, and the girls ran shrieking to the house for
their father, dragging with them the little black girl, whose screams
(as is usual with all of her colour) were the loudest of the loud.
In an instant the stout old farmer was at the side of his son, and
notwithstanding the struggle of the Yankee, they succeeded by main force
in conveying him to the stable, into which they fastened him for the
night.
Early next morning, Israel and his father went to the nearest magistrate
for a warrant and a constable, and were followed home by half the
township. The county court was then in session; the tinman was tried,
and convicted of having kidnapped a free black child, with the design of
selling her as a slave in one of the Southern States; and he was
punished by fine and imprisonment.
The Warner family would have felt more compassion for him than they did,
only that all the mended china fell to pieces again the next day, and
his tins were so badly soldered that all their bottoms came out before
the end of the month.
Mrs Warner declared that she had done with Yankee tinmen for ever, and
in short with all other Yankees. But the storekeeper, Philip Thompson,
who was the sensible man of the neighbourhood, and took two Philadelphia
newspapers, convinced her that some of the best and greatest men America
can boast of, were natives of the New England States; and he even
asserted, that in the course of his life (and his age did not exceed
sixty-seven) he had met with no less than five perfectly honest Yankee
tinmen; and besides being honest, two of them were not in the least
impudent. Amongst the latter, however, he did not of course include a
very handsome fellow, that a few years since made the tour of the United
States with his tin-cart, calling himself the Boston Beauty, and wearing
his own miniature round his neck.
To conclude:--An advertisement having been inserted in several of the
papers to designate where Dinah, the little black girl, was to be found,
and the tinman's trial having also been noticed in the public prints, in
about a fortnight her father and mother (two very decent free negroes)
arrived to claim her, having walked all the way from their cottage at
the extremity of the next county. They immediately identified her, and
the meeting was most joyful to them and to her. They told at full
length every particular of their anxious search after their child, which
was ended by a gentleman bringing a newspaper to their house, containing
the welcome intelligence that she was safe at Micajah Warner's.
Amy and Orphy were desirous of retaining little Dinah in the family, and
as the child's parents seemed very willing, the girls urged their mother
to keep her instead of Chloe, who, they said, could very easily be made
over to Israel. But to the astonishment of the whole family, Israel on
this occasion proved refractory, declaring that he would not allow his
wife to be plagued with such an imp as Chloe, and that he chose to have
little Dinah herself, if her parents would bind her to him till she was
eighteen.
This affair was soon satisfactorily arranged.
Israel was married at the appointed time, and took possession of the
house near the saw-mill. He prospered; and in a few years was able to
buy a farm of his own, and to build a stone-house on it. Dinah turned
out extremely well, and the Warner family still talk of the night when
she was discovered in the cart of the travelling tinman.