ower, of his character, and pick it
all to pieces, and show you, in this way, what he was made of. But you
would get tired of all that. So I'll take another course. I'll tell
you what he said and did--what he said and did at different times, at
different periods in his life, and in different circumstances. Don't
you think this is the best way to make you acquainted with him? I do;
for, if you find out what a person says, and does, and thinks, you
find out what he is.

One or two things, however, I must say about this Mike Marble, by way
of general introduction.

He was born at a very interesting period--about nine years before the
breaking out of the American Revolution. He was quite an old man
before he went to his final rest. Indeed, it is but a few years since
I saw his weather-beaten face, all lighted up with smiles. Unlike many
other men, when they get to be old, he never made a practice of
carping at every thing he saw about him, because it was not exactly in
the style of 1776. He believed that there was wisdom among our
grandfathers and grandmothers, but that there is wisdom, also, among
their grand-children.

I have told you that he had some oddities. I have hinted, too, in a
sort of whisper, that I do not consider a man an absolute Pagan,
because he happens to be a little odd. Something more than this I
could say of Uncle Mike, odd as he was; but I guess you will find out
what I think of him, before I get through. Suffice it to say, that,
while I didn't like him _because_ he was odd, I did like him, _in
spite_ of his oddities. He was a fine old man. As the world goes, he
was a most excellent man. He had his faults, a plenty of them; though
I have sometimes thought

"That e'en his failings lean'd to virtue's side."

Some of them did, I know. He had his faults, nevertheless. I confess
that. He always had them, no doubt. Faults are common things among
mankind and womankind. But, with your consent, we will trip lightly
over all that part of our hero's history which is shaded with
blemishes.

[Illustration]

CHAP. IV.

CHIPS FROM BIRCH WOODS.

One of the worst things I ever heard of in the history of Mike,
according to the best of my recollection, was the way he served Billy
Birch's dog. You must know something about this Billy Birch. _Burt_
was his real name. But it was changed into Birch by his neighbors, for
a reason which I will give you by and bye.

Mr. Burt was a pretty good sort of