was all about, but he didn't
take his gun. As he climbed the hill through the wet snow he heard
'em plainer and plainer, and when he got to the top he saw a most
'strodinary sight. There was a good-sized flock, ninety-seven
geese, to be exact, that had got so iced up that they had to
settle on the top of the hill.

"The ice had formed on their feathers as they flew and they were so
weighted down they couldn't fly and they were getting more and more iced
up every minute. Granddad didn't care to go back for his gun for fear
some of the other nimrods in the neighborhood would come on the scene
and bag the game first, but there wasn't any need of a gun. All he had
to do was to drive 'em home. They were terribly iced up, but their legs
were still free and he chased 'em about for some time before he got 'em
started down hill. But once over the edge of the hill the weight of ice
on 'em turned 'em right over and over, and so they rolled on down. It
was a wet snow and as they rolled they took up more and more of it till
by the time they came slap up against the side of the barn every single
goose was sealed up in the middle of a hard, round snowball. They all
stopped there and all that grandfather had to do was to pile them up,
and there they were, in cold storage for the winter. Every time the
family wanted roast goose they went out and split open a snowball. The
folks in granddad's time used often to freeze their fresh meat and keep
it but in the snow all winter, but he was the only one that I ever heard
of that stored wild geese in that way."

There are worse tales and more of them, but I fear that cold type
chills out the subtle aroma of probability with which Jotham
always manages to invest them. One needs to hear them told with
the fragrance of a barn full of new-made hay in the nostrils, the
swish of the northeaster to accompany the voice in his ears, and
with his eye on the distant hillside pastures all hung with
mysterious draperies of mist to make a proper background of quaint
shadows of romance. Then he can really appreciate the folk lore
that goes with us by the familiar title of "Jotham stories."

CHAPTER XVII

GOOD-BYE TO SUMMER

I think the daintiest scent that can be found in the woodland in
these last days of September is that of the coral-root flower,
which looks like a wan, tan ghost of a blossom, but nevertheless
is sweet and succulent. The plant is by no means common in my
world. Many a year g