s, of
course, Mr. Isaac Worthington, the one with the hawk-like look, sitting
next to the Rev. Mr. Sweet, who is rather pudgy by contrast. On the
other side of Mr. Sweet, next to the parlor organ and the quartette,
is the genial little railroad president Mr. Merrill, batting the flies
which assail the unprotected crown of his head, and smiling benignly on
the audience.

Suddenly his eye becomes fixed, and he waves a fat hand vigorously at
Jethro, who answers the salute with a nod of unwonted cordiality for
him. Then comes a hush, and the exercises begin.

There is a prayer, of course, by the Rev. Mr. Sweet, and a rendering
of "My Country" and "I would not Change my Lot," and other choice
selections by the quartette; and an original poem recited with much
feeling by a lady admirer of Miss Lucretia Penniman, and the "Hymn to
Coniston" declaimed by Mr. Gamaliel Ives, president of the Brampton
Literary Club. But the crowning event is, of course, the oration by Mr.
Isaac D. Worthington, the first citizen, who is introduced under that
title by the chairman of the day; and as the benefactor of Brampton, who
has bestowed upon the town the magnificent gift which was dedicated such
a short time ago, the Worthington Free Library.

Mr. Isaac D. Worthington stood erect beside the table, his hand thrust
into the opening of his coat, and spoke at the rate of one hundred and
eight words a minute, for exactly one hour. He sketched with much skill
the creed of the men who had fought their way through the forests to
build their homes by Coniston Water, who had left their clearings to
risk their lives behind Stark and Ethan Allen for that creed; he paid a
graceful tribute to the veterans of the Civil War, scattered among his
hearers--a tribute, by the way, which for some reason made Ephraim very
indignant. Mr. Worthington went on to outline the duty of citizens of
the present day, as he conceived it, and in this connection referred,
with becoming modesty, to the Worthington Free Library. He had made his
money in Brampton, and it was but right that he should spend it for
the benefit of the people of Brampton. The library, continued Mr.
Worthington when the applause was over, had been the dream of a certain
delicate youth who had come, many years ago, to Brampton for his health.
(It is a curious fact, by the way, that Mr. Worthington seldom recalled
the delicate youth now, except upon public occasions.)

Yes, the dream of that youth had