le window panes, and with the same
instrument his wife has recorded on the dining-room window annals of
her daughter who was born in the house.

[Illustration: Nathaniel Hawthorne.]

On the hill opposite, the solitary poplar, the last of a group set
out by some school-girls eighty years ago, still stands. Each of its
companions died about the time of the decease of its lady planter, and
as the one who set out the present tree has lately died, the poplar
suffered last year from a stroke of lightning which may cause it to
follow soon.

Nearly opposite the Manse on the road toward the village is the well
preserved house, formerly the home of Elisha Jones, which bears in the
L the mark of a bullet fired into it on the day of Concord fight. On
the same side of the way a little farther down is a house, a portion of
which was built by Humphrey Barrett as early as 1640. As the route of
the retreating British from the bridge is followed for half a mile down
this road the common is reached, which is bounded on the Northern end by
the stores, from which the British took flour and other Continental
supplies, and at the opposite end stands Wright tavern which the gallant
Pitcairn immortalized by stirring his brandy with a bloody finger,
unconscious that the rebel blood he promised to stir would cause his own
to flow at Bunker Hill.

Opposite Wright tavern is one of the oldest burying hills in the
country, on which may be seen the stone of Joseph Merriam, who died in
1677 and those of Colonel Barrett who commanded the troops, and of Major
Buttrick who led them at the bridge, and of his son the fifer who
furnished the music to which they marched. Here also is the inscription
to John Jack famous for its alliteration, and the tablets of the old
ministers and founders of church and State. Some of these headstones
bear coats of arms and rough portraits in stone, while others more
symbolic, are content with the winged cherubim or solemn weeping willow,
and others older still preserve the antique coffin shape. About one
quarter of a mile in the rear of this historic Burying Hill is Sleepy
Hollow, the cemetery now so famous, which will be for centuries as now,
the Mecca of pious pilgrims, for here Emerson sleeps beneath the giant
pine of which he loved to write and which in grateful recognition ever
whispers its solemn dirge over the dead poet, who will live forever in
his writings. His grave is now marked by a rough rock of beautiful pi