the grief of a man.

Soon the church-bell across the road began to toll. It tolled all that
day. Three men--I can give you their names--rang the bell all day long,
tolling, slowly tolling, tolling until night came and the stars came out.
I thought it a little curious that the stars should come out, for Lincoln
was dead; but they did, for I saw them as I trotted by my father's side
down to the post-office.

There was a great crowd of men there. At the long line of peeled-hickory
hitching-poles were dozens of saddle-horses. The farmers had come for
miles to get details of the news.

On the long counters that ran down each side of the store men were seated,
swinging their feet, and listening intently to some one who was reading
aloud from a newspaper. We worked our way past the men who were standing
about, and with several of these my father shook hands solemnly.

Leaning against the wall near the window was a big, red-faced man, whom I
knew as a Copperhead. He had been drinking, evidently, for he was making
boozy efforts to stand very straight. There were only heard a subdued buzz
of whispers and the monotonous voice of the reader, as he stood there in
the center, his newspaper in one hand and a lighted candle in the other.

The red-faced man lurched two steps forward, and in a loud voice said,
"L--L--Lincoln is dead--an' I'm damn glad of it!"

Across the room I saw two men struggling with Little Ramsey. Why they
should struggle with him I could not imagine, but ere I could think the
matter out, I saw him shake himself loose from the strong hands that
sought to hold him. He sprang upon the counter, and in one hand I saw he
held a scale-weight. Just an instant he stood there, and then the weight
shot straight at the red-faced man. The missile glanced on his shoulder
and shot through the window. In another second the red-faced man plunged
through the window, taking the entire sash with him.

"You'll have to pay for that window!" called the alarmed postmaster out
into the night.

The store was quickly emptied, and on following outside no trace of the
red man could be found. The earth had swallowed both the man and the
five-pound scale-weight.

After some minutes had passed in a vain search for the weight and the
Copperhead, we went back into the store and the reading was continued.

But the interruption had relieved the tension, and for the first time that
day men in that post-office joked and laughed. It even lif