e and more erect in his
chair, wagged his head, and, finally, arising from his seat, took two or
three steps down the room looking very grand. Nort went on talking,
glancing at the old Captain out of the corner of his eye, and evidently
enjoying himself hugely.

"Now, I say, we've got other gold mines here, if we only knew how to
work 'em. There's David! Let's have a column from him--wise saws and
modern instances. David will become the official Hempfield philosopher.
And then there's Fergus----"

"Humph!" observed Fergus.

"There's Fergus. Everybody in town knows Fergus, and I'll stake my
reputation that anything that Fergus writes over his own name will be
read."

Nort was riding his highest horse.

"Miss Doane, let's announce it in big type this very week, something
like this: 'The _Star_ of Hempfield has arranged a new treat for its
readers. We shall soon present a column containing the ripe observations
of our esteemed printer, fellow citizen, and spotless Scotchman, Mr.
Fergus MacGregor. We shall also have contributions in a philosophical
vein by Mr. David Grayson, and a column by that paragon of country
journalism'"--here he paused and looked solemnly at the old Captain, and
then resumed--"'that paragon of country journalism, Mr. Norton Carr.'"

We all thought that Nort was joking, but he wasn't. He was in dead
earnest. That afternoon he walked home with me down the wintry road. It
was a cold, blustery day with a fine snow sifting through the air, but
Nort's head was so hot with his plans that I am sure, if his feet were
chilled, he never knew it. He laboured hard with me to write something
each week for the _Star_, and the upshot of the matter was that I began
to contribute short paragraphs and bits of description and narrative
which we headed

DAVID GRAYSON'S COLUMN

It was made up of the very simplest and commonest elements, mostly
little scraps of news from my farm--the description of a calf drinking,
the sound of pigeons in the hay loft. I told also about the various
country odours in spring, peach leaves, strawberry leaves, and new hay,
and of the curious music of the rain in the corn. I inquired what was
the finest hour of the day in Hempfield, and tried to answer my own
question. I put in a hundred and one inconsequential things that I love
to observe and think about, and added here and there, for seasoning, a
bit of common country philosophy. It was very enjoyable to do, and a
number of people