,
Broad for the self-complaisant British sneer,
His length of shambling limb, his furrowed face,

His gaunt, gnarled hands, his unkempt, bristling hair,
His garb uncouth, his bearing ill at ease,
His lack of all we prize as debonair,
Of power or will to shine, or art to please....

When he had finished reading, he would take off his spectacles and wipe
them, and say to Anthy:

"Lincoln was the greatest man this country has ever produced."

He was a curious combination of hardheadedness, of ironical wisdom, and
of humour, and somewhere, hidden deep within, of molten sentiment. He
was a regular Yankee.

One night he got more than ordinarily tired, and just stopped. They
found him in bed the next morning, his legs drawn up under the coverlet,
a volume of Don Quixote open on his knees, his empty pipe fallen from
his lips, the lamp dying out on a table near him. At his elbow were two
of the inevitable yellow slips:

Squire Baker of Arnoville was a visitor at Lawyer Perkins's
on Monday.

Apples stopped yesterday at Banks's store at 30 cents a
peck--on their way up (adv).

He never knew what a hero he was: he had made a living for thirty years
out of a country newspaper.

Anthy came home from college to the forlorn and empty and ugly
house--and it seemed to her that the end of the world had come. This
period of loneliness made a deep impression upon her later years. When
at last she could bear to open the envelope labelled: "To Anthy--in case
of my death," she found this letter:

DEAR ANTHY: I am leaving the _Star_ to you. There is nothing
else except the homestead--and the debts. Do what you like
with all of them--but look after your Uncle Newt.

Now, Anthy's earliest memories were bound up with the printing-office.
There was never a time that she did not know the smell of printer's ink.
As a child she had delighted to tip over the big basket and play with
the paper ribbons from the cutting machine. Later, she had helped on
press days to fold and label the papers. She was early a pastmaster in
the art of making paste, and she knew better than any one else the
temperamental eccentricities of the old-fashioned Dick labeller. She
could set type (passably) and run the hand press. But as for taking upon
herself the activities of her tireless father--who was at once editor,
publisher, compositor, pressman, advertising solicitor, and father
confessor for the commun