storic spot where he stood was
nearly in front of a small shoe shop, the one now kept by Tony, the
Italian. If ever the Georgia Johnson Chapter of the Daughters of the
American Revolution runs out of places upon which to plant stones,
tablets, trees, flowers, cannon balls, or drinking fountains, I would
respectfully suggest raising a monument in front of Tony's shop with
some such inscription as this:

Here Stood
NORTON CARR
On the Morning of His
INVOLUNTARY
Arrival in Hempfield

Nort walked down the street with a number of boys behind him--_three_,
to be exact, _not_ a "rabble." He was seen by old Mrs. Parker, one of
our most prominent journalists, who was, as usual, beating her doormat
on the front porch. He was seen by Jared Sparks, who keeps the woodyard,
and by Johnny McGonigal, who drives the hack; and finally he was caught
by the eagle eye of the Press, in the person of Captain Doane, as I have
already related, and his shame was published abroad to the world through
the columns of the _Star_. As nearly as I can make out, for the facts
regarding any given event in Hempfield often vary in adverse proportion
to the square of the number of persons doing the reporting, the main
indictment against Nort upon this occasion was that he appeared in town,
a stranger without a hat. _Without a hat!_

I admit that he _did_ stop in front of the Congregational Church; but I
maintain that it is well worth any man's while to stop on a fine morning
and look at our old church, with its mantle of ivy and the sparrows
building their nests in the eaves. I admit also that he _did_ make a
bow, a low bow, to the spire, but I deny categorically Johnny
McGonigal's absurd yarn that he said: "Good mornin', church. Shorry
sheem disrespechtful." Any one who knows Nort as well as I do would not
consider his making a bow to a perfectly respectable old church as
anything remarkable, or accusing him of having been intoxicated, save
with the wine of spring and of youth. Why, I myself have often bowed to
fine old oak trees and to hilltops. I wonder why it is that when small
communities jump at conclusions, they so often jump the wrong way?

And yet I don't want to blame Hempfield. You can see for yourself what
it would mean--a stranger, without a hat, bowing to the spire of the
Congregational Church--what it would mean in a town which has
religiously voted "dry" every spring since the local-option law went
into effect, which abhors s