o'clock one night I crept out to the front of the house and struck
up. First, "No One to--" about fifteen or twenty times, then a few of
those groans, then more of the tune, and so forth. Then Butterwick set
his dog on me, and I suddenly went into the house. Mrs. A. had the
children in the back room, and she was standing behind the door with
my revolver in her hand. When I entered, she exclaimed,

"Oh, I'm so glad you've come home! Somebody's been murdering a man in
our yard. He uttered the most awful shrieks and cries I ever heard. I
was dreadfully afraid the murderers would come into the house. It's
perfectly fearful, isn't it?"

[Illustration: A SCARED FAMILY]

Then I took the revolver away from her--it was not loaded, and she
had no idea that it would have to be cocked--and went to bed without
mentioning the horn. I thought perhaps it would be better not to.
I sold it the next day; and now if I want music I shall buy a good
hand-organ. I know I can play on that.

* * * * *

As music and sculpture are the first of the arts, I may properly refer
in this chapter to some facts relative to the condition of the latter
in the community in which I live. Some time ago there was an auction
out at the place of Mr. Jackson, and a very handsome marble statue
of William Penn was knocked down to Mr. Whitaker. He had the statue
carted over to the marble-yard, where he sought an interview with
Mr. Mix, the owner. He told Mix that he wanted that statue "fixed up
somehow so that 'twould represent one of the heathen gods." He had an