* * *


The next morning, little Mote Hobson, who had stayed all night
with his uncle in Union, was walking home by the side of the river.
He strolled along, the happy, tousle-headed, barefooted youngster,
eyes one moment on the trees in the hope of squirrels and birds'-nests,
the next on the ground in search of the first blueberries.
As he stooped to pick up a bit of shining quartz to add to the collection
in his ragged trousers' pockets he glanced across the river,
and at that very instant Lucinda's log broke gently in twain,
rolled down the bank, crumbling as it went, and, dropping in like a
tired child, was carried peacefully along on the river's breast.

Mote walked more quickly after that. It was quite a feather
in his cap to see, with his own eyes, the old landmark
slip from its accustomed place and float down the stream.
The other boys would miss it and say, "It's gone!"
He would say, "I saw it go!"

Grandpa Bascom was standing at the top of the hill. His white locks
were uncovered, and he was in his shirt-sleeves. Baby Jot, as usual,
held fast by his shaking hand, for they loved each other, these two.
The cruel stroke of the sun that had blurred the old man's brain had spared
a blessed something in him that won the healing love of children.

"How d' ye, Mote?" he piped in his feeble voice. "They say
Lucindy's dead. . . . Jot says she is, 'n' Diademy says she is,
'n' I guess she is. . . . It 's a dretful thick year for fol'age;
. . . some o' the maples looks like balls in the air."