“I suppose the humblest of God's critturs has their uses,” Moses remarked contemplatively, as he watched the retreating figures of Sam and Jake. “Leastwise that's Jethro's philosophy. When you come to know him, you'll notice how much those fellers walk like him. Never seed a man who had so many imitators. Some of, 'em's took to talkie' like him, even to stutterin'. Bijah Bixby, over to Clovelly, comes pretty nigh it, too.” Moses loaded his sugar and beans into his wagon, and drove off. An air of suppressed excitement seemed to pervade those who came that afternoon to the store to trade and talk--mostly to talk. After such purchases as they could remember were made, they lingered on the barrels and on the stoop, in the hope of seeing Jethro, whose habit; it was, apparently, to come down and dispense such news as he thought fit for circulation. That Wetherell shared this excitement, too, he could not deny, but for a different cause. At last, when the shadows of the big trees had crept across the green, he came, the customers flocking to the porch to greet him, Wetherell standing curiously behind them in the door. Heedless of the dust, he strode down the road with the awkward gait that was all his own, kicking up his heels behind. And behind him, heels kicking up likewise, followed Jake and Sam, Jethro apparently oblivious of their presence. A modest silence was maintained from the stoop, broken at length by Lem Hallowell, who (men said) was an exact reproduction of Jock, the meeting-house builder. Lem alone was not abashed in the presence of greatness. “How be you, Jethro?” he said heartily. “Air the Legislatur' behavin' themselves?” “B-bout as common,” said Jethro. Surely nothing very profound in this remark, but received as though it were Solomon's. Be prepared for a change in Jethro, after the galloping years. He is now fifty-seven, but he might be any age. He is still smooth-shaven, his skin is clear, and his eye is bright, for he lives largely on bread and milk, and eschews stimulants. But the lines in his face have deepened and his big features seem to have grown bigger. “Who be you thinkin' of for next governor, Jethro?” queries Rias Richardson, timidly. “They say Alvy Hopkins of Gosport is willin' to pay for it,” said Chester Perkins, sarcastically. Chester; we fear, is a born agitator, fated to remain always in opposition. He is still a Democrat, and Jethro, as is well known, has extended the mortgage so as to include Chester's farm. “Wouldn't give a Red Brook Seedling for Alvy,” ejaculated the nasal Mr. Price. “D-don't like Red Brook Seedlings, Sam? D-don't like 'em?” said Jethro. He had parted his blue coat tails and seated himself on the stoop, his long legs hanging over it. “Never seed a man who had a good word to say for 'em,” said Mr. Price, with less conviction. “Done well on mine,” said Jethro, “d-done well. I was satisfied with my Red Brook Seedlings.”