He seized it, and he squeezed it, too, He bowled it on the floor, He thumped it, and he jumped it, and He kicked it through the door. So through the gate he then escaped, And he was heard to say, “By all the hides that I have scraped With life I’ll make away.” [Illustration: REVENGE IS SWEET.] Next morning he was missing, and The neighbors thought it queer: For he at work was ever found Throughout the busy year. Noon came, but brought not Simon back; And then their wonder grew Into a fear, that he had done What he had sworn to do. A search was instituted, and All work was at a stand, For weak and stout alike turned out To search for Simon Rand. Across the mill-pond and the flume, The grappling drag they drew, They scanned the trees and probed the wells The little village through. But tale or tidings none they found; So all the search gave o’er, And sat them down to talk and smoke, Around the tavern door. When teamster Joe picked up a hoe That by his side was laid, And turning round to farmer Pound, He slapped his thigh and said, “I’ll stake my strongest pair of mules Against Moll Benson’s cat, That Simon Rand, the missing man, Lies dead in his own vat!” No face was there, beard-hid or bare, Light, tawny-hue, or dark, But on the instant plainly showed The weight of that remark. To feet they sprung, both old and young, And down the shortest road, By Silly’s still and Burrill’s mill, To Simon’s shop they strode. [Illustration: THE EXPLORING PARTY.] One pace in front leaned Parson Lunt, Who let his dinner stand, And joined the throng that surged along In search of Simon Rand. Across his shoulder, stooped with age, He poised his garden rake, And those had need to urge their speed Who followed in his wake. Then side and side, with equal stride, Pressed Joe and Jasper Lane; Next Elder Chase kept even pace With stout old Sidney Vane. Then two and two, and three and three, And sometimes four abreast, With hoes and hooks, and thoughtful looks, Come clattering on the rest. The place was gained, all eyes were strained Upon the brimming vat; But not an eye its depths could spy, Or pierce its scum of fat. “A fearful place,” sighed Elder Chase, As down he dipped his pole; “No love or woe could make him throw Himself in such a hole. A man would choose a hempen noose, A pistol, drug, or knife, If he designed through troubled mind To make away with life.” A silent group they kneel and stoop, And shove their poles around, Now left, now right, till all affright One cried, “I’ve something found! It’s him I know, I must let go! I dare not see his face When coming from the depths below; Will some one take my place?”