“The country is like a boy that has outgrown his strength,” Pearl said to me. “It needs more power; that stream o' water didn't have squirt enough to drown a bee.” “And better management,” I suggested. “Power and management go hand in hand,” said he. “When power comes it will bring brains along with it.” I wrote an account of my adventure on the roof for the weekly _Courier_. It was published over my full name, and not since have I so pleased myself. Did not the editor speak of me as “a polished writer” and “a brave lad”? I read it over again and again, and sent a marked copy to my friends in Summerville. The _Courier_ of that week was full of history. There were lines in it by some unknown writer which put an end to the despotic sway of the bass horn. These lines were, in a way, the Magna Charta of Heartsdale, which thereafter might have been described as a limited monarchy. Let me read a moment:= ````To Jones' tavern, near the ancient wood, ````Come young and old from many a neighborhood. ````Here comes B. Crocket with his old bass horn, ````Its tone less fit for melody than scorn. ````They say that thro' its tubes from first to last ````A century's caravan of song has passed. ````The boys and girls, their mirthful sports begun, ````With noisy kisses punctuate the fun. ````O careless youths and red-lipped little misses! ````O blush that marks the sweet disgrace of kisses!= ````The fiddler comes, his heart a merry store, ````And shouts of welcome greet him at the door. ````Tho' fashioned rough and rude the jest he flings, ````What power has he to wake the tuneful strings! ````The old folks smile and tell how, long ago, ````Their feet obeyed the swaying of his bow, ````And how the God-sent magic of his art ````To thoughts of love inclined the youthful heart, ````And shook the bonds of care from aged men ````Who, 'neath the spell, returned to youth again.= ````He raps the fiddle-back as t'were a drum, ````The raw recruits of Cupid's army come, ````And heeding not the praise his playing wins, ````The ebullition of his soul begins. ````The zeal of Crocket, turned to scornful sound, ````Pursues the measure like a baying hound; ````The sprightly phrases fall like gusts of rain, ````The dancers sway like wind-swept fields of grain; ````And, midst the storm, to maddening fury stirred, ````The thunder of the old bass horn is heard.= STAGE V.--IN WHICH CRICKET MOUNTS ONE OF GOD'S HORSES [Illustration: 9193] HOSE days they were stringing wires through the North, and even there human thought had begun to move faster. Now one could fling his words far over the distant hills in a moment. Men gathered in groups and talked of the wonder of it, and looked with awe upon the operator; for had not tidings of far capitals come to him out of the sky, and news of death which had made the strong tremble? Pearl had been helping to install a new line. For a time--a long time, as it seemed to me--the shop door was locked.