cabin, Chingachgook with his canoe, appeared in living representation in the line of floats that paraded the village to set forth the historic and romantic memories of the place. A chorus of village schoolgirls dressed in white, and with flowing hair, presented an exquisite scene at Cooper's grave in Christ churchyard, bringing their tribute of flowers, and singing the lyric written by Andrew B. Saxton to the music of Andrew Allez. Otsego Lake offered a superb spectacle in the calm summer night, reflecting the glare of rockets and the bursting into bloom of aerial gardens of flame. There were moments of utter darkness suddenly dispelled by dazzling cataracts of fire that made one aware of thousands of pallid faces thronging the shore, while the effulgence set the waters ablaze from Council Rock to the Sleeping Lion, and flung a weird splendor upon the forests of the surrounding hills. [Illustration: _J. B. Slote_ THE LYRIC AT COOPER'S GRAVE] A lovable patriarch of the village was Samuel M. Shaw, well known throughout the state as editor of the _Freeman's Journal_. He had once been an editor of the _Argus_, in Albany, and became editor and proprietor of the _Freeman's Journal_ in Cooperstown in 1851. In this position he continued more than half a century, and had a history almost unique in village journalism. When he began his work Shaw was regarded as an innovator, for he was one of the first editors in the country to introduce columns of local news and personal items, a practice which, at a time when newspapers were wholly devoted to politics, speeches, foreign affairs and literary miscellany, was widely ridiculed. He survived long enough to be regarded as an exemplar of conservative and old-fashioned journalism, and became the Nestor of Cooperstown. In the office of the _Freeman's Journal_, with its clutter of old machinery, piles of grimy books, its floor littered with newspapers, its wall streaked with cobwebs, the aged editor seemed exactly to fit into the surroundings. Here he received his friends, for the bed-ridden wife at Carr's Hotel, where he had rooms, was unequal to much social duty. The printing-office was his kingdom, and here, at the battered desk, he reigned supreme, a benevolent-looking man, with white beard closely enough trimmed to show a firm mouth, while the bald head shone above the desk as he bent his eyes closely to the pen in writing, and the left hand occasionally stroked the cluster of silvery locks that overhung the back of his collar. Late every afternoon he put aside his pen and proof-sheets, and with a coat held capewise about his bent shoulders, toddled to the Mohican Club to play bottle-pool with his old friend, G. Pomeroy Keese. Every Sunday the editor's venerable figure was conspicuous in a front pew of the Baptist church, in which he was a pillar, and always held up as an example to the youth of the village.