Chapter 90 Old Resident; Winter Visitor - 2

Further down the hill, to the left, on the old path through the woods, there are still remnants of Stratton's house; The pines retreated, except for a few tree roots, and more luxuriant wild trees grew on those roots. Nearer the town, on the other side of the road, just on the edge of the woods, you come to Breed's place, which is famous for a monster not yet included in the ancient myths: he is very important in New England life. An important, astonishing relationship, as is the case with so many mythical characters, and one day someone wrote a biography of him; at first he arrives disguised as a friend, or as a hired man, then he robs, even murders the whole family,—he was a strange man from New England.But history has not been able to write down some of the tragedies that happened here, let time confuse them to some extent, and give them a layer of blue color.There is an indistinct legend that there was once a tavern here; and it was the same well that supplied the travelers with drink, and quenched their thirst for their cattle.Here, people used to come together, exchange news, and then go their separate ways.

Although Bride's thatched hut has long been unoccupied, it was still standing twelve years ago.About the size of one of my houses.If I'm not mistaken, it was set on fire by some naughty kids on the night of a major presidential election.I was living on the edge of the village at that time, and I was fascinated by Defernant's "Gundybert". This winter, I suffered from drowsiness. An old family problem, but I have an uncle who falls asleep when he shaves, and on Sundays he has to pick potato shoots in the cellar, just to keep himself awake and keep his Sabbath; I wanted to read "Anthology of English Poetry" edited by Chalmers without skipping a single one, so I lost my mind.Defernant's book quite conquered my nerves.As I was reading, my head lowered more and more, when suddenly the fire alarm bell rang, and the fire engine rushed forward frantically, surrounded by men and children in chaos, and I was running in the forefront, because I jumped And jumped over the stream.We thought the burnt place was far south of the woods,--we've all fought fires before,--stables, or shops, or houses, or all of them were on fire. "It's Baker Grange," cried someone. "It's Codman's place," another affirmed.Then another burst of sparks shot into the sky above the forest, as if the roof had given in, and we all yelled "Concord to the fire!" People, including perhaps an insurance company agent, must be there no matter how far away the fire burns; Everyone whispered to him that there was that group of people who started the fire and then called the fire alarm.And so we go on like true idealists, disregarding the evident evidence of our senses, until we turn a corner in the road, and we hear the crackle of flames, and literally feel the flames coming from the other side of the wall. Only then did I understand the heat, alas!We are right here.Being near a fire only diminishes our enthusiasm.At first we tried to pour all the water from a frog pond on the fire; in the end we let it burn, and the house was almost burned and worthless.So we surrounded our firetrucks, swarming around, making our point over the loudspeaker, or in low voices, talking about the greatest fires in the world that have ever been recorded, including the one at Bascomb's store. Once, while among some of us, it occurred to us that if we happened to have a "bucket" and a swollen frog pond, we could turn that last dreadful fire into another great flood.In the end we didn't do anything bad, and we all went back—to sleep, and I went to my Gundiebelt.Speaking of this book, there's a passage in the preface about wit being the gunpowder of the soul—"but most of the human race don't know wit any more than the Indians don't know gunpowder," I disapproved.

The next night, I happened to pass the burning place again, at about the same time, I heard a low moaning sound there, I groped in the dark and approached, and found that I knew this man, he belonged to that house The only descendant; he inherited the faults and the good of the family; and the only one who still cared about the fire, and now he flung himself on the edge of the cellar, and murmured from the cellar wall to the still smoking ashes inside. Talking to himself, this is a habit of his.All day long he worked in the meadows far away by the river, and as soon as he had time at his disposal, he went to the house of his ancestors, where he had spent his childhood.He looked into the cellar from every direction and from every spot in turn, always lying down, as if he remembered some treasure hidden among the stones, but there was nothing but bricks and ashes.The house had burned down, and he wanted to see what was left.Consoled as if he had a sympathizer simply because I was by his side, he pointed out a well to see, as far as possible from the darkness, where it was covered; In the past, he found out the water hanger made and erected by his father himself, and asked me to feel the iron hook or lock ring at the heavy end for hanging heavy objects——now this is the only thing he can grasp ,—he would have me believe it was an extraordinary shelf.I touched it, and have since looked at it every time I walk here; for it still has a family history hooked to it.