I
never saw him hurried. When he spoke, he took out his pipe with
ceremonial deliberation, looked east and west, and then, in quiet
tones and few words, stated his business or told his story. His
gait was to match; it would never have surprised you if, at any
step, he had turned round and walked away again, so warily and
slowly, and with so much seeming hesitation did he go about. He
lay long in bed in the morning--rarely indeed, rose before noon; he
loved all games, from poker to clerical croquet; and in the Toll
House croquet ground I have seen him toiling at the latter with the
devotion of a curate. He took an interest in education, was an
active member of the local school-board, and when I was there, he
had recently lost the schoolhouse key. His waggon was broken, but
it never seemed to occur to him to mend it. Like all truly idle
people, he had an artistic eye. He chose the print stuff for his
wife's dresses, and counselled her in the making of a patchwork
quilt, always, as she thought, wrongly, but to the more educated
eye, always with bizarre and admirable taste--the taste of an
Indian. With all this, he was a perfect, unoffending gentleman in
word and act. Take his clay pipe from him, and he was fit for any
society but that of fools. Quiet as he was, there burned a deep,
permanent excitement in his dark blue eyes; and when this grave man
smiled, it was like sunshine in a shady place.
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