Susan Coolidge

Not Quite Eighteen Susan Coolidge

T was Midsummer's Day, that delightful point toward which the whole year climbs, and from whichit slips off like an ebbing wave in the direction of the distant winter. No wonder that superstitiouspeople in old times gave this day to the fairies, for it is the most beautiful day of all. The worldseems full of bird-songs, sunshine, and flower-smells then; storm and sorrow appear impossiblethings; the barest and ugliest spot takes on a brief charm and, for the moment, seems lovely anddesirable."That's a picturesque old place," said a lady on the back seat of the big wagon in which HiramSwift was taking his summer boarders to drive. They were passing a low, wide farmhouse, gray from want of paint, with a shabby barn and shedsattached, all overarched by tall elms. The narrow hay-field and the vegetable-patch ended in a rockyhillside, with its steep ledges, overgrown and topped with tall pines and firs, which made a densegreen background to the old buildings."I don't know about its being like a picter," said Hiram, dryly, as he flicked away a fly from theshoulder of his horse, "but it isn't much by way of a farm. That bit of hay-field is about all the landthere is that's worth anything; the rest is all rock. I guess the Widow Gale doesn't take much comfortin its bein' picturesque. She'd be glad enough to have the land made flat, if she could.""Oh, is that the Gale farm, where the silver-mine is said to be?""Yes, marm; at least, it's the farm where the man lived that, 'cordin' to what folks say, said he'dfound a silver-mine. I don't take a great deal of stock in the story myself.""A silver-mine! That sounds interesting," said a pretty girl on the front seat, who had been drivingthe horses half the way, aided and abetted by Hiram, with whom she was a prime favorite. "Tell meabout it, Mr. Swift. Is it a story, and when did it all happen?""Well, I don't know as it ever did happen," responded the farmer, cautiously. "All I know forcertain is, that my father used to tell a story that, before I was born (nigh on to sixty years ago, thatmust have been), Squire Asy Allen-that used to live up to that red house on North Street, whereyou bought the crockery mug, you know, Miss Rose-come up one day in a great hurry to catch thestage, with a lump of rock tied in his handkerchief. Old Roger Gale had found it, he said, and theythought it was silver ore; and the Squire was a-takin' it down to New Haven to get it analyzed.