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She did not tell her friends how she spent the night yearning fiercely for Coniston and Uncle Jethro, at times weeping for them, if the truth be told; how she had risen before the dawn to write a letter, and to lay some things in the rawhide trunk. The letter was never sent, and the packing never finished.
Once a week in summer she went to Brampton, to the Social library there, and sat at the feet of that Miss Lucretia Penniman of whom Brampton has ever been so proud Lucretia Penniman, one of the first to sound the clarion note for the intellectual independence of American women; who wrote the "Hymn to Coniston"; who, to the awe of her townspeople, went out into the great world and became editress of a famous woman's journal, and knew Longfellow and Hawthorne and Bryant.
Some drove away striving to bite from their lips the tell-tale smile which arose in spite of them; others tried to look happy, despite the sentence of doom to which they had listened. Jethro Bass was indeed a great man to make such as these tremble or rejoice. When he went abroad with Cynthia awheel or afoot, some took off their hats an unheard-of thing in Coniston.
This din proclaims to the "guests" and to the public at large that it is time to come in and be fed. But this refinement of civilization is not yet in Coniston, and the Inn is quiet and homelike. You may go to bed when you are tired, get up when you choose, and eat when you are hungry.
Amos Cuthbert named it so our old friend Amos who lives high up in the ether of Town's End ridge, and who now represents Coniston in the Legislature. He is the same silent, sallow person as when Jethro first took a mortgage on his farm, only his skin is beginning to resemble dried parchment, and he is a trifle more cantankerous.
And the boy of those days for him was more pathetic than much that is known to the world as sorrow. And what did Coniston think? Coniston, indeed, knew not what to think, when, little by little, the great men ceased to drive up to the door of the tannery house, and presently came no more.
Executing my signals?" "You idiot!" He gripped my shoulders. His eyes were gleaming, his face haggard, but his pale lips twitched with a smile. "Maybe it's good-bye, Gregg. We'll fall fighting." "Yes. Fighting. Coniston, you keep the pressure up." With the broken tubes it took nearly all the pressure to maintain the few plates I had shifted. One slipped back to neutral.
The sky seemed not a sky Of earth and with what motion moved the clouds! The innocent rapine of nutting taught him to feel that there is a spirit in the woods a presence which too rude a touch of ours will desecrate and destroy. The neighbouring lakes of Coniston, Esthwaite, Windermere, have left similar traces of the gradual upbuilding of his spirit.
No state, we believe, can claim a party leader of a higher order of ability than Jethro Bass." Cynthia dropped the paper in her lap, and sat very still. This, then, was what happened when Jethro had heard of her dismissal he had left Coniston without writing her a word and passed through Brampton without seeing her.
"He he hardly speaks at all, Uncle Jethro." One bright morning after the sun had driven away the frost, when the sumacs and maples beside Coniston Water were aflame with red, Bias Richardson came stealing up the stairs and whispered something to Cynthia. "Dad," she said, laying down her book, "it's Mr. Merrill. Will you see him?" William Wetherell gave her a great fright.
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