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A at the West End can call on Mrs. B at the North, South, or East End, ten miles away, with less trouble than you in your city can go from Salem to Howard Street. Similarly, Springfield ought to stretch from Longmeadow to Chicopee Street, from Indian Orchard to Agawam.

"You're not terribly guilty, Waldron. You acted inconsiderably. Irritatingly, perhaps, and not wholly like a gentleman for which, blame the rotten Scotch they will persist in selling, out there at Longmeadow. But even that's not fatal. Many men have done worse and been forgiven. I'll have a talk with Catherine, inside a day or two, when the psychological moment offers.

And very little could be transported on the road we took. John Williams, who came to Longmeadow in deerskins, and paraded his burnished red poll among the hatted Williamses, abetted me in turning from the missionary field to the arena of war, and never left me.

God, what a fool I was at Longmeadow, to have taken those three drinks, and have been piqued at her beating me to have let my tongue and temper slip in short, to have acted like an ass!" Ugly and grim, he puffed at his Londres. Vast schemes of finance and of conquest wove through his busy, plotting brain.

I went out and found the bald-headed and well-beloved wretch. He was sitting with his knees to his chin by the evening log fire. "Skenedonk," I said, "I want my book." "Children and books make a woman of you," he responded. "You had enough books at Longmeadow." "I want it at once," I repeated. "It's sorcery," he answered. "It's a letter from Madame de Ferrier, and may tell where she is."

It was Skenedonk who served the United States with brawn and endurance, while I put such policy and color into my harangues as I could command. We shared our meals, our camps, our beds of leaves together. The life at Longmeadow had knit me to good use. I could fast or feast, ride or march, take the buckskins, or the soldier's uniform.

Pastor Storrs worked in his study nearly nine hours a day, and spent the remaining hours in what he called visitation of his flock. This being lifted out of Paris and plunged into Longmeadow was the pouring of white hot metal into chill moulds. It cast me. With a seething and a roar of loosened forces, the boy passed to the man.

During my early novitiate at Longmeadow, Aaron Burr's conspiracy went to pieces, dragging down with it that pleasant gentleman, Harmon Blennerhassett, startling men like Jackson, who had best befriended him unawares. But this in nowise affected my own plans of empire. The solidarity of a nation of Indians on a remote tract could be no menace to the general government.

The missionary spirit of Longmeadow stirred among the Williamses, and many of them brought what they called their mites to Pastor Storrs for my education. If I were made a king no revenue could be half so sweet as that. The village was richer than many a stonier New England place, but men were struggling then all over the wide states and territories for material existence.

LONGMEADOW, Feb. 25, 1845. Rev. George Ripley, DEAR SIR: Probably you have forgotten the Andover student who spent Thanksgiving with you a year ago, and who made you a short call last September. But he has not forgotten Brook Farm. I write now for the purpose of asking a single question. Are you so full that it will be impossible for you to take one more in the course of a few weeks?