“But what, Peter? This is a very alarming subject.”
“Oh, Peter, Peter! You are becoming an awful boy. I always knew that those Methodist free salvation meetings would do you no good. You go right out to the wood-pile, and bring me in an armful of wood. You have no sense of theology, anyway. You are a poor daft fellow. ‘Who let him out?’ Did I ever!”
Peter went out, muttering that he didn’t “see how people can be shut up forever in another world, and be wandering about this world at the same time. It don’t stand to reason, nohow, true as preachin’.”
But although Peter’s reasoning seemed convincing, it did not quiet his superstitious fears. Whenever his conscience became a little disturbed, the picture of tall Penelope Royall wandering about in the wind “all in white” was before him. Even grim old Captain Kidd was not such an alarming object to his fancy as that. Captain Kidd was a man, and he felt sure that he would let him alone, if he did not trouble the buried treasure, but old Penelope Royall—_she_ was a woman.
The Mount Hope lands were full of Indian stories, which were founded on tricks, and even worse stories of those whose wits cheated the devil out of his dues, when their grasping souls had bargained with the latter. Peter thought of these. There was one story that suggested to him that wit is equal to most conditions of life. It was a red settle story, but became a poem:—
“Among Rhode Island’s early sons Was one whose orchards fair By plenteous and well-flavored fruit, Rewarded all his care.
“For household use they stored the best, And all the rest, conveyed To neighboring mill, were ground and pressed And into cider made.
“The wandering Indian oft partook The generous farmer’s cheer; He liked his food, but better still His cider fine and clear.
“And as he quaffed the pleasant draught The kitchen fire before, He longed for some to carry home, And asked for more and more.
“The farmer saw a basket new, Beside the Indian bold, And smiling said, ‘I’ll give to you As much as that will hold.’
“Both laughed, for how could liquid thing Within a basket stay? But yet, the jest unanswering, The Indian went his way.
“When next from rest the farmers sprung So very cold the morn, The icicles like diamonds hung On every eping and thorn.