“Git out—­”

“You ain’t got no aut’mobile,” chorused the crowd.

“Mebbe I haven’t; but if you fellows know an aut’mobile from a hay rake, you might take a look in my big barn an’ let me know what you see.”

“Say, Joe, you’re jokin’,—­hev you really got one?”

“You can look for yourselves.”

“I saw one go through here ’bout six o’clock,” interrupted a new-comer.  “Great Jehosephat, but ’t went like a streak of greased lightnin’.”

“War that your’n, Joe?”

“Well—­”

“Naw,” said the new-comer, scornfully.  “Joe ain’t got no aut’mobile; there’s the feller in there now who runs it,” and the crowd turned my way with such interest that I turned to the little table and wrote the despatch, quite losing the connection of the subdued murmurs outside; but it was quite evident from the broken exclamations that my host was filling the populace up with information interesting inversely to its accuracy.

“Mile a minute—­faster’n a train—­Holy Moses! what’s that, Joe? broke axle—­telegraphed—­how many—­four more—­you don’t say so?—­ what’s his name?  I’ll bet it’s Vanderbilt.  Don’t you believe it—­ it costs money to run one of those machines.  I’ll bet he’s a dandy from ’way back—­stopping at your house—­bridal chamber—­that’s right—­you want to kill the fatted calf for them fellers—­say—­”

But further comments were cut short as I came out, jumped in, and we drove back to a good supper by candle-light.

The stars were shining over head, the air was clear and crisp, down in the valley of Lebanon the mist was falling, and it was cool that night.  Lulled by the monotonous song of the tree-toad and the deep bass croaking of frogs by the distant stream, we fell asleep.

There was nothing to do next day.  The new steering-head could not possibly arrive until the morning following.  As the farm was worked by a tenant, our host had little to do, and proposed that we drive to the Shaker village a few miles beyond.

The visit is well worth making, and we should have missed it entirely if the automobile had not broken down, for the new State road over the mountain does not go through the village, but back of it.  From the new road one can look down upon the cluster of large buildings on the side of the mountain, but the old roads are so very steep, with such interesting names as “Devil’s Elbow,” and the like, that they would not tempt an automobile.  Many with horses get out and walk at the worst places.

One wide street leads through the settlement; on each side are the huge community buildings, seven in all, each occupied by a “family,” so called, or community, and each quite independent in its management and enterprises from the others; the common ties being the meeting-house near the centre and the school-house a little farther on.

We stopped at the North Family simply because it was the first at hand, and we were hungry.  Ushered into a little reception-room in one of the outer buildings, we were obliged to wait for dinner until the party preceding us had finished, for the little dining-room devoted to strangers had only one table, seating but six or eight, and it seemed to be the commendable policy of the institution to serve each party separately.