has happened.’  But the folks laughed, and said she must ha’ heard one of the lambs.  ‘No, it wasn’t,’ says she, ‘it was Katy.’  And sure enough, just after dinner a young man who lived neighbor to her come riding into the yard post-haste to get her to go home, for the baby had pulled some hot water over on to herself and was nigh scalded to death and cryin’ for her mother every minute.  Now, who’s going to explain that?  It wasn’t any common hearing that heard that child’s cryin’ fifteen miles.  And I can tell you another thing that happened among my own folks.  There was an own cousin of mine married to a man by the name of John Hathorn.  He was trading up to Parsonsfield, and business run down, so he wound up there, and thought he’d make a new start.  He moved down to Denby, and while he was getting under way, he left his family up to the old place, and at the time I speak of, was going to move ’em down in about a fortnight.

“One morning his wife was fidgeting round, and finally she came down stairs with her bonnet and shawl on, and said somebody must put the horse right into the wagon and take her down to Denby.  ’Why, what for, mother?’ they says.  ‘Don’t stop to talk,’ says she; ’your father is sick, and wants me.  It’s been a worrying me since before day, and I can’t stand it no longer.’  And the short of the story is that she kept hurrying ’em faster and faster, and then she got hold of the reins herself, and when they got within five miles of the place the horse fell dead, and she was nigh about crazy, and they took another horse at a farm-house on the road.  It was the spring of the year, and the going was dreadful, and when they got to the house John Hathorn had just died, and he had been calling for his wife up to ’most the last breath he drew.  He had been taken sick sudden the day before, but the folks knew it was bad travelling, and that she was a feeble woman to come near thirty miles, and they had no idee he was so bad off.  I’m telling you the living truth,” said Captain Sands, with an emphatic shake of his head.  “There’s more folks than me can tell about it, and if you were goin’ to keel-haul me next minute, and hang me to the yard-arm afterward, I couldn’t say it different.  I was up to Parsonsfield to the funeral; it was just after I quit following the sea.  I never saw a woman so broke down as she was.  John was a nice man; stiddy and pleasant-spoken and straightforrard and kind to his folks.  He belonged to the Odd Fellows, and they all marched to the funeral.  There was a good deal of respect shown him, I tell ye.

“There is another story I’d like to have ye hear, if it’s so that you ain’t beat out hearing me talk.  When I get going I slip along as easy as a schooner wing-and-wing afore the wind.