and other merchandise to purchasers.  This he did in a dreamy, impersonal kind of way.  It was as if a spirit had somehow go hold of an earthly wheelbarrow and was trundling it quite unconsciously, with no sense of responsibility.  One day he appeared at a kitchen door with a two-gallon molasses jug, the top of which was wanting.  It was not longer a jug, but a tureen.  When the recipient of the damaged article remonstrated with “Goodness gracious, Wibird!  You have broken the jug,” his features lighted up, and he seemed immensely relieved.  “I thought,” He remarked, “I heerd somethink crack!”

Wibird Penhallow’s heaviest patron was the keeper of a variety store, and the first specimen of a pessimist I ever encountered.  He was an excellent specimen.  He took exception to everything.  He objected to the telegraph, to the railway, to steam in all its applications.  Some of his arguments, I recollect, made a deep impression on my mind.  “Nowadays,” he once observed to me, “if your son or your grandfather drops dead at the other end of creation, you know of it in ten minutes.  What’s the use?  Unless you are anxious to know he’s dead, you’ve got just two or three weeks more to be miserable in.”  He scorned the whole business, and was faithful to his scorn.  When he received a telegram, which was rare, he made a point of keeping it awhile unopened.  Through the exercise of this whim he once missed an opportunity of buying certain goods to great advantage.  “There!” he exclaimed, “if the telegraph hadn’t been invented the idiot would have written to me, and I’d have sent a letter by return coach, and got the goods before he found out prices had gone up in Chicago.  If that boy brings me another of those tapeworm telegraphs, I’ll throw an axe-handle at him.”  His pessimism extended up, or down, to generally recognized canons of orthography.  They were all iniquitous.  If k-n-i-f-e spelled knife, then, he contended, k-n-i-f-e-s was the plural.  Diverting tags, written by his own hand in conformity with this theory, were always attached to articles in his shop window.  He is long since ded, as he himself would have put it, but his phonetic theory appears to have survived him in crankish brains here and there.  As my discouraging old friend was not exactly a public character, like the town crier or Wibird Penhallow, I have intentionally thrown a veil over his identity.  I have, so to speak, dropped into his pouch a grain or two of that magical fern-seed which was supposed by our English ancestors, in Elizabeth’s reign, to possess the quality of rendering a man invisible.