Daily Kennebec journal. [microfilm reel] (Augusta, Me.) 1870-1975, 1886-11-01
Oaks aud Sketthes.
PETER FAME.
BY ARTHUR DUDLEY vINToN.

The road from Keene village TO Bethnal
Corners ran ZigZagging down the side oil
a hill and then, having traversed stretch
Of level ground. crossed Stony Brook by
covered wooden bridge whose time
stained walls were yet adorned with frag.
ments OF gaudy colored circus posters.
The road was in none too good repair,
especially upon the hillside where the
rains had washed bare many stones and
left ruts and hollows, and the bridge was
dilapidated and shook ominously under
each passing vehicle or pedestrian. But
there were few travellers over either road
or bridge and the town was poor, so the
selectmen LETT it both for time and the ele-
ments to prey upon unchecked.
At the side of this road, just before it
came to the bridge stood the grist mill
and cottage of Peter Fame, joined one to
the other bv an inclosed shed unpaint-
ed and unadorned except by clambering
vines and the weather stains of past years.
It was the evening OF the day before
thanksgiving. ia the year lS--. Peter
Fame, the miller, stood in the doorway of
the cottage smoking his big-bowled pipe
and looking out over the dusty road as it
wound down the hill. He was an old
man of some 20 years, but he looked
fresh and hearty, as il likely to weather
many another winter storm and to bask
under another summer sun. His long
white hair and beard harmonized with the
hour-dusted jean overals which he wore
and his black eyes scanned the scene about
him with wistful, eager expression, as
if hoping 10 see some anxiously expected
traveller But there was no moving thing
nor sign OF life within Peter Fane's sight,
save only a belated crow swiftly winging
his way to his home among the leafless
trees upon the hill.
The sun was setting behind bank of
cloud which the wind was swiftly driving
up from the northwest, and as its beams
were wi hdrawn the air grew gray and
became colder. 1t was very still; the on
y sounds were the murmur of the brook
near by, flowing over the stones and peb-
bles Of its bed, or the "caw. cav" of the
DIS ant crows. So still was it, indeed. that
the silence seemed to force itself upon
Peter Fane's unwilling attention, and the
expression of expectation on his face
faced and was replaced by look of grave
disappointment
Seventy years had Peter Fane-as boy
and man-lived by that old mill. He was
but 30 when his father dying lett hun to
run the old mill end for forty years he
had remained at his post, stationary amid
all the changes and events about him.
And how many changes there had been
how many friends had come or gone, died
or moved away, during the lapse of those
many years! Business had been brisk
and he had worked hard, and laid aside
for rainy day business had been dull
and he had smoked his pipe and waited
for better times.
There was no lack of life about the old
mill in those early years, for the road was
then highway over which stages and
numerous teams passed each day. There
was then almost invariably a group around
the mill door. while within the air was al
WAYS misty with flying flour dust, and the
machinery kept up an almost continuous
clatter. Now months sometimes passed
before the mill was set in motion, and the
grass around the door was seldom pressed
by other feet than Peter Fane's and the
passers by were few and far between.
The contrast between the old times and
the new forced itself upon Peter Fane's
mind as he stood at his cottage door in the
cleaning of that Thanksgiving eve; and
with sigh of regret for those vanished
years. he knocked the ashes from his
pipe, and turning back into the cottage
buised himself in preparing his evening
meal-tor Peter Fame lived all alone. un-
less faithful dog can be called a com
panion.
All the dav Peter Fame had been OPP
pressed with that peculiar intuition which
everyone feels sometimes during his life,
that someone, he knew not whom. was
about to arrive. This feeling had haunted
Peter Fame; it bad brought him more
than once to the door, and now. as he sat
bv the hreside. with his dog curled up at
his feet. 1t continued to haunt him. Yet
his reason told him that his expectation
was only idle folly. for who was there in
the wide world who would care to seek
the old miller out. now that wife, chill
dren and friends were dead ?
He sat by the fire smoking and think
ing until bed time came. and then he
carefully laid his pipe upon the shelf and
going once more to the door opened it and
looked out The clouds covered the
whole of the sky. and the snowhakss
were falling thick and fast, and all the
earth was hidden beneath their fleecy
crystals. Though the moon and the stars
were hidden there was yet dim light in
the air that indistinctly and vaguely dis
closed the dark outlines of the mill near
by, and the bridge farther off, and the
bare branches of the trees overhead; but
of human life there was no sign. Peter
Fame looked carefully about him. then
shut and fastened the door, piled the ash
es over the glowing brands upon the
hearth that there might be live Goals to
light his fire the next morning. and went
to bed.
He slept, then suddenly awoke. for
something had reused him from slumber.
He raised himself up and listened, not
sure whether the sound he had seemed to
hear was real or only some echo of men,
ory in his brain. Perhaps it was the clock
striking u, for now as he sat up in bed he
heard the vibration of the gong ringing