Daily Yellowstone journal., 1886-11-27
PETER FAME.

The road from Keene village to Beth
nal Corners ran zigzagging down the
side Of hill, and then. having traversed
. stretch of level country. crossed Stony
brook by a covered wooden bridge whose
time stained walls were yet adorned
With fragments 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 pedes-
trian. But there were few travellers
over either road or bridge, and the town
was poor, so the selectmen left it both
for time and the elements 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 by an inclosed shed and
unpainted and unadorned. except by
clambering vines and the weather stains
of past years.
1t was the evening Of the day before
Thanksgiving, in the year 1s-. Peter
Fame, the miller, stood in the doorway
of the cottage smoking his big -bowled
pipe and looking out over the dusty road
as il wound down the hill. He was an
old man of some 20 years, but
he looked fresh and hearty, as If
likely to weather many another
winter storm and TO bask under
many another summer sun. His long
white hair and white beard harmonized
with the flour-dusted jean overalls which
he wore, and his black eyes scanned the
scene about him with a wistful, eager
expression, as if hoping to 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 a bank Of
cloud which the wind was swiftly driv-
ing up from the northwest, and as its
beams were withdrawn the air grew
gray and became colder. 1t was very
still; the oply sounds were the murmur
of the brook near by, flowing over the
stones and pebbles of its bed, or the
cav. caw," of the distant 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 faded and was
replaced by look Of grave disappoint-
ment.
Seventy years had Peter Fane-as boy
and man-lived by that old mill. He
was but 20 when his father dying left
him to run the old mill; and for fifty
years he had remained at his post. sta
tionary 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 haid, and laid aside for a 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 "A highway over which
stages and numerous teams passed each
day. There was then almost invariably
q group around the mill door. while
within the air was always 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 be-
tween.
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 Thanks
giving eve; and with sigh of regret for
those vanished years. lie knocked the
ashes from his pipe, and turning back
into the cottage busted himself in pre-
pairing his evening meal-for Peter Fame
lived all alone. unless faithful dog can
be called companion.
All the day Peter Fame had been OPP
pressed with that peculiar intuition
which every one feels sometimes during
his life, that some one, he knew not
whom, was about to arrive. This feel
ing had haunted Peter Fame: il had
brought him more than once TO the
door, and now. as he sat by the tireside
with his dog curled up at hs feet. it
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, children and
friends were deady
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
IL and looked out. The clouds covered
the whole Of the sky and the snowflakes
were falling thick and fast. and all the
earth was hid beneath their fleecy crys-
tails. Though the moon and the stars
were hidden there was 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 the was no sign. Peter
F.ne looked carefully about him. then
shut and fastened the door, piled the
ashes over the glowing brands upon the
hearth that there might be live Goals to
light his fire the next morning and went
10 bed.
He slept. then suddenly awoke, for