The Vermont watchman. [volume] (Montpelier, Vt.) 1883-1911, 1895-05-01
useless and Clark turned from him in a
naroxvsm of race and grief

C thought you wuz good" he said;
"you've got kind face. But you're
in league with that man." pointing to
the assessor who stood near; "and you
won't help me at ALL It's my farm, and
1 want justice" and he walked slowly
out of the room, shaking his clenched
fist at the judge and the spectators.
There was certain majesty about
him, for constancy to principle, even
though mistaken one, gives sometimes
the martyrs dignity. The judge
shook his head and sighed. He was
powerless TO help, and he pent up in
his great heart the countless miseries
he saw about him.
Some days later, there was sold at tax
sale the third quarter of the fourth
section, northeast, the farm owned by
Jesse Clark. He was notified of the
sale but refused to vacate the premises.
1t was bad year for crops and Clark
made nothing, for the seventeen-year
locusts we're abroad and ruined every
thing.
Little by little he sold his farm i'm
plements, horses, stock, and finally his
furniture. AT last the worst blow
came. The house was rented to an
other farmer, and although Clark re.
fused to leave his farm, as he still called
it, the day came when he found him
self set down in the road, with only
two or three pieces of furniture left to
him. His anger knew no bound, and
he shook his fist at the tenants, shrek
ing out in frenzy of rage:
at is my land. Minel You've no
right to it, All to no avail. Night
came, and the old man, jaded and
worn, nearly crazed with grief and mis-
fortune, sat down by the roadside to
think. What should he do? At last
his decision was made.
"The lands mine," he murmured.
"As long as I'm on it, they can't take
it away from me. I'll stay on it and
mebbe I'll get justice some day" So
he took a piece of old sheeting, made a
tent Just large enough to hold chair,
table and rickety cot bedstead, all that
was left of his furniture. Thus he set
of the farm. The people renting the
place were good folk, and they
let him remain. He made little money,
enough to supply his few wants, by
gardening, or helping his neighbors in
the harvest fields.
He had under cultivation few feet
of ground and was unmolested by his
neighbors. Most of them scarcely dared
to speak to him, so strongly did he pre-
serve the taciturnity of man who
thinks himself wronged. Sometimes he
would cry aloud for JUSTICE" and tell
his woes to passer-by, but more often
he refused to speak to any one. In the
ten years after his farm was sold he saw
no one but the farmers for whom he
worked.
1t was lonely country. The road
stretched straight for miles, at one end
apparently terminating in the skyline.
The other seemed to run into Jesse
Clark's tiny house, but that was be.
cause the path made sudden turn at
the foot of the hill where the hut was.
Clark's tent had merged into little
cabin, a few boards roughly nailed to-
gether, with room enough for the fur
niture the tent had contained. A
stranger passing down the road one
summer day glanced at the quaint
place, nearly buried in flowers.
A syringa bush grew at one side the
house, it's long arms clothed in white
blossoms, stretched protectingly about
the tiny window, encircling it in beauty,
and reaching far over the low slanting
roof.
In front was little plot planted with
flowers and vegetables; dozen sturdy
cabbages were beginning to head, some
early potatoes were in bloom, and in
side the old snake fence, nearly hidden
by wild grape vine, some purple and
red columbines boomed, their gor-
geous bells seeming to ring mathis in
the sunshine. Some inverted cracked
fower-pots protected from the blazing
sun young tomato plants not yet firmly
rooted. A robin chirped on choke
cherry tree near by, and in the back
ground were scrub oaks, their trunks
showing pinkish sprouts and an under
growth of elder bushes and rabbit ber-
res. The fields beyond were full of
grain, the soft green tufts of wheat
looking like turf, and the waving rye
yellow in the brilliant sunshine.
Jesse Clark sal at the door, his head
on his horny hand. Upon his furrowed,
weather beaten face he wore peculiar
expression. 1t was mingling of
logged determination and dreariness,
sometimes one predominatlng at times
the other.
The stranger paused, and looking at
the old man said: Good-day, sir.
Can you tell me whose farm this is ?"
AS he spoke the dreamy look in
Clark's dark eyes melted into anger.
Stranger" he said, "this land is
mine, all mine. L live here in this hut,
because l have been robbed of my
house up there" pointing to the farm
house on the hill, land l cannot get
justice "
How were you robbed?" asked the
stranger, tall dark man with keen
shrewd face. He seated himself on
the fence corner and listened to the
old mans story. The man of one idea
often expresses himself well and for
chilly where his hobby is concerned.
Concentration will cause lesser powers
Of mind to seem greater than weighty
faculties frittered over many fields of
thought. All real upheavals have
been made by "cranks," so-called-men
who have brought all their powers to