Yet midway between the village and the
pond was once a house, standing with its back turned unceremoniously
upon the narrow road with its border of green. It was a poor thing to
be called a house. Its front door was made, as it seemed, without
reference to anything, for it opened upon the broad ocean-like plain.
No questions had been asked relative to a title-deed of the land upon
which that house stood, or whether "poor Graffam" had a right to pile
up logs in the middle of that plain, and under them to hide a family of
six. Through many a long eastern winter that family had lived there,
little known, and little cared for. Nobody had taken the pains to go on
purpose to see them; yet, during the month of July, and a part of
August, some of the family were often seen. At all times of the year,
in summer's heat and in winter's snow, the children going and returning
from school, were wont to meet "poor Graffam," a short man, with sandy
hair, carrying an ax upon his shoulder, and bearing in his hand a small
pail of "dinner;" for Graffam, when refused employment by others,
usually found something to do at "Motley's Mills," which were about
half a mile from the village. Sad and serious-looking was this poor man
in the morning, and neither extreme civility nor extreme rudeness on
the part of the school children could procure a single word from him at
this time of day. Not thus at evening.
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