however, there was a gathering outside which increased with every minute, and soon the voters began to straggle slowly in, and passing up the right aisle, went through the space between the stage and the triangle, the modern signification of which was now apparent, handing up their votes to the sheriff as they went, and then joined the much more exciting meeting outside. The boxes were of three different sizes to correspond with the different-sized ballots, on one of which were the names of the candidates for State and county officers, ending with the Representative for Congress; on the middle-sized one, the names of the proposed justices of the peace, who had been amicably divided up between the two principal parties; and the third, a very small piece of paper, on which was the name of the candidate for the town representative to the Legislature. As in the child's story of the three bears, it was the little bear the meddling with whose property caused all the trouble, so to-day it was the little box on which was centred the attention of the assembled freemen. Both the principal candidates were fine young men ; there was apparently no difference in them excepting that one of them was being voted for by the Republicans and the other by the Democrats, and there was the kindest and most friendly feeling between them. The sheriff, as he received each vote, opened it, to be sure that it did not contain another, I suppose, and placed each one in its proper box; meantime the clerk checked off the voters on the big paper, never stopping, however, to ask a name, for there was not a man there whose name, place of residence, general character, property, and personal habits were not well known to every other man in the line. There was no crowding and no hurry, for it was generally conceded that nothing would be decided by this first ballot except the strength of the candidates, and so the work went lazily on, one farmer after another dropping in, after he had hitched his horse and sold his eggs and his butter, to hand up his votes and to exchange some often jocose remark with the sheriff, till at last, after about an hour, the clerk announced, Gentlemen, this ballot will be closed in five minutes." One or two more happened in before the five minutes were out, and then there was another warning that there still remained but one minute in which the freeman

could vote. As there is always sure to be one belated man at the sailing of every ocean steamer, the very warm and nervous corroborator of the theory of Buckle, so now one more "firm and reliable tread " came slowly up the aisle, and one more vote was put into the box. The moment had fled, and the destiny of the town for the next two years was decided.

There enter now upon the stage seven new actors, four of them justices of the peace, and three selectmen of the town, and they sit down at the table. The clerk's register is whisked off and laid down on the carpet, all the boxes but the fateful smallest one are cleared out of the way, and in the midst of the sound of many entering feet the contents of that box are shaken out upon the table. Meanwhile the settees have rapidly filled, and everybody is watching the seven grave men who begin to count the votes. Every one of the faces was bronzed by the sun; every hand was hard and knotted with labor; almost every head was partly bald; but every face bore the genuine New England stamp, a cluster such as it would be difficult if not impossible to find anywhere else than in New England, for the marks of the sternly high ideals which drew the Puritans across the sea still linger on the faces of their descendants and will not away. But it was not only on the stage that we could trace those signs of breeding. Take your stand in front of the wooden seats, now nearly filled with the freemen of the town, and get a general glance at the assembled faces. You can pass over the Canadian, with build and face betraying the French descent and the severer climate from which he comes; the one negro; the irrepressible Celt; the descendant of the Celt, already in one generation taking on the mark of the American climate and of the position which there is no obstacle to his creating here; the omnipresent German-and sweep the room. Look at those fine-cut noses and lips; and the curves of the head are very significant. See the small and wellformed ear; and, even with all the constant and heavy work, notice the small and shapely hands which are lifted to brush away the fine hair from the forehead.

There are plenty of lines on those elderly faces-most of them elderly-for almost all the "boys" have been drawn West by what have seemed to them easier

ways of making money, and have left "" the old folks" to take care of the farm. It is to such a village meeting as this that the foreigner who wishes to study the American ought to come. The lines on the forehead are, following the authority of Ribot, those cut by attention and reflection; the lines about the mouth are not those of easy self-indulgence, but of self-control, patience, and human kindness.

But meanwhile the votes have been counted, and the sheriff comes forward -the friendly talk becoming suddenly hushed-to announce the result: "Whole number of votes, 297. Necessary for a choice, 149; Jones [Republican], 104; Smith [Democrat], 100; Carver [Farmer], 39; Cutler [Labor], 29; Scattering, 25. There is no choice." But there was no need of the last sentence, for as soon as the number of Republicans was announced,

half the audience were on their feet and already quietly moving to the voting line to try again, and in less time than it takes to write it, the seven elders had melted into the mass of their townsmen, as the soldiers were swallowed up into the mass of citizens after the war, the table had recovered its former aspect, the ballot-boxes were again in their places, along with the clerk and the sheriff, and the voting was going on again. There was some good-natured pushing as the passage between the stage and the triangular barrier became wide enough for only one man, the clerk began to work a little faster than had been required at the first voting, and there was a great deal of good-humored chaffing. That the next vote was to be somewhat larger was indicated by the fact that several new voters for State officers checked the stream of those who had already voted that ticket and wanted to get through, having now only their vote for representative to de

"NOT UNLIKE THE CITY TYPE."

posit. After about an hour the ballot was again closed, and the votes were counted again. The result, observing the same order of parties, stood, 100, 117, 39, 32, 18, and no choice again. There are 500 voters in the town, and that there are only 306 votes shows that the result of the election is not a matter of vital importance to them, and that to many the crops are much more interesting than politics. But the Democratic vote is on the increase, in fact larger by some 60 votes than it has been ever known in the history of the town, and the crowd to vote is pressing forcibly to the stand, for it is getting towards sunset, the "chores" must be done whether we have any representative or not, and it is the voters who must go home and do them. But still in perfect order and in perfect good-humor, the men press into the narrow space, and the voting repeats itself.

Every genuine New England village is like an apple orchard. The trees are all

THE OLD STAGE-DRIVER.

apple-trees, and yet there is not one of them that does not insist upon its own individuality, and assert successfully its right to a special character of its own. If its neighbor leans to the north, then it will go to the east or the south. At any rate, it will be something in and for itself. So, as the crowding file comes towards us through the narrow passage, we catch for every face its own peculiar traits. That man looks not unlike the city type. He is a rich man, and is always ready to lend money to the poor farmer, taking his farm, his cattle, and his furniture for security. The next one, with the bright blue eyes so full of kindliness, the face bronzed and full of lines, every one betraying fun and good-humor, is the old stage-driver. There is not a man, woman, or child within a radius of ten miles whom he does not know, and scarcely a stone on the ten-mile mail route that he does not recognize as an old friend as he drives past twice a day in all weathers. He it is who can manage the most obstinate horse, and make it do his will by dint of na

tive shrewdness and tact. Following him comes a tall, slender, somewhat stooping farmer with the kindly farmer's face. He lives in the delightful old brick house by the side of the stage road, known and respected of all, and the men who hire out to him for the summer think themselves fortunate, for he is "just and kind." Here comes a mechanica wheelwright, carpenter, farmer. The sharp watchful mechanic's eye looks clear ahead, and has no need to lower itself before any man. There are lines of sorrow and lines of care, but when he smiles they all disappear in a glow of sunshine like those that sweep over the landscape in which he has always lived, smoothing out the ridges in their gleam. He

is the grave-digger too, and knows all the resting places under the grass of the pretty little cemetery, which he cares for as if it were his own garden. The young man behind him in shirt sleeves"boiled shirt" sleevescaught up with elastic, is the Democratic candidate. He has run over from the grocery store to cast his vote, presumably for the Republican candidate, as they are very good friends, and as soon as he has got rid of it, runs back again to his business. The next one, tall and dark, the "honest man" who was once sent as representative, has driven four or five miles with "the nicest colt you ever saw," and has just come down from the platform, where he has been helping to count the vote. Following him, a very

old man leaning on a stick. We seldom see him except at night, when he comes after the cows. There is something touching in the fact that it is always the very old men or the very little boys that go after the cows at night. It makes one think of what some phrenologist has said, that when a baby is born, God sends it into the world with a bare head, so that every one can see just what material, what powers, it has to work with. Then He covers it up with hair, and says, "See what you can do with that!" And the child goes on working till, after his life is almost done, God uncovers the head again, that all may see what has been accomplished by the man. So the old man who goes after the cows must often remember how he used to run behind them long years ago, before he had almost "got through," as the people here touchingly say when a man dies. And so they pass, farmer after farmer, though almost every man of them is something more than a mere farmer. There is nothing which strikes a city-bred person with more astonishment in the New Eng

THE HONEST MAN."

land villages than the number of things every man can do.

One face which in the old New England times we should have been sure to see, we shall look in vain for-that of the village clergyman. There are churches enough in the town, no less than four of different kinds, but there is only one minister at present, for it is a hard matter to support them all. People do not go to church as they used to, and they will not unite. Here we run against one of the great problems of the time. In old days, when our great-grandfathers were settled as country ministers, it was for life, and to identify themselves entirely with the town. They brought up ten children on $500 a year, and thought it not hard to live so. Those were the times when the lines in Goldsmith's "Deserted Village" were applicable to many a good clergyman; but such times are long past. Now the small towns must put up with young men fresh from the seminary, who take the place only temporarily till they can get something better in a neighborhood

where there is more going on, and who, though in the town, are not of it.

But it is the next ballot and not this one that will probably elect a representative if any does, for the men who don't care particularly about who shall go, or whether any one shall go, will not take the trouble to come back after the chores are done and supper is eaten, and it will be only those who are determined to elect some one who will vote at the next. The voters are not perfectly quiet now; some of them indulge in calling out the name of their favorite man as they press up the aisle to the ballot box, but there is nothing disorderly. When this ballot is closed the sun is already near his setting, and the warm day is growing cold in the Green Mountain air. The hall empties very quickly after the usual result is announced, and the next ballot is begun, for the meeting must not adjourn if it wishes any more chance to vote. So long as it does not adjourn, it may keep

on voting till Christmas if it chooses, but to adjourn would kill it forever. So the business goes on, and the voters continue to hold caucuses outside on the steps; and the sun sets, and the kerosene-lamps are lighted to mingle their odor with that of the pipes. At ten o'clock some of the "boys" got possession of the bell-rope and rang out a peal, to which everybody listened for an instant, for in this village one never knows when the one bell begins to ring whether there is a fire, an entertainment, or a prayer-meeting. time the livery-stable was making prospective gains, and the old stage-driver had three of his horses hitched up and scurrying through the off roads to bring in recreant voters; the band was playing within a stone's throw of the hall; and all was excitement both within and without the building. But there was not a great variation in the votes. The "Labor" men dropped, several of them, into other lines. The "Farmers" held their own; and the

By this