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Jabe Slocum and Brad Gibson lay extended slouchingly, their cowhide boots turned up to the sky; Dave Milliken, Steve Webster, and the others leaned back against the tree-trunk, smoking clay pipes, or hugging their knees and chewing blades of grass reflectively.

One man sat apart from the rest, gloomily puffing rings of smoke into the air. After a while he lay down in the grass with his head buried in his hat, sleeping to all appearances, while the others talked and laughed; for he had no stories, though he put in an absent-minded word or two when he was directly addressed. This was the man from Tennessee, Matt Henderson, dubbed “Dixie” for short. He was a giant fellow,– a “great gormin’ critter,” Samantha Ann Milliken called him; but if he had held up his head and straightened his broad shoulders, he would have been thought a man of splendid presence.

He seemed a being from another sphere instead of from another section of the country. It was not alone the olive tint of the skin, the mass of wavy dark hair tossed back from a high forehead, the sombre eyes, and the sad mouth,–a mouth that had never grown into laughing curves through telling Yankee jokes,–it was not these that gave him what the boys called a “kind of a downcasted look.” The man from Tennessee had something more than a melancholy temperament; he had, or physiognomy was a lie, a sorrow tugging at his heart.

“I’m goin’ to doze a spell,” drawled Jabe Slocum, pulling his straw hat over his eyes. “I’ve got to renew my strength like the eagle’s, ‘f I’m goin’ to walk to the circus this afternoon. Wake me up, boys, when you think I’d ought to sling that scythe some more, for if I hev it on my mind I can’t git a wink o’ sleep.”

This was apparently a witticism; at any rate, it elicited roars of laughter.

“It’s one of Jabe’s useless days; he takes ’em from his great-aunt Lyddy,” said David Milliken.

“You jest dry up, Dave. Ef it took me as long to git to workin’ as it did you to git a wife, I bate this hay wouldn’t git mowed down to crack o’ doom. Gorry! ain’t this a tree! I tell you, the sun ‘n’ the airth, the dew ‘n’ the showers, ‘n’ the Lord God o’ creation jest took holt ‘n’ worked together on this tree, ‘n’ no mistake!”

“You’re right, Jabe.” (This from Steve Webster, who was absently cutting a D in the bark. He was always cutting D‘s these days.) “This ellum can’t be beat in the State o’ Maine, nor no other state. My brother that lives in California says that the big redwoods, big as they air, don’t throw no sech shade, nor ain’t so han’some, ‘specially in the fall o’ the year, as our State o’ Maine trees; ‘assiduous trees,’ he called ’em.”

“Assidyus trees? Why don’t you talk United States while you’re about it, ‘n’ not fire yer long-range words round here? Assidyus! What does it mean, anyhow?”

“Can’t prove it by me. That’s what he called ’em, ‘n’ I never forgot it.”

“Assidyus–assidyus–it don’t sound as if it meant nothing’, to me.”

“Assiduous means ‘busy,'” said the man from Tennessee, who had suddenly waked from a brown study, and dropped off into another as soon as he had given the definition.

“Busy, does it? Wall, I guess we ain’t no better off now ‘n we ever was. One tree’s ’bout ‘s busy as another, as fur ‘s I can see.”

“Wall, there is kind of a meanin’ in it to me, but it’sturrible far fetched,” remarked Jabe Slocum, rather sleepily. “You see, our ellums and maples ‘n’ all them trees spends part o’ the year in buddin’ ‘n’ gittin’ out their leaves ‘n’ hangin’ em all over the branches; ‘n’ then, no sooner air they full grown than they hev to begin colorin’ of ’em red or yeller or brown, ‘n’ then shakin’ ’em off; ‘n’ this is all extry, you might say, to their every-day chores o’ growin’ ‘n’ cirkerlatin’ sap, ‘n’ spreadin’ ‘n’ thickenin’ ‘n’ shovin’ out limbs, ‘n’ one thing ‘n’ ‘nother; ‘n’ it stan’s to reason that the first ‘n’ hemlocks ‘n’ them California redwoods, that keeps their clo’es on right through the year, can’t be so busy as them that keeps a-dressin’ ‘n’ ondressin’ all the time.”