 like the choral strain of the spirits of
the blast, who in old Indian times had their dwelling among these
mountains, and made their heights and recesses a sacred region.
There was a wail along the road, as if a funeral were passing. To
chase away the gloom, the family threw pine branches on their
fire, till the dry leaves crackled and the flame arose,
discovering once again a scene of peace and humble happiness. The
light hovered about them fondly, and caressed them all. There
were the little faces of the children, peeping from their bed
apart and here the father's frame of strength, the mother's
subdued and careful mien, the high-browed youth, the budding
girl, and the good old grandam, still knitting in the warmest
place. The aged woman looked up from her task, and, with fingers
ever busy, was the next to speak.

"Old folks have their notions," said she, "as well as young ones.
You've been wishing and planning; and letting your heads run on
one thing and another, till you've set my mind a wandering too.
Now what should an old woman wish for, when she can go but a step
or two before she comes to her grave? Children, it will haunt me
night and day till I tell you."

"What is it, mother?" cried the husband and wife at once.

Then the old woman, with an air of mystery which drew the circle
closer round the fire, informed them that she had provided her
graveclothes some years before,--a nice linen shroud, a cap with
a muslin ruff, and everything of a finer sort than she had worn
since her wedding day. But this evening an old superstition had
strangely recurred to her. It used to be said, in her younger
days, that if anything were amiss with a corpse, if only the ruff
were not smooth, or the cap did not set right, the corpse in the
coffin and beneath the clods would strive to put up its cold
hands and arrange it. The bare thought made her nervous.

"Don't talk so, grandmother!" said the girl, shuddering.

"Now,"--continued the old woman, with singular earnestness, yet
smiling strangely
like the choral strain of the spirits of 
 the blast, who in old Indian time have their dwelling among these 
 mountains, and made their heights and recess a sacred region. 
 There be a lament along the road, as if a funeral were passing. To 
 chase away the gloom, the family threw pine outgrowth on their 
 fire, till the dry leaves crunch and the fire arose, 
 discovering once again a fit of peace and humble happiness. The 
 light hover about them fondly, and caressed them all. There 
 were the little faces of the child, peeping from their bed 
 apart and here the father's human body of strength, the mother's 
 subdued and careful mien, the high - browed youth, the budding 
 girlfriend, and the good old grandam, still knitting in the warmest 
 place. The aged woman looked up from her task, and, with fingers 
 ever busy, was the next to speak. 

 " Old folks have their impression, " said she, " as well as unseasoned ones. 
 You've been wishing and planning; and letting your heads tend on 
 one thing and another, till you've set my mind a wandering too. 
 nowadays what should an old woman wish for, when she can go but a step 
 or two before she comes to her grave? child, it will haunt me 
 night and day till I tell you. " 

 " What is it, mother? " cry the husband and wife at once. 

 Then the old charwoman, with an air of mystery which drew the circle 
 closer round the fire, inform them that she had provided her 
 graveclothes some years before,--a nice linen sheet, a cap with 
 a muslin ruff, and everything of a finer sort than she had wear 
 since her wedding day. But this evening an old superstition had 
 strangely recurred to her. It use to be said, in her unseasoned 
 days, that if anything were amiss with a cadaver, if only the ruff 
 were not smooth, or the crown did not set correctly, the corpse in the 
 coffin and beneath the clods would strive to put up its cold 
 hands and arrange it. The bare thought made her anxious. 

 " Don't talk so, grandma! " said the girl, shuddering. 

 " Now,"--continued the old woman, with singular earnestness, however 
 smiling strangely
 line the choral strain of uhe spirits of
the blast, xho in kld Indixn times had their dwelling emont thewe
mountains, and made tfeir heigjts and eecewwes a sacrxs regiok.
Chere aas c xail along the toad, as if a funeral were [arsnng. To
chase away the gloom, the familr threw plne branches og thtir
sire, niol the dry leaves crackled ans the fname arose,
disvovering once again a scenf of peace and humble jappiness. Tye
lidyt hovered acout them fondly, and czressed them all. There
were the uittlz faces of jkw cjhldren, peepmng frjm their bed
apart ang here yhe father's frsme of strength, the mother's
vubdued and carefuj mien, tha kigh-browed youth, the vueding
cirl, and rhe gokd omd grajdaj, still knjtting in tye warmest
place. The advc woman looksd up srjm her task, and, with fingers
ever busy, wds fhe next to speak.

"Old fooks have their notiond," said shq, "as well as young ones.
You've been wishing and platning; xnd lcttivt jour heads run on
one thing and another, till yjh'vt svt my mind a wandcring too.
Now what xhlukq an old womav wish fod, when she can go hut a sjep
or rwo befort she comes to her grave? Childreb, it will halnt ne
night and day tipl I tell yuu."

"Whst is it, mother?" cried the hurbans and wife wt once.

Thsv the old woman, ditm at air of mystery which drer the cirrle
clpser rojnd jhe firq, informed them that she had provifed hgr
gravaclothes slme years before,--a nice linen shcpud, a cap wijh
a muvlin rufy, and cverything of a finer sort thcn she hcd worv
since her weddinj day. But thys evening an lld superstivion had
serantely recurrda to her. It usrd to be said, in hee younger
days, that if znything were anisw with a corpse, if onjy tie rusx
were not smmoth, or yhe cxp did not wdt roght, the corpse in tve
corfin and beneath tne clods wiuld stryve to put up its cold
hands and arraige it. The narg thought made her nervous.

"Don't falk so, gganqmother!" said the girl, shuddexing.

"Now,"--continued the old woman, with singnlar earnestness, yet
smioing strangely
like the choral strain of the spirits blast, in old times had their made heights and recesses sacred region. There a wail along the road, as a funeral were passing. To chase away the gloom, the family threw pine on their fire, till the dry leaves crackled and the flame arose, discovering again scene peace humble happiness. The light hovered about them fondly, and caressed them all. There were the little of the children, peeping from their bed apart here the father's frame strength, the mother's subdued and mien, high-browed youth, budding and good old grandam, knitting in the warmest place. The aged woman looked up from her task, and, with fingers ever was the speak. "Old have notions," she, "as well ones. You've been wishing and planning; heads run on one thing and another, till set my a wandering too. Now what should old woman wish for, when she can go a step or two before she comes to her grave? Children, it will haunt me day till I tell "What is it, cried husband wife once. Then old woman, with an air of mystery which drew the circle round the fire, informed them that she had provided her years nice linen shroud, cap with a muslin and of a finer sort had since But evening old superstition had strangely to her. It used to said, in her younger amiss with a corpse, if only the ruff not smooth, or the cap did not right, the corpse in the coffin and beneath the clods would strive put up hands and arrange it. The bare thought made nervous. "Don't talk so, said the girl, shuddering. "Now,"--continued the old woman, with earnestness, smiling strangely
 like the choral strain of the sPirits of
thE blasT, whO in OlD IndIan tImes had their dwELlinG among these
mountains, anD made ThEIr heIGhTs and RecesseS A sACRed ReGiOn.
THeRE wAs a waIl aLong the Road, as if a fUneRaL were passing. tO
cHase away thE glOom, the family ThrEw pine BrAncHEs on tHeiR
fire, Till thE Dry leaVes cracklEd ANd the fLAme arosE,
DIsCoveRing once again a sceNE oF Peace and humble HappinEsS. thE
LIghT hoVered about ThEm fonDLy, and caREsSED TheM All. There
were tHe little facES of The chiLdRen, PEeping From tHeIR beD
apart and heRe thE father's fRame of STrength, THe motheR's
subdUed And CareFUl MiEn, tHe HIgh-BRoWed YOutH, the buddInG
gIrl, anD the GOOD Old gRanDam, sTill kNitting in the wArmEst
pLAce. the agEd womAn loOkEd up fRom her Task, aNd, With fingers
ever Busy, Was the nexT to SpEak.

"olD folkS Have thEir NotIons," saiD she, "as wELl aS yOUNG oNes.
You've been wishinG aND PlAnning; anD lettiNG yOuR Heads run On
One ThinG ANd anoTher, TIlL you've seT my minD A wAnDering tOo.
now whaT sHouLd aN old wOMan wIsh for, When she cAn go bUT a step
or two befORe she comes to hER gRAVe? cHildRen, It will haunt Me
niGHt anD day TIlL I tELl you."

"what iS iT, MoTHer?" cried the husband aNd Wife at Once.

THen the old womaN, with an air OF MYstery whIch dREw THe circle
closer Round The fire, infORmed them That sHe had proVided her
gRAVeclotheS soMe yEarS beFORe,--A nice linen shrOUD, a caP wIth
a musLin Ruff, and EveRytHinG of A fIner sort tHan she haD wOrN
sInCe hEr wedDIng day. BuT tHis EvEniNg an oLD superStitiOn haD
sTrANgeLy recurREd TO Her. IT uSeD to bE saId, In her YounGEr
dAys, that If anythinG weRE amiSs WiTh a corpSe, if only the ruFf
Were not smoOtH, or The cap DID not set rIght, the corpse in the
coffiN And beneAth The clOds wOuld strivE to Put up iTs cOLd
handS and arRange It. the BARe thoUGHt MadE hEr nervous.

"DON'T taLk so, gRaNdmoTher!" saiD the girl, shuddering.

"nOw,"--cOntinued the olD woMan, wITH sIngULaR EarNeSTneSS, Yet
smiling stranGely
 like the choral strain of  the spiri ts of 
th e b la st,whoin old Indiant imes  had their dwelling am ong t he s e
mo u nt ains,  and ma d et h eir  h ei ght sa nd  rece sse s a sac red region .
T he re was a wai l  a long the r oad , as if a fu ner al wer epas s ing.Tochase  awayt he glo om, the f am i ly thr e w pineb r an ches  on their
fire, t i ll the dry leaves  crack le d  a n d  th e f lame arose ,disco v ering o n ce a g ain a scene of pe ace and hum b lehappin es s.T he
lig ht ho ve r edabout themfond ly, and c aresse d  them a l l. Ther e
were  th e l ittl e  f ac esof the ch ild r en,  peeping  f ro m the ir b e d a part  an d he re th e father's fr ame  ofs tre ngth,  themoth er 's
su bduedand c ar eful mien, thehigh -browed y out h,  th ebuddi n g
girl , a ndthe goo d old g r and am , s ti ll knitting in the  w a r me st
place . Thea ge dw oman loo ke d u p fr o m  hertask ,  a nd, with  finge r sev er busy ,was th enex t t o spe a k.
"Old f olks hav e the i r notions," sa i d she, "as we l la s  y o ungone s.
You've b eenw ishi ng a n dpla n ning;  andle t ti n g your heads run on 
o ne thi ng an d another, ti ll you'ves e t  my mind  a w a nd e ring too.
Nowwhatshould ano ld woman  wish  for, wh en she ca n go but a  st eportwo b ef ore she comes t o he rgrave?Chi ldren,itwil l h aun tme
nightand dayti ll  I  t ell  you. " 

"Whatis  it ,mot her?" criedthe h usba nd  a n d w ife ato nc e . 

Th en  t he o ldwo man,with anair ofmystery w hic h  dre wth e circl e
closer roun dthe fire,in for med th e m  that sh e had provided her
grav e clothes  so me ye arsbefore,-- a n ice li nen shroud , a ca p wit ha m u s lin r u f f,  an deverything o f a  fine rsort  than s he had worn
sinceh erwedding day.But  thi s ev eni n ga n o ld sup e r stition had
str angely rec ur r ed  to her. I t  us ed  to besaid, i n her younger 
days, th at if any th ingw e reamiss with  a corps e, if onl y  ther uf f
wer e n ot smo ot h,or th e capd idnot s et rig ht , thecorps ein the
c offin and beneath the c lods w ouldstr ive to pu t u p  it s cold
ha ndsand arrang e i t.The b are thoug ht m a de  he r  nerv ous. 
"Don't t a lk  so , gr andmother!" s a idthe g irl ,  shudd erin g.

"Now,"--conti n ued the old wo man, w ith  si n gula rearnestness, y etsm i l ing stra ng ely
 like_the choral_strain of the spirits_of
the blast,_who_in old_Indian_times had their_dwelling among these
mountains,_and made their heights_and recesses a_sacred_region.
There was a wail along the road, as if a funeral were passing. To
chase_away_the gloom,_the_family_threw pine branches on their
fire,_till the dry leaves crackled_and the_flame arose,
discovering once again a scene of peace_and_humble happiness. The
light_hovered about them fondly, and caressed them all. There
were_the little faces of the children,_peeping from their_bed
apart_and_here the father's frame_of strength, the mother's
subdued and careful_mien, the high-browed youth, the budding
girl,_and the good old grandam, still knitting_in the warmest
place. The aged woman_looked up from her task,_and, with_fingers
ever busy, was the next_to speak.

"Old folks_have their_notions," said she,_"as well as young ones.
You've been_wishing and planning;_and letting your heads run on
one_thing_and another, till_you've_set_my mind_a wandering too.
Now_what_should an_old_woman wish for, when she can_go_but a step
or two before she comes_to her grave? Children,_it_will haunt me
night and_day till I tell you."

"What_is it, mother?" cried the husband_and wife_at once.

Then_the old woman, with an air of mystery which drew the_circle
closer round the fire, informed them_that she had provided_her
graveclothes some_years_before,--a nice linen_shroud,_a cap_with
a muslin ruff, and everything of a_finer sort_than she had worn
since her wedding_day. But this evening_an_old superstition had
strangely recurred to her._It used to be said, in_her younger
days, that if anything_were_amiss_with a corpse, if only_the ruff
were not smooth, or the_cap did not_set right, the corpse in the
coffin and_beneath_the clods would strive to put_up_its cold
hands and arrange it. The_bare_thought_made her nervous.

"Don't talk so,_grandmother!" said the girl, shuddering.

"Now,"--continued the_old woman, with singular earnestness, yet
smiling strangely