"Have ye not heard?" said Darrel, in a whisper. "Parson Hammond hath swapped horses."
Trove began to laugh.
"Nay, that is not all," said the tinker, his pipe in hand. "Deacon Swackhammer hath smitten the head o' Brooke. Oh, sor, 'twas a comedy. Brooke gave him an ill-sounding word. Swackhammer removed his coat an' flung it down. 'Deacon, lie there,' said he. Then each began, as it were, to bruise the head o' the serpent. Brooke—poor man!—he got the worst of it. An' sad to tell! his wife died the very next day."
"Of what?" Trove inquired,
"Marry, I do not know; it may have been joy," said the tinker, lighting his pipe. "Ah, sor, Brooke is tough. He smites the helping hand an' sickens the heart o' kindness. I offered him help an' sympathy, an' he made it all bitter with suspicion o' me. I turned away, an' said I to meself, 'Darrel, thy head is soft—a babe could brain thee with a lady's fan.'"
Darrel puffed his pipe in silence a little time.
"Every one hates Brooke," said Trove.
"Once," said Darrel, presently, "a young painter met a small animal with a striped back, in the woods. They exchanged compliments an' suddenly the painter ran, shaking his head. As he came near his own people, they all began to flee before him. He followed them for days, an' every animal in the woods ran as he came near. By an' by he stopped to rest. Then he looked down at himself an' spat, sneeringly. When, after weeks o' travel, he was at length admitted to the company of his kind, they sat in judgment on him.
"'Tell us,' said one, 'what evil hath befallen thee?'
"'Alas!' said the poor cat, 'I met a little creature with a striped back.'