The Stillwater Tragedy
The Stillwater Tragedy By Thomas Bailey Aldrich I It is close upon daybreak. The great wall of pines and hemlocks that keep off the west wind from Stillwater stretches black and indeterminate against the sky. At intervals a dull, metallic sound, like the guttural twang of a violin string, rises form the frog-invested swamp skirting the highway. Suddenly the birds stir in their nests over there in the woodland, and break into that wild
"I won't complain of that, if his health is improved."
Mrs. Estabrook, who was a poor relation of Herbert's mother, pursed
up her mouth, but did not reply. In her eyes, it was more important
that a boy should keep his clothes whole and clean than to have
color in his cheeks, and health in his frame.
"I hope that boy won't stay here long," she thought, referring, of
course, to Grant. "He'll quite spoil Herbert by making him rough and
careless of his appearance."
"Well, Herbert, and how do you like Grant?" asked Mr. Reynolds, as
his son was bidding him good-night before going to bed.
"I am so glad you brought him here, papa. I shall have good times
now. You'll let him stay all the time, won't you?"
"I'll see about it, Herbert," answered his father, smiling.
CHAPTER XII
The Stillwater Tragedy By Thomas Bailey Aldrich I It is close upon daybreak. The great wall of pines and hemlocks that keep off the west wind from Stillwater stretches black and indeterminate against the sky. At intervals a dull, metallic sound, like the guttural twang of a violin string, rises form the frog-invested swamp skirting the highway. Suddenly the birds stir in their nests over there in the woodland, and break into that wild