To know the Wyantenaug thoroughly is to be wise in rivers; which if any one doubts, let him follow it from its springs to the sea—a possible fortnight—and consider then how he is a changed man with respect to rivers. Not that by any means it is the epitome of rivers. It is no spendthrift flood-stream to be whirling over the bottom-lands in April and scarcely able to wet its middle stones in August, but a shrewd and honest river, a canny river flowing among a canny folk, a companionable river, loving both laughter and sentiment, with a taste for the varieties of life and a fine vein of humor. Observe how it dances and sputters down the rapids—not really losing its temper, but pretending to be nervous—dives into that sloping pass where the rocks hang high and drip forever, runs through it like a sleuth-hound, darkly and savagely, and saunters out into the sunlight, as who should say in a guileless manner, “You don't happen to know where I'm going?” Then it wanders about the valley, spreads out comfortably and lies quiet a space, “But it really makes no difference, you know”; and after that gives a chuckle, rounds a bunch of hills and goes scampering off, quite taken up with a new idea. And so in many ways it is an entertaining and friendly river, with a liking for a joke and a pretty notion of dramatic effect.

But, of all times and places, I think it most beautiful in the twilight and along that stretch, called of late the Haunted Water, opposite the village of Preston Plains. The Cattle Ridge with its long heaving spine comes down on the valley from the east, seeming to have it very much in mind to walk over and do something to Preston Plains three miles beyond; but it thought better of that long ago. The Wyantenaug goes close beneath it in sheer bravado: “You try to cross me and you get jolly wet”; for the Wyantenaug is very deep and broad just here. The Cattle Ridge, therefore, merely wrinkles its craggy brows with a puzzled air, and Preston Plains is untroubled save of its own inhabitants. As to that matter the people of the village of Hagar have opinions. The valley road goes on the other side of the river—naturally, for there are the pastures, the feeding cattle, the corn-fields, and farmhouses—and the Cattle Ridge side is steep, and threaded by a footpath only, for a mile or more, up to Hants Corby's place. Hants Corby's is not much of a place either.

In old times the footpath was seldom used, except by the Leather Hermit. No boy in Hagar would go that way for his life, though we often went up and down on the river, and saw the Leather Hermit fishing. The minister in Hagar visited him once or twice, and probably went by the footpath. I remember distinctly how he shook his head and said that the Hermit sought salvation at any rate by a narrow way, and how the miller's wife remonstrated with him for seeming to take the Hermit seriously.

“You don't mean to say he ain't crazy,” she said, in anxious defence of standard reason.

“Oh, I suppose so, yes.”

The minister sighed and rubbed his chin uneasily, and Mrs. Mather recovered her ordinary state of mind, which was a state of suppressed complaint.

I was saying that the footpath was seldom used. Hants Corby would have used it—for he was too shiftless to be afraid—if the river had run the other way. As it was, he preferred to drift down in his boat and row back when he had to. He found that easier, being very shiftless. The Hermit himself went on the river, except in the spring when the current below was too strong.

The opinions of the Leather Hermit may be shown in this way. If you came on him, no matter suddenly, and asked whose land that was across the river, he would answer promptly, “The devil's”; whereas it belonged to Bazilloa Armitage, a pillar of the church in Preston Plains, who quarrelled zealously with the other pillars; so that, as one sees, the Leather Hermit was not in sympathy with the church in Preston Plains.

The people of the valley differed about him according to humor, and he used strong language regarding the people of the valley according to opportunity, especially regarding Bazilloa Armitage. He denounced Bazilloa Armitage publicly in Preston Plains as a hypocrite, a backbiter, and a man with a muck rake—with other language stronger still. Bazilloa Armitage felt hurt, for he was, in fact, rather close, and exceedingly respectable. Besides it is painful to be damned by a man who means exactly what he says.

To speak particularly, this was in the year 1875; for the next year we camped near the spot, and Hants Corby tried to frighten us into seeing the Hermit's ghost. Bazilloa Armitage was denounced in June, and Hants Corby on the second Friday in August, as Hants and the Hermit fished near each other on the river. The Hermit denounced him under three heads—sluggard, scoffer, and beast wallowing in the sty of his own lustful contentment. On Saturday the Hermit rowed up to Hants Corby's place in the rain and denounced him again.

Sunday morning the Hermit rose early, turned his back on the Wyantenaug, and climbed the cliff, onward and up through the pines. The prophets of old went into high places when they prayed; and it was an idea of his that those who would walk in the rugged path after them could do no better. Possibly the day was an anniversary, for it was of an August day many years gone—before ever a charcoal pit was built on the Cattle Ridge—that the Hermit first appeared on the Wyantenaug, with his leather clothes in a bundle on his back, and perhaps another and invisible burden beneath it. A third burden he took up immediately, that of denouncing the sins of Wyantenaug Valley, as I have said.

All that Sabbath day the river went its way, and late in the afternoon the sunlight stretched a thin finger beneath the hemlocks almost to the Hermit's door. Across the river the two children of Bazilloa Armitage, boy and girl, came down to the water's edge. The boy pulled a pole and line out of some mysterious place in the bank. The little girl sat primly on the grass, mindful of her white pinafore.

“You better look out, Cis,” he said. “Any fish you catch on Sunday is devils. You don't touch him. You cut the line and let him dry till Monday.”

“Oh, Tad!” gasped the little girl, “won't the Leather Hermit tell?”

“Well,” said Tad, sturdily, “father said he'd get even, if it took a month of Sundays, and that's six Sundays by this time. There ain't anything bothers the Hermit like catching the fish on Sundays, specially if you catch a lot of 'em. Blamed old fool!” grumbled Tad.

“Oh, Tad,” gasped the little girl again, in awed admiration, “that's swearing.”

But Tad did not mind. “There's Hants Corby,” he exclaimed; “he's going to fish, too.”

Hants Corby floated down in his old boat, dropped anchor opposite the children, and grinned sociably.

“He daren't touch his boat to-day,” he said in a husky whisper. “He'll raise jinks in a minute. You wait.”

“Fishes is devils on Sunday, aren't they, Hants?”

“Trout,” returned Hants, decisively, “is devils any time.”

Both Tad Armitage and Hants Corby ought to have known that the Leather Hermit sometimes went up the Cattle Ridge on Sundays to wrestle with an angel, like Jacob, who had his thigh broken. We knew that much in Hagar—and it shows what comes of living in Preston Plains instead of Hagar.

Hants Corby motioned with his thumb toward the Hermit's hut.

“Him,” he remarked, “he don't let folks alone. He wants folks to let him alone particular. That ain't reasonable.”

“Father says he's a fernatic,” ventured Tad. “What's a fernatic, Hants?”

“Ah,” said Hants, thoughtfully, “that's a rattlin' good word.”

Time dragged on, and yet no denouncing voice came from the further shore. The door of the hut was a darker hole in the shade of the hemlocks. Hants Corby proposed going over to investigate.

“If he ain't there, we'll carry off his boat.”

Tad fell into Hants's boat quite absorbed in the greatness of the thought. It was not a good thing generally to follow Hants Corby, who was an irresponsible person, apt to take much trouble to arrange a bad joke and shiftlessly slip out from under the consequences. If he left you in a trap, he thought that a part of the joke, as I remember very well.

“A-a-a-ow!” wailed Cissy Armitage from the bank; for it dawned on her that something tremendous was going forward, in which Tad was likely to be suddenly obliterated. She sat on the bank with her stubby shoes hanging over, staring with great frightened blue eyes, till she saw them at last draw silently away from the further shore—and behold, the Hermit's boat was in tow. Then she knew that there was no one in the world so brave or so grandly wicked as Tad.

Cissy Armitage used to have fluffy yellow hair and scratches on her shins. She was a sunny little soul generally, but she had a way of imagining how badly other people felt, which interfered with her happiness, and was not always accurate. Tad seldom felt so badly as she thought he did. Tad thought he could imagine most things better on the whole, but when it came to imagining how badly other people felt, he admitted that she did it very well. Therefore when she set about imagining how the Hermit felt, on the other side of the river, with no boat to come across in, to where people were cosy and comfortable, where they sang the Doxology and put the kittens to bed, she quite forgot that the Hermit had always before had a boat, that he never yet had taken advantage of it to make the acquaintance of the Doxology or the kittens, and imagined him feeling very badly indeed.

Bazilloa Armitage held family prayers at six o'clock on Sunday afternoons; and all through them Cissy considered the Hermit.

“I sink in deep waters,” read Bazilloa Armitage with a rising inflection. “The billows go over my head, all his waves go over me, Selah,” and Cissy in her mind saw the Hermit sitting on the further shore, feeling very badly, calling Tad an “evil generation,” and saying: “The billows go over my head, Selah,” because he had no boat. She thought that one must feel desperately in order to say: “Selah, the billows go over me.” And while Bazilloa Armitage prayed for the President, Congress, the Governor, and other people who were in trouble, she plotted diligently how it might be avoided that the Hermit should feel so badly as to say “Selah,” or call Tad an “evil generation”; how she might get the boat back, in order that the Hermit should feel better and let bygones be; and how it might be done secretly, in order that Tad should not make a bear of himself. Afterwards she walked out of the back door in her sturdy fashion, and no one paid her any attention.

The Hermit muttered in the dusk of his doorway.

Leather clothes are stiff after a rain and bad for the temper; moreover, other things than disordered visions of the heavens rolling away as a scroll and the imperative duty of denouncing some one were present in his clouded brain,—half memories, breaking through clouds, of a time when he had not as yet begun to companion daily with judgment to come, nor had those black spots begun to dance before his eyes, which black spots were evidently the sins of the world. He muttered and shifted his position uneasily.

There was once a little white house somewhere in the suburbs of a city. It stood near the end of a half-built street, with a sandy road in front. There was a child, too, that rolled its doll down the steps, rolled after it, wept aloud and laughed through its tears.

The stiff leather rasped the Hermit's skin. The clouds closed in again; he shook himself, and raised his voice threateningly in words familiar enough to the denounced people of the Wyantenaug: “It is written, 'Thou shalt have no other gods before me'; and your gods are multitudes.” He stared with dazed eyes across the dusky river. The little ripples chuckled, sobbed and gurgled in a soft, human way. Something seemed to steal in upon him, like a gentle hand, pleading and caressing. He made an angry motion to thrust it away, and muttered: “Judgment to come—judgment to come.” He seemed to hear a sobbing and whispering, and then two infinite things came together in his shattered brain with a crash, leaving him stunned and still.

There was a syringa bush before the little white house, a picket fence, too, white and neat. Who was it that when he would cry, “Judgment to come!” would whisper and sob? That was not a child. That was—no—well, there was a child. Evidently it rolled its doll down the steps and rolled after it. There was a tan-yard, too, and the dressing of hides. He dressed hides across a bench. The other men did not take much interest in judgment to come. They swore at him and burned sulphur under his bench. After that the child rolled its doll down the steps again, and bumped after it pitifully.

The Hermit groaned and hid his face. He could almost remember it all, if it were not for the black spots, the sins of the world. Something surely was true—whether judgment to come or the child bumping down the steps he could not tell, but he thought, “Presently I shall forget one of the two.”

The sun had set, and the dusk was creeping from the irregular hills beyond, over the village of Preston Plains, over the house of Bazilloa Armitage. Dark storm-clouds were bearing down from the north. A glitter sprang once more into the Hermit's eyes, and he welcomed the clouds, stretching out his hands toward them. Suddenly he dropped his hands, and the glitter died out in a dull stare. Across the last red reflection of the water glided a boat, his own boat, or one like it. A little child in white rose up and stood in the prow, and, as though she were a spirit, the light in the west passed into her hair. It was not the right way for judgment to come. The dark clouds bearing down from the north—that was judgment to come; but the spirit in the boat, that—could not be anything—it was false—unless—unless it rolled down the steps. And then once more the two infinite things came together with a crash. He leaped to his feet; for a moment his hands went to and fro over his head; he babbled mere sounds, and fell forward on his face, groaning.

Cissy Armitage achieved the top of the bank with difficulty, and adjusted her pinafore. The Hermit lay on his face very still. It was embarrassing.

“I—I brought back your boat, so you needn't feel bad. I—I feel bad.”

She stopped, hearing the Hermit moan once softly, and then for a time the only sound was the lapping of the water. It was growing quite dark. She thought that he must feel even worse than she had imagined.

“I'm sorry. It's awful lonesome. I—want to go home.”

The Hermit made no motion. Cissy felt that it was a bad case. She twisted her pinafore and blinked hard. The lumps were rising in her throat, and she did not know what to say that would show the Hermit how badly she felt—unless she said “Selah.” It was strong language, but she ventured it at last.

“I feel awful bad. The—the billows go over my head, Selah!” Then she wished that she had let “Selah” quite alone.

The Hermit lifted his face. It was very white; his eyes were fixed and dead-looking, and he got his feet under him, as if he intended to creep forward. Cissy backed against a tree, swallowed lumps very fast, and decided to kick if he came near. But he only looked at her steadily.

“What is your name?” he said in a slow, plaintive tone, as a man speaks who cannot hear his own voice. Cissy thought it silly that he should not know her name, having seen her often enough,—and this gave her courage. “Cecilia Armitage. I want to go home.”

“No!” shouted the Hermit. He sat up suddenly and glared at her, so that the lumps began climbing her throat again faster than ever. “That isn't the name.” Then he dropped his head between his knees and began sobbing. Cissy did not know that men ever cried. It seemed to tear him up, and was much worse than “The billows go over me, Selah.” On the whole there seemed to be no point in staying longer. She walked to the bank and there hesitated diffidently.

“I want to go home. I—I want you to row me.”

There was a long silence; the Hermit's head was still hidden between his knees. Then he came over and got into the boat, not walking upright, but almost creeping, making no noise, nor lifting his head. He took the oars and rowed, still keeping his head down, until the boat came under the old willow, where the bank runs low on the edge of Bazilloa Armitage's ten-acre lot. It struck the bank, but he sat still, with his head down. Cissy Armitage scrambled up the roots of the willow, looked back, and saw him sitting with his head down.

Cissy Armitage was the last to see the Leather Hermit alive, for Hants Corby found him Monday afternoon in shallow water, about a rod from shore. The anchor stone was clasped in his arms, and the anchor rope wound around his waist, which would seem to imply that he was there with a purpose. If that purpose was to discover which of two things were true—judgment to come, or the child that rolled its doll down the steps—every one is surely entitled to an opinion on its success or failure. There was a copy-book, such as children use, found in his hut. On the cover was written, “The Book of Judgment.” It contained the record of his denunciations, with other odd things. The people of Wyantenaug Valley still differ, according to humor; but any one of them will give his or her opinion, if you ask it.