The Captains Toll-Gate | Page 8

chose to ignore it as

far as possible, and to walk in the pleasant ways which are numerous in
this tangled world. There is much philosophy underlying a good deal
that he wrote, but it has to be looked for; it is not insistent, and is never
morbid. He could not write an impure word, or express an impure
thought, for he belonged to the "pure in heart," who, we are assured,
"shall see God."
[Footnote 2: I may, however, properly quote from the sketch prepared
by Mr. Gary for the Century Club: "He brought to his later work the
discipline of long and rather tedious labor, with the capital amassed by
acute observation, on which his original imagination wrought the
sparkling miracles that we know. He has been called the representative
American humorist. He was that in the sense that the characters he
created had much of the audacity of the American spirit, the thirst for
adventures in untried fields of thought and action, the subconscious
seriousness in the most incongruous situations, the feeling of being at
home no matter what happens. But how amazingly he mingled a broad
philosophy with his fun, a philosophy not less wise and comprehending
than his fun was compelling! If his humor was American, it was also
cosmopolitan, and had its laughing way not merely with our British
kinsmen, but with alien peoples across the usually impenetrable barrier
of translation. The fortune of his jesting lay not in his ears, but in the
hearts of his hearers. It was at once appealing and revealing. It flashed
its playful light into the nooks and corners of our own being, and wove
close bonds with those at whom we laughed. There was no bitterness in
it. He was neither satirist nor preacher, nor of set purpose a teacher,
though it must be a dull reader that does not gather from his books the
lesson of the value of a gentle heart and a clear, level outlook upon our
perplexing world."]
MARIAN E. STOCKTON.
CLAYMONT, _May 15, 1903_.

THE CAPTAIN'S TOLL-GATE

CHAPTER I
_Olive._
A long, wide, and smoothly macadamized road stretched itself from the

considerable town of Glenford onward and northward toward a gap in
the distant mountains. It did not run through a level country, but rose
and fell as if it had been a line of seaweed upon the long swells of the
ocean. Upon elevated points upon this road, farm lands and forests
could be seen extending in every direction. But there was nothing in the
landscape which impressed itself more obtrusively upon the attention
of the traveler than the road itself. White in the bright sunlight and gray
under the shadows of the clouds, it was the one thing to be seen which
seemed to have a decided purpose. Northward or southward, toward the
gap in the long line of mountains or toward the wood-encircled town in
the valley, it was always going somewhere.
About two miles from the town, and at the top of the first long hill
which was climbed by the road, a tall white pole projected upward
against the sky, sometimes perpendicularly, and sometimes inclined at
a slight angle. This was a turnpike gate or bar, and gave notice to all in
vehicles or on horses that the use of this well-kept road was not free to
the traveling public. At the approach of persons not known, or too well
known, the bar would slowly descend across the road, as if it were a
musket held horizontally while a sentinel demanded the password.
Upon the side of the road opposite to the great post on which the
toll-gate moved, was a little house with a covered doorway, from which
toll could be collected without exposing the collector to sun or rain.
This tollhouse was not a plain whitewashed shed, such as is often seen
upon turnpike roads, but a neat edifice, containing a comfortable room.
On one side of it was a small porch, well shaded by vines, furnished
with a settle and two armchairs, while over all a large maple stretched
its protecting branches. Back of the tollhouse was a neatly fenced
garden, well filled with old-fashioned flowers; and, still farther on, a
good-sized house, from which a box-bordered path led through the
garden to the tollhouse.
It was a remark that had been made frequently, both by strangers and
residents in that part of the country, that if it had not been for the
obvious disadvantages of a toll-gate, this house and garden, with its
grounds and fields, would be a good enough home for anybody. When
he happened to hear this remark Captain John Asher, who kept the
toll-gate, was wont to say that it was a good enough home for him,
even with