Then an amusing thing happened. We had been enjoying Bethesda for a few
weeks, but had not yet got past our daily pride in it, when one hot
evening in the latter part of June who should come driving into the yard
but David Barker, "the Burns of Maine," a poet and humorist of
state-wide renown.
The old Squire had met him several times; but his visit that night was
accidental. He had come into our part of the state to visit a kinsman,
but had got off his proper route and had called at our house to ask how
far away this relative lived.
"It is nine or ten miles up there," the old Squire said when they had
shaken hands. "You are off your route. Better take out your horse and
spend the night with us. You can find your way better by daylight."
After some further conversation Mr. Barker decided to accept the old
Squire's invitation. While grandmother and Ellen got supper for our
guest, the old Squire escorted him to the hand bowl that he had put in
at the end of the bathroom hall. I imagine that the old Squire was just
a little proud of our recent accommodations.
"And, David, if you would like a bath before retiring to-night, just
step in here and make yourself at home," he said and opened several of
the doors to the little cubicles.
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