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see a Chinese policeman； with a sandal…wood club and a rice…paper pocket
handkerchief； patrolling Congress Street。
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Holmes was a handsome man； six feet or more in height； and as
straight as a pine。 He possessed his race's sweet temper； simplicity； and
vanity。 His martial bearing was a positive factor in the effectiveness of the
Portsmouth Greys； whenever those bloodless warriors paraded。 As he
brought up the rear of the last platoon； with his infantry cap stuck jauntily
on the left side of his head and a bright silver cup slung on a belt at his hip；
he seemed to youthful eyes one of the most imposing things in the display。
To himself he was pretty much 〃all the company。〃 He used to say； with a
drollness which did not strike me until years afterwards； 〃Boys； I and
Cap'n Towle is goin' to trot out 'the Greys' to…morroh。〃 Though strictly
honest in all business dealings； his tropical imagination； whenever he
strayed into the fenceless fields of autobiography； left much to be desired
in the way of accuracy。 Compared with Sol Holmes on such occasions；
Ananias was a person of morbid integrity。 Sol Holmes's tragic end was in
singular contrast with his sunny temperament。 One night； long ago； he
threw himself from the deck of a Sound steamer； somewhere between
Stonington and New York。 What led or drove him to the act never
transpired。
There are few men who were boys in Portsmouth at the period of
which I write but will remember Wibird Penhallow and his sky…blue
wheelbarrow。 I find it difficult to describe him other than vaguely； possibly
because Wilbird had no expression whatever in his countenance。 With his
vacant white face lifted to the clouds； seemingly oblivious of everything；
yet going with a sort of heaven…given instinct straight to his destination； he
trundled that rattling wheelbarrow for many a year over Portsmouth
cobblestones。 He was so unconscious of his environment that sometimes a
small boy would pop into the empty wheelbarrow and secure a ride
without Wibird arriving at any very clear knowledge of the fact。 His
employment in life was to deliver groceries and other merchandise to
purchasers。 This he did in a dreamy； impersonal kind of way。 It was as if a
spirit had somehow go hold of an earthly wheelbarrow and was trundling
it quite unconsciously； with no sense of responsibility。 One day he
appeared at a kitchen door with a two…gallon molasses jug； the top of
which was wanting。 It was not longer a jug； but a tureen。 When the
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recipient of the damaged article remonstrated with 〃Goodness gracious；
Wibird！ You have broken the jug；〃 his features lighted up； and he seemed
immensely relieved。 〃I thought； 〃 He remarked； 〃I heerd somethink
crack！〃
Wibird Penhallow's heaviest patron was the keeper of a variety store；
and the first specimen of a pessimist I ever encountered。 He was an
excellent specimen。 He took exception to everything。 He objected to the
telegraph； to the railway； to steam in all its applications。 Some of his
arguments； I recollect； made a deep impression on my mind。 〃Nowadays；〃
he once observed to me； 〃if your son or your grandfather drops dead at the
other end of creation； you know of it in ten minutes。 What's the use？
Unless you are anxious to know he's dead； you've got just two or three
weeks more to be miserable in。〃 He scorned the whole business； and was
faithful to his scorn。 When he received a telegram； which was rare； he
made a point of keeping it awhile unopened。 Through the exercise of this
whim he once missed an opportunity of buying certain goods to great
advantage。 〃There！〃 he exclaimed； 〃if the telegraph hadn't been invented
the idiot would have written to me； and I'd have sent a letter by return
coach； and got the goods before he found out prices had gone up in
Chicago。 If that boy brings me another of those tapeworm telegraphs； I'll
throw an axe…handle at him。〃 His pessimism extended up； or down； to
generally recognized canons of orthography。 They were all iniquitous。 If
k…n…i…f…e spelled knife； then； he contended； k…n…i…f…e…s was the plural。
Diverting tags； written by his own hand in conformity with this theory；
were always attached to articles in his shop window。 He is long since ded；
as he himself would have put it； but his phonetic theory appears to have
survived him in crankish brains here and there。 As my discouraging old
friend was not exactly a public character； like the town crier or Wibird
Penhallow； I have intentionally thrown a veil over his identity。 I have； so
to speak； dropped into his pouch a grain or two of that magical fern…seed
which was supposed by our English ancestors； in Elizabeth's reign； to
possess the quality of rendering a man invisible。
Another person who singularly interested me at this epoch was a
person with whom I had never exchanged a word； whose voice I had never
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heard； but whose face was as familiar to me as every day could make it。
For each morning as I went to school； and each afternoon as I returned； I
saw this face peering out of a window in the second story of a shambling
yellow house situated in Washington Street； not far from the corner of
State。 Whether some malign disease had fixed him to the chair he sat on；
or whether he had lost the use of his legs； or； possible； had none （the upper
part of him was that of a man in admirable health）； presented a problem
which； with that curious insouciance of youth I made no attempt to solve。
It was an established fact； however； that he never went out of that house。 I
cannot vouch so confidently for the cobwebby legend which wove itself
about him。 It was to this e