This is a multi-part message in MIME format. --------------6D3204A470D6A73478A9A86F Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit thought these might be of interest to the list. --------------6D3204A470D6A73478A9A86F Content-Type: message/rfc822 Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Content-Disposition: inline Received: from mail13.bellsouth.net (mail13.bellsouth.net [205.152.0.11]) by mail6.lig.bellsouth.net (3.3.5alt/0.75.2) with ESMTP id GAA12871 for <jronan@lig.bellsouth.net>; Mon, 27 Mar 2000 06:50:37 -0500 (EST) Received: from bl-14.rootsweb.com (bl-14.rootsweb.com [209.85.6.30]) by mail13.bellsouth.net (3.3.5alt/0.75.2) with ESMTP id GAA13847 for <jronan@bellsouth.net>; Mon, 27 Mar 2000 06:51:16 -0500 (EST) Received: (from slist@localhost) by bl-14.rootsweb.com (8.9.3/8.9.3) id DAA10337; Mon, 27 Mar 2000 03:50:30 -0800 (PST) Resent-Date: Mon, 27 Mar 2000 03:50:30 -0800 (PST) X-Original-Sender: TVick65536@aol.com Mon Mar 27 03:50:28 2000 From: TVick65536@aol.com Message-ID: <7d.2bc36a2.2610a4e1@aol.com> Date: Mon, 27 Mar 2000 06:49:53 EST Old-To: NHDATA-L@rootsweb.com MIME-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset="US-ASCII" Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit X-Mailer: AOL 5.0 for Windows sub 66 Subject: [NHDATA-L] Biography: Stephen Youngman French, Hillsborough Co., NH Part 2 Resent-Message-ID: <-3Nh9D.A.ThC.Fs034@bl-14.rootsweb.com> To: NHDATA-L@rootsweb.com Resent-From: NHDATA-L@rootsweb.com X-Mailing-List: <NHDATA-L@rootsweb.com> archive/latest/20 X-Loop: NHDATA-L@rootsweb.com Precedence: list Resent-Sender: NHDATA-L-request@rootsweb.com X-Mozilla-Status2: 00000000 Biography: Stephen Youngman French, Hillsborough Co., NH Part 2 Granite State Magazine An Illustrated Monthly Devoted to the History, Story, Scenery, Industry and Interest of New Hampshire Edited By George Waldo Browne Volume I. January to June, 1906 Manchester, N.H.: Granite State Publishing Company 1906 pg. 298-302 In due course of time his clothes wore into shreds, so that they had to be replaced by others. In this plight he resorted to tanned sheepskins, which constituted his sole wardrobe, and from this day he became known as " Leather French." Apparently having no ambition to keep in touch with the world, Leather French eked out his existence, which must have grown less hopeful year by year, until his brown hair became plentifully streaked with white, though he still carried himself as erect as in his younger years. His humble hut was frequently the objective place for some curious visitor, and his gaunt, uncouth figure, clad in ragged sheepskins, was a sight to attract the children, until he tired of this unsought-for notice and, immediately upon discovering any one coming toward his cabin, he would go in and close the skin door against intrusion. Nothing that could be said would call him forth. One summer morning, as he was standing just outside of his hut, admiring in his humble way, none the less sincere for its utter humility, some pleasant spot in his surroundings, he saw a small party coming into sight, and he was about to retreat when he came to the conclusion that they were berry pickers. In their midst he saw a little child, a girl he knew by the bright dress she wore. He chuckled to himself as he saw the light-hearted women turn aside from the beaten path in quest of the ripe berries, which at that time hung in great clusters from the bushes. The cause of his pleasure was shown by his low-spoken words a moment later: "Poor fools! the old bear I see down there yesterday will send 'em kitin' home," and he laughed again, a hollow, mirthless laugh. He must have sat there an hour, knitting his long, slender fingers together in a way that was common to him when he was idle, when suddenly a scream, with childish sharpness to it, rang on his ears. He was on his feet in a moment, listening with rapt attention. The cry came from far to his right, and not in the direction the berry pickers had taken. But he recognized the voice as that of his little friend who wore the bright dress. Now, with all his lack of thrift and interest in others, Leather French had a warm place in his heart for children. If he was in doubt in regard to the import of the cry, the second which quickly followed removed all hesitation in an instant. The little one was frightened at some object, and he thought of the big black bear which he had seen in that direction the day before. Without stopping longer he started in the direction of the appeal for help, tearing through the thick brambles that caught at his rude garments with a revengeful clutch, as if they were maddened by his unceremonious entrance into their exclusive domains. Regardless of this terrific opposition to his advance, his long arms threshing the air while he plunged ahead, Leather French swiftly reached the scene, where be discovered, just as he had expected, the little girl lying prone upon the ground, the big bear, looking uncommonly fierce and ugly, with a huge paw uplifted to strike the helpless little one. Aroused by the sight, without thinking or caring for his own safety, the hermit rushed forward, to clasp in his arms the descending paw of the big brute. He proved but a plaything in the power of the bear, but his interference did cause Mistress Bruin to miss her blow, though it sent her assailant in a heap upon the ground a yard away, Thoroughly angered now, she turned upon him, leaving the child, who had fainted, for this new enemy. But Leather French knew that if the bear should think him dead she would not touch him, and so well did he feign this state that, with a sniff at him, the clumsy brute turned away with apparent disgust at finding him so easily put out of opposition. The little girl was equally as motionless, and so Mistress Bruin slowly ambled away into the thicket, probably satisfied with her morning's work. As soon as he dared, Leather French arose to his feet and seizing the little one in his arms he ran back to his cabin almost as swiftly as he had come. By the time he had reached it he was overjoyed to find that the child had opened her eyes, and was looking wonderingly into his unkempt features. His laugh now had the ring of true pleasure in it, and the rescued child answered back with the sweetness of restored confidence. Presently the distracted mother, who had missed her little girl and made a vain search for her, appeared on the scene, followed by her companions. Discovering her lost one, she rushed forward to snatch her resentfully from the arms of the hermit, thinking he had been the cause of her anxiety. When the truth was learned, however, the mother praised him for his noble act in saving her loved one, and begged of him to come and make a home in her family. But nothing could swerve the hermit from his solitary ways, and he lived there alone until old age compelled him finally to accept the protection of the Exeter poorhouse, where he died March 8, 1858, having reached the allotted threescore and ten years. There are a few who still remember him, and when these shall have passed away the following lines from one of Maine's most gifted poets will keep alive his memory while many, possibly more deserving, will have been forgotten: TO LEATHER FRENCH By DAVID BARKER, Esq. You have haunted the dreams of my sleep, Leather French, You have troubled me often and long; And now to give rest to the waves of my soul, Leather French, let me sing you a song. I suppose the cold world may sneer, Leather French, For it has done so too often before, When the innermost spirit has snatched up its harp, just to sing o'er the grave of the poor. Never mind, let them laugh, let them sneer, Leather French, We will not be disturbed by them long, For we will step aside from the battle of life, While I question and sing you a song. You were poor when you lived here below, Leather French, And you suffered from hunger and cold, And it was well you escaped from the storm and the blast At the time you grew weary and old. Has that old leather garb that you wore, Leather French, That you wore in the days long ago, Been exchanged for the robe that you named in your prayer, For a robe that is whiter than snow ? And that dreary old hut where you dwelt, Leather French, That old hut on the Hurricane lands, Was it bartered by you at the portals of death For a house not erected with hands? When the toys that I love become stale, Leather French, And my life's fitful fever is past, Shall I safely cross over the Jordan of Death ? Shall I meet you in Heaven at last ? Tell me true, tell me all, tell me now, Leather French, For the tale you can tell me is worth More to me than the wisdom, the Pleasure, the fame, And the riches and honors of earth. Shall I meet no response to my call, Leather French ? Tell me quick, for I cannot wait long, For I'm summoned again to the battle of life, Leather French, I have finished my song. ==== NHDATA Mailing List ==== Visit the NH US GenWeb Archives at http://www.rootsweb.com/~usgenweb/nh/nhfiles.htm and find out what we are all about. Sincerely, David C. Young File Manager of the New Hampshire US GenWeb Archives --------------6D3204A470D6A73478A9A86F--