But despite the narrow, neglected,
shady street, the slope of Shackamaxon went gently shelving to the edges
of long sunny wharves, nearly as in the day when Penn selected this
greensward to meet his Indian friends, and barter tools and promises for
forest levels and long rich valleys, now open to the sky and murmurous
with wheat and green potato vines.
Sitting before the inn door, on drowsy June afternoons, Duff Salter
heard the adzes ring and hammers smite the thousand bolt-heads on lofty
vessels, raised on mast-like scaffolds as if they meant to be launched
into the air and go cleared for yonder faintly tinted spectral moon,
which lingered so long by day, like the symbol of the Indian race,
departed but lambent in thoughtful memories. Duff had grown
superstitious; he came out of the inn door sidewise, that he might
always see that moon over his right shoulder for good luck.
One morning Andrew Zane appeared at the Treaty House before Duff Salter
had taken his julep, after the fashion of malarious Arkansas.
"Mr. Salter, it is all over. There is a baby at our house."
"Girl?"
"Just that!"
"I thought so," exclaimed Duff Salter. "It was truly mother's labor, and
ought to have been like Agnes. We will give her a toast."
"In nothing but water," spoke Andrew soberly.
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