Jed, the old dizzard had been for years the local butt. Of course I never saw him, but I have heard so much about him from all the gossips in the village, and grandfather used to describe him so vividly, that I feel as if I know all about him.
For about ten years of his youth Jedediah had been away from our little Vermont town, wandering in the great world. From his stories, he had been everywhere on the map. In the evening, around the stove in the village post-office, when somebody read aloud from the news-paper a remarkable event, all the loafers turned to Jed with wide, malicious grins, to hear him cap it with a yet more marvelous tale of what had happened to him. They gathered around the simple-minded little old man, their tongues in their cheeks, and drew from him one silly, impossible, boastful story after another. They made him amplify circumstantially by clumsily artful questions, and poked one another in the ribs with delight over his deluded joy in their sympathetic interest.
As he grew older, his yarns solidified like folk-lore, into a consecrated and legendary form, which he repeated endlessly without variation. There were many of them—"How I drove a team of four horses over a falling bridge," "How I interviewed the King of Portugal," "How I saved big Sam Harden's life in the forest fire." But the favorite one was, "How I rode the moose into Kennettown, Massachusetts." This was the particular flaunting, sumptuous yarn which everybody made old Jed bring out for company. If a stranger remarked, "Old man Chillingworth can tell a tale or two, can't he?" everybody started up eagerly with the cry: "Oh, but
