A canvas-covered modern trunk, marked "G.

W.H." stood on end by the door, strapped and ready for a journey; on it lay a small morocco satchel, also marked "G.
W.H." There was another trunk close by--a worn, and scarred, and ancient hair relic, with "B.

S." wrought in brass nails on its top; on it lay a pair of saddle-bags that probably knew more about the last century than they could tell.

Washington got up and walked the floor a while in a restless sort of way, and finally was about to sit down on the hair trunk.
"Stop, don't sit down on that!" exclaimed the Colonel: "There, now that's all right--the chair's better.

I couldn't get another trunk like that -- not another like it in America, I reckon." "I am afraid not," said Washington, with a faint attempt at a smile.
"No indeed; the man is dead that made that trunk and that saddle-bags." "Are his great-grand-children still living ?" said Washington, with levity only in the words, not in the tone.
"Well, I don't know--I hadn't thought of that--but anyway they can't make trunks and saddle-bags like that, if they are--no man can," said the Colonel with honest simplicity.