He had a load of all sorts of vegetables which he had raised in his little garden near where the Arsenal stood and was carrying into Boston to market.

One of his old wheels broke and the wagon came down, spilling the old fellow himself and his load of vegetables.

He lay there flat on his back, unable to get up, surrounded by turnips and squashes and onions and potatoes, etc.

As he lay with his black face and his white, grizzled poll, he was a most ludicrous spectacle.

One of us asked him: "Why, Mr.Lewis, what is the matter ?" "Well," he said with a mournful tone, "I laid eaout to go into Boston." I suppose there was more turbulence and what would be called rowdyism in my day than now.