Among the inhabitants of the village was an eccentric, ne'er-do-well
fellow, named Keezar, who led a wandering, unsettled life, oscillating,
like a crazy pendulum, between Haverhill and Amesbury. He had a
smattering of a variety of trades, was a famous wrestler, and for a mug
of ale would leap over an ox-cart with the unspilled beverage in his
hand. On one occasion, when at supper, his wife complained that she had
no tin dishes; and, as there were none to be obtained nearer than Boston,
he started on foot in the evening, travelled through the woods to the
city, and returned with his ware by sunrise the next morning, passing
over a distance of between sixty and seventy miles. The tradition of his
strange habits, feats of strength, and wicked practical jokes is still
common in his native town. On the morning of the 29th of the eighth
month he was engaged in taking home his horse, which, according to his
custom, he had turned into his neighbor's rich clover field the evening
previous. By the gray light of dawn he saw a long file of men marching
silently towards the town.
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