its master fastened it to the snath. Shouldering it, and thrusting a
"rifle" into his belt, the jolly mower went whistling to the meadow, to
join his companions and Mr. Royden, who had gone before.
In the midst of his rejoicing, Sam was dismayed to see Chester make his
appearance, with another scythe. It was to be ground, and Sam was just
the fellow to help do that work, with his lame ankle.
"Let _me_ hold the scythe and _you_ turn," whined the lad.
"Turn away!" exclaimed Chester, authoritatively.
Sam turned very slowly, groaning with each revolution of the crank.
"You lazy scamp! I'll cut a sprout, and lay it on your back, if you
don't work smarter!"
"Can't!" muttered Sam. "'Most dead. Han't done nothing but turn
grindstone since sunrise. Didn't eat no breakfast, nuther."
The grinding apparatus stood under an apple-tree, behind the house. The
spot was retired, offering conveniences for the adjustment of private
differences; and Chester, who did not return to farm labor, after being
so long at school, in very good humor, quietly clipped a thin green
sapling from the roots of the tree.
"I haven't settled with you for the caper you cut up with Frank, the
other night," he said, between his teeth. "Now go to work, and hold your
tongue, or I'll make you wish the horse had run with you to the end of
the world, and jumped off!"
"Better not hit me with that!" muttered Sam, growing desperate.
"Will you turn the grindstone?"
There was something dangerous in the flash of Chester's eye, and Sam was
afraid to disobey. A minute later, he was glad to see Mr. Royden coming
through the orchard, with his hat in his hand, and his sweaty brow
exposed to the summer breeze.
"I am afraid you don't know how to grind a tool," said he, smiling
indulgently, as he examined the edge of the scythe.
"I will go and mow in your place, if you will finish it," replied
Chester.
"Very well; carry some drink to the men. I will get it for you."
Mr. Royden went to the well, drew up a dripping bucket of clear, cold
water, drank from the mossy rim on the curb, and afterwards filled a
stone jug.
Carrying this, Chester went to the field with gloves on, and his cravat
looped loosely about his neck.
Hepsy's tender eyes beheld the young man as he went through the orchard.
How handsome he looked, in his tow trousers, straw hat and snowy
shirt-sleeves! To her mind, nothing became him so well as his farmer's
rig; and as he disappeared over the hill, she clasped her hands with
intense emotion, and wept.
"I'm tired just about to death!" said Sam, pretending that he could with
difficulty get the crank around. "Them men bore on all they could, only
to make it hard for me. But Ches was worse than either on 'em."
"Pshaw! turn away!"
"And then Ches was going to lick me."
"No, he was not. Chester would not hurt you," said Mr. Royden. "Come,
come! turn faster."
"I can't!" groaned Sam. "But he _was_ going to; that's what he cut this
switch for."
"Well, I shall have to use it in his place, if you don't stop talking,
and work better," replied Mr. Royden, with good-natured impatience.
"He said 'twas 'cause I got flung from the horse," muttered Sam. "You
won't let him lick me for that, will you?"
"No; not if you behave yourself," answered Mr. Royden. "What makes you
so lazy? I shall not get this scythe ground to-day."
It seemed such hard work for the boy to turn the grindstone, that the
kind-hearted farmer, taking pity on him, brought the tool to an edge as
soon as possible, and let him go.
"Now, you must be a good boy, and help the women," said he, driving the
wedge which married the scythe to the snath.
"Help the women!" repeated Sam, with an expression of disgust. "I'd
rather go and spread hay."
"But your foot is lame."
"Well, I can't pound clothes half so well as I can spread hay. I have to
walk around the barrel----"
"No more of your nonsense!" said Mr. Royden. "Hepsy!" he cried, seeing
his niece in the doorway of the shed, "you can have Samuel to help you
now."
There was no escape for the unhappy youth. He saw Mr. Royden depart
towards the meadow with dismay. He was left in the hands of one who knew
no mercy. Mrs. Royden was driving business with furious energy. She had
commands for all, and kind words for no one. It was interesting to see
her seize upon Sam. His complaints of being "tired to death" were like
chaff sown upon the wind. The tempest of her temper scattered them;
inexorable fate controlled the hour; and Sam hopped from the grindstone
to the "pounding-barrel" with despair and discontent in his soul.
He worked pretty well, however, until Mrs. Royden was called to see to
the children, who were about starting for school. The moment she was out
of sight, he began to swing lazily upon the "pounder," and make fun of
Sarah, at work over the wash-tub close by.
"You'll get your pay for this," said the young lady, rubbing away,
industriously. "Mother will be back in a minute."
"S'posin' Mr. Kerchey should pop in, jest now!" retorted Sam, grinning.
"I'd like to have him ketch you over the wash-tub!"
"I would not care if he did; I am not ashamed of it," replied Sarah.
"I'd rather do anything than wash clothes; but when I am about it, I'm
not lazy."
She looked beautiful, with her rosy cheeks, brown hair, and fair, full
brow, shaded by the plain hood thrown loosely upon her head; her white
arms bare, and her hands all covered with the thick, snowy foam of the
suds. Sam made some saucy rejoinder, and, laughing, she stepped up to
him quickly, with a garment dripping and soapy from the tub. Before he
was aware of her design, she had covered his face with it, rubbing
vigorously up and down and to and fro, with pleasant malice.
Sam struggled, gasped, and screamed; he tumbled down, and, clawing the
disagreeable application from his face, spit like a cat; while Sarah
stood over him laughing, and threatening him with another similar
experiment.
"There!" exclaimed Sam, waxing angry, "I won't work now, to pay for it!
And, if you do that again, I'll----"
Splash went the garment into his face once more, across his eyes, and
over his open mouth! It was just as he was getting up from the floor. At
that moment Mrs. Royden reappeared in the shed. She could not have
chosen a worse time. To see "such actions going on," when there was so
much work to be done, was "enough to try the temper of a saint." Her
hands must have ached, from boxing Sam's ears; her heart must have
ached, with such a storm of passion bursting it.
It seemed with a mighty effort of self-control that she refrained from
striking Sarah; but the latter, making no reply to the deep tones of her
displeasure, quietly resumed her work, and, burning, palpitating with
anger, she returned to finish preparing the children for school.
Ten minutes later, serene from his morning meditations, Father
Brighthopes came out of the parlor. His face was full of tranquil joy;
but a noise of dire confusion assailed his ear, and he paused upon the
threshold.
Lizzie, neatly dressed for school, but smarting and burning under the
pain of boxed ears, was marching sulkily out of the sitting-room, with a
satchel of books; Willie, rubbing both fists into his red eyes, was
crying grievously; and Georgie was walking very straight, with a book
under his arm, and his looks downcast, fearful and watchful, as if
momently expecting the afflictive dispensation of his mother's hand.
As soon as the children were well off, the old clergyman came forward.
Mrs. Royden was tossing the baby in her arms, and endeavoring to still
its cries. The storm was yet raging; she seemed angry with the innocent
infant even; when, looking up, she saw Father Brighthopes, with
countenance saddened and pale, stand before her.
"Will you let me take the babe? I think I may soothe it," he said, in a
very soft and earnest tone.
It was like casting oil upon raging waves. Mrs. Royden made an effort,
and appeared more calm. But only the surface of the angry sea was
smoothed; still the depths of her soul were broken up and troubled.
"No," said she; "I will not inflict the trial upon you. What _can_ I do,
to quiet it?" she added, impatiently.
"Perhaps my nerves are calmer than yours," replied the old man, still
extending his hands. "A great deal depends upon that. Babes are very
susceptible to mesmeric influences."
The idea astonished Mrs. Royden. She doubted if there was any truth in
it; but, abandoning the babe to his arms, she saw the thing demonstrated
at once. The child seemed to feel itself in a new atmosphere, and what
the mother failed to do, in her nervous state, a stranger accomplished
by the exercise of a tranquil will.
"I am infinitely obliged to you," said she, as he laid the babe in the
cradle, now perfectly still and quiet. "A great deal must depend upon
the nerves, and I acknowledge mine were in a bad condition."
"I cannot tell how much I grieve to see you so," replied Father
Brighthopes, so kindly that she could not take offence.
"It was wrong; it was very wrong," she murmured. "But I could not help
it. Everything goes wrong to-day."
"Is not such always the case, when you have too much work on hand?"
"Yes, I do believe it. Why is it? I'd like to know. The children are
obstinate and fretful when I have most to do. I cannot understand it."
"My dear sister," said the old man, taking her hand, and speaking in a
voice full of tender and earnest emotion, "do pardon me for my freedom,
when I tell you I think everything depends upon yourself."
"Upon _me_?"
"Your example, dear sister, is all-powerful. You have no conception of
the immense influence you exert over those young and impressive minds.
Oh, do not be offended, if I am plain with you!"
Mrs. Royden told him to go on; she needed his counsel; she would not be
offended.
"Every mother," said he, "makes the moral atmosphere of her household.
She is the sky overhead; they are lambs in the pasture. How they shiver
and shrink beneath the shelter of the fences, and look sullenly at the
ground, when the sky is black with storms, and the wind blows cold and
raw and damp from the dismal northeast! But look when the drizzling rain
is over, when the clouds break away, when the wind shifts around into
the southwest, when the bright sun pours floods of soft, warm light upon
the earth; how the grasses then lift up their beaded stalks, and shake
their heads, heavy with tears; how the streams laugh and babble; how the
little lambs skip about, and crop the moist herbage, and rejoice that
the sky is blue again, the breezes balmy and mild!"
"But storms will come, sometimes," said Mrs. Royden.
"You cannot control the weather out of doors, but you may make just the
kind of weather you choose in your household. Only keep the sky of your
own heart cloudless and blue. And you can do it. Every one can.
Parents, of all persons, should do this. They owe it to their children;
they owe it to the good Lord, who has given them those children, to
train aright the vines of their wayward affections, in their tender
youth. Sister, you do not realize your responsibility. What are the
petty trials of to-day, compared with _their_ immortal destiny?"
The old man went on in the same kind but plain and impressive manner. At
first Mrs. Royden had been impatient to return to her work; but the
words of wisdom, each a golden link, formed a chain to hold her gently
back. Her hands fell upon her lap, her eyes sought the floor, and it was
not long before her cheeks were wet with downward-coursing tears.
And still the old man talked. Such sweet, simple, earnest and touching
eloquence, her soul had never tasted. He did not forget to plead for
Hepsy,--the lonely, unhappy and oft down-trodden girl, for whom her pity
was seldom moved; and now she wept to think how thoughtless and cruel
she had sometimes been.
Mrs. Royden was altogether softened,--was quite melted. Then the old man
added words of hope and comfort; he drew a picture of her sensitive,
irritable, but loving and noble-hearted husband, made happy by her
cheerfulness, aided and encouraged by her to conquer his impetuous and
petulant temper; he described the children growing up under mild
influences, with such sunny dispositions and gentle natures as reap the
golden grain of content, and love, and tranquil joy, in the rich, wide
fields of life.
He ceased at the right moment. Pressing her hand affectionately, he took
his hat and went forth. She returned to her work. The angels must have
smiled, for what a change was there! No more fretting, no more scolding,
no more angry looks and impatient words, no more impetuous rushing into
the stern arms of labor; but gentleness of manner, a low-toned word now
and then, thoughtfulness, and some few silent tears, astonished Hepsy
and Sarah, and led the guilty Sam to think that this strange calmness
boded ruinous storms, to burst with sudden eruptions of thunder and
quick cross-lightnings upon his devoted head.
XX.
THE HAY-FIELD.
Father Brighthopes felt much refreshed in the open air. His heart
expanded, his soul went up on wings of light towards God.
"I have done my duty, thanks to the Giver of strength!" he murmured,
with deep inward peace. "Oh, Lord, bless unto her the seed of truth thy
servant has scattered upon the thorny ground of her heart!"
Birds sang around him; fearless squirrels chattered at him, from fences
and limbs of trees, with fan-like, handsome tails curved proudly over
their backs; and the beautiful sunshine kissed his aged cheek.
In the distance he heard the cheerful sound of the mowers whetting their
scythes, in the sweet air of June. His heart leaped with joy, as he
followed along the grassy orchard path. In a little while he came in
sight of the hay-field. A pleasing picture met his eye, and he stopped
to look upon it.
A sturdy laborer stood manfully erect, his scythe at his feet, with the
blade buried in a fresh swath, and the water-jug elevated at right
angles from his perpendicular, with its nose just beneath his own.
Chester, rosy, perspiring, his straw hat set carelessly upon one side of
his head, stood leaning on his scythe. His father was whetting the
obstinate tool which he had been deterred from grinding properly by the
ill-timed laziness of Sam. The second hired laborer was seated upon a
heap of grass, under the fence, fanning his brown face with his broad
hat-brim; and, still nearer the orchard, James was scattering the swaths
with a pitchfork, in the midst of the wide space which the mowers had
already gone over.
It was a handsome meadow; the ground high and rolling, the grass waving
in the distance, a cornfield on the right, a hilly pasture on the left,
and a green grove still further to the south. The old clergyman stood in
the midst of the orchard trees, admiring the picture, until Mr. Royden,
uttering some pleasant jest, swung his scythe into the tall grass,
followed by the two hired men and Chester in regular succession, at each
other's heels.
Father Brighthopes found a fork by the orchard fence, and went to help
James spread hay. Having gone once across the field with one of
Chester's light swaths, he took off his coat, and hung it upon the fence
by the pasture; having gone back again, he removed his vest; and one
more turn brought off his neckcloth.
"You go to work like an old farmer," cried Mr. Royden, coming out with
his swath, and shouldering his scythe.
"Yes," said Father Brighthopes, cheerily; "I ought to, at least, for I
was bred a farmer's boy, and now I _am old_, sure enough."
"Well, I would advise you to take it easy."
"I mean to; risk me for that!"
"But there is danger of your hurting yourself before you think of it,"
said the careful farmer.
The clergyman thanked him for the kind warning, and stopped to pick some
berries in the corner of the fence. Mr. Royden waited for the other
mowers to get out.
"Chester," said he, "you don't point out well. Carry your scythe a
little lower as you bring it around. There! You will make a famous
mower, with practice," he added, encouragingly. "Don't try to cut too
wide a swath."
At that moment James was heard to utter a loud shout, and, looking up,
Mr. Royden saw him running at full speed towards the pasture fence.
"What is the matter?"
"That confounded mischievous colt!" cried James.
"I declare!" exclaimed Mr. Royden, suddenly, "that cunning brute has got
hold of your coat, Father Brighthopes!"
"Ha!" said the clergyman. "My coat? That will never do, at all. Where is
the little rascal?"
"Don't chase him, James!" cried Mr. Royden. "You will only make the
matter worse."
But James did not hear. The colt, with the clergyman's coat between his
teeth, was capering over the hill. James ran after him, throwing
pebble-stones and shouting, while the hired laborers leaned their great
strong arms upon the fence, and laughed broadly at the fun.
"What a playful animal!" exclaimed Father Brighthopes, laughing as
heartily as any. "He thinks he is doing a wonderfully pretty trick."
Suddenly the colt stopped, dropped the garment, and, looking round at
James, whom he had distanced by some twenty rods, darted from the top of
the hill. This was not all. While the youth ran panting up the
acclivity, he returned to the coat, and began to tear it with his teeth
and fore-feet; but James put an end to that fun, by sending a well-aimed
stone to the very center of his neck, upon which the mischievous animal
snatched up the garment again, and went galloping off with it to the
further extremity of the field.
Mr. Royden, Chester and one of the hired men, had to go to the
assistance of James, and drive the colt into a corner, before the booty
could be recovered. When it was finally seized by Chester from under his
very feet, it was not worth much. It had been shamefully trampled and
torn.
But Father Brighthopes laughed pleasantly, as they brought it back to
him.
"The shrewd dog!" said he; "as long as I kept at work, he was too
conscientious to touch my coat; but the moment I stopped to pick
berries, he thought he would teach me a lesson."
"I am sorry,--sorry!" exclaimed the mortified farmer.
"Oh, it is not a great loss! It will not ruin me. I think I shall
recover from the damage. Bad work he made with it, didn't he?" laughed
the old man, holding up the wreck of cloth. "It is fortunate I did not
wear my best coat out here. It isn't so bad as if I had not another to
my back. You have no more colts over in the cornfield, to take as good
care of my vest, I trust?"
As the men looked in the direction of the vest, they saw Mark Wheeler,
the jockey, coming towards them, across the lot. He was walking very
fast, and passion contracted his features.
"Mr. Royden," said he, with forced calmness, "are you pretty busy just
now?"
"You see I am holding my own with these hearty young men," replied the
farmer.
"I'll work for you enough to make up for lost time," said Mark, "if you
will go over and look at my new horse."
"What is the matter with him?"
"He has hurt his eye."
"Hurt his eye? How?" asked Mr. Royden.
"You will see; I can't stop to explain now," answered Mark, showing more
and more agitation. "If you can, I wish you would go right over now."
"Oh, well, I will," said Mr. Royden. "Let me carry my scythe to the
other end of the swath. Come, Father Brighthopes, would you like to take
a short walk?"
The old man, thinking he had exercised about enough for one forenoon,
willingly left the meadow in company with Mr. Royden, Chester and Mark
the jockey; having first, to the great amusement of the spectators, put
on the farmer's loose coat, to avoid getting cold in his aged bones.
XXI.
THE SWAMP-LOT.
"What is the matter with your colt's eye?" asked Chester, as they walked
amid the young corn.
"I am afraid it is spoilt," replied Mark, between his teeth.
"Spoilt! Not your new horse,--the splendid sorrel colt you got of Mr.
Skenitt?"
"Yes; the splendid sorrel colt; if 'twas either of the others, I
wouldn't care so much."
"How _did_ it happen?" cried Mr. Royden, deeply pained.
"By----"
The oath came out before Mark thought of it.
"I beg your pardon, sir," he added, with emotion, turning to the old
clergyman. "I'm so in the habit of swearing, that I swear without
knowing what I am about."
"My friend," replied Father Brighthopes, laying his hand kindly upon his
shoulder, "I forgive you, from the bottom of my heart. But it is not of
_me_ you should ask pardon. I know the slavery of habit. It is only by
resolutely breaking its chains that we can be free."
"An oath must shock you," muttered Mark, penitently.
"True, my friend. I look upon profanity as awful, in view of the stern
commandment, 'THOU SHALT NOT TAKE THE NAME OF THE LORD THY GOD IN VAIN.'
But, if you take an oath, it matters little whether I hear it. Not
against me, but against God and your own soul, is the sin."
"I never thought about the sin being so very great."
"At least," said the old man, kindly, "swearing is not wise. You
purchase no pleasure, I am sure, by an idle oath."
"Well, but it is not so easy to break off the habit," replied Mark.
"I have heard a story of a converted sailor," said Chester,--to whom the
subject seemed an unpleasant one, without spice,--"who, from his youth
upwards, had made profane expletives a large proportion of his
conversation, so that, when he came to pray, the favorite oaths would,
in spite of himself, besprinkle the piety of his prayer. Yet he prayed
with a soul convulsed with anguish for his sins, and, with profanity on
his lips, pleaded that he might be pardoned the folly of swearing."
"And he was pardoned! believe it, that prayer was accepted and
answered!" exclaimed the old man, with enthusiasm. "It is the heart God
reads,--the heart, the heart!"
"I was going to tell you about the colt," said Mark, after a pause. "I
went into the yard, and found him picking some spears of grass out of
the corner of the fence. He didn't see me, and, without thinking, I
spoke to him quick; he flung up his head," continued Mark, with
emotion, "and the point of a rail struck him right in the eye."
"Did it put it out?"
"I am afraid so. I wouldn't have had it happen--" another oath--"for one
hundred dollars!"
Beyond the cornfield was a swampy lot, overgrown with coarse, wild
grass, and partially drained by a black, sluggish stream. Mark led the
way, treading upon stones, sticks and slabs, in springy spots, or
walking upon logs, that lay rotting upon the ground. Mr. Royden
followed, and Chester, with Father Brighthopes, came after.
"I hope you will not wet your feet," said the young man, helping the
clergyman over a bad place. "Step on this dead limb; it is solid."
"That is well passed," cried the other, cheerily. "What a fine thing it
would be, if, in the difficult path of life, we could get over all bad
habits as easily!"
"There is one habit," rejoined Chester, in a low tone, "which I trust I
have overcome,--thanks to your timely counsel."
"Ah? It is gratifying to me to hear you say so."
"And I feel that I owe you an apology."
"Me? How so?" asked the old man.
"The truth is," replied Chester, coloring very red, and speaking as if
it was a great effort and a relief to be candid, "I haven't been easy in
my conscience since the unlucky--or rather lucky--day I met you outside
the stage-coach."
"Oh, never speak of it. It is all forgotten," exclaimed Father
Brighthopes.
"Not with me, Father. I have been heartily ashamed of my conduct. It was
kind in you to rebuke me for swearing, and I should have taken it so.
What you said appealed to my reason and to my feelings. But I was too
proud to acknowledge the justice of your reproof; and, as I did not know
you, I thought to carry out my assumed recklessness by a dash of
insolence."
"I forgave it at the moment, my son. I understood it all."
"I hope you will not think I have been in the habit of using profane
language," said Chester. "It is my misfortune to be easily influenced by
the kind of society I am in. You remember, I was conversing with a wild
fellow, who was by no means sparing of oaths. I have lived in the
atmosphere of too many such; and, somehow, I have learned to imitate
their habits unconsciously."
"Our only armor against such influences is _firm principle_," answered
the old man, encouragingly. "No warm-blooded young person, entering the
world, is safe without this."
"It must be so, Father. But why is it that the sight of vice does not
always strike us with the same disgust or horror as the mere
contemplation of it?"
"We can accustom our palate to any description of vile drugs, by
persisting in their use, I suppose."