THE TRAINING OF THE ORPHANS
Off on de fiel' you foller de plough,
Den w'en you're tire' you scare de cow,
Sickin' de dog till dey jomp de wall,
So de milk ain't good for not'ing at all--
An you're only five an' a half dis fall,
Little Bateese!
--WILLIAM HENRY DRUMMOND.
In Elmbrook, parental discipline was simple and direct, and consisted
of but one method of procedure: when the rising generation departed
from the ways of its mothers it was promptly spanked back into the path
of rectitude, and no more about it.
But when the Sawyers found themselves possessed of a large and lively
family, all methods of discipline, whether sanctioned by long custom or
invented on the spur of the moment, through the extreme urgency of the
case, alike failed.
The orphans presented an entirely unique problem in the rearing of
children. In the first place, the community was completely taken aback
by their unexpected character. Not one of them at all conformed to the
picture of a forsaken child, as conceived by the village. The Elmbrook
ideal was the sort that languished on the front page of the
Sunday-school library books. It was quiet and pensive and hungry, and
gave all its meager earnings to a small invalid brother or drunken
father. But the Sawyer orphans were neither pensive nor appealing.
There was a defiant belligerency about them that stifled the avenues of
pity and put one on the defensive. They were wild and gay, and
uproarious, too, and with the exception of Tim, the eldest, they were
strong and robust. He certainly looked as though he had been starved,
body and soul; but his other unorphan-like qualities were so obtrusive
that he was looked upon as the biggest counterfeit of the crowd.
During school hours the three eldest were kept in some sort of
conformity to law and order by the strong hand of the Duke of
Wellington; but at home and abroad they were a law unto themselves, and
kept the whole community in a state of apprehension, like people living
near the crater of an active volcano.
Their life had been largely spent in the slum district of a crowded
city, and the change to the freedom of the Oro fields and woods was
almost too much for the orphans. After school hours they all, with one
consent, went mad, and ranged far and wide over hill and dale, until
Granny Long's old hands grew weary readjusting the telescope. Then
when she did catch sight of them it was only to be grossly insulted;
for whenever the small scalawags guessed they were within range of the
spyglass they would stand in line, and go through frightful contortions
of the face and body, expressive of contempt for the instrument and
everything behind it.
Wherever the orphans went, depredations of all sorts followed. They
chased the neighbors' cows from the fields out to the road, and the
pigs from the road into the fields. They climbed trees and stole
birds' nests. They dammed the creek and flooded Cameron's pasture.
They teased Sandy McQuarry's old ram until it was mad with rage, and
butted the ex-elder all over the barnyard. They smashed windows, and
broke down fences, and, in fact, were a caution, and no mistake.
But in spite of all, their foster-parents lived in happy
unconsciousness of their imperfections. For they were so wonderfully
clever that Jake and Hannah were lost in admiration.
Certainly they worked a reform in the slow-moving Sawyer household.
They started with the garden, and even Mrs. Winters had to admit they
made an improvement there. Jake and Hannah had long felt the
humiliation of their scratched and scarred front yard, in such ugly
contrast to its trim surroundings, but they had never been able to
better matters. Hannah had received a present, some years before, of
twelve new fowls, which, as was their pious custom, she and Jake
presented with Bible names, calling them for the twelve sons of Israel.
And now each, like its namesake, had many descendants that had
multiplied upon the face of the garden, and turned that promising land
into a desert. Every year Jake faithfully dug flower-beds, and Hannah
as faithfully planted seeds; but, just as regularly, they were
scratched up by the Twelve Tribes.
But when the orphans arrived the marauders were taught their true
place. Though it was late in the season, the twins planted a half
bushel of flower seeds, and dug and raked enough for a plantation.
Then, the first time the Twelve Tribes emigrated from the back yard
they were promptly shooed across the street and over into the doctor's
garden. Davy Munn, indignant at this unsolicited presentation, as
promptly shooed them back again, and war was declared. Tim had
hitherto looked upon the gardening enterprise with contempt, but now he
entered heartily into it, and the battle raged tumultuously. Each side
was bombarded with sticks and stones and clods of dirt and hysterical
hens, until Granny Long sent word to the doctor that if he didn't want
to be buried alive he'd better do something to the orphans, and that
right speedily. So the young man marched into the field, routed both
sides, and chased the Twelve Tribes back to their own country. For a
long time the eldest orphan felt the terrifying strength of the arm
that had lifted him from the ground and shaken him till his teeth
chattered. Thereafter he had such a profound admiration for the doctor
that his viceroy, Davy Munn, was allowed to rule his own yard in peace.
But the hens had still to be conquered, so the orphans set to work and
built around the back yard a lofty fence of wire and laths, borrowed
from the sawmill when Sandy McQuarry was away. Inside this the Twelve
Tribes were shut up in Egyptian bondage until the garden was in bloom.
Even Isaac and Rebekah were permitted to promenade in the barnyard
only, among the dogs, cats and rabbits with which that interesting
place swarmed.
Within the house, too, the children accomplished a revolution. The
girls did nearly all the work, Hannah declared, and did it so swiftly
they left her in a state of dazed admiration. Of course, they were
liable to drop an unfinished task and take a sudden excursion to field
or wood, but, on the whole, even Mrs. Winters was forced to confess
that they were a caution, and no mistake, and might be smart
housekeepers some day, if Hannah would only make them behave.
Sometimes a doubt of their absolute perfection would darken, for a
moment, their foster-mother's placid sky, but even then her blame was
tempered with praise.
"Well! well! well!" she remarked one evening, "yous youngsters is awful
smart, that's a fact; but I'm 'most scared you're too smart."
This confession was wrung from her by the black-haired twin's dexterity
in catching a plate that the fair-haired one had let fall, and at the
same instant administering a sharp slap to the delinquent's ear.
Hannah was preparing the evening meal, with spasmodic assistance from
the family. She stood over the stove, frying pancakes, while the
orphans darted about her like swallows. Tim, always the swiftest, in
spite of his lameness, was rushing about in his usual capacity of
superintendent, cramming more wood into the already red-hot stove,
tasting the pancakes to see if they were just right, and rapping Joey
over the head with the dripping batter-spoon when he attempted to
follow his example. At brief intervals he would dart into the
dining-room to settle a dispute between the belligerent twins.
The latter were setting the table with the best china teaset, a
precious relic handed down from Jake's grandmother, and used only when
there was distinguished company. No visitors were expected to-night,
but the twins loved variety, and had arrayed the table in its best as a
pleasant surprise for daddy. Joey was busiest of all. He had wailed
loudly for a task, and Hannah had given him permission to fill the
woodbox and the water-bucket. He was diligently carrying out her
instructions, with one slight variation that showed him to be a true
orphan. He filled the bucket with sticks, and then went paddling to
and from the water-barrel, leaving a wet and muddy trail behind him,
and gleefully deposited dipperfuls of water into the woodbox. He was
finally discovered by his brother, promptly cuffed, and set to reverse
the order of his going.
The arrival of Jake from the mill was the signal for a shrieking exodus
in his direction, and soon afterward they were all seated around the
table. The twins were placed opposite each other, to prevent
hair-pulling--making faces did not cause much disturbance--and Jake and
Hannah sat at either end, gazing at the array with much the same air as
that with which a pair of good-tempered, puzzled hens might regard a
swarm of agile ducklings.
After Jake had rapturously praised the fine appearance of the table,
the orphans were, with some difficulty, prevailed upon to sit still
while the blessing was being asked; and then the pancakes and the hot
biscuits and the maple syrup began to disappear in an amazing manner.
"Well, an' how's daddy's little woodpecker?" asked Jake, passing his
big hand fondly over Joey's red curls. "Been a good boy to-day?"
"Yep," answered the baby in muffled tones. He looked up at his
foster-father cunningly. "You won't t'rash me w'en I been a good boy,
will yeh?"
"Bless the baby's heart! Who'd talk o' thrashin' you?" roared the big
man. "If any fellow lifts a finger to you, you let daddy
know--an'--an'--he'll bash their heads in for them!" he added
explosively.
The elder boy glanced up at the man with an admiring flash in his old,
weary eyes. "Ole Mis' Cummins uster lambaste him when she came home at
night," he said in a hard voice. "That's what's made them marks on his
legs."
Jake Sawyer set his teeth and Hannah sighed and shook her head. Any
mention of the old drunken woman with whom the children had lived,
before the Home rescued them, the orphans well knew always stirred
their foster-parents' tender hearts.
"Tim uster throw stones at her, an' stick pins into her when she was
drunk!" cried the black-haired twin, in shrill triumph. "An' she uster
pull my hair, too, an' Lennie's, an' we stole her scissors an' cut it
off awful short. But it didn't do no good, 'cause she uster whack us
over the heads with her walkin'-stick."
"Well, there ain't nobody goin' to whack any o' yous any more," said
big Jake Sawyer grimly. "'Ceptin' it's me, when you're bad," he added
warningly.
This awful threat was received with loud laughter, and Joey hammered
the table with his spoon and shouted joyfully, knowing there must be a
grand joke somewhere.
Hannah looked across the table and nodded to her husband; it was a good
time to disclose an important secret.
"Now we want yous to be awful good kids to-night," said Jake, pushing
back his plate, and taking Joey on his knee, "because the minister's
comin' to see you."
"The minister! Why, he's been here already!" cried the black-haired
twin indignantly. "What's he comin' again for?"
"That was jist a call," said Hannah. "This is different. It's a
pastoral visitation this time," she added solemnly. The orphans looked
at each other apprehensively.
"What's that?" demanded Tim.
"It's when he comes to hear you say your verses an' your catechism,"
explained Jake soothingly; "and you'll all show him how much you know;
an' then he prays, and you must be awful good and quiet. Eh, little
woodpecker?"
The black-haired twin looked across the table at the fair-haired twin,
and each read aright the other's rebellious thought; one sharp glance
from Tim, and the matter was settled. The minister might make his
pastoral visitation, if he wanted to, but if he thought they were going
to stay home to say verses, and be quiet, he was mistaken.
The Sawyer parents were dreading signs of rebellion, and Hannah now
added enticingly: "We're goin' to pass 'round the gingerbread and the
ras'berry vinegar, and Susan Winters said yous girls could dress up in
your new plaid dresses."
The twins looked doubtful. Gingerbread and their new frocks! This
gave the pastoral visitation a festive aspect. They slipped away from
the table, and followed their elder brother out to the back yard.
"Whatter ye goin' to do, Tim?" asked the black-haired twin, divided
between dread of what the pastoral visitation might bring forth and a
natural curiosity to sound its unknown depths.
"Mammy says we can wear our Sunday dresses," said the fair-haired one
weakly.
Tim was drifting slowly, but surely, toward a hole in the back fence.
"Yous can stay, if ye wanter, but you bet I don't!" He wagged his head
ominously.
"Why, what'll he do?" The black-haired twin balanced herself
miraculously on the edge of the water-barrel and stared.
"He'll ast ye"--Tim's voice was sepulchral--"he'll ast ye if ye're
saved."
"If ye're what?" cried the twins, in alarm.
"If ye're saved. Preachers always does that. It means if ye're goin'
to the bad place."
"Well, I ain't," said the black-headed twin stoutly.
"Me neither," promptly echoed her sister.
Their brother regarded them darkly. "You can't never tell," he
answered ominously. "You'd better look out, when the minister's
'round. He ast Billy Winters if he'd got his soul saved."
"His sole?" The fair-haired twin looked down at the flapping and worn
foundation of the shoes so lately purchased, and then at the family
oracle.
"Aw, it ain't your boot-sole," he said disdainfully; "it's somethin' in
your insides; an' if ye don't get it fixed up, an' saved, the
minister'll send ye to the bad place, sure. He'll ast ye about it," he
added threateningly.
This was too much for the courage of the twins. Even the charms of the
gingerbread and their new plaid dresses could scarcely compensate for
the terrors of that occult something concerning whose mysteries the
minister would be sure to inquire.
Their brother was backing through the hole in the fence. "He'll tell
ye ye've gotter to be awful good, too," he added, more explicitly.
That settled it. This was something one could understand, and was not
to be tolerated for a moment. The twins made a dive after him, and the
three did not stop running until they began to roll down the bank of
the ravine. When they were safely hidden in the green depths Tim
delivered his ultimatum. "Yous two kids ain't goin' to tag after me,
mind ye that," and swaggered away.
The black-haired twin stood for a moment glaring after him, in dark
rebellion. She opened her mouth to scream imprecations, but thought
better of it. Tim had a long memory, and an uncomfortable way of
exacting penalties for any such indignity. She soothed her outraged
feelings somewhat by throwing a stone after the little, limping figure,
her erratic aim saving her from discovery.
"Le's go an' play lady," said the fair-haired twin comfortingly. "I
bar be Elsie Cameron."
"No, you don't!" cried her stronger-minded sister. "I'm goin' to be
Elsie. You can be old Arabella Winters, an' you can have Rebekah for
your parrot," she said derisively.
But the fair-haired twin, though of a yielding disposition, was subject
to stubborn fits. "I won't play, then," she said, sitting down heavily
upon a stone.
Her sister understood the sign, and compromised.
"Well, we'll say 'Eevery ivery,' an' see who's to be her," she
suggested.
"All right." The answer was delivered in a weary tone and with a total
lack of interest.
The black-haired one mounted a stone, and pointing her finger
alternately at herself and at her sister, went through the incantation:
"_Eevery, ivery, ickery Ann,
Fillacy, fallacy, Nicholas Dan;
Queevery, quavery,
English navy,
Come striddle, come straddle, come out!_"
The last word was uttered as she pointed at her sister, and the
fair-haired twin sprang up in triumph. "It's me!" she chanted, "it's
me! I'm to be Elsie Cameron!"
Her sister succumbed to the inevitable as good-naturedly as possible.
No one ever dreamed of calling into question the final decision of the
mystic rhyme. They flew down the bank to a green bower which had been
their playhouse ever since their arrival, and soon were amicably
engaged in a charming drama, in which Lenora was Miss Cameron, and
Lorena Dr. Allen, who, mounted upon a barrel-hoop, dashed gallantly up
to the door to take the young lady for a drive.
Meantime, Tim was still hurrying up the ravine, fired with a new
purpose. Ever since the day he had seen the strange, dark man of the
Drowned Lands defy the minister, the eldest orphan had regarded the
offender with worshiping interest. Among the other peculiarities of
the child's queer, twisted nature, was a feeling of comradeship with
the wicked and outcast. He had belonged to that class all his life,
and as public opinion grew in strength against John McIntyre, in like
proportion grew Tim's admiration.
To-night he was resolved to visit him. It was a fine opportunity, for
he could let the man see that he, too, was frightfully wicked, and
despised ministers--in fact, had left home that night because one was
coming.
As he scrambled along beneath the bridge he heard footsteps and voices
above him. He crouched down among the bracken. Billy Winters and the
other fellows might be there, and he did not want them when he went to
visit a man like John McIntyre. The voices passed, and he peeped out.
It was only Dr. Allen and that Cameron girl who sang. Tim decided not
to throw a stone, after all. The girl had come over and sung Joey to
sleep when he was sick, and the doctor was an uncomfortable sort of
person to hit with a rock.
He limped along the bank of the pond, dodging behind the willows, until
his feet sank in the soft sawdust. Then he paused behind a heap of
logs to reconnoiter.
Yes, there was the man sitting in the doorway of the engine-room, and
looking as dark and wicked as he had done that night when he had
thrilled Tim's heart by his shocking conduct. The boy drew slowly
near, half fearful of his own daring. What if the dark man should not
at first recognize him as a kindred spirit, and should leap at him with
a hand-spike? John McIntyre looked up.
"What do you want?" he asked harshly. "You'd better go home."
This was not a propitious beginning, and the visitor squirmed around in
embarrassment. His pride was rather hurt at the man's failure to
recognize him, and he could scarcely announce, just at the outset, that
he had run away from the minister and had come to him as a companion in
iniquity. Suddenly he thought of a remark that had hitherto never
failed to arouse the liveliest interest in a new acquaintance.
"I'm one o' the Sawyer orphants," he announced proudly.
The dark man looked no whit impressed. He made no reply, and Tim
gained courage to sidle up closer, and finally seated himself, in an
insinuating manner, on the extreme end of a piece of timber that lay
before the door. He turned cautiously and peered with absorbed
interest into the engine-room. The great black monster lay there,
dimly outlined in the warm darkness, giving forth a hissing sound, like
a giant breathing heavily in his sleep. The man arose and opened the
furnace door. That was like the giant's mouth, and he was eating his
supper of porridge, Tim thought, as the watchman shoveled in the
sawdust. The red glow lit up the dark man's face and arms, and the
boy's small, pinched countenance, and sent a red splash out on the
surface of the pond. The door slammed, and again only one bright line
beneath the damper showed against the darkness. The man came back, and
in silence resumed his seat. Tim was vastly interested in all
machinery, and Spectacle John, knowing the eldest orphan's peculiar
propensity toward accidents, had ordered him, on pain of sudden death,
not to show his face in the flour mill. Now, here was a chance to
examine a far bigger engine than Spectacle John's. There was another
charm besides his wickedness in this strange man. Tim became very
ingratiating.
"Who made that engine?" he asked in a friendly tone.
There was no reply. The man seemed unaware of his presence.
"Must have been somebody awful smart," added the visitor insinuatingly.
Still no answer.
"Mebby God made it," he ventured, just to see what effect this pious
remark would have on such a wicked unbeliever.
The man turned and looked at him. "You know better than that," he said
sharply.
Tim felt ashamed. John McIntyre would think him young and innocent,
like Billy Winters and Johnny McQuarry, who believed everything their
Sunday-school teacher said.
"Huh! I bet God ain't smart enough to make an engine like that," he
said profanely. He waited for the effect of this, but there was
apparently none; so he proceeded to give forth some more of the
unorthodox views that never failed to shock pretty Miss Marjorie Scott,
his Sunday-school teacher. "I don't believe half folks tell about God,
'cause I'm a--I'm a----" He hesitated, rummaging through his memory
for that terribly wicked name that Silas Long had given the new
watchman. It came to light at last. "I'm a infiddle!" he burst forth
proudly.
He waited, but even this tremendous disclosure called forth no remark.
Probably the man had consorted with infidels and such like all his
life, and thought nothing of them. Tim drew a deep breath. It gave
one a feeling of ecstatic fear to be able to utter such statements
unrebuked. He tried another.
"Miss Scott says--she's my Sunday-school teacher, only I don't go to
Sunday-school much, you bet--she says God made everybody, but I told
her if He made Spectacle John Cross He'd orter be ashamed. An' I bet
the devil made ole Mis' Cummins. She was the woman that brought us up,
an' I say, she was a corker!"
The man slowly turned his weary eyes and fixed them on the child's
face. The reflected light from the glimmering pond lit up the small,
wizened countenance, and for the first time he noted the signs it bore
of cruel suffering and ill usage.
"Another," he said, half aloud.
"What?" asked Tim, glad to have elicited even one word.
The man did not repeat it. "Where do you live?" he asked.
"Up at Jake Sawyer's. I'm one o' the Sawyer orphants, I told you."
It was impossible for even John McIntyre, living a life apart, though
he did, not to have heard something of the Sawyer orphans' fame. He
nodded.
"Are they good to you?"
Tim hesitated. He would have liked to tell a tale of woe and terrible
tortures, but his genuine regard for his foster-parents forbade. "Yes,
course," he answered shortly. "Only they tried to make me stay home
to-night 'cause the preacher was comin'. But I cut out, you bet; I
can't stand preachers."
The man made no comment. His sudden interest seemed to have as
suddenly vanished. He arose and took up his lantern.
"You must go home now," he said. "I have work to do."
He spoke in a voice that the child understood must be obeyed. Tim
arose and moved away, slowly and reluctantly.
"I'm comin' another night," he called back, in a voice half appealing,
half threatening. The man took no notice, and accepting this as
permission, the boy limped away, whistling gaily.
Meanwhile, at home, dire events were pending for the orphans. When the
minister arrived, and Jake and Hannah could produce only Joey as the
sole representative of their large family, they were covered with
humiliation. Never before, except in cases of severe illness, had it
been known throughout the whole Elmbrook congregation that the family
had failed to appear in full force at an official visit from the
minister. The visitor himself did not treat the matter lightly. He
hinted that Jake and Hannah had better keep a firm hand on their
children, if they intended to do their duty by them, and that obedience
must be exacted, at all costs. When he was gone the husband and wife
sat despondently in the empty parlor, while Joey ate the remains of the
gingerbread and drank all the raspberry vinegar, unnoticed. This was a
serious problem. The orphans had really disgraced themselves this
time, and something must be done.
"Let's go and ask Susan Winters; she'll know," suggested Hannah.
"Mebby hers might 'a' run away once when the minister called."
Jake shook his head mournfully. He was quite sure such a thing could
never have happened in the Winters' well-managed family. Nevertheless,
he shouldered Joey, and they went down the street to consult the
village oracle. The Duke of Wellington had dropped in for a chat, and
the two vigorously took up the case of the absconded orphans. Mrs.
Winters, backed up by the schoolmistress, declared that the family's
only salvation lay in a thorough, all-around thrashing; and after much
scolding, and dire prophecies of the gallows as the termini of the
orphans' careers, Jake and Hannah, like two frightened children, were
driven to make the desperate promise that as soon as the culprits
returned they would administer to each a severe castigation.
When the stern parents returned home, and sat on the front step to
consider what was before them, they were filled with dismay.
"If the little woodpecker'd been into it I wouldn't 'a' promised--no,
not even for Susan Winters," announced Jake gloomily, as he watched
Joey tumbling about the grass with Joshua, the dog. "Spankin' kids
ain't a man's work, anyhow," he added, glancing meaningly at his wife.
"Oh, Jake!" she cried tremulously, "you wouldn't think o' makin' me do
it? I--jist couldn't!"
"Well, somebody's got to," said Jake, setting his teeth, "'cordin' to
Susan an' the Dook. What does an old maid like her know about bringin'
up kids, anyhow?" he added rebelliously.
A scrambling noise, and the sound of smothered giggles, floated from
the back yard.
"That's them!" cried Jake in a terrified voice. "You go and order them
to come 'round here, Hannah," he added, with the air of one who is
putting off the day of execution, "an' I'll get the gad."
Hannah arose and slowly passed out to the back door. The three truants
were trying to make themselves invisible behind the pump.
"Come on 'round to the front, children!" called their foster-mother, in
a voice that trembled. "You've been awful bad children, so you have!"
With this bold statement Hannah's courage vanished. She turned and
fled indoors to find refuge with Jake. But, alas for the poor wife!
In the most trying ordeal of her life her husband had basely deserted
her. Neither Jake nor Joey was to be seen. The instrument of
execution, a small, twig-like branch from the lilac bush, was lying
upon the doorstep. Mrs. Sawyer took it up with a Spartan air. If Jake
could so meanly fly from his duty then she must so much the more face
hers.
"Yous youngsters has been awful bad," she reiterated, returning to the
back door, and shaking the innocent-looking branch menacingly, "an'
you've jist got to be--to be--whipped," she ended up faintly.
The orphans stared at her for a moment in open-mouthed amazement; then,
with shrieks of hysterical laughter, the twins bounded off the veranda
and scrambled up to the safe sanctuary of the woodpile.
Tim alone stood his ground. He surveyed the meager weapon in the
woman's hand, contempt in his wise old eyes. "Ye kin lick me, if ye
like, for the hull o' them," he said, with weary indifference. "I
don't care. I'm used to it."
At this pathetic confession, Mrs. Sawyer threw down the disciplining
rod and sank upon the doorstep. She buried her face in her apron and
burst into sobs. At the sight of her grief, so inexplicable, so
terrifying, the twins pitched themselves off the woodpile and flung
themselves upon her. They wound their arms chokingly about her neck;
they petted and caressed, and besought her not to cry; they bewailed
their own shortcomings, and made unconditional promises of perfection
in the future. And even Tim sidled up, and volunteered a vague hint
concerning contemplated reformation.
So Hannah dried her tears, and lighting a lamp, fetched more
gingerbread and raspberry vinegar from the cellar, and they all
repaired to the parlor to celebrate the family reunion. They were in
the midst of the feast when there came a stealthy movement at the back
door, and Jake crept sheepishly in, leading Joey by the hand. He
looked at his wife with an expression of mingled contrition and
frightened inquiry. Hannah beamed back perfect forgiveness and
assurance, and in his overwhelming relief Jake caught up the twins and
swung them over his head. The whole family immediately gave itself up
to riot, and when the Duke of Wellington and Mrs. Winters came over to
see if the orphans had been properly subdued they found the
undisciplined household, Hannah included, engaged in a glorious game of
blind man's buff. Even while the two officers of the law were peeping
through the kitchen window, Jake upset the water-pail, and the twins
broke a glass pitcher, all unheeded.
Mrs. Winters and the Duke turned, and marched indignantly homeward.
"Well!" exclaimed the exasperated village manager, as she stumbled
through the Sawyers' lumpy garden, "what we've got to do 'fore we can
raise them orphants, is to raise them two old fools they've got for a
father and mother, and I guess it's about fifty years too late!"
Not till the still unchastened orphans were in bed and asleep did Jake
again broach the subject of corporal punishment. For some time he
walked up and down the kitchen, scratching his head, as he always did
when worrying out a mental problem.
At length he gave a sigh of satisfaction, and paused before the table
where Hannah sat mending Tim's riven trousers.
"We ain't a-goin' to try that Winters dodge no more, Hannah," he
announced firmly, "an' that's all about it."
Hannah looked up joyfully. "Oh, Jake, I'm awful glad! I couldn't do
it--I jist couldn't!"
"Of course you couldn't," he cried sympathetically, "An', what's more,
you don't have to try any more. We'll do our best by them kids other
ways, an' the good Lord'll see they don't turn out bad. But there's
one thing dead sure, an' you can tell Susan Winters, and the Dook,
too--I ain't a-goin' to raise my hand to no motherless child; no, not
if they burn down the mill; and may the Lord help me so to do!"