There was a cuckoo clock hanging in Tom Turner's cottage. When it struck
one, Tom's wife laid the baby in the cradle, and took a saucepan off the
fire, from which came a very savory smell.
"If father doesn't come soon," she observed, "the apple dumplings will
be too much done."
"There he is!" cried the little boy; "he is coming around by the wood;
and now he's going over the bridge. O father! make haste, and have some
apple dumpling."
"Tom," said his wife, as he came near, "art tired to-day?"
"Uncommon tired," said Tom, as he threw himself on the bench, in the
shadow of the thatch.
"Has anything gone wrong?" asked his wife; "what's the matter?"
"Matter!" repeated Tom; "is anything the matter? The matter is this,
mother, that I'm a miserable, hard-worked slave;" and he clapped his
hands upon his knees and uttered in a deep voice, which frightened the
children--"a miserable slave!"
"Bless us!" said the wife, but could not make out what he meant.
"A miserable, ill-used slave," continued Tom, "and always have been."
"Always have been?" said his wife: "why, father, I thought thou used to
say, at the election time, that thou wast a free-born Briton."
"Women have no business with politics," said Tom, getting up rather
sulkily. Whether it was the force of habit, or the smell of the dinner,
that made him do it, has not been ascertained; but it is certain that he
walked into the house, ate plenty of pork and greens, and then took a
tolerable share in demolishing the apple dumpling.
When the little children were gone out to play, Tom's wife said to him,
"I hope thou and thy master haven't had words to-day."
"We've had no words," said Tom, impatiently; "but I'm sick of being at
another man's beck and call. It's, 'Tom, do this,' and 'Tom do that,'
and nothing but work, work, work, from Monday morning till Saturday
night. I was thinking as I walked over to Squire Morton's to ask for the
turnip seed for master,--I was thinking, Sally, that I am nothing but a
poor workingman after all. In short, I'm a slave; and my spirit won't
stand it."
So saying, Tom flung himself out at the cottage door, and his wife
thought he was going back to his work as usual; but she was mistaken. He
walked to the wood, and there, when he came to the border of a little
tinkling stream, he sat down and began to brood over his grievances.
"Now, I'll tell you what," said Tom to himself, "it's much pleasanter
sitting here in the shade, than broiling over celery trenches, and
thinning wall fruit, with a baking sun at one's back, and a hot wall
before one's eyes. But I'm a miserable slave. I must either work or see
my family starve; a very hard lot it is to be a workingman."
"Ahem," said a voice close to him. Tom started, and, to his great
surprise, saw a small man about the size of his own baby, sitting
composedly at his elbow. He was dressed in green,--green hat, green
coat, and green shoes. He had very bright black eyes, and they twinkled
very much as he looked at Tom and smiled.
"Servant, sir!" said Tom, edging himself a little farther off.
"Miserable slave," said the small man, "art thou so far lost to the
noble sense of freedom that thy very salutation acknowledges a mere
stranger as thy master?'
"Who are you," said Tom, "and how dare you call me a slave?"
"Tom," said the small man, with a knowing look, "don't speak roughly.
Keep your rough words for your wife, my man; she is bound to bear them."
"I'll thank you to let my affairs alone," interrupted Tom, shortly.
"Tom, I'm your friend; I think I can help you out of your difficulty.
Every minnow in this stream--they are very scarce, mind you--has a
silver tail."
"You don't say so," exclaimed Tom, opening his eyes very wide; "fishing
for minnows and being one's own master would be much pleasanter than the
sort of life I've been leading this many a day."
"Well, keep the secret as to where you get them, and much good may it do
you," said the man in green. "Farewell; I wish you joy in your freedom."
So saying, he walked away, leaving Tom on the brink of the stream, full
of joy and pride.
He went to his master and told him that he had an opportunity for
bettering himself, and should not work for him any longer.
The next day, he arose with the dawn, and went in search of minnows. But
of all the minnows in the world, never were any so nimble as those with
silver tails. They were very shy, too, and had as many turns and doubles
as a hare; what a life they led him!
They made him troll up the stream for miles; then, just as he thought
his chase was at an end and he was sure of them, they would leap quite
out of the water, and dart down the stream again like little silver
arrows. Miles and miles he went, tired, wet, and hungry. He came home
late in the evening, wearied and footsore, with only three minnows in
his pocket, each with a silver tail.
"But, at any rate," he said to himself, as he lay down in his bed,
"though they lead me a pretty life, and I have to work harder than ever,
yet I certainly am free; no man can now order me about."
This went on for a whole week; he worked very hard; but, up to Saturday
afternoon, he had caught only fourteen minnows.
After all, however, his fish were really great curiosities; and when he
had exhibited them all over the town, set them out in all lights,
praised their perfections, and taken immense pains to conceal his
impatience and ill temper, he, at length, contrived to sell them all,
and get exactly fourteen shillings for them, and no more.
"Now, I'll tell you what, Tom Turner," said he to himself, "I've found
out this afternoon, and I don't mind your knowing it,--that every one of
those customers of yours was your master. Why! you were at the beck of
every man, woman, and child that came near you;--obliged to be in a good
temper, too, which was very aggravating."
"True, Tom," said the man in green, starting up in his path. "I knew you
were a man of sense; look you, you are all workingmen; and you must all
please your customers. Your master was your customer; what he bought of
you was your work. Well, you must let the work be such as will please
the customer."
"All workingmen? How do you make that out?" said Tom, chinking the
fourteen shillings in his hand. "Is my master a workingman; and has he a
master of his own? Nonsense!"
"No nonsense at all; he works with his head, keeps his books, and
manages his great mills. He has many masters; else why was he nearly
ruined last year?"
"He was nearly ruined because he made some newfangled kinds of patterns
at his works, and people would not buy them," said Tom. "Well, in a way
of speaking, then, he works to please his masters, poor fellow! He is,
as one may say, a fellow-servant, and plagued with very awkward masters.
So I should not mind his being my master, and I think I'll go and tell
him so."
"I would, Tom," said the man in green. "Tell him you have not been able
to better yourself, and you have no objection now to dig up the
asparagus bed."
So Tom trudged home to his wife, gave her the money he had earned, got
his old master to take him back, and kept a profound secret his
adventures with the man in green.
_Jean Ingelow._
[Illustration:]
"Every minnow in the stream (they are very scarce, mind you) has a
silver tail." Here we have a group of words in parenthesis. Read the
sentence aloud several times, _omitting_ the group in parenthesis. Now
read the _whole_ sentence, keeping in mind the fact that the words in
parenthesis are not at all important,--that they are merely thrown in by
way of explanation. You notice that you have read the words in
parenthesis in a _lower tone_ and _faster time._ Groups of words like
the above are not always enclosed by marks of parenthesis; but that
makes no difference in the reading of them.
The following examples are taken from "The Martyr's Boy," page 243.
Practice on them till you believe you have mastered the method.
I never heard anything so cold and insipid (I hope it is not wrong to
say so) as the compositions read by my companions.
Only, I know not why, he seems ever to have a grudge against me.
I felt that I was strong enough--my rising anger made me so--to seize my
unjust assailant by the throat, and cast him gasping to the ground.
Memorize:
"Work! and the clouds of care will fly;
Pale want will pass away.
Work! and the leprosy of crime
And tyrants must decay.
Leave the dead ages in their urns:
The present time be ours,
To grapple bravely with our lot,
And strew our path with flowers."
* * * * *
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