Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
[Illustration: _[Frontispiece._
"WILL YOU GIVE ME A DAY'S WORK, SIR?"]
FAN'S SILKEN STRING
BY
ANNETTE LYSTER
—————————————
PUBLISHED UNDER THE DIRECTION OF THE COMMITTEE
OF GENERAL LITERATURE AND EDUCATION APPOINTED BY THE
SOCIETY FOR PROMOTING CHRISTIAN KNOWLEDGE.
—————————————
LONDON:
SOCIETY FOR PROMOTING CHRISTIAN KNOWLEDGE
NORTHUMBERLAND AVENUE. W.C.;
43, QUEEN VICTORIA STREET. E.C.
BRIGHTON: 129, NORTH STREET.
[Illustration]
CONTENTS.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER
I. BEN FAIRFAX'S WALKING TOUR
II. HOW BEN CARRIED OFF HIS SISTER
III. WANDERINGS
IV. PEARL
V. HOW BEN'S SIN FOUND HIM OUT
VI. "ARE YOU THERE, BEN?"
VII. HOW FAN SPUN A SECOND SILKEN THREAD
[Illustration]
FAN'S SILKEN STRING
[Illustration]
CHAPTER I.
BEN FAIRFAX'S WALKING TOUR.
MANY years ago, on one of the loveliest of summer days—a day which
seemed made on purpose to enable farmers to save their hay—there was a
great haymaking going on in a large field belonging to a farm in one
of the midland counties of England. It was so long ago that haymaking
machines, if indeed they existed at all, were not common; and so that
prettiest of country sights, a haymaking in the old style, was still to
be seen.
A long irregular line of men and maidens, each armed with a fork or
rake, passed slowly across the sunny field, gathering the hay into
ridges, which looked not unlike the waves of the sea after a high wind,
when they come in on the shore in long undulating swells, one after
another. Then, the other side of the field being reached, the line
turned and passed back again, this time leaving the ridges broken up
into little haycocks. Ah, how pretty it was! The lumbering, rattling,
awkward machine will never look half so pretty; and as I am not a
farmer, bound to remember the reasons for preferring the machine
(reasons which I know are many and good), I may perhaps be allowed to
breathe a sigh for the beautiful past; for the fair sights and sweet
scents, the human interest, which made the beauty of many a haymaking
which I can remember; aye, and to pity those younger than myself, whose
only notion of haymaking will be connected with a great, hideous,
fussy, oily-smelling,—"useful" machine.
Well, to return to the hayfield in question.
It had been rather a wet summer so far. And although this was a
glorious day, it did not look very settled, and the weather-wise,
as represented by two aged men who had just walked down the lane to
encourage the farmer by promising him more bad weather, were not very
cheerful. And so the farmer, Mr. Heath, a stout, elderly man who was
leaning over the gate watching his haymakers, was naturally anxious to
get as many hands to work as he possibly could, and so save his hay
before the rain came on again. Very likely, if good farmer Heath is
still alive and still farming, he has a machine or two at work on such
occasions, and considers it a great improvement.
He was just about to open the gate and go in to encourage his men and
maidens to work hard, and perhaps to aid them in their task, when a
voice behind him said—
"Will you give me a day's work, sir?"
The voice was rough and sharp, but the accent was not that of the part
of the country to which farmer Heath belonged. And so when he turned
to look at the speaker, he half expected to see a gentleman, who had
made the inquiry in fun. However, what he did see was a ragged, stoutly
built lad, with a tangle of curly fair hair, peeping out through the
slits in a tattered straw hat, and a pair of very roguish-looking blue
eyes, shining impertinently out of a good-looking, dirty face. The lad
wore a faded blue shirt, and a pair of trousers so much too long for
him that he had rolled them up half-way to his knee, and secured them
with a highly ornamental piece of knotted rope. A leather belt kept
his garments together, and on his arm he carried a coat which looked
as if he must have robbed some unprotected scarecrow. He also carried
a pair of strong, heavy shoes, comparatively new, and his well-formed
feet were naked and dusty. But farmer Heath knew that this lad did not
belong to that part of the country, and his appearance rather excited
his suspicions, though he could not have said exactly why. He stared
hard at the stranger, who awaited his leisure with great composure.
"A day's work, did you say?" asked farmer Heath, slowly.
"Yes, sir. I'm strong and active, and my work has been about horses,
so I should know something about hay, too. And if you give me work, I
think you'll be pleased with me."
"You don't think small beer o' yerself, young man."
"No more will you, sir, when you've giv' me a try and seen me at work,"
remarked the youth, with great coolness.
"What's your name, boy?"
"Ben Fairfax, sir."
"And where do you come from? Have you a good character from your last
place?"
Ben Fairfax grinned broadly, showing a splendid set of white teeth. He
had laid down the heavy shoes, in order to carry on this conversation
more at his ease, but now he stooped and lifted them, saying as he did
so—
"I've always heard tell that the folks hereabout were slow in their
ways, but I couldn't have believed they was quite as slow as this
here! Thirty acres of hay down—the sun shining splendid, and a nice
breeze blowing—not hands enough to get it saved before night and the
weather not to be depended on—and you stopping to ask questions of a
stout fellow like me, as only asks for a day's work! No, sir, I've no
character, good or bad. I never was in service at all. My father's a
shoemaker, and he made these shoes. I don't belong to these parts."
"You're a free-spoken lad," said the farmer, severely.
"They mostly are, where I come from. I'm taking a walking tour for the
good of my health, and I'd be glad of a job just now; I don't deny it.
But I suppose I should have to get the Queen and Prince Albert to write
a line for me, before 'you'd' believe that I wouldn't run off with a
hay-fork in one pocket, and a rake in t'other."
Jokes were not plenty at the Lee farm, and this seemed to farmer Heath
a most excellent joke. He burst into a hearty fit of laughter.
"You are a cheeky young monkey," he said; "and if I did right by you,
I'd give you a hiding; but all the same, what you say about the weather
is no more than the truth, and if you'll call it three-quarters of a
day, you may go into the hayfield, if you like."
"All right, sir; I'm your man. I suppose my great-coat and Wellingtons
will be safe, if I leave them here?"
"Your great-coat and Wellingtons," said the farmer, opening his eyes.
"That's what 'I' calls 'em. You can give 'em any name you like—'twon't
alter 'em," replied the imperturbable Ben, as he rolled the thick shoes
up in the ragged jacket, and put them in a corner near the gate.
He then followed his new employer, who was still grinning and chuckling
over that joke about the line from the Queen. He led the way to where
the haymakers were at work, and having provided Ben with a hay-fork, he
desired him to "get to work, and let us see what you are made of."
Ben soon proved himself a strong, handy fellow. His sharp, saucy way of
speaking amused the farmer. And as the fine weather lasted for several
days (in spite of the cheerful prophets), he was allowed to remain
among the labourers during the day. What became of him at night nobody
inquired, but he had made himself very comfortable. He had contrived
to creep into the stable loft through a window, to which he climbed by
means of a great pear tree which was trained against the wall. And in
this loft he slept, and also smoked his short, well-blackened pipe,
regardless of the terrible risk he ran of setting fire to the hay.
By this time you will have decided that Ben Fairfax was not an
exemplary member of society by any means; and truly, I fear, you are
quite right. Yet there were excuses for poor Ben; and moreover, he was
not "all" bad, as you will presently acknowledge.
He was the son of a shoemaker in a small village in Kent, not very far
from London. He had learned a little shoemaking from his father, and
a great deal of other things, not quite so innocent. He was a sharp,
clever lad, and, for reasons of his own, his father was not desirous
of his presence at home, as he grew older and more observant. So he
got him a place as stable boy in the employment of Mr. B—, who had a
great training stable not far from F— (the village where the Fairfaxes
lived). It was not a place which any careful father would have chosen
for his boy, but Ben's father was very far from being careful. The
wages were good, and the boy could get home often; and if he did learn
to swear and gamble and drink, ay, and to be dishonest and untruthful,
it must be confessed that he could have learned it all quite as well at
home.
At these stables, horses for racing and hunting were trained and kept
for sale, and Ben, being fearless and active, was often selected by his
master to ride such as required a light weight—a task in which the boy
naturally delighted, and took great pride. In fact, he was in a fair
way to get on in the world, when, unfortunately (or fortunately), he
lost his place through a piece of most reckless carelessness. He and
a younger lad, being entrusted with two valuable horses to exercise
on the heath, finding themselves out of sight, had a race for their
private diversion, and Ben's horse, a beautiful creature, worth many
hundred pounds, got a bad fall, and was so much injured that he had to
be destroyed. It then came out that Ben was in the habit of getting up
races whenever an opportunity occurred, and he was at once dismissed in
disgrace.
When he went home, his father beat him severely, and that not for
having done wrong, but for being found out. Ben ran away from home the
next morning, and swore that he would never return, nor see his father
again. But there was a silken thread, one end of which was held by a
very weak pair of small hands in that deserted home, while the other
end was made fast somehow in his own wild heart; and this thread had
drawn him home many a time already, and might do so again, let him
wander as he would.
He had gone to London, where he spent what remained to him of his wages
in amusing himself; and then, having by degrees parted with all his
good clothes, he suddenly determined to leave off his foolish courses,
and try his luck in the country. I would not be quite sure that the
silken cord had nothing to do with this resolution.
It was pleasant weather, and there was no hardship for Ben in sleeping
in the open air. He had a few shillings, and eked them out by what
he called "picking up a meal" here and there, not always in the most
scrupulously honest manner. However, he enjoyed his "walking tour" very
much, and it ended in his falling in with farmer Heath.
While the haymaking lasted, Ben worked at that. And before it was over,
the farmer had taken a fancy to the lad, who was so bright and quick,
and gave him many a hearty laugh. "London Ben," as they called him,
was, indeed, a general favourite, and the farmer promoted his stable
lad to a better place, and set Ben to take care of the horses. This
suited Ben admirably, and old Dobbin, and Jack, and the rest of the
stud, soon looked so glossy and sleek, that their master hardly knew
them again.
Ben thought he ought to be very happy now, and he almost made up his
mind to remain at the Lee farm "for good," and to forget the delights
of a wandering, idle life, which he had not led long enough to find
hard and full of privation at times. Moreover, he felt a little
grateful for the kindness of his master and mistress, and meant to
behave well, and to serve them faithfully.
These were good resolutions, but, alas! as the fruit ripened in the
garden behind the stables, the temptation was too great for poor Ben.
Many a night did he desert his lair in the fragrant hay, and visit
that garden, gathering his hat and pockets full of strawberries,
gooseberries, or cherries. Mrs. Heath, poor woman, was "terrible put
about," to use her own phrase, at these nightly raids upon her fruit,
but Ben managed so cleverly that he never was suspected. Indeed, he was
supposed to sleep at a village a mile or so distant, as he had not been
able to get a bed nearer to the farm, and there was no room for him in
the house.
Every evening when work was over, he took care to be seen setting off
down the lane, and across a couple of fields, by a path which led
through a strip of plantation, and then across other fields, to the
village in question. But he never went beyond the plantation, except
when he needed a new store of tobacco; on other evenings he remained in
the little wood, watching the birds and beasts which lived there—an old
and favourite amusement of his. Then, as soon as he thought he could do
so unperceived, he crept back, and climbed up into the hayloft. As it
was now his duty to get down the hay for the horses out of this loft,
no one else ever came there, so the piles of gooseberry skins in one
corner did not betray him.
Mrs. Heath tied up the big dog, Tearem, in the garden. But Ben had made
friends with Tearem; and whoever he might tear, he never tore Ben,
but fawned on him lovingly. No doubt he would have been found out in
time, and probably been thrashed as well as dismissed by the indignant
farmer, but, as it happened, he left to please himself, though not
exactly pleased to do so at the moment.
It was all because of that tiresome little silken string, which kept
tugging at his heart occasionally. He refused to think of it for a
time, and laughed and joked with the other lads about the place, but it
really troubled him for all that, and at last it gave one such terrible
pull, that he gave up and made up his mind that he must go home, and
"see what end of little Fan."
It was partly his mistress's doing, though nothing could be further
from her intention. One day in August she asked her husband to leave
Ben with her, to help in the churning, which she said was too much for
her and her pretty daughter Alice; and Molly, their one servant, was
gone home for a holiday.
So Ben remained with his mistress, and learned how to churn, and did
churn manfully; and the butter having "come," he helped to dash in a
little water, to make it "go together," as Mrs. Heath called it. And
then the butter was taken out of the churn, and Ben stood by, highly
interested in the whole process, and saw it thumped, and washed, and
thumped again, to free it from drops of buttermilk; after which it was
salted, and made into golden bars, each weighing one pound, and packed
into a basket with green leaves and damp snowy cloths, ready to be
carried off to market the next day. And while this was being done, the
following conversation took place.
"Well, Ben Fairfax, you 'are' a handy lad! I must say that for you.
You must have been well used to help your mother. You're not like most
lads—all thumbs and no fingers."
"Never helped my mother in my life, ma'am. It's native genius—that's
where 'tis, as my old master said when I took to riding so easy."
"Your old master!" said Mrs. Heath, surprised, for she fancied she had
been told that he had never been in service before.
Ben perceived his slip, and said carelessly—
"I called him so, but it was only an odd job I ever got from him."
"You have a mother, haven't you, Ben?"
"A sort o' mother; and not a nice sort neither," said Ben, with a shake
of his curly pate. "Do you see this dint in my nob, ma'am? That's her
handiwork. She did that with a saucepan lid when I was only a small
chap."
"Laws, child! She might ha' killed you, strikin' you on the head like
that."
"And if the coroner wouldn't object, ma'am, 'she' wouldn't; nor my
father either."
"What is your father's business, Ben?"
"He's a shoemaker, ma'am. He made these shoes on my feet." Ben often
said this, but he did not add, as he might have done, that the shoes
had not been intended for him, but that he had helped himself to them
as he left the house the morning he ran away. "And he trains dogs and
ferrets, and sells rats, and—"
"Rats!" screamed Mrs. Heath. "And for mussy's sake, Ben Fairfax, who
wants to buy such vermin as rats?"
"Gents buys 'em for dogs to kill, ma'am. They get up matches, with
bets, so much on each dog, to see which will kill most rats in the time
named. And then they buy the rats, so much a dozen."
Ben had a very strong suspicion that his father had other means of
"turning an honest penny," to use Mr. Fairfax's favourite expression,
but he said nothing about that. Mrs. Heath, you see, being a woman of
small experience, might not have thought the penny an honest one.
"And do you mean to say that any one can make a livelihood out of the
like of that?" inquired Mrs. Heath.
"Father does—along with shoemaking in a small way. A very good
livelihood too. They always seem to get along pretty comfortable, as
far as eating and drinking goes."
"But, Ben," said Alice Heath, looking up from her tub of butter,
"if you had a comfortable home and plenty of food, why did you come
tramping through the country for work? And so shabby as you were, too,
till mother gave you Ned's old clothes."
"I didn't live at home; couldn't stand the way they licked me."
"I dare say you deserved it," said Alice, laughing.
"Maybe I did, sometimes, but I didn't like it any the better for that.
So I—ran away at last."
"And are there no more in family, Ben? Have you any brothers and
sisters?"
"One brother, a baby, and the ugliest thing you ever saw in your life,
ma'am; and such a one to squall. And one sister, little Fan."
"How old is she?"
"Well, she must be eight or nine, but she's very small for that. She
can't be so old, surely; and yet—yes, she must be. Poor little Fan!"
"Is she pretty, Ben?" asked Alice.
"Well—no, miss; I don't think you'd say so. But—she's better nor that.
She's the lovingest, tenderest-hearted little thing—"
He broke off abruptly and remained silent for some time. At last he
said half angrily—
"Why did you make me talk of Fan? I didn't want to talk of her."
"Well, but what harm, lad?"
"If harm comes of it, 'twasn't of my seeking, any how. There's the
master now with Dobbin and Jack, mud up to their blessed noses! Where
on earth have they been? I'd better go and see after them, ma'am, if
you don't want me any more."
And he ran out of the cool, dark dairy in a great hurry. But the
thought of little Fan, his only sister, the only being in the world who
loved him, or whom he loved, was not thus to be got rid of. Once fairly
roused, it refused to be left behind in the dark dairy. By hard work,
rough play, smoking many pipes, and sleeping sound after his midnight
diversions in the fruit garden, Ben had almost succeeded in stifling
the thought of Fan until now. Not quite, however; and now this talk
about her had given his memory a jog, and oh, how that string began to
pull at his heart!
Little Fan, gentle, timid, good little Fan, left to bear all unaided
the blows and bad words of an unkind mother, and the neglect of a
worthless father; to carry the ugly baby until she was ready to drop,
and then punished when it squalled, which it did frequently; left to
have her food seasoned with unkind words and scoffs at her frightened
face and want of strength; left, in fact, to battle with her wretched
life without the occasional visits of her only friend and protector,
"our Ben," as she fondly called him—visits which had long been the one
happiness of her life. He could not get Fan out of his head.
He resisted long. For nearly a week, he fought against his longing, and
he called innocent Mrs. Heath every bad name he could think of, and I
can assure you they were not few; he raged at himself for his folly;
he thought of the oath he had taken never to go back; he asked himself
what good he expected to do to Fan or anyone else. But it was all in
vain. Fan's pale little face, looking even sadder and more forlorn than
when he last saw it, was ever before him. He seemed to see it change,
and become full of the brightness of joy, and he heard her voice
saying,—
"Why, it's our Ben," as he had often heard it in reality.
Finally, one night he jumped up from his comfortable bed in the hay
with a shout. "I must go, I suppose. Bother the woman! Why must she go
and talk of Fan? It's not a bit of real good to her; and yet I must go
and see after her, and let her know I'm all right. She do love me so,
poor little Fan! And she must think 'twas hard of me to go away and
never look after her, when I know I'm the only comfort she has in the
world."
He pulled on his clothes, not very handsome ones, unless by comparison
with those he had been wearing when he first came to the farm. Having
dressed himself and made up all his possessions in a bundle, he climbed
down by the pear tree, and looked about to ascertain what hour of the
night, or rather morning, it was. His mind being now made up to go
home, he determined to be off without giving notice to any one, partly
for the fun of the thing, but partly also for the following reasons.
He had been paid his week's wages the day before, seven shillings; and
of these he owed two to another lad about the place, whom he had been
teaching to play at pitch and toss for halfpence. And he also owed
a few shillings to the woman of the little shop in the village, for
tobacco. Moreover, Tom Digges, his comrade, not having been present
when the master paid the wages, Ben had offered to take his for him,
and to give them to him the next day, which he doubtless would have
done, as he had several times done it already, but for this sudden
determination to go away. Tom's wages were higher than his, because Tom
went home for his meals, and Ben lived at the farm.
Seven shillings was very little to begin the world on, and so Mr. Ben
marched off with poor Tom's ten shillings also, without, I am sorry
to say, the least compunction. Also, as he crept along the line of
farm buildings, which ended in a large drying green, he saw something
dangling on a clothes' line; and on drawing nearer, he perceived
that it was a blue cotton frock, belonging to Mrs. Heath's little
grandchild, Etty Spence, who was staying at the farm to recover from
whooping cough. The frock had either been overlooked the night before,
or (which was more likely) was believed to be quite safe in so honest a
neighbourhood. It was just the right size for Fan; for though she was
much older than Etty, she was so very small for her age; and it was so
pretty and neatly made. Fan had never had such a frock in her life, and
how kind she would think him for bringing her one; and oh, how Mrs.
Heath would squall and search about for it when she missed it. So,
with a chuckle, Ben twitched the frock down from the line, and it was
quickly stowed away in his bundle, which contained some shirts, socks,
etc., all presents from kind, unsuspicious Mrs. Heath.
Being now fairly off, Ben's spirits rose with every step he took, and
he ran lightly down the lane and past the gate where he first met
farmer Heath, without giving himself time to think; and having now
reached the high road, quite out of hearing even if any one at the farm
was awake, he began to whistle a tune—very sweetly, too, for he had a
quick ear for music.
Now Ben Fairfax was a clever lad, as I daresay you have discovered
by this time; and yet, setting aside all ideas of right and wrong,
what a stupid thing he was doing! Here, for the first time in his
life, he had an opportunity of gaining really good and respectable
friends (for I cannot say that his first patrons had been either the
one or the other), and, by his bright ways and quick intelligence,
he had made them all like him. Had he gone to farmer Heath and told
him that he must go home and see after his little sister, the farmer
might have grumbled a little (farmers generally do grumble), but he
would certainly have let him go, and promised to take him back when he
returned.
But instead of this he went off, leaving the proofs of his evil doings
to be seen by all at the farm, and carrying off things to which he had
no right, so that, instead of friendly feelings, every one would be
filled with anger and disgust. But, clever as he was, Ben never thought
of this; never reflected that good friends are not always to be picked
up; nor remembered that he might chance to meet some of these people
again, when their good word might be of consequence, and their bad word
fatal to him.
In fact, the idea of meeting any of them again never entered his head;
here were they in Derbyshire, while he was going to London, on his way
to his old home, and he was too young to know how small the world is
after all, and how certain we are to meet again with people we have
known. So he departed gaily—it would undoubtedly sound better if I
could describe him as depressed by a sense of wrong doing, but truth
compels me to state that he felt very jolly, something like a young
horse which has slipped its head out of the halter and gone off for a
frisk. Life at the Lee farm was certainly dull and monotonous—the old
employment was far pleasanter, and perhaps Mr. — would have forgiven
him by this time, and would take him back. Now that the plunge was
made, Ben wondered how he had borne the quiet life so long.
"What would Sam Hadley" (the other party in the fatal race), "say,
if he knew that I'd gone in for a respectable life without a bit of
fun from week's end to week's end? He 'd never believe it, that's one
thing."
And Ben laughed aloud at the notion of Sam's face if asked to believe
this tale; thereby startling a most respectable elderly blackbird who
was half asleep in the hedge by the road's side, so that he fled with a
long wild cry, and startled Ben in his turn.
It seems, does it not, as if the silken string had pulled Ben out of
safety and into danger this time. Yet, was it really so? Was Ben really
safe at the Lee farm, deceiving his kind employers, stealing their
fruit, and teaching their ploughboy to play pitch and toss all Sunday?
The answer must depend upon our idea as to what Ben wanted to be saved
from.
Before even the early hour at which Mrs. Heath's cheery call roused her
household to their daily tasks, Ben Fairfax was several miles on his
way to London. He had a long tramp before him, for he did not wish to
diminish his small store by paying railway fares, preferring to keep it
to begin the world upon.
Mrs. Heath called her family at her usual time—half-past five, and at
half-past six they were all seated at breakfast in the clean and cosy
kitchen. All, that is, except "London Ben;" where was he? He had not
come, as he generally did, to tie up the wicked old cow for Alice to
milk her, nor had he run in to aid red-armed Molly to draw water for
the day's washing, nor had he carried off little Etty to see Dobbin and
Jack munch their oats. All these things Ben was wont to do, for he was
thoroughly good-natured and pleasant in his ways. But to-day he had
done none of them.
And after breakfast a search was set on foot, and in process of time
all Ben's delinquencies came to light. It was first discovered that
he had been in the habit of sleeping in the hayloft, and the strong
smell of tobacco betrayed the fact that he had also been in the habit
of smoking there. Secondly, the gooseberry skins and strawberry stalks
flung into a corner accounted for the nightly robbery of the garden.
Thirdly, poor Tom's lamentations made every one aware that Ben had gone
off with his week's wages, and also with "Two shillin' wich he owed
I, he did!" But when Tom, in his indignation, made known how the said
two shillings had been lost and won, farmer Heath registered a solemn
vow to "trounce Ben Fairfax well" if he ever had the opportunity, for
introducing a taste for gambling among his farm boys.
Finally, the blue calico frock was missed, and the impression on Mrs.
Heath's mind was that Ben had taken it. But, to do her justice, she
grieved more over the ingratitude and dishonesty of the lad she had
liked so much, than over the loss of the blue frock, or even over the
fruit.
"He'll come to a bad end, will Ben Fairfax," she said, to her pretty
daughter Alice. "He's none of your dull fellows, to be content wi' such
small pickins' as he's made here. He's too clever by half, poor boy!
And you mark my words, Alice Heath, he'll come to the gallows yet, or
get sent to Botany Bay at the very least."
By this speech you may judge how far behind the times Mrs. Heath was;
for it is many a long day since thieves were sent to Botany Bay, and
as to hanging, we all know that it is really very difficult to get
hanged nowadays, even for murder. And poor Ben with all his faults,
was not likely to murder any one, for he was not a cruel boy. He was
kind to those who were weaker than himself, and animals were safe with
him, even from teasing. Tearem quite missed him, and stupid old Dobbin
kicked at the lad who succeeded him in his stable duties, while as
for the wicked brindled cow, she became (Mrs. Heath declared) "that
rampagious that no one but a fairy could milk her at all," so she had
to be sold at the next fair.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]