Part 8

Fortunately for Mr. Kerchey, his talent for observation was not remarkable. Phrenologically speaking, his perceptive faculties were small, as well as "language" and "concentration." He was rather flattered by Sarah's attentions than otherwise, and very readily accepted an invitation to prolong his call until evening.

"Would you--ah--would you like to--ride--a little ways--ah--after my pony?" he asked of Sarah, as they were sitting in the parlor, after supper.

"Thank you; but I hardly think I ought to go this evening," replied the ready girl.

What a relief it was to hear her silver-ringing voice, after Mr. Kerchey's painful efforts to speak!

"You--you are--you are not--partial to riding--perhaps?"

"Oh, I like it well; but a carriage seems monotonous. Horseback exercises for me!"

"You--like--you like it?"

"Passionately!" cried Sarah. "Oh, how I love a spirited, prancing, bounding pony!"

With his usual labor of enunciation, Mr. Kerchey said that, if she could inform him where a side-saddle was to be obtained, he would be "most--ah--happy" to give her his best horse to ride that evening. He was five minutes occupied in expressing so much.

"We have a ladies' saddle," said Sarah; "but I'd rather not go and ride on Sundays merely for pleasure."

"Ah! a thousand--ah--pardons!" rejoined Mr. Kerchey, conscious of having committed an indiscretion. "Some--some other time?"

Sarah excused his freedom, and gayly told him "almost any time;" and when he finally took his leave, declared that she had "got well rid of him, at last."

Meanwhile, Sam had decoyed Willie and Georgie into the orchard, and betrayed them into a game of ball. He made his lame foot a good excuse to sit upon the grass and enjoy all the "knocking" or "licks," while the boys threw and "chased."

"What are you about there, you rogue?" cried Mr. Royden, who had enough natural religious feeling to desire that his family should behave decorously on the Sabbath.

"Oh, nothing much," said Sam; "only playing ball a little."

"Do you know what day it is?"

"It an't Sunday after sundown, is it? You always let us play then."

"But the sun isn't down yet."

Mr. Royden pointed to the great luminary which still glowed amid the trees in the west.

"Golly! I thought it was!"

"What a story that is! The sun is nearly half an hour high. You could not help seeing it."

Sam looked with amazement, squinting across his ball-club, and dodging his head this way and that, as if to assure himself that it was no delusion.

"It _an't_ down, _is_ it?" he said, honestly. "I'm a little cross-eyed, I expect; and that's why I couldn't see it before."

XIX.

MONDAY MORNING.

"I am not going to put off washing until the middle of the week, to wait for any girl!" said Mrs. Royden, positively. "We shall have enough to do after Margaret comes, without keeping a great heap of dirty clothes to be washed."

"Well, do as you like," replied her husband, with a dissatisfied air. "But I know just how it will be. You and the girls will wear yourselves out before noon. If you would only take things quietly, and not try to do too much, you would get along better; but you see so much to accomplish, that you fly into a heat and a hurry, which you seldom recover from for two or three days."

Mrs. Royden was resolved. The regular Monday's work was to be done, and nothing could induce her to postpone it. The great boiler was put on the kitchen stove before breakfast, and the clothes got ready for the wash.

It seemed her nature to be cross on such days, and the children knew what to expect. There could be no fun on Monday morning. All must do something,--even Georgie must pull out the stitches of a seam, and Willie must rock the baby. It seemed that poor Hepsy did everything, and gave satisfaction in nothing.

That was a hard day for Sam. The mowers came, one after the other, and he had to turn the grindstone for them to grind their scythes in succession. They were good-natured, energetic men; and, not wishing them to know how lazy he was, he worked industriously at the crank, before and after breakfast. But the last man "bore on enough to break the stone," Sam said; and he groaned under the infliction, asking, from time to time, if the scythe was "most finished."

At length, to his great joy, it was well ground from heel to point, and 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.