eben holden-第23部分

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lavoured　his　conversation　fell　from　him　like　a　mantle　as　he　spoke　and　the　light　in　his　soul　shone　upon　that　little　company　a　great　light；　as　I　now　remember；　that　filled　me　with　burning　thoughts　of　the　world　and　its　mighty　theatre　of　action。　The　way　of　my　life　lay　clear　before　me；　as　I　listened；　and　its　days　of　toil　and　the　sweet　success　my　God　has　given　me；　although　I　take　it　humbly　and　hold　it　infinitely　above　my　merit。　I　was　to　get　learning　and　seek　some　way　of　expressing　what　was　in　me。

It　would　ill　become　me　to　try　to　repeat　the　words　of　this　venerable　seer；　but　he　showed　that　intemperance　was　an　individual　sin；　while　war　was　a　national　evil。　That　one　meant　often　the　ruin　of　a　race；　the　other　the　ruin　of　a　family；　that　one　was　as　the　ocean；　the　other　as　a　single　drop　in　its　waters。　And　he　told　us　of　the　full　of　empires　and　the　millions　that　had　suffered　the　oppression　of　the　conqueror　and　perished　by　the　sword　since　Agamemnon。

After　the　debate　a　young　lady　read　a　literary　paper　full　of　clumsy　wit；　rude　chronicles　of　the　countryside；　essays　on　'Spring'；　and　like　topics　…the　work　of　the　best　talent　of　Faraway。　Then　came　the　decision；　after　which　the　meeting　adjourned。

At　the　door　some　other　boys　tried　'to　cut　me　out'。　I　came　through　the　noisy　crowd；　however；　with　Hope　on　my　arm　and　my　heart　flill　of　a　great　happiness。

'Did　you　like　it？'　she　asked。　

'Very　much；'　I　answered。

'What　did　you　enjoy　most？'

'Your　company；'　I　said；　with　a　fine　air　of　gallantry。

'Honestly？'

'Honestly。　I　want　to　take　you　to　Rickard's　sometime？'　

That　was　indeed　a　long　cherished　hope。

'Maybe　I　won't　let　you；'　she　said。

'Wouldn't　you？'

'You'd　better　ask　me　sometime　and　see。'

'I　shall。　I　wouldn't　ask　any　other　girl。'

'Well；'　she　added；　with　a　sigh；　'if　a　boy　likes　one　girl　I　don't　think　he　ought　to　have　anything　to　do　with　other　girls。　I　hate　a　flirt。'

I　happened　to　hear　a　footfall　in　the　snow　behind　us；　and　looking　back　saw　Ann　Jane　Foster　going　slow　in　easy　hearing。　She　knew　all；　as　we　soon　found　out。

'I　dew　jes　love　t'　see　young　folks　enjoy　themselves；'　said　she；　'it's　entrancin〃。'

Coming　in　at　our　gate　I　saw　a　man　going　over　the　wall　back　of　the　big　stables。　The　house　was　dark

'Did　you　see　the　night　man？'　Elizabeth　Brower　whispered　as　I　lit　the　lamp。　'Went　through　the　garden　just　now。　I've　been　watching　him　here　at　the　window。'

Chapter　13

The　love　of　labour　was　counted　a　great　virtue　there　in　Faraway。　As　for　myself　I　could　never　put　my　heart　in　a　hoe　handle　or　in　any　like　tool　of　toil。　They　made　a　blister　upon　my　spirit　as　well　as　upon　my　hands。　I　tried　to　find　in　the　sweat　of　my　brow　that　exalted　pleasure　of　which　Mr　Greeley　had　visions　in　his　comfortable　retreat　on　Printing　House　Square。　But　unfortunately　I　had　not　his　point　of　view。

Hanging　in　my　library；　where　I　may　see　it　as　I　write；　is　the　old　sickle　of　Uncle　Eb。　The　hard　hickory　of　its　handle　is　worn　thin　by　the　grip　of　his　hand。　It　becomes　a　melancholy　symbol　when　I　remember　how　also　the　hickory　had　worn　him　thin　and　bent　him　low；　and　how　infinitely　better　than　all　the　harvesting　of　the　sickle　was　the　strength　of　that　man；　diminishing　as　it　wore　the　wood。　I　cannot　help　smiling　when　I　look　at　the　sickle　and　thank　of　the　soft　hands　and　tender　amplitude　of　Mr　Greeley。

The　great　editor　had　been　a　playmate　of　David　Brower　when　they　were　boys；　and　his　paper　was　read　with　much　reverence　in　our　home。

'How　quick　ye　can　plough　a　ten…acre　lot　with　a　pen；'　Uncle　Eb　used　to　say　when　we　had　gone　up　to　bed　after　father　had　been　reading　aloud　from　his　Tribune。

Such　was　the　power　of　the　press　in　that　country　one　had　but　to　say　of　any　doubtful　thing；　'Seen　it　in　print；'　to　stop　all　argument。　If　there　were　any　further　doubt　he　had　only　to　say　that　he　had　read　it　either　in　the　Tribune　or　the　Bible；　and　couldn't　remember　which。　Then　it　was　a　mere　question　of　veracity　in　the　speaker。　Books　and　other　reading　were　carefully　put　away　for　an　improbable　time　of　leisure。

'I　might　break　my　leg　sometime；'　said　David　Brower；　'then　they'll　come　handy。'　But　the　Tribune　was　read　carefully　every　week。

I　have　seen　David　Brower　stop　and　look　at　me　while　I　have　been　digging　potatoes；　with　a　sober　grin　such　as　came　to　him　always　after　he　had　swapped　'hosses'　and　got　the　worst　of　it。　Then　he　would　show　me　again；　with　a　little　impatience　in　his　manner；　how　to　hold　the　handle　and　straddle　the　row。　He　would　watch　me　for　a　moment；　turn　to　Uncle　Eb；　laugh　hopelessly　and　say：　'Thet　boy'll　hev　to　be　a　minister。　He　can't　work。'

But　for　Elizabeth　Brower　it　might　have　gone　hard　with　me　those　days。　My　mind　was　always　on　my　books　or　my　last　talk　with　Jed　Feary；　and　she　shared　my　confidence　and　fed　my　hopes　and　shielded　me　as　much　as　possible　from　the　heavy　work。　Hope　had　a　better　head　for　mathematics　than　I；　and　had　always　helped　me　with　my　sums；　but　I　had　a　better　memory　and　an　aptitude　in　other　things　that　kept　me　at　the　head　of　most　of　my　classes。　Best　of　all　at　school　I　enjoyed　the　'compositions'　…　I　had　many　thoughts；　such　as　they　were；　and　some　facility　of　expression；　I　doubt　not；　for　a　child。　Many　chronicles　of　the　countryside　came　off　my　pen　…　sketches　of　odd　events　and　characters　there　in　Faraway。　These　were　read　to　the　assembled　household。　Elizabeth　Brower　would　sit　looking　gravely　down　at　me；　as　I　stood　by　her　knees　reading；　in　those　days　of　my　early　boyhood。　Uncle　Eb　listened　with　his　head　turned　curiously；　as　if　his　ear　were　cocked　for　coons。　Sometimes　he　and　David　Brower　would　slap　their　knees　and　laugh　heartily；　whereat　my　foster　mother　would　give　them　a　quick　glance　and　shake　her　head。　For　she　was　always　fearful　of　the　day　when　she　should　see　in　her　children　the　birth　of　vanity；　and　sought　to　put　it　off　as　far　as　might　be。　Sometimes　she　would　cover　her　mouth　to　hide　a　smile；　and；　when　I　had　finished；　look　warningly　at　the　rest；　and　say　it　was　good；　for　a　little　boy。　Her　praise　never　went　further；　and　indeed　all　those　people　hated　flattery　as　they　did　the　devil　and　frowned　upon　conceit　She　said　that　when　the　love　of　flattery　got　hold　of　one　he　would　lie　to　gain　it

I　can　see　this　slender；　blue…eyed　woman　as　I　write。　She　is　walking　up　and　down　beside　her　spinning…wheel。　I　can　hear　the　dreary　buz…z…z…z　of　the　spindle　as　she　feeds　it　with　the　fleecy　ropes。　That　loud　crescendo　echoes　in　the　still　house　of　memory。　I　can　hear　her　singing　as　she　steps　forward　and　slows　the　wheel　and　swings　the　cradle　with　her　foot：

'On　the　other　side　of　Jordan；　　In　the　sweet　fields　of　Eden；　　Where　the　tree　of　Life　is　blooming；　　There　is　rest　for　you。

She　lays　her　hand　to　the　spokes　again　and　the　roar　of　the　spindle　drowns　her　voice。

All　day；　from　the　breakfast　hour　to　supper　time；　I　have　heard　the　dismal　sound　of　the　spirmng　as　she　walked　the　floor；　content　to　sing　of　rest　but　never　taking　it。

Her　home　was　almost　a　miracle　of　neatness。　She　could　work　with　no　peace　of　mind　until　the　house　had　been　swept　and　dusted。　A　fly　speck　on　the　window　was　enough　to　cloud　her　day。　She　went　to　town　with　David　now　and　then　…　not　oftener　than　once　a　quarter　…　and　came　back　ill　and　exhausted。　If　she　sat　in　a　store　waiting　for　David；　while　he　went　to　mill　or　smithy；　her　imaginat