 14 Hope's love of music became a passion after that night. Young Mr. Livingston, the city chap we had met at the church, came over next day. His enthusiasm for her voice gave us all great hope of it. David Brower said he would take her away to the big city when she was older. They soon decided to send her in September to the big school in Hillsborough. "'She's got to be a lady,' said David Brower, as he drew her into his lap the day we had all discussed the matter. She's learnt everything in the arithmetic and geography in Speller. I wanted to learn something more scientific.' "'Now you're talking,' said Uncle Eb. There's lots of things you can't learn by siphering. Nothing's too good for Hope. I'd like to know what you meant expect of her anyway,' said Elizabeth Brower. "'A high stepper,' said Uncle Eb. We want a slick coat, a kind of a toppy head, and a lot of ginger. So it when we hitch her to the pole by and by we shan't be ashamed of her.' "'Exactly,' said David Brower, laughing. And then she shall have the best harness in the market.' Hope did not seem to comprehend all the rustic metaphors that had been applied to her. A look of puzzled amusement came over her face, and then she ran away into the garden, her hair streaming from under her white sun-bonnet. "'Never seen such a beauty? Beats the world,' said Uncle Eb in a whisper, whereat both David and Elizabeth shook their heads. "'Lord, a mercy. Don't let her know it,' Elizabeth answered in a low tone. She's beginning to have—' "'Just then Hope came by us, leading her pet Philly that had been born within the month. Immediately Mrs. Brower changed the subject. "'To have what?' David inquired, as soon as the girl was out of hearing. "'Suspicions,' said Elizabeth mournfully. "'Spends a good deal of her time at the looking-glass. I think the other girls tell her, and then that young Livingston has been turning her head.' "'Turning her head,' he exclaimed. "'Turning her head,' she answered. He sat here the other day and deliberately told her that he had never seen such a complexion and such lovely hair. Elizabeth Brower mocked his accent with a show of contempt that feebly echoed my own emotions. "'That's the way of city folks, mother,' said David. "'It's a bad way,' she answered. "'I do not think he ought to come here. Hope's a child yet, and we mustn't let her get notions.' "'I'll tell him not to come any more,' said David, as he and Uncle Ebb rose to go to their work. "'I'm afraid she ought not to go away to school for a year yet,' said Elizabeth, a trouble to look in her face. "'Shaha, mother! You can't keep her under your wings always,' said he. "'Well, David, you know she is very young and uncommonly,' she hesitated. "'Handsome,' said he. "'We might as well own up if she is our child.' "'If she goes away,' continued Elizabeth, some of us ought to go with her. Then Uncle Ebb and David went to their work in the fields, and I to my own task. That very evening they began to talk of renting the farm and going to town with the children. I had a stent of courting-wood that day and finished it before two o'clock. Then I got my pole of mountain ash, made hook and line ready, dug some worms, and went fishing. I cared not so much for the fishing as for the solitude of the woods. I had a bit of thing to do. In the thick timber there was a place where Tinklebrook began to hurry and break into murmurs on a pebble bar as its feet were tickled. A few more steps and it burst into a peel of laughter that lasted half the years as it tumbled over narrow shelves of rock into a foamy pool. Many a day I had sat fishing for hours at that little fall under a birch tree among the breaks and moss. No ray of sunlight ever got to the dark water below me, the lair of many a big fish that had yielded to the temptation of my bait. Here I lay in the cool shade while a singular sort of heart-sickness came over me. A wild partridge was beating his gong in the near woods all the afternoon. The sound of the water seemed to break in the treetops and fall back upon me. I had lain there thinking an hour or more when I caught the jar of approaching footsteps. Looking up I saw Jed Ferey coming through the bushes, pole in hand. "'Fishing?' he asked. "'Only thinking,' I answered. "'Couldn't be in better business,' said he as he sat down beside me. More than once he had been my father-confessor, and I was glad he had come.' "'In love?' he asked. "'No boy ever thinks, unless he's in love.' "'In trouble,' said I. "'Same thing,' he answered, lighting his pipe. "'Love is trouble with a bit of sugar in it. The sweetest trouble a man can have. What's the matter?' "'It's a great secret,' I said. "'I have never told it. I am in love.' "'Knew it?' he said, puffing at his pipe and smiling in a kindly way. "'Now let's put in the trouble. She does not love me,' I answered. "'Glad of it,' he remarked. "'I've got a secret to tell you.' "'What's that?' I inquired. "'Wouldn't tell anybody else for the world, my boy,' he said. "'It's between you and me.' "'Between you and me,' I repeated. "'Well,' he said, "'you're a fool.' "'That's no secret,' I answered, much embarrassed. "'Yes, it is,' he insisted. "'You're smart enough, and you can have most anything in this world if you take the right road. "'You've grown to be a great big strapping fellow, but you're only sixteen?' "'That's all,' I said mournfully. "'You're as big a fool to go falling in love as I'd be. "'You're too young, and I'm too old. "'I say to you, wait. You've got to go to college.' "'College,' I exclaimed incredulously. "'Yes, and that's another secret,' said he. "'I told David Brower what I thought of your writing, that essay on bugs in particular, and I told him what people were saying at your work in school. "'What did he say?' I asked. "'Said Hope and told him all about it, that she was as proud of you as she was of her curls, and I believe it. "'Well,' says I, "'you ought to send that boy to college.' "'Go into,' says he. "'He'll go to the academy this fall if he wants to. Then he can go to college as soon as he's ready. "'Through up my hat and shouted, I was that glad!' "'As he spoke, the old man's face kindled with enthusiasm. "'In me he had one who understood him, who saw truth in his thought, music in his verse, a noble simplicity in his soul. "'I took his hand in mine and thanked him heartily. "'Then we rose and came away together.' "'Remember,' he said, as we parted at the corner, "'there's a way laid out for you. "'In God's time it'll lead to every good thing you desire.' "'Don't jump over the fence. "'Don't try to pass any milestone before you've come to it. "'Don't mope. "'Keep your head cool with philosophy, "'your feet warm with travel, and don't worry about your heart. "'It won't turn to stone if you do keep it a while. "'Always have enough of it about you to do business with. "'Goodbye!' "'End of Chapter 14, Recording by Roger Maline.' "'Chapter 15 of Eben Holden.' "'This Librivox recording is in the public domain. "'Recording by Roger Maline.' "'Eben Holden, a tale of the North, country, by Irving Batchelor.' "'Chapter 15.' "'Gerald Brower, who was a baby when I came to live it far away, and was now eleven, had caught a cold in seed time, and he had never quite recovered. His coughing had begun to keep him awake, and one night it brought alarm to the whole household. "'Elizabeth Brower was up early in the morning and called Uncle Ebb, who went away for the doctor as soon as light came. "'We ate our breakfast in silence. "'Father and mother and Grandma Bissnett spoke only in low tones, and somehow the anxiety in their faces went to my heart. "'Uncle Ebb returned about eight o'clock, and said the doctor was coming. "'Old Dr. Bigsby was a very great man in that country. "'Other physicians called him far and wide for consultation. "'I had always regarded him with a kind of awe intensified by the aroma of his drugs and the gleam of his lancet. "'Once I had been his patient, and then I had trembled at his approach. "'When he took my little wrist in his big hand, I remember with what reluctance I stuck out my quivering tongue, black as I feared with evidences of prevarication. "'He was a picture for a painter-man as he came that morning, erect in his gig. "'Who could forget the hoary majesty of his head, his stovepipe tilted back, his white locks flying about his ears? "'He had a long nose, a smooth-shaven face, and a left eye that was a trifle turned. "'His thoughts were generally one day behind the calendar. "'Today he seemed to be digesting the affairs of yesterday. "'He was therefore absent-minded to a degree that made no end of gossip. "'If he came out one day with shoestrings flying, in his remorse the next he would forget his collar. "'If one told him a good joke today, he might not seem to hear it, but tomorrow he would take it up in his turn and shake with laughter. "'I remember how, that morning, after noting the symptoms of his patient, he sat a little in silent reflection. "'He knew that color in the cheek, that look in the eye. He had seen so much of it. "'His legs were crossed, and one elbow thrown carelessly over the back of his chair. "'We all sat looking at him anxiously. "'In a moment he began chewing hard on his quid of tobacco. "'Uncle Ebb pushed the cuspidore a bit nearer. "'The doctor expected-erated freely and resumed his attitude of reflection. "'The clock ticked loudly, the patient sighed, our anxiety increased. "'Uncle Ebb spoke to father in a low tone, "'whereupon the doctor turned suddenly, with a little grunt of inquiry, "'and seeing he was not addressed, sank again into thoughtful repose. "'I had begun to fear the worst, when suddenly the hand of the doctor "'swept the bald peak of benevolence at the top of his head. "'Then a smile began to spread over his face. "'It was as if some feather of thought had begun to tickle him. "'In a moment his head was nodding with laughter "'that brought a great sense of relief to all of us. "'In a slow, deliberate tone he began to speak. "'I was over to Rat Tupper's to-ther-day,' said he. "'Rat was sitting with me in the door-yard. "'Pretty soon a young chap came in with a scythe, "'and asked if he might use the grindstone. "'He was a new hired man from somewhere near. "'He didn't know Rat, and Rat didn't know him. "'So Rat, of course, had to crack one of his jokes. "'May I use your grindstone?' said the young fellow. "'Don't know,' said Rat. "'I'm only the hired man here. "'Go and ask Miss Tupper.' "'The old lady had overheard him, "'and so she says to the young fellow, "'Yes, you can use the grindstone. "'The hired man out there will turn it for you.' "'Rat see he was trapped, "'and so he went out under the plum-tree, "'where the stone was, and begun to turn. "'The scythe was dull, "'and the young fellow, Boron Harderon, "'was really decent for a long time.' "'Rat begun to get very sober-looking. "'Ain't you about done?' said he. "'Pretty nigh,' said the young fellow, "'bearing down a little harder all the time. "'Rat made the stone go faster. "'Pretty soon?' he asked again. "'Ain't you done yet?' "'Pretty nigh,' says the other, feeling of the edge. "'I'm done,' said Rat, and he let go of the handle. "'I don't know about the scythe, "'but I'm a good deal sharper than I was.' "'You're the hired man here, ain't you?' said the young fellow. "'No, I ain't,' said Rat. "'But rather, down up it a being a liar, "'than turn that stone another minute.' "'As soon as he was fairly started "'with this droll narrative, "'the strain of the situation was relieved. "'We were all laughing as much at his deliberate way of narration "'as at the story itself.' "'Suddenly he turned to Elizabeth Brower "'and said, very soberly, "'Will you bring me some water and a glass?' "'Then he opened his chest of medicine, "'made some powders, and told us how to give them. "'In a few days I would take him into the big woods "'for a while,' he said. "'See how it agrees with him.' "'Then he gathered up his things, "'and mother went with him to the gig.' "'Humor was one of the specifics of Dr. Bigsby. "'He was always a poor man. "'He had a way of lumping his bills at about so much, "'in settlement, and probably never kept books. "'A side of pork paid for many a long journey. "'He came to his death riding over the hills one bitter day, "'not long after the time of which I write, to reach a patient. "'The haying over we made ready for our trip into the woods. "'Uncle Ebb and Tip Taylor, who knew the forest, "'and myself, were to go with Gerald to Blueberry Lake. "'We loaded our wagon with provisions one evening "'and made ready to be off at the break of day. "'End of Chapter 15. "'Recording by Roger Maline. "'Chapter 16 of Ebb and Holden.' "'This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. "'Recording by Roger Maline. "'Ebb and Holden, a tale of the North Country, "'by Irving Batchelor. "'Chapter 16.' "'I remember how hopefully we started that morning "'with Elizabeth Brower and Hope waving their handkerchiefs "'on the porch, and David near them whittling. "'They had told us what to do and what not to do over and over again. "'I sat with Gerald on blankets that were spread over a thick mat of hay. "'The morning air was sweet with the odor of new hay "'and the music of the bobble-ink. "'Uncle Ebb and Tip Taylor sang merrily as we rode over the hills. "'When we entered the shade of the big forest, "'Uncle Ebb got out his rifle and loaded it. "'He sat a long time whispering and looking eagerly for gain to right and left. "'He was still a boy. "'One could see evidences of age only in his white hair "'and beard and wrinkled brow. "'He retained the little tufts in front of his ears, "'and lately had grown a silver crescent of thin and silky hair "'that circled his throat under a bare chin. "'Young as I was, I had no keener relish for a holiday than he. "'At noon we halted beside a brook and unhitched our horses. "'Then we caught some fish, built a fire and cooked them, "'and brewed our tea. "'At sunset we halted at Tooley Pond, "'looking along its reedy margin under purple tamaracks, for deer. "'There was a great silence here in the deep of the woods, "'and Tip Taylor's axe, while he peeled the bark for our camp, "'seemed to fill the wilderness with echoes. "'It was after dark when the shanty was covered, "'and we lay on its fragrant mow of balsam and hemlock. "'The great logs that we had rolled in front of our shanty "'were set afire and shortly supper was cooking. "'Gerald had stood the journey well. "'Uncle Ebb and he stayed in, while Tip and I got our jack ready, "'and went off in quest of a dugout. "'He said Bill Ellsworth had one hid in a thicket on the south side "'of Tooley. "'We found it after an hour's tramp nearby. "'It needed a little repairing, but we soon made it water-worthy, "'and then took our seats, he and the stern, with the paddle, "'and I and the bow, with the gun. "'Slowly and silently we clove away through the star-sown shadows. "'It was like the hushed and mystic movement of a dream. "'We seemed to be above the deep of heaven, the stars below us. "'The shadow of the forest in the still water "'looked like the wall of some mighty castle, "'with towers and battlements, "'and myriads of windows lighted for a feat. "'Once the groan of a night-hawk fell out of the upper air "'with a sound like that of a stone striking in water. "'I thought little of the deer, Tip was after. "'His only aim in life was the one he got with a gun-barrel. "'I had forgotten all but the beauty of the scene. "'Suddenly, Tip roused me by laying his hand to the gunnel "'and gently shaking the dugout. "'In the dark distance, ahead of us, "'I could hear the faint tinkle of dripping water. "'Then I knew a deer was feeding not far away, "'and that the water was falling from his muzzle. "'When I opened my jack, we were close upon him. "'His eyes gleamed. "'I shot high above the deer that went splashing ashore "'before I had pulled my trigger. "'After the roar of the gun had got away "'in the distant timber, Tip mentioned a place of horde "'of all men turned and paddled for the landing. "'Could have killed him with a club,' said he, snickering. "'Guess he must have looked pretty tall, didn't he?' "'Why?' I asked. "'Cause you aimed into the sky,' said he. "'Maybe you thought he was a bird.' "'My hand trembled a little,' said I. "'Mind me of Bill Barber,' he said in a half-whisper, as he worked his paddle, chuckling with amusement. "'How's that?' I asked. "'Nothing's safe, but the things he shoots at,' said he. "'Terrible bad shot. Kills a cow every time he goes hunting.' "'Uncle Ebb was stirring the fire when we came whispering into camp, and Gerald lay asleep under the blankets. "'Willie couldn't hit the broad side of a barn,' said Tip. "'He don't take to it natural.' "'Killin' and booklearn and don't often go together,' said Uncle Ebb.' I turned in by the side of Gerald and Uncle Ebb went off with Tip for another trip in the dugout. The night was chilly, but the fire flooded our shanty with its warm glow. What with the light and the boughs under us, and the strangeness of the black forest, we got little sleep. I heard the gun roar late in the night, and when I woke again, Uncle Ebb and Tip Taylor were standing over the fire in the chilly gray of the morning. A dead deer hung on the limb of a tree nearby. They began dressing it while Gerald and I went to the spring for water, peeled potatoes, and got the pots boiling. After a hearty breakfast, we packed up and were soon on the road again, reaching Blueberry Lake before noon. There, we hired a boat of the lonely keeper of the reservoir, found an abandoned camp with an excellent bark shanty, and made ourselves at home. That evening in camp was one to be remembered. On Thomas, the guide who tended the reservoir, came over and sat beside our fire until bedtime. He had spent years in the wilderness going out for nothing less important than an annual spree at circus time. He eyed us over, each in turn, as if he thought us all very rare and interesting. Many bears here, Uncle Ebb inquired. More plenty in human beings, he answered, puffing lazily at his pipe with a dead calm in his voice and manner that I have never seen equaled except in a tropic sea. See him often, I asked. He emptied his pipe, striking it on his palm until the bowl rang without answering. Then he blew into the stem with great violence. Three or four in a summer, maybe, he said at length. Ever get sassy? Uncle Ebb asked. He whipped a coal out of the ashes, then, and lifted it in his fingers to the bowl of his pipe. Never real sassy, he said between vigorous puffs. One stole a ham off my piazz last summer. Al Fifield brought it in for me one day. Smelt good, too. I kept savin' it as thinkin' I'd enjoy it all the more when I did have it. One day I went off cuttin' timber and stayed till most night. Comin' home I got to thinkin' of that ham and made up my mind I'd have some for supper. The more I thought of it, the faster I hurried, and when I got home I was hungrier and I'd been for a year. When I see the old bear's tracks and the empty peg where the ham had hung, I went to work and got mad. Then I started after that bear. Tracked him over yonder, up Cat Mountain. Here Ab paused. He had a way of stopping always at the most interesting point to puff at his pipe. It looked as if he were getting upstream for another sentence, and these delays had the effect of continued in our next. "'Kill him?' Uncle Eb asked. "'Lick him,' he said. "'Huh!' we remarked incredulously. "'Lick him,' he repeated, chuckling. Went into his cave with a sledge-stake and wailed him, wailed him till he run for his life. Whether it was true or not I have never been sure, even to this day, but Ab's manner was at once modest and convincing. "'Should have thought he'd harassed with you,' Uncle Eb remarked. "'Didn't give him time,' said Ab, as he took out his knife and began slowly to sharpen a stick. "'Don't ever want to wrestle with no bear,' he added, but Ham's is too scarce here in the woods to have him took away, before you know the taste of him. "'I ain't never been hard on bears. Don't seldom ever set no traps, and I ain't shot a bear for more than ten years. But they've got to be decent. If any bear steals my vitals, he's going to get cuffed hard.' Ab's tongue had limbered up at last. His pipe was going well, and he seemed to have struck an easy grade. There was a tone of injury and agreement in his talk of the bears in gratitude. He snailed over his whittling as we laughed heartily at the droll effect of it all. "'Do you ever hear of the wild man that roams round these woods?' he asked. "'Never did,' said Uncle Eb. "'I've seen him more times, and you could shake a stick at,' said Ab, crossing his legs comfortably and spitting into the fire. "'Kinda think he's the same man folks tell of down in Paradise Valley there. That goes around in the clear and after bedtime.' "'The night man,' I exclaimed. "'Guess that's what they call him,' said Ab. "'Curious man. Sometimes I've had a good squint at him, off in the woods. He's wilder in a deer, and I've seen him jump over logs half as high as this shanty, just as easy as you'd hop a twig. Tried to follow him once or twice, but ain't no use. He's quicker in a wildcat.' "'What kind of a looking man is he?' tipped Taylor asked. "'Great, big, broad-shouldered fellow,' said Ab. "'Six feet tall if he's an inch. He'd a kind of a deerskin jacket on when I seen him, and britches and moccasins made a some kind of hide. I recollect one day I was over on the ridge, two mile or more from the still water, going south. I seen him getting a drink at the spring there and the burnt timber, and if I ain't mistaken, there was a real-life panther playing round him. If it wasn't a panther to his pesky niat, I can tell you. The critter see me fast and drew up his back. Then the man got up quicker in a flash. Soon as he see me, jeeminy, didn't they move? Never see no human critter run as he did. A big tree had fell across a lot of bush right in his path. I'll be gall-dumbed if it wasn't higher in my head, but he cleared it just as easy as a grasshopper'd go over a straw. I'd like to know where he comes from, gall-dumbed if I wouldn't. He's the concerned in this queerest animal in these woods. Ab emphasized this lucid view of the night-man by an animated movement of his fist that held the big hunting-knife with which he whittled. Then he emptied his pipe and began cutting more tobacco. Some say he's a ghost, said Tip Taylor, splitting his sentence with a yawn as he lay on a buffalo-robe in the shanty. Shucks and shoestrings, said Ab. He looks too natural. Don't believe no ghost ever wore whiskers and long hair like his, and that don't hold a reason. This remark was followed by dead silence. Tip seemed to lack both courage and information with which to prolong the argument. Gerald had long been asleep, and we were all worn out with uphill traveling and the lack of rest. Uncle Ebb went out to look after the horses that were tethered near us. Ab Rose looked up through the treetops, ventured a guess about the weather, and strode off into the darkness. We were five days in camp, hunting, fishing, fighting flies, and picking blueberries. Gerald's cough had not improved at all. It was, if anything, a bit worse than it had been, and the worry of that had clouded our holiday. We were not in high spirits when, finally, we decided to break camp the next afternoon. The morning of our fourth day at Blueberry, Uncle Ebb and I crossed the lake at daylight to fish a while in Soda Brook and gather orchids, then abundant and beautiful in that part of the woods. We headed for camp at noon and were well away from shore when a wild yell rang in the dead timber that choked the wide inlet behind us. I was rowing and stopped the oars while we both looked back at the naked trees, belly deep in the water. But for the dry limbs here and there, they would have looked like masts of sunken ships. In a moment another wild whoop came rushing over the water, thinking it might be somebody in trouble we worked about and pulled for the mouth of the inlet. Suddenly I saw a boat coming in the dead timber. There were three men in it, two of whom were paddling. They yelled like madmen as they caught sight of us, and one of them waved a bottle in the air. Their Indians, said Uncle Ebb, drunk as lords, guess we'd better get out of the way. I put about, and with a hearty pull made for the other side of the lake, three miles away. The Indians came after us, their yells echoing in the far forest. Suddenly one of them lifted his rifle, as if taking aim at us, and bang it went the ball ricocheting across our bows. Crazy drunk, said Uncle Ebb, and they're in for trouble. Pull with all your might. I did that same putting my arms so stiffly to their task I feared the oars would break. In a moment another ball came splintering the gunnels right between us, but fortunately well above the waterline. Being half a mile from shore I saw we were in great peril. Uncle Ebb reached for his rifle, his hand trembling. Sink them, I shouted, and do it quick or they'll sink us. My old companion took careful aim and his ball hit them right on the starboard bow below the waterline. A splash told where it had landed. They stopped yelling. The man in the bow clapped his hat against the side of the boat. Guess we've given him a little business to tend to, said Uncle Ebb, as he made haste to load his rifle. The Indian at the bow was lifting his rifle again. He seemed to reel as he took aim. He was very slow about it. I kept pulling as I watched him. I saw that their boat was slowly sinking. I had a strange fear that he would hit me in the stomach. I dodged when I saw the flash of his rifle. His ball struck the water ten feet away from us and threw a spray into my face. Uncle Ebb had lifted his rifle to shoot again. Suddenly the Indian, who had shot at us, went overboard. In a second they were all in the water. Their boat bought him up. Now take your time, said Uncle Ebb coolly, a frown upon his face. They'll drown, said I. Don't care if they do, consarn him, he answered. There's some of them St. Regis devils and when they get whiskey in them they'd just as soon kill you as look at you. They ain't no better than rats. We kept on our way and by and by a wind came up that gave us both some comfort, for we knew it would soon blow them ashore. Ab Thomas had come to our camp and sat with Tip and Gerald when we got there. We told of our adventure and then Ab gave us a bad turn and a proper appreciation of our luck by telling us that they were a gang of cutthroats, the worst in the wilderness. There to rob you, sure, he said. It's the same gang that killed a man on Cat Mountain last summer and I'll bet a dollar on it. Tip had everything ready for our journey home. Each day Gerald had grown paler and thinner. As we wrapped him in a shawl and tenderly helped him into the wagon I read his doom in his face. We saw so much of that kind of thing in our stern climate we knew what it meant. Our fun was over. We sat in silence, speeding down the long hills in the fading light of the afternoon. Those few solemn hours in which I heard only the wagons rumble and the sweet calls of the whipper-will waves of music on a sea of silence started me in a way of thought which has led me high and low these many years and still invites me. The day was near its end when we got to the first big clearing. From the top of a high hill we could see above the far forest the red rim of the setting sun, big with winding from the skein of day that was now flying off the treetops in the west. We stopped to feed the horses and to take a bite of jerked venison, wrapped ourselves warmer, for it was now dank and chilly, and went on again. The road went mostly downhill, going out of the woods, and we could make good time. It was near midnight when we drove in at our gate. There was a light in the sitting-room, and Uncle Eb and I went in with Gerald at once. Elizabeth Brower knelt at the feet of her son, unbuttoned his coat and took off his muffler. Then she put her arms about his neck while neither spoke nor uttered any sound. Both mother and son felt and understood, and were silent. The ancient law of God that rends asunder and makes havoc of our plans bore heavy on them in that moment, I have no doubt, but neither murmured. Uncle Eb began to pump vigorously at the cistern while David fussed with the fire. We were all quaking inwardly, but neither betrayed a sign of it. It is a way the Puritan has of suffering. His emotions are like the deep undercurrents of the sea. A Tale of the North Country by Irving Batchelor Chapter 17 If I were writing a novel merely I should try to fill it with merriment and good cheer. I should thrust no sorrow upon the reader, save that he might feel for having wasted his time. We have small need of manufactured sorrow when, truly, there is so much of the real thing on every side of us. But this book is nothing more nor less than a history, and by the same token it cannot be all as I would have wished it. In October, following the events of the last chapter, Gerald died of consumption, having borne a lingering illness with great fortitude. I, who had come there a homeless orphan in a basket and who, with the God-given eloquence of childhood, had brought them to take me to their hearts and the old man that was with me as well, was now the only son left to Elizabeth and David Brower. There were those who called it folly at the time they took us in, I have heard, but he who shall read this history to the end shall see how that kind of folly may profit one or even many here in this hard world. It was a gloomy summer for all of us, the industry and patients with which hope bore her trial night and day is the sweetest recollection of my youth. It brought to her a young face a tender soberness of womanhood, a subtle change of expression that made her all the more dear to me. Every day, rain or shine, the old doctor had come to visit his patient, sometimes sitting an hour and gazing thoughtfully in his face, occasionally asking a question or telling a quaint anecdote, and then came the end. The sky was cold and gray in the late autumn and the leaves were drifted deep in the edge of the woodlands when hope and I went away to school together at Hillsborough. Uncle Ebb drove us to our boarding place in town. When we bade him good-bye and saw him driving away, alone in the wagon, we hardly dared look at each other for the tears in our eyes. David Brower had taken board for us at the house of one Solomon Rollan, universally known as Cookie Rollan. That was one of the first things I learned at the academy. It seemed that many years ago he had taken his girl to a dance and offered her, in lieu of supper, cookies that he had thoughtfully brought with him. Thus cheaply he had come to lifelong distinction. You know Rollan's ancient history, don't you? The young man asked who sat with me at school that first day. Have it at home, I answered. It's in five volumes. I mean the history of Saul Rollan, the man you are boarding with, said he, smiling at me, and then he told the story of the cookies. The principal of the Hillsborough Academy was a big Brony bachelor of Scotch descent, with a stern face and cold gray, glaring eyes. When he stood towering above us on his platform in the main room of the building where I sat, there was an alertness in his figure and a look of responsibility in his face that reminded me of the pictures of Napoleon at Waterloo. He always carried a stout ruler that had blistered a shank of every mischievous boy in the building. As he stood by the line that came marching into prayers every morning, he would frequently pull out a boy, administer a loud whack or two, shake him violently, and force him into a seat. The day I began my studies at the Academy, I saw him put two dents in the wall with the heels of a young man who had failed in his algebra. To a bashful and sensitive youth, just out of a country home, the sight of such violence was appalling. My first talk with him, however, renewed my courage. He had heard I was a good scholar and talked with me in a friendly way about my plans. Both Hope and I were under him in algebra and Latin. I well remember my first error in his class. I had misconstrued a Latin sentence. He looked at me, a smile and a sneer crowding each other for possession of his face. In a loud, jeering tone, he cried, MIRABILE DICTU. I looked at him in doubt of his meaning. MIRABILE DICTU. He shouted, his tongue trilling the R. I corrected my error. MIRABILE DICTU. Perfect! he cried again. Next! He never went further than that with me in the way of correction. My size and my skill as a wrestler that shortly ensured me of the respect of the boys helped me to win the esteem of the master. I learned my lesson and kept out of mischief. But others of equal proficiency were not so fortunate. He was apt to be hard on a light man who could be handled without overexertion. Uncle Ebb came in to see me one day and sat a while with me in my seat. While he was there the master took a boy by the collar and almost literally wiped the blackboard with him. There was a great clatter of heels for a moment. Uncle Ebb went away shortly and was at Saul Rollins' when I came to dinner. Powerful man, A.D., said Uncle Ebb. Rather, I said, turned that boy into a regular horse fiddle, he remarked. Must have unsought his reason. Unnecessary, I said. Reminded me of the time that Tip Taylor got his tooth pulled, said he, shook him up so that he thought he had his neck put out a joint. Saul Rollins was one of my studies that winter. He was a carpenter by trade and his oddities were new and delightful. He whistled as he worked. He whistled as he read. He whistled right merrily as he walked up and down the streets. A short, slight figure with a round boyish face and a fringe of iron gray hair under his chin. The little man had one big passion, that forgetting and saving. The ancient thrift of his race had pinched him small and narrow as a foot is stunted by a tight shoe. His mind was a bit out of register, as we say in the printing business. His vocabulary was rich and vivid and stimulating. Somebody broke into the arsenic today, he announced one evening at the supper table. The arsenic, said somebody. What arsenic? Why, the place where they keep the powder, he answered. Oh, the arsenal. Yes, the arsenal, he said, cackling with laughter at his error. Then he grew serious. Stole all the ambition out of it, he added. You mean ammunition, don't you, Solomon? His wife inquired. Certainly, said he. Wasn't that what I said? When he had said a thing that met his own approval, Saul Rowland would cackle most cheerfully and then crack a knuckle by twisting a finger. His laugh was mostly out of register also. It had a sad lack of relevancy. He laughed on principle rather than provocation. Some sort of secret comedy of which the world knew nothing was passing in his mind. It seemed to have its exits and its entrances, its villain, its clown, and its miser who got all the applause. While working, his joy was unconfined. Many a time I have sat and watched him in his little shop, its window dim with cobwebs. Sometimes he would stop whistling and cackle heartily, as he worked his plane or drew his pencil to the square. I have even seen him drop his tools and give his undivided attention to laughter. He did not like to be interrupted. He loved his own company the best while he was doing business. I went one day when he was singing the two lines and their quaint chorus which was all he ever sang in my hearing, which gave him great relief, I have no doubt, when lip-weary with whistling. Says I, Daniel Skinner, I thank your mighty mean to send me up the river with a seven-dollar team. Lully, ully, diddy, ully, diddly, oh, lidy, oh, lily, oh, lily, diddly, oh, lily, diddly, oh, lidy. Mr. Rowland, I said. Yes, sirree, said he, pausing in the midst of his chorus to look up at me. Where can I get a piece of yellow pine? See, in a minute, he said, then he continued to sing and his song. Says I, Dan Skinner, I thank your mighty mean. What do you want it for? he asked, stopping abruptly. Going to make a ruler, I answered. To send me up the river with a seven-dollar team, he went on, picking out a piece of smooth, plain lumber and handing it to me. How much is it worth? I inquired. He whistled a moment as he surveyed it carefully. About one cent, he answered, seriously. I handed him the money and sat down a while to watch him as he went on with his work. It was the cheapest amusement I have yet enjoyed. Indeed, Saul Rowland became a dissipation, a subtle and seductive habit that grew upon me, and on one pretext or another I went every Saturday to the shop, if I had not gone home. What you going to be? He stopped his saw and looked at me, waiting for my answer. At last the time had come when I must declare myself, and I did. A journalist, I replied. What's that? he inquired curiously. An editor, I said. A printer man? A printer man? Huh! said he. Maybe I'll give you a job. Sarri told me I'd ought to have some cards printed. I'll want good plain print, Solomon Rowland's, Carpenter and Joiner, Hillsborough, New York. Sounds pretty good, don't it? Beautiful, I answered. I'll get a bit lot on him, he said. I'll want one for Sister Susan, that's out in Minnesota. No, I guess I'll send her two, so she can give one away, and one for my brother, Aliphelet, and one apiece for my three cousins over in Vermont, and one for my Aunt Miranda. Let's see, two and one is three, and three is six, and one is seven. Then I'll get a few struck off for the folks here, guess they'll think I'm getting up in the world. He shook and snickered with anticipation of the glory of it. Pure vanity inspired him in the matter, and it had in it no vulgar consideration of business policy. He whistled a lively tune as he bent to his work again. Your sister says you're a splendid scholar, said he. Her and her bragging about you till the night, she thinks a good deal of her brother, I can tell you. Guess I know what she's going to give you Christmas. What's that, I asked, with a curiosity more youthful than becoming. Don't you never let on, said he. Never, said I. Her and him tell, he said, it was a gold lock up with her picture in it. Oh, a locket, I exclaimed. That's it, he replied, and pure gold, too. I turned to go. Hope she'll grow up a savin' woman, he remarked. Afraid she won't ever be very good to the world. Why not, I inquired. Hands are too little and white, he answered. She won't have to, I said. He cackled up roriously for a moment, then grew serious. Her father's rich, he said, the richest man afar away, and I guess she won't ever have anything to do, but sit and sing and play the melodium. She can do as she likes, I said. He stood a moment looking down, as if meditating on the delights he had pictured. Goal, he exclaimed suddenly. My subject had begun to study me, and I came away to escape further examination. End of Chapter 17, Recording by Roger Maline Chapter 18 of Eben Holden This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Roger Maline Eben Holden A Tale of the North Country by Irving Batchelor Chapter 18 I ought to say that I have had and shall have to chronicle herein much that would seem to indicate a mighty conceit of myself. Unfortunately the little word I throws a big shadow in this history. It looms up all too frequently in every page for the sign of a modest man. But indeed I cannot help it, for he was the only observer of all there is to tell. Now there is much, for example, in the very marrow of my history, things that never would have happened, things that never would have been said, but for my fame as a scholar. My learning was of small account, for it must be remembered I am writing of a time when any degree of scholarship was counted remarkable among the simple folk of far away. Hope took singing lessons and sang in church every Sunday. David or Uncle Eb came down for us often of a Saturday, and brought us back before service in the morning. One may find in that town to-day many who will love to tell him of the voice and beauty and sweetness of Hope Brower those days, and of what they expected regarding her and me. We went out a good deal, evenings to concerts, lectures at the churches or the college, or to visit some of the many people who invited us to their homes. We had a recess of two weeks at the winter holidays, and David Brower came after us the day the term ended. Oh, the great happiness of that day before Christmas, when we came flying home in the sleigh, behind a new team of greys, and felt the intoxication of the frosty air, and drove in at dusk after the lamps were lit, and we could see Mother and Uncle Eb and Grandma Bissnette looking out of the window, and a steaming dinner on the table. I declare, it is long since then, but I cannot ever think of that time without wiping my glasses and taking a moment off. Tip Taylor took the horses, and we all came in where the kettle was singing on the stove, and loving hands helped us out of our wraps. The supper was a merry feast, the like of which one may find only by returning to his boyhood. Mack, that is a long journey for some of us. Supper over, and the dishes out of the way, we gathered about the stove with cider and butternuts. Well, said Hope, I've got some news to tell you. This boy is the best scholar of his age in this county. That's so, said David. Uncle Eb stopped his hammer that was lifted to crack a butternut, and pulled his chair close to Hope's. Elizabeth looked at her daughter, and then at me, a smile and a protest in her face. True as you live, said Hope, the master told me so. He's first in everything, and in the town hall the other night he spelt everybody's down. What? In Hillsborough? Uncle Eb asked incredulously. Yes, in Hillsborough, said Hope, and there were doctors and lawyers and college students, and I don't know who all in the match. Most remarkable, said David Brower. Tremenges, exclaimed Uncle Eb. I heard about it over at the Mills today, said Tip Taylor. Merdea, exclaimed Grandma Besnette, crossing herself. Elizabeth Brower was unable to stem this tide of enthusiasm. I had tried to stop it, but instantly it had gone beyond my control. If I could be hurt by praise, the mischief had been done. It's very nice indeed, said she soberly. I do hope it won't make him conceited. He should remember that people do not always mean what they say. He's too sensible for that, mother, said David. Shocks, said Uncle Eb. He ain't no fool if he is a good speller, not by a dumb sight. Tip, said David, you'll find a box in the sleigh, it'd come by express. I wish you'd go and get it. We all stood looking while Tip brought it in and pried off the top boards with a hatchet. Careful now, Uncle Eb cautioned him. Might spoil something. The top off Uncle Eb removed a layer of pasteboard. Then he pulled out a lot of colored tissue paper, and under that was a package wrapped and tied. Something was written on it. He held it up and tried to read the writing. Can't see without my spectacles, he said, handing it to me. For hope, I read as I passed it to her. Hooray! said Uncle Eb as he lifted another and the last package from the box. For Mrs. Brower, were the words I read upon that one. The strings were cut, the wrappers torn away, and two big rolls of shiny silk loosened their coils on the table. Hope uttered a cry of delight. A murmur of surprise and admiration passed from one to another. Elizabeth lifted a rustling fold and held it to the lamplight. We passed our hands over the smooth sheen of the silk. Well, I swan, said Uncle Eb, just like a kitten's ear. Exactly, said David Brower. Elizabeth lifted the silk and let it flow to her feet. Then for a little she looked down, draping it to her skirt and moving her foot to make the silk rustle. For the moment she was young again. David, she said, still looking at the glory of glossy black that covered her plain dress. Well, Mother, he answered. Was you fool enough to go and buy this stuff for me? No, Mother, it came from New York City, he said. From New York City was the exclamation of all. Elizabeth Brower looked thoughtfully at her husband. Clear from New York City, she repeated. From New York City, said he. Well, of all things, said Uncle Eb, looking over his spectacles from one to another. It's from the Livingston Boy, said Mrs. Brower. I've heard he's the son of a rich man. Afraid he took a great fancy to hope, said David. Father, said the girl, you've no right to say that. I'm sure he never cared a straw for me. I don't think we ought to keep it, said Mrs. Brower, looking up thoughtfully. Shucks and shavens, said Uncle Eb. You don't know but what I had it sent myself. Hope went over and put her arms around his neck. Did you, Uncle Eb? she asked. Now you tell me the truth, Uncle Eb. Wouldn't say it I did, he answered. But I don't want to see you go sending of it back. You don't know who sent it. What'll I do with it? Mrs. Brower asked, laughing in a way that showed a sense of absurdity. I'd have been tickled with it thirty years ago, but now folks would think I was crazy. Never heard such foldy roll, said Uncle Eb. If you move to the village it'll come handy to go to meetin' in. That seemed to be unanswerable and conclusive, at least for the time being, and the silk was laid away. We sat talking until late bedtime, hope and I, telling of our studies and of the many people we had met in Hillsborough. We hung up our stockings just as we had always done Christmas Eve, and were up betimes in the morning to find them filled with many simple but delightful things, and one which I treasure to this day, the locket and its picture of which I had been surreptitiously informed. At two o'clock we had a fine dinner of roast turkey and chicken pie, with plenty of good cider, and the mince pie of blessed memory, such as only a daughter of New England may dare try to make. Uncle Eb went upstairs after dinner, and presently we heard him descending with a slow and heavy foot. I opened the stair door, and there he stood with the old base vile that had long lain neglected in a dusty corner of the attic. Many a night I had heard it groan as the strings loosened, in the years it had lain on its back, helpless and forgotten. It was like a dreamer snoring in his sleep and murmuring of that he saw in his dreams. Uncle Eb had dusted and strung it and glued its weaker joints. He sat down with it, the severe look of old upon his face, and set the strings roaring as he tuned them. Then he brought the sacred treasure to me and leaned it against my shoulder. That there's a Christmas present for you, Willie, said he. It may help you to pass away the time once in a while. I thanked him warmly. It's a real first-class instrument, he said, been a ripped snorter in its day. He took from his bosom, then, the old heartpin of silver that he had always worn of a Sunday. Going to give you that, too, he said. Don't know if you'll ever care to wear it, but I want you should have something you can carry in your pocket to remember me by. I did not dare trust myself to speak, and I sat helplessly turning that relic of a better day in my fingers. It's genuine silver, said he, proudly. I took his old hand in mine and raised it reverently to my lips. Here and I'm tell about going to the village, and I says to myself, Uncle Ebb says I will have to be going. Take no place for you in the village. Holden, said David Brower, don't you ever talk like that again. You're just the same as married to this family, and you can't ever get away from us. And he never did until his help was needed in other and fairer fields, I am sure, than those of far away. God knows where. End of Chapter 18. Recording by Roger Maline. Chapter 19 of Ebb and Holden. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Roger Maline. Ebb and Holden, a tale of the North Country, by Irving Batchelor. Chapter 19. Tip Taylor was, in the main, a serious-minded man. A cross eye enhanced the natural solemnity of his countenance. He was little given to talk or laughter unless he were on a hunt, and then he only whispered his joy. He had seen a good bit of the world through the peak side of his rifle, and there was something always in the feel of a gun that lifted him to higher moods. And yet one could reach a tender spot on him without the aid of a gun. That winter vacation I set myself to study things for a declamation, specimens of the eloquence of Daniel Webster and Henry Clay, and James Otis and Patrick Henry. I practiced them in the barn, often in sight and hearing of the assembled herd, and some of those fiery passages were rather too loud and threatening for the peace and comfort of my audience. The oxen always seemed to be expecting the sting of the bullwhip. They stared at me timidly, tilting their ears every moment, as if to empty them of a heavy load, while the horses snorted with apprehension. This haranging of the herd had been going on a week or more when Uncle Eb and I, returning from a distant part of the farm, heard a great uproar in the stable. Looking in at a window we saw Tip Taylor, his back toward us, extemporizing a speech. He was pressing his argument with gestures and the tone of thunder. We listened a moment, while a worried look came over the face of Uncle Eb. Tip's words were meaningless, save for the secret aspiration they served to advertise. My old companion thought Tip had gone crazy, and immediately swung the door and stepped in. The orator fell suddenly from his lofty attitude, and became a very sober-looking hired man. What's the matter, Uncle Eb inquired? Practicing, said Tip soberly as he turned slowly, his face damp and red with exertion. For what, Uncle Eb inquired? For the asylum, I guess, he answered with a faint smile. You don't need no more practice, Uncle Eb answered. Looks to me as though you was pretty well prepared. To me there was a touch of pathos in this show of the deeper things in Tip's nature that had been kindled to eruption by my spouting. He would not come into dinner that day. Probably from an unfounded fear that we would make fun of his flight, a thing we should have been far from doing once we understood him. It was a bitter day of one of the coldest winters we had ever known. A shrieking wind came over the hills, driving a scud of snow before it. The stock in the stables we all came in soon after dinner and sat comfortably by the fire with cider, checkers, and old sledge. The dismal roar of the trees and the wind-whale in the chimney served only to increase our pleasure. It was growing dusk when mother, peering through the sheath of frost on a window-paint, uttered an exclamation of surprise. Why, who is this at the door? said she. Why, it's a man in a cutter! Father was near the door and he swung it open quickly. There stood a horse and cutter, a man sitting in it, heavily muffled. The horse was shivering and the man sat motionless. Hello! said David Brower in a loud voice. He got no answer and ran bare-headed to the sleigh. Come quick, Holden! he called. It's Dr. Bigsby. We all ran out, then, while David lifted the still figure in his arms. In here, quick! said Elizabeth, opening the door to the parlor. Mustn't take him near the stove! We carried him into the cold room and laid him down, and David and I tore his wraps open while the others ran quickly after snow. I rubbed it vigorously upon his face and ears, the others meantime applying it to his feet and arms, that had been quickly stripped. The doctor stared at us curiously and tried to speak. Get up, Dobbin! he called presently and ducked as if urging his horse. Get up, Dobbin! Man'll die before we get there! We all worked upon him with might and main. The white went slowly out of his face. We lifted him to a sitting posture. Mother and Hope and Uncle Eb were rubbing his hands and feet. Where am I? he inquired, his face now badly swollen. At David Browers, said I. Huh? he asked, with that kindly and familiar grunt of interrogation. At David Browers, I repeated. Well, I'll have to hurry, said he, trying feebly to rise. Man's dying over! he hesitated thoughtfully. On the planes, he added, looking around at us. Grandma Bissnett brought a lamp and held it so the light fell on his face. He looked from one to another. He drew one of his hands away and stared at it. Somebody froze, he asked. Yes, said I. Hmm! too bad. How did it happen? he asked. I don't know. How's the pulse? he inquired, feeling for my wrist. I let him hold it in his hand. Will you bring me some water and a glass? He inquired, turning to Mrs. Brower, just as I had seen him do many a time in Gerald's illness. Before she came with the water, his head fell forward upon his breast, while he muttered feebly. I thought then he was dead, but presently he roused himself with a mighty effort. David Brower! he called loudly and, trying hard to rise, bring the horse, bring the horse! Must be going, I tell you. Man's dying over on the plains. He went limp as a rag, then. I could feel his heart leap and struggle feebly. There's a man dying here, said David Brower, in a low tone. You needn't rub no more. He's dead, Elizabeth whispered, holding his hand tenderly and looking into his half-closed eyes. Then for a moment she covered her own with her handkerchief, while David, in a low, calm tone that showed the depth of his feeling, told us what to do. Uncle Ebb and I watched that night, while Tip Taylor drove away to town. The body lay in the parlor, and we sat by the stove in the room adjoining. In a half whisper we talked of the sad event of the day. Never I'd have gone out on a day like this, said Uncle Ebb. Don't take much to freeze an old man. Got to thinking of what happened yesterday and forgot the cold, I said. Bad day to be absent-minded, whispered Uncle Ebb, as he rose and tiptoed to the window, and peered through the frosty pains. May a god faint or something. Old Haas brought him right here. Been here so often with him. He took the lantern and went out a moment. The door creaked upon its frosty hinges when he opened it. Thirty below zero, he whispered as he came in. Winds gone down a little bit, maybe. Uncanny noises broke in upon the stillness of the old house. Its timbers, racked in the mighty grip of the cold, creaked and settled. Sometimes there came a sharp, breaking sound, like the crack of bones. If any man ought to go to heaven, he had, said Uncle Ebb, as he drew on his boots. Think he's in heaven? I asked. Ain't a doubt of it, said he, as he chewed a moment, preparing for expectoration. What kind of a place do you think it is? I asked. For one thing, he said deliberately, nobody'll die there, lest he ought to. Don't believe there's going to be any need of swearing or quarreling. To my way of thinking it'll be a good deal, like Dave Brower's farm. Nice, smooth land and no stun on it, and hills and valleys and white clover aplenty, and wheat and corn higher in a man's head. No bull-thistles, no hard winters, no narrow contracted fools, no long faces, and plenty of work. Folks saying, how do you do, instead of goodbye, all the while, coming instead of gain? There's going to be some kind of fun there. I ain't no idea what is. Folks like it, and I kind of believe that when God's given a thing to everybody, he thinks pretty middle and well of it. Anyhow, it seems a hard thing to die, I remarked. Seems so, he said thoughtfully, just like everything else. Them that knows much about it don't have a great deal to say. Looks to me like this. I calculate, a man has on the average ten things his heart is sought on. What is the word I want? Treasures, I suggested. That's it, said he. Everyone has about ten treasures. Some have more, some less. Say one's his strength, one's his plan, the rest is them he loves, and the more he loves the better it is for him. Well, they begin to go one by one. Some die, some turn again them. Finds it hard to keep his allowance. When he's only nine, he's got exactly one-tenth of his dread of dying. By and by he counts up one, two, three, four, five, and that's all there is left. He figures it up careful. His strength is gone, his plan's a failure maybe, and this one's dead, and that one's dead, and tether one better be. Then it's about half ways with him. If he lives till the ten treasures is all gone, God gives him one more. That's death. And he can swap that off and get back all he's lost. Then he begins to think it's a pretty dumb good thing after all. Pretty good thing, after all, he repeated, gaping as he spoke. He began nodding shortly, and soon he went asleep in his chair. End of Chapter 19, Recording by Roger Maline Chapter 20 of Eben Holden This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Roger Maline Eben Holden, A Tale of the North Country, by Irving Batchelor Chapter 20 We went back to our work again shortly, the sweetness and the bitterness of life fresh in our remembrance. When we came back, hook and line, for another vacation, the fields were aglow with color, and the roads where Dr. Bigsby had felt the sting of death that winter day were now drifted with meadow music and the smell of clover. I had credibly taken examination for college, where I was to begin my course in the fall, with a scholarship. Hope had made remarkable progress in music, and was soon going to Ogdensburg for instruction. A year had gone nearly since Jed Ferry had cautioned me about falling in love. I had kept enough of my heart about me to do business with, but I had continued to feel an uncomfortable absence in the region of it. Young men at Hillsborough, many of whom I felt sure had a smarter look than I, had bid stubbornly for her favor. I wondered often it did not turn her head, this tribute of rustic admiration. But she seemed to be all unconscious of its cause, and went about her work with small conceit of herself. Many a time they had tried to take her from my arm at the church door, a good-natured phrase of youthful rivalry there in those days, but she had always said, laughingly, no thank you, and clung all the closer to me. Now, Jed Ferry had no knowledge of the worry it gave me, or of the peril it suggested. I knew that if I felt free to tell him all, he would give me other counsel. I was now seventeen, and she a bit older, and had I not heard of many young men and women who had been engaged, I even married at that age? Well, as it happened, a day before she left us, to go to her work in Ogdensburg, where she was to live with her uncle, I made an end of delay. I considered carefully what a man ought to say in the circumstances, and I thought I had no idea what to say. I was near an accurate notion. We were in the garden, together, the playground of our childhood. Hope, I have a secret to tell you, I said. A secret, she exclaimed eagerly. I love secrets. A great secret, I repeated, as I felt my face burning. Why, it must be something awful. Not very, I stammered. Having missed my cue from the beginning, I was now utterly confused. William, she exclaimed, what is the matter of you? I—I am in love, said I, very awkwardly. Is that all? she answered, a trace of humor in her tone. I thought it was bad news. I stooped to pick a rose, and handed it to her. Well, she remarked soberly, but smiling a little, as she lifted the rose to her lips. Is it any one I know? I felt it was going badly with me, but caught a sudden inspiration. You have never seen her, I said. If she had suspected the truth, I had turned the tables on her, and now she was guessing. A quick change came into her face, and for a moment it gave me confidence. Is she pretty? she asked, very seriously, as she dropped the flower, and looked down, crushing it beneath her foot. She is very beautiful. It is you, I love, hope. A flood of color came into her cheeks, then, as she stood a moment, looking down at the flower in silence. I shall keep your secret, she said tenderly, and hesitating as she spoke. And when you are through college, and you are older, and I am older, and you love me as you do now, I hope I shall love you too, as I do now. Her lips were trembling as she gave me that sweet assurance, dearer to me, far dearer than all else I remember of that golden time, and tears were coursing down her cheeks. For myself I was in a worse plight of emotion. I daresay she remembered also the look of my face in that moment. Do not speak of it again, she said, as we walked away together on the shorn sod of the orchard meadow, now sewn with apple-blossoms, until we are older, and if you never speak again, I shall know you, you do not love me any longer. The dinner horn sounded. We turned and walked slowly back. Do I look all right? she asked, turning her face to me, and smiling sweetly. All right, I said. Nobody would know that anyone loved you, except for your beauty and that one tear-track on your cheek. She wiped it away as she laughed. Mother knows anyway, she said, and she has given me good advice. Wait! she added, stopping and turning to me. Your eyes are wet. I felt for my handkerchief. Take mine, she said. Elder Wittmarsh was at the house, and they were all sitting down to dinner as we came in. Hello! said Uncle Eb. Here is a good-looking couple. We've got a chicken pie and a Baptist minister for dinner, and both good. Take your pew next to the minister, he added, as he held the chair for me. Then we all bowed our heads, and I fell to hearty amen for the elder's words. Oh, Lord, may all our doing and saying and eating and drinking of this day be done, as in thy sight for our eternal happiness, and for thy glory. Amen. We have our secrets, but guard them as we may. It is not long before others have them also. We do much talking without words. I once knew a man who did his drinking secretly, and his reeling in public, and thought he was fooling everybody. That shows how much easier it is for one to fool himself than to fool another. What is in a man's heart is on his face, and is shortly written all over him. Therein is a mighty lesson. Of all people I ever knew, Elizabeth Brower had the surest eye for looking into one's soul, and I, myself, have some gift of penetration. I knew shortly that Mrs. Brower, wise and prudent woman that she was, had suspected my love for hope and her love for me, and had told her what she ought to say if I spoke of it. The maturity of judgment in Hope's answer must have been the result of much thought and counsel, it seemed to me. If you do not speak again, I shall know you do not love me any longer, she had said. They were brave words that stood for something very deep in the character of those people, a self-repression that was sublime often in their women. As I said them to myself, those lonely summer days and far away, I saw in their sweet significance no hint of the bitterness they were to bring. But God knows I have had my share of pleasure and no more bitterness than I deserved. It was a lonely summer for me. I had letters from Hope, ten of them which I still keep and read, often with something of the old pleasure, girlish letters that told of her work and friends, and gave me some sweet counsel and much assurance between the lines. I travelled in new roads that vacation time. Politics and religion, as well as love, began to interest me. Slavery was looming into the proportion of a great issue, and the stories of cruelty and outrage on the plantations of the South stirred my young blood and made it ready for the letting of battle in God's time. The speeches in the Senate were read aloud in our sitting-room after supper, the day the Tribune came, and all lent a tongue to their discussion. Jed Fury was with us one evening, I remember, when our talk turned into long ways, the end of which I have never found to this day. Elizabeth had been reading of a slave who, according to the paper, had been whipped to death. If God knows that such things are being done, why don't he stop him? David asked. Can't very well, said Jed Fury. Can, if he's omnipotent, said David. That's a bad word, a dangerous one, said the old poet, dropping his dialect as he spoke. It makes God responsible for evil as well as good. The word carries us beyond our depth. It's too big for our boots. I'd rather think he can do what's doable and knows what's knowable. In the beginning he gave laws to the world, and these laws are unchangeable, or they are not wise and perfect. If God were to change them, he would thereby acknowledge their imperfection. By this law men and races suffer as they struggle upward. But if the law is unchangeable, can it be changed for a better cause, even then the relief of a whipped slave? In good time the law shall punish and relieve. The groans of them that suffer shall hasten it, but there shall be no change in the law. There can be no change in the law. Little hard to tell just how powerful God is, said Uncle Ebb. Good deal like trying to weigh Lake Champlain with a court pail and a pair of steel yards. If God's laws are unchangeable, what is the use of praying? I asked. He can give us the strength to bear, the will to obey him, and like to guide us, said the poet. I've written out a few lines to read to Bill here, before he goes off to college. They have something to say in this subject. The poem hints at things he ought to learn pretty soon, if he don't know them now. The old poet felt in his pockets, as he spoke, and withdrew a folded sheet of straw-colored wrapping paper and opened it. I was Bill, plain Bill to everybody in that country, where, as you increased your love of a man, you diminished his name. I had been called Willie, William, and Billy, and finally, when I threw the strong man of the township in a wrestling match, they gave me this fail-to-match. I bent over the shoulder of Jed Feary for a view of the manuscript, closely written with a lead pencil, and marked with many erasures. Let's hear it, said David Brower. Then I moved the lamp to his elbow, and he began reading. A talk with William Brower, on the occasion of his going away to college, and rid out in rhyme for him, by his friend Jedediah Feary, to be a token of respect. The man that loses faith in God, you'll find out, every time, has found a faith in his own self, that's mighty, nice, a blime. He knows as much as all the saints, and calls religion flighty, and in his narrow world assumes the place a God Almighty. But don't expect too much of God, it wouldn't be quite fair, if for everything you wanted, you could only swap a prayer. I'd pray for yours, and you for mine, and deacon Henry Hosper, he wouldn't have a thing to do, but lay a bed and prosper. If all things come so easy, Bill, that ev' but little worth, and someone with a gift of prayer that may be on the earth, it's the toil you give to get a thing, the sweat, and blood, and trouble we reckon by, and every tear will make its value double. There's a money of the soul, my boy, you'll find in, after years, its pennies are the sweat drops, and its debt is the price its pennies are the sweat drops, and its dollars are the tears. And love is the redeeming gold that measures what they're worth, and you'll get as much in heaven as you've given out on earth. For the record of your doing, I believe the soul is planned with an automatic register to tell just how you stand, and it won't take any ciphering to show that fearful day, if you've multiplied your talents well or thrown them all away. When your feet are on the summit and the wide horizon clears, and you look back on your pathway, winding through the veil of tears, when you see how much you've trespassed and how fur you've gone astray, you'll know the way a providence ain't apt to be your way. God knows as much as can be known, but I don't think it's true, he knows of all the dangers in the path of me and you. If I shut my eyes and hurl a stone that kills the king as I am, the chances are that God'll be as much surprised as I am. If you pray with faith believing why you'll certainly receive, but that God does what's impossible is more than I'll believe, if it grieves him when a sparrow falls, it sure as anything, it have turned the arrow if he could that broke the sparrow's wing. You can read old nature's history that's written rocks and stones, you can see her throbbing vitals and her mighty rack of bones. But the soul of her, the living God, a little child may know, no lens or rule of ciphering can ever hope to show. There's a part of God's creation very handy to your view, all the truth of life is in it, and remember Bill, it's you. And after all your science you must look up in your mind and learn its own astronomy, the star apiece to find. There's good old Aunt Samantha Jane that all her journey long has led her heart to labor with a revelry of song. Her folks have robbed and left her, but her faith in goodness grows, she hasn't any learning, but I tell you Bill, she knows. She's had her share of troubles, I remember well the day we took her to the poor house, she was singing all the way. You needn't be afraid to come where stormy Jordan flows, if all the learning you can get has taught you half, she knows. I give this crude example of rustic philosophy, not because it has my endorsement, God knows I have ever felt it far beyond me, but because it is useful to those who may care to know the man who wrote it. I give it the poor fame of these pages with keen regret that my friend is now long past the praise or blame of this world. End of Chapter 21 Recording by Roger Moline Chapter 22 of Eben Holden This Libervox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Roger Moline Eben Holden A Tale of the North Country by Irving Batchelor Chapter 22 The horse played a part of no small importance in that country. He was the coin of the realm, a medium of exchange, a standard of value, an exponent of moral character. The man that travelled without a horse was on his way to the poor house. Uncle Ebb or David Brower could tell a good horse by the sound of his footsteps, and they brought into St. Lawrence County the Hottie Morgans from Vermont. There was more pride in their high heads than in any of the good people. A northern Yankee who was not carried away with a fine horse had excellent self-control. Politics and the steed were the only things that ever woke him to enthusiasm, and there a man was known as he traded. Uncle Ebb used to say that one ought always to underestimate his horses a little for the sake of a reputation. We needed another horse to help with the hang, and Bob Dean, a tricky trader who had heard of it, drove in after supper one evening and offered a rangy brown animal at a low figure. We looked him over, tried him up and down the road, and then David, with some shrewd suspicion as I divined later, said I could do as I pleased. I bought the horse and led him proudly to the stable. Next morning an Irishman, the extra man for the haying, came in with a worried look to breakfast. That new horse has a chittering kind of cough, he said. A cough, said I. Tamed just a cough, neither, he said, but a kind of tomb. With the last word he obligingly imitated the sound of the cough. It threw me into perspiration. Sounds bad, said Uncle Ebb as he looked at me and snickered. Frayed Bill ain't much of a jockey, said David, smiling. Got a grand appetite, that horse has, said Tip Taylor. After breakfast Uncle Ebb and I hitched him to the light buggy, and touched him up for a short journey down the road. In five minutes he had begun to heave and whistle. I felt sure one could have heard him half a mile away. Uncle Ebb stopped him and began to laugh. A whistler, said he. Sure's you're born. He ain't worth a bag of beans. But don't you never let on. When you get licked you mustn't never find fault. If anybody asks you about him, tell him he's all you expected. We stood waiting a moment for the horse to recover himself. A team was nearing us. There's Bob Dean, Uncle Ebb whispered. That darn scalla-wag. Don't you say a word now. Good morning, said Dean, smiling as he pulled up beside us. Nice, pleasant morning, said Uncle Ebb as he cast a glance into the sky. What you standin' here for? Dean asked. Uncle Ebb expectorated thoughtfully. Just a lookin' at the scenery, said he. Pretty country right here, always liked it. Nice lookin' hos you got there, said Dean. Grand hos, said Uncle Ebb, surveying him proudly. Most remarkable hos. Good stepper too, said Dean soberly. Splendid, said Uncle Ebb. Can go a mile without catchin' his breath. That's so, said Dean. Good deal like Lucy Purvis, Uncle Ebb added. She can say the whole multiplication table and only breathe once. You can learn somethin' from a hos like that. He's good as a district school, that hos is. Yes, sir, that hos is all right, said Dean as he drove away. Righter than I expected, Uncle Ebb shouted, and then he covered his mouth, shaking with suppressed laughter. Skunk, he said, as we turned the animal and started to walk him home. Don't mind bein' beat, but I don't like to have a man rub it in on me. I'll get even with him, maybe. And he did. It came about in this way. We turned our new purchase into the pasture, and Uncle Ebb and I drove away to Pottsdam for a better nag. We examined all the horses in that part of the country. At last we chanced upon one that looked like the whistler, save that he had a white stocking on one hind foot. Same age too, said Uncle Ebb, as he looked into his mouth. Can pass anything on the road, said his owner. Can he, said Uncle Ebb, who had no taste for slow going. Hitch him up, and let's see what he can do. He carried us faster than we had ever ridden before at a trot, and coming up behind another team, the man pulled out, let the reins loose on his back, and whistled. If any one had hit him with a log chain, the horse could not have moved quicker. He took us by the other team like a flash on the dead run, and three in the buggy. He'll do all right, said Uncle Ebb, and paid for the horse. It was long after dark when we started home, leading him behind, and near midnight when we arrived. In the morning I found Uncle Ebb in the stable, showing him to the other help. To my surprise the white stocking had disappeared. Didn't just like that white stocking, he said as I came in. Wondered how he'd look without it. They all agreed this horse and the whistler were as much alike as two peas in appearance. Breakfast over, Uncle Ebb asked the Irishman to hitch him up. Come, Bill, said he, let's take a ride. Dean will be coming along by and by, on his way to town, with that trottery hisn. Rather like to meet him. I had only a faint idea of his purpose. He let the horse step along at top speed, going up the road, and when we turned about, he was breathing heavily. We jogged him back down the road a mile or so, and when I saw the blazed face of Dean's mare in the distance, we pulled up and shortly stopped him. Dean came along in a moment. Nice morning, said he. Grand, said Uncle Ebb. Looking at the landscape again? Yes, I've just begun to see what a pretty country this is, said Uncle Ebb. How's the horse? Splendid. Gives you time to think and see what you're passing. Like to sit and think once in a while? We don't do enough thinking here in this part of the country. It ought to buy this mare and learn how to ride fast, said Dean. That one, said Uncle Ebb, squinting at the mare. Why, she can't go fast enough. She can't, eh? said Dean, bridling with injured pride. I don't think there's anything in this town can header. Thunder, said Uncle Ebb. I can go by her with this old plug easy to extir in our gate. He didn't know what he was selling. If you pass her once, I'll give her to you, said he. Mean it, said Uncle Ebb. Certain, said he, a little redder in the face. And if I don't, I'll give you the whistler, said Uncle Ebb, as he turned about. The mare went away under the whip before we had fairly started. She was going a fifty-shot, but in a moment we were lapping upon her hind wheel. Dean threw a startled glance over his shoulder. Then he shouted to the mare. She quickened her pace a little, but we kept our position. Uncle Ebb was leaning over the dasher, his white locks flying. He had something up his sleeve, as they say, and was not yet ready to use it. Then Dean began to shear over to cut us off, a nasty trick of a low horseman. I saw Uncle Ebb glance at the ditch ahead. I knew what was coming and took a firm hold of the seat. The ditch was a bit rough, but Uncle Ebb had no lack of courage. He turned the horse's head, led up on the reins, and whistled. I have never felt such a thrill as then. Our horse leaped into the deep grass, running like a wild deer. Hi there! Hi there! Uncle Ebb shouted, bouncing in his seat, as we went over stones and hummocks going like the wind. Go, you brown devil! he yelled, his hat flying off as he shook the reins. The mare lost her stride. We flashed by and came up into the road. Looking back, I saw her jumping up and down a long way behind us, and Dean whipping her. Uncle Ebb, his hands over the dasher, had pulled down to a trot. Ahead of us we could see our folks, men and women, at the gate looking down the road at us, waving hats and handkerchiefs. They had heard the noise of the battle. Uncle Ebb led up on the reins and looked back, snorting with amusement. In a moment we pulled up at our gate. Dean came along slowly. That's a pretty good mare, said Uncle Ebb. You're welcome to her, said Dean sullenly. Wouldn't have her, said Uncle Ebb. Why not? said the trader, a look of relief coming over his face. Can't go fast enough for my use, Uncle Ebb answered. You can just hitch her in here a while, and the first day you come over with a hundred dollars you can have her and the Whistler, both on them. That Whistler's a grand hoss, can hold his breath longer in any hoss I ever knew. The sum named was that we had paid him for the highly accomplished animal. Dean had the manhood to pay up then and there, and said he would send for the other horse, which he never did. Guess he won't bother us any more when we stop to look at the scenery, said Uncle Ebb, laughing as Dean drove away. Kind of a risky business, buying hosses, he added. Got to judge the owner as well as the hoss. If there's anything to matter with this conscience, it'll come out in the hoss somewhere, every time. Never knew a mean man to own a good hoss. Remember, boy, it's a lame soul that drives a limp and hoss. No use talking, Bill ain't no judge of a hoss, said David Brower. He'll have to have an education, or he'll get to the poor house some day certain. Well, he's a good judge of gals, anyway, said Uncle Ebb. As for myself, I was now hopelessly confirmed in my dislike of farming, and I never traded horses again. End of Chapter 22 Recording by Roger Maline Chapter 23 Of Ebb and Holden This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Roger Maline Ebb and Holden A Tale of the North Country By Irving Batchelor Chapter 23 Late in August, Uncle Ebb and I took our Blackhawk stallion to the fair in Hillsborough and chowed him for a prize. He was fit for the eye of a king when we had finished grooming him that morning and led him out, rearing in play, his eyes flashing from under his broad plume so that all might have a last look at him. His arched neck and slim barrel glowed like satin as the sunlight fell upon him. His black mane flew. He shook the ground with his hoofs, playing at the halter's end. He hated a harness and once in it lost half his conceit, but he was vainest of all things and far away when we drove off with him that morning. All roads led to Hillsborough fair time. Up and down the long hills we went on a stiff jog, passing lumber wagons with generations enough in them to make a respectable genealogy, the old people and chairs. Light wagons that carried young men in their sweethearts, back woodsmen coming out in ancient vehicles upon reeling, creaking wheels to get food for a year's reflection, all thickening the haze of the late summer with the dust of the roads. And Hillsborough itself was black with people, the shouts of excited men, the naing of horses, the bellowing of cattle, the wailing of infants, the howling of vendors, the pressing crowd had begun to sow the seed of misery in the minds of those accustomed only to the peaceful quietude of the farm. The staring eye, the palpitating heart, the aching head, were successive stages in the doom of many. The fair had its floral hall carpeted with sawdust and redolent of cedar, its dairy-house, its mechanics-hall, sacred to farming-implements, its long sheds full of sheep and cattle, its dining-hall, its temporary booths of rough lumber, its half-mile track and grandstand. Here voices of beast and vendor mingled in a chorus of cupidity and distress. In Floral Hall, Saul Rowland was on exhibition. He gave me a cold nod, his lips set for a tune as yet inaudible. He was surveying sundry examples of rustic art that hung in the circular railing of the gallery and trying to preserve a calm breast. He was looking at Susan Baker's painted cow that hung near us. Very descriptive, he said, when I pressed him for his notion of it. Rod Baker's sister, Susan, made that cow. Gets two dollars and fifty cents every fair time. Wish I was doing as well. That's one of the most profitable cows in this country, I said. Looks a good deal like a new breed. Yes, he answered soberly. Then he set his lips through a sweeping glance into the gallery and passed on. Susan Baker's cow was one of the permanent features of the county fair and was, indeed, a curiosity not less remarkable than the sacred ox of Mr. Barnum. Here also I met a group of the pretty girls who had been my schoolmates. They surrounded me, chattering like magpies. There's going to be a dance at our house tonight, and I must come. I cannot. I must go home, I said. Of course, said a red-cheeked saucy miss. The stuck-up thing. He wouldn't go anywhere unless he could have his sister with him. Then they went away, laughing. I found Ob Thomas at the rifle range. He was whittling as he considered a challenge. He turned and hefted the rifle silently, and then he squinted over the barrel two or three times. Don't know, but what I'll try you once, he said presently, just to see. Once started, they grew red in their faces, and shot themselves weary in a reckless contest of skill and endurance. A great hooligan, he said, said to me, a reckless contest of skill and endurance. A great hulking fellow, half drunk and a bit quarrelsome, came up presently and endeavored to help Ab hold his rifle. The latter brushed him away and said nothing for a moment. But every time he tried to take aim, the man jostled him. An looked up slowly and calmly, his eyebrows tilted for his aim, and said, Go off, I tell you. Then he set himself and took aim again. Let me hold it, said the man, reaching for the barrel. Shoot better if I do the aiming. A laugh greeted this remark. Ab looked up again. There was a quick start at his great slouching figure. Take your hand off of that, he said a little louder than before. The man, aching for more applause, grew more impertinent. Ab quietly handed the rifle to its owner. Then something happened suddenly. It was so quickly over, I am not quite sure of the order of business. But anyhow he seized the intruder by the shoulders, flinging him down so heavily it knocked the dust out of the grass. A fight! somebody shouted, and men and boys came running from all sides. We were locked in a pushing crowd before I could turn. The intruder lay stunned a moment. Then he rose, bareheaded, his back covered with dust, pushed his way out and ran. Ab turned quietly to the range. Hadn't ordered a come and try to do my aiming, he said mildly, by way of protest. I won't have it. Then he inquired about the score and calmly took aim again. The stallion show came on that afternoon. They can't never beat that, Hoss, Uncle Eb had said to me. Fray they will, I answered. They're better hitched for one thing. But they ain't got the ginger in them, said he, or the get-up-and-get. If we can show what's in them, the hawk'll beat him easy. If we won, I was to get the prize, but I had small hope of winning. When I saw one after another prance out, in sparkling silver harness adorned with rosettes of ribbon, light-stepping beautiful creatures, all of them, I could see nothing but defeat for us. Indeed, I could see we had been too confident. I dreaded the moment when Uncle Eb should drive down with Blackhawk in a plain leather harness, drawing a planer buggy. I had planned to spend the prize money taking hope to the harvest ball at Rickards, and I had worked hard to put the hawk in good fettle. I began to feel the bitterness of failure. Blackhawk! Where is Blackhawk? said one of the judges, loudly. Owned by David Brower, a far away, said another, looking at his card. Where indeed was Uncle Eb? I got up in the fence and looked all about me anxiously. Then I heard a great cheering up the track. Somebody was coming down at a rapid pace, riding a splendid moving animal, a knee rising to the nose at each powerful stride. His head and flying mane obscured the rider, but I could see the end of a rope swinging in his hand. There was something familiar in the easy high stride of the horse. The cheers came on ahead of him like foam before a breaker. Upon my eyes it was Blackhawk, with nothing but a plain rope halter on his head, and Uncle Eb riding him. Along there, he shouted, swinging the halter stale to the shining flank. Get along there! And he went by like a flash, the tail of Blackhawk straight out behind him, its head feathering in the wind. It was a splendid thing to see, that white-haired man, sitting erect on the flying animal, with only a rope halter in his hand. Every man about me was yelling. I swung my hat, shouting myself horse. When Uncle Eb came back, the hawk was walking quietly in a crowd of men and boys, eager to feel his silken sides. I crowded through and held the horse's nose while Uncle Eb got down. Thought I wouldn't put no leather on him, said Uncle Eb. God's given him a good enough harness. The judges came and looked him over. Guess he'll win the prize all right, said one of them. And he did. When we came home that evening, every horse on the road thought himself a trotter and went speeding to try his pace with everything that came up beside him. And many a man afar away that we passed sent up a shout of praise for the Blackhawk. But I was thinking of hope and the dance at Rickards. I had plenty of money now, and my next letter urged her to come home at once. END OF CHAPTER XXIII