University of Virginia Library

1. I.

“A capital fellow,” everybody said when speaking of Zeb,
for no one ever called him Zebulon—not even his brothers and
sisters: if you had called him Zebulon, he would have laughed
in your face. Poor fellow! I can see him now, in fancy, just as
I used to see him about the old farm-house when I was going to
school—always busy, and always cheerful, doing some good thing
or other, and laughing and whistling as he did so. Let me describe
him as I remember him, when he was perhaps sixteen,
and I quite a little girl. He was not handsome, but no one
thought whether he were or not, so good-humored and genial was
the expression of his countenance. He was a little below the ordinary
height, and stout rather than graceful, yet he was always
perfectly self-possessed, and so never awkward. His hair hung
in half curls of soft brown along a low white forehead, and a pair
of hazel eyes twinkled with laughter beneath. His face was full,
with the fresh glow of health breaking through the tan, for he
was a farmer's boy, and used to exposure and hard work; but
notwithstanding this, his hands and feet were delicately moulded
and beautiful.

At an early age he was fond of all manly exercises, and while
still a child would brave the severest cold with the fortitude of a
soldier. Many a time I have seen him chopping wood in the
mid-winter, without coat or hat, and standing knee-deep in the
snow: his hair tossing in the north wind, and his cheeks ruddy
as the air and exercise could make them. He was never too
busy to see me as I passed, or to whistle me a gay “good morning”
if I were near enough to hear it, and had often a pleasant
word or two beside. And I never forgot to look for him: children
are more fond of attentions than is apt to be imagined, and I perhaps

had the weakness in even an unusual degree. Commonly he
was chopping at the woodpile, but not always; sometimes I
would see him driving the oxen toward the woods, seated on the
cart-side, his great dog, Watcher, sitting beside him: he would not
see me, and straightway the distance before me seemed to lengthen,
and the winter wind to have a keener edge. Sometimes he was
about the barn, feeding the horses and cattle; and I remember
seeing him once on a distant hill, dispensing bundles of oats to the
sheep: he saw me, however, far as he was away, and waved a
bundle of the grain oats in friendly recognition.

Everybody in the neighborhood knew Zeb, and had a kind
word to say when they met him, for men and women, boys and
girls, were alike fond of his good nature; there was no distrust in
his brain: he never walked with an irresolute step, or rapped
at the proudest door with a misgiving heart, or doubted of the
cordial reception that waited him, wherever he might go. But
his confidence in the world was greater than its goodness warranted:
he did not recognize the weakness that is in humanity,
nor the weakness that was in himself, till too late. When he was
a little boy, he said often, “I will never be sick, and never die—I
will go out in the woods and sing.” And this was his spirit till
he grew into manhood.

Zeb had an only sister—Ruth, or Ruthy, as he always called
her, and the two children lived in the old farm-house with their
father, a querulous gray-headed man, who had long forgotten he
was ever young. He did not perhaps mean to be a hard master,
nevertheless he was so sometimes. “Use doth breed a habit in
a man,” and Mr. Sands, I suppose, became accustomed by little
and little to the much, to the all, his son did for him; so that at
last his expectations in regard to him could scarcely be equalled.
Sometimes Zeb would come in at night, weary and dusty with
the day's hard work, and, for his father's comfort, and perhaps in
the hope of a little praise, tell over what he had done; how he
had felled and chopped to firewood the most stubborn tree in the
forest, or, it might be, had plowed more ground than he had expected,
and so had unyoked the oxen before the sunlight was quite
gone. But never was he rejoiced by one word of congratulation.
If he had felled a tree, “Why, there was another knotty thing

close by—could he not have got that down too?” If he had
plowed more than another would have done, “He could have
plowed on yet for an hour—there was light enough.” This was
discouraging, but Zeb kept his patience through all, and tended
the farm year after year—giving all the profits that accrued into
the old man's hand, and keeping nothing for himself.

Ruth was as good as most persons, but less thoughtful of her
brother's pleasure than her own. “Zeb, I want to go to town
to-morrow, or next week,” she was accustomed to say, and before
the appointed time Zeb would haul the little wagon to the
creek, and wash the old paint to look as fresh as new. The corn
was left ungathered or the mowing undone, and Ruth went to town
and bought a new dress, and bonnet too, if she chose; and Zeb
said, “How pretty you will look when you wear them! you will
be ashamed to go with me in my threadbare coat and old hat: I
am rather behind the fashion, ain't I, Ruthy?” He laughed gaily
all the while, and Ruth laughed too—never thinking how many
new hats she had had since Zeb had once indulged in such a
luxury.

The grass was whitening in the hazy days of October; the orchards
were bright with ripe fruit, and the corn was rustling and
dry; it was the autumn that made Zeb twenty years old. His lip
was darkening a little from its boyish glow, and now and then
soberer moods came to him than he had known before. Across a
dry ridge of stubble land, overgrown with briers, he had been
plowing all the windy day; the oxen bent their heads low to the
ground as the dust blew in their faces, and Zeb took off his torn-brimmed
straw hat now and then, and shook out his curls. heavy
with sweat, and fell behind the team, as though thinking of other
things than his plowing. One side of the field was bordered by a
lane leading from the main road to an obscure neighborhood. It
was quite dusky where the lane struck into the woods, when a
lady came riding thence on a gay black horse, and seeing Zeb at
his plowing, tightened her rein, and, waiting for him to approach,
gave the salutation of the evening in a sweet, good-humored tone.
She was not dressed in the costume which ladies now-a-days think
indispensable for riding, but wore instead a straw hat with red
ribbons and a dress of sky-blue muslin—not trailing low, but so

short that her feet peeped now and then from beneath it. She sat
her horse gracefully, and her cheeks were deeply flushed, perhaps
from the proximity of the young farmer, perhaps merely from exercise;
and her black hair hung in curls down her shoulders, and
her black eyes sparkled with healthful happiness. So, altogether,
she made as pretty a finishing to the rural picture as one could
imagine. Certainly Zeb thought so, as leaning against the fence
be caressed the glossy neck of the horse, champing the bit and
pawing the dust impatiently; and as he stood there it might
have been noticed that he removed his hat, and so rolled the brim
in his hand as to conceal how badly it was torn. It was observable
too that he talked in a subdued tone and with downeast
eyes—very unlike his usual manner. After a brief delay, and a
little restrained conversation, the young woman rode forward,
putting her horse at once into a canter.

For five minutes or more Zeb lingered where she left him—not
looking after her, nor seeming to see anything, as he idly cut
letters in the fence-rail with his knife. Directly, however, he
took up his hat from the ground, upon which it had fallen, replaced
his knife in his pocket, drew a sigh, and began to unyoke
his team. But before he had quite freed the weary oxen he
looked up: the blue dress and red ribbons were yet visible in the
distance: he hesitated, and after a moment resumed his plowing,
whistling a merry tune, but so plaintively and with such variations
as made it sad almost as a dirge.

The pretty girl just riding out of sight is Molly Blake, a young
person who lives a mile or so beyond the woods that stand against
the field in which the youth is at work. Zeb and Molly once
stood together at spelling school, and Zeb spelled for her all the
hard words, in whispers; and on a time, while picking berries,
they chanced to meet, and it so happened that Zeb went home
with an empty basket, while Molly's was heaped full. The cause
of their seeing each other to-day is, that Molly is going to make
an apple-cutting in a night or two, and has given the earliest invitation
to Zeb. As he carved letters in the fence he was debating
whether he would go or not; and as he unyoked the oxen, he
was saying to himself, “I will go home and rest, I am tired;
and I can't go to the apple-cutting, at any rate, in my old clothes

and hat.” Still he hesitated, and as he did so, saw the blue
dress and red ribbons in the distance; then came the thought
that he might plow an hour or two more, and so gain time to go
to town with some oats or potatoes, and bring home such articles
as the frolic seemed to demand. And at this thought he resumed
his work.

It not unfrequently happens that a young man is not regarded
by his sisters as he is regarded by other women; such was the
case with Zeb; and on this special occasion Ruth never once
thought whether her brother had been invited to the party or
not, so engaged was she with her own plans and pleasures. It
chanced this evening, as such things will chance sometimes, that
supper was prepared an hour earlier than usual; and, until it was
too late for her to see, Ruth stood at the window, watching for
her brother to come home.

Meantime the fire burned out and the tea grew cold; and then
came impatience, and then petulance, so that Ruth said at last,
“Come, father, we will eat without him, and let him come when
he gets ready.”

But Zeb came pretty soon, wearied, but with a brain full of
pleasant thoughts, which shone out upon his manly countenance.
“Well, Ruthy, I am sorry I have kept you waiting,” he said, as
he drew water for his oxen at the well.

“I am sorry too,” she answered in a calm, decided tone, that
indicated a frigid state of feeling.

“Come, Ruthy, do n't be vexed,” said Zeb, laughing after the
old fashion, “but get my supper, while I turn the oxen into the
meadow—(you do n't know how tired and hungry I am)—and I
will tell you what detained me.”

“You need n't trouble yourself to do that,” she answered,
tossing her head, “it 's of no importance to me.”

Zeb pulled his old hat over his eyes, and walked soberly
away with his oxen, quite forgetting that he was either tired or
hungry. If Ruth felt any misgivings, pride kept them down;
and, to justify herself, she said, half aloud, “Well, I do n't care!
he had no business to stay away till midnight.” Nevertheless,
she arranged the supper as nicely as might be; but Zeb did
not come—his appetite had quite deserted him. Across the

meadow, near where the oxen were feeding, he lay on the
grass, the moonlight, flecked by the apple-boughs, falling over
and around him.

A day or two of unhappy reserve went by, Zeb remaining
little about the house, and saying little when he was there, but
plowing early and late, grieved rather than vexed. When he
spoke to Ruth, it was with words and in a manner studiously
kind, and with her duller sense she did not see that he was
changed, but a crisis had been reached at length in the young
farmer's life and nature.

The evening of so many happy anticipations was near at
hand. The morning was bright, and Zeb rose early, and was
busy with preparations for a little project he had in his mind,
when Ruth came out, and assisting him to lift a bag of potatoes
into the wagon, inquired whether he were going to town that
day: she would like to go, she said, if he could make room for
her. “I am invited to Molly Blake's to-morrow night,” she
continued, “and that is the reason I wish to go to town this
morning.” She did not ask Zeb if he also were invited: she
never thought of the possibility.

It was after noon before they reached the city, and leaving
his sister at the house of a cousin, in the suburbs, with a promise
of meeting her at an appointed hour, he drove away in search
of a market for his oats and potatoes. The grocers with whom
he was in the habit of dealing were all supplied; the few offers
he received were greatly below his expectations, and hours
were spent in driving from street to street, before he was able
to dispose of his produce at any reasonable price. He had
found no time to dine—no time to feed his horses—and the
heads of the tired animals drooped sadly, as he turned them
toward the place where he was to meet Ruth.

The show at the window of a hatter attracted him; he had
never had a fur hat, and checking his team close against the side-walk,
he looked at the tempting display, and had mentally
selected one which he thought would please him—at the same
time putting his hand in his pocket to ascertain whether he
could afford one so fine—when his attention was arrested by
the sudden appearance of his sister. “Why, Zeb!” she said

pettishly, “are you charmed with a hatter's window? I waited
and waited till I was tired to death, and then set out in search
of you.” Zeb laughed, and answered, that if she looked at his
old hat she would see why he was charmed, and assured her of
his regret that she was alarmed about him.

It was not fear for his safety that induced her to look for
him, but need of money. The youth averted his face from the
window, and a disappointed expression passed across it, as he
answered, “How much do you want, Ruthy?”

“Oh, I do n't know,” she said carelessly, “all you 've got.”

He turned away, as if to take up the reins—perhaps even his
dull sister, could she have seen it, would have been able to
read something of what was at the moment written on his countenance—and
reaching backward all the money he had, and
climbing into the wagon, began to rub the mud from his trowsers
with a wisp of straw. Away went Ruth—her thoughts
full of new ribbons and shining shoes, and more than all, of the
gold ring that was to sparkle on her finger the next evening.

While these little purchases were being made, the horses
stamped their feet, and switched their tails restlessly; and Zeb,
feeling that he had no very present purpose, nor any sympathy
to lessen his half-surly and half-tearful mood, turned his back
to the hatter's window, and, seated in the front corner of the
wagon, brushed the flies from the tired animals with his old hat.
The sun was near setting when Ruth returned, her hands full
of little packages and parcels, and her face beaming with joy.
So they went home together, and when Ruth rode to town in
the little wagon again, Zeb was not sitting beside her.

The next day was a busy one, but before night the new white
apron was made, the pink ribbon knotted up, and the ring glittering
where Ruth had long desired to see it. “Well, Zeb,”
she said, as she turned down the lane to go to Molly Blake's,
“I want you to make me a flower-pot to-night—sawed in
notches at the top, you know—it 's time to take up my myrtle.”
All day he had been thinking she would say something about
his going with her—disclose some regret, perhaps, when he
should tell her he could not go; but now the poor satisfaction of
giving any expression to his disappointment was denied him, and

making pictures in the air, of gayeties in which he could have no
part, he set to work about the flower-pot. He thought hard,
and wrought as hard as he thought, and the little box was soon
completed—notched round at the top, just as had been desired.
It was not yet dark when the work was done, and Zeb held it
up admiringly when he had filled it with fresh earth, and arranged
the long myrtle vines to drop gracefully through the
notches. He placed it in the window of Ruth's room, and, the
task accomplished, there came a feeling of restlessness that he
could not banish, try as he would. The full moon was reddening
among the clouds, and the yellow leaves raining down with
every wind, as, folding his arms, he walked up and down among
the flowers that he had planted in May.