University of Virginia Library

31. CHAPTER XXXI.

It so happened that on a far distant part of the
farm, where the process of clearing had but just
commenced, John Kendall and Seymour, who went
thither as choppers on a fine day in autumn, found
each a prize. Kendall's was a huge snapping-turtle
that was sunning himself on the borders of a small
lake which lay near the scene of the day's operations,
when John's unerring aim put an end to his
musings and his life together, with the aid of no
weapon but a stone such as few arms could have
hurled so far. Seymour's treasure was a load of
purple wild-grapes, which he had espied at no great
distance in the wood, and which he determined to
carry home as an offering to Caroline Hay. His
thoughts were occupied during the remainder of
the day in deciding in what manner best to approach
the shrine which had so many terrors for
his bashful soul; in planning speeches of six words
each; and in wondering how Miss Hay would
reply to such unwonted familiarity.

The declining sun saw our two heroes, loaded
each with his prize, making the best of their way
homeward; but their pace had been so much moderated

by the weight of their acquisitions,—the
old difficulty embarras des richesses,—that they
did not reach the farm-house until the supper-bell
had rung and the family were assembled. Seymour
hurried to bestow his load of grapes in a
hollow tree which stood near the well, and Kendall
laid his hideous turtle by the kitchen-door, its
head drawn far out, its eyes protruding, and the
stick by which the captor had carried it, still fast
in its mouth.

“Hilloa!” shouted Tim Rice, as he jumped
over the back fence in his haste to meet the well-known
punctuality of the supper-bell; “are you
late too?”

“Oh! we work,” said Seymour; “we can't afford
to peel the hills and jump fences as you do, Tim.”

“Work!” replied Tim, with a knowing laugh,
as he plunged his glowing face in the wash-basin,
“I do head-work, my boy!”

“Precious light work that must be,” said Seymour.

“Never mind, my son! don't be cross,” said Mr.
Rice with a mock-patronizing air; “it'll be your
turn by and by, if you're a good boy.” Then
turning to go into the house for a towel, he fairly
jumped at sight of the turtle. “What black d—l
is this!” said he; “oh! a snappin'-turkle, eh!
famous good soup Mrs. Hay'll make of that, I
know! Who caught it?”

“I did,” said John, “but Simmer's got something

too;” and he indicated the grapes in the
hollow tree, and added a conjecture as to their
destination. And then he and Seymour went in
to supper, tired of waiting for Tim.

The very moment Seymour beheld Caroline
seated at table, looking more animated and of
course more beautiful than usual, his courage failed
him, and he felt sure that he should never be able
to make the contemplated offer of the grapes with
his own lips. So, as soon as supper was ended, he
called one of the little girls aside, and gave her
an awkward message to her sister, telling her she
would find something in the hollow tree by the
well. His purpose was then to be off as soon as
possible, but the little sister hurried Caroline to the
spot so quickly that he could not avoid witnessing,
himself unseen, their approach to the tree, the hole
in which was on the side furthest from the house.

What was his horror when Caroline, scarcely
casting her eyes towards the place, uttered a loud
shriek, and, bursting into a passion of tears, ran
away as fast as she was able! The whole family
crowded round her with wondering questions, but
the petted beauty would only exclaim, “'Tis that
hateful Seymour Bullitt! nobody else could do so!”

Poor Seymour waited in his hiding-place until
all had retreated into the house, and then ran to
discover the cause of such terrible anger. What
was his vexation to find the vile snapping-turtle
so placed within the hollow of the tree as to show

to the greatest advantage all its hideousness, while
the grapes had entirely disappeared! It was now
his turn to exclaim, in the inmost recesses of his
boiling soul, “That's Tim Rice!”

And to make matters worse, he saw Caroline at
the window, and felt that she must suppose he was
exulting over the success of his trick.

Tim Rice took care to be invisible, and the only
person who met Seymour's eye was Mr. Hay himself,
who came out, apparently in musing mood,
thinking, beyond a doubt, of the trick that had
been played upon his daughter.

Seymour approached Mr. Hay, and said, in his
most awkward manner, “It wa'n't me, indeed,
sir!”

“What is it, Seymour?” said Mr. Hay, so mildly
that one might know his mind was not upon
snapping-turtles.

“Why—I didn't know but you might think it
was me that—”

“Oh! that frightened the girls, eh! no,—I dare
say it was some of Tim Rice's nonsense;” and
Mr. Hay passed on in wonderful unconcern. This
was the extent of Seymour's explanation, and Mr.
Hay never thought of it again, so that the truth
did not reach Miss Hay's ears, as the unfortunate
Cymon hoped it might.

The faithful and impartial historian regrets to
acknowledge that Seymour's thoughts, as he tossed
on his sleepless pillow that night, ran almost exclusively

on the subject of “pounding” Tim Rice
thoroughly, as soon as he could catch him in the
morning. Nay, so entirely had this idea taken
possession of him, that when, after several restless
hours, he had at length fallen asleep, he knocked
the skin completely off his knuckles in an encounter
with the bed-post, which senseless piece of furniture
received a blow intended for the handsome
nose of the unfortunate joker.

There are some people who habitually consume in
planning the time which would be most suitable
for the execution of their intentions. We shall not
allow that was a common fault of our friend Seymour,
but it is certain that when he awoke in the
morning, two hours later than usual, and found that
the object of last night's denunciations had set off
at peep of dawn on a long tour of business for Mr.
Hay, he wished he had not indulged his angry
feelings quite so vehemently, when he ought to
have been asleep.

This incident, trifling as it was, produced upon
the yet unopened mind of this young man no unimportant
effects. We are all conscious, at times,
of sudden light breaking in upon us from sources
which are apparently so trivial that we are at a loss
to account for the magnitude of their influence.
Now, Seymour had felt at intervals and transiently
a dim and vague sense of power to be something
more than he had yet been. He had so nearly
discovered the truth, that the merest trifle was sufficient

to give the rousing touch he needed. So
from the chaos of that one wakeful night's thoughts,
—a jumble of hard work, and John Kendall, and
snapping-turtles, and bunches of grapes, and Tim
Rice's head-work, and easy life, and enviable impudence,
and his own violent but unavailing anger,
and the pretty damsel's scornful looks—from a
jumble of all these things and many more beside, an
idea dawned upon him,—darkly and blunderingly
at first, but gradually clearer and more inspiring,—
of the advantages of mental power over mere
strength—of education over mere labor; and so
absorbing and so laborious was the process of thinking
out for himself what he might have found clearly
laid down in dozens of volumes, had he known of
their existence, that he forgot his vexation and its
saucy cause, and almost the fair enemy herself, while
he argued himself into a resolution to change at once
his plans for the future, and to arm himself for the
battle of life with other weapons than the plough
and scythe.

The short remainder of his stay at Mr. Hay's
saw him eat his meals like a Trappist.