 | CHAPTER XXXIII. My brother's keeper |  |
33. CHAPTER XXXIII.
Piped the quails from shocks and sheaves,
And, like living coals, the apples
Burned among the withering leaves.
—Longfellow.
`How come you to follow the Capting, Tom Skiddy?' said
Martha.
Miss Jumps was enjoying herself in the farm kitchen,
her feet stretched out to a huge fire, which crackled and ran
away up chimney, and sent forth such a red glow that the
room looked as if whitewashed with firelight. The tea-kettle
had done its work for that evening, and was pushed off
into one corner upon the end of the crane; while the pot of
dish-water, in like easy circumstances, kept as far away as
it could in the other. And between the two ran up the
bright points of flame from a sound foundation of logs,
which in their turn overshadowed the glowing bed of coals.
The ashes were carefully raked away right and left, and in the
cleared space lay the kitchen tongs with its toes to the fire;
its iron legs supporting a long ear of corn of the roasting age—
full-kernelled, white and delicate. To this Miss Jumps lent a
part of her attention, while another share was bestowed upon
Tom; who in the very focus of firelight, if there was one,
sat paring an apple with his pocket knife and eating slices
of it from time to time, as if he rather enjoyed the business
his knee lay a little half-finished boat, on which Tom's knife
had been engaged when the fruits of the earth attracted his
attention. In the other corner of the hearth, Jerusha with
a basket of the same fruit before her and a tin pan at her
side, was rapidly skinning the apples by the help of a simple
little machine and its crooked knife; and casting now and
then a glance of great interest at the two foreigners. Beyond
them all, Mrs. Hopper's busy wheel kept its swift
whirling, under the skilful hand of its silent mistress. Her
black dress made a dark spot in the glowing room, and
Mrs. Hopper looked if anything more slim and gaunt and
weather-worn than ever. In strong contrast was the bunch
of soft white rolls upon the wheel, where the firelight fell
after a mere glance at the spindle. The reel stood hard by,
and against the wall hung a string of brilliant red peppers,
and several bunches of white yarn all knotted and twisted
up,—being a part of Mrs. Hopper's day's work of `two run
and a half.' An old cat lay dozing and stretched out at the
foot of the wheel—the close neighbourhood of the fire being
rather too hot; and a fine tortoise-shell kitten and one of
`gray mixed,' went in frolicksome tumbles about the room.
`How come I to foller the Captain?' said Tom. `Why
because the Captain led on and I follered. Just giv' up
the business I had in hand and started.'
`Easy business to give up, wa'n't it?' said Miss Jumps,
—`don't take common folks long to lay down a muskit.
How do you 'spose it 'll manage without you? What sort
of a time did you have down there on Long Island, Tom
Skiddy?'
`First rate,' said Tom,—`long as the Captain kept about.
Didn't do a person's feelings much good to see him laid up.
I hadn't much chance to look at him neither. How Mr.
care of him beside, I don't know.'
`Guess likely he's a smart man,' said Martha demurely.
`Jerushy, don't none o' your corn never stand still to be
roasted? does it all go pop-cracking out that fashion?'
`It's only some o' the grains bursted out,' said Jerusha,
bending down to look at the corn till her head was in a
position almost as fiery. `It's roasting beautiful, Miss
Jumps.'
`It's flying round the world,' said Miss Jumps, stooping
down in her turn, and endeavouring to roll the corn over
upon its roasted side; to which it responded by rolling into
the ashes. Martha seized a fork and tried that persuasion;
but after uprooting several grains of the corn, the rest were
further down in the ashes than ever, fizzing and sputtering
at a great rate.
`Now what's to be done?' said Martha.
`Pick it up, why don't you!' said Mrs. Hopper.
`Tom can—' said Martha,—`he's right in front of the fire.'
`That's just where he means to stay,' said Tom. `Anybody
else may get in that's a mind to.'
`Where upon airth were you all fetched up!' said Mrs.
Hopper coming forward, and with one sure pounce restoring
the corn to its proper place. `'Taint a bit the worse—ashes
won't hurt ye—nor fire neither if you aint too keerful of it.
I'm not one of your meltin' away people,'—and Mrs. Hopper
returned to her wheel, and spun it round with great
energy.
`I thought you could do most any thing, Martha?' said
Tom.
`Well?' said Martha with some asperity, `who says
anything against it?'
But Tom wisely forebore to answer, and occupied himself
with a particularly large slice of apple.
`It's astonishing how much people can have to do with
muskits and not learn to stand fire,' remarked Miss Jumps
rather scornfully. `If I was some folks I'd get up and look
at myself.'
Tom paused in the munching of his apple just long
enough to blow one of its black seeds off his finger, and then
fixed his attention upon the old cat; who now aroused from
her sleep by the wheel, came forward slowly and stretchingly,
and evinced a wish to shield Tom by taking up a position
directly in front of him. And Tom's foot accordingly
gave her a push which a little more would have converted
into a kick.
`Tom Skiddy, stop!' said Martha. `I won't sit still
and see you.'
`Hop up then,' replied Tom, taking aim at the cat with
a long apple paring.
`No I won't,' said Martha,—`and you sha'n't kick the
cat, neither—that's more.' And the cat found a safe resting-place
in Martha's lap.
`Real Malti' that cat is,' observed Mrs. Hopper; `and a
better couldn't be.'
`The apples aint bad,' remarked Tom. `Captain Thornton
says he'd like a barrel or so on 'em to take home.'
`He can have 'em,' said Mrs. Hopper, bringing forward
the little reel and beginning to `click' off her yarn.
`We've got as many apples as most things this season.'
`Well now—' said Martha,—`let's we go pick 'em up.
What's to hinder?'
`Take the cart along, and the bar'ls,' said Mrs. Hopper,
`and it aint bad sport, I can tell you.'
`Miss Rosalie 'll go, I'll venture,' said Martha; `and
all the rest.'
`I wouldn't venture too much, if I was you, Martha,'
up apples, and you'll catch a weasel asleep in a stone
wall.'
`Why he aint obliged to pick 'em up, bless you! if he
does go,' said Martha; `and he aint a man to be scared at
the thought of pickin' up anythin' so small as apples, any
way. I say he'll go if she does.'
`Well, I do' know but he will,' said Tom, `come to think
of it. He does stick to her like wax lately.'
`The better for him,' said Martha, `and I'll go right
off and ask 'em this blessed minute.'
`Better eat your corn,' said Tom. `'Tother thing 'll
keep cool, and that won't.'
`See what the day is afore you ask your company,' said
Mrs. Hopper; and to that Martha agreed.
The day was as fine as could be, and mellow as one of
the many apples that plunged down into the grass from time
to time, as the loaded boughs swayed lightly about. The
farm work and the fall held on their way hand in hand;
but the woods were gayer now, and the wagons carried
home pumpkins instead of wheat, and the hard yellow corn
went craunchingly to its destination in many a well filled
pen. At Mrs. Hopper's back door—that is in the road that
ran by the dwelling, and under an old apple-tree stood the
great ox-cart,—its patient team with heaving sides and
bowed heads drowsily awaiting further orders. Half a dozen
of empty barrels stood near the cart; and the driver—
a rather thin and sharp-set specimen of the natives—was
leaning against the tree, overshadowed by its canopy of fading
leaves, and with great diligence was whittling away one
stick after another to keep his hand in.
He looked up with a kind of wondering and scornful
surprise as the house door opened, and the whole family
subject for his knife's sharp edge, he remarked,
`Pity you hadn't thought to ask a few o' the neighbours,
and you ha' had quite a muster.'
`I guess you'll find there's enough now,' said Martha.
`How many on ye's going in this here cart?' said the
man.
`Forty—more or less,' said Mrs. Hopper.
`Can't do it,' said the man.
`Come now, 'Zekiel Mearns,' said Mrs. Hopper, `stow
away four o' those bar'ls, and be spry,—and don't try to
make me think oat straw's buckwheat. Step round, now.'
Mr. Mearns permitted the corners of his mouth to relax
a little, shut up his knife, and stepping round—though not
precisely in the way Mrs. Hopper meant—he swung up four
of the barrels off the ground and into the cart, and bestowed
them in close order in that end which was nearest the oxen.
Then with a nod of his head he signified that the field was
clear for whoso chose to occupy it.
`Get in Miss Clyde,' said Mrs. Hopper.
`Bless your heart!' said Martha, `she's not going to
ride so!' and making a dive into the house, Miss Jumps
returned with a low rush-bottomed chair which was then
planted firmly against the barrels, and Miss Clyde took possession.
`That's enough,' said Mr. Mearns taking up his long
whip. `Don't want no more on ye.'
`O I must ride,' said Hulda, `but I can sit on the floor.'
And Thornton jumped her in likewise.
`Well, you aint much heft,' said the driver. `Ge' long!
haw!'
`Now Mr. Mearns, stop,' said Mrs. Hopper. `We're
every living soul of us going.'
`You aint going in this cart,' said Mr. Mearns, lightly
flapping his whip about the ears of the oxen.
`I go mostly after my own team when I do ride, said
Mrs. Hopper,—`and you don't 'spose we're going to foot it
all the way to that orchard?'
`You'll tilt the cart the worst kind,' said the driver,
pushing his hat back off his forehead and applying his hand
to his hair with a disturbed look. `You'll tilt it up like
Jehu.'
`It 'll be the first thing we ever did do like him, I
guess,' said Mrs. Hopper. `Get right in, Martha.'
And Martha got in, and then Jerusha, and then Mrs.
Hopper. Mr. Mearns stood irresolute.
`You'll look well, tilting the oxen into the air!' he
said.
`They'll look well,' said Mrs. Hopper, `so well they'll
come down again, pretty quick.' And amid a burst of laughter
from the representatives of the lower circle, the party
moved on.
Moved on through one meadow after another; by a
pretty road, which was indeed but wheel tracks in the green
grass—deep enough now and then to jolt the cart and its
occupants in a laugh-exciting way.
The fall had laid its hand upon every thing now: there
was not a tree nor a bush nor a flower but wore a touch of
autumn about it somewhere; and over those things which
change not but with the gradual breaking up of many seasons—the
fences, the farm buildings, the ponds and little
water-veins of the country,—over and about these lay a soft
haze, and they were seen through a fall medium. The
green grass was set thick with gay forest leaves, strewn over
it in every direction; the tufts of fern bent their yellow
heads as gracefully as when they wore June's freshness;
ever. There were changes too in the sounds,—flails and
fanning mills had taken the place of scythe whetting—
crickets instead of grasshoppers sped away from intruding
feet; and the bird over head was not a sparrow—it was only
a chickadee. Only!—
The orchard field was full before they reached it; first
of apples and then of apple-gatherers. The loaded trees
bent down with their red and green and spotted and striped
fruit, or shewed their round heads against the distant forest
sprinkled over as if with roses. The long grass beneath
was worth the turning over for the apples it hid; and a
drove of white-sided porkers were pursuing that business
with grunts which if not loud were deep,—flapping their
great ears, and whirling their little tails to make the most
of them. In moments of rest they turned to bite encroaching
companions, or gave a glance of great wickedness out of
their little eyes towards the new comers. The ground
sloped gently down to a frisky brook at the hill-foot, just
enough to help the momentum of any falling apple that
failed to lodge at once in the grass; and at the brook edge
the ox cart was now drawn up in state, emptied of all but
the barrels and left alone. Beneath it, in the shade, lay
Trouncer, as motionless as the oxen themselves; but all
other living things had mounted the hill.
There were pretty moss-covered rocks shewing their
heads above ground from place to place, and on one of these
Rosalie seated herself to watch the play on the hill-side.
Thornton sat by her, but Hulda was one of the players.
Mr. Mearns had swung himself up into one of the trees,
basket in hand, to pick off such apples as were for barrelling;
while Tom on his part had climbed another, and with vigorous
foot and hand sent down showers of the ruddy
apples ran first—had the start—and after running a few
steps and getting excited began to bound; and at that pace
soon cleared the hill slope, and either plunged into the brook
or flew against the oxen or lay still ingloriously on dry land.
Then came the pigs in open phalanx,—grunting between
dismay and appetite, running over more apples than they
pursued; and stopping now and then to munch and enjoy
one, and to cast back malicious looks at Mrs. Hopper and
Martha, Jerusha and Hulda, who bore down in full tide of
conquest and at such rate of speed as bipeds can maintain
on a side hill. At this moment Tom would despatch to
earth another half bushel of apples, and both pigs and
women tried to go up and down at once. Then Martha and
a particularly large and flap-eared quadruped having set
their hearts upon the same apple, pursued it down hill,—
the pig squealing and Martha shouting, the apple bounding
along, regardless of bruises, and dousing into the brook.
At such a termination the pig gained the prize; for he followed
the apple, and stood with his feet in the brook,
munching and looking up-hill, whither Miss Jumps was retracing
her weary steps. Sometimes just as the chase was
near the end, Trouncer roused up from his slumbers, and
standing on the alert he seized the flying apple and stood
confronting Miss Jumps—his mouth kept open by it as with
a corn-cob,—then dropped it as an unprofitable speculation.
Of all the trials to Miss Jumps on those occasions, the
worst was Tom's laugh from the top of his apple tree.
`It strikes me, Tom Skiddy,' she said, approaching the
scene of his activity, `that of the two you'd be worth most
down here.'
To which Tom replied by such a fire of well-directed apples
that Martha was fain to run away.
`Come down, will you!' she said from a distance; `and
stop that.'
`There's a firstrater going down hill,' was Tom's answer.
`I'm not going after it, if it is,' said Miss Jumps. But
perceiving her old enemy of the large ears addressing herself
leisurely to the pursuit—there was no withstanding
the temptation, and Martha was off again.
The cart went home at night well loaded with apples,
and the little train of gatherers went home well tired.
The day had changed too; and now soft grey streaks
athwart the western horizon foretold different weather.
The wind went sighing through the trees, rising now and
then into a chill gust, and rustling the fallen leaves—so
brown looking and drear, despoiled of the sunbeams: lights
twinkled out from hill and valley; and wood fires and tea
and bed became the pleasantest things in prospect.
| CHAPTER XXXIII. My brother's keeper | |