University of Virginia Library

6. CHAPTER VI.
JERRY GUTTRIDGE.

Oh, for `the good old days of Adam and Eve!”
when vagabond idlers were not; or the good old days
of the pilgrim fathers of New England, when they
were suitably rewarded! That idlers could not bide
those days, there is extant the following testimony.
In the early court records of that portion of the old
Bay State called the District of Maine, in the year
1656, we have the following entry of a presentment
by a grand jury:—

“We present Jerry Guttridge for an idle person,
and not providing for his family, and for giving
reproachful language to Mr. Nat. Frier, when he
reproved him for his idleness.

“The Court, for his offence, adjudges the delinquent
to have twenty lashes on his back, and to bring security
to the Court to be of better behavior in providing
for his family.”—[A True Extract from the Court
Records.]

The whole history of this affair, thus faintly shadowed
forth in these few lines, has recently come to
light, and is now published for the benefit of the
world, as hereafter followeth.

“What shall we have for dinner, Mr. Guttridge?”
said the wife of Jerry Guttridge, in a sad, desponding
tone, as her husband came into their log hovel, from
a neighboring grog-shop, about twelve o'clock on a
hot July day.

“Oh, pick up something,” said Jerry, “and I wish
you would be spry and get it ready, for I'm hungry
now, and I want to go back to the shop; for Sam Willard
and Seth Harmon are coming over, by an' by, to
swop horses, and they'll want me to ride 'em. Come,
stir around; I can't wait.”

“We have n't got anything at all in the house to
eat,” said Mrs. Guttridge. “What shall I get?”

“Well, cook something,” said Jerry; “no matter
what it is.”

“But, Mr. Guttridge, we have n't got the least thing
in the house to cook.”

“Well, well, pick up something,” said Jerry, rather
snappishly, “for I'm in a hurry.”

“I can't make victuals out of nothing,” said the
wife; “if you'll only bring me anything in the world
into the house to cook, I'll cook it. But I tell you we
have n't got a mouthful of meat in the house, nor a
mouthful of bread, nor a speck of meal; and the last
potatoes we had in the house, we ate for breakfast;
and you know we didn't have more than half enough
for breakfast, neither.”

“Well, what have you been doing all this forenoon,”
said Jerry, “that you have n't picked up something?
Why did n't you go over to Mr. Whitman's
and borrow some meal?”

“Because,” said Mrs. Guttridge, “we've borrowed
meal there three times that is n't returned yet; and I
was ashamed to go again till that was paid. And
beside, the baby's cried so, I've had to 'tend him the
whole forenoon, and could n't go out.”

“Then you a'n't a-goin' to give us any dinner, are
you?” said Jerry, with a reproachful tone and look.
“I pity the man that has a helpless, shiftless wife; he
has a hard row to hoe. What's become of that fish I
brought in yesterday?”

“Why, Mr. Guttridge,” said his wife, with tears in
her eyes, “you and the children ate that fish for your
supper last night. I never tasted a morsel of it, and

have n't tasted anything but potatoe sthese two days;
and I'm so faint now I can hardly stand.”

“Always a-grumblin',” said Jerry; “I can't never
come into the house but what I must hear a fuss about
something or other. What's this boy snivelling
about?” he continued, turning to little Bobby, his
oldest boy, a little ragged, dirty-faced, sickly-looking
thing, about six years old; at the same time giving
the child a box on the ear, which laid him his length
on the floor. “Now shet up!” said Jerry, “or I'll
larn you to be crying about all day for nothing.”

The tears rolled afresh down the cheeks of Mrs.
Guttridge; she sighed heavily as she raised the child
from the floor, and seated him on a bench on the opposite
side of the room.

“What is Bob crying about?” said Jerry, fretfully.

“Why, Mr. Guttridge,” said his wife, sinking upon
the bench beside her little boy, and wiping the tears
with her apron, “the poor child has been crying for a
piece of bread these two hours. He's eat nothing to-day
but one potatoe, and I s'pose the poor thing is
half starved.”

At this moment their neighbor, Mr. Nat. Frier, a
substantial farmer, and a worthy man, made his appearance
at the door; and as it was wide open, he

walked in and took a seat. He knew the destitute
condition of Guttridge's family, and had often relieved
their distresses. His visit at the present time was
partly an errand of charity; for, being in want of
some extra labor in his haying field that afternoon,
and knowing that Jerry was doing nothing, while his
family was starving, he thought he would endeavor to
get him to work for him, and pay him in provisions.

Jerry seated himself rather sullenly on a broken
backed chair, the only sound one in the house being
occupied by Mr. Frier, toward whom he cast sundry
gruff looks and surly glances. The truth was, Jerry
had not received the visits of his neighbors, of late
years, with a very gracious welcome. He regarded
them rather as spies, who came to search out the nakedness
of the land, than as neighborly visitors, calling
to exchange friendly salutations. He said not a word;
and the first address of Mr. Frier was to little Bobby.

“What's the matter with little Bobby?” said he, in
a gentle tone; “come, my little fellow, come here
and tell me what's the matter.”

“Go, run, Bobby; go and see Mr. Frier,” said the
mother, slightly pushing him forward with her hand.

The boy, with one finger in his mouth, and the tears
still rolling over his dirty face, edged along sidewise

up to Mr. Frier, who took him in his lap, and asked
him again what was the matter.

“I want a piece of bread!” said Bobby.

“And won't your mother give you some?” said
Mr. Frier, tenderly.

“She ha'n't got none,” replied Bobby, “nor 'taters
too.” Mrs. Guttridge's tears told the rest of the
story. The worthy farmer knew they were entirely
out of provisions again, and he forbore to ask any
further questions; but told Bobby if he would go
over to his house, he would give him something to
eat. Then turning to Jerry, said he:—

“Neighbor Guttridge, I've got four tons of hay
down, that needs to go in this afternoon, for it looks
as if we should have rain to-morrow; and I've come
over to see if I can get you to go and help me. If
you'll go this afternoon, and assist me to get it in, I'll
give you a bushel of meal, or a half bushel of meal
and a bushel of potatoes, and two pounds of
pork.”

“I can't go,” said Jerry, “I've got something else
to do.”

“Oh, well,” said Mr Frier, “if you've got anything
else to do that will be more profitable, I'm glad of it,
for there's enough hands that I can get; only I

thought you might like to go, bein' you was scant of
provisions.”

“Do pray go, Mr. Guttridge!” said his wife, with
a beseeching look, “for you are only going over to
the shop to ride them horses, and that won't do no
good; you'll only spend all the afternoon for nothin',
and then we shall have to go to bed without our supper,
again. Do pray go, Mr. Guttridge, do!”

“I wish you would hold your everlasting clack;”
said Jerry; “you are always full of complainings.
It's got to be a fine time of day, if the women are
a-goin' to rule the roast. I shall go over and ride them
horses, and it's no business to you nor nobody else;
and if you are too lazy to get your own supper, you
may go without it; that's all I've got to say.”

With that he aimed for the door, when Mr. Frier
addressed him as follows:—

“Now I must say, neighbor Guttridge, if you are
going to spend the afternoon over to the shop, to ride
horses for them jockeys, and leave your family without
provisions, when you have a good chance to 'arn
enough this afternoon to last them nigh about a week,
I must say, neighbor Guttridge, that I think you are
not in the way of your duty.”

Upon this Jerry whirled round, and looked Mr.

Frier full in the face, “grinning horribly a ghastly
smile,” and said he,

“You old, miserable, dirty, meddling vagabond!
you are a scoundrel and a scape-gallows, and an
infernal small piece of a man, I think! I've as good
a mind to kick you out of doors, as ever I had to eat!
Who made you a master over me, to be telling me
what's my duty? You better go home and take care
of your own brats, and let your neighbors' alone!”

Mr. Frier sat and looked Jerry calmly in the face,
without uttering a syllable; while he, having blown
his blast, marched out of doors, and steered directly
for the grog-shop, leaving his wife to “pick up something,”
if she could, to keep herself and children from
absolute starvation.

Mr. Frier was a benevolent man and a Christian,
and in the true spirit of Christianity he always sought
to relieve distress wherever he found it. He was
endowed, too, with a good share of plain common
sense, and knew something of human nature; and as
he was well aware that Mrs. Guttridge really loved
her husband, notwithstanding his idle habits, and
cold, brutal treatment to his family, he forebore to
remark upon the scene which had just passed; but
telling the afflicted woman he would send her something

to eat, he took little Bobby by the hand, and
led him home. A plate of victuals was set before the
child, who devoured it with a greediness that was
piteous to behold.

“Poor cre'tur!” said Mrs. Frier, “why, he's half
starved! Betsey, bring him a dish of bread and
milk; that will set the best on his poor, empty,
starved stomach.”

Betsey ran and got the bowl of bread and milk, and
little Bobby's hand soon began to move from the dish
to his mouth, with a motion as steady and rapid as
the pendulum of a clock. The whole family stood
and looked on, with pity and surprise, until he had
finished his meal, or rather until he had eaten as
much as they dared allow him to eat at once; for
although he had devoured a large plate of meat and
vegetables, and two dishes of bread and milk, his
appetite seemed as ravenous as when he first began;
and he still, like the memorable Oliver Twist, “asked
for more.”

While Bobby had been eating, Mr. Frier had been
relating to his family the events which had occurred at
Guttridge's house, and the starving condition of the
inmates; and it was at once agreed that something
should be sent over immediately; for they all said

“Mrs. Guttridge was a clever woman, and it was a
shame that she should be left to suffer so.”

Accordingly, a basket was filled with bread, a jug
of milk, and some meat and vegetables, ready cooked,
which had been left from their dinner; and Betsey
ran and brought a pie, made from their last year's
dried pumpkins, and asked her mother if she might
not put that in, “so the poor starving cre'turs might
have a little taste of something that was good.”

“Yes,” said her mother, “and put in a bit of
cheese with it; I don't think we shall be any the
poorer for it; for `he that giveth to the poor lendeth
to the Lord.'”

“Yes, yes,” said Mr. Frier, “and I guess you may
as well put in a little dried pumpkin; she can stew it
up for the little ones, and it'll be good for 'em.
We've got a plenty of green stuff a-growin', to last
till pumpkins come again.” So a quantity of dried
pumpkin was also packed in the basket, and the pie
laid on the top, and George was despatched, in company
with little Bobby, to carry it over.

Mr. Frier's benevolent feelings had become highly
excited. He forgot his four tons of hay, and sat
down to consult with his wife about what could be
done for the Guttridge family. Something must be

done soon; he was not able to support them all the
time; and if they were left alone much longer they
would starve. He told his wife he “had a good mind
to go and enter a complaint to the grand jury agin'
Jerry, for a lazy, idle person, that did n't provide for
his family. The court sets at Saco to-morrow, and
don't you think, wife, I had better go and do it?”

His wife thought he had better go over first and
talk with Mrs. Guttridge about it; and if she was
willing he had better do it. Mr. Frier said, he
“could go over and talk with her, but he did n't think
it would be the least use, for she loved Jerry, ugly as
he was, and he did n't believe she would be willing to
have him punished by the court.”

However, after due consultation, he concluded to
go over and have a talk with Mrs. Guttridge about
the matter. Accordingly, he took his hat and walked
over. He found the door open, as usual, and walked
in without ceremony. Here he beheld the whole
family, including Jerry himself, seated at their little
pine table, doing ample justice to their basket of provisions
which he had just before sent them. He
observed the pie had been cut into pieces, and one
half of it, and he thought rather the largest half, was
laid on Jerry's plate, the rest being cut up into small

bits, and divided among the children. Mrs. Guttridge
had reserved none to herself, except a small
spoonful of the soft part with which she was trying
to feed the baby. The other eatables seemed to be
distributed very much in the same proportion.

Mr. Frier was a cool, considerate man, whose passions
were always under the most perfect control;
but he always confessed, for years afterwards, “that
for a minute or two, he thought he felt a little something
like anger rising up in his stomach!”

He sat and looked on until they had finished their
meal, and Jerry had eaten bread, and meat, and
vegetables enough for two common men's dinner, and
swallowed his half of the pie, and a large slice of
cheese by way of dessert; and then rose, took his
hat, and without saying a word, marched deliberately
out of the house, directing his course again to the
grog-shop.

Mr. Frier now broached the subject of his errand
to Mrs. Guttridge. He told her the neighbors could
not afford to support her family much longer, and
unless her husband went to work he did n't see but
they would have to starve.

Mrs. Guttridge began to cry. She said “she did n't
know what they should do; she had talked as long as

talking would do any good; but somehow Mr. Guttridge
did n't seem to love work. She believed it
was n't his natur' to work.”

“Well, Mrs. Guttridge, do you believe the Scriptures?”
said Mr. Frier, solemnly.

“I'm sure I do,” said Mrs. Guttridge; “I believe
all there is in the Bible.”

“And don't you know,” said Mr. Frier, “the Bible
says, `He that will not work, neither shall he eat.'”

“I know there's something in the Bible like that,”
said Mrs. Guttridge, with a very serious look.

“Then do you think it right,” said Mr. Frier,
“when your neighbors send you in a basket of provisions,
do you think it right that Mr. Guttridge, who
won't work and 'arn a mouthful himself, should sit
down and eat more than all the rest of you, and pick
out the best part of it, too?”

“Well, I don't suppose it's right,” said Mrs. Guttridge,
thoughtfully; “but somehow, Mr. Guttridge is
so hearty, it seems as if he would faint away, if he
didn 't have more than the rest of us to eat.”

“Well, are you willing to go on in this way?” continued
Mr. Frier, “in open violation of the Scriptures,
and keep yourself and children every day in danger
of starving?”

“What can I do, Mr. Frier?” said Mrs. Guttridge,
bursting into a flood of tears; “I've talked, and it's
no use; Mr. Guttridge, won't work; it don't seem to
be in him. Maybe if you should talk to him, Mr.
Frier, he might do better.”

“No, that would be no use,” said Mr. Frier.
“When I was over here before, you see how he took
it, jest because I spoke to him about going over to the
shop, when he ought to be to work, to get something
for his family to eat. You see how mad he was, and
how provoking he talked to me. It's no use for me
to say anything to him; but I think, Mrs. Guttridge,
if somebody should complain to the Grand Jury
about him, the Court would make him go to work.
And if you are willing for it, I think I should feel it
my duty to go and complain of him.”

“Well, I don't know but it would be best,” said
Mrs. Guttridge, “and if you think it would make him
go to work, I'm willing you should. When will the
Court sit?”

“To-morrow,” said Mr. Frier; “and I'll give up
all other business, and go and attend to it.”

“But what will the Court do to him, Mr. Frier?”
asked Mrs. Guttridge.

“Well, I don't know,” said Mr. Frier, “but I expect

they'll punish him; and I know they'll make him
go to work.”

“Punish him!” exclaimed Mrs. Guttridge, with a
troubled air. “Seems to me I don't want to have him
punished. But do you think, Mr. Frier, they will
hurt him any?”

“Well, I think it's likely,” said Mr. Frier, “they
will hurt him some; but you must remember, Mrs.
Guttridge, it is better once to smart than always to
ache. Remember, too, you'll be out of provisions
again by to-morrow. Your neighbors can't support
your family all the time; and if your husband don't
go to work, you'll be starving again.”

“Oh dear—well, I don't know!” said Mrs. Guttridge,
with tears in her eyes. “You may do jest as
you think best about it, Mr. Frier; that is, if you
don't think they'll hurt him.”

Mr. Frier returned home; but the afternoon was so
far spent that he was able to get in only one ton of
his hay, leaving the other three tons out, to take the
chance of the weather. He and his wife spent the
evening in discussing what course was best to pursue
with regard to the complaint against Mr. Guttridge;
but, notwithstanding his wife was decidedly in favor
of his going the next morning and entering the complaint,

since Mrs. Guttridge had consented, yet Mr.
Frier was undecided. He did not like to do it; Mr.
Guttridge was a neighbor, and it was an unpleasant
business. But when he arose the next morning, looked
out, and beheld his three tons of hay drenched with
a heavy rain, and a prospect of a continued storm, he
was not long in making up his mind.

“Here,” said he, “I spent a good part of the day,
yesterday, in looking after Guttridge's family, to keep
them from starving; and now, by this means, I've
nigh about as good as lost three tons of hay. I
don't think it's my duty to put up with it any
longer.”

Accordingly, as soon as breakfast was over, Mr.
Frier was out, spattering along in the mud and rain,
with his old great-coat thrown over his shoulders, the
sleeves flapping loosely down by his side, and his
drooping hat twisted awry, wending his way to Court,
to appear before the Grand Jury.

“Well, Mr. Frier, what do you want?” asked the
foreman, as the complainant entered the room.

“I come to complain of Jerry Guttridge to the
Grand Jury,” replied Mr. Frier, taking off his hat,
and shaking the rain from it.

“Why, what has Jerry Guttridge done?” said the

foreman. “I didn't think he had life enough to do
anything worth complaining of to the Grand
Jury.”

“It's because he has n't got life enough to do anything,”
said Mr. Frier, “that I've come to complain
of him. The fact is, Mr. Foreman, he's a lazy, idle
fellow, and won't work, nor provide nothin' for his
family to eat; and they've been half starving this
long time; and the neighbors have had to keep
sending in something all the time, to keep 'em
alive.”

“But,” said the foreman, “Jerry's a peaceable kind
of a chap, Mr. Frier; has anybody ever talked to him
about it in a neighborly way, and advised him to do
differently? And maybe he has no chance to work
where he could get anything for it.”

“I am sorry to say,” replied Mr. Frier, “that he's
been talked to a great deal, and it don't do no good;
and I tried hard to get him to work for me yesterday
afternoon, and offered to give him victuals enough to
last his family 'most a week, but I couldn't get him
to, and he went off to the grog-shop to see some
jockeys swop horses. And when I told him, calmly,
I did n't think he was in the way of his duty, he flew
in a passion, and called me an old, miserable, dirty,

meddling vagabond, and a scoundrel, and a scape-gallows,
and an infernal small piece of a man!”

“Abominable!” exclaimed one of the jury; “who
ever heard of such outrageous conduct?”

“What a vile, blasphemous wretch!” exclaimed
another; “I shouldn't a wondered if he'd a fell dead
on the spot.”

The foreman asked Mr. Frier if Jerry had “used
them very words.”

“Exactly them words, every one of 'em,” said Mr.
Frier.

“Well,” said the foreman, “then there is no more
to be said. Jerry certainly deserves to be indicted,
if anybody in this world ever did.”

Accordingly the indictment was drawn up, a warrant
was issued, and the next day Jerry was brought
before the Court to answer to the charges preferred
against him. Mrs. Sally Guttridge and Mr. Nat.
Frier were summoned as witnesses. When the
honorable Court was ready to hear the case, the clerk
called Jerry Guttridge, and bade him to hearken to
an indictment found against him by the grand inquest
for the District of Maine, now sitting at Saco, in the
words following, viz:—

“We present Jerry Guttridge for an idle person,

and not providing for his family; and giving
reproachful language to Mr. Nat. Frier, when he
reproved him for his idleness.” “Jerry Guttridge,
what say you to this indictment? Are you guilty
thereof, or not guilty?”

“Not guilty,” said Jerry, “and here's my wife can
tell you the same any day. Sally, have n't I always
provided for my family?”

“Why, yes,” said Mrs. Guttridge, “I don't know
but you have as well as”—

“Stop, stop!” said the Judge, looking down over
the top of his spectacles at the witness; “stop, Mrs.
Guttridge; you must not answer questions until you
have been sworn.”

The Court then directed the clerk to swear the witnesses;
whereupon, he called Nat. Frier and Sally
Guttridge to come forward, and hold up their right
hands. Mr. Frier advanced, with a ready, honest air,
and held up his hand. Mrs. Guttridge lingered a
little behind; but when at last she faltered along,
with feeble and hesitating step, and held up her thin,
trembling hand, and raised her pale blue eyes, half
swimming in tears, towards the Court, and exhibited
her care-worn features, which, though sun-burned,
were pale and sickly, the Judge had in his own mind

more than half decided the case against Jerry. The
witnesses having been sworn, Mrs. Guttridge was
called to the stand.

“Now, Mrs. Guttridge,” said the Judge, “you are
not obliged to testify against your husband any more
than you choose; your testimony must be voluntary.
The Court will ask you questions touching the case,
and you may answer them or not, as you think best.
And, in the first place, I will ask you whether your
husband neglects to provide for the necessary wants
of his family; and whether you do, or do not, have comfortable
food and clothing for yourself and children?”

“Well, we go pretty hungry a good deal of the
time,” said Mrs. Guttridge, trembling; “but I don't
know but Mr. Guttridge does the best he can about
it. There don't seem to be any victuals that he can
get, a good deal of the time.”

“Well, is he, or is he not, in the habit of spending
his time idly when he might be at work, and earning
something for his family to live upon?”

“Why, as to that,” replied the witness, “Mr. Guttridge
don't work much; but I don't know as he can
help it; it does n't seem to be his natur' to work.
Somehow, he don't seem to be made like other folks;
for if he tries ever so much, he can't never work but

a few minutes at a time; the natur' don't seem to be
in him.”

“Well, well,” said the Judge, casting a dignified
and judicial glance at the culprit, who stood with his
mouth wide open, and eyes fixed on the Court with an
intentness that showed he began to take some interest
in the matter; “well, well, perhaps the Court will be
able to put the natur' in him.”

Mrs. Guttridge was directed to step aside, and Mr.
Nat. Frier was called to the stand. His testimony
was very much to the point; clear and conclusive.
But as the reader is already in possession of the substance
of it, it is unnecessary to recapitulate it.
Suffice it to say, that when he was called upon to
repeat the reproachful language which Jerry had
bestowed upon the witness, there was much shuddering,
and an awful rolling of eyes, throughout the
court room. Even the prisoner's face kindled almost
up to a blaze, and thick drops of sweat were seen to
start from his forehead. The Judge, to be sure,
retained a dignified self-possession, and settling back
in his chair, said it was not necessary to question the
witness any further; the case was clearly made out;
Jerry Guttridge was unquestionably guilty of the
charges preferred against him.

The Court, out of delicacy toward the feelings of
his wife, refrained from pronouncing sentence until
she had retired, which she did on an intimation being
given her that the case was closed, and she could
return home. Jerry was then called and ordered to
hearken to his sentence, as the Court had recorded it.

Jerry stood up and faced the Court, with fixed eyes
and gaping mouth, and the clerk repeated as follows:—

“Jerry Guttridge! you have been found guilty of
being an idle and lazy person, and not providing for
your family, and giving reproachful language to Mr.
Nat. Frier, when he reproved you for your idleness.
The Court orders that you receive twenty smart lashes,
with the cat-o'-nine-tails, upon your naked back, and
that this sentence be executed forthwith, by the constables,
at the whipping-post in the yard adjoining
the court-house.”

Jerry dropped his head, and his face assumed divers
deep colors, sometimes red, and sometimes shading
upon the blue. He tried to glance round upon the
assembled multitude, but his look was very sheepish;
and, unable to stand the gaze of the hundreds of eyes
that were upon him, he settled back on a bench, leaned
his head on his hand, and looked steadily upon the

floor. The constables having been directed by the
Court to proceed forthwith to execute the sentence,
they led him out into the yard, put his arms round
the whipping-post, and tied his hands together. He
submitted without resistance; but when they commenced
tying his hands round the post, he began to
cry and beg, and promised better fashions if they
would only let him go this time. But the constables
told him it was too late now; the sentence of the Court
had been passed, and the punishment must be inflicted.
The whole throng of spectators had issued from
the court-house, and stood round in a large ring, to
see the sentence enforced. The Judge himself had
stepped to a side window, which commanded a view
of the yard, and stood peering solemnly through his
spectacles to see that the ceremony was duly performed.
All things being in readiness, the stoutest constable
took the cat-o'-nine-tails, and laid the blows
heavily across the naked back of the victim. Nearly
every blow brought blood, and as they successively
fell, Jerry jumped and screamed, so that he might
have been heard well-nigh a mile. When the twenty
blows were counted, and the ceremony was ended, he
was loosed from his confinement, and told that he
might go. He put on his garments, with a sullen but
subdued air, and without stopping to pay his respects
to the Court, or even to bid any one good-by, he
straightened for home as fast as he could go.

Mrs. Guttridge met him at the door, with a kind
and piteous look, and asked him if they hurt him.
He made no reply, but pushed along into the house.
There he found the table set, and well supplied, for
dinner; for Mrs. Guttridge, partly through the kindness
of Mr. Frier, and partly from her own exertions,
had managed to “pick up something” that served to
make quite a comfortable meal. Jerry ate his dinner
in silence, but his wife thought he manifested more
tenderness and less selfishness than she had known
him to exhibit for several years; for, instead of appropriating
the most and the best of the food to himself,
he several times placed fair proportions of it upon the
plates of his wife and each of the children.

The next morning, before the sun had dried the dew
from the grass, whoever passed the haying field of
Mr. Nat. Frier might have beheld Jerry Guttridge
busily at work, shaking out the wet hay to the sun;
and for a month afterward the passer-by might have
seen him every day, early and late, in that and the
adjoining fields, a perfect pattern of industry.

A change soon became perceptible in the condition

and circumstances of his family. His house began to
wear more of an air of comfort, outside and in. His
wife improved in health and spirits, and little Bobby
became a fat, hearty boy, and grew like a pumpkin.
And years afterward Mrs. Guttridge was heard to say
that, “somehow, ever since that 'ere trial, Mr. Guttridge's
natur' seemed to be entirely changed.”