University of Virginia Library

9. CHAPTER IX.
HARRY'S FIRST DAY'S WORK.

IT was the fashion of olden times to consider children only as
children pure and simple; not as having any special and
individual nature which required special and individual adaptation,
but as being simply so many little creatures to be washed,
dressed, schooled, fed, and whipped, according to certain general
and well-understood rules.

The philosophy of modern society is showing to parents and
educators how delicate and how varied is their task; but in the
days we speak of nobody had thought of these shadings and
variations. It is perhaps true, that in that very primitive and
simple state of society there were fewer of those individual peculiarities
which are the result of the stimulated brains and nervous
systems of modern society.

Be that as it may, the little parish of Needmore saw nothing
in the fact that two orphan children had fallen into the hands of
Crab Smith and his sister, Miss Asphyxia, which appeared to its
moral sense as at all unsuitable. To be sure, there was a suppressed
shrug of the shoulders at the idea of the little fair-haired,
pleasant-mannered boy being given up to Old Crab.
People said to each other, with a knowing grin: “That 'ere
boy 'd have to toe the mark pretty handsome; but then, he
might do wus. He 'd have enough to eat and drink anyhow, and
old Ma'am Smith, she 'd mother him. As to Miss Asphyxia
and the girl, why, 't was jest the thing. She was jest the hand
to raise a smart girl.”

In fact, we are not certain that Miss Asphyxia, with a few
modifications and fashionable shadings suitable for our modern
society, is not, after all, the ideal personage who would get all
votes as just the proper person to take charge of an orphan asylum,
— would be recommended to widowers with large families
as just the woman to bring up their children.

Efficiency has always been, in our New England, the golden
calf before which we have fallen down and worshipped. The
great granite formation of physical needs and wants that underlie
life in a country with a hard soil and a severe climate gives an
intensity to our valuation of what pertains to the working of
the direct and positive force that controls the physical; and
that which can keep in constant order the eating, drinking, and
wearing of this mortal body is always asserting itself in every
department of life as the true wisdom.

But what, in fact, were the two little children who had been
thus seized on and appropriated?

The boy was, as we have described, of a delicate and highly
nervous organization, — sensitive, æsthetic, — evidently fitted by
nature more for the poet or scholar than for the rough grind of
physical toil. There had been superinduced on this temperament
a precocious development from the circumstance of his having
been made, during the earliest years of his consciousness, the companion
of his mother. Nothing unfolds a child faster than being
thus taken into the companionship of older minds in the first
years of life. He was naturally one of those manly, good-natured,
even-tempered children that are the delight of nurses and the
staff and stay of mothers. Early responsibility and sorrow, and
the religious teachings of his mother, had awakened the spiritual
part of his nature to a higher consciousness than usually exists in
childhood. There was about him a steady, uncorrupted goodness
and faithfulness of nature, a simple, direct truthfulness, and
a loyal habit of prompt obedience to elders, which made him one
of those children likely, in every position of child-life, to be favorites,
and to run a smooth course.

The girl, on the contrary, had in her all the elements of a little
bundle of womanhood, born to rule and command in a pure womanly
way. She was affectionate, gay, pleasure-loving, self-willed,
imperious, intensely fond of approbation, with great stores
of fancy, imagination, and an under-heat of undeveloped passion
that would, in future life, give warmth and color to all her
thoughts, as a volcanic soil is said to brighten the hues of flowers
and warm the flavor of grapes. She had, too, that capacity of

secretiveness which enabled her to carry out the dictates of a
strong will, and an intuitive sense of where to throw a tendril or
strike a little fibre of persuasion or coaxing, which comes early to
those fair parasites who are to live by climbing upon others, and
to draw their hues and sweetness from the warmth of other
hearts. The moral and religious faculties were as undeveloped
in her as in a squirrel or a robin. She had lived, in fact, between
her sorrowing mother and her thoughtful little brother, as
a beautiful pet, whose little gladsome ways and gay pranks were
the only solace of their poverty. Even the father, in good-natured
hours, had caressed her, played with her, told her stories,
and allowed all her little audacities and liberties with an indulgence
that her brother could not dare to hope for. No service
or self-denial had ever been required of her. She had been
served, with a delicate and exact care, by both mother and
brother.

Such were the two little specimens of mortality which the town
of Needmore thought well provided for when they were consigned
to Crab Smith and Miss Asphyxia.

The first day after the funeral of his mother, the boy had been
called up before light in the morning, and been off at sunrise to
the fields with the men; but he had gone with a heart of manly
enterprise, feeling as if he were beginning life on his own account,
and meaning, with straightforward simplicity, to do his best.

He assented to Old Crab's harsh orders with such obedient submission,
and set about the work given him with such a steady,
manly patience and good-will, as to win for himself, at the outset,
golden opinions from the hired men, and to excite in Old Crab
that discontented satisfaction which he felt in an employee in whom
he could find nothing to scold. The work of merely picking up
the potatoes from the hills which the men opened was so very
simple as to give no chance for mistake or failure, and the boy
was so cheerful and unintermitting in his work that no fault could
be found under that head. He was tired enough, it is true, at
night; but, as he rode home in the cart, he solaced himself with
the idea that he was beginning to be a man, and that he should
work and support his sister, — and he had many things to tell

her of the result of his first day's labor. He wondered that she
did not come to meet him as the cart drove up to the house,
and his first inquiry, when he saw the friendly old woman, was,
“Where is Tina?”

“She 's gone to live with his sister,” said Mrs. Smith, in an
undertone, pointing to her husband in the back yard. “Asphyxia
's took her to raise.”

“To what?” said the boy, timidly.

“Why, to fetch her up, — teach her to work,” said the little
old woman. “But come, sonny, go wash your hands to the sink.
Dear me! why, you 've fairly took the skin off your fingers.”

“I 'm not much used to work,” said the boy, “but I don't
mind it.” And he washed carefully the little hands, which, sure
enough, had the skin somewhat abraded on the finger-ends.

“Do ye good,” said Old Crab. “Must n't mind that. Can't
have no lily-fingered boys workin' for me.”

The child had not thought of complaining; but as soon as he
was alone with Mrs. Smith, he came to her confidentially and
said, “How far is it to where Tina lives?”

“Well, it 's the best part of two miles, I calculate.”

“Can't I go over there to-night and see her?”

“Dear heart! no, you can't. Why, your little back must ache
now, and he 'll have you routed up by four o'clock in the morning.”

“I 'm not so very tired,” said the boy; “but I want to see
Tina. If you 'll show me the way, I 'll go.”

“O, well, you see, they won't let you,” said the old woman,
confidentially. “They are a ha'sh pair of 'em, him and Sphyxy
are; and they 've settled it that you ain't to see each other no
more, for fear you 'd get to playin' and idlin'.”

The blood flushed into the boy's face, and he breathed short.
Something stirred within him, such as makes slavery bitter, as he
said, “But that is n't right. She 's my only sister, and my mother
told me to take care of her; and I ought to see her sometimes.”

“Lordy massy!” said Goody Smith; “when you 're with some
folks, it don't make no difference what 's right and what ain't.
You 've jest got to do as ye ken. It won't do to rile him, I tell

you. He 's awful, once git his back up.” And Goody Smith
shook her little old head mysteriously, and hushed the boy, as she
heard her husband's heavy tread coming in from the barn.

The supper of cold beef and pork, potatoes, turnips, and hard
cider, which was now dispensed at the farm-house, was ample for
all purposes of satisfying hunger; and the little Harry, tired as
he was, ate with a vigorous relish. But his mind was still dwelling
on his sister.

After supper was over he followed Goody Smith into her
milk-room. “Please do ask him to let me go and see Tina,”
he said, persuasively.

“Laws a massy, ye poor dear! ye don't know the critter. If
I ask him to do a thing, he 's all the more set agin it. I found
out that 'ere years ago. He never does nothin' I ask him to.
But never mind; some of these days, we 'll try and contrive it.
When he 's gone to mill, I 'll speak to the men, and tell 'em to
let ye slip off. But then the pester on 't is, there 's Sphyxy;
she 's allers wide awake, and would n't let a boy come near her
house no more than ef he was a bulldog.”

“Why, what harm do boys do?” said the child, to whom this
view presented an entirely new idea.

“O, well, she 's an old maid, and kind o' set in her ways; and
it ain't easy gettin' round Sphyxy; but I 'll try and contrive it.
Sometimes I can get round 'em, and get something done, when
they don't know nothin' about it; but it 's drefful hard gettin'
things done.”

The view thus presented to the child's mind of the cowering,
deceptive policy in which the poor old woman's whole married
life had been spent gave him much to think of after he had gone
to his bedroom.

He sat down on his little, lonely bed, and began trying to comprehend
in his own mind the events of the last few days. He
recalled his mother's last conversation with him. All had happened
just as she had said. She was gone, just as she had told
him, and left him and little Tina alone in the world. Then he
remembered his promise, and, kneeling down by his bedside,
repeated the simple litany — psalm, prayer, and hymn — which

his mother had left him as her only parting gift. The words
soothed his little lonesome heart; and he thought what his mother
said, — he recalled the look of her dying eyes as she said it, —
“Never doubt that God loves you, whatever happens; and, if
you have any trouble, pray to him.” Upon this thought, he
added to his prayer these words: “O dear Father! they have
taken away Tina; and she 's a very little girl, and cannot work,
as I can. Please do take care of Tina, and make them let me
go and see her.”