University of Virginia Library

2. II.

When the cakes were all baked, and the fire began to grow
dim, as the mother and daughter also prepared to retire, the
little black dog growled harshly, placing himself against the
door, and the old cock in the cherry tree cackled as though
suddenly awakened. Presently the growl became a bark, and
a footstep was heard crushing down the snow. The visitor
proved a brother of Mrs. Henderson, a butcher, from the city,
miles away from Clovernook. He had been in the country all
day, buying sheep and calves, and with a little cart pretty
well filled, was now on his way home, and stopped for a moment
to see how his sister prospered. He, too, was poor, with
seven children of his own, so that he could give her little but
counsel and the encouragement of sympathy. To-night, however,
he was in fine spirits; the prices of meat had risen, and
rents were low, and his oldest boy had just obtained employment
as carrier of the News, by which he earned three dollars a week.
The publisher wanted another—an intelligent lad from the
country would be preferred—and Mr. Dick, or Uncle Job, as
his sister called him, urged the expediency of sending Ward.
Mrs. Henderson was startled at the idea. How could she part
with her child, who had never been from beneath her roof for

a day? But by little and little her scruples were overcome.
“There is such necessity,” says Uncle Job, looking at Ward's
thin cotton trowsers, that hung on the back of a chair by his
bedside (Mr. Dick never softened anything); “you'll miss his
society, no doubt, but think of the pecuniary advantage;” and
he added, glancing at Mary, “there is no telling what expense
of doctor bills and the like you will have to defray before
spring: this weather goes hard with folks of her complaint.
I suppose,” he continued, “the disease is hereditary—her father
was consumptive always, as you may say. I was here at the
burying, but I forget what grave-yard you put him in.” Mr.
Job Dick never dreamed but that he was talking in the pleasantest
vein imaginable, and looked bewildered and surprised
when he saw his sister applying the corner of her apron to her
eyes. He could not have interpreted aright, for shrugging his
shoulders as the wind whistled through the crevices, he said,
“A miserable old house; it will tumble down upon you all, one
of these days; yes,” he continued, making a sort of reply to
himself, “it's fall is inevitable.”

“Perhaps it will,” thought Mrs. Henderson, and she trembled
as a stronger gust came by.

“Well, what have you determined?” asked Uncle Job; and
rising, he stood before the fire, awaiting her final decision.

“I cannot let him go,” faltered the poor widow; “I will keep
them all together, as long as I can.”

But the sound of a strange voice had broken the light slumbers
of Ward; with his elbow resting on his pillow, and his
head on his hand, he had heard all the conversation, and as his
mother ceased speaking, he replied, in a calm, firm voice, that
he would go. He was soon dressed—his uncle saying he liked
such energetic movements, and his mother silently and tearfully
preparing his scanty clothes. When he took the bundle in his
hand, he hesitated; it was hard to leave them all—the baby
asleep, and gentle Mary, and his dear kind mother. Once or
twice he untied and tied his bundle, and as his mother wrapt
a part of a blanket about him, and told him to be always a
good boy, the tears quivered through his eyelashes, and without
speaking a word he walked straight out of the room, and

presently uncle Job's little cart was heard creaking and crushing
through the snow.

How lonesome it was in the little cabin! the dog crouched
close against the door, and whined low and mournfully; the
empty bed, the old hat on the peg, everything reminded the
poor mother of her son, who, in the cold and dark, was going
farther and farther away.

And long and lonesome seemed the road to Ward, as he
nestled down in the bottom of the cart, among the sheep—
the old blanket drawn up over his head, and the snow settling
all over him. He had never been to the city but once before,
and everything seemed strange to him. He caught glimpses
of great houses, and of low dark sheds, whence the lowing of
cattle and the bleating of sheep came painfully upon his ears.
He half wished he was back home again; nor was he much
soothed and encouraged, when uncle Job said, “You must not
mind trifles, but persevere, and make a man of more efficiency
than your father, who was always a trifling, lazy scamp, and a
great detriment to your mother, who was better off without
him. I should n't wonder,” continued uncle Job, in the same
consolatory strain, “if you never saw your sister again. Your
mother will be lonesome, losing two at once. There is the
baby—it will be a long time before he is any help; he looks
smart and likely now, but for all that he may be growing up
to be hanged.”

Ward was half disposed to slip out of the cart and run home,
and more especially, when his uncle told him the city to which
he was going was full of temptations, and that unless he was
mighty resolute, he would get into the house of correction, or
on the “chain gang,” it might be. It was a long way back,
and he was afraid he could not find the road, and so, trembling
in fear of the pitfalls he supposed would be laid for him, he
remained shrinking from the snow, till, in the dingy suburbs of
the city, the little wagon halted.

Uncle Job lived in a small, rickety house: it might have
been easily repaired, and made comfortable, but Aunt Dick was
one of those women who never permit their husbands to accumulate
more than five dollars at one time. She was a large,

easy, good-natured person, with the best intentions, but without
any prudent forecast or calculation—a sort of Mrs. Nancy
Yancey, toned down, to a degree. Ward thought she must be
very kind, for some hot coffee was waiting by the fire, and on
the table were spread some crackers and cheese. They were
dainties to him; and, after partaking of them and getting
warm by the fire, Uncle Job spread down his great-coat and
two sheep skins, on which, tired and sleepy from chilliness, he
slept till morning, when the voice of Aunt Dick, as she bent
over him, exclaiming, by way of expressing her surprise, “High,
diddle, diddle,” &c., aroused him to a consciousness of his new
position.

Uncle Job had seven children, and a great din and uproar
they made when one room contained them. But his amiable
help-meet said they must talk and laugh just as much as they
pleased, and if Joby did n't want to hear it, he must go out of
the house, which was only for women and children, at any rate.
Before Job went, however, he was required to empty his
pockets. Sometimes, but rarely, he asked what was wanting
now? but the inquiry was useless, as he well knew, for it was
always the same story,—the same in kind—Kitty had torn her
new frock, on the nail that tore Billy's coat the other day, and
so she must have a new one; and as the good woman received
the money, she would say, “Joby, you must drive the nail in,
with a piece of brick, or something; the children have lost the
hammer.”

“If we had what is wasted here,” thought Ward, as he sat
by the fire watching his aunt prepare the breakfast, “I should
not have been obliged to come away.”

“Where are the warm cakes, this morning?” asked Uncle
Job.

“Why, my griddle got broke in two, and I had n't anything
to bake them on.”

“But you might have baked biscuit in the oven of the stove,”
suggested the husband.

The wife said, “The stove has got choked with ashes, so it
will not bake any more; a man must be hired for a day to
clean it and make it bake. We will soon have to get a new

one; this has lasted longer now than any one I ever had, and
I guess I have had a half a dozen.”

Ward had always thought a stove would last a lifetime.

The breakfast was at length ready. Aunt Dick, having
arranged the table, and made the coffee, between intervals of
rocking before the fire, and telling Job what was worn out and
what was lost, and what he must bring home for dinner. But
the children were not ready for breakfast: one had lost her
shoes, and one had not got her face washed, and one was not
out of bed at all; but Mrs. Dick said those that were ready,
must help those that were not; and she and Job began breakfast
as complacently as though all were quiet and in order.