Hills of the Shatemuc is a Webnovel created by Susan Warner.
This lightnovel is currently completed.
“Papa wants us this summer. — And I don’t see how he can spare us at all, Rufus.”
“I am sure he will let us go,” said the other steadily, though with a touch of trouble in his face.
“We are just beginning to help him.”
“We can help him much better the other way,” said Rufus quickly. “Farming is the most miserable slow way of making money that ever was contrived.”
“How do _you_ propose to make money?” inquired his brother coolly.
“I don’t know! I am not thinking of making money at present!”
“It takes a good deal to go to College, don’t it?”
“Yes.”
And again there was a little silence. And the eyes of both were fixed on the river and the opposite hills, while they saw only that distant world and the vague barrier between.
“But I intend to go, Winthrop,” said his brother, looking at him, with fire enough in his face to _burn up_ obstacles.
“Yes, you will go,” the younger said calmly. The cool grey eye did not speak the internal “So will I!” — which stamped itself upon his heart. They got up from the plough beam.
“I’ll try for’t,” was Rufus’s conclusion, as he shook himself.
“_You’ll get it_,” said Winthrop.
There was much love as well as ambition in the delighted look with which his brother rewarded him. They parted to their work. They ploughed the rest of their field: — what did they turn over besides the soil?
They wended their slow way back with the oxen when the evening fell; but the yoke was off their own necks. The lingering western light coloured another world than the morning had shined upon. No longer bondsmen of the soil, they trode it like masters. They untackled their oxen and let them out, with the spirit of men whose future work was to be in a larger field. Only Hope’s little hand had lifted the weight from their heads. And Hope’s only resting point was determination.
CHAPTER II.
A quiet smile played round his lips, As the eddies and dimples of the tide Play round the bows of ships, That steadily at anchor ride.
And with a voice that was full of glee, He answered, “ere long we will launch A vessel as goodly, and strong, and staunch, As ever weathered a wintry sea!”
LONGFELLOW.
“The ploughing’s all done; thank fortune!” exclaimed Rufus as he came into the kitchen.
“Well, don’t leave your hat there in the middle of the floor,”
said his mother.
“Yes, it just missed knocking the tea-cups and saucers off the table,” said little Asahel.
“It hasn’t missed knocking you off your balance,” said his brother tartly. “Do you know where your own hat is?”
“It hain’t knocked me off anything!” said Asahel. “It didn’t touch me!”
“Do you know where your own hat is?”
“No.”
“What does it matter, Will?” said his mother.
“It’s hanging out of doors, on the handle of the grindstone.”
“It ain’t!”
“Yes it is; — on the grindstone.”
“No it isn’t,” said Winthrop coming in, “for I’ve got it here.
There — see to it, Asahel. Mamma, papa’s come. We’ve done ploughing.”
And down went his hat, but not on the floor.
“Look at Winifred, Governor — she has been calling for you all day.”
The boy turned to a flaxen-haired, rosy-cheeked, little toddling thing of three or four years old, at his feet, and took her up, to the perfect satisfaction of both parties. Her head nestled in his neck and her little hand patted his cheek with great approval and contentment.
“Mamma,” said Asahel, “what makes you call Winthrop Governor?
— he isn’t a governor.”
“Ask your father. And run and tell him tea’s just ready.”
The father came in; and the tea was made, and the whole party sat down to table. A homely, but a very cheerful and happy board. The supper was had in the kitchen; the little remains of the fire that had boiled the kettle were not amiss after the damps of evening fell; and the room itself, with its big fireplace, high dark-painted wainscoting, and even the clean board floor, was not the least agreeable in the house. And the faces and figures that surrounded the table were manly, comely, and intelligent, in a high degree.
“Well, — I’ve got through with that wheat field,” said Mr.
Landholm, as he disposed of a chicken bone.
“Have you got through sowing?” said his wife.
“Sowing! — no! — Winthrop, I guess you must go into the garden to-morrow — I can’t attend to anything else till I get my grain in.”
“Won’t you plant some sweet corn this year, Mr. Landholm? — it’s a great deal better for cooking.”
“Well, I don’t know — I guess the field corn’s sweet enough. I haven’t much time to attend to sugar things. What _I_ look for is substantials.”
“Aren’t sweet things substantial, sir?” said Winthrop.
“Well — yes, — in a sort they are,” said his father laughing, and looking at the little fat creature who was still in her brother’s arms and giving him the charge of her supper as well as his own. “I know _some_ sweet things I shouldn’t like to do without.”
“Talking of substantials,” said Mrs. Landholm, “there’s wood wanting to be got. I am almost out. I had hardly enough to cook supper.”
“Don’t want much fire in this weather,” said the father, “However — we can’t get along very well without supper. — Rufus, I guess you’ll have to go up into the woods to-morrow with the ox-sled — you and Sam Doolittle — back of the pine wood — you’ll find enough dead trees there, I guess.”
“I think,” said Rufus, “that if you think of it, what are called substantial things are the least substantial of any — they are only the scaffolding of the other.”
“Of what other?” said his father.