The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 04, No. 23, September, 1859. Various

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СКАЧАТЬ to "do the job himself in good shape for four dollars," which offer was held in abeyance until we should learn the result of Youth's interview with his father.

      In the mean time, a matron suddenly made her appearance in the barn, with a hospitable entreaty that "the woman and child" would come up to the house and warm themselves; and Caleb strongly advocating the Idea, Mysie and the Baron proceeded houseward.

      About half-way they encountered Paterfamilias, hastening with Youth toward the barn, and to him Matron at once recapitulated the affair, concluding with mentioning the stipulated price. At this Pater turned, with thunderous brow, toward Youth; but Matron interposed, with womanly tact,—

      "You can do jest as you like, you know, about lettin' him go; but Dave's in the barn."

      "Dave in my barn! Wat in thunder's he doin' there? Yes, go, boy,—go for nothin', if they ask you to, sooner than let that"—

      The rest of the sentence was lost in the distance. But Mysie, following her guide to the house, felt quite sure of their conveyance; and, in fact, barely sufficient time elapsed for the hostess to possess herself of the leading facts in her guests' history, before the carriage was announced, and our travellers hastened down the lane, and found there awaiting them the evident model of the Autocrat's "One-Hoss Shay," in its last five years of senility;—to this was attached a quadruped who immediately reminded Mysie of a long-forgotten conundrum.

      "What was the first created animal?"

      Ans. "Shay-'oss."

      Holding him ostentatiously by the head stood Youth, the "borried" whip flourished in his right hand, as he invited his passengers to seat themselves without reference to him.

      This being done and the seat pretty thoroughly filled, Youth perched himself upon a bag and valise, which filled the front of the vehicle, and the journey commenced.

      That ride! The first mile was not passed before the meaning of Dave's malicious smile, at mention of a whip, became painfully apparent; for never was weapon more perseveringly used, or with so little result, the cunning old beast falling into a jog-trot at the commencement, from which no amount of vociferation or whipping could move him.

      "I wouldn't hurry him so much," interposed Mysie, her compassion aroused both for beast and Youth. "I don't like to see a horse whipped so much."

      "Oh, you see, Ma'am, he's so used to it, he won't go noways without it; feels kind o' lonesome, I 'xpect. It don't hurt him none, nuther; his skin's got so thick an' tough, that he wouldn't know, if you was to put bilin' tar on him."

      "Do you feed your horse on oats, much?" inquired Caleb, gravely, after a long and observant silence.

      "No, Sir, we darsn't give him no oats, 'cause he'd be sure to run away; doos sometimes, as it is."

      "I don't think you need fear it to-day," replied Caleb, quietly, as he settled himself into the corner, in the vain hope of a nap; but Youth was now loquaciously inclined.

      "Reck'n Dave was disappinted," said he, with a chuckle. "He meant to kerry ye himself; but soon's I see him round, I says to myself, says I, 'Ole Chick, you sha'n't come it this time, if I go for nothin'.'"

      "Competition is the soul of trade," drowsily murmured Caleb; but as Youth turned to inquire, "Whossay?" the bag upon which he was seated, and upon which, in the enjoyment of his triumph, he had been wriggling somewhat too vivaciously, suddenly gave way, and a pair of snow-white hose came tumbling out. They were at once caught and held admiringly up by Youth, with the ingenuous remark,—

      "How wite them looks! An' if you'll blieve it, mine was jest as clean yis'day mornin',—an' now you look at 'em!" To facilitate which inspection, the speaker conscientiously drew up his corduroys, so as fully to display a pair of home-knit socks, which certainly had wofully deteriorated from the condition ascribed to them "yis'day mornin'."

      "You see, I went clammin' las' night," pursued Youth; "an' that's death on clo's."

      "What's clammin'?" inquired the Baron, changing the subject with unconscious tact, and quite surprised at the admiring kiss bestowed upon him by his mother, while Youth, readjusting his corduroys, replied with astonishment,—

      "Clammin'? Wy, clammin's goin' arter clams; didn't ye never eat no clam-chowder?"

      "N-o, I don't think I ever did," replied the Baron, reflectively. "Is it like ice-cream?"

      "Well, I never eat none o' that, so I dunno," was the reply; and Youth and Child, each regarding the other with wondering pity, relapsed into silence.

      Having now passed from the township of Holmes's Hole into Tisbury, the road lay through what would have been an oak forest, except that none of the trees exceeded some four feet in height,—Youth affirming this to be their mature growth, and that no larger ones had grown since the forest was cleared by the original settlers. A few miles more were slowly passed, and Mysie began to look hopefully from every eminence for a sight of the light-house, when she was stunned by the information, that they were then entering Chilmark, and were "'bout half-way."

      Caleb, with an exclamation of disgust, leaped from "the shay," and accomplished the remaining ten miles, wrathfully, on foot,—while Mysie, wrapping her feminine patience about her as a mantle, resigned herself to endurance; but Youth, noticing, perhaps, her weary and disconsolate expression, applied himself sedulously to the task of entertaining her; and, as a light and airy way of opening the conversation, inquired,—

      "Was you pooty sick aboard the boat?"

      "Not at all."

      "That's curous! Women 'most alluz is,—'specially wen it's so ruffly as it is to-day. Was bubby sick any?"

      "No."

      "Wa-al, that's very fortnit, for I don't blieve he'll be sick wen he grows up an' goes walin'. It's pooty tryin', the fust two or three weeks out, ginerally. How young is he a-goin' to begin?"

      "I do not think he will ever go to sea."

      "Not a-goin' to sea? Wy, his father's a captain, I 'xpect; a'n't he?"

      "No."

      "Mate, then, a'n't he?"

      "He is not a sailor at all."

      "Ha'n't never ben to sea?"

      "Never."

      Oh, the look of wide-mouthed astonishment which took possession of Youth's hitherto vacant features, at thus encountering a strong-looking man, in the prime of life, who had never been to sea, and a healthy, sturdy boy, whose parents did not mean that he ever should! He had no more to say; every faculty was, for at least an hour, devoted to the contemplation of these lusus naturæ, thus presented to his vision.

      At last, the road, which had long been in a condition of ominous second-childhood, suddenly died a natural death at the foot of a steep hill, where a rail-fence presented itself as a barrier to farther progress. The bars were soon removed by Youth, who triumphantly announced, as Cha-os walked slowly through the opening thus presented,—

      "Now we're on Ga'ed, an' I'll run along and take down the next bars, if you kin drive. Git along, Tom,—you ha'n't got nothin' but two feathers ahind you now."

      "How far is it to the Light-house?" inquired Mysie, faintly.

      "Ony 'bout four mild," was the discouraging reply, as Youth "loped" on in advance.

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