FullReads

The red thrush broke into song and startled them both. The old man listened to it as if it were a paean of thanksgiving for the garden and all that it had given, and wished he were able to join his voice with the music of the bird. As the young girl listened it seemed to her that the song was as clear and sweet and happy as it had been in the spring. And she marvelled.

“What a pity! We have missed the bird!” A voice broke into the stillness that had followed the song. It was the Mistress of the House who was approaching, followed by the Master of the House, the Next Neighbor, and the Old Professor.

“I was wondering why you were not all here some time ago,” said the Daughter of the House.

“Kept by company,” said the Master of the House, as they all came forward and took their accustomed places. “Not half as agreeable as the bird, nor as interesting as the story John promised to tell. I hope it will not be as solemn as your countenance, John.”

Nobody was ever solemn long when the Master of the House was present, and John Gayther’s countenance immediately was lighted up by a smile. “I could not think of telling you a solemn story,” he said, “and this one is about a peculiar character I knew. His name was Abner Batterfield, and he was a farmer. One day he was forty-five years old. He was also tired. Having finished hoeing his last row of corn, he sat down on a bench at his front door, took off his wide and dilapidated straw hat, and wiped his brow. Presently his wife came out. She was a little more than forty-five years old, and of phenomenal physical and mental endurance. She had lived seventeen years with Abner, and her natural vigor was not impaired.

“‘Supper’s ready,’ said she.

“Her husband heaved a sigh, and stretched out his weary legs in unison.

“‘Supper,’ he repeated; ‘it’s allus eat, and work, and sleep!’

“‘Perhaps you’d like to leave out the eatin’,’ said Mrs. Batterfield; ‘that would save lots.’

“Her husband ignored this remark. His farm was small, but it was too big for him. He had no family except himself and wife, but the support of that family taxed his energies. There was a certain monotony connected with coming out short at the end of the year which was wearisome to his soul.

“‘Mrs. B.,’ said he, ‘I’ve made up my mind to start over again.’

“‘Goin’ back to the corn-field?’ she asked. ‘You’d better have your supper first.’

“‘No,’ said he; ‘it’s different. I’ve been thinkin’ about it all day, and I’m goin’ to begin life over ag’in.’

“‘At your age it would be more fit fer you to consider the proper endin’ of it,’ said she.

“‘I knew you’d say that, Mrs. B.; I knew you’d say that! You never do agree with me in any of my plans and undertakin’s.’

“‘Which accounts fer our still havin’ a roof over our heads,’ said she.

“‘But, I can tell you, this time I’m a-goin’ ahead. I don’t care what people say; I don’t care what they do, or what they don’t do; I’m goin’ ahead. It’ll be blackgum ag’in’ thunder this time, and I’m blackgum. You’ve heard about the thunder and lightnin’ tacklin’ a blackgum-tree?’

“‘Ever since I was born,’ said she.

“‘Well, there’s a awful scatterin’ of dust and chips when that sort of a fight is on; but nobody ever yet heard of thunder gettin’ the better of a blackgum-tree. And I’m goin’ to be a blackgum!’

“Mrs. Batterfield made no reply to this remark, but in her heart she said: ‘And I’m goin’ to be thunder.’

“The next morning, Abner Batterfield put on his best clothes, and walked to the little town about two miles distant. He didn’t enter the business part of the place, but turned into a shady side street where stood a small one-story building, almost by itself. This was the village library, and the librarian was sitting in the doorway, reading a book. He was an elderly man of comfortable contour, and wore no glasses, even for the finest print.