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Deacon Pitkin’s Farm
by
“Wal naow–you don’t say so,” was Biah’s commentary. “Wal, yis, ’tis hard sleddin’ for the deacon–drefful hard sleddin.’ Wal, naow, s’pose you’re disapp’inted–shouldn’t wonder–jes’ so. Eddication’s a good thing, but ‘taint the only thing naow; folks larns a sight rubbin’ round the world– and then they make money. Jes’ see, there’s Cap’n Stebbins and Cap’n Andrews and Cap’n Merryweather–all livin’ on good farms, with good, nice houses, all got goin’ to sea. Expect Mis’ Pitkin’ll take it sort o’ hard, she’s so sot on you; but she’s allers sayin’ things is for the best, and maybe she’ll come to think so ’bout this–folks gen’ally does when they can’t help themselves. Wal, yis, naow–goin’ to walk to the cross-road tavern? better not. Jest wait a minit and I’ll hitch up and take ye over.
“Thank you, Biah, but I can’t stop, and I’d rather walk, so I won’t trouble you.”
“Wal, look here–don’t ye want a sort o’ nest-egg? I’ve got fifty silver dollars laid up: you take it on venture and give me half what it brings.”
“Thank you, Biah. If you’ll trust me with it I’ll hope to do something for us both.”
Biah went into the house, and after some fumbling brought out a canvas bag, which he put into James’s hand.
“Wanted to go to sea confoundedly myself, but there’s Mariar Jane–she won’t hear on’t, and turns on the water-works if I peep a single word. Farmin’s drefful slow, but when a feller’s got a gal he’s got a cap’n; he has to mind orders. So you jest trade and we’ll go sheers. I think consid’able of you, and I expect you’ll make it go as fur as anybody.”
“I’ll try my best, you may believe, Biah,” said James, shaking the hard hand heartily, as he turned on his way towards the cross-roads tavern.
The whole village of Maplewood on Thanksgiving Day morning was possessed of the fact that James Pitkin had gone off to sea in the Eastern Star, for Biah had felt all the sense of importance which the possession of a startling piece of intelligence gives to one, and took occasion to call at the tavern and store on his way up and make the most of his information, so that by the time the bell rang for service the news might be said to be everywhere. The minister’s general custom on Thanksgiving Day was to get off a political sermon reviewing the State of New England, the United States of America, and Europe, Asia, and Africa; but it may be doubted if all the affairs of all these continents produced as much sensation among the girls in the singers’ seat that day as did the news that James Pitkin had gone to sea on a four years’ voyage. Curious eyes were cast on Diana Pitkin, and many were the whispers and speculations as to the part she might have had in the move; and certainly she looked paler and graver than usual, and some thought they could detect traces of tears on her cheeks. Some noticed in the tones of her voice that day, as they rose in the soprano, a tremor and pathos never remarked before–the unconscious utterance of a new sense of sorrow, awakened in a soul that up to this time had never known a grief.
For the letter had fallen on the heads of the Pitkin household like a thunderbolt. Biah came in to breakfast and gave it to Mrs. Pitkin, saying that James had handed him that last night, on his way over to take the midnight stage to Salem, where he was going to sail on the Eastern Star to-day–no doubt he’s off to sea by this time. A confused sound of exclamations went up around the table, while Mrs. Pitkin, pale and calm, read the letter and then passed it to her husband without a word. The bright, fixed color in Diana’s face had meanwhile been slowly ebbing away, till, with cheeks and lips pale as ashes, she hastily rose and left the table and went to her room. A strange, new, terrible pain–a sensation like being choked or smothered–a rush of mixed emotions–a fearful sense of some inexorable, unalterable crisis having come of her girlish folly–overwhelmed her. Again she remembered the deep tones of his good-by, and how she had only mocked at his emotion. She sat down and leaned her head on her hands in a tearless, confused sorrow.