XIII.
_A RIDE ON THE SHEAVES._
MR. BRADFORD had gone in search of Mr. Porter; but when he reached theLake House, he did not find him there; for this was harvest time, andthe old man, still strong and hearty, was out in the fields, helpinghis sons and hired men to mow and carry in the grain. The whole flockof little ones, boys and girls, were out in the harvest fields too,and there went papa.
What a pretty, joyous sight it was! At the farther side of the fields,were the reapers, cutting with long, regular sweeps the yellow grain;while, nearer at hand, were others binding it in sheaves. Among thesewere Harry, Fred, and Hafed.
Upon an overturned sheaf, sat mammy, her baby on her knee, the littleone crowing and laughing, and shaking her dimpled hands, each of whichgrasped half a dozen ears of wheat, a new and wonderful plaything tobaby's eyes, as they bobbed their heads up and down with the motion.
Near by, where the wheat still lay as it had been cut, in long evenrows, was Frankie, in busy mischief as usual, snatching up wholehandfuls of it, and tossing it above his head with shouts of glee.Mr. Porter would not have him stopped; no one minded a little moretrouble, provided the children had their fun, he said. The old manhimself stood by the side of the great ox cart, which was filledwith golden sheaves; and on the top of these Maggie and Bessie satin state, their hands and round straw hats filled with bright, redpoppies. John Porter was about to give them a ride up to the greatbarn where the wheat was to be stored.
Mr. Bradford stood for a moment looking at it all, then walked up toMr. Porter.
"Mr. Porter," he said, "can you tell me where I can find some one whowill go and nurse that poor girl? She is too ill to be left with noone but her brother to take care of her."
Mr. Porter shook his head.
"I don't know of a soul that would be willing to go. 'Taint a placewhere one would care to pass the night, with the chance, too, of Owencoming home."
"If good pay could induce any one to do it, that shall not bewanting," said Mr. Bradford. "Is there no one in the village who woulddo it for that?"
"Well, I do know of a poor woman who might be glad to earn a littlethat way," said Mr. Porter; "but we could not get at her to-night. Itis too late now to go down the mountain, with the roads washed as theywere by the rain of night before last. There's no moon, and it wouldnot be safe coming back; but I'll send for her in the morning, if yousay so."
"I do say so," replied Mr. Bradford; "but what are we to do forto-night?"
Maggie and Bessie heard no more; for just then John Porter gave theword to his oxen, and they started off, leaving papa and Mr. Porterstill talking.
What a pleasant ride that was: out of the field where the barshad been let down; past other fields ready, or nearly ready, forthe harvesting; pale green oats, and golden wheat, the white,sweet-scented buckwheat, and the tall Indian corn; then through theorchard where a flock of sheep were feeding, past the locust grove,and then into the farmyard; stopping at last between the open doors ofthe great barn!
But, in spite of it all, our little girls were rather thoughtful asthey jogged slowly on.
"Maggie," said Bessie, presently, "won't it be dreadful if papa can'tget any one to take care of poor sick Dolly to-night?"
"Yes," said Maggie: "I wonder what she will do."
"If I was big, and mamma would let me, I'd go myself," said Bessie.
"Would you?" said Maggie; "well, I am afraid I wouldn't: so it'sbetter that I am not big, 'cause then I needn't have a troubledconscience for not doing it."
They were both silent for a moment or two. John Porter was walking athis oxen's heads, out of hearing, if the children lowered their voices.
"Bessie," said Maggie, in a whisper, "John Porter might do it,mightn't he? He is big and strong enough."
"Yes," answered Bessie, "and he heard what papa said too; but hedidn't say he'd go. Perhaps it didn't come into his head. Shall we tryto put it there, Maggie?"
"Yes: maybe you can coax him to do it."
"I'll try, and see if I can make him compassioned of poor Dolly.John," she said, in a louder tone, "you are very glad you are well andstrong; are you not?"
"Surely," said John.
"And you wouldn't like to be sick at all, would you, John?"
"Not one bit," said John. "I'd scarce know myself, for I never wassick in my life, that I remember."
"Then I s'pose you feel very thankful for it, and as if you'd like tohelp make sick people as well as you are; don't you?" said Bessie.
"Guess I wouldn't make much hand at that," answered John.
"But you are big and strong, John."
"Yes, I'm big and strong enough; but it takes more than that to makea good nurse. If it came in my way to do a good turn for a sick body,and there was no one else to do it, why I'd lend a hand; but I don'tknow as they'd thank me for it."
"Oh yes they would, John," said Maggie, eagerly; "if I was sick andhad no one to take care of me, and you came to do it, I'd thank youever so much."
"Well, I'll do it when you come to that pass," said John, without theleast idea what the little girls were driving at.
"He don't seem to understand yet," whispered Maggie to her sister;"try him with the 'Golden Rule.'"
"John," said Bessie, "are you not very fond of doing as you would bedone by?"
"As fond as most folks, I guess," said John. "'Gee, there! gee,Whitefoot!"
Bessie waited till they had passed through the gate of the orchard,then began again.
"John, if there was a chance to do as you would be done by, and youdid not think of it, would you like some one to tell you of it?"
John looked round at her and laughed.
"If there's any thing you want me to do for you, out with it. It's nogood beating about the bush. You know I always like to do for you whatI can."
"Yes: you are very good to us," said Bessie; "but it was not us: itwas Dolly. Don't you think it would be doing as you would be done byto go and take care of her to-night?"
"Whew! that's it, is it?" said John. "Maybe it would be; but that_would_ be a good thing to see me taking care of Dolly Owen;" and Johnlaughed loud and long.
Bessie was displeased, and drew herself up with a little dignified air.
"I don't think he is coaxed a bit," she whispered; "he is veryhard-hearted."
"No," said Maggie: "I don't believe he is the kind to be coaxed."
"Then I'll have to be a little strict with him, and show him it's hisduty," said Bessie, in the same tone.
"Yes, to let him see he ought to do it, whether he likes it or not,"said Maggie; "maybe he's never been taught that."
"John," said Bessie, folding her little hands gravely in her lap, andtrying to look sternly at the young man, "perhaps you don't know thatif we know we ought to do a thing and don't do it, our Father is notvery pleased with us."
"May be so," said John; "but I don't feel it's _my_ duty to go andtake care of Dolly."
"Whose duty is it, then?" asked Bessie.
"Not any one's that's likely to do it, I guess."
Bessie was in despair, but she thought she would try a little moreseverity.
"John," she said, "when you are poor and ragged, and sick and bad, Ihope some one will have pity of you, and go take care of you."
"I hope so too; but I don't feel there's any call on me to go and lookafter that thieving beggar, nor for you to trouble yourselves abouther, after all she's done to you," answered John.
"John," said Bessie, solemnly, "I'm afraid we don't think you quite sovery nice as we did this morning; and I'm afraid you are one of thoseto whom our Lord will say, 'I was sick, and ye visited me not.'"
But John was only amused at her displeasure, and laughed aloud again.
Neither of the children spoke till they reached the barn, when Johncame to the side of the cart and lifted them down.
"Well, you are just two of the funniest, forgivingest little things,"he said, as he put Bessie on her feet.
Bessie deigned no answe
r; but with an air of great displeasure turnedaway, and stood at a little distance with Maggie, watching the menpitch the sheaves up into the loft.
"Are you going back with me?" asked John, when he was ready to startfor the harvest-field again.
"No," Bessie answered, rather shortly.
"Why, you're not offended with me, are you?" said John, "and all alongof that ragamuffin up there."
"We're displeased with you," said Bessie. "It's right to be displeasedwith people when you tell them what is right, and they don't do it;but if you're going to repent, we'll forgive you."
John answered with another "ha-ha."
"Well, no," he said; "I don't think I'm ready for repentance in thatline yet. I hope I'll never do any thing worse than refusing to takecare of a sick beggar."
"I hope so too," said Bessie, reprovingly. "That's quite worseenough," and she and Maggie walked out of the farmyard, and turnedinto the lane which led up to the house.
"Hallo!" John called out, mischievously; "if you feel so bad aboutDolly, why don't you ask your father or uncle to go up and see afterher?"
Neither of the little girls turned their heads, but walked straighton in the most dignified silence, followed by the sound of John'smerriment.
"That's a little too much," said Maggie, when they were beyondhearing; "idea of papa or Uncle Ruthven staying all night in thatdirty place!"
Bessie did not like the idea either, but her little head was puzzled.If she thought it right for John Porter to go, ought she not to thinkit right for her papa or uncle? She did not at all thank John forputting the thought into her head: it was fresh cause of offenceagainst him; but now that it was there, she could not shut it out.
"Maggie," she said, "I wonder if we ought not to put it into papa's orUncle Ruthven's mind?"
"Pooh! no," said Maggie; "they've sense enough to think it out forthemselves if they ought to go: but I don't think John Porter is verysensible; do you?"
"I guess I won't say he's unsensible just now," said Bessie. "I'm'fraid I feel 'most too mad."
"What difference does that make?" asked Maggie.
"'Cause mamma said, when I was angry it was better not to say unkindthings about a person; and then when I was pleased with them again Iwould see that the unkind things were only in my own heart, and notquite true. She didn't say just those very words, but that was whatshe meant."
"I'm never, never going to be pleased with John Porter again," saidMaggie, shaking her head very decidedly. "Oh! there's Mrs. Portergoing to feed the chickens; let's go help her."
The chickens had been fed and had gone to roost, and the little girlshad been with Dolly and Fanny to the pasture to see the cows milked,before they went back to the house, and met Uncle Ruthven just cominghome. They ran up to him, and each taking a hand, asked for news ofDolly. It was not good,--worse, if any thing, than the last; and theylooked rather sober as they walked with their uncle up the steps ofthe piazza, where all the rest of the family were gathered.
"Well," said Uncle Ruthven to papa, "have you had any success?"
"Not the least," said Mr. Bradford; and then he told what Mr. Porterhad said.
"She must be looked after to-night," said Mr. Stanton. "Lem does notknow what to do for her, and is frightened half out of his senses atthe thought of being alone with her. It would be cruel to leave them."
"Yes," said Maggie, indignantly; "we were trying to make John Portersee it was his duty to go and take care of her, but he would not. Hehas not a bit of compassion."
"We said every thing we could, till we were quite despaired of him,"put in Bessie; "but it was all of no use."
"What makes you think John Porter ought to go and take care of her?"asked Uncle Ruthven.
"Oh! 'cause he's such a big, strong fellow," said Maggie, "so wethought it was his duty; but he would not be put in mind of it."
"Well," said Uncle Ruthven, "there is another big, strong fellow whomyou have put in mind of _his_ duty. He had an inkling of it before,but I must say he was not very willing to see it."
"Ruthven!" exclaimed his wife, "you do not mean you are going to thatdreadful place to pass the night!"
"I do not see that Maggie and Bessie have left me any choice," heanswered, smiling, and sitting down on the steps beside her, "atleast not if being a big, strong fellow makes it one's duty to go."
"Oh, Uncle Ruthven!" said Maggie, "we never meant you."
"Perhaps not, Maggie; but the shoe fits, so I think I must put it on."
"Is there no one we could find to do it if they were well paid?" saidhis wife, pleadingly.
"I expect to be well paid, love," he said in a low tone and withanother smile. "I shall have all the reward I can ask."
Little Bessie was standing at Mrs. Stanton's knee, twisting one overanother her aunt's soft, white fingers, and as her uncle spoke shelooked up brightly.
"We know what he means, don't we, dear Aunt Bessie? He means the cupof cold water given in Jesus' name shall have its reward. I thinkUncle Ruthven is taking up a jewel."
"Thank you, darling," said Aunt Bessie, with a quiver in her voice.
"For what, Aunt Bessie?"
But Aunt Bessie only smiled and kissed her, and Uncle Ruthven said,--
"I shall borrow the Colonel's camp chair with his permission, and takesome candles and a book, so I shall do very well on this fine, stillnight."
"And I shall keep awake all night and think about you, Uncle Ruthven,"said Maggie; "so if you feel lonely you can know my soul is over therewith you."
So when tea was over, Uncle Ruthven with a lantern, the Colonel'scamp-chair, and some other needful things for Dolly, went over to passthe night at the wretched hut.
The little girls stood beside Aunt Bessie and watched him as he walkedaway, and Bessie, taking Mrs. Stanton's hand in hers, laid her cheekupon it in her own caressing way, and said,--
"Aunt Bessie, I think we'll _all_ have to try to bear Dolly's burdento-night."
"It's too bad!" exclaimed Maggie; "it's an awful burden to bear,it makes me feel homesick, and I want to cry about it, and I justwill--there now!" and Maggie burst into tears.
Mamma came, and after a little petting carried them off to bed, forthey were both tired. But on the way she had to stop in the kitchento speak to Mrs. Porter, and there her little girls followed her andfound John.
Now we know Maggie had said she "_never, never_ meant to be pleasedwith John again;" but when he called to them, and said he had a treatfor them the next day, she somehow found herself, she did not quiteknow how, talking away to him, and begging to know what it was, as ifshe had never been displeased with him in her life.
But after she was in bed and mamma had gone, she suddenly popped upher head and said,--
"Bessie, what do you think? I went and forgot I was mad with JohnPorter. Now, what shall I do about it?"
"I guess you'll have to stay unmad," said Bessie, sleepily.
"Yes, I s'pose I will," said Maggie; "and I believe I'm rather gladof it. I don't feel very nice when I keep displeased with people, andJohn is real good to us, if he wouldn't go stay with Dolly. Are yougoing to stay awake all night, and think about Uncle Ruthven?"
"I'd like to," said Bessie; "but I'm 'fraid I can't. I'm so tired andsleepy, my eyes won't stay open."
"Mine will," said Maggie. "I'm going to make them. I don't mean tosleep a single wink, but just think about Uncle Ruthven all thetime. Isn't he kind and good, Bessie? John Porter is pretty goodtoo: I wonder where he's going to take us to-morrow, and if mammawill let us go,--and s'pose--maybe--Uncle Ruthven in the--rocks--andI'm--not--going"--
"Maggie," said Uncle Ruthven, the next morning, "I rather think Imissed the company of those constant thoughts you promised me lastnight, at least for part of the time."
Maggie climbed on her uncle's knee, put her arms about his neck andher lips very close to his ear, and whispered,--
"_Please_ don't tell any one, Uncle Ruthven; but I am afraid I did goto sleep for a few minutes last night.
I didn't mean to, but I did."