Bound to Rise 2

Bound to Rise 2

The land was not good, and far from productive; but he had scrimped and

saved and pinched and denied himself, spending almost nothing, till the

little money which the farm annually yielded him had accumulated to

a considerable sum. Then, too, as there were no banks near at hand

to accommodate borrowers, the squire used to lend money to his poorer

neighbors. He took care not to exact more than six per cent. openly, but

it was generally understood that the borrower must pay a bonus besides

to secure a loan, which, added to the legal interest, gave him a very

handsome consideration for the use of his spare funds. So his money

rapidly increased, doubling every five or six years through his shrewd

mode of management, and every year he grew more economical. His wife had

died ten years before. She had worked hard for very poor pay, for the

squire's table was proverbially meager, and her bills for dress, judging

from her appearance, must have been uncommonly small.

 

The squire had one son, now in the neighborhood of thirty, but he had

not been at home for several years. As soon as he attained his majority

he left the homestead, and set out to seek his fortune elsewhere. He

vowed he wouldn't any longer submit to the penurious ways of the squire.

So the old man was left alone, but he did not feel the solitude. He had

his gold, and that was company enough. A time was coming when the two

must part company, for when death should come he must leave the gold

behind; but he did not like to think of that, putting away the idea

as men will unpleasant subjects. This was the man to whom Hiram Walton

applied for help in his misfortune.

 

"Is the squire at home?" he asked, at the back door. In that household

the front door was never used. There was a parlor, but it had not been

opened since Mrs. Green's funeral.

 

"He's out to the barn," said Hannah Green, a niece of the old man, who

acted as maid of all work.

 

"I'll go out there."

 

The barn was a few rods northeast of the house, and thither Mr. Walton

directed his steps.

 

Entering, he found the old man engaged in some light work.

 

"Good morning, Squire Green."

 

"Good morning, Mr. Walton," returned the squire.

 

He was a small man, with a thin figure, and a face deep seamed with

wrinkles, more so than might have been expected in a man of his age, for

he was only just turned of sixty; but hard work, poor and scanty food

and sharp calculation, were responsible for them.

 

"How are you gettin' on?" asked the squire.

 

This was rather a favorite question of his, it being so much the custom

for his neighbors to apply to him when in difficulties, so that their

misfortune he had come to regard as his harvests..

 

"I've met with a loss," answered Hiram Walton.

 

"You don't say so," returned the squire, with instant attention. "What's

happened?"

 

"My cow is dead."

 

"When did she die?"

 

"This morning."

 

"What was the matter?"

 

"I don't know. I didn't notice but that she was welt enough last

night; but this morning when I went out to the barn, she was lying down

breathing heavily."

 

"What did you do?"

 

"I called in Elihu Perkins, and we worked over her for three hours; but

it wasn't of any use; she died half an hour ago."

 

"I hope it isn't any disease that's catchin'," said the squire in alarm,

thinking of his ten. "It would be a bad job if it should get among

mine."

 

"It's a bad job for me, squire. I hadn't but one cow, and she's gone."

 

"Just so, just so. I s'pose you'll buy another."

 

"Yes, I must have a cow. My children live on bread and milk mostly.

Then there's the butter and cheese, that I trade off at the store for

groceries."

 

"Just so, just so. Come into the house, neighbor Walton."

 

The squire guessed his visitor's business in advance, and wanted to take

time to talk it over. He would first find out how great his neighbor's

necessity was, and then he accommodated him, would charge him

accordingly.

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER III. HIRAM'S MOTTO

 

 

There was a little room just off the kitchen, where the squire had an

old-fashioned desk. Here it was that he transacted his business, and in

the desk he kept his papers. It was into this room that he introduced

Mr. Walton.

 

"Set down, set down, neighbor Walton," he said. "We'll talk this thing

over. So you've got to have a cow?"

 

"Yes, I must have one."

 

The squire fixed his eyes cunningly on his intended victim, and said,

"Goin' to buy one in town?"

 

"I don't know of any that's for sale."

 

"How much do you calc'late to pay?"

 

"I suppose I'll have to pay thirty dollars."

 

Squire Green shook his head.

 

"More'n that, neighbor Walton. You can't get a decent cow for thirty

dollars. I hain't got one that isn't wuth more, though I've got ten in

my barn."

 

"Thirty dollars is all I can afford to pay, squire."

 

"Take my advice, and get a good cow while you're about it. It don't pay

to get a poor one."

 

"I'm a poor man, squire. I must take what I can get."

 

"I ain't sure but I've got a cow that will suit you, a red with white

spots. She's a fust-rate milker."

 

"How old is she?"

 

"She's turned of five."

 

"How much do you ask for her?"

 

"Are you going to pay cash down?" asked the squire, half shutting his

eyes, and looking into the face of his visitor.

 

"I can't do that. I'm very short of money."

 

"So am I," chimed in the squire. He had two hundred dollars in his desk

at that moment waiting for profitable investment; but then he didn't

call it exactly a lie to misrepresent for a purpose. "So am I. Money's

tight, neighbor."

 

"Money's always tight with me, squire," returned Hiram Walton, with a

sigh.

 

"Was you a-meanin' to pay anything down?" inquired the squire.

 

"I don't see how I can."

 

"That alters the case, you know. I might as well keep the cow, as to

sell her without the money down."

 

"I am willing to pay interest on the money."

 

"Of course that's fair. Wall, neighbor, what do you say to goin' out to

see the cow?"

 

"Is she in the barn?"

 

"No, she's in the pastur'. 'Tain't fur."

 

"I'll go along with you."

 

They made their way by a short cut across a cornfield to the pasture--a

large ten-acre lot, covered with a scanty vegetation. The squire's cows

could not be said to live in clover.

 

"That's the critter," he said, pointing out one of the cows which was

grazing near by. "Ain't she a beauty?"

 

"She looks pretty well," said Mr. Walton, dubiously, by no means sure

that she would equal his lost cow.

 

"She's one of the best I've got. I wouldn't sell ef it wasn't to oblige.

I ain't at all partic'lar, but I suppose you've got to hev a cow."

 

"What do you ask for her, squire?"

 

"She's wuth all of forty dollars," answered the squire, who knew

perfectly well that a fair price would be about thirty. But then his

neighbor must have a cow, and had no money to pay, and so was at his

mercy.

 

"That seems high," said Hiram.

 

"She's wuth every cent of it; but I ain't nowise partic'lar about

sellin' her."

 

"Couldn't you say thirty-seven?"

 

"I couldn't take a dollar less. I'd rather keep her. Maybe I'd take

thirty-eight, cash down."

 

Hiram Walton shook his head.

 

"I have no cash," he said. "I must buy on credit."

 

"Wall, then, there's a bargain for you. I'll let you have her for forty

dollars, giving you six months to pay it, at reg'lar interest, six per

cent. Of course I expect a little bonus for the accommodation."

 

"I hope you'll be easy with me--I'm a poor man, squire."

 

"Of course, neighbor; I'm always easy."

 

"That isn't your reputation," thought Hiram; but he knew that this was a

thought to which he must not give __EXPRESSION__.

 

"All I want is a fair price for my time and trouble. We'll say three

dollars extra for the accommodation--three dollars down."

 

Hiram Walton felt that it was a hard bargain the squire was driving with

him, but there seemed no help for it.

 

He must submit to the imposition, or do without a cow. There was no

one else to whom he could look for help on any terms. As to the three

dollars, his whole available cash amounted to but four dollars, and

it was for three quarters of this sum that the squire called. But the

sacrifice must be made.

 

"Well, Squire Green, if that is your lowest price, I suppose I must come

to it," he answered, at last.

 

"You can't do no better," said the squire, with alacrity.

 

"If so be as you've made up your mind, we'll make out the papers."

 

"Very well."

 

"Come back to the house. When do you want to take the cow?"

 

"I'll drive her along now, if you are willing."

 

"Why, you see," said the squire, hesitating, while a mean thought

entered his, mind, "she's been feedin' in my pastur' all the mornin',

and I calc'late I'm entitled to the next milkin', you'd better come

'round to-night, just after milkin', and then you can take her."

 

"I didn't think he was quite so mean," passed through Hiram Walton's

mind, and his lip curved slightly in scorn, but he knew that this

feeling must be concealed.

 

"Just as you say," he answered. "I'll come round tonight, or send

Harry."

 

"How old is Harry now?"

 

"About fourteen."

 

"He's got to be quite a sizable lad--ought to earn concid'able. Is he

industrious?"

 

"Yes, Harry is a good worker--always ready to lend a hand."

 

"That's good. Does he go to school?"

 

"Yes, he's been going to school all the term."

 

"Seems to me he's old enough to give up larnin' altogether. Don't he

know how to read and write and cipher?"

 

"Yes, he's about the best scholar in school."

 

"Then, neighbor Walton, take my advice and don't send him any more. You

need him at home, and he knows enough to get along in the world."

 

"I want him to learn as much as he can. I'd like to send him to school

till he is sixteen."

 

"He's had as much schoolin' now as ever I had," said the squire, "and

I've got along pooty well. I've been seleckman, and school committy, and

filled about every town office, and I never wanted no more schoolin'. My

father took me away from school when I was thirteen."

 

"It wouldn't hurt you if you knew a little more," thought Hiram, who

remembered very well the squire's deficiencies when serving on the town

school committee.

 

"I believe in learning," he said. "My father used to say, 'Live and

learn.' That's a good motto, to my thinking."

 

"It may be carried too far. When a boy's got to be of the age of your

boy, he'd ought to be thinking of workin.' His time is too valuable to

spend in the schoolroom."

 

"I can't agree with you, squire. I think no time is better spent than

the time that's spent in learning. I wish I could afford to send my boy

to college."

 

"It would cost a mint of money; and wouldn't pay. Better put him to some

good business."

 

That was the way he treated his own son, and for this and other reasons,

as soon as he arrived at man's estate, he left home, which had never

had any pleasant associations with him. His father wanted to convert

him into a money-making machine--a mere drudge, working him hard,

and denying him, as long as he could, even the common recreations of

boyhood--for the squire had an idea that the time devoted in play was

foolishly spent, inasmuch as it brought him in no pecuniary return. He

was willfully blind to the faults and defects of his system, and their

utter failure in the case of his own son, and would, if could, have

all the boys in town brought up after severely practical method. But,

fortunately for Harry, Mr. Walton had very different notions. He was

compelled to keep his son home the greater part of the summer, but it

was against his desire.

 

"No wonder he's a poor man," thought the squire, after his visitor

returned home. "He ain't got no practical idees. Live and learn! that's

all nonsense. His boy looks strong and able to work, and it's foolish

sendin' him school any longer. That wa'n't my way, and see where I am,"

he concluded, with complacent remembrance of bonds and mortgages and

money out at interest. "That was a pooty good cow trade," he concluded.

"I didn't calc' late for to get more'n thirty-five dollars for the

critter; but then neighbor Walton had to have a cow, and had to pay my

price."

 

Now for Hiram Walton's reflections.

 

"I'm a poor man," he said to himself, as he walked slowly homeward, "but

I wouldn't be as mean as Tom Green for all the money he's worth. He's

made a hard bargain with me, but there was no help for it."

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER IV. A SUM IN ARITHMETIC

 

 

Harry kept on his way to school, and arrived just the bell rang. Many of

my readers have seen a country schoolhouse, and will not be surprised to

learn that the one in which our hero obtained his education was far

from stately or ornamental, architecturally speaking. It was a one-story

structure, about thirty feet square, showing traces of having been

painted once, but standing greatly in need of another coat. Within were

sixty desks, ranged in pairs, with aisles running between them. On one

side sat the girls, on the other the boys. These were of all ages from

five to sixteen. The boys' desks had suffered bad usage, having been

whittled and hacked, and marked with the initials of the temporary

occupants, with scarcely an exception. I never knew a Yankee boy who was

not the possessor of a knife of some kind, nor one who could resist the

temptation of using it for such unlawful purposes. Even our hero shared

the common weakness, and his desk was distinguished from the rest by "H.

W." rudely carved in a conspicuous place.

 

The teacher of the school for the present session was Nathan Burbank, a

country teacher of good repute, who usually taught six months in a year,

and devoted the balance of the year to surveying land, whenever he could

get employment in that line, and the cultivation of half a dozen acres

of land, which kept him in vegetables, and enabled him to keep a cow.

Altogether he succeeded in making a fair living, though his entire

income would seem very small to many of my readers. He was not

deeply learned, but his education was sufficient to meet the limited

requirements of a country school.

 

This was the summer term, and it is the usual custom in New England that

the summer schools should be taught by females. But in this particular

school the experiment had been tried, and didn't work. It was found that

the scholars were too unruly to be kept in subjection by a woman, and

the school committee had therefore engaged Mr. Burbank, though, by so

doing, the school term was shortened, as he asked fifty per cent. higher

wages than a female teacher would have done. However, it was better

to have a short school than an unruly school, and so the district

acquiesced.

 

Eight weeks had not yet passed since the term commenced, and yet this

was the last day but one. To-morrow would be examination day. To

this Mr. Burbank made reference in a few remarks which he made at the

commencement of the exercises.

 

He was rather a tall, spare man, and had a habit of brushing his hair

upward, thus making the most of a moderate forehead. Probably he thought

it made him look more intellectual.

 

"Boys and girls," he said, "to-morrow is our examination day. I've tried

to bring you along as far as possible toward the temple of learning,

but some of you have held back, and have not done as well as I should

like--John Plympton, if you don't stop whispering I'll keep you after

school--I want you all to remember that knowledge is better than land or

gold. What would you think of a man who was worth a great fortune, and

couldn't spell his name?--Mary Jones, can't you sit still till I get

through?--It will be well for you to improve your opportunities while

you are young, for by and by you will grow up, and have families to

support, and will have no chance to learn--Jane Quimby, I wish you would

stop giggling, I see nothing to laugh at--There are some of you who have

studied well this term, and done the best you could. At the beginning

of the term I determined to give a book to the most deserving scholar

at the end of the term. I have picked out the boy, who, in my opinion,

deserves it--Ephraim Higgins, you needn't move round in your seat. You

are not the one."

 

There was a general laugh here, for Ephraim was distinguished chiefly

for his laziness.

 

The teacher proceeded:

 

"I do not mean to tell you to-day who it is. To-morrow I shall call out

his name before the school committee, and present him the prize. I want

you to do as well as you can to-morrow. I want you to do yourselves

credit, and to do me credit, for I do not want to be ashamed of you.

Peter Shelby, put back that knife into your pocket, and keep it there

till I call up the class in whittling."

 

There was another laugh here at the teacher's joke, and Peter himself displayed a broad grin on his large, good-humored face.