CHAPTER IX
"OLD PLOD"
"Emily Warren, why does thee bring Richard Morton back so soon?" askedMr. Yocomb, suspending for a moment the sweep of his hand that wasscattering grain.
"You are mistaken, sir," I said; "I brought Miss Warren back. I thoughtshe would enjoy seeing you feed the poultry, the horses, and especiallythe cows."
"Thee's more self-denying than I'd a been," he resumed, With hishumorous twinkle. "Don't tell mother, but I wouldn't mind taking a walkwith Emily Warren myself on a June evening like this."
"I will take a walk with you whenever you wish," laughed Miss Warren;"but I'll surely tell Mrs. Yocomb."
"Oh! I know I'd get found out," said the old man, shaking his headruefully; "I always do."
"I'm sure you would if Miss Warren were here," I added. "I'm at a lossto know how early in the day she found me out."
"Well, I guess thee's a pretty square sort of a man. If thee'd beenstealing sheep Emily Warren wouldn't laugh at thee so approvingly. I'mfinding out that she rather likes the people she laughs at. At least, Itake that view, for she laughs at me a great deal. I knew from EmilyWarren's laugh that thee hadn't anything very bad to tell mother."
"I admit that, at the time, I enjoyed being laughed at--a rather rareexperience."
"You needn't, either of you, plume yourselves that you are irresistiblyfunny. I laugh easily. Mr. Yocomb, why do you feed the chickens soslowly? I have noticed it before. Now Reuben and Hiram, the man, throwthe corn all down at once."
"They are in more of a hurry than I am. I don't like to do anything ina hurry, least of all to eat my dinner. Now, why should these chickens,turkeys and ducks gobble everything right down? The corn seems to tastegood to them; so, after a handful, I wait till they have had a chanceto think how good the last kernel was before they get another. You seeI greatly prolong their pleasure."
"And in these intervals you meditate on Thanksgiving Day, I suppose,"she said.
"Emily Warren, thee's a good Yankee. I admit that that young gobblerthere did suggest a day on which I'm always very thankful, and withgood reason. I had about concluded before thee came that, if we wereboth spared--i.e., that gobbler and I--till next November, I wouldprobably survive him."
"How can you have the heart to plan against that poor creature's lifeso coolly? See how he turns his round, innocent eyes toward you, as ifin gratitude. If he could know that the hand that feeds him would chopoff his head, what a moral shock he would sustain! That upturned beakshould be to you like a reproachful face."
"Emily Warren, we expect thee to eat thy Thanksgiving dinner with us;and that young gobbler will probably be on the table. Now what part ofhim will thee take on that occasion?"
"A piece of the breast, if you please."
"Richard Morton, is not Emily Warren as false and cruel as I am?"
"Just about."
"Is thee not afraid of her?"
"I would be if she were unfriendly."
"Oh, thee thinks everybody in this house is friendly. Emily Warren,thee must keep up our good name," he added, with a mischievous nodtoward her.
"Mr. Yocomb, you are forgetting the chickens altogether. There are somestaid and elderly hens that are going to bed in disgust, you have keptthem waiting so long."
"See how quick they'll change their minds," he said, as he threw down ahandful of corn. "Now isn't that just like a hen?" he added, as theyhastened back.
"And just like a woman also, I'm sure you want to suggest," said MissWarren.
"I suppose thee never changes thy mind."
"I'm going to change the subject. Poultry with their feathers on don'tinterest me very much. The male birds remind me of a detestable classof conceited men, that one must see daily in the city, whose gallantryis all affectation, and who never for a moment lose sight of themselvesor their own importance. That strutting gobbler there, Mr. Morton,reminds me of certain eminent statesmen whom your paper delights tohonor, and I imagine that that ridiculous creature embodies their ideaof the American eagle. Then the hens have such a simple, unthinkingaspect. They act as if they expected to be crowed over as a matter ofcourse; and thus typify the followers of these statesmen, who are sopre-eminent in their own estimation. Their exalted perches seem to beawarded unquestioningly."
"So you think, Miss Warren, that I have the simple, unthinking aspecttypified by the physiognomy of these hens?"
"Mr. Morton, I was generalizing. We always except present company.Remember, I disagree with your paper, not you; but why you look up tothese human species of the gobbler is something I can't understand, andbeing only a _woman_, that need not seem strange to you."
"Since I must tell you the truth on all occasions, _nolens volens_, youhave hit on a subject wherein I differ from my paper. Human phases ofthe gobbler are not pleasant."
"But the turkey phase _is, very_," said Mr. Yocomb, throwing a handfulof corn down before his favorite, which, like certain eminentstatesmen, immediately looked after his own interests.
"Mr. Yocomb, please, let me help you feed the horses," said MissWarren, leading the way into the barn, where on one side were mows forhay and grain, and, on the other, stalls for several horses. The sleekand comfortable animals seemed to know the young girl, for they thrustout their black and brown noses toward her and projected their earsinstead of laying them back viciously, as when I approached; and oneold plow-horse that had been much neglected, until Miss Warren began topet him, gave a loud ecstatic whinny.
"Oh, you big, honest old fellows!" she exclaimed, caressing one andanother, "I'd rather teach you than half my pupils."
"In which half do you place me?" I asked.
"You? oh, I forgot; I was to teach you topography. I will assign you byand by, after you have had a few lessons."
"A man ought to do as well as a horse, so I hope to win your favor."
"I wish all men did as well as Mr. Yocomb's horses. They evidently feelthey have the family name and respectability to keep up. Mr. Yocomb,what is it that smells so sweetly?"
"That is the red-top clover we cut last week."
"Oh, isn't it good? I wouldn't mind having some myself," and shesnatched down a fragrant handful from the mow. "Here, Old Plod," shesaid, turning to the plow-horse, "the world has rather snubbed you, asit has honest worth before. Mr. Yocomb, you and Reuben are much toofond of gay horses."
"Shall I tell Reuben that thee'd rather ride after Old Plod, as theecalls him?"
"No, I thank you; I'll go on as I've begun. I'm not changeable."
"Now, Friend Morton, is not Emily Warren as bad as I am about gayhorses?"
"I'm inclined to think she is about as bad as you are in all respects."
"Emily Warren, thee needn't put on any more airs. Richard Morton thinksthee isn't any better than I am, and there's nothing under the sun aneditor doesn't know."
"I wish he were right this time," she said, with a laugh and sighcuriously blended. "It seems to me, Mr. Yocomb, that you have grownhere in the country like your clover-hay, and are as good andwholesome. In New York it is so different, especially if one has nohome life; you breathe a different atmosphere from us in more respectsthan one. This fragrant old barn appears to me more of a sanctuary thansome churches in which I have tried to worship, and its dim eveninglight more religious." "According to your faith," I said, "no shrinehas ever contained so precious a gift as a manger."
"According to _our_ faith, if you please, Mr. Morton."
By an instinct that ignored a custom of the Friends, but exemplifiedtheir spirit, the old man took off his hat as he said, "Yes, friendMorton, according to _our_ faith. The child that was cradled in amanger tends to make the world innocent."
"The old barn has indeed become a sanctuary," I thought, in the briefsilence that followed. Miss Warren stepped to the door, and I saw aquick gesture of her hands to her eyes. Then she turned and said, inher piquant way:
"Mr. Yocomb, our talk reminds me of the long grace in Latin which thepriests said before meals, and whi
ch the hungry people couldn'tunderstand. The horses are hinting broadly that oats would be moreedifying. If it were Monday, I'd wager you a plum that they would allleave your oats to eat clover-hay out of my hand."
"We'll arrange about the bet to-morrow, and now try the experiment,"said Mr. Yocomb, relapsing into his genial humor at once.
I was learning, however, that a deep, earnest nature was hidden by thisoutward sheen and sparkle. Filling his four-quart measure from thecobwebbed bin, he soon gave each horse his allowance.
"Now, Richard Morton, thee watch her, and see that she doesn't coax toomuch, or come it over them with any unlawful witchery. Take the haythyself, Emily, and we'll stand back."
I went to the further end of the barn, near Old Plod, and stood where Icould see the maiden's profile against the light that streamed throughthe open door. Never shall I forget the picture I then saw. The tall,ample figure of the old Quaker stood in the background, and his smilewas broad and genial enough to have lighted up a dungeon. Above himrose the odorous clover, a handful of which Miss Warren held out to thehorse in the first stall. Her lips were parted, her eyes shining, andher face had the intent, eager interest of a child, while her attitudesand motions were full of unstudied and unconscious grace.
The first horse munched stolidly away at his oats. She put the temptingwisp against his nose, at which he laid back his ears and lookedvicious. She turned to Mr. Yocomb, and the old barn echoed to a laughthat was music itself as she said:
"You have won your plum, if it is Sunday. I shall try all the otherhorses, however, and thus learn to value correctly the expressions ofaffection I have received from these long-nosed gentlemen."
One after another they munched on, regardless of the clover. Step bystep she came nearer to me, smiling and frowning at her want ofsuccess. My heart thrilled at a beauty that was so unconventional andso utterly self-forgetful. The blooming clover, before it fell at asweep of the scythe, was the fit emblem of her then, she looked soyoung, so fair, and sweet.
"They are as bad as men," she exclaimed, "who will forgive any wrongrather than an interruption at dinner."
She now stood at my side before Old Plod, that thus far, in hissingle-minded attention to his oats, had seemingly forgotten herpresence; but, as he lifted his head from the manger and saw her, hetook a step forward, and reached his great brown nose toward her,rather than for the clover. In brief, he said, in his poor dumb way:
"I like you better than hay or oats."
The horse's simple, undisguised affection, for some reason, touched thegirl deeply; for she dropped the hay and threw her arm around thehorse's head, leaning her face against his. I saw a tear in her eye asshe murmured:
"You have more heart than all the rest put together. I don't believeany one was ever kind to you before, and you've been a bit lonely, likemyself." Then she led the way hastily out of the barn, saying, "OldPlod and I are sworn friends from this time forth; and I shall takeyour advice, Old Plod."
I was soon at her side, and asked:
"What advice did Old Plod give you?"
For some inexplicable reason she colored deeply, then laughed as shesaid:
"It's rarely wise to think aloud; but impulsive people will do itsometimes. I suppose we all occasionally have questions to decide thatto us are perplexing and important, though of little consequence to theworld. Come; if we are to see the old garden, we must make the most ofthe fading light. After my interview with Old Plod, I can't descend tocows and pigs; so good-by, Mr. Yocomb."