On the
interior cart-road of our farm I discerned Hollingsworth, with a yoke
of oxen hitched to a drag of stones, that were to be piled into a
fence, on which we employed ourselves at the odd intervals of other
labor. The harsh tones of his voice, shouting to the sluggish steers,
made me sensible, even at such a distance, that he was ill at ease,
and that the balked philanthropist had the battle-spirit in his heart.
"Haw, Buck!" quoth he. "Come along there, ye lazy ones! What are ye
about, now? Gee!"
"Mankind, in Hollingsworth's opinion," thought I, "is but another
yoke of oxen, as stubborn, stupid, and sluggish as our old Brown and
Bright. He vituperates us aloud, and curses us in his heart, and
will begin to prick us with the goad-stick, by and by. But are we
his oxen? And what right has he to be the driver? And why, when
there is enough else to do, should we waste our strength in dragging
home the ponderous load of his philanthropic absurdities? At my
height above the earth, the whole matter looks ridiculous!"
Turning towards the farmhouse, I saw Priscilla (for, though a great
way off, the eye of faith assured me that it was she) sitting at
Zenobia's window, and making little purses, I suppose; or, perhaps,
mending the Community's old linen. A bird flew past my tree; and, as
it clove its way onward into the sunny atmosphere, I flung it a
message for Priscilla.
"Tell her," said I, "that her fragile thread of life has inextricably
knotted itself with other and tougher threads, and most likely it
will be broken.
Pages:
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130