But the incidents of one
particular day when I was about thirteen years old were so vividly
brought back to my mind, that I have decided upon that day as a
starting-point; and now to my story.
"Where alive has that lazy, good-for-nothing boy taken, himself off to
now, I wonder, and the weeds I left him to pull in the garden not half
done yet; but it's just like him, as soon's my back's turned to skulk
off in this way. I'll put a stop to this work one of these days, see if
I don't. Its likely he's hiding in some out-of-the-way corner with a
book in his hand as usual." These and many other angry words came
harshly to my ears, on that June afternoon now so long ago. I was seated
in the small room over the kitchen which was appropriated to my use in
the dwelling of Farmer Judson, where I was employed as "chore boy," or,
in other words, the boy of all work.
"Walter, Walter Harland, come down here this minute, I say."
I started up, trembling with fear, for the angry tones of the farmer
made me aware that he had come home in one of his worst tempers, and his
best were usually bad enough; and, more than this, I knew myself to be
slightly in the fault.
Pages:
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25