A GOOD DAY'S WORK; OR, HOW THE WIDOW'S APPLES WERE GATHERED.
BY FRANK H. TAYLOR.
"I say, mother, Bill Joyce has run away!" cried Eddie Stevens, rushing into the kitchen swinging his school-bag over his arm.
"Has he, indeed? Well, I'm not very much surprised, for he has behaved very badly ever since his father died. I'm sorry, though, for poor Mrs. Joyce. She'll be all alone now, and I don't know how she'll get through the winter."
"She wanted Bill to pick the apples, an' he wouldn't, an' so he jes' got his best clothes, an' went down the road to Moorfield Station, an' he told Sammy Brown he was a-goin to sea; an' he had lots of money, for Sammy Brown seen it, an' I seen Mrs. Joyce a-sittin' by the—"
"Stop! stop! Eddie, say 'saw,' not 'seen,'" said his mother.
"Well, I saw Mrs. Joyce a-sittin' by the winder, an' a-cryin' like a house a-fire, an' I guess Bill stoled—"
"Stop again," interposed Mrs. Stevens. "Say 'I think' and 'stole.'"
"Well, anyhow I guess—I mean, I think—he's got her money."
"Poor woman, she has trouble indeed. A drunken husband, who dies and leaves the place mortgaged for more than it's worth; a fire that burns her barn; and now a bad son, who runs away with what little she has saved to get through the winter with. I'll go and see her tomorrow."
The next afternoon when Eddie came home his mother looked very thoughtful. She said, "Don't you think you could persuade the boys to pick Widow Joyce's apples on Saturday?"
Eddie said nothing, but looked very dubious, for the widow was not liked by the boys.
"Do you think you will ever become so bad that you will want to run away, Eddie?" and his mother looked into his eyes anxiously.
"No, indeed, mother. But you ain't like Bill's mother. She used to lick him awful," replied Eddie.
"Say 'whip,' and 'very hard,' my son."
"Yes, mother."
"Well, will you ask the boys?"
"I'll try 'em, ma."
When Eddie started for school the next day his mind was full of the mission his mother had given him to the boys.
"What ye lookin' so serus about, Ed? 'Pears like ye'd lost all yer best friends," exclaimed the blacksmith, as Eddie passed his open door.
Tom the smith and the little boy were excellent friends, despite the former's remark, and Eddie told him all about Bill, and the widow, and his mother's wish.
"Well, now, ef that ain't a right good idee! You tell the boys ef they'll git the apples onto the ground in piles, I'll hitch up to one of these wagons an' fetch 'em to the mill."
"Can we all go an' see 'em grinded into cider?"
"See here, Ed, your mother'll scold you for usin' sech langwige. What makes ye say 'grinded'? I have to despise folks as don't treat their grammar proper."
"No, mother won't scold me, neither, Tom. She says she rules with love; an' when she talks to me after I've done anythin' bad, it's worse 'n bein' licked. Did your mother lick you when you was little, Tom?"
Somehow the sturdy smith was the sober one now, and he only answered, "Jest you get along to school, and mind you let me know ef the boys are agreed."
Before Eddie had gone far, however, the smith whistled and beckoned him back.
"Sit here a minnit, Ed, I want to tell you somethin'. When I was a little feller I lived on t'other side of the sea, an' one day my mother kept me in, an' that night I did jest what Bill Joyce's done—I run away. I went to sea, too, jest like most little fools as believe all the stuff they read about 'life on the ocean wave.' I had mighty hard times, and often wished I could die. It was nigh eight years afore I got money enough to git home with, an' then I found strangers in the house, Ed, who thought I was a tramp. My mother was in her grave, an' the rest was scattered. I never seen none of 'em since."
"Say 'saw,' not 'seen,' Tom," said Eddie, mindful of his own teaching at home.
Tom did not heed, however, but continued. "I want you to look me in the eye, an' promise to never run away."
"I promise, Tom," said the boy, promptly.
When Eddie looked up he saw a big crock mark over one of Tom's eyes.
"That's square; an' now mind, Ed, ef the boys won't help, why, I'll shet the shop, an' you an' I'll tackle them apples ourselves."
The next moment Tom's hammer was making lively music upon his anvil, and Eddie was again on his way to school.
The disappearance of Bill Joyce was the one topic of interest at the school-house. Jim Pennell, the biggest boy, did most of the talking. "You bet, I wish I was in Bill's boots. He served the old woman right. He'll have a bully time, and in a couple of years he'll come back a captain of a ship; you see if he don't."
Eddie had just joined the group in front of the school steps. "My mother says—she says—" Poor Ed! here his tongue stuck fast.
"Well, she says she'll put you to bed before supper, and switch you well if you run away, don't she?" sneered Jim.
"No, she don't!" exclaimed Eddie, hotly. "I tell you what it is, fellers, I say it's mean an' unfair to make fun of Bill's mother; an' he'll be sure to wish himself back pretty quick. What's more, Tom the smith an' I are goin' to pick Mrs. Joyce's apples on Saturday, and take 'em to the cider mill. You can help if you want to. We'll have lots of fun, an' be doin' a good—"
Just at this moment the school bell rang, and the boys hastened to their desks.
When the roll had been called, Miss Winslow, the teacher, told Jim Pennell to go to the blackboard. "Now," said she, "write 'Evil communications corrupt good manners.' That will do. Now, Eddie, you put under it 'Do right, and fear not.'"
Jim and Eddie each wondered if Miss Winslow had overheard the talk at the door. Jim's cheeks turned very red, and so did Eddie's, but it was when he looked up and met his teacher's smile.
After school the subject was renewed.
"I won't go," said one. "Didn't she set the dog onto us one day?"
"Neither will I," insisted another. "Don't I remember how she sassed us for gettin' chestnuts in the wood patch back of her corn lot?"
Three boys, however, were waiting for Eddie a little way down the road, who promised to help him, but were very anxious that Jim Pennell should not know about it.
Eddie reported his experience to Tom and to his mother.
At eight o'clock on Saturday morning, Tom, as good as his word, locked his shop, and hung out an old sign which read, "Gone a-fishin'," and drove away with four boys in the wagon. Five others ran and clambered in as the party went merrily down the village street, and finally Tom protested that he would not have any more along.
What a time they had, to be sure, in the orchard! Some climbed out on the limbs and shook them vigorously, while others held sheets to catch the apples.
At two o'clock they were all collected in heaps—big red Spitzenbergs, plump greenings, brown russets, and luscious Baldwins. "Seventy bushels of 'em if there's one," said Tom.
Two trips were made to the cider mill, the boys going along and helping to unload, though it must be confessed some of them were a great deal better pleased to put long straws into the open bungs of the barrels, and suck the fresh sweet cider until they could not hold another drop.
There is nothing the country boy likes more than to watch the men at work in a cider mill. If you, my reader, live in the city, it is likely that you have never seen such a place, so I will venture to tell you how it looks.
A great ponderous frame stands under a shed, with two heavy screws of oak standing upright in a cross-piece. The apples are heaped on all sides, and are first crushed between wooden cog-wheels and caught in tubs. This is called "cheese."
Then a layer of straw is put upon the base of the screw press, and next a layer of "cheese," and upon this more straw, and then again "cheese" and straw clear up; after which planks are put on top, and the "cheese" is "built." Now the screws are turned alternately with a long sweep. Then the cider begins to trickle out, and runs around the little channel cut in the base, and finally into a large tub, from which it is dipped into the waiting barrels.
The leavings, after the juice has all been expressed, is called "pummy," which I suppose is from pomum, a Latin word meaning an "apple." The "pummy" is fed to horses and cattle, and they are very fond of it.
A barrel of cider requires about twelve bushels of apples, and is generally worth about a dollar and a half, and the barrel as much more.
The owner of the cider mill paid Tom for the apples, and the party started back. Upon the way Tom put the money into Eddie's hands, insisting that he should carry it in to the widow, while he put a barrel of cider he had bought with his own cash into the cellar. Eddie agreed, upon the condition that all the boys would go in.
When they left the house, after this had been done, somehow they were all very quiet, until Sammy Brown exclaimed,
"Tell you what 'tis, boys, I wish the orchard was bigger, or else there was more poor widows like Bill's mother round here, don't you?"
And no one answered "No."