"Sure! The first one, how we're goin' to get ahead of that old Quaker miller. Mis'—Mrs.—Calvert's planned the hull—whole—business. She don't like him none. She stopped me an' told me things, a few. She 'lows he's got some scheme or other, 'at ain't no good to your folks, a-lettin' good money on a wore-out farm like Skyrie. There's more in his doin's than has come to light yet. That's what she says. Even his sellin' your ma that jumpin' cow was a low-down, ornery trick. An' that bull calf—no more use to such as you-all 'an a white elephant, she says. Less; 'cause I s'pose a body'd could sell a elephant, if they was put to it. Say, Dorothy. They's a-goin' to be a circus come to Newburgh bime-by. The pictures of it is all along the fences an' walls; an', say—I'm earnin' wages now, real good ones. I told Mis', Mrs., Calvert 't I didn't think I ought to take any money off her, 'cause she's give—given—me all these new clothes an' treats me so like a prince; but she laughed an' said how 'twas in the Bible that 'a laborer is worthy of his hire' and she'd be a poor sort of Christian that didn't at least try to live up to her Bible. Say, Dorothy, she's even give me one for myself! Fact. She give it an' says she, she says: 'James, if you make that the rule of your heart and life, you can't help being a gentleman, 'at you aspire to be, as well as a good man.' Then she fetched out another book, big—Why, Dorothy! So big it's real heavy to lift! An' she called that one a 'Shakespeare.' The name was printed on it plain; an' she said the man what wrote it more years ago 'an I can half-tell, had 'done the thinkin' for half—the world, or more,' she said. And how 'if I'd use them two books constant an' apply 'em to my own life I'd never need be ashamed an' I could hold up my head in even the wisest company.' Say, Dorothy! Mis' Calvert knows a powerful lot, seems if!"
"Well, she ought. She's lived a powerful long time."
"An' I've been thinkin' things over. I don't believe I will try to be President, like we planned. Lookin' into that Shakespeare feller's book I 'low I'd ruther write one like it, instead."
"O Jim! That's too delightful! I must tell father that. I must! You, a new Shakespeare! Why, boy, he's the wisest writer ever lived. I'm only just being allowed to read a little bit of him, old as I am. My father picks out the best parts of the best dramas and we often read them together, evenings. But—What are the other things you thought about, and made you laugh? That circus, too; shall you go to it, Jim? Did you ever go to one?"
"Never. Never. But I'm just sufferin' to go. Say, Dorothy? If I can get all my work done, an' Mrs. Calvert she don't think it's sinful waste o' good money, an' your folks'll let you, an' it don't come on to rain but turns out a real nice day, an' I can get the loan of Mrs. Calvert's oldest horse an' rig—'cause I wouldn't dast—dare—to ask for a young one—an' I felt as if I could take care of you in such a terrible crowd as Ephraim says they always is to circuses, would you, will you, go with me?"
In spite of herself Dorothy could not help laughing. Yet there was something almost pathetic in the face of this poor youth, possessing a small sum of money for the first time, beset by the caution which had hedged his humble, dependent life, yet daring—actually daring, of his own volition—to be generous! Generous of that which Miranda Stott had taught him was the very best thing in the world—money! Of himself, his strength, his unselfishness and devotion,—all so much higher than that "money,"—he had always been most lavish; and remembering this, with a sympathy wise beyond her years, Dorothy speedily hushed her laughter and answered eagerly:
"Indeed, I will, you dear, care-taking, cautious boy, and thank you heartily. I love a circus. Father John used to take mother Martha and me to one once every summer. Why, what a perfectly wild and giddy creature I shall be! To a circus with you, a camp-picnic with Herbert and Helena, and this splendid farmers' 'Bee'—Hurray!"
Jim's countenance fell. "I didn't know 'bout that other picnic," said he. "When's it comin' off? And what is a picnic, anyway?"
"You'll see when we get home to Skyrie. A picnic is the jolliest thing there is—except a circus. Except a circus. When it's to come off I don't know, but when it does I mean you shall be in it, too, Jim Barlow. Yet you haven't finished about poor, dear Mr. Oliver Sands. You have wandered all over the face of the earth, as my teacher used to complain I did in writing my compositions. I didn't stick to my subject. You haven't stuck to yours, the Quaker man. Finish him up, for we're almost at Skyrie now."
Comforted by her ranking of a circus as something infinitely more delightful than even a rich boy's picnic, and because the fields of Skyrie were, indeed, now in view, Jim resumed concerning the gentleman in question: