And to be a farmer’s boy.”
(Rises.) Ah, I little dreamed, two years ago, when I was playing the fine gentleman at Squire Jordan’s,—a city swell, up in the country here on a vacation,—that I should soon become a farmer.
Sally. Are you sorry it is so, Harry?
Harry. (Comes down, places a cricket beside Sally, and sits on it.) Sorry, you gypsy, when it has made a man of me? No. It has been my salvation. I have a fortune left me, and was in a fair way of squandering it in all the vices of the city; had acquired a taste for hot suppers, fine wines, gambling, and all sorts of dissipation; was on the high road to ruin, when some good angel sent me up here. I saw you, and was saved.
Sally. And you are perfectly contented with your situation?
Harry. Well, no, I’m not. In fact, I’m getting very much dissatisfied.
Sally. Not with me, Harry?
Harry. With you? Bless your dear little heart! you’re the only satisfaction I have. When I asked the old gentleman—your father—to give you to me, two years ago, he said, “No, young man. Though I’ve no doubt you love my Sally, you’ve got too much money. You never worked a day in your life. Suppose your wealth should take to itself wings some day, what’s to become of her? She shall be a farmer’s wife, or die an old maid. You say you would die for her. Go to work, learn to run a farm, bring out your muscle, get some color in that pale face, get rid of your vices, and then, if your money goes, you’ve the power to earn a living, and a smart wife to help you.”
Sally. That’s just what he said, and ’twas good advice.
Harry. It was, though I did not think so at the time. But I took it, hired out to him, and now thank my good fortune for the copy he set me.