“Nor I,” said Harry. “Look at him: he looks mild enough: he won't hurt us.”
“Not as you knows on,” said Sam; “and then, agin, you don't know,—nobody never knows, what one o' them 'ere critters will do: they's jest the most contrary critters; and ef you think they're goin' to do one way they're sure to do t'other. I could tell ye a story now that'd jest make yer har stan' on eend.” Of course we wanted to have our hair stand on end, and beset Sam for the story; but he hung off.
“Lordy massy! boys, jest let's wait till ye've got yer huckleberries: yer granny won't like it ef ye don't bring her none, and Hepsy she 'll be in my har,—what's left on't,” said Sam, taking off his old torn hat, and rubbing the loose shock of brash and grizzled hair.
So we turned and made a détour, leaving the bull on the right, though we longed amazingly to have a bout with him, for the fun of the thing, and mentally resolved to try it when our mentor was not round.
It all comes back to me again,—the image of that huckleberry-pasture, interwoven with fragrance of sweet-fern, and the ground under our feet embroidered with star-moss and wintergreen, or foamy patches of mossy frost-work, that crushed and crackled delightfully beneath our feet. Every now and then a tall, straight fire-lily—black, spotted in its centre—rose like a little jet of flame; and we gathered it eagerly, though the fierce August sun wilted it in our hands. The huckleberry-bushes, bending under their purple weight, we gathered in large armfuls, and took them under the shadow of the pine-trees, that we might strip them at our leisure, without being scorched by the intense glare of the sun. Armful after armful we carried and deposited in the shade, and then sat down to the task of picking them off into our pails. It was one of those New-England days hotter than the tropics, Not a breath of air was stirring, not a bird sang a note, not a sound was heard, except the drowsy grating of the locusts.
“Well, now, Sam, now tell us that story about the bull.”
“Lordy massy, how hot 'tis!” said Sam, lying back, and resting on the roots of a tree, with his hands folded under his head. “I'm all in a drip of sweat.”
“Well, Sam, we 'll pick off your berries, if you 'll talk.”
“Wall, wall, be kerful yer don't git no green ones in among 'em, else Hepsy 'll be down on me. She's drefful partikelar, she is. Every thing has to be jest so. Ef it ain't, you 'll hear on't. Lordy massy I boys, she's always telling me I don't do nothin' for the support of the family. I leave it to you if I didn't ketch her a nice mess o' fish a Tuesday. I tell her folks can't expect to roll in money, and allers to have every thing jess 'z they want it. We brought nothin' into the world with us, and it's sartain we ken carry nothin' out; and, having food and raiment, we ought to be content. We have ben better off'n we be now. Why, boys, I've seen the time that I've spent thirty-seven cents a week for nutmegs; but Hepsy hain't no gratitude: such folks hez to be brought down. Take care, now, yer ain't a-putting green ones in; be yer?”
“Sam, we sha'n't put in any at all, if you don't tell us that story.”