“That’s right, thrust your hoe deep; in that way you cut off the roots, and they will not be apt to sprout again; while if you hoe lightly, you only clip off the tops, and after the first rain they will be quite as bad as they are now.”
It was new work to me. I went to bed at night tired as I never was before in my life; and but for the remembrance of Mr. Kirby, I doubt if I should have had courage to commence anew in the morning. But life is something more than sleeping and eating. It is the maturing into noble deeds, the consciousness of mental power, the exercise of that power in heroic self-conquest, and in doing good to others. I thought of this as I arose and looked up to the mountain we had once climbed. There it stood clearly defined against the calm, pure sky, its sides radiant with golden light that had not yet reached the valley. The noble manhood that Mr. Kirby exemplified must be sought with tireless footsteps and self-sacrificing heart.
The farmer was out as I came down.
“So you did not oversleep yourself,” said he as he bade me good-morning.
“I did not rise as early as usual this morning, Mr. Wyman; hoeing is new business. I shall get accustomed to it, and can sleep just as well after it as after any thing else, I suppose.”
“It is hard work, and so is every thing else. Some people make play out of it, but that is not my way. I was brought up to think that any thing that was worth doing at all, was worth doing well.”
There was no lack of work at Mr. Wyman’s, neither was it always the same thing. Sometimes I felt like murmuring when, after a hard day’s work in the field, I was obliged to take the horses to the blacksmith’s, or carry corn to the mill, mend fences, or do something else of like nature. Mr. Wyman did not hold to sitting still. There were no idle moments, all were filled up; and when night came, I was so tired that I fell asleep without so much as a verse in my Bible.
Then haying came on; and while the hands swung their scythes with an easy grace that I tried in vain to imitate, it fell to my part to do the raking. There was something so sweet and fragrant about the new-mown hay, that I enjoyed haying much better than hoeing.
Once Jennie came to see me in the hay-field, and her dimpled face lit up with excess of joy as she tossed the clover and chased the butterflies, her heart full of sweet-springing thoughts. Resting a few moments on the hay, with her glad blue eyes looking up into the sky, she said a few hearty words about God’s love in opening up a path to us. Young as she was, she was beginning to feel the sweet influence of his Spirit in her heart, inciting her to love and serve him, believing that his promises were sure, and that he would never leave nor forsake her.
Sweet little comforter; she hardly knew from what her words often saved me, desponding as I not unfrequently was, and inclined to go back instead of forward, feeling tempted to half do my work, and never dream of any thing more than present comfort.