“I can read music, anyway,” added Nat, rather ruffled at having to confess his ignorance.
“I can’t;” and Tommy spoke in a respectful tone, which emboldened Nat to say firmly,—
“I mean to study real hard and learn every thing I can, for I never had a chance before. Does Mr. Bhaer give hard lessons?”
“No, he isn’t a bit cross; he sort of explains and gives you a boost over the hard places. Some folks don’t; my other master didn’t. If we missed a word, didn’t we get raps on the head!” and Tommy rubbed his own pate as if it tingled yet with the liberal supply of raps, the memory of which was the only thing he brought away after a year with his “other master.”
“I think I could read this,” said Nat, who had been examining the books.
“Read a bit, then; I’ll help you,” resumed Tommy, with a patronizing air.
So Nat did his best, and floundered through a page with many friendly “boosts” from Tommy, who told him he would soon “go it” as well as anybody. Then they sat and talked boy-fashion about all sorts of things, among others, gardening; for Nat, looking down from his perch, asked what was planted in the many little patches lying below them on the other side of the brook.
“These are our farms,” said Tommy. “We each have our own patch, and raise what we like in it, only we have to choose different things, and can’t change till the crop is in, and we must keep it in order all summer.”
“What are you going to raise this year?”