Shenac's Work at Home

by Margaret M. Robertson

Chapter Five.

July had come. There was a little pause in the field-work, for all the seed had been sown and all the weeds pulled up, and they were waiting for a week or two to pass, and then the haying was to begin. Even haying did not promise to be a very busy season with them, for the cutting and caring for the hay in their largest field would this year fall to the lot of Angus Dhu. It was as well so, Shenac said to herself with a sigh, for they could not manage much hay by themselves, and paying wages would never do for them. Indeed, they would need some help even with the little they had; for Dan had never handled a scythe except in play, and Hamish, even if he had the skill, had not the strength.

And then the wool. They must have their cloth early this year, for last year they had been obliged to sell the wool, and the boys’ clothes were threadbare. If they could get the wool spun early, McLean the weaver would weave their cloth first. She must try to see what could be done. But, oh, that weary little wheel!

Shenac’s mother thought it was a wonderful little wheel; and so indeed it was. It had been part of the marriage outfit of Shenac’s grandmother before she left her Highland home. It had been in almost constant use all these years, and bade fair to be as good as ever for as many years to come. There was no wearing it out or putting it out of order, for, like most things made in those old times, it had strength if not elegance, and Shenac’s mother was as careful of it as a modern musical lady is of her grand piano.

I cannot describe it to you, for I am not very well acquainted with such instruments of labour. It was not at all like the wheels which are used now-a-days in districts where the great manufactories have not yet put wheels out of use. It was a small, low, complicated affair, at which the spinner sat, using both foot and hand. It needed skill and patience to use it well, and strength too. A long day’s work well done on the little wheel left one far wearier than a day’s work in the field.

As for Shenac, the very thought of it made her weary. If she had lived in the present day, she would have said it made her nervous. But, happily for Shenac, she did not know that she had any nerves, and her mother’s wheel got the blame of her discomfort. Not that she ever ventured to speak a disrespectful word of it. The insane idea that perhaps her mother might be induced to sell it and buy one of the new-fashioned kind, like that Archie Matheson’s young wife had brought with her, did come into her head once, but she never spoke of it. It would have been wrong as well as foolish to do so, for her mother would never try to learn to use the new one, and half the comfort of her life would be gone without her faithful friend, the little wheel.

“Oh, if I could get one for myself!” said Shenac. She had seen and used Mary Matheson’s last summer, and now, hurried as she was at home, she took an afternoon to go with Hamish to see it again.

“Could you not make one, Hamish?” she said entreatingly; “you can do so many things.”

But Hamish shook his head.