“I know,” he observed.
“Do you think there is anything—moving? Oh, look, Seth, there’s a lovely jack-rabbit.” Rosebud pointed ahead. A large jack-rabbit was loping slowly out of the way of the buckboard. Seth leant forward with unnecessary interest, and so was saved a direct answer to the girl’s question.
CHAPTER X
SETH ATTEMPTS TO WRITE A LETTER
It is not usually a remarkable event in one’s life, the writing of a letter. In these days of telephone, however, it soon will be. In Seth’s case it nearly was so, but for a different reason. Seth could write, even as he could read. But he was not handy at either. He abominated writing, and preferred to read only that which Nature held out for his perusal. However, after some days of deep consideration, he had decided to write a letter. And, with characteristic thoroughness, he intended it to be very long, and very explicit.
After supper one evening, when Rube had gone out for his evening smoke, and that final prowl round necessary to see that all was prepared for the morrow’s work, and the stock comfortable for the night, and Ma Sampson and Rosebud were busy washing up, and, in their department, also seeing things straight for the night, Seth betook himself to the parlor, that haven of modest comfort and horsehair, patchwork rugs and many ornaments, earthen floor and low ceiling, and prepared for his task. He had no desire to advertise the fact of that letter, 109 so he selected this particular moment when the others were occupied elsewhere.
His ink and paper were on the table before him, and his pen was poised while he considered. Then the slow, heavy footfall of old Rube sounded approaching through the kitchen. The scribe waited to hear him pass up-stairs, or settle himself in an armchair in the kitchen. But the heavy tread came on, and presently the old man’s vast bulk blocked the doorway.
“Ah! Writin’?”