It was near the close of a fine day in mid-winter. The sun was just setting, and the whole atmosphere appeared kindled into one bright red flame, giving a rosy tint to the new-fallen snow, which lay deep upon the ground, smooth and undrifted, and covering every roof; while the grotesque figures of the long icicles which hung from the eaves were glittering in the ruddy light. The moon’s broad disk was full in view in the east, but as yet her rays of silver were lost in the brighter glow of twilight. Amy thought how pleasant a sleigh-ride would be, if the culprit could be taken into favor, and they could all go.
The hour passed without its accustomed cheerfulness to the family within. Mr. Fayerweather paced the room, with his hands clasped behind him, as usual, when his mind was not perfectly at ease. Madam had taken her knitting, and was seated at one side of the fire-place, occasionally giving a gentle sigh; while little John counted his marbles into her lap, for want of a more convenient place, and missing his brother very much, but not venturing to ask why he did not come in. The room was warm from the fire of hickory which had blazed in the wide chimney all day, but which was now reduced to a mass of burning coals covered with white ashes. This was the hour in which it was customary for Scipio, preceded by Vi’let as pioneer, to make his appearance with a log as big as he could lug, to lay the foundation of the fire for the next day.
After some altercation having been heard in the passage, Vi’let entered alone with a more portentous scowl than usual, and surveying Mr. Fayerweather over her spectacles, muttered something which sounded marvelously like “an old Turk,” and “folks being in danger of their lives;” then making a dive into the coals with her huge kitchen-shovel, she gave a deep sigh, which ended in a grunt, and continued her grumbling, her last audible words being “a poor, broken-hearted family.” All this passed unheeded by them, as “only pretty Fanny’s way.”
No Scipio followed; but in his stead, in came Peter, with his milled cap, his striped homespun and tow apron, carrying a log larger than usual; on seeing which, Mr. Fayerweather, whose nerves were still vibrating, broke out in wrath, as the log fell into the hollow made to receive it by Vi’let, throwing the coals and ashes far out over the hearth.
“Peter, how dare you come into the parlor with the log? Do you not know it is Scipio’s work, you blockhead? And what did you bring in such a log as that for? Did you mean to break your back, to save me the trouble of breaking your head?”
The boy turned his face around to Mr. Fayerweather, who stood aghast at seeing him; for the streaked and clouded visage which met his view, did not belong to Peter, but to his own son, who had involuntarily doffed the milled cap from habitual reverence as his father spoke.
“Why, Mr. Fayerweather, it’s George, if I’m alive!” screamed his mother; “and he has cut off all his beautiful curls, and his face is all streaked with I don’t know what! It will never come white again. What upon earth has got into the boy!”
George was silent for a moment; at length he muttered, “I don’t mean to be dressed in girl’s clothes again.”
“You are right, my man,” said his father, speaking with some difficulty, and shaking his son’s hand, he continued; “now you make me proud of you; but you need not wear Peter’s clothes, and you should not have lifted a log as big as a cider-barrel—it might have strained your back.”
The boy’s countenance brightened as his father spoke; at the last words he held his head boldly up and said, “It did not hurt me at all, sir—I can lift a log twice as big as that. I mean to bring in all your wood, to pay for the looking-glass, I—” his lip quivered, and he could not finish.