“I must,” said George Edward doggedly.
“But you will die,” cried poor Mrs. Allen, “then what shall I do?” And the tears began to come.
George Edward thought a bit. Then he said “There isn’t anything else, mother, only work on a farm. But it’s August now, who’d give me a chance at it, pray tell?”
“I shall try,” said his mother, rousing herself, “you will die where you are.” And she seized paper and pen and wrote the following:
A boy of sixteen who has just lost his father wishes a place to work on a farm for the remainder of the season. Only those persons of unexceptional references who wish such a farm hand not afraid to work, need apply to
Mrs. E. C. Allen,
—— ——
George Edward was in a fever of excitement, though he tried not to show it, all the next three days. His mother met with such poor success in her efforts to conceal her state of mind, that she went around the house, a bright spot in either cheek, scarcely able to set herself with calmness at any task. At last, on the evening of the third day, this letter was drawn from the post-office:
Respected Madam:
If your son really wants to work, send him on. Here’s a letter from my paster, maybe that will be satisfyin’. Three dollars a week an’ board. That’s what I pay. Yours to command,
Job Stevens,
Blueberry Hill.
The “paster’s” letter reading remarkably well, and a friend investigating the matter with thoroughness for Mrs. Allen, finding it all right, George Edward’s trunk was packed, and he at once dispatched for Blueberry Hill.
It was evening when he arrived there.
