“I’ll do it, I’ll do it,”—said Clinton, eagerly.
“Wait a moment,” continued Mr. Davenport,—“there are one or two conditions that must be plainly understood, before we close the bargain; one is, that you are not to neglect my work, for the sake of your own. I shall call on you, when I want your assistance in the field, just as I did last year, and you mustn’t think that what you do in your garden is to exempt you from all further labor. And you must understand, too, that if I find you are neglecting the garden at any time, I shall take it back into my own hands, and you will receive nothing for your labor. Do you agree to this?”
“Yes, sir; but you’ll allow me time enough to take care of the garden, wont you?”
“Certainly, you shall have time enough for that, besides some hours every day, to devote to study and play.”
“Well,” said Clinton, “I’ll agree to all that, and if the garden doesn’t do well, it shan’t be my fault.”
In a few days the garden was all planted. It was nearly an acre in extent, and was thickly sowed with vegetables, such as peas, beans, lettuce, radishes, turnips, cabbages, onions, early potatoes, sweet corn, cucumbers, squashes, melons, etc. Having done all that he was to do with it, Mr. Davenport now surrendered it into the keeping of Clinton. For a few weeks the garden required little care; but by-and-by the weeds began to spring up, and the various insect tribes commenced their operations among the tender plants. Clinton now found plenty to do. He was wise enough, however, not let his work get behind hand; for had he suffered the bugs and weeds to get a few days’ start of him, I doubt whether he would have overtaken them. This was one secret of his success; another was, his perseverance,—for he generally carried through whatever he undertook, simply because he was determined to do so. Mr. Davenport was very well satisfied with the way he managed the garden; and to encourage him, he was careful not to call him away to other parts of the farm any more than was necessary.
Clinton generally rode over to the post-office, at the Cross-Roads, every Saturday afternoon, to get the weekly newspapers to which his father was a subscriber. One pleasant afternoon, in May, he drove over as usual, and as the mail had not arrived, he hitched Fanny to a post, and went away, a short distance, to where a group of small boys of his acquaintance were collected. They were earnestly and loudly discussing some point, and when they saw Clinton, one of them said:—
“There’s Clinton Davenport coming, let’s leave it to him.”
“Yes,” cried one and another,—and the proposition appeared to be unanimously accepted.
“Well, what is the trouble?” inquired Clinton.