One stormy day, about a week after the accident, as Whistler was sitting in the house, deeply engaged with a book, the lively “Clack! clack!” of the flail struck up, and, taking his cap and book, he ran out to the barn. He found Clinton in the back part of the barn, engaged in threshing rye. The grain, tied up in bundles, was piled on each side of him as high as the flooring above. The process of threshing hardly need be described; and yet, as possibly some young city reader may never have witnessed it, I will say that a quantity of straw is laid upon the barn floor, and the heads of it are beat by the flail until all the grain is shaken out of it. The flail is made of hard wood, in two pieces, united by leather, or some other flexible material, which allows the shorter piece to play freely, something like the lash of a whip. When the grain is all threshed out, the straw is removed, and tied up in bundles. The grain is then shovelled up, and passed through a coarse sieve, and is ready to be stored away.
“Have you found a piece, Willie?” inquired Clinton, as his cousin entered the barn.
“No, I can’t find one that suits me,” replied Whistler.
“Well, I’ve thought of another plan, and a better one still,” continued Clinton; “and that is, that you write a dialogue for us.”
“I write a dialogue! That’s a pretty joke!—ha! ha! ha!” replied Whistler, with a merry laugh.
“Yes,—why not?” inquired Clinton. “You write compositions, and you have got plenty of time now, while your finger is sore. Come, you’ll try, won’t you?”
“O, no; I couldn’t do anything if I should try,” replied Whistler. “If I had only known it before I left home, I could have got a copy of the dialogue the boys spoke at our last exhibition. It was a real funny piece; better than any in this book. One of these will do, though, if we can’t find something better.”
“But we must have something better,” said Clinton, with earnestness, laying down his flail. “If you won’t write one yourself, you’ll help me do it, won’t you?”
“Yes, I’ll agree to do what I can; but I’m afraid I shan’t help you much,” replied Whistler.