Under the Lilacs (5 page)

“Well, I’ll step over to the Squire’s tomorrow to see what he says. Shouldn’t wonder if he’d take you for a chore boy, if
you are as smart as you say. He always has one in the summer, and I haven’t seen any round yet. Can you drive cows?”

“Hope so”; and Ben gave a shrug, as if it was a very unnecessary question to put to a person who had driven four calico ponies
in a gilded chariot.

“It mayn’t be as lively as riding elephants and playing with bears, but it is respectable; and I guess you’ll be happier switching
Brindle and Buttercup than being switched yourself,” said Mrs. Moss, shaking her head at him with a smile.

“I guess I will, ma’am,” answered Ben, with sudden meekness, remembering the trials from which he had escaped.

Very soon after this, he was sent off for a good night’s sleep in the back bedroom, with Sancho to watch over him. But both
found it difficult to slumber till the racket overhead subsided; for Bab insisted on playing she was a bear and devouring
poor Betty in spite of her wails, till their mother came up and put an end to it by threatening to send Ben and his dog away
in the morning, if the girls “didn’t behave and be as still as mice.”

This they solemnly promised; and they were soon dreaming of gilded cars and mouldy coaches, runaway boys and dinner pails,
dancing dogs and twirling teacups.

C
HAPTER
5

W
hen Ben awoke next morning, he looked about him for a moment half bewildered, because there was neither a canvas tent, a barn
roof, nor the blue sky above him, but a neat white ceiling, where several flies buzzed sociably together, while from without
came, not the tramping of horses, the twitter of swallows, or the chirp of early birds, but the comfortable cackle of hens
and the sound of two little voices chanting the multiplication table.

Sancho sat at the open window, watching the old cat wash her face, and trying to imitate her with his great ruffled paw, so
awkwardly that Ben laughed; and Sanch, to hide his confusion at being caught, made one bound from chair to bed, and licked
his master’s face so energetically
that the boy dived under the bedclothes to escape from the rough tongue.

A rap on the floor from below made both jump up, and in ten minutes a shiny-faced lad and a lively dog went racing downstairs
— one to say, “Good mornin’, ma’am,” the other to wag his tail faster than ever tail wagged before, for ham frizzled on the
stove, and Sancho was fond of it.

“Did you rest well?” asked Mrs. Moss, nodding at him, fork in hand.

“Guess I did! Never saw such a bed. I’m used to hay and a horse blanket, and lately nothin’ but sky for a cover and grass
for my feather bed,” laughed Ben, grateful for present comforts and making light of past hardships.

“Clean, sweet corn husks ain’t bad for young bones, even if they haven’t got more flesh on them than yours have,” answered
Mrs. Moss, giving the smooth head a motherly stroke as she went by.

“Fat ain’t allowed in our profession, ma’am. The thinner the better for tightropes and tumblin’; likewise bareback ridin’
and spry jugglin’. Muscle’s the thing, and there you are.”

Ben stretched out a wiry little arm with a clenched fist at the end of it, as if he were a young Hercules, ready to play ball
with the stove if she gave him leave. Glad to see him in such good spirits, she pointed to the well outside, saying pleasantly—

“Well, then, just try your muscle by bringing in some fresh water.”

Ben caught up a pail and ran off, ready to be useful; but, while he waited for the bucket to fill down among the mossy stones,
he looked about him, well pleased with all he saw — the small brown house with a pretty curl of smoke
rising from its chimney, the little sisters sitting in the sunshine, green hills and newly-planted fields far and near, a
brook dancing through the orchard, birds singing in the elm avenue, and all the world as fresh and lovely as early summer
could make it.

“Don’t you think it’s pretty nice here?” asked Bab, as his eye came back to them after a long look, which seemed to take in
everything, brightening as it roved.

“Just the nicest place that ever was. Only needs a horse round somewhere to be complete,” answered Ben, as the long well-sweep
came up with a dripping bucket at one end, an old grindstone at the other.

“The Judge has three, but he’s so fussy about them he won’t even let us pull a few hairs out of old Major’s tail to make rings
of,” said Betty, shutting her arithmetic with an injured expression.

“Mike lets
me
ride the white one to water when the Judge isn’t round. It’s such fun to go jouncing down the lane and back. I do love horses!”
cried Bab, bobbing up and down on the blue bench to imitate the motion of white Jenny.

“I guess you are a plucky sort of a girl,” and Ben gave her an approving look as he went by, taking care to slop a little
water on Mrs. Puss, who stood curling her whiskers and humping up her back at Sancho.

“Come to breakfast!” called Mrs. Moss; and for about twenty minutes little was said, as mush and milk vanished in a way that
would have astonished even Jack the Giant-killer with his leather bag.

“Now, girls, fly round and get your chores done up; Ben, you go chop me some kindlings; and I’ll make things tidy. Then we
can all start off at once,” said Mrs. Moss, as the
last mouthful vanished, and Sancho licked his lips over the savory scraps that fell to his share.

Ben fell to chopping so vigorously that chips flew wildly all about the shed; Bab rattled the cups into her dishpan with dangerous
haste, and Betty raised a cloud of dust “sweeping up”; while mother seemed to be everywhere at once. Even Sanch, feeling that
his fate was at stake, endeavored to help in his own somewhat erratic way — now frisking about Ben at the risk of getting
his tail chopped off, then trotting away to poke his inquisitive nose into every closet and room whither he followed Mrs.
Moss in her “flying round” evolutions; next dragging off the mat so Betty could brush the doorsteps, or inspecting Bab’s dish-washing
by standing on his hind legs to survey the table with a critical air. When they drove him out he was not the least offended,
but gaily barked Puss up a tree, chased all the hens over the fence, and carefully interred an old shoe in the garden, where
the remains of the mutton bone were already buried.

By the time the others were ready, he had worked off his superfluous spirits, and trotted behind the party like a well-behaved
dog accustomed to go out walking with ladies. At the crossroads they separated, the little girls running on to school, while
Mrs. Moss and Ben went up to the Squire’s big house on the hill.

“Don’t you be scared, child. I’ll make it all right about your running away; and if the Squire gives you a job, just thank
him for it, and do your best to be steady and industrious; then you’ll get on, I haven’t a doubt,” she whispered, ringing
the bell at a side door, on which the word “Morris” shone in bright letters.

“Come in!” called a gruff voice; and, feeling very much
as if he were going to have a tooth out, Ben meekly followed the good woman, who put on her pleasantest smile, anxious to
make the best possible impression.

A white-headed old gentleman sat reading a paper, and peered over his glasses at the newcomers with a pair of sharp eyes,
saying in a testy tone, which would have rather daunted anyone who did not know what a kind heart he had under his capacious
waistcoat—

“Good morning, ma’am. What’s the matter now? Young tramp been stealing your chickens?”

“Oh dear, no, sir!” exclaimed Mrs. Moss, as if shocked at the idea. Then, in a few words, she told Ben’s story, unconsciously
making his wrongs and destitution so pathetic by her looks and tones that the Squire could not help being interested, and
even Ben pitied himself as if he were somebody else.

“Now, then, boy, what can you do?” asked the old gentleman, with an approving nod to Mrs. Moss as she finished, and such a
keen glance from under his bushy brows that Ben felt as if he was perfectly transparent.

“’Most anything, sir, to get my livin’.”

“Can you weed?”

“Never did, but I can learn, sir.”

“Pull up all the beets and leave the pigweed, hey? Can you pick strawberries?”

“Never tried anything but eatin’ ’em, sir.”

“Not likely to forget that part of the job. Can you ride a horse to plow?”

“Guess I could, sir!”— and Ben’s eyes began to sparkle, for he dearly loved the noble animals who had been his dearest friends
lately.

“No antics allowed. My horse is a fine fellow, and I’m very particular about him.”

The Squire spoke soberly, but there was a twinkle in his eye, and Mrs. Moss tried not to smile; for the Squire’s horse was
a joke all over the town, being about twenty years old, and having a peculiar gait of his own, lifting his forefeet very high,
with a great show of speed, though never going out of a jog-trot. The boys used to say he galloped before and walked behind,
and made all sorts of fun of the big, Roman-nosed beast, who allowed no liberties to be taken with him.

“I’m too fond of horses to hurt ’em, sir. As for ridin’, I ain’t afraid of anything on four legs. The King of Morocco used
to kick and bite like fun, but I could manage him first-rate.”

“Then you’d be able to drive cows to pasture, perhaps?”

“I’ve drove elephants and camels, ostriches and grizzly bears, and mules, and six yellow ponies all to oncet. Maybe I could
manage cows if I tried hard,” answered Ben, endeavoring to be meek and respectful when scorn filled his soul at the idea of
not being able to drive a cow.

The Squire liked him all the better for the droll mixture of indignation and amusement betrayed by the fire in his eyes and
the sly smile round his lips; and being rather tickled by Ben’s list of animals, he answered, gravely—

“We don’t raise elephants and camels much round here. Bears used to be plenty, but folks got tired of them. Mules are numerous,
but we have the two-legged kind; and as a general thing prefer Shanghai fowls to ostriches.”

He got no further, for Ben laughed out so infectiously that both the others joined him; and somehow that jolly laugh seemed
to settle matters better than words. As they stopped, the Squire tapped on the window behind him, saying, with an attempt
at the former gruffness—

“We’ll try you on cows awhile. My man will show you
where to drive them, and give you some odd jobs through the day. I’ll see what you are good for, and send you word tonight,
Mrs. Moss. The boy can sleep at your house, can’t he?”

“Yes, indeed, sir. He can go on doing it, and come up to his work just as well as not. I can see to him then, and he won’t
be a care to anyone,” said Mrs. Moss heartily.

“I’ll make inquiries concerning your father, boy; meantime mind what you are about, and have a good report to give when he
comes for you,” returned the Squire, with a warning wag of a stern forefinger.

“Thank y’, sir. I will, sir. Father’ll come just as soon as he can, if he isn’t sick or lost,” murmured Ben, inwardly thanking
his stars that he had not done anything to make him quake before that awful finger, and resolving that he never would.

Here a redheaded Irishman came to the door, and stood eyeing the boy with small favor while the Squire gave his orders.

“Pat, this lad wants work. He’s to take the cows and go for them. Give him any light jobs you have, and let me know if he’s
good for anything.”

“Yis, your honor. Come out o’ this, b’y, till I show ye the bastes,” responded Pat; and, with a hasty good-bye to Mrs. Moss,
Ben followed his new leader, sorely tempted to play some naughty trick upon him in return for his ungracious reception.

But in a moment he forgot that Pat existed, for in the yard stood the Duke of Wellington, so named in honor of his Roman nose.
If Ben had known anything about Shakespeare, he would have cried, “A horse, a horse!—my kingdom for a horse!” for the feeling
was in his heart, and he ran up to the stately animal without a fear. Duke put
back his ears and swished his tail as if displeased for a moment; but Ben looked straight in his eyes, gave a scientific stroke
to the iron-gray nose, and uttered a chirrup which made the ears prick up as if recognizing a familiar sound.

“He’ll nip ye, if ye go botherin’ that way. L’ave him alone, and attind to the cattle as his honor tould ye,” commanded Pat,
who made a great show of respect toward Duke in public, and kicked him brutally in private.

“I ain’t afraid! You won’t hurt me, will you, old feller? See there now! — he knows I’m a friend, and takes to me right off,”
said Ben, with an arm around Duke’s neck, and his own cheek confidingly laid against the animal’s; for the intelligent eyes
spoke to him as plainly as the little whinny which he understood and accepted as a welcome.

The Squire saw it all from the open window, and suspecting from Pat’s face that trouble was brewing, called out—

“Let the lad harness Duke, if he can. I’m going out directly, and he may as well try that as anything.”