Ever full of confidence in nothing which could
increase, credulous and sanguine, tender and laborious, Milburn's sire
nursed his forest patches as if they were presently to be rich
plantations, and was ever "pricing" negroes, mules, tools, and
implements, in expectation of buying them. Nothing could diminish his
confidence but disease and old age. He heard of the great "improvement"
on the Furnace tract, and took his obedient wife and brood there. As the
laborers pulled out the tussocks and roots, encrusted with iron, from
the swamp and creek, fever and ague came forth and smote them both.
How wretched that scene when, almost too haggard to move, father and
mother, in this one bare room where Meshach sat, groaning amid their
many offspring, saw death with weakness creep upon each other--death
without priest or doctor, without residue or cleanliness--the death the
million die in lowly huts, yet, oh, how hard!
"Haste, sonny, _good_ boy," the frightened father had said, knowing not
how ill he was, in his dependence on his wife; "take the horse, and ride
into Snow Hill for the doctor. Poor mother is dreadful sick!"
Then, leaping upon the lean old horse, bare-backed and with a rope
bridle, Meshach had pushed through the deep sand, bareheaded and
barefooted, and almost crazy with excitement, until he entered the
shining streets of the sandhilled town, and sensitively rushed into the
doctor's office, crying, "Daddy and mammy is sick, at the Furnace!" and
told his name, and wheeled, and fled.
Pages:
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51