England -- Social life and customs -- 19th century -- Fiction
It was odd and yet pleasant to me to perceive how these two men, each
having led up to this point such totally dissimilar lives, seemed to
come together by instinct, after one quiet straight look into each
other’s faces. My father was a thin, wiry man of five foot seven; the
minister was a broad-shouldered, fresh-coloured man of six foot one;
they were neither of them great talkers in general—perhaps the minister
the most so—but they spoke much to each other. My father went into the
fields with the minister; I think I see him now, with his hands behind
his back, listening intently to all explanations of tillage, and the
different processes of farming; occasionally taking up an implement, as
if unconsciously, and examining it with a critical eye, and now and
then asking a question, which I could see was considered as pertinent
by his companion. Then we returned to look at the cattle, housed and
bedded in expectation of the snow-storm hanging black on the western
horizon, and my father learned the points of a cow with as much
attention as if he meant to turn farmer. He had his little book that he
used for mechanical memoranda and measurements in his pocket, and he
took it out to write down “straight back”, small muzzle”, “deep
barrel”, and I know not what else, under the head “cow”. He was very
critical on a turnip-cutting machine, the clumsiness of which first
incited him to talk; and when we went into the house he sate thinking
and quiet for a bit, while Phillis and her mother made the last
preparations for tea, with a little unheeded apology from cousin
Holman, because we were not sitting in the best parlour, which she
thought might be chilly on so cold a night. I wanted nothing better
than the blazing, crackling fire that sent a glow over all the
house-place, and warmed the snowy flags under our feet till they seemed
to have more heat than the crimson rug right in front of the fire.
After tea, as Phillis and I were talking together very happily, I heard
an irrepressible exclamation from cousin Holman,—
“Whatever is the man about!”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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