Produced by Daniel Fromont COLLECTION OF BRITISH AUTHORS VOL. CCCLI. THE HILLS OF THE SHATEMUC BY ELIZABETH WETHERELL. IN TWO VOLUMES. VOL. I. THE HILLS OF THE SHATEMUC BY ELIZABETH WETHERELL, AUTHOR OF "THE WIDE WIDE WORLD." A wise man is strong. Proverbs xxiv.5. _AUTHOR'S EDITION_. IN TWO VOLUMES. VOL. I. LEIPZIG BERNHARD TAUCHNITZ 1856. THE HILLS OF THE SHATELUC. VOL. I. CHAPTER I. Low stirrings in the leaves, before the wind Wakes all the green strings of the forest lyre. LOWELL. The light of an early Spring morning, shining fair on upland and lowland, promised a good day for the farmer's work. And where a film of thin smoke stole up over the tree-tops, into the sunshine which had not yet got so low, there stood the farmer's house. It was a little brown house, built surely when its owner's means were not greater than his wishes, and probably some time before his family had reached the goodly growth it boasted now. All of them were gathered at the breakfast-table. "Boys, you may take the oxen, and finish ploughing that upland field -- I shall be busy all day sowing wheat in the bend meadow." "Then I'll bring the boat for you, papa, at noon," said a child on the other side of the table. "And see if you can keep those headlands as clean as I have left them." "Yes, sir. Shall you want the horses, father, or shall we take both the oxen?" "Both? -- both _pairs_, you mean -- yes; I shall want the horses. I mean to make a finish of that wheat lot." "Mamma, you must send us our dinner," said a fourth speaker, and the eldest of the boys; -- "it'll be too confoundedly hot to come home." "Yes, it's going to be a warm day," said the father. "Who's to bring it to you, Will?" said the mother. "Asahel -- can't he -- when he brings the boat for papa?" "The boat won't go to the top of the hill," said Asahel; "and it's as hot for me as for other folks, I guess." "You take the young oxen, Winthrop," said the farmer, pushing back his chair from the table. "Why, sir?" said the eldest son promptly. "I want to give you the best," answered his father, with a touch of comicality about the lines of his face. "Are you afraid I shall work them too hard?" "That's just what I'm afraid they'd do for you." He went out; and his son attended to his breakfast in silence, with a raised eyebrow and a curved lip. "What do you want, Winthrop?" the mother presently called to her second son, who had disappeared, and was rummaging somewhere behind the scenes. "Only a basket, mamma," -- came from the pantry. His mother got up from table, and basket in hand followed him, to where he was busy with a big knife in the midst of her stores. Slices of bread were in course of buttering, and lay in ominous number piled up on the yellow shelf. Hard by stood a bowl of cold boiled potatoes. He was at work with dexterity as neat-handed and as quick as a woman's.