The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 20, No. 120, October, 1867: A Magazine of Literature, Science, Art, and PoliticsVarious
General
The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 20, No. 120, October, 1867: A Magazine of Literature, Science, Art, and Politics
Various
American periodicals
He did not resent anything, even pity, but took his hard fortune as a
matter of course, and the heavier the burden, why, the more he bent his
shoulders, but he did not complain. Nobody had ever asked his history,--the
history of a man who has patches at his knees, and whose elbows are out, is
not, by those more fortunate persons who have no patches at their knees,
and whose elbows are not out, generally supposed to be of an interesting
character. John Chidlaw was, therefore, never bothered with questions.
Could he lift a heavy log? Could he tend a saw-mill? Could he drive a team,
or carry a hod of bricks? These, and the like, were the questions that were
asked him mostly; and as he could say yes to any and all of these, and as
people did not require him to say more, he seldom did say more, but lifted
the log, or drove the team, as the case might be, in silence.
He looked a good deal older than he was,--not that his head was so gray,
and not that his shoulders bent so much, but the rather that there was an
utter absence of buoyancy, an indurated and inflexible style and expression
about the whole man, as if, in fact, he had been born old. You could not
think of him as having ever been a boy, with cherry cheeks, and laughing
eyes, and steps that were careless and fleet as the wind, but he had had
his boyhood and his boyhood's dream, as will appear by and by.
It had happened to him at one time that a saw had gone into his hand, and
left a jagged and ugly scar across the back; another time it had happened
that his horse had run away, upsetting his cart, and breaking one of his
legs, so that he limped thereafter, and was disabled from some of the
harder kinds of work he had been used to do. He had been dismissed by one
and another, in consequence of his inability to make a full day's work, and
was sitting one day on a pile of bricks in the outer edge of the town where
he lived, quite down-hearted, and chewing, not the cud of sweet and bitter
fancies, but, instead thereof, a bit of pine stick, which he held partly in
and partly out of his mouth.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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