Historical fiction, American; New England -- Social life and customs -- Fiction; Short stories
“Because he could not spend it,” said Tabitha, “for as often as he went
to unlock the chest the Old Scratch came behind and caught his arm. The
money, they say, was paid Peter out of his purse, and he wanted Peter
to give him a deed of this house and land, which Peter swore he would
not do.”
“Just as I swore to John Brown, my old partner,” remarked Peter. “But
this is all nonsense, Tabby; I don’t believe the story.”
“Well, it may not be just the truth,” said Tabitha, “for some folks say
that Peter did make over the house to the Old Scratch, and that’s the
reason it has always been so unlucky to them that lived in it. And as
soon as Peter had given him the deed the chest flew open, and Peter
caught up a handful of the gold. But, lo and behold! there was nothing
in his fist but a parcel of old rags.”
“Hold your tongue, you silly old Tabby!” cried Peter, in great wrath.
“They were as good golden guineas as ever bore the effigies of the king
of England. It seems as if I could recollect the whole circumstance,
and how I, or old Peter, or whoever it was, thrust in my hand, or his
hand, and drew it out all of a blaze with gold. Old rags indeed!”
But it was not an old woman’s legend that would discourage Peter
Goldthwaite. All night long he slept among pleasant dreams, and awoke
at daylight with a joyous throb of the heart which few are fortunate
enough to feel beyond their boyhood. Day after day he labored hard
without wasting a moment except at meal-times, when Tabitha summoned
him to the pork and cabbage, or such other sustenance as she had picked
up or Providence had sent them. Being a truly pious man, Peter never
failed to ask a blessing—if the food were none of the best, then so
much the more earnestly, as it was more needed—nor to return thanks, if
the dinner had been scanty, yet for the good appetite which was better
than a sick stomach at a feast. Then did he hurry back to his toil, and
in a moment was lost to sight in a cloud of dust from the old walls,
though sufficiently perceptible to the ear by the clatter which he
raised in the midst of it.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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