Part 2 (2/2)

I lay my hand on the horse's flank and he steps over in his stall to let me go by. I slap his neck and he lays back his ears playfully. Thus I go out into the pa.s.sageway and give my horse his oats, throw corn and stalks to the pigs and a handful of grain to Harriet's chickens (it's the only way to stop the cackling!). And thus presently the barnyard is quiet again except for the sound of contented feeding.

Take my word for it, this is one of the pleasant moments of life. I stand and look long at my barnyard family. I observe with satisfaction how plump they are and how well they are bearing the winter. Then I look up at my mountainous straw stack with its capping of snow, and my corn crib with the yellow ears visible through the slats, and my barn with its mow full of hay--all the gatherings of the year, now being expended in growth. I cannot at all explain it, but at such moments the circuit of that dim spiritual battery which each of us conceals within seems to close, and the full current of contentment flows through our lives.

All the morning as I went about my ch.o.r.es I had a peculiar sense of expected pleasure. It seemed certain to me that something unusual and adventurous was about to happen--and if it did not happen offhand, why I was there to make it happen! When I went in to breakfast (do you know the fragrance of broiling bacon when you have worked for an hour before breakfast on a morning of zero weather? If you do not, consider that heaven still has gifts in store for you!)--when I went in to breakfast, I fancied that Harriet looked preoccupied, but I was too busy just then (hot corn m.u.f.fins) to make an inquiry, and I knew by experience that the best solvent of secrecy is patience.

”David,” said Harriet, presently, ”the cousins can't come!”

”Can't come!” I exclaimed.

”Why, you act as if you were delighted.”

”No--well, yes,” I said, ”I knew that some extraordinary adventure was about to happen!”

”Adventure! It's a cruel disappointment--I was all ready for them.”

”Harriet,” I said, ”adventure is just what we make it. And aren't we to have the Scotch Preacher and his wife?”

”But I've got such a _good_ dinner.”

”Well,” I said, ”there are no two ways about it: it must be eaten! You may depend upon me to do my duty.”

”We'll have to send out into the highways and compel them to come in,”

said Harriet ruefully.

I had several choice observations I should have liked to make upon this problem, but Harriet was plainly not listening; she sat with her eyes fixed reflectively on the coffeepot. I watched her for a moment, then I remarked:

”There aren't any.”

”David,” she exclaimed, ”how did you know what I was thinking about?”

”I merely wanted to show you,” I said, ”that my genius is not properly appreciated in my own household. You thought of highways, didn't you?

Then you thought of the poor; especially the poor on Christmas day; then of Mrs. Heney, who isn't poor any more, having married John Daniels; and then I said, 'There aren't any.'”

Harriet laughed.

”It has come to a pretty pa.s.s,” she said ”when there are no poor people to invite to dinner on Christmas day.”

”It's a tragedy, I'll admit,” I said, ”but let's be logical about it.”

”I am willing,” said Harriet, ”to be as logical as you like.”

”Then,” I said, ”having no poor to invite to dinner we must necessarily try the rich. That's logical, isn't it?”

”Who?” asked Harriet, which is just like a woman. Whenever you get a good healthy argument started with her, she will suddenly short-circuit it, and want to know if you mean Mr. Smith, or Joe Perkins's boys, which I maintain is _not_ logical.

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