Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. Frank's Campaign; Or, The Farm and the Camp by Jr. Horatio Alger (book club reads .TXT) 📖
- Author: Jr. Horatio Alger
Book online «Frank's Campaign; Or, The Farm and the Camp by Jr. Horatio Alger (book club reads .TXT) 📖». Author Jr. Horatio Alger
An amused smile overspread the young man's face.
“I never had any relatives sent to the State's prison,” he answered; “though I think it quite possible that some of them may have deserved it.”
“Jest so,” assented the old lady. “There's a good deal of iniquity that never comes to light. I once know'd a woman that killed her husband with the tongs, and nobody ever surmised it; though everybody thought it strange that he should disappear so suddint. Well, this woman on her death-bed owned up to the tongs in a crazy fit that she had. But the most cur'us part of it,” the old lady added rather illogically, “was, that the man was livin' all the while, and it was all his wife's fancy that she'd struck him with the tongs.”
By this time the “express” had rumbled into the main street of Rossville, and the old lady had hardly completed her striking illustration of the truth, that murder will out, before they had drawn up in front of the tavern.
“Ain't you a-goin' to carry me to my darter's house?” she inquired with solicitude. “I can't walk noway.”
“Yes, ma'am,” answered Ajax, “directly, just as soon as this gentleman's got out, and they've taken the mail.”
He tossed the mail-bag to a small boy who stood on the piazza in waiting to receive it, and then, whipping up his horses, speedily conveyed Mrs. Payson to her destination.
“He's a very nice, obleeging young man,” said the old lady, referring to Henry Morton. “I wonder ef his mother was a Bent. There's old Micajah Bent's third daughter, Roxana Jane, married a Morton, or it might have been a Moulton. Ever see him afore?”
“No, ma'am. Here you are.”
“So I be! and there's Reuben at the gate. How are ye all? Jest take this carpetbag, will ye, and I'll give you a cent some time or 'nother.”
Reuben did not appear much elated by this promise. It had been made too many times without fulfilment.
The old lady having reached her destination, we take leave of her for the present, promising to resume her acquaintance in subsequent chapters.
CHAPTER XVI. FRANK MAKES A FRIEND
Henry Morton rose with the sun. This was not so early as may be supposed, for already November had touched its middle point, and the tardy sun did not make its appearance till nearly seven o'clock. As he passed through the hall he noticed that breakfast was not quite ready.
“A little walk will sharpen my appetite,” he thought. He put on his hat, and, passing through the stable-yard at the rear, climbed over a fence and ascended a hill which he had observed from his chamber window. The sloping sides, which had not yet wholly lost their appearance of verdure, were dotted with trees, mostly apple-trees.
“It must be delightful in summer,” said the young man, as he looked thoughtfully about him.
The hill was by no means high, and five minutes' walk brought him to the summit. From this spot he had a fine view of the village which lay at his feet embowered in trees. A narrow river wound like a silver thread through the landscape. Groups of trees on either bank bent over as if to see themselves reflected in the rapid stream. At one point a dam had been built across from bank to bank, above which the river widened and deepened, affording an excellent skating-ground for the boys in the cold days of December and January. A whirring noise was heard. The grist-mill had just commenced its work for the day. Down below the dam the shallow water eddied and whirled, breaking in fleecy foam over protuberant rocks which lay in the river-bed.
The old village church with its modest proportions occupied a knoll between the hill and the river. It was girdled about with firs intermingled with elms. Near-by was a small triangular common, thickly planted with trees, each facing a separate street. Houses clustered here and there. Comfortable buildings they were, but built evidently rather for use than show. The architect had not yet come to the assistance of the village carpenter.
Seen in the cheering light of the rising sun, Henry Morton could not help feeling that a beautiful picture was spread out before him.
“After all,” he said thoughtfully, “we needn't go abroad for beauty, when we can find so much of it at our own doors. Yet, perhaps the more we see of the beautiful, the better we are fitted to appreciate it in the wonderful variety of its numberless forms.”
He slowly descended the hill, but in a different direction. This brought him to the road that connected the village with North Rossville, two miles distant.
Coming from a different direction, a boy reached the stile about the same time with himself, and both clambered over together.
“It is a beautiful morning,” said the young man courteously.
“Yes, sir,” was the respectful answer. “Have you been up looking at the view?”
“Yes—and to get an appetite for breakfast. And you?”
Frank Frost—for it was he—laughed. “Oh, I am here on quite a different errand,” he said. “I used to come here earlier in the season to drive the cows to pasture. I come this morning to carry some milk to a neighbor who takes it of us. She usually sends for it, but her son is just now sick with the measles.”
“Yet I think you cannot fail to enjoy the pleasant morning, even if you are here for other purposes.”
“I do enjoy it very much,” said Frank. “When I read of beautiful scenery in other countries, I always wish that I could visit them, and see for myself.”
“Perhaps you will some day.”
Frank smiled, and shook his head incredulously. “I am afraid there is not much chance of it,” he said.
“So I thought when I was of your age,” returned Henry Morton.
“Then you have traveled?” said Frank, looking interested.
“Yes. I have visited most of the countries of Europe.”
“Have you been in Rome?” inquired Frank.
“Yes. Are you interested in Rome?”
“Who could help it, sir? I should like to see the Capitol, and the Via Sacra, and the Tarpeian Rock, and the Forum—and, in fact, Rome must be full of objects of interest. Who knows but I might tread where Cicero, and Virgil, and Caesar had trodden before me?”
Henry Morton looked at the boy who stood beside him with increased interest. “I see you are quite a scholar,” he said. “Where did you learn about all these men and places?”
“I
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