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. Only an Irish Boy; Or, Andy Burke's Fortunes by Jr. Horatio Alger (romantic books to read .txt) 📖
- Author: Jr. Horatio Alger
Book online «Only an Irish Boy; Or, Andy Burke's Fortunes by Jr. Horatio Alger (romantic books to read .txt) 📖». Author Jr. Horatio Alger
"With my mother, Mrs. Burke, a little way down the road."
"I know—the Widder Burke."
"Have you got any work for me?"
"Wait a minute, I'll see."
The deacon brought out an old scythe from the barn, and felt of the edge. There was not much danger in so doing, for it was as dull as a hoe.
"This scythe needs sharpening," he said. "Come and turn the grindstone."
"Well, here's a job, anyhow," thought Andy. "Wonder what he'll give me."
He sat down and began to turn the grindstone. The deacon bore on heavily, and this made it hard turning. His arms ached, and the perspiration stood on his brow. It was certainly pretty hard work, but then he must be prepared for that, and after all he was earning money for his mother. Still the time did seem long. The scythe was so intolerably dull that it took a long time to make any impression upon it.
"Kinder hard turnin', ain't it?" said the deacon.
"Yes," said Andy.
"This scythe ain't been sharpened for ever so long. It's as dull as a hoe."
However, time and patience work wonders, and at length the deacon, after a careful inspection of the blade of the scythe, released Andy from his toil of an hour and a half, with the remark:
"I reckon that'll do."
He put the scythe in its place and came out.
Andy lingered respectfully for the remuneration of his labor.
"He ought to give me a quarter," he thought. But the deacon showed no disposition to pay him, and Andy became impatient.
"I guess I'll be goin'," he said.
"All right. I ain't got anything more for you to do," said the deacon.
"I'll take my pay now," said Andy, desperately.
"Pay? What for?" inquired the deacon, innocently.
"For turning the grindstone."
"You don't mean ter say you expect anything for that?" said the deacon in a tone of surprise.
"Yes I do," said Andy. "I can't work an hour and a half for nothing."
"I didn't expect to pay for such a trifle," said the old man, fumbling in his pocket.
Finally he brought out two cents, one of the kind popularly known as bung-towns, which are not generally recognized as true currency.
"There," said he in an injured tone. "I'll pay you, though I didn't think you'd charge anything for any little help like that."
Andy looked at the proffered compensation with mingled astonishment and disgust.
"Never mind," he said. "You can keep it. You need it more'n I do, I'm thinkin'!"
"Don't you want it?" asked the deacon, surprised.
"No, I don't. I'm a poor boy, but I don't work an hour and a half for two cents, one of 'em bad. I'd rather take no pay at all."
"That's a cur'us boy," said the deacon, slowly sliding the pennies back into his pocket. "I calc'late he expected more just for a little job like that. Does he think I'm made of money?"
As Andy went out of the yard, the idea dawned upon the deacon that he had saved two cents, and his face was luminous with satisfaction.
CHAPTER VI — THE TWO OLD MAIDS
"He's the meanest man I ever saw," thought Andy. "Does he think I work on nothing a year, and find myself? Divil a bit of work will I do for him agin, if I know it." But better luck was in store for Andy. Quarter of a mile farther on, in a two-story house, old-fashioned but neat, lived two maiden ladies of very uncertain age, Misses Priscilla and Sophia Grant. I am not aware that any relationship existed between them and our distinguished ex-President. Nevertheless, they were of very respectable family and connections, and of independent property, owning bank stock which brought them in an annual income of about twelve hundred dollars, in addition to the house they occupied, and half a dozen acres of land thereunto pertaining. Now, this was not a colossal fortune, but in a country place like Crampton it made them ladies of large property.
Priscilla was the elder of the two, and general manager. Sophia contented herself with being the echo of her stronger-minded sister, and was very apt to assent to her remarks, either by repeating them, or by saying: "Just so." She was a mild, inoffensive creature, but very charitable and amiable, and so little given to opposition that there was always the greatest harmony between them. They kept a gardener and out-of-door servant of all work, who cultivated the land, sawed and split their wood, ran of errands, and made himself generally useful. He had one drawback, unfortunately. He would occasionally indulge to excess in certain fiery alcoholic compounds sold at the village tavern, and, as natural consequence, get drunk. He had usually the good sense to keep out of the way while under the influence of liquor, and hitherto the good ladies had borne with and retained him in their employ.
But a crisis had arrived. That morning he had come for orders while inebriated, and in his drunken folly had actually gone so far as to call Miss Priscilla darling and offer to kiss her.
Miss Priscilla was, of course, horrified, and so expressed herself.
"Law, Sophia," she said, "I came near fainting away. The idea of his offering to kiss me."
"Just so," said Sophia.
"So presuming."
"Just so."
"Of course, I couldn't think of employing him any longer."
"Couldn't think of it."
"He might have asked to kiss me again."
"Just so."
"Or you!"
"Just so," said Sophia, in some excitement of manner.
"The neighbors would talk."
"Just so."
"So I told him that I was very sorry, but it would be necessary for him to find work somewhere else."
"But who will do our work?" inquired Sophia, with a rare, original suggestion.
"We must get somebody else."
"So we must," acquiesced Sophia, as if she had suddenly received light on a very dark subject.
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