Rensselaer Republican, Volume 20, Number 12, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 24 November 1887 — A COMPETENT MAN. [ARTICLE]

A COMPETENT MAN.

The Bargain Which He Matte One Thanksgiving Day. “I tell ysu,” said Grandfather Blythe, bringing down his cane at the end of every word, by way of giving proper emphasis to his remark, “that—yoa —shall —not—marry hint!” Freddie did not reply, but the Blythe temper showed itself p’ainlv enough in her flashing glance and heightened oolor, and she looked her grandfather ooolly in the face. "An affected jackanapes,” continued the old man in an irate tone, still stamping with his cane, “who knows no manlier a way of earning a living than to daub spots of paint onto canvas, and call it art. You shall not marry him, Predema!” “And I say,” retorted Freddie, “that 1 will marry him—that if this is your only objection to a manly, honorable man who loves me, and—and—whom I love, it is no objection at all.” Grandfather Blythe waved his fat hand with a gesture befitiing royalty itself, and relapsed into chid severity. • “That will do* Frederica. In my day young ladies did not so far forget themselves as to declare their own attachment to young gentlemen. Go ta your room, and when you can conduct yourself with propriety, we will talk this matter over.” Freddie choked back the sob that her —pride w mid not allow her to utter, and swept out of the sitting-room with all the dignity she could muster, but she did not go to her chamber. There was a cool, shady nook by the parks of a stream that formed a boundary to the old orchard, where a hammock swung in a most inviting manner from the gnarled branches of a certain old apple tree, and thither she betook herself.

She did not confess, even to her own thoughts, that the prospect of meeting a certain person who haunted the vicinity with a sketch-b<>ok under his arm hand any tiring to do with shaping her course. „ All the same she was not surprised when she beard a few bars of ‘‘Annie Laurie” whistled in mellow, flute-like tones, mid saw a tall, slouching form, clad m a loose, velvet coat, vault lightly over the fence, that ran at right angles with the river, and come rapidly up the path through the loose tangles of grass. She looked in the opposite direction, and pretended not to see or hear. “And she's all the world to me,” a voice sang softly, coming nearer. “Still she did not turn. The footsteps came close, closer, and then a hand was kid on the hammock that swung lazily to and fro, and a smiling face bent over “Max!” in a tone of feigned astonishment “Freddie!’’ imitating her manner. Then they both laughed “Freddie”— seriously—“l have been trying to move the hard heart of Grandfather Blythe.’, “Max”—seriously also—“I have been trying to soften the 6tern heart of V Grand father Blythe.” “And, Freddie, I have failed.” « “It was an ignominons failure on my part, Max.” They tried to laugh, but Freddie; remembering her grandfather’s reproof, sighed instead. She took up Max’s sketching book that he had laid in the hammock beside her, and began to turn over the pages. . They were rough sketches only, but •lever, too, with a dashing freedom of touch that showed the element of undeniable gemoain every stroke. To the simple country girl they were the revelations of another life. Here was a tropical forest, the shadows of the cypress trees, draped with festoons of Spanish moss falling hard across a still—lagoon, the yellow moon half obscured by clouds, throw- - Ing a weird, ghostly lightoveralh One was a farm scene, and In the

figure that bent over the low, old-fash-ioned well-curb, to lift the moescovered bucket, Freddie recognised herself. This Sketch showed a boat, drifting down a river between green fields that stretch away on either side, wtthsleepy cattle resting under leafy trees; that, a batoeet field, with laborers leaning on tlieir rakes, amid ripe harvest sheaves; a rude cottage in tho distance, where a young, mother stood in , the doorway, with laughing children clinging to her gown; or a skiff rocking on the waves, the moonlight marking its silver track across the water, or painting strange, fantastic pictures on the ro»cks above, and again, a tropic forest, where one could fancy he heard some far-off bird calling to his mate from low hung boughs, amid the groves of spice and I balm. Freddie drew alongjbreath of rapture. To her they were marvels of artistic expression. “I would give it ail up, Freddie for your sake, if I must.” Tears sprang to her eyes. She looked across to her grandfathor’s meadow where the men were at work, and pointed to them with an involuntary look of contmpt on her pretty face. “And be—liice them?” “Yes, even like them, or near as nature would permit. Freddie—there would be a difference, I fancy, even then.” “Max!” joyfully springing to the ground in her excitement—“l have a plae to propose to you:” and with many interjections and exclamations, and much exhnltant laughter, she proceeded to uufold its details to Max. “Conld’t have happened at a worse time,” growled Grandfather Blythe, as he contemplated his puffy, tender ankle, streaked with yellowish green—a bad sprain that he had got from chasing a refractory colt. “Yes,” answered the doctor, a callow young man, with straight, yellow locks, immense goggles, and a professional gravity of manner; “this promises to be something serious, Mr. Blythe.” “And there is the hay ready to cut and get in before it rains, and no help, hardly, and none to be got for love or money.” “Grandpa,” said a soft voice from the other room, “Here is a man who is looking for work.” *‘Bepd him here at once,” said the old man, forgetting fol a moment The agonising twinges of his ankle in his anxiety for his hay. A tall form, with an awkward stoop in his shoulders, clad in a long linen dusier, and surmounted by a head of straggling red hair, showed itself at the open door. ‘‘Humph!” growled the testy occupant of the lounge, “so you want work# do you? What can you do?” “Wa’al,” drawled a loud nasal voice, “I can do most any thing, but I’m a master hand in a hay field, Square. Brought up on a farm, ye see, and bin used to it all my life.” "Freddie,” called the ’squire, “give him something to eat. I s’pose he’s hungry—they always are. And after he’s fed, show him the way to the meadow.”

Freddie, almost convulsed with merriment at the gawky stranger’s manner, came forward obediently and offered to conduct him to the kitchen, but he declined to eat “till ’twas earned, ' he said, and slouched off toward the hay field. Half an hour afterward Grandfather Blythe, watching the stranger from the window, saw him loading hay with a swiftness and dexterity that distanced all competitors. His awkward movements, his limping walk, qstd his frowzy red l air seemed to acquire almost dignity by the facility and ease with which he worked. “He’s a prize,” chuckled Mr. Blythe; “worth a dozen ordinary pitchers. Of course he’ll run away in a day or two; these tramps always do.” But, contrary to ’Squire Blythe’s prediction, he did not. On the contrary, he grew more and more helpful, as the season advanced, and as ’Squire Blythe grew more and more incapable of using his foot, the tramu’s experience and advice proved valuable to the irritable old man, until at last he came to be regarded as an authority, to be respected and consulted on all doubtful points. It was Thanksgiving, and the odors of fniits, Spices and all sorts of savorv tuells filled the Blythe kitchen and dining room,where Freddie flitted about dimpling with smiles, 'preparing the Thanksgiving dinner. “Sandy,” as the red haired stranger waecaHed, sat by tfte sotith window; which was filled with crimson roses and while chrysanthemums. He held a new spaper in his hands; as if engaged in reading, but his eyes wandered from its columns to where Freddie stood, her sleeves rolled up above her round dimpled elbowß, her white hands covered with flour, her cheeks flushed with exercise. Grandfather Blythe walked into the kitchen, leaning heavily on his cane. Half way across the room he paused and spoke to “Sandy.” * “I want a competent man to take Charge of my farm next year,” he hegan, “one who is capable, who understands practical farming—in short I want you. Name your price, and if the terms are not to extravagant. I’ll fant business with you.”^ “My price mrf”

“Sandy” bad risen now and walked across the kitchen to where Freddv Stood. “My price, sir, is here.” “What?” thundered the Squire, “do you mean to insult my granddaughter?" “By no means, sir,” answered the tramp, respectfully, removing his red wig and disclosing the brown curling locks o<{;. Max Stanton, the artist, “I am of as good a family as yonr own; I love your granddaughter, and believe I eould make her happy. lam fond of art, it is true, hilt I think I have demonstrated the fact that I am. not, on that account, entirely devoid of common kense.” ; ■ Driven to hay, as it were, the Squire admitted the justice of the remark, and, turning to Freddy, whose cheeks were crimson as the roses in the window, he asked gruffly, “What do you say, die?”.We will not attempt to give Freddie’s answer, an answe'r in dimples, srailss, blushes, and incoherent, not to say irrelevant, remarks, but we are bound, as varacious chroniclers, to record the fact that in the long and happy years she spent as Max’s wife, neither she nor Squire Blythe ever had cause to regret the events of this special Thanksgiving Day.