Ascending into this natural turret, I peeped in turn out of several of

its small windows. The pine-tree, being ancient, rose high above the

rest of the wood, which was of comparatively recent growth. Even where

I sat, about midway between the root and the topmost bough, my position

was lofty enough to serve as an observatory, not for starry

investigations, but for those sublunary matters in which lay a lore as

infinite as that of the planets. Through one loophole I saw the river

lapsing calmly onward, while in the meadow, near its brink, a few of

the brethren were digging peat for our winter's fuel. On the interior

cart-road of our farm I discerned Hollingsworth, with a yoke of oxen

hitched to a drag of stones, that were to be piled into a fence, on

which we employed ourselves at the odd intervals of other labor. The

harsh tones of his voice, shouting to the sluggish steers, made me

sensible, even at such a distance, that he was ill at ease, and that

the balked philanthropist had the battle-spirit in his heart.

"Haw, Buck!" quoth he. "Come along there, ye lazy ones! What are ye

about, now? Gee!"

"Mankind, in Hollingsworth's opinion," thought I, "is but another yoke

of oxen, as stubborn, stupid, and sluggish as our old Brown and Bright.

He vituperates us aloud, and curses us in his heart, and will begin to

prick us with the goad-stick, by and by. But are we his oxen? And

what right has he to be the driver? And why, when there is enough else

to do, should we waste our strength in dragging home the ponderous load

of his philanthropic absurdities? At my height above the earth, the

whole matter looks ridiculous!"

Turning towards the farmhouse, I saw Priscilla (for, though a great way

off, the eye of faith assured me that it was she) sitting at Zenobia's

window, and making little purses, I suppose; or, perhaps, mending the

Community's old linen. A bird flew past my tree; and, as it clove its

way onward into the sunny atmosphere, I flung it a message for

Priscilla.

"Tell her," said I, "that her fragile thread of life has inextricably

knotted itself with other and tougher threads, and most likely it will

be broken. Tell her that Zenobia will not be long her friend. Say that

Hollingsworth's heart is on fire with his own purpose, but icy for all

human affection; and that, if she has given him her love, it is like

casting a flower into a sepulchre. And say that if any mortal really

cares for her, it is myself; and not even I for her realities,--poor

little seamstress, as Zenobia rightly called her!--but for the

fancy-work with which I have idly decked her out!"




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