s turned to skulk
off in this way. I'll put a stop to this work one of these days, see if
I don't. Its likely he's hiding in some out-of-the-way corner with a
book in his hand as usual." These and many other angry words came
harshly to my ears, on that June afternoon now so long ago. I was seated
in the small room over the kitchen which was appropriated to my use in
the dwelling of Farmer Judson, where I was employed as "chore boy," or,
in other words, the boy of all work.

"Walter, Walter Harland, come down here this minute, I say."

I started up, trembling with fear, for the angry tones of the farmer
made me aware that he had come home in one of his worst tempers, and his
best were usually bad enough; and, more than this, I knew myself to be
slightly in the fault. Before leaving home that morning Mr. Judson had
ordered me to clear the weeds from a certain number of beds in the
garden before his return. I worked steadily during the forenoon, and for
a portion of the afternoon, when, feeling tired and heated, I stole up
to my room, thinking to rest for a short time and then again resume my
labors. I was very fond of study, and, as my Algebra lay before me upon
the table, I could not resist the temptation to open it, and I soon
became so deeply absorbed in the solution of a difficult problem that I
heeded not the lapse of time till the harsh voice of my employer fell
upon my ear. I had learned by past experience to fear the angry moods
of Mr. Judson. In my hurry and confusion I forgot to lay aside my book,
and went downstairs with it in my hand. I stood silent before the angry
man, and listened to the storm of abuse which he continued to pour upon
me, until sheer exhaustion compelled him to stop.

"And now," said he (by way of conclusion) "be off to your work, and
don't be seen in the house again till the last weed is pulled from them
air beds." This was even better than I had dared to hope, for, on more
than one former occasion, I had borne blows from Mr. Judson when his
anger was excited. As I turned to leave the room the quick eye of the
farmer fell upon the book which before had escaped his notice. Stepping
hastily toward me he said:

"I see how it is, your head is so filled with the crankums you get out
o' them books, that you are good for nothing else, but I'll stop this
work once for all;" and, ere I was aware of his intention, he
snatched the book from my hand, and threw it upon the wood-fire which
burned in