But I used to go quite early across the creek to the little town; at first holding my father or mother tightly by the hand, or, rather, having my hand held close by theirs. There were many wonders on the way: first, the old wooden bridge that used often to be carried off in the spring, when heavy rains and melting snow and ice came down the stream. But this bridge was nothing compared with the long covered one below the town, that I found some years later, when I had grown large enough to fish and was ashamed to hold my father and my mother by the hand.
Just across the stream was the blacksmith-shop into which I used to look with wondering eyes. I can see now the white-hot iron as the old bare-armed smith pulled it from the coals and threw the sparks in all directions, frightening me almost beyond my wits; still, I would always go back to the open door to be scared again. Especially in the early dusk, this old blacksmith-shop, with its great bellows2 and anvil3 and hammers, and its flying sparks and roaring fire lighting4 up the room and throwing dark shadows in the corners and around the edges, was a constant source of wonder and delight; and I used to beg my good father to throw away my stupid books and apprentice5 me to learn the blacksmith trade. But he steadfastly6 refused my prayers and tears, and told me that I would live to thank him for denying this first ambition of my life. Well, I did not learn the trade, and in a halting way I have followed the path into which the kind old miller7 guided my young reluctant feet. Still, I am not yet sure that he was right; for all my life, when I am honest with myself, I cannot help the thought that I have been a good deal of a blacksmith, after all.
Just beyond was the wagon-shop, where they made such nice long shavings, and where we used to go and play “I spy,” or “High spy,” as we boys called the game. The benches, wagons8, and piles of lumber9, and the garret overhead, furnished the best possible places for us to hide.
Then came the shoe-shop, where my father took us to get our winter boots, which he paid for by trading flour saved up from his tolls10. This shop was a large affair, with three or four men and boys working steadily11 in the busy season of the year. Two or three checkerboards, 87too, were constantly in use, especially in the long winter evenings, and every man in the room would tell the player where he ought to move, or rather where he should have moved in order to win the game.
The old shoe-shop was a great place to discuss the questions of the day; it was even more popular than the store. Politics and religion were the favorite topics then, as they are to-day,—as they have ever been since the world began, and will ever be while the world shall last; for one of them has to do with the brief transitory life of man upon the earth, and the other with his everlasting12 hopes and doubts, desires and fears for another life when this is done. Besides politics and religion, men and women were discussed,—all the men and women for miles around who were not there; these critics debated about the skill of the blacksmith and the carriage-maker, the thrift13 of the merchant and the farmer, and the learning of the preachers and the doctors. This last topic was a never-ending subject for debate, as there were two of each. I do not remember what they said about the preachers, but I know that when any doctor was discussed his disciples14 stoutly15 claimed that 88he was the best in the whole country round, while his enemies agreed that they would not let him “doctor a sick cat.” As I recall those little groups, their opinions on men and women almost always seemed unfavorable and hard, like most of the personal discussions that I have ever heard. After much reflection I have reached the conclusion that all people are envious16 to a greater or a less degree, and of course each one’s goodness and importance increase in proportion as those of others are made to grow less.
The last time I went back along the road, I found that the wagon-shop and the shoe-shop had long since closed their doors. Cincinnati buggies and Studebaker wagons had driven away the last board of the old lumber-piles around which we children used to play; and New England shoe-factories had utterly17 destroyed the old forum18 where were discussed the mysteries of life and death. Even the customs of the simple country folks had changed, for I observed that the boys wore shoes instead of boots; but in those days all the girls wore shoes, and now they were wearing boots. The blacksmith-shop still stood beside the road, 89but the old smith had gone away, and his son was now hammering stoutly at the same piece of white-hot iron that his father pulled out of the red coals so long ago; but the little boy who once looked in with wondering eyes at the open door,—it seemed as if he too were dead and buried forever behind a great mass of shifting clouds heaped so thick and high as to make nothing but a dream of those far-off childhood years.
I had almost forgotten to tell the name of my boyhood town. It was Farmington; and I feel that I ought to write it down in this book, so that the world may know exactly where it is, for I am sure it was never in a book before, excepting a county atlas19 that once printed pictures and biographies of all the leading citizens of the place. I remember that the agent came to see my father, and told him what a beautiful picture the mill would make, and how anxious he was to have his portrait and history in the book. I really believe my father would have given his consent but for the reason that the season had been dry and he did not dare to sign a note. Poor man! I almost wish he had consented, for even if the book had never 90been seen by any but the simple country folk who paid for their glory, as we all must do in some way, still my father could have read his own biography, and looked at the picture of himself and his famous mill. And really this is about the only reason that any of us write books, if the truth were known.
Beyond the shop the road ran into a great common which we called a square. This really was a wonderful affair,—about the size of Rhode Island, as it seemed to us. Here we boys often gathered on Saturday afternoons, and, when I grew older, on the few nights that my father was away from home, or on some special occasion when I prevailed on him to let me go there and play.
On one side of the square was the country store,—a mammoth20 establishment, kept by a very rich man, who had everything that was ever heard of on his shelves. I used to marvel21 how he could possibly think to buy all the things that he had to sell. Across the road from the store was the country tavern22, and alongside it was a long low barn with a big shed at the end. A fierce dog was kept chained inside the barn. We hardly dared to look into 91the tavern door, for we had all heard that it was a very wicked place. It was said that down in the cellar, in some secret corner, was a barrel of whiskey; and the tavern-keeper had once been sent for three months to the county jail, when some good people had gone in, one winter night, and told him that they were very cold, and asked him to sell them some whiskey to keep them warm. At any rate, our people would never let us go near the door. I used to wonder what kind of things they had to eat in the tavern. It was the only place I ever heard of where they charged anything for dinner or supper, and I thought the meals must be wonderful indeed, and I always hoped that some day I might have a chance to go there and eat.
On another side of the common was Squire23 Allen’s place. This was a great white house, altogether the grandest in the town,—or in the world, for that matter, so we children believed. It was set back from the road, in the midst of a grove24 of trees, and there was a big gate where carriages could drive into the front yard along the curving roadway and up to the large front door. Beneath the overhanging 92porch were four or five great square white pillars, and the door had a large brass25 knocker, and there were big square stone steps that came down to the road. Back of the house were a barn and a carriage-house, the latter the only building of the kind in Farmington.
Squire Allen was a tall man with white hair and a clean-shaven face. He carried a gold-headed cane26, and when you met him on the street he never looked to the right or left. Everyone knew he was the greatest man in the place,—in fact, the greatest man in all the world. He had a large carriage, with two seats and big wheels and a top, and two horses; and he was nearly always riding in the carriage. I do not remember much about his family; I know that he had a little boy, but I was not acquainted with him, although I knew all the rest of the little boys in town. I would often see the Squire and his whole family out driving in their great carriage. I remember standing27 on the little bridge and looking down at the fishes in the brook28; and I hear the rumble29 of wheels coming down the hill. I glance up, and there comes Squire Allen; his little boy is sitting on the front seat with him, and on the back seat 93are some ladies that I do not know. They drive down the hill, the old Squire looking neither to the right nor left. I am afraid of being run over, and I go as near the edge of the bridge as I dare, to escape the great rolling wheels. The little boy peers out at me as the carriage passes by, as if he wondered who could dare stand in the road when his father drove that way; but neither the Squire nor the ladies ever knew that I was there.
A few months ago, this same little boy called on me at my office in the city. He, like myself, had wandered far and wide since he passed me on the bridge. He came to ask me to help him get a job. Somehow, as I saw him then, and recalled the arrogance30 and pride that old Squire Allen and his family always had, I am afraid I almost felt glad that he had been obliged to come, I am almost sure I felt that at last fortune was making things right and even. I cannot find in my philosophy any good reason why the scheme is any more just if he was rich and I was poor when we were young, and I am rich and he is poor when we are growing old,—but still I believe I felt this way.
Old Squire Allen has been dead for a quarter of a century and more. Last summer, when I visited the old Pennsylvania town, I went to the little burying-ground, and inside the yard I found an iron picket31 fence, and in this enclosure a monument taller than any other in the yard, and on this stone I read Squire Allen’s name. Poor old man! It is many years since the worms ate up the last morsel32 of the old man that even a worm could find fit to eat, but still even after death and decay he lies there solitary33 and exclusive, the most commanding and imposing34 of all the names that seek immortality35 in the carved letters of the granite36 stones. Well, I am not sure but sometime I shall go back to Farmington and put up a monument higher than Allen’s, and have “Smith” carved on the base; and then I suppose it will be easier to go down under it to rest.
But it is only when I am especially envious that I have such thoughts as these. I was yet a little boy in Farmington when they placed the old Squire inside the burying-ground. What a day was that! The store was closed; the tavern door was shut; the old water-wheel stood still; all Farmington turned out in sad 95procession to follow the great man to his grave. The hawks37 and crows flying high above the town must have looked down and thought we mourned a king. At least no such royal funeral was ever seen in all those parts before or since. The burial of old Squire Allen was as like to that of Julius Cæsar as Farmington was like to Rome. So, after all, it would be very mean for me to buy a monument higher than his, just because I can; so I will leave him the undisputed monarch38 of the place, and will get for myself one of the small black oval-cornered slabs39 that we boys passed by with such contempt when we rambled40 through the yard to pick out the finest stones.
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1
creek
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| n.小溪，小河，小湾 | |
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bellows
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| n.风箱；发出吼叫声，咆哮（尤指因痛苦）( bellow的名词复数 )；（愤怒地）说出（某事），大叫v.发出吼叫声，咆哮（尤指因痛苦）( bellow的第三人称单数 )；（愤怒地）说出（某事），大叫 | |
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3
anvil
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| n.铁钻 | |
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4
lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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5
apprentice
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| n.学徒，徒弟 | |
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6
steadfastly
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| adv.踏实地，不变地；岿然；坚定不渝 | |
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7
miller
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| n.磨坊主 | |
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wagons
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| n.四轮的运货马车( wagon的名词复数 )；铁路货车；小手推车 | |
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9
lumber
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| n.木材，木料；v.以破旧东西堆满；伐木；笨重移动 | |
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10
tolls
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| （缓慢而有规律的）钟声( toll的名词复数 )； 通行费； 损耗； （战争、灾难等造成的）毁坏 | |
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11
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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12
everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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13
thrift
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| adj.节约，节俭；n.节俭，节约 | |
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disciples
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| n.信徒( disciple的名词复数 )；门徒；耶稣的信徒；（尤指）耶稣十二门徒之一 | |
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stoutly
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| adv.牢固地，粗壮的 | |
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envious
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| adj.嫉妒的，羡慕的 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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forum
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| n.论坛，讨论会 | |
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atlas
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| n.地图册，图表集 | |
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mammoth
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| n.长毛象；adj.长毛象似的，巨大的 | |
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marvel
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| vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异；n.令人惊异的事 | |
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tavern
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| n.小旅馆，客栈；小酒店 | |
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squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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24
grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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25
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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26
cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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29
rumble
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| n.隆隆声；吵嚷；v.隆隆响；低沉地说 | |
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arrogance
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| n.傲慢，自大 | |
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31
picket
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| n.纠察队；警戒哨；v.设置纠察线；布置警卫 | |
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32
morsel
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| n.一口，一点点 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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35
immortality
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| n.不死，不朽 | |
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36
granite
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| adj.花岗岩，花岗石 | |
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37
hawks
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| 鹰( hawk的名词复数 )； 鹰派人物，主战派人物 | |
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monarch
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| n.帝王，君主，最高统治者 | |
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39
slabs
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| n.厚板，平板，厚片( slab的名词复数 )；厚胶片 | |
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40
rambled
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| （无目的地）漫游( ramble的过去式和过去分词 )； （喻）漫谈； 扯淡； 长篇大论 | |
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