The Book Of The Bush - George Dunderdale (tharntype novel english .txt) 📗
- Author: George Dunderdale
Book online «The Book Of The Bush - George Dunderdale (tharntype novel english .txt) 📗». Author George Dunderdale
Robinson Had Just Thrown Another Shovelful Of Charcoal Into The
Furnace Under His Boiler, And He Held Up His Shovel As If Ready To
Strike Williams, But It Was Never Known Whether He Really Intended To
Strike Or Not.
The Three Other Men Standing Near Were Quite Amused With The Dispute
Of The Two Englishmen, And Were Smiling Pleasantly At Their
Foolishness. But Little Wilkins Did Not Smile, Nor Did He Wait For
The Shovel To Come Down On His Head; He Darted Under It With His Open
Knife In The Same Manner As The Roman Soldier Went Underneath The
Dense Spears Of The Pyrrhic Phalanx, And Set To Work. Robinson Tried
To Parry The Blows With The Handle Of The Shovel, But He Made Only A
Poor Fight; The Knife Was Driven To The Hilt Into His Body Seven
Times, Then He Threw Down His Shovel, And Tried To Save Himself
Behind The Boiler, But It Was Too Late; The Dispute About England And
The States Was Settled.
Wilkins Took His Team Home, Then Returned To Joliet And Gave Himself
Into The Custody Of The Squire, Hoosier Smith. At The Inquest He Was
Committed To Take His Trial For Murder, And Did Not Get Bail. His
Wife Left The Farm, And With Her Two Little Boys Lived In An Old Log
Hut Near The Gaol. She Brought With Her Two Cows, Which Wilkins
Milked Each Morning As Soon As Silas Let Him Out Of Prison. I Could
See Him Every Day From The Window Of My Room, And I Often Passed By
The Hut When He Was Doing Chores, Chopping Wood, Or Fetching Water,
But I Never Spoke To Him. He Did Not Look Happy Or Sociable, And I
Could Not Think Of Anything Pleasant To Say By Way Of Making His
Acquaintance. After Much Observation And Thought I Came To The
Conclusion That Sheriff Cunningham Wanted His Prisoner To Go Away; He
Would Not Like To Hang The Man; The Citizens Would Not Take Wilkins
Off His Hands; If Two Fools Chose To Get Up A Little Difficulty And
One Was Killed, It Was Their Own Look-Out; And Anyway They Were Only
Foreigners. The Fact Was Wilkins Was Waiting For Someone To Purchase
His Farm.
The Court-House For Will County Was Within View Of The Gaol, At The
Other Side Of The Street, And One Day I Went Over To Look At It. The
Judge Was Hearing A Civil Case, And I Sat Down To Listen To The
Proceedings. A Learned Counsel Was Addressing The Jury. He Talked
At Great Length In A Nasal Tone, Slowly And Deliberately; He Had One
Foot On A Form, One Hand In A Pocket Of His Pants, And The Other Hand
Rested Gracefully On A Volume Of The Statutes Of The State Of
Illinois. He Had Much To Say About Various Horses Running On The
Prairie, And Particularly About One Animal Which He Called The
"Skemelhorne Horse." I Tried To Follow His Argument, But The
"Skemelhorne Horse" Was So Mixed Up With The Other Horses That I
Could Not Spot Him.
Semicircular Seats Of Unpainted Pine For The Accommodation Of The
Public Rose Tier Above Tier, But Most Of Them Were Empty. There Were
Present Several Gentlemen Of The Legal Profession, But They Kept
Silence, And Never Interrupted The Counsel's Address. Nor Did The
Judge Utter A Word; He Sat At His Desk Sideways, With His Boots
Resting On A Chair. He Wore Neither Wig Nor Gown, And Had Not Even
Story 3 (Discovery Of The River Hopkins.) Pg 56Put On His Sunday Go-To-Meeting Clothes. Neither Had The Lawyers.
If There Was A Court Crier Or Constable Present He Was Indistinguishable
From The Rest Of The Audience.
Near The Judge's Desk There Was A Bucket Of Water And Three Tumblers
On A Small Table. It Was A Hot Day. The Counsel Paused In His
Speech, Went To The Table, And Took A Drink; A Juryman Left The Box
And Drank. The Judge Also Came Down From His Seat, Dipped A Tumbler
In The Bucket And Quenched His Thirst; One Spectator After Another
Went To The Bucket. There Was Equality And Fraternity In The Court
Of Law; The Speech About The Skemelhorne Horse Went On With The
Utmost Gravity And Decorum, Until The Nasal Drawl Of The Learned
Counsel Put Me To Sleep.
On Awakening, I Went Into Another Hall, In Which Dealings In Real
Estate Were Registered. Shelves Fixed Against The Walls Held Huge
Volumes Lettered On The Back. One Of These Volumes Was On A Table In
The Centre Of The Hall, And In It The Registrar Was Copying A Deed.
Before Him Lay A Pile Of Deeds With A Lead Weight On The Top. A
Farmer Came In With A Paper, On Which The Registrar Endorsed A Number
And Placed At The Bottom Of The Pile. There Was No Parchment Used;
Each Document Was A Half-Sheet Foolscap Size, Party Printed And
Partly Written. Another Farmer Came In, Took Up The Pile And
Examined The Numbers To See How Soon His Deed Was Likely To Be
Copied, And If It Was In Its Proper Place According To The Number
Endorsed. The Registrar Was Not Fenced Off From The Public By A Wide
Counter; He Was The Servant Of The Citizens, And Had To Satisfy Those
Who Paid Him For His Labours. His Pay Was A Fixed Number Of Cents
Per Folio, Not Dollars, Nor Pounds.
When I Went Back To Gaol I Found It Deserted. Wilkins Had Sold His
Farm And Disappeared. His Wife Remained In The Hut. Sheriff
Cunningham Was Still Away Among The Bluenoses, And Silas Was 'Functus
Officio', Having Accomplished A General Gaol Delivery. He Did Not
Pine Away On Account Of The Loss Of His Prisoners, Nor Grow Any
Thinner--That Was Impossible. I Remained Four Days Longer,
Expecting Something Would Happen; But Nothing Did Happen, Then I Left
The Gaol.
I Wrote Out Two Notices Informing The Public That I Was Willing To
Sell My Real Estate; One Of These I Pasted Up At The Post Office, The
Other On The Bridge Over The Aux Plaines River. Next Day A German
From Chicago Agreed To Pay The Price Asked, And We Called On Colonel
Smith, The Squire. The Colonel Filled In A Brief Form Of Transfer,
Witnessed The Payment Of The Money--Which Was In Twenty-Dollar Gold
Pieces, And He Charged One Dollar As His Fee. The German Would Have
To Pay About 35 Cents For Its Registration. If The Deed Was Lost Or
Stolen, He Would Insert In A Local Journal A Notice Of His Intention
To Apply For A Copy, Which Would Make The Original Of As Little Value
To Anybody As A Provincial And Suburban Bank Note.
In Illinois, Transfers Of Land Were Registered In Each County Town.
To Buy Or Sell A Farm Was As Easy As Horse-Stealing, And Safer.
Usually, No Legal Help Was Necessary For Either Transaction.
Story 3 (Discovery Of The River Hopkins.) Pg 57
By This Time California Had A Rival; Gold Had Been Found In
Australia. I Was Fond Of Gold; I Jingled The Twenty Dollar Gold
Pieces In My Pocket, And Resolved To Look For More At The
Fountainhead, By Way Of My Native Land. A Railway From Chicago Had
Just Reached Joliet, And Had Been Opened Three Days Before. It Was
An Invitation To Start, And I Accepted It.
Nobody Ever Loved His Native Land Better Than I Do When I Am Away
From It. I Can Call To Mind Its Innumerable Beauties, And In Fancy
Saunter Once More Through The Summer Woods, Among The Bracken, The
Bluebells, And The Foxglove. I Can Wander By The Banks Of The Brock,
Where The Sullen Trout Hide In The Clear Depths Of The Pools. I Can
Walk Along The Path--The Path To Paradise--Still Lined With The
Blue-Eyed Speedwell And Red Campion; I Know Where The Copse Is
Carpeted With The Bluebell And Ragged Robin, Where Grow The Alders,
And The Hazels Rich With Brown Nuts, The Beeches And The Oaks; Where
The Flower Of The Yellow Broom Blazes Like Gold In The Noontide Sun;
Where The Stockdove Coos Overhead In The Ivy; Where The Kingfisher
Darts Past Like A Shaft Of Sapphire, And The Water Ouzel Flies Up
Stream; Where The Pheasant Glides Out From His Home In The Wood To
Feed On The Headland Of The Wheat Field; Where The Partridge Broods
In The Dust With Her Young; Where The Green Lane Is Bordered By The
Guelder-Rose Or Wayfaring Tree, The Raspberry, Strawberry, And
Cherry, The Wild Garlic Of Starlike Flowers, The Woodruff, Fragrant
As New-Mown Hay; The Yellow Pimpernel On The Hedge Side. I See In
The Fields And Meadows The Bird's Foot Trefoil, The Oxeye Daisy, The
Lady Smocks, Sweet Hemlock, Butterbur, The Stitchwort, And The
Orchis, The "Long Purpled" Of Shakespeare. By The Margin Of The Pond
The Yellow Iris Hangs Out Its Golden Banners Over Which The Dragon
Fly Skims. The Hedgerows Are Gay With The Full-Blown Dog-Roses, The
Bells Of The Bilberries Droop Down Along The Wood-Side, And The
Red-Hipped Bumble Bees Hum Over Them. Out Of The Woodland And Up
Snaperake Lane I Rise To The Moorland, And Then The Sea Coast Comes
In Sight, And The Longing To Know What Lies Beyond It.
I Have Been Twice To See What Lies Beyond It, And When I Return Once
More My Own Land Does Not Know Me. There Is Another Sea Coast In
Sight Now, And When I Sail Away From It I Hope To Land On Some One Of
The Isles Of The Blest.
I Called On My Oldest Living Love; She Looked, I Thought, Even
Younger Than When We Last Parted. She Was Sitting Before The Fire
Alone, Pale And Calm, But She Gave Me No Greeting; She Had Forgotten
Me. I Took A Chair, Sat Down Beside Her, And Waited. A Strange Lass
With A Fair Face And Strong Bare Arms Came In And Stared At Me
Steadily For A Minute Or Two, But Went Away Without Saying A Word. I
Looked Around The Old House Room That I Knew So Well, With Its Floor
Of Flags From Buckley Delph, Scoured White With Sandstone. There
Stood, Large And Solid, The Mealark Of Black Oak, With The Date,
1644, Carved Just Below The Heavy Lid, More Than 200 Years Old, And
As Sound As Ever. The Sloping Mirror Over The Chest Of Drawers Was
Still Supported By The Four Seasons, One At Each Corner. Above It
Was Queen Caroline, With The Crown On Her Head, And The Sceptre In
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