Rollo at Work

At last, one day his father gave him notice that his garden was getting out of order, and, unless it was entirely restored in three days, it must be forfeited.

Rollo was not much alarmed, for he thought he should have ample time to do it before the three days should have expired.

It was just at night that Rollo received his notice. He worked a little the next morning; but his heart was not in it much, and he left it before he had made much progress. The weeds were well rooted and strong, and he found it much harder to get them up than he expected. The next day, he did a little more, and, near the latter part of the afternoon, Jonas saw him running about after butterflies in the yard, and asked him if he had got his work all done.

“No,” said he; “but I think I have got more than half done, and I can finish it very early to-morrow.”

“To-morrow!” said Jonas. “To-morrow is Sunday, and you cannot work then.”

“Is it?” said Rollo, with much surprise and alarm; “I didn't know that. What shall I do? Do you suppose my father will count Sunday?”

“Yes,” said Jonas, “I presume he will. He said, three days, without mentioning any thing about Sunday.”

Rollo ran for his hoe. He had become much attached to his ground, and was very unwilling to lose it; but he knew that his father would rigorously insist on his forfeiting it, if he failed to keep the conditions. So he went to work as hard as he could.

It was then almost sundown. He hoed away, and pulled up the weeds, as industriously as possible, until the sun went down. He then kept on until it was so dark that he could not see any longer, and then, finding that there was considerable more to be done, and that he could not work any longer, he sat down on the side of his little wheelbarrow, and burst into tears.

He knew, however, that it would do no good to cry, and so, after a time, he dried his eyes, and went in. He could not help hoping that his father would not count the Sunday; and “If I can only have Monday,” said he to himself, “it will all be well.”

He went in to ask his father, but found that he had gone away, and would not come home until quite late. He begged his mother to let him sit up until he came home, so that he could ask him, and, as she saw that he was so anxious and unhappy about it, she consented. Rollo sat at the window watching, and, as soon as he heard his father drive up to the door, he went out, and, while he was getting out of the chaise, he said to him, in a trembling, faltering voice,

“Father, do you count Sunday as one of my three days?”

“No, my son.”

Rollo clapped his hands, and said, “O, how glad!” and ran back. He told his mother that he was very much obliged to her for letting him sit up, and now he was ready to go to bed.

He went to his room, undressed himself, and, in a few minutes, his father came in to get his light.

“Father,” said Rollo, “I am very much obliged to you for not counting Sunday.”

“It is not out of any indulgence to you, Rollo; I have no right to count Sunday.”

“No right, father? Why, you said three days.”

“Yes; but in such agreements as that, three working days are always meant; so that, strictly, according to the agreement, I do not think I have any right to count Sunday. If I had, I should have felt obliged to count it.”

“Why, father?”

“Because I want you, when you grow up to be a man, to be bound by your agreements. Men will hold you to your agreements when you are a man, and I want you to be accustomed to it while you are a boy. I should rather give up twice as much land as your garden, than take yours away from you now; but I must do it if you do not get it in good order before the time is out.”

“But, father, I shall, for I shall have time enough on Monday.”

“True; but some accident may prevent it. Suppose you should be sick.”

“If I was sick, should you count it?”

“Certainly. You ought not to let your garden get out of order; and, if you do it, you run the risk of all accidents that may prevent your working during the three days.”

Rollo bade his father good night, and he went to sleep, thinking what a narrow escape he had had. He felt sure that he should save it now, for he did not think there was the least danger of his being sick on Monday.

A Narrow Escape

Monday morning came, and, when he awoke, his first movement was, to jump out of bed, exclaiming,

“Well, I am not sick this morning, am I?”

He had scarcely spoken the words, however, before his ear caught the sound of rain, and, looking out of the window, he saw, to his utter consternation, that it was pouring steadily down, and, from the wind and the gray uniformity of the clouds, there was every appearance of a settled storm.

“What shall I do?” said Rollo. “What shall I do? Why did I not finish it on Saturday?”

He dressed himself, went down stairs, and looked out at the clouds. There was no prospect of any thing but rain. He ate his breakfast, and then went out, and looked again. Rain, still. He studied and recited his morning lessons, and then again looked out. Rain, rain. He could not help hoping it would clear up before night; but, as it continued so steadily, he began to be seriously afraid that, after all, he should lose his garden.

He spent the day very anxiously and unhappily. He knew, from what his father had said, that he could not hope to have another day allowed, and that all would depend on his being able to do the work before night.

At last, about the middle of the afternoon, Rollo came into the room where his father and mother were sitting, and told his father that it did not rain a great deal then, and asked him if he might not go out and finish his weeding; he did not care, he said, if he did get wet.

“But your getting wet will not injure you alone—it will spoil your clothes.”

“Besides, you will take cold,” said his mother.

“Perhaps he would not take cold, if he were to put on dry clothes as soon as he leaves working,” said his father; “but wetting his clothes would put you to a good deal of trouble. No; I'd rather you would not go, on the whole, Rollo.”

Rollo turned away with tears in his eyes, and went out into the kitchen. He sat down on a bench in the shed where Jonas was working, and looked out towards the garden. Jonas pitied him, and would gladly have gone and done the work for him; but he knew that his father would not allow that. At last, a sudden thought struck him.

“Rollo,” said he, “you might perhaps find some old clothes in the garret, which it would not hurt to get wet.”

Rollo jumped up, and said, “Let us go and see.”

They went up garret, and found, hanging up, quite a quantity of old clothes. Some belonged to Jonas, some to himself, and they selected the worst ones they could find, and carried them down into the shed.

Then Rollo went and called his mother to come out, and he asked her if she thought it would hurt those old clothes to get wet. She laughed, and said no; and said she would go and ask his father to let him go out with them.

In a few minutes, she came back, and said that his father consented, but that he must go himself, and put on the old clothes, without troubling his mother, and then, when he came back, he must rub himself dry with a towel, and put on his common dress, and put the wet ones somewhere in the shed to dry; and when they were dry, put them all back carefully in their places.

Work in the Rain.

Rollo ran up to his room, and rigged himself out, as well as he could, putting one of Jonas's great coats over him, and wearing an old broad-brimmed straw hat on his head. Thus equipped, he took his hoe, and sallied forth in the rain.

At first he thought it was good fun; but, in about half an hour, he began to be tired, and to feel very uncomfortable. The rain spattered in his face, and leaked down the back of his neck; and then the ground was wet and slippery; and once or twice he almost gave up in despair.

He persevered, however, and before dark he got it done. He raked off all the weeds, and smoothed the ground over carefully, for he knew his father would come out to examine it as soon as the storm was over. Then he went in, rubbed himself dry, changed his clothes, and went and took his seat by the kitchen fire.

His father came out a few minutes after, and said, “Well, Rollo, have you got through?”

“Yes, sir,” said Rollo.

“Well, I am very glad of it. I was afraid you would have lost your garden. As it is, perhaps it will do you good.”