It Is Never Too Late to Mend Part 106

"I am afraid it is a very bad country for that."

"Ay to make it in, but not to find it in."

"What do you mean?"

"George," said the other, lowering his voice mysteriously, "in our walk to-day we pa.s.sed places that brought my heart into my mouth; for if this was only California those places would be pockets of gold."

"But you see it is not California, but Australia, where all the world knows there is nothing of what your mind is running on."

"Don't say 'knows,' say 'thinks.' Has it ever been searched for gold?"

"I'll be bound it has; or, if not, with so many eyes constantly looking on every foot of soil a speck or two would have come to light."

"One would think so; but it is astonishing how blind folks are, till they are taught how to look, and where to look. 'Tis the mind that sees things, George, not the eye."

"Ah!" said George with a sigh, "this chat puts me in mind of 'The Grove.' Do you mind how you used to pester everybody to go out to California?"

"Yes! and I wish we were there now."

"And all your talk used to be gold--gold--gold."

"As well say it as think it."

"That is true. Well, we shall be very busy all day to-morrow, but in the afternoon dig for gold an hour or two--then you will be satisfied."

"But it is no use digging here; it was full five-and-twenty miles from here the likely-looking place."

"Then why didn't you stop me at the place?"

"Why?" replied Robinson, sourly, "because his reverence did so snub me whenever I got upon that favorite topic, that I really had got out of the habit. I was ashamed to say, 'George, let us stop on the road and try for gold with our finger-nails.' I knew I should only get laughed at."

"Well," said George sarcastically, "since the gold mine is twenty-five miles off, and our work is round about the door, suppose we pen sheep to-morrow--and dig for gold when there is nothing better to be done."

Robinson sighed. Unbucolical to the last degree was the spirit in which our Bohemian tended the flocks next morning.

His thoughts were deeper than the soil. And every evening up came the old topic. Oh! how sick George got of it. At last one night he said: "My lad, I should like to tell you a story--but I suppose I shall make a bungle of it; shan't cut the furrow clean I am doubtful."

"Never mind; try!"

"Well, then. Once upon a time there was an old chap that had heard or read about treasures being found in odd places, a pot full of guineas or something; and it took root in his heart till nothing would serve him but he must find a pot of guineas, too; he used to poke about all the old ruins, grubbing away, and would have taken up the floor of the church, but the churchwardens would not have it. One morning he comes down and says to his wife, 'It is all right, old woman, I've found the treasure.'

"'No! have you, though?' says she.

"'Yes!' says he; 'leastways, it is as good as found; it is only waiting till I've had my breakfast, and then I'll go out and fetch it in.'

"'La, John, but how did you find it?'

"'It was revealed to me in a dream,' says he, as grave as a judge.

"'And where is it?' asks the old woman.

"'Under a tree in our own orchard--no farther,' says he.

"'Oh, John! how long you are at breakfast to-day!' Up they both got and into the orchard. 'Now, which tree is it under?'

"John, he scratches his head, 'Blest if I know.'

"'Why, you old ninny,' says the mistress, 'didn't you take the trouble to notice?'

"'That I did,' said he; 'I saw plain enough which tree it was in my dream, but now they muddle it all, there are so many of 'em.'

"'Drat your stupid old head,' says she, 'why didn't you put a nick on the right one at the time?'"

Robinson burst out laughing. George chuckled. "Oh!" said he, "there were a pair of them for wisdom, you may take your oath of that. 'Well,' says he, 'I must dig till I find the right one.' The wife she loses heart at this; for there was eighty apple-trees, and a score of cherry-trees.

'Mind you don't cut the roots,' says she, and she heaves a sigh. John he gives them bad language, root and branch. 'What signifies cut or no cut; the old f.a.ggots--they don't bear me a bushel of fruit the whole lot.

They used to bear two sacks apiece in father's time. Drat 'em.'

"'Well, John,' says the old woman, smoothing him down; 'father used to give them a deal of attention.'--' 'Tain't that! 'tain't that!' says he quick and spiteful-like; 'they have got old like ourselves, and good for fire-wood.' Out pickax and spade and digs three foot deep round one, and finding nothing but mould goes at another, makes a little mound all round him, too--no guinea-pot. Well, the village let him dig three or four quiet enough; but after that curiosity was awakened, and while John was digging, and that was all day, there was mostly seven or eight watching through the fence and pa.s.sing jests. After a bit a fashion came up of flinging a stone or two at John; then John he brought out his gun loaded with dust-shot along with his pick and spade, and the first stone came he fired sharp in that direction and then loaded again. So they took that hint, and John dug on in peace--till about the fourth Sunday--and then the parson had a slap at him in church. 'Folks were not to heap up to themselves treasures on earth,' was all his discourse."

"Well, but," said Robinson, "this one was only heaping up mould."

"So it seemed when he had dug the five-score holes, for no pot of gold didn't come to light. Then the neighbors called the orchard 'Jacobs'

Folly;' his name was Jacobs--John Jacobs. 'Now then, wife,' says he, 'suppose you and I look out for another village to live in, for their gibes are more than I can bear.' Old woman begins to cry. 'Been here so long--brought me home here, John--when we were first married, John--and I was a comely la.s.s, and you the smartest young man I ever saw, to my fancy any way; couldn't sleep or eat my victuals in any house but this.'

"'Oh! couldn't ye? Well, then, we must stay; perhaps it will blow over.'--'Like everything else, John; but, dear John, do ye fill in those holes; the young folk come far and wide on Sundays to see them.'

"'Wife, I haven't the heart,' says he. 'You see, when I was digging for the treasure I was always a-going to find, it kept my heart up; but take out shovel and fill them in--I'd as lieve dine off white of egg on a Sunday.' So for six blessed months the heaps were out in the heat and frost till the end of February, and then when the weather broke the old man takes heart and fills them in, and the village soon forgot 'Jacobs'

Folly' because it was out of sight. Comes April, and out burst the trees. 'Wife,' says he, 'our bloom is richer than I have known it this many a year, it is richer than our neighbors'.' Bloom dies, and then out come about a million little green things quite hard."

"Ay! ay!" said Robinson; "I see."

"Michaelmas-day the old trees were staggering and the branches down to the ground with the crop; thirty shillings on every tree one with another; and so on for the next year, and the next; sometimes more, sometimes less, according to the year. Trees were old and wanted a change. His letting in the air to them, and turning the subsoil up to the frost and sun, had renewed their youth. So by that he learned that tillage is the way to get treasure from the earth. Men are ungrateful at times, but the soil is never ungrateful, it always makes a return for the pains we give it."

"Well, George," said Robinson, "thank you for your story; it is a very good one, and after it I'll never dig for gold in a garden. But now suppose a bare rock or an old river's bed, or a ma.s.s of shingles or pipe-clay, would you dig or manure them for crops?"

"Why, of course not."

"Well, those are the sort of places in which nature has planted a yellower crop and a richer crop than tillage ever produced. And I believe there are plums of gold not thirty miles from here in such spots waiting only to be dug out."

"Well, Tom, I have wasted a parable, that is all. Good-night; I hope to sleep and be ready for a good day's work to-morrow. You shall dream of digging up gold here--if you like."

"I'll never speak of it again," said Robinson doggedly.

If you want to make a man a bad companion, interdict altogether the topic that happens to interest him. Robinson ceased to vent his chimera.

So it swelled and swelled in his heart, and he became silent, absorbed, absent and out of spirits. "Ah!" thought George, "poor fellow, he is very dull. He won't stay beside me much longer."

This conviction was so strong that he hesitated to close with an advantageous offer that came to him from his friend, Mr. Winchester.

That gentleman had taken a lease of a fine run some thirty miles from George. He had written George that he was to go and look at it, and if he liked it better than his own he was to take it. Mr. Winchester could make no considerable use of either for some time to come.