Hills of the Shatemuc | Page 5

is the matter, Will?"
"Matter?" -- said the other, while his fine features shewed the changing
lights and shadows of a summer day, -- "why Winthrop, that I am not
willing to stay here and be a ploughman all my life, when I might be
something better!"
The other's heart beat. But after an instant, he answered calmly,
"How can you be anything better, Will?"
"Do you think all the world lies under the shadow of Wut-a- qut-o?"
"What do you mean?"
"Do you think all the world is like this little world which those hills
shut in?"
"No," -- said Winthrop, his eye going over to the blue depths and
golden ridge-tops, which it did not see; "-- but --"
"Where does that river lead to?"
"It leads to Mannahatta. What of that?"
"There is a world there, Winthrop, -- another sort of world, -- where
people know something; where other things are to be done than running
plough furrows; where men may distinguish themselves! -- where men
may read and write; and do something great; and grow to be something
besides what nature made them! -- I want to be in that world."
They both paused.
"But what will you do, Rufus, to get into that world? -- we are shut in
here."
"I am not shut in!" said the elder brother; and brow and lip and nostril

said it over again; -- "I will live for something greater than this!"
There was a deep-drawn breath from the boy at his side.
"So would I, if I could. But what can we do?"
How difficult it was to do anything, both felt. But after a deliberate
pause of some seconds, Rufus answered,
"There is only one thing to do. -- I shall go to College."
"To College! -- Will?"
The changes in the face of the younger boy were sudden and startling.
One moment the coronation of hope; the next moment despair had
thrown the coronet off; one more, and the hand of determination, -- like
Napoleon's, -- had placed it firmly on his brow; and it was never shaken
again. But he said nothing; and both waited a little, till thoughts could
find words.
"Rufus, -- do papa and mamma know about this?"
"Not yet."
"What will they think of it?"
"I don't know -- they must think of it as I do. My mind is made up. I
can't stay here."
"But some preparation is necessary, Rufus, ain't it? -- we must know
more than we do before we can go to College, mustn't we? How will
you get that?"
"I don't know, I will get it. Preparation! -- yes!"
"Father will want us both at home this summer."
"Yes -- this summer -- I suppose we must. We must do something -- we
must talk to them at home about it, -- gradually."

"If we had books, we could do a great deal at home."
"Yes, if, -- But we haven't. And we must have more time. We couldn't
do it at home."
"Papa wants us this summer. -- And I don't see how he can spare us at
all, Rufus."
"I am sure he will let us go," said the other steadily, though with a
touch of trouble in his face.
"We are just beginning to help him."
"We can help him much better the other way," said Rufus quickly.
"Farming is the most miserable slow way of making money that ever
was contrived."
"How do you propose to make money?" inquired his brother coolly.
"I don't know! I am not thinking of making money at present!"
"It takes a good deal to go to College, don't it?"
"Yes."
And again there was a little silence. And the eyes of both were fixed on
the river and the opposite hills, while they saw only that distant world
and the vague barrier between.
"But I intend to go, Winthrop," said his brother, looking at him, with
fire enough in his face to burn up obstacles.
"Yes, you will go," the younger said calmly. The cool grey eye did not
speak the internal "So will I!" -- which stamped itself upon his heart.
They got up from the plough beam.
"I'll try for't," was Rufus's conclusion, as he shook himself.
"_You'll get it_," said Winthrop.

There was much love as well as ambition in the delighted look with
which his brother rewarded him. They parted to their work. They
ploughed the rest of their field: -- what did they turn over besides the
soil?
They wended their slow way back with the oxen when the evening fell;
but the yoke was off their own necks. The lingering western light
coloured another world than the morning had shined upon. No longer
bondsmen of the soil, they trode it like masters.