Uncle William | Page 6

twinkled to the boyish face. "Well, I didn't /know/
it--not jest that way. I didn't know as she sung songs on a platform,
dressed up, like I've heard 'em. What I meant was, her heart kind o'
bubbles and sings--"
"Yes"--the artist leaned forward--"that is Sergia. It's the way she is. She
doesn't sing in public. But her voice"--his eyes grew dark-- "it makes
you want to laugh and cry. It's like the wind and the sun shining--" He
broke off, listening.
The old man's eyes dwelt on him kindly. "She's with her folks, is she?"
He roused himself. "She hasn't any. They all died over there--her father

and brother in the riots, her mother after that. She has no one. She
teaches music--piano and violin--night and day. Sometimes she gives a
recital with her pupils--and she has me." He laughed a little bitterly. "It
isn't an exciting life."
"I dunno's I'd say jest that," said Uncle William, slowly. "It ain't exactly
the things that happen--" He broke off, looking at something far away.
"Why, I've had things happen to me--shipwreck, you know-- winds
a-blowin' and sousin' the deck--and a-gettin' out the boats and yellin'
and shoutin'-- Seems 's if it ought to 'a' been excitin'. But Lord! 'twa'n't
nuthin' to what I've felt other times--times when it was all still-like on
the island here--and big--so's 't you kind o' hear suthin' comin' to ye
over the water. Why, some days it's been so's I'd feel's if I'd /bust/ if I
didn't do suthin'--suthin' to let off steam."
The young man nodded. "You ought to be an artist. That's the way they
feel--some of them."
Uncle William beamed on him. "You don't say so! Must be kind o' hard
work, settin' still and doin' art when you feel like that. I gen'ally go
clammin', or suthin'."
The artist laughed out, boyishly. He reached out a hand for the locket.
But Uncle William held it a moment, looking down at it. "Things
happen to /her/--every day," he said. "You can see that, plain enough.
She don't hev to be most drowned to hev feelin's." He looked up.
"When you goin' to be married?"
"Not till we can afford it--years." The tone was somber.
Uncle William shook his head. "Now, I wouldn't talk like that, Mr.
Woodworth!" He handed back the locket and pushed up his spectacles
again, beaming beneath them. "Seems to me," he said slowly, studying
the fire--"seems to me I wouldn't wait. I'd be married right off-- soon's I
got back."
"What would you live on?" said the artist.

Uncle William waited. "There's resk," he said at last--"there's resk in it.
But there's resk in 'most everything that tastes good. I meant to get
married once," he said after a pause. "I didn't. I guess it's about the wust
mistake I ever made. I thought this house wa'n't good enough for her."
He looked about the quaint room. "'T wa'n't, neither," he added with
conviction. "But she'd 'a' rather come--I didn't know it then," he said
gently.
The artist waited, and the fire crackled between them.
"If I'd 'a' married her, I'd 'a' seen things sooner," went on the old man. "I
didn't see much beauty them days--on sea or land. I was all for a good
ketch and makin' money and gettin' a better boat. And about that time
she died. I begun to learn things then--slow-like--when I hadn't the
heart to work. If I'd married Jennie, I'd 'a' seen 'em sooner, bein' happy.
You learn jest about the same bein' happy as you do bein'
miserable--only you learn it quicker."
"I can't give up my art," said the young man. He was looking at Uncle
William with the superior smile of youth, a little lofty yet kind. "You
don't allow for art," he said.
"I dunno's I do," returned Uncle William. "It's like makin' money, I
guess--suthin' extry, thrown in, good enough if you get it, but not
necessary--no, not necessary. Livin's the thing to live for, I reckon." He
stopped suddenly, as if there were no more to be said.
The artist looked at him curiously. "That's what all the great artists have
said," he commented.
Uncle William nodded. "Like enough. I ain't an artist. But I've had sixty
year of livin', off and on."
"But you'll die poor," said the artist, with a glance about the little room.
He was thinking what a dear old duffer the man was--with his curious,
impracticable philosophy of life and his big, kind ways. "You'll die
poor if you don't look out," he said again.

"Yes, I s'pose I shall," said Uncle William, placidly, "'thout I make my
fortune aforehand. That hot water looks to me just about right." He
eyed the tea-kettle critically. "You hand over them glasses and we'll
mix