The Book Of The Bush by George Dunderdale (books to read to improve english .TXT) 📕

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

Put 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.

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