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270 pages

English

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In this sweeping novel, American author Mary E. Wilkins Freeman turns from the light subject matter of many of her early works to tackle a much more serious issue: the impact of poverty. Through the character of Jerome, Freeman skillfully illustrates how impoverishment can cast a pall over multiple generations of families.

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Publié par	The Floating Press
Date de parution	01 mai 2016
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781776670215
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0134€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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JEROME, A POOR MAN
A NOVEL
* * *
MARY E. WILKINS FREEMAN

*
Jerome, a Poor Man A Novel First published in 1897 Epub ISBN 978-1-77667-021-5 Also available: PDF ISBN 978-1-77667-022-2 © 2014 The Floating Press and its licensors. All rights reserved. While every effort has been used to ensure the accuracy and reliability of the information contained in The Floating Press edition of this book, The Floating Press does not assume liability or responsibility for any errors or omissions in this book. The Floating Press does not accept responsibility for loss suffered as a result of reliance upon the accuracy or currency of information contained in this book. Do not use while operating a motor vehicle or heavy equipment. Many suitcases look alike. Visit www.thefloatingpress.com
Contents
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Chapter I Chapter II Chapter III Chapter IV Chapter V Chapter VI Chapter VII Chapter VIII Chapter IX Chapter X Chapter XI Chapter XII Chapter XIII Chapter XIV Chapter XV Chapter XVI Chapter XVII Chapter XVIII Chapter XIX Chapter XX Chapter XXI Chapter XXII Chapter XXIII Chapter XXIV Chapter XXV Chapter XXVI Chapter XXVII Chapter XXVIII Chapter XXIX Chapter XXX Chapter XXXI Chapter XXXII Chapter XXXIII Chapter XXXIV Chapter XXXV Chapter XXXVI Chapter XXXVII Chapter XXXVIII Chapter XXXIX Chapter XL Chapter XLI
*
To My Father
Chapter I
*
One morning in early May, when the wind was cold and the sun hot, andJerome about twelve years old, he was in a favorite lurking-place ofhis, which nobody but himself knew.
Three fields' width to the northward from the Edwardses' house was agreat rock ledge; on the southern side of it was a famous warmhiding-place for a boy on a windy spring day. There was a hollow inthe rock for a space as tall as Jerome, and the ledge extended itselfbeyond it like a sheltering granite wing to the westward.
The cold northwester blowing from over the lingering Canadiansnow-banks could not touch him, and he had the full benefit of thesun as it veered imperceptibly south from east. He lay there baskingin it like some little animal which had crawled out from its winternest. Before him stretched the fields, all flushed with young green.On the side of a gentle hill at the left a file of bloomingpeach-trees looked as if they were moving down the slope to someimperious march music of the spring.
In the distance a man was at work with plough and horse. His shoutscame faintly across, like the ever-present notes of labor in all theharmonies of life. The only habitation in sight was Squire EbenMerritt's, and of that only the broad slants of shingled roof andgray end wall of the barn, with a pink spray of peach-trees againstit.
Jerome stared out at it all, without a thought concerning it in hisbrain. He was actively conscious only of his own existence, which hadjust then a wondrously pleasant savor for him. A sweet exhilaratingfire seemed leaping through every vein in his little body. He wasdrowsy, and yet more fully awake than he had been all winter. All hispulses tingled, and his thoughts were overborne by the ecstasy inthem. Jerome had scarcely felt thoroughly warm before, since lastsummer. That same little, tight, and threadbare jacket had been histhickest garment all winter. The wood had been stinted on the hearth,the coverings on his bed; but now the full privilege of the springsun was his, and the blood in this little meagre human plant, chilledand torpid with the winter's frosts, stirred and flowed like that inany other. Who could say that the bliss of renewed vitality which theboy felt, as he rested there in his snug rock, was not identical withthat of the springing grass and the flowering peach-trees? Who couldsay that he was more to all intents and purposes, for that minute,than the rock-honeysuckle opening its red cups on the ledge over hishead? He was conscious of no more memory or forethought.
Presently he shut his eyes, and the sunlight came in a soft rosy glowthrough his closed lids. Then it was that a little girl came acrossthe fields, clambering cautiously over the stone walls, lest sheshould tear her gown, stepping softly over the green grass in herlittle morocco shoes, and finally stood still in front of the boysitting with his eyes closed in the hollow of the rock. Twice sheopened her mouth to speak, then shut it again. At last she gainedcourage.
"Be you sick, boy?" she inquired, in a sweet, timid voice.
Jerome opened his eyes with a start, and stared at the little quaintfigure standing before him. Lucina wore a short blue woollen gown;below it her starched white pantalets hung to the tops of her moroccoshoes. She wore also a white tier, and over that a little coat, andover that a little green cashmere shawl sprinkled with palm leaves,which her mother had crossed over her bosom and tied at her back forextra warmth. Lucina's hood was of quilted blue silk, and her smoothyellow curls flowed from under it quite down to her waist. Moreover,her mother had carefully arranged four, two on each side, to escapefrom the frill of her hood in front and fall softly over her pinkcheeks. Lucina's face was very fair and sweet—the face of a good andgentle little girl, who always minded her mother and did her dailytasks.
Her dark blue eyes, set deeply under seriously frowning childishbrows, surveyed Jerome with innocent wonder; her pretty mouth droopedanxiously at the corners. Jerome knew her well enough, although hehad never before exchanged a word with her. She was little LucinaMerritt, whose father had money and bought her everything she wanted,and whose mother rigged her up like a puppet, as he had heard hismother say.
"No, ain't sick," he said, in a half-intelligible grunt. A crosslittle animal poked into wakefulness in the midst of its nap in thesun might have responded in much the same way. Gallantry had not yetdeveloped in Jerome. He saw in this pretty little girl only anotherchild, and, moreover, one finely shod and clothed, while he wentshoeless and threadbare. He looked sulkily at her blue silk hood,pulled his old cap down with a twitch to his black brows, andshrugged himself closer to the warm rock.
The little girl eyed his bare toes. "Be you cold?" she ventured.
"No, ain't cold," grunted Jerome. Then he caught sight of somethingin her hand—a great square of sugar-gingerbread, out of which shehad taken only three dainty bites as she came along, and in spite ofhimself there was a hungry flash of his black eyes.
Lucina held out the gingerbread. "I'd just as lives as not you hadit," said she, timidly. "It's most all there. I've just had threeteenty bites."
Jerome turned on her fiercely. "Don't want your old gingerbread," hecried. "Ain't hungry—have all I want to home."
The little Lucina jumped, and her blue eyes filled with tears. Sheturned away without a word, and ran falteringly, as if she could notsee for tears, across the field; and there was a white lamb trottingafter her. It had appeared from somewhere in the fields, and Jeromehad not noticed it. He remembered hearing that Lucina Merritt had acosset lamb that followed her everywhere. "Has everything," hemuttered—"lambs an' everything. Don't want your old gingerbread."
Suddenly he sprang up and began feeling in his pocket; then he ranlike a deer after the little girl. She rolled her frightened, tearfulblue eyes over her shoulder at him, and began to run too, and thecosset lamb cantered faster at her heels; but Jerome soon gained onthem.
"Stop, can't ye?" he sang out. "Ain't goin' to hurt ye. What ye'fraid of?" He laid his hand on her green-shawled shoulders, and shestood panting, her little face looking up at him, half reassured,half terrified, from her blue silk hood-frills and her curls.
"Like sas'fras?" inquired Jerome, with a lordly air. An emperor aboutto bestow a largess upon a slave could have had no more of the verygrandeur of beneficence in his mien.
Lucina nodded meekly.
Jerome drew out a great handful of strange articles from his pocket,and they might, from his manner of handling them, have been goldpieces and jewels. There were old buttons, a bit of chalk, and a stubof slate-pencil. There were a horse-chestnut and some grains ofparched sweet-corn and a dried apple-core. There were other thingswhich age and long bondage in the pocket had brought to such passesthat one could scarcely determine their identities. From all thisJerome selected one undoubted treasure—a great jagged cut ofsassafras root. It had been nicely scraped, too, and looked white andclean.
"Here," said Jerome.
"Don't you want it?" asked Lucina, shyly.
"No—had a great piece twice as big as that yesterday. Know wherethere's lots more in the cedar swamp. Here, take it."
"Thank you," said Lucina, and took it, and fumbled nervously afterher little pocket.
"Why don't you eat it?" asked Jerome, and Lucina took an obedientlittle nibble.
"Ain't that good and strong?"
"It's real good," replied Lucina, smiling gratefully.
"Mebbe I'll dig you some more some time," said Jerome, as if thecedar swamp were a treasure-chest.
"Thank you," said the little girl. Then she timidly extended thegingerbread again. "I only took three little bites, an' it's realnice, honest," said she, appealingly.
But she jumped again at the flash in Jerome's black eyes.
"Don't want your old gingerbread!" he cried. "Ain't hungry; havemore'n I want to eat to home. Guess my folks have gingerbread. Liketo know what you're tryin' to give me victuals for! Don't want any ofyour old gingerbread!"
"It ain't old, honest," pleaded Lucina, tearfully. "It ain'told—Hannah, she just baked it this morning." But the boy was gone,pelting hard across the field, and all there was for the little girlto do was to go home, with her sassafras in her pocket and hergingerbread in her hand, with an aromatic savor on her tongue and thesting of slighted kindness in her heart, with her cosset lambtrotting at heel, and tell her mother.
Jerome did not return to his nook in the rock. As he neared it heheard the hollow