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18 pages

English

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"Seth" is a deeply moving short story by Frances Hodgson Burnett, the author of many beloved childhood classics, including Little Lord Fauntleroy, The Secret Garden and A Little Princess. A young Englishman walks into a down-on-its-luck Tennessee mining town, and at first the locals are reluctant to accept him. But before long, Seth's selflessness has made him an important part of the community.

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Short story

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Publié par	The Floating Press
Date de parution	01 mai 2014
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781776534173
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0034€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

SETH
* * *
FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT

*
Seth First published in 1877 Epub ISBN 978-1-77653-417-3 Also available: PDF ISBN 978-1-77653-418-0 © 2013 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
"Seth"
*
He came in one evening at sun set with the empty coal-train—his dullyoung face pale and heavy-eyed with weariness, his corduroy suit dustyand travel-stained, his worldly possessions tied up in the smallestof handkerchief bundles and slung upon the stick resting on hisshoulder—and naturally his first appearance attracted some attentionamong the loungers about the shed dignified by the title of "dépôt." Isay "naturally," because arrivals upon the trains to Black Creek were soscarce as to be regarded as curiosities; which again might be said to benatural. The line to the mines had been in existence two months, sincethe English company had taken them in hand and pushed the matter throughwith an energy startling to, and not exactly approved by, themajority of good East Tennesseeans. After the first week or so ofarrivals—principally Welsh and English miners, with an occasionalIrishman—the trains had returned daily to the Creek without apassenger; and accordingly this one created some trifling sensation.
Not that his outward appearance was particularly interesting orsuggestive of approaching excitement. He was only a lad of nineteen ortwenty, in working English-cut garb, and with a short, awkward figure,and a troubled, homely face—a face so homely and troubled, in fact,that its half-bewildered look was almost pathetic.
He advanced toward the shed hesitatingly, and touched his cap as ifhalf in clumsy courtesy and half in timid appeal. "Mesters," he said,"good-day to yo'."
The company bestirred themselves with one accord, and to the roughestand most laconic gave him a brief "Good-day."
"You're English," said a good-natured Welshman, "ar'n't you, my lad?"
"Ay, mester," was the reply: "I'm fro' Lancashire."
He sat down on the edge of the rough platform, and laid his stick andbundle down in a slow, wearied fashion.
"Fro' Lancashire," he repeated in a voice as wearied as hisaction—"fro' th' Deepton coalmines theer. You'll know th' name on 'em,I ha' no doubt. Th' same company owns 'em as owns these."
"What!" said an outsider—"Langley an 'em?"
The boy turned himself round and nodded. "Ay," he answered—"them. Thatwas why I comn here. I comn to get work fro'—fro' him ."
He faltered in his speech oddly, and even reddened a little, at the sametime rubbing his hands together with a nervousness which seemed habitualto him.
"Mester Ed'ard, I mean," he added—"th' young mester as is here. I heerdas he liked 'Merika, an'—an' I comn."
The loungers glanced at each other, and their glance did not mean highappreciation of the speaker's intellectual powers. There was a lack ofpracticalness in such faith in another man as expressed itself in thewistful, hesitant voice.
"Did he say he'd give you work?" asked the first man who had questionedhim, the Welshman Evans.
"No. I dunnot think—I dunnot think he'd know me if he seed me. Theerwur so many on us."
Another exchange of glances, and then another question: "Where are yougoing to stay?"
The homely face reddened more deeply, and the lad's eyes—dull, soft,almost womanish eyes—raised themselves to the speaker's. "Do yo' knewanybody as would be loikely to tak' me in a bit" he said, "until I ha'toime to earn th' wage to pay? I wouldna wrong no mon a penny as hadtrusted me."
There was manifest hesitation, and then some one spoke: "Lancashire Jackmight."
"Mester," said the lad to Evans, "would you moind speakin' a word furme? I ha' had a long tramp, an' I'm fagged-loike, an'"—He stopped androse from his seat with a hurried movement. "Who's that theer as iscomin'?" he demanded. "Isna it th' young mester?"
The so