VIII
On the morning following the “round-up” of our new cows, while breakfast was being prepared, Tom sallied forth with a bright new tin pail to do the milking. The cook, while striving to feel hopeful of the result, had secret misgivings, doubting very much whether the gentleman had ever milked a cow, as we had never before owned one, knowing, also, that if such were the case he never would admit it, and, if doubts were expressed, he would at once begin to talk about that summer he “worked for Uncle Jim.” It seems that when a lad of twelve he spent one summer on his uncle’s farm; and if he then did all the things he now thinks he did, he must have been a marvel of boyish industry and activity. Those seem to have been the red-letter days of his life; perhaps there budded then a love of country life that eventually led to the possession of this mountain home. He has talked of that blessed summer all through the years, and I must confess there have been times in my life when those reminiscences seemed a burden and a weariness. Now, when he reverts to the subject, I can’t help thinking of the never-ending regrets of Mrs. Blimber
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