"But you were speaking," I said, "of the winter of eighteen
fifty-six."
"Of eighteen forty-six," corrected Mr. Apricot. "I shall
never forget it. How distinctly I remember,--I was only
a boy then, in fact a mere lad,--fighting my way to
school. The snow lay in some places as deep as ten feet"--
Mr. Apricot paused--"and in others twenty. But we made
our way to school in spite of it. No boys of to-day,--nor,
for the matter of that, even men such as you,--would
think of attempting it. But we were keen, anxious to
learn. Our school was our delight. Our teacher was our
friend. Our books were our companions. We gladly trudged
five miles to school every morning and seven miles back
at night, did chores till midnight, studied algebra by
candlelight"--here Mr. Apricot's voice had fallen into
its characteristic sing-song, and his eyes were
vacant--"rose before daylight, dressed by lamplight, fed
the hogs by lantern-light, fetched the cows by twilight--"
I thought it best to stop him.
"But you did eventually get off the farm, did you not?"
I asked.
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