NICHOLAS ATTWOOD’S HOME

Nick Attwood’s father came home that night bitterly wroth.

The burgesses of the town council had ordered him to build a chimney upon his house, or pay ten shillings fine; and shillings were none too plenty with Simon Attwood, the tanner of Old Town.

“Soul and body o’ man!” said he, “they talk as if they owned the world, and a man could na live upon it save by their leave.  I must build my fire in a pipe, or pay ten shillings fine?  Things ha’ come to a pretty pass—­a pretty pass, indeed!” He kicked the rushes that were strewn upon the floor, and ground the clay with his heel.  “This litter will ha’ to be all took out.  Atkins will be here at six i’ the morning to do the job, and a lovely mess he will make o’ the house!”

“Do na fret thee, Simon,” said Mistress Attwood, gently.  “The rushes need a changing, and I ha’ pined this long while to lay the floor wi’ new clay from Shottery common.  ’Tis the sweetest earth!  Nick shall take the hangings down, and right things up when the chimley ’s done.”

So at cockcrow next morning Nick slipped out of his straw bed, into his clothes, and down the winding stair, while his parents were still asleep in the loft, and, sousing his head in the bucket at the well, began his work before the old town clock in the chapel tower had yet struck four.

The rushes had not been changed since Easter, and were full of dust and grease from the cooking and the table.  Even the fresher sprigs of mint among them smelled stale and old.  When they were all in the barrow, Nick sighed with relief and wiped his hands upon the dripping grass.

It had rained in the night,—­a soft, warm rain,—­and the air was full of the smell of the apple-bloom and pear from the little orchard behind the house.  The bees were already humming about the straw-bound hives along the garden wall, and a misguided green woodpecker clung upside down to the eaves, and thumped at the beams of the house.

It was very still there in the gray of the dawn.  He could hear the rush of the water through the sedge in the mill-race, and then, all at once, the roll of the wheel, the low rumble of the mill-gear, and the cool whisper of the wind in the willows.

When he went back into the house again the painted cloths upon the wall seemed dingier than ever compared with the clean, bright world outside.  The sky-blue coat of the Prodigal Son was brown with the winter’s smoke; the Red Sea towered above Pharaoh’s ill-starred host like an inky mountain; and the homely maxims on the next breadth—­“Do no Wrong,” “Beware of Sloth,” “Overcome Pride,” and “Keep an Eye on the Pence”—­could scarcely be read.

Nick jumped up on the three-legged stool and began to take them down.  The nails were crooked and jammed in the wall, and the last came out with an unexpected jerk.  Losing his balance, Nick caught at the table-board which leaned against the wall; but the stool capsized, and he came down on the floor with such a flap of tapestry that the ashes flew out all over the room.