Chapter 19

Tip Taylor was, in the main, a serious-minded man. A cross eye
enhanced the natural solemnity of his countenance. He was little
given to talk or laughter unless he were on a hunt, and then he only
whispered his joy. He had seen a good bit of the world through the
peek sight of his rifle, and there was something always in the feel
of a gun that lifted him to higher moods. And yet one could reach a
tender spot in him without the aid of a gun. That winter vacation I
set myself to study things for declamation - specimens of the
eloquence of Daniel Webster and Henry Clay and James Otis and
Patrick Henry. I practiced them in the barn, often, in sight and
hearing of the assembled herd and some of those fiery passages
were rather too loud and threatening for the peace and comfort of
my audience. The oxen seemed always to be expecting the sting of
the bull whip; they stared at me timidly, tilting their ears every
moment, as if to empty them of a heavy load; while the horses
snorted with apprehension. This haranguing of the herd had been
going on a week or more when Uncle Eb and I, returning from a
distant part of the farm, heard a great uproar in the stable. Looking
in at a window we saw Tip Taylor, his back toward us,
extemporising a speech. He was pressing his argument with
gestures and the tone of thunder. We listened a moment, while a
worried look came over the face of Uncle Eb. Tip's words were
meaningless save for the secret aspiration they served to advertise.
My old companion thought Tip had gone crary, and immediately
swung the door and stepped in. The orator fell suddenly from his
lofry altitude and became a very sober looking hired man.

'What's the matter?' Uncle Eb enquired.

'Practicin',' said Tip soberly, as he turned slowly, his face damp
and red with exertion.

'Fer what?' Uncle Eb enquired.

'Fer the 'sylum, I guess,' he answered, with a faint smile.

'Ye don' need no more practice,' Uncle Eb answered. 'Looks t' me
as though ye was purty well prepared.'

To me there was a touch of pathos in this show of the deeper
things in Tip's nature that had been kindled to eruption by my
spouting. He would not come in to dinner that day, probably from
an unfounded fear that we would make fun of his flight - a thing
we should have been far from doing once we understood him.

It was a bitter day of one of the coldest winters we had ever
known. A shrieking wind came over the hills, driving a scud of
snow before it The stock in the stables, we all came in, soon after
dinner, and sat comfortably by the fire with cider, checkers and old
sledge. The dismal roar of the trees and the wind-wail in the
chimney served only to increase our pleasure. It was growing dusk
when