Litchfield enquirer., 1879-07-24
From Scribner's Magazine.l Friend Barton's Concern"

Friend Barton's Concern"
 It had been 'sborne in" upon him, more or less, during the long winter; it had not re-
 faxed It's hold when the frosts unlocked and
 the streams were set free from their long win ters silence among the hills. He grew rest less and distracted under ''the turnings of the Lords hand upon him." and his speech un- consciously shaped itself into the Biblical ca dences which came to him in his moments of spiritual exercise.
 The bedrabbled snoWs of March shrank away before the keen, quickening sunbeams; ]; the hills emerged, brown and sodden, like the chrysalis of the new year. The streams woke in a tun,ult, and all day and night their voices called from the hills back of the mill. The
 waste weir was a foaming torrent, and spread itself in muddy shallows across the meadow beyond the old garden where the robins and. blue-birds were house-hunting. Friend Bar tons trouble stirred with the life-blood of tine year, and pressed upon him sorely but as yet he gave it no words. He plodded about among his lean kline, tempering the winds of March to his untinlely lambs, and reconciling unnatural ewes to their maternal duties Friend Barton had never heard of the doc Urine of the survival of the fttest though It
 was the spring of 1912, and England and America were Investigating the subject on the seas, while the nations of Europe were practi- cally illustrating it. The hospital tent," as the boys called an old corn basket, covered with carpet, which stood beside the kitchen chimney, was seldom without an occupants brood of chilled chickens weakly lamb, or a wee pig (with too much blue in it's pinkness), which had been left behind by it's stouter brethren in the race for existence. The old mill hummed away through the day, and sf- ten late in the evening if time pressed, upon the grists which added a thin, intermittent stream of tribute to the family income. Whenever work was ''slack," Friend Barton was saving or chopping in the wood-shed ad- joining the kitchen every moment he could seize or make he was there, stopping over the rapidly growing pile.
 ''Seems to me, father, thee's in great hur- ry with the wood this spring l dou't know when we've had such pile ahead"
 "'Twont burn up any faster for being chop ped" Friend Barton said and then his wife Rachel knew that if he had a reason for being 'forenanded" with the wood, he was not ready to give it.
 One rainy April afternoon when the smoky gray distances began to take tinge of green, and through the drip and rustic of the rain the call of the robins sounded, Friend Barton sat in the door of the barn, oiing the road harness The old chaise had been wheeled out and
 
 An ox-team with load of grain creaked up the hill and stopped at the mill door. The driver, seeing Friend Bartons broad -brimmed drab felt hat against the dark interior of the barn, came down the short lane leading from 1 the mill past the house and farm-buildings. "Fixin' up for travelln', Uncle Tommy" Vain compliments were unacceptable to Thomas Barton, and he was generally known and addressed as ''Uncle Tommy" by the
 worlds people of younger generation. ''It is not in man that walketh to direct his own steps, neighbor Gordon 1 am getting myself in readiness to obey the Lord which ever way He calls me-"
 Farmer Gordon cast a shrewd eye over the premises They wore that patient sad, ex- humed look which on farm-buildings are apt to have in early spring. The roofs were black
 with rain. and frightened with patches of green
 moss. Farmer Gordon instinctively calculat- ed how many 'bunches O shingle" would be ! required to rescue them from the decline into
 which they had fallen, in spite of the hectic green spots
 sWal, the Lord calls most of us to stay at home and look after things, such weather as
 this. Good plantin' weather; good weather
 for breakin' ground fust-rate weather for
 millin'! This is reg'lar miler's rain, Uncle Tommy. You ought to be takin' advantage of it. I've got grlst back here; wish ye could manage to let me have it when 1 come back from store."
 The grist was ground and delivered before Friend Barton went in to his supper that
 night. Dorothy Barton had been mixing
 bread, and was wiping her white arms and
 hands on the roller towel by the kitchen door, as her father stamped and scraped his feet on
 the stones outside.
 q do believe forgot to toll neighbor Cor e TWO ho ho r.ho
 the broom Dorothy handed out to him. ''Its
 wonderful how careless get p
 Well, father, dent suppose thee'd ever forget, and toll grist twice!"' "l believe Eve been mostly preserved from | mistakes of that kind," said Friend Barton
 gently. 1t may have been the Lord who l stayed my hand from gathering profit unto
 myself while his lambs go unfed." Dorothy put her hands on her fathers shoul- l ders. She was almost as tall as he, and could
 lock into his patient, troubled eyes. Father, know what thee is thinking of 1; but do think Iong. It will be hard year i; l the boys ought to go to school and mother is SO feeble"
 Friend Barton's ''concern" kept him awake long that night. His wife watched by his side, giving no sign, lest her wakeful presence should disturb his silent wrestlings. The tall, cher ry-wood clock in the entry measured the hours as they passed with its slow, dispassionate
 tick.
 At two o'clock Rachel Barton was awaken ed from her first sleep of weariness by her husbands voice in the darkness My way is hedged up! see no way to go forward. Lord strengthen my patience, that murmur not, after all have seen of Thy
 goodness. find daily bread is very desirable; want and necessity are painful to nature; but l shall follow Thee for the sake of the loaves or will it do to forsake Thee in times of empti- l ness and abasement
 There was silence again, and restless toss | ings and signing continued the struggle. ''Thomas," the wife's voice spoke tremu-
 leusly in the darkness, ''my dear husband I
 know where thy thoughts are tending If the Spirit is with thee, do not deny it for our 1 sakes, I pray thee. The Lord did not give l thee thy wife and children to hang as a mill | stone round thy neck. I am thy helpmeet, to | strengthen thee in his service. am thankful
 that have my health this spring better than l usual, and Dorot hy is wonderful help. Her spirit was sent to sustain me in the long ab- l sences. Go, dear. and serve our master, who has called thee in these bitter Strlvings! Dor othy and will keep things together as well as we can. The way will open-never fear!" She put cut her hand and touched his face in | the darkness: s'Try to sleep dear, and let thy
 spirit have rest. There is but one answer to 1 this call"
 With the first drowsy twitterings of the
 birds, when the crescent-shaped openings in
 the board shutters began to define themselves
 clearly in the shadowy room, they arose and went about their morning tasks in silence Friend Barton's step was little heavier than
 usual, and the hollows round his wife's pale
 brown eyes were little deeper. As he sat on
 the splint- -bottomed chair by the kitchen fire place, drawing on his boots, she laid her hands
 on his shoulders, and her cheek on the worn
 spot on the top of his head.
 ''Thee will lay this concern before meeting
 tomorrow, father?"
 ''I had it on my mind to do so-if my light
 be not quenched before then"
 | Friend Bartons light was not quenched.
 Words came to him without seeking, in which
 to ''open the concern which had ripened in