In the last harvest
he had for the first time wielded a scythe, and had held his own
with the rest, though, it must be allowed, with a fierce struggle.
The next spring--I may mention it here--he not only held the
plough, but by patient persistence and fearless compulsion trained
two young bulls to go in it, saving many weeks' labour of a pair of
horses. It filled his father with pride, and hope for his boy's
coming fight with the world. Even the eyes of his grandmother would
after that brighten at mention of him; she began to feel proud that
she had a share in the existence of the lad: if he did so well when
a hobbledehoy, he might be something by the time he was a man! But
one thing troubled her: he was no sportsman; he never went out to
hunt the otter, or to shoot hares or rabbits or grouse or
partridges! and that was unnatural! The fact was, ever since that
talk with the master about Linty, he could not bear to kill
anything, and was now and then haunted by the dying eyes of the
pigeon he shot the first time he handled a gun. The grandmother
thought it a defect in his manhood that he did not like shooting;
but, woman, and old woman as she was, his heart was larger and
tenderer than hers, and got in the way of the killing.
His father had never troubled his young life with details
concerning the family affairs; he had only let him know that, for
many years, through extravagance and carelessness in those who
preceded his father, things had been going from bad to worse.
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