Free Steeplechase by Jane Langton Page A

with a reaping machine borrowed from Mr. Hosmer, and stored in the hayloft. Trees had to be felled in the woodlot, carted home, and split for the stove, and now and then a few cedars from the farthest field were hewn into fence posts. The cow had to be milked twice a day and taken to the bull once a year, and her calf safely delivered in the spring. Of course, some supplies had to be brought from town, oats and flour from the grain merchant, lamp oil, sugar and soap from Cutler’s store, as well as luxuries from all over the world—raisins from the Levant, tea from China, oranges from Spain.
    Eben’s mother did most of the cooking and the laundry, although Ida handled her baby’s washing and Sallie helped with the shirts, slamming down one heavy iron on the stove and picking up another. Little Alice helped out in the kitchen, obeying the sharp commands of the whirlwind that was her mother, as Eudocia darted from flour bin to bread board, pried up stove lids to poke at the fire, disemboweled a hen, slammed a butcher knife down on a side of pork, or jerked open an oven door to pull out a loaf pan, her hand bunched in her apron.
    Eben took his household chores for granted, but Josh was apt to use bad words while shoveling out the slimy heaps plopped in the gutter by the cow. Sallie had been known to burst into tears at the sight of the laundry piled high in the basket, and Alice sometimes dropped dishes on purpose.
    As for Horace, Eben’s five-year-old nephew never complained about his chore of finding new-laid eggs in the hen-house, although he often broke as many as he carried safely inside to his grandmother.
    Eben’s real employment was away from home. Six days a week, he took the cars to Waltham, where he was employed as a draftsman for a firm of church architects. His school days were over, but Eben’s two years of study at the college in Cambridge had included not only orations in Latin and Greek but chemical experiments—inflating bubbles with hydrogen, making light with phosphorus, as well as the precise recording of the results. Now he was equally precise in the drafting of architectural plans and elevations, although he didn’t much care for the fussy designs of his employer. He was eager to try his hand at something of his own.
    It was a common saying, Every farmer a mechanic. It was certainly true of Eben, who had a Yankee knack for tinkering. His boyish perpetual-motion machine had failed to work, but his waterwheel had turned an axle that twirled a paper bird. Now he took on a project for his wounded friend James Shaw.
    â€œThe trouble with these hooks of yours,” he told James, “is that they don’t grip. You need to pick things up and hold them.” When James made a mournful sound and shook his head, Eben said, “No, James, truly. I swear I can do it.”
    And within the week, he was back with a gadget that squeezed and let go, and squeezed again. James lifted his hooked stumps in despair.
    â€œPlease, James,” said Isabelle. “Let Eben try it.”
    â€œIt isn’t perfect yet,” said Eben, opening and shutting the contraption. “You’ll need help at first. But once it closes on a spoon, you’ll be able to feed yourself. Or hold a pen tightly enough to write.”
    â€œOh, yes, James,” said Isabelle eagerly. “Here, let’s try.”
    But the first holding device refused to be attached to the stump of James’s right arm. “No matter,” said Eben cheerfully. “I can see what’s wrong. I’ll try again.”
    At the door, Isabelle took his hand. “You are a such a good friend to James. He would thank you if he could.”
    Eben had known Isabelle at school, where she had been the shyest girl in the seventh grade. His mother and father had known Isabelle’s mother and father. But now, although it no longer troubled Eben to look at James, he was afraid to look at Isabelle. The