Free Thoreau at Devil's Perch by B.B. Oak Page A

the more anxious he becomes that I shall soon be leaving. I am sorry this disturbs him, but how can I remain here? It is hard enough to make a living teaching art and painting portraits in a metropolis the size of New York; nigh impossible in a village the size of Plumford.
    Lo! I have just heard the parlor clock strike ten. That means I am already late for church. It would be of little matter to me if I had not promised Lyman Upson I would attend today. He is supply preaching for the absent parson. If I quickly pin up my hair, tie on my bonnet, and sprint down the Green, I can be at the Meetinghouse within five minutes. Given how long-winded Mr. Upson can be, his sermon is sure to go on for another hour and more. Oh, why did I agree to go and listen to him? Most likely because he looked so eager when he asked me. He does not get many opportunities to preach anymore, and I suppose it would be a pity to miss him. But now more minutes have passed, and I shall be later still. I had better leave off writing at once if I intend to go at all.
    It does not appear that I do intend to go, for I continue to write. In truth, I resent that Mr. Upson extracted such a promise from me. I have little interest in hearing more of his bleak views concerning sin and reprobation.
    Now Grandfather is calling me for assistance. Surely attending to his needs supplants attending church. I am relieved that I shall be staying at home.

ADAM’S JOURNAL
    Monday, August 10th
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    W hat might have happened if I had not driven out to the farm this morning makes me shudder to contemplate. I got there just in time to see Gran carrying her musket in both hands and running through the pasture toward the woods. This meant nothing good. I sprang out of the gig and headed after her.
    For one her age she was fair flying, apron strings flapping behind like kite tails. I called to her, but she did not hear me, and I finally caught her as she got to the edge of the sugar maple stand.
    â€œGran, wait,” I said, taking her arm to stop her. She was full flushed and puffing like a steam engine. “What’s the trouble?”
    â€œThank the Lord you’ve come, Adam,” she gasped. “I heard Harriet screaming for help up here, and all my farmhands are out mowing the far pasture.”
    â€œWhere is she?” We looked around, but there was no sign of Harriet. But over Gran’s heavy breathing, I managed to hear muffled female cries for aid. “She took cover in the sugaring shed!” I said.
    I raced up through the trees and got to the shed just as Rufus Badger kicked in the door. He plunged inside, and I followed right behind him. Little Harriet was cowering behind a pile of firewood. I grabbed Badger’s shoulder and spun him around. He was slobbering drunk, which given his strength and fighting ability, I think now was most fortunate for me. Also, the experience gained at the boxing club in Cambridge stood me in good stead. He came at me faster than I expected, given his drunkenness, and I parried a vicious fist thrust at my head, then dug a blow into his belly that made him gush out air like a burst ball of leather. Even so, he still had strength enough to throw himself at me full force, and we both of us landed in a pile of tangled limbs on the floor. He shot his thick grimy thumb at my eye, trying to gouge it out, but I slipped from his grip, and we were both up in an instant. Harriet tried to scamper to the door, but Badger blocked her. I grabbed a stout length of firewood and brought it down on his head, not intending to kill the man but to stun him to immobility, which I did. He crashed down like a fallen tree.
    I swung Harriet into my arms, for she was near fainting, and carried her outside, away from the beast. “You saved me,” she murmured into my waistcoat, and I thanked God that I had. I put the poor frightened dear down on a carpet of moss beneath a sugar maple and told her to breathe deeply and