. It gladdened me to anticipate the surprise of the
Community, when, like an allegorical figure of rich October, I should make my
appearance, with shoulders bent beneath the burthen of ripe grapes, and some of
the crushed ones crimsoning my brow as with a blood-stain.
    Ascending into this natural turret, I peeped, in turn, out of several of its
small windows. The pine-tree, being ancient, rose high above the rest of the
wood, which was of comparatively recent growth. Even where I sat, about midway
between the root and the topmost bough, my position was lofty enough to serve as
an observatory, not for starry investigations, but for those sublunary matters
in which lay a lore as infinite as that of the planets. Through one loop-hole, I
saw the river lapsing calmly onward, while, in the meadow near its brink, a few
of the brethren were digging peat for our winter's fuel. On the interior
cart-road of our farm, I discerned Hollingsworth, with a yoke of oxen hitched to
a drag of stones, that were to be piled into a fence, on which we employed
ourselves at the odd intervals of other labor. The harsh tones of his voice,
shouting to the sluggish steers, made me sensible, even at such a distance, that
he was ill at ease, and that the baulked philanthropist had the battle-spirit in
his heart.
    »Haw Buck!« quoth he. »Come along there, ye lazy ones! What are ye about
now? Gee!«
    »Mankind, in Hollingsworth's opinion,« thought I, »is but another yoke of
oxen, as stubborn, stupid, and sluggish, as our old Brown and Bright. He
vituperates us aloud, and curses us in his heart, and will begin to prick us
with the goad stick, by-and-by. But, are we his oxen? And what right has he to
be the driver? And why, when there is enough else to do, should we waste our
strength in dragging home the ponderous load of his philanthropic absurdities?
At my height above the earth, the whole matter looks ridiculous!«
    Turning towards the farm-house, I saw Priscilla (for, though a great way
off, the eye of faith assured me that it was she) sitting at Zenobia's window,
and making little purses, I suppose, or perhaps mending the Community's old
linen. A bird flew past my tree; and as it clove its way onward into the sunny
atmosphere,
