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Title: Whistler: or, The Manly Boy
Author: Aimwell, Walter
Language: English
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*** Start of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Whistler: or, The Manly Boy" ***
[Illustration:
THE FOREST PICNIC. (_See page 123._)
]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration:
The
Aimwell
Stories.
BY
Walter Aimwell.
Whistler
TAKE HEED WILL SURELY SPEED
Gould & Lincoln
]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Aimwell Stories.
---------------------
WHISTLER;
THE MANLY BOY.
BY
WALTER AIMWELL,
AUTHOR OF “OSCAR,” “CLINTON,” “ELLA,” ETC.
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS.
BOSTON:
GOULD AND LINCOLN,
59 WASHINGTON STREET.
NEW YORK: SHELDON, BLAKEMAN & CO.
CINCINNATI: GEORGE S. BLANCHARD.
1857.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1856, by
GOULD AND LINCOLN,
In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the District of
Massachusetts.
Electro-Stereotyped by
G. J. STILES & COMPANY,
23 Congress Street, Boston.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
PREFACE.
--------------
THE object of this book is to portray the character of the MANLY BOY—a
character that never fails to inspire love and esteem, if only it be
natural and genuine. That a youth may still be a real boy in his tastes,
his pursuits, and his feelings,—as every young lad certainly ought to
be,—and yet exhibit something of true manliness in his spirit and
deportment, will, it is hoped, be made manifest to the youngest mind, in
the story of WHISTLER.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
ADVERTISEMENT.
--------------
“PRECEPTS MAY LEAD, BUT EXAMPLES DRAW.”
--------------
“THE AIMWELL STORIES” are designed to portray some of the leading phases
of juvenile character, and to point out their tendencies to future good
and evil. This they undertake to do, by describing the quiet, natural
scenes and incidents of every-day life, in city and country, at home and
abroad, at school and upon the play-ground, rather than by resorting to
romantic adventures and startling effects. While their main object is to
persuade the young to lay well the foundations of their characters, to
win them to the ways of virtue, and to incite them to good deeds and
noble aims, the attempt is also made to mingle amusing, curious, and
useful information with the moral lessons conveyed. It is hoped that the
volumes will thus be made attractive and agreeable, as well as
instructive, to the youthful reader.
Each volume of the “Aimwell Stories” will be complete and independent of
itself, although a connecting thread will run through the whole series.
The order of the volumes, so far as completed, is as follows:
I. OSCAR; OR, THE BOY WHO HAD HIS OWN WAY.
II. CLINTON; OR, BOY-LIFE IN THE COUNTRY.
III. ELLA; OR, TURNING OVER A NEW LEAF.
IV. WHISTLER; OR, THE MANLY BOY.
V. MARCUS; OR, THE BOY-TAMER. (_In Preparation._)
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CONTENTS.
--------------
CHAPTER I.
A VACATION JOURNEY.
PAGE
The last bell—The man who was too 17
late—Underway—Going down the
harbor—Whistler—How he came by his
name—Mr. Preston—Ella and
Emily—Supper—Scrabbling and
rudeness—An overheard remark—How
American voracity strikes a
foreigner—Whistler’s
resolution—Turning in—The berths—The
boot-black—Lying awake—Morning
naps—The river—Pleasant
scenery—Breakfast at the tavern—The
stage-coach ride—Cross
Roads—Clinton—The journey’s end,
CHAPTER II.
LOOKING ABOUT.
The Davenport family—Whistler’s 28
cousins—Surveying the premises—The
house—The shop—Tools—Clinton’s
skill—The barn—Rye—Verdancy—The
swine—Clinton’s fowls—How he managed
them—The patch of corn—A partnership
proposed—The other side of the
account—The kitchen garden—Working on
shares—The secret of Clinton’s
success—His studies—The ducks and
their home—Geography of Brookdale—Map
of the town,
CHAPTER III.
Clinton’s chamber—The furniture—The 41
writing-desk—The library—The
schooner—Pictures—Lessons
suspended—Plans about
work—Morning—Milking—A talk about the
cows—Daisy’s uneasiness—Conversation
suspended—Breakfast—Impromptu
rhymes—Clinton’s favorite song—The
turkeys and
hens—Weeding—Witch-grass—Difficulty of
exterminating it—An imagined moral—A
habit of Whistler’s father—The toad—A
cruel act—Ending his misery—Whistler’s
thoughtlessness—Toads not
poisonous—The good they do—How the
boys serve them—Tame toads—How they
eat—“Spitting fire” a vulgar
notion—How the toad disposes of his
old coat—Clinton’s authority for his
statement—The morning’s work
completed,
CHAPTER IV.
AN AFTERNOON’S EXCURSION.
A walk—The Prestons—A strawberry 56
party—The swamp—Ella’s
timidity—Snakes—Foolish
prejudices—Poison ivy—The
woodbine—Difference between them—How
Whistler fastened it in his mind—The
law of the association of ideas—A
poison vine found—Temerity and
timidity—Susceptibility to
poison—Poison dogwood—Its
effects—Description of the
plant—Poisonous plants do not bear
beautiful flowers—The strawberry
patch—Poor picking—The boys go
further—Woods and hills—Bald Peak—A
fine view—How far one can see in
Boston—The other side of the hills—The
report of a gun—A solitary place—A
sportsman—Scaring the game—A rough
salutation—An ill-favored fellow—A few
questions—The man’s lameness—His
account of himself—A favor asked—A
difficulty—A secret divulged—Clinton’s
promise—A threat—They separate—What
Clinton knew about the man—Driving the
cows home,
CHAPTER V.
THE ACCIDENT.
A rainy day—The hay-cutter—Blood—A 74
mutilated finger—The missing piece—The
first outburst of grief—The tip
replaced—Sympathy—The
doctor—Encouraging words—The case of
instruments—Sewing the piece
on—Whistler’s heroic endurance of
pain—Praise—Directions—The fire—A sad
loss—The missing horse—The work of a
villain—Suspicions—Tom Walker—The
public security diminished—A visit to
the ruins—The two babies—A good
retort—How the finger got
along—Writing home—An unpleasant
duty—An intimation of
carelessness—Whistler’s
sensitiveness—Clinton’s defence—His
device for making the hay-cutter
safe—Its successful operation—The
letter mailed—Going to bed—Some
speculations about Dick
Sneider—Suspicions—A restless night,
CHAPTER VI.
A LITERARY ENTERPRISE.
Whistler’s wounded finger—Threshing—A 89
dialogue wanted—A proposal—The
picnic—Declamation—Hunting for a
subject—Poor success—A new idea—The
dialogue completed—The story on which
it was founded—The quarrel—A
surprise—The master’s reproof—The
mutual flogging—Satisfaction—Forced
reconciliation—The “kiss of
peace”—Laughter and shame—Arrangements
for a rehearsal—Spouting Hollow—A talk
with Mr. Davenport about the
dialogue—He reads it—The boys’
suspense—His opinion of its literary
merits—His objections to it—The
fighting scene—Moral influence of such
spectacles—Difference between written
descriptions and stage performances of
obnoxious scenes—Errors of the
teacher—The general effect bad—Chagrin
and disappointment—An unguarded
remark—Whistler’s spirit
aroused—Another trial—A subject
found—The task finished—The rehearsal,
CHAPTER VII.
THE INCENDIARY.
Driving a nail—How to prevent 107
splitting—Wetting nails—Mr. Walker’s
arrival—News—The stolen horse
found—The suspected rogue—Clinton’s
disclosures—Mr. Walker’s temper—A
furious outbreak—Mrs. Davenport’s
interference—Mitigating
circumstances—Whistler’s courage
reviving—Clinton’s threat—The folly of
flying into a passion—Tears—Mr.
Davenport—His regrets—Whistler’s
generous confession—One of Clinton’s
failings—His defence—Want of
reflection—Thinking an action right
does not make it so—Searching
questions—Compulsory promises—They are
binding, if right in themselves—Wrong
promises not binding—The rule
applied—Clinton convicted—Consequences
of not thinking—A volunteer
defence—The heads of the “brief”—The
judgment softened—The lost horse—The
lesson,
CHAPTER VIII.
THE FOREST PICNIC.
An early turn out—Morning work—Starting 122
for the picnic—The church—The
rendezvous—The procession—The forest
road—The falls—The grove—A talk about
Oscar—His letter—Account of his
history—Games and
amusements—Preparations for
speaking—The log cabin—Its
interior—The exercises—The dialogue of
“The Rival Speakers”—A dispute—They
both begin—Interruptions—Ludicrous
imitations—A coincidence—More
beginnings and
interruptions—Coaxings—How the
Irishman and his wife divided the
house—Tom’s withdrawal—Sam’s
impudence—His breakdown—Inglorious
retreat—The authors’ suspense—Their
triumph—The
intermission—Congratulations—Mr.
Walker—His commendation—His
apology—How the boys received
it—Burdens removed—Injuries sink
deeper than apologies—The
dinner—Speeches—Going a
blueberrying—The ride home—Five miles
of talk—Silence—What Clinton was
thinking of—His question proposed—Why
it was not proposed sooner—Mr.
Davenport’s explanation—A
distinction—Sam’s character—Clinton
satisfied—Arrival home,
CHAPTER IX.
THE MIDNIGHT ATTACK.
A shrunken arm—Importance of exercise—An 143
exciting discovery—Slaughter of the
fowls—An ungracious crow—Curiosity
excited—Speculations—Depredations of
skunks—Lack of vigilance—A bounty
offered—Burying the dead—Something
about skunks—The trap—The wolf and
deer—Chased by a wolf—The wolf and the
sheep—Bears—A trip to the logging
camp—Uncle Tim’s story—Depredations in
the cornfield—The trap
unsuccessful—Watching for the
beast—His tragic end—Bruin and the
boy—A juvenile hero—A neighborly
visit—Wild-cats—Two kinds—A fight with
a wild-cat—A walk to Mr. Preston’s—His
opinion of the affair—Ella’s
timidity—Quizzing—The nooning—Clinton
not much affected by his loss—How a
man may gain by his losses—Mr.
Davenport’s experience—Our happiness
not dependent on money—Our
stewardship—Clinton’s money not his
own—Debt due his parents—Their legal
claim upon his earnings—Man’s
dependence—Clinton’s pecuniary
loss—His accounts—His profits—Setting
the trap,
CHAPTER X.
THE HOMEWARD TRIP.
Why the wild-cat was not caught—A long 166
storm—The dissected map—How it was
made—A pleasant and profitable
diversion—Preparations for going
home—The trap returned—Whistler’s
attachment for his Brookdale
friends—The hour of parting—The ride
to the Cross Roads—The stage coach—The
train—The locomotive—Clinton’s
knowledge of steam engines—View from
the car windows—A talk about a cross
engineer—Bad and good traits—The
engineer’s responsibility—Who takes
the credit, and who the blame—Some of
the engineer’s duties—High speed—What
a locomotive might do without a
master—A runaway engine, and how it
was stopped—Another runaway—A
frightful race—Fortunate
termination—Tediousness of railroad
travelling—Attention attracted by the
train—The boys on the water—The dog,
horse, sheep, cow, &c.—Arrival at
Boston—Ralph,
CHAPTER XI.
THE CITY HOME.
Morning—First 179
impressions—Bouncer—Whistler’s frolic
and talk with him—Bouncer’s message to
Clinton—The view from the
windows—Blocks of
buildings—Description of Whistler’s
home—His chamber—How it was
furnished—Whistler’s father—A loud
summons—A quiet joke—The
dining-room—Breakfast—Conversation—Boston
sights—Three strange rules for a
country boy—Clinton’s
perplexity—Whistler’s attempt to
relieve him—Mr. Davenport’s early
“greenness”—His brother’s rebukes—His
reply—Clinton’s decision—City
greenhorns—Whistler and the cows—A
good rejoinder—Ettie’s queer
question—A talk about cows—Mr.
Davenport’s twofold motive—The golden
mean,
CHAPTER XII.
ROMANCE AND REALITY.
A day’s ramble about town—Strange sights 191
and sounds—Fatigue—The alarm of
fire—Where it came from—General
indifference to it—The fire engine—The
boys at home—Ettie and her dissected
map—Queer transformations—Description
of the fire-alarm telegraph—The signal
stations—The central office—How the
bells are struck—Its value—Mr.
Davenport’s questions—His fatigue—A
comparison between city and country
workers—Whistler’s anticipated
farm—Playful retort—Romance of the
farm—All men not made for
farmers—Other pursuits necessary—The
great mistake—A dry but important
subject—Clinton’s choice of a
profession—Why he would like to be a
merchant—Romantic notions of
mercantile life—The other
side—Practical application—The summing
up—A few first principles of political
economy—A legal opinion without a fee,
CHAPTER XIII.
SIGHT-SEEING.
School—The tramp begun—Dogs—The 206
dog-cart—The image dealer—The released
bird—An unnecessary piece of
information—How received—The
invitation—The birds—A surprise—The
Common—A beautiful scene—The
fountain—View of it—Its various
jets—Vast quantity of water required
to feed it—Changing the jet—The great
elm—A new acquaintance—A proposal
accepted—The State House—A journey to
its top—The lantern—A magnificent
view—The descent—Clinton’s wanderings
in unknown regions—A discovery—How he
happened to get turned round—Safe
arrival—A laugh over the adventure—The
distracted Quaker—The bewildered boy,
CHAPTER XIV.
SCHOOL TRIALS.
Whistler’s first day at school—Unhappy 224
recollections—A severe
disappointment—Interview with his
father—Why Whistler did not get into
the high school—He is acquitted of
blame—His reluctance to return to his
old school—His character as a
scholar—A failure the first
day—Mortification—A commission from
the teacher—Its acceptance—Clinton’s
puzzle—The drawings commenced—A
difficult task—Whistler’s ambition
aroused—Clinton’s visit to the
school—An insulting nickname proposed
for a new scholar—Whistler’s
interference in his behalf—He is
himself attacked—His self-control—What
David had to take—A kind word from
Whistler—A challenge—How Whistler
treated it—The young bully’s cowardice
exposed—The school exercises—The
principal’s story—The sick boy—His
first appearance at school—A mean
assailant—A gallant defender—The story
brought home to the school—The verdict
of the scholars on the conduct of the
boys—Who the real dunce is—Difference
between learning easily and studying
hard—Who the most promising scholar
is—Juvenile dulness of famous
men—School dismissed,
CHAPTER XV.
LESSONS IN PHYSIOLOGY.
The drawings finished—A short school 243
lecture—Sitting and standing—The
proper position—Two illustrations—The
sitting position illustrated—Curious
mechanism of the backbone—How it
becomes distorted—Effect of stooping
upon the lungs—An experiment or
two—Keeping the arms on a
level—Ettie’s kitten—Whistler’s
joke—The kitten missed—The
search—Whistler’s sad discovery—Policy
of keeping it secret—A good rule
remembered—A wise
decision—Confession—Whistler’s
thoughtlessness—Ettie’s grief,
CHAPTER XVI.
THE PRESTON FAMILY.
A request—A rule of the house—The 256
Preston children—Oscar and
Whistler—Marcus—Plans for Oscar’s
benefit—A letter from Brookdale—Dick
Sneider arrested—The wild-cat—Jumping
at a conclusion—Unexpected meeting of
Clinton and Oscar—A good
resolution—Going to the academy—Marcus
invited to become a teacher—Showing
favors to relatives—Ronald—Marcus the
making of him—Bad French—Ronald’s
roguery—Getting into a tight
place—Alarming and ludicrous
predicament—His release—The visit to
Montpelier—Ronald in handcuffs—A sorry
joke—Fortunate escape—Another boy in
another kind of handcuffs—The
advertisement for a boy—An amusing
answer—Fetters of ignorance—The other
applicants—A neat letter—A
recognition—A chance
acquaintance—Favorable impressions—A
pleasant visit,
CHAPTER XVII.
A WATER EXCURSION.
A sailing party—A damper—Permission 272
obtained—A struggle—Noble
self-denial—Commendation—Planning a
reward—The guests invited—Henry—The
birthday present—The
yacht—Starting—Collisions—Beating
out—The steamship—Fine
views—Life-preservers—Dodging the
boom—A narrow escape—The cabin—The
table—Berths—The cook-room—Castle
Island—Homeward-bound ship—Long Island
Light—Extra clothing—Dinner—Sudden
departures from the table—The
ocean—The screw steamer—George’s
Island—Fort Warren—The sea
wall—Landing—Entrance to the fort—The
enclosure—Ascending the parapets—Cost
of the fortress—Its entire command of
the harbor—Places for the
guns—Interior of the fortress—How the
guns are worked—Rooms for the
soldiers—Strength of the fortress—How
it might be taken—A wish—The sail
back—Defence of the “Echo”—An impudent
schooner—The skipper’s disgust—A
nautical insult—Landing,
CHAPTER XVIII.
LAST DAY OF THE VISIT.
The group around the fire—No tidings 294
from Jerry—What Whistler had
learned—The three hardest words—Candid
confession of a great
general—Confessing errors requires
bravery—Another fact learned—The boys’
petition for shorter
lessons—Whistler’s refusal to sign
it—His motives impugned—Boyish
intolerance—Effects of the petition on
the teacher—Its disrespectful
tone—Character of the signers—Public
reading of their names—A secret
honorably kept—Clinton’s opinion of
the city—Opportunities—Too much
assistance—How strong characters are
produced—The learned blacksmith—The
learned shoemaker—What can be done in
one hour a day—The extract—A higher
aim than success—Character—How it is
formed—Compared to a cable—Conclusion,
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Illustrations.
--------------
THE FOREST PICNIC, FRONTISPIECE
VIGNETTE, TITLE PAGE
THE STEAMER, 19
THE FARM-HOUSE, 30
MAP OF BROOKDALE, 40
THE GUNNER, 68
CLINTON THRESHING, 90
THE FOREST ROAD, 124
UNCLE TIM AND THE BEAR, 154
SALUTING THE TRAIN, 177
THE DOG CART, 207
THE IMAGE VENDER, 208
THE FOUNTAIN, 213
WRONG STANDING POSITION, 245
RIGHT STANDING POSITION, 245
WRONG SITTING POSITION, 246
RIGHT SITTING POSITION, 247
STEAMSHIP, 279
HOW THE CABLE IS MADE, 307
------------------------------------------------------------------------
WHISTLER.
----------
CHAPTER I.
A VACATION JOURNEY.
THE steamer’s bell is pealing forth its last call. The huge, hot engine,
as if impatient of delay, seems hissing at every joint, while the dark
clouds that roll up from its smoke-pipes tell of the activity of the
sweltering firemen below. The hawser is cast off. A tardy passenger or
two are hurried over the gangway, and their baggage sent after them with
more celerity than care. A carriage, driven at a furious rate, is coming
down the wharf, and a man’s head and arm are thrust out of the
window,—the arm “sawing the air” in a most vehement manner. But his
gesticulations are in vain. The gangway is drawn in on deck; the wheels
slowly move; the steamer gently swings away from her moorings; and by
the time the carriage is abreast of her, six yards of foam-covered water
separate the would-be passenger from the crowded deck. A general
half-suppressed laugh from the crowd on the wharf and the steamer
reminds the unhappy straggler that there is something ridiculous, as
well as provoking, in being a little too late; and, seeking refuge in
the carriage, he is leisurely driven off, to be again laughed at,
perchance, when he reaches the home he had lately left in such hot
haste.
The steamer has now got clear of the vessels moored around her, and
begins to move with greater speed. So easy is the motion, it would not
be difficult for those on board to imagine that the wharf itself had
hoisted sail, and parted company with the steamer, to take a turn about
the harbor on its own account. Little groups on shore and on board the
boat are exchanging farewells by the waving of hats and handkerchiefs.
But soon the distance becomes too great for recognition; wharves and
warehouses mingle together; the city assumes a crowded and compact look,
and finally resolves itself into that beautiful panorama which Boston
presents when viewed from the sea. Even this view soon fades, and is
lost; for the steamer is now far down the harbor, gallantly ploughing
her way through the dark-blue waters.
[Illustration]
Among the passengers who were enjoying the scene from the upper, or
hurricane deck, might have been seen a gentleman and three children, who
appeared to be intent upon missing no object of interest. The largest of
the children was a bright and pleasant looking boy of fourteen. His name
was William Davenport; but he was frequently called Willie, and still
oftener Whistler, by his young associates. This latter name he acquired
when several years younger, being indebted for it to his whistling
talents, which were really quite clever. He rather liked the nickname;
and, indeed, had become so accustomed to it, that even “Willie” did not
sound quite natural, and “Bill” was altogether out of the question. You
must not suppose, however, that he was one of those whistling bores who
give our ears no rest from their shrill pipings, either in house or in
street. On the contrary, he was rather chary of his music,—perhaps more
so than he would have been but for his nickname, which put him on his
guard against spending too much of his breath in this manner. But, then,
he _could_ whistle beautifully when he chose to; and, as he had a quick
ear for music, he caught all the new and popular airs of the day, which
made his performances still more pleasant to the listener. Whistler we
shall call him, therefore, in imitation of his comrades. He belonged in
Boston, and was now on his way to a distant town in Maine, where he was
to spend his summer vacation with the family of his uncle.
The gentleman who was with Whistler was Mr. Preston. He was a stout,
sun-burnt, and plainly-dressed man, and was on his way home from a visit
to Boston, with his eldest daughter, Emily, a girl of thirteen. The
other girl, who was a few months younger, was Ella Preston, a cousin of
Emily, who lived in Boston, and was now on her way to her uncle’s home
in Brookdale. It was in this same town that Whistler’s uncle lived; and
being well acquainted with Ella, he had arranged to make the journey in
company with her little party.
It was a mild August evening, and the sea was calm. Mr. Preston and the
children remained upon the deck until the supper-bell sounded, when they
went down into the cabin, and found a long table spread, around which
the hungry passengers were crowding and pushing, without much regard to
manners, or even decency. It was with some difficulty that Mr. Preston
procured seats for the children; and even then the difficulty was but
half overcome, for it required a good deal of effort, not to say
rudeness, to obtain enough to eat, so ravenous and selfish were the
company, and so limited was the supply upon the table. The meal was
swallowed, and the cabin vacated, in about ten minutes. Shortly after,
as Whistler was walking about, he overheard a few remarks between two
gentlemen, that set him to thinking. From their appearance, and their
peculiar accent, he concluded they were foreign gentlemen, travelling
for pleasure.
“You did not witness the feeding of the animals?” said one of the
gentlemen, who had just come up from the cabin.
“No,” said the other, “I have no taste for such exhibitions. I took the
precaution to drink my tea before I came on board.”
“Well, sir,” added the first speaker, “I’ve breakfasted with the Turks,
I’ve dined with the Arabs, I’ve supped with the Chinese, and I’ve eaten
with nearly all the nations of Europe; but, sir, I must say that I never
met with such a greedy, scrabbling set of gormandizers as I have found
in this country. Why, sir, they seize and devour their food like wild
beasts. They shovel it down whole, sir, just as a dog bolts his meat. I
only wonder that these Yankees do not dispense with knives and forks
altogether. Yes, sir, those implements of a civilized table seem
altogether out of place in their hands.”
This was all that Whistler heard. The unpleasant American habit which so
disgusted this gentleman, and which is often glaringly conspicuous in
our hotels and steamboats, has been justly censured with great severity
by foreigners who have visited us. Whistler had himself observed the
rude and greedy conduct at the table; but he supposed such scenes were
always enacted when large numbers of people got together to eat. Now,
however, he had learned that it was a peculiarly American
characteristic; and, perceiving how it was viewed by intelligent and
well-bred foreigners, his pride and patriotism were both touched, and he
made up his mind that he would never be guilty of such rudeness, either
at a public or a private table.
The air was now becoming damp and chilly, and little could be seen
beyond the steamer’s decks, save the occasional flash of some distant
lighthouse. The passengers began to disappear, some seeking out
sheltered nooks in the stern, and others retiring to the saloons and
berths. Mr. Preston gave Emily and Ellen in charge to the stewardess,
who conducted them to their berths in the ladies’ saloon; while himself
and Whistler soon after turned in to their own quarters in the
gentlemen’s cabin. The saloons were lined on each side with berths
arranged in three tiers. Each berth was furnished with bedding, and
screened in front by a drapery curtain. The two selected by Mr. Preston,
though not favorite ones in their location, were the best that were not
engaged when he bought his tickets. One of them was an upper berth; and,
as Whistler was the lightest and nimblest of the two, it was assigned to
him, while Mr. Preston took the other, directly beneath him.
Following the example of others, Whistler put off his shoes, jacket and
shirt-collar, and climbed into his lofty and narrow sleeping-place.
Here, partially concealed by his curtain, he amused himself by watching
the movements of his fellow-passengers, and listening to their remarks.
When Mr. Preston, who had been reading a newspaper, got ready to retire,
he picked up Whistler’s shoes from the floor, and told him to put them
on a shelf over the berth, if he did not want “Boots” to get them. This
personage, he afterwards explained, was a colored man, who gathered up
all the boots and shoes he could find in the night, and cleaned them,
charging each of the respective owners a ninepence (the ninepence is
twelve and a half cents in New England) for his services. As Whistler’s
shoes did not need to undergo this process, his friend was probably
justified in thus interfering with the legitimate business of the
aforesaid “Boots.”
The novelty of his position, the glare of the saloon lamps, and the
noise of the machinery, made it rather difficult for Whistler to get to
sleep. The ocean was so smooth, however, that he felt no symptoms of
seasickness; and he was very well contented to lie awake in his berth,
so long as he was not troubled with this distressing malady, from which
he had once suffered quite severely while sailing in the harbor. But, in
spite of all disturbing influences, he was favored with several good
naps towards morning, from one of which he awoke, and discerned the gray
light of morning through a small window over his berth. He lowered
himself down from his elevated bed, and went on deck, when he found that
the steamer had already entered the river, the banks of which were
scarcely visible through the heavy mist with which the atmosphere was
loaded. Ella and Emily soon made their appearance, and declared that
their first night on the ocean was anything but disagreeable. The fog
rapidly disappeared before the sun; and, as they advanced up the river,
the scenery became more interesting, so that their attention was
constantly occupied, until Mr. Preston informed them that they had
reached their landing-place.
Our travellers were still forty miles from Brookdale; but the rest of
the journey was to be by land. On landing, they went directly to the
village tavern, where they found a good breakfast awaiting them, to
which, however, they could devote but a very few minutes, for the stage
coach was waiting. Having made as large a draft on the driver’s patience
as they deemed prudent, they took their seats in the vehicle, and
resumed their journey. For a while, the children found much to interest
them in the country through which they passed; but it soon became an old
story; and before they had climbed half of the hills that separated them
from Brookdale, the inquiries were frequently heard,—
“How far have we got to go, _now_, Mr. Preston? Haven’t we come more
than half way? Shan’t we get there before noon?”
As the stage coach did not pass through Brookdale, passengers for that
village were obliged to leave it at a place called the Cross Roads,
about five miles distant, and find their way over as best they could. It
was noon when our party reached this stopping-place. As they alighted, a
boy about fourteen years old stepped up to Mr. Preston, who introduced
him to Ella and Whistler as Clinton Davenport. The two boys were
cousins; but they had never seen each other before. It seemed that
Clinton, knowing they were expected, had gone over to the Cross Roads
after them, with a wagon. A drive of five miles through a pleasant road
brought them to their journey’s end. They were in Brookdale.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER II.
LOOKING ABOUT.
DINNER was on the table when Whistler arrived at Mr. Davenport’s, and he
found his uncle and aunt, and his little cousin Annie, ready to welcome
him to their hospitalities. These, with Clinton, constituted the whole
family. The young stranger soon felt quite at home in their society. He
was much pleased with his cousins at first sight, for he had never seen
either of them before. Annie, who was about seven years old, was a
beautiful child, with golden curls and fair blue eyes, and a face full
of gentleness and affection. She seemed to be the pet of the household.
Clinton, though but a month or two older than Whistler, was a stouter
and taller boy, and his browned skin and hardened hands told that he was
not unacquainted with labor and out-door exposure. He had, moreover, an
intelligent, cheerful, and frank expression of countenance, that could
not help prepossessing a stranger in his favor. The parents of these
children Whistler had previously seen at his own house, and he had
always numbered them among his favorite relatives.
Whistler’s first movement, after dinner, was to make an inspection of
the premises. He found that his uncle’s farm lay at the base of a range
of hills, and embraced a wide extent of land, a good part of which
seemed to be under skilful cultivation. The house itself was set back a
few rods from the street, and was pleasantly situated, with its front
towards the south. It was a snug, plain-looking building, a story and a
half high, with a kitchen and wood-shed attached in the rear. A noble
oak tree, in front, afforded a grateful shade; and climbing roses and
honeysuckles were trained around the front door, giving a neat and
tasteful aspect to the cottage. In the rear, upon an elevated pole, was
a perfect fac-simile of the house, in miniature, erected for the
accommodation of the birds; and there never was a spring-time when this
snug tenement failed to secure a respectable family as tenants for the
season. On the next page is a view of the premises.
The barn, which the picture is not large enough to take in, was a short
distance from the house, on the left. It was much larger than the
cottage, and attached to it were buildings for the hens and pigs.
[Illustration]
Clinton, who had been busy, now joined his cousin, and offered to
accompany him around the premises.
“This is what we call the shop,” he said, opening the door into a small
room adjoining the pantry.
“Why, what a snug little place! and what a lot of tools you have got!”
said Whistler.
“Father used to be a carpenter before he went to farming,” added
Clinton, “and he has always kept a set of tools. They are handy in such
a place as this, where carpenters are not to be had.”
“I suppose you work here some, don’t you? If I had such a place, I
should spend half my time in it,” said Whistler.
“Yes,” replied Clinton; “I use the tools a little. There’s a windmill
I’m making now; but I don’t know when it will be finished. I haven’t
much time to work in the shop in summer.”
“Clinty made this cart for me,” said Annie, who had followed the boys;
and she pointed to a neat little wagon.
“Did he? Why, he is a real nice workman,” said Whistler.
“And he made the vane on the barn, and the bird-house, too,” added
Annie.
“Can’t you think of something else that I made, Sissy?” said Clinton,
laughing at the pride Annie evidently took in his ingenuity.
“Yes,” she promptly replied; “he made the arbor over the front door.”
“Why, Clinton, you _are_ a carpenter, sure enough!” said Whistler. “I
should think you might almost build a house; I mean a real house, not a
bird-house.”
Clinton smiled at this rather extravagant estimate of his mechanical
skill, and led the way towards the barn, through which he conducted his
cousin, from the cellar almost to the ridge-pole. The hayloft was very
large, and was nearly filled with new-mown hay, the fragrance of which
was delightful. Swallows were darting in and out of the great door, and
gayly twittering among the lofty rafters, where they had made their
nests. A large quantity of unthreshed grain, bound up in sheaves, was
stacked away on the main floor, in one end of the barn.
“There’s a good lot of straw,” said Whistler, as they passed by the
grain.
“And something besides straw, too; that is rye,” replied Clinton.
“Is it rye?” said Whistler. “Well, I’m just green enough not to know
straw from grain, or one kind of grain from another. Father told me I
should make myself so verdant that the cows would chase me, and I don’t
know but that he was right.”
“They laugh about country people being green, when they go to the city,”
said Clinton; “but I guess they don’t appear much worse than city folks
sometimes do in the country. I don’t mean you, though,” he added; “for
you haven’t done anything very bad yet.”
Whistler broke off a head of rye, and found concealed beneath the
bearded points several hard, plump kernels, that had a sweet and
pleasant taste. Following his cousin, he then visited the pig-pen, which
was behind the barn, and connected with a portion of the barn cellar.
Half a dozen fat porkers were lazily stretched about, in shady places,
presenting one of those familiar groups that, if they do not appeal to
the artist’s sense of the beautiful, _do_ appeal most forcibly to the
plain farmer’s sense of lard and “middlings.” If not picturesque, they
are decidedly _baconesque_, which some people consider much better.
“Now you must go and see my biddies,” said Clinton; and he led the way
to a large hen-coop, near the piggery.
“Are these _your_ fowls?” inquired Whistler.
“Yes, they are all mine,” replied his cousin. “Father gave me all of his
fowls, five years ago, and I have managed them just as I pleased ever
since. I have to find their food, and I have all their eggs and
chickens. Even the eggs mother uses she has to buy of me.”
“That is a first-rate plan,” said Whistler. “I should think you might
make lots of money in that way.”
“This isn’t all,” added Clinton; “I have a flock of turkeys, and a lot
of ducks, besides. The turkeys are off, somewhere; they roam all over
the farm. The ducks are in that little house down by the brook; we’ll go
and see them by-and-by.”
“I should think I was rich, if I owned so many creatures,” said
Whistler. “But you have to buy corn for them,—I suppose that takes off
the profit, doesn’t it?”
“I haven’t bought a bushel of corn since the first year I had them,”
replied Clinton. “Do you see that cornfield, just beyond the brook? That
is _my_ field. I planted and hoed it myself, and I shall have all the
corn that grows there.”
“But how did you come by it?—did you buy the land?” inquired Whistler,
more astonished than ever.
“No, I don’t own the land,” replied Clinton. “Father has got more than
he can cultivate, and he lets me have the use of that piece for nothing.
He helps me plough and harrow it, too; but I have to do everything else
myself. If I want any manure, I pay him for it. If the corn does well, I
shall have enough to carry all my fowls through another year. There will
be a lot of corn fodder too, that I shall sell to father for the cows;
and I have a lot of pumpkins scattered in among the corn, that will be
worth something in the fall.”
“Well, you’re a real farmer, as well as a carpenter, that’s a fact,”
said his cousin. “How I should like to be in your shoes!—and not in
yours, either, but in another pair just like them. Come, don’t you want
a partner? I’ll buy in, and we’ll start a new firm—‘C. & W. Davenport,
Farmers, Poultry Dealers and Carpenters.’ Won’t that sound tall! What
will you sell out one half of your business for? I haven’t much capital,
and don’t know much about the business; but I’ll try to make myself
useful.”
“I’m afraid you would get sick of the bargain,” replied Clinton. “You’d
find it pretty tough work to hoe an acre of corn down there in the sun,
when the thermometer is up to ninety in the shade. It’s a good deal of
trouble, too, to take care of so many fowls every day, in summer and
winter. I like to do it, to be sure; but a great many boys would think
they were real slaves if they had to do what I do.”
“It doesn’t take all your time, does it?” inquired Whistler.
“O, no,” replied Clinton. “I suppose it doesn’t take me more than two
hours a day, on an average, to take care of my fowls and cornfield; but
I do other work besides. I have had the whole care of the garden this
summer. Come and look at it.”
They proceeded to a large patch of ground in the rear of the house,
which was devoted to a kitchen garden. It had been sown with peas,
beans, radishes, lettuce, onions, early potatoes, sweet corn, cucumbers,
and other vegetables. Some of the crops had already been gathered, such
as the lettuce, radishes, and green peas; and the others seemed to be in
a flourishing condition.
“After we had planted the garden last spring,” resumed Clinton, “father
told me that if I would take the whole care of it, I might have one
fourth of all the profits. I thought it was a pretty good offer, and so
I took it up, and I’ve never been sorry for it yet. The garden has done
very well, so far. We keep an account of everything that is raised; and
next fall I can tell just how much my share will come to. I haven’t had
to work so hard as I expected I should, either. I do a little every day,
and the weeds don’t have a chance to get the upper hand of me. That is
the way to manage a garden. If I should let my work get behindhand, I
suppose I should very soon be discouraged.”
“Mr. Preston told us that you did almost as much work as a man,” said
Whistler; “and I think he was about right. One thing is pretty certain:
you can’t have much time to play.”
“O, no, I don’t work so hard as a man,” replied Clinton. “It only takes
about one half of my time to do all my work; but then I have some
errands to do, and my lessons to study.”
“I heard about your studying at home, and reciting to your mother: is
that the way you do?” inquired Whistler.
“Yes,” replied Clinton; “our school doesn’t keep in the summer, and, as
I have some spare time, I study a little at home. Last summer my rule
was to study two hours a day; but this year I have had more work to do,
and haven’t studied quite so much.”
“What do you study?” inquired his cousin.
“Arithmetic and grammar, principally,” replied Clinton; “but I write a
composition once a fortnight and now and then get a spelling or a
geography lesson.”
The boys now proceeded towards the duck-house. This was a small, rough
shed; but it answered the purpose for which it was intended very well.
It was situated near a small brook, and there was a little artificial
pond connected with it, in which the ducks could swim when the water in
the brook was low. Clinton himself made both the pond and the
duck-house, the summer previous. There were about a dozen ducks in the
pond, several of which were very small, being but a few weeks old. They
gracefully sailed off as the boys approached; but when Clinton spoke to
them they recognized his voice, and wheeled about towards him.
Having visited the principal objects of interest on the farm, Whistler
began to manifest some curiosity about the geography of Brookdale. He
got a pretty good idea of the natural features of the town, by ascending
a high hill back of his uncle’s house. Before him lay a beautiful lake,
or pond, as the Brookdale people called it, which looked like a bright
mirror set in emerald. A narrow river, glistening in the sunlight like a
silver thread, stole along through the meadows towards the southwest.
There were but a few widely scattered houses in sight, for Brookdale was
only a small farming settlement. On the north and east the view was
hemmed in by high hills, covered with trees; but in other directions the
prospect was extensive. Clinton pointed out to his cousin a mountain
which he said was twenty miles distant. It looked like a faint cloud on
the horizon.
[Illustration]
But I can give you a better idea of the geography of Brookdale by the
aid of a little map, which will show you at a glance an outline of the
objects which Whistler saw from the hill, and also some things which he
could not see from that position. The house numbered 1 is Mr.
Davenport’s, and behind it is the hill from which Whistler obtained his
view. No. 2 is Mr. Preston’s house, and No. 3 is the schoolhouse. The
map shows the position of the lake, the river, and the brook near Mr.
Davenport’s house. It also shows the Cross Roads village, and the
principal roads passing through the town.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER III.
A MORNING’S WORK.
CLINTON’S chamber, which Whistler was to share during his stay in
Brookdale, was one of the most curious rooms in the house. It was in the
second story, on the west side of the house,—the side represented as
nearest to the spectator in the engraving on page 30. It had two
windows, one on the west, and the other—a luthern, or dormer
window,—looking towards the south. The room was of pretty good size, but
was low studded, the pitch of the roof bringing the ceiling so far down,
on the sides, that a boy twelve years old could not stand up straight
under it. This made it seem like a garret to Whistler, who had always
slept in a large, airy chamber; but the walls were plastered and
papered, and the room was in all other respects comfortably finished. It
had a neat and cosy air, however, which, in spite of its low ceiling,
won rapidly upon the city boy’s regards. The tastes and habits of its
occupant were reflected in nearly every article. The bed, chairs and
table, were such as you might find in almost any boy’s chamber; but the
extras that you do _not_ find in every body’s room were quite numerous.
The first thing that attracted Whistler’s notice was a neat little box
upon the table, made of maple. On turning over the top, it was
transformed into a portable writing-desk, and was found to be supplied
with pens, ink and paper. This, Clinton informed him, was a birthday
present from his father, who made it. A small book-rack, with three
shelves, was fastened to the wall, and held Clinton’s little library.
The books were mostly of a juvenile order, and among them were several
that Whistler had sent to him in former years. The rack itself was of
Clinton’s own workmanship, and was very neatly made. Upon the upper
shelf, which held no books, there was another specimen of his handiwork,
in the shape of a full-rigged schooner, with sails spread and flag
flying. Brought up in an inland town, and never having seen the salt
water but once or twice, Clinton knew but little about vessels. And yet
he had built quite a respectable schooner; although, to the more
experienced eye of Whistler, the model was not of the most approved
clipper style. The name, “Dolphin,” was painted on the stern.
A number of engravings, of various degrees of merit, were attached by
pins to the walls of Clinton’s room. Pasted upon the wall, around the
looking-glass, there was a whole constellation of small pictures, which
evidently had once figured in newspapers and handbills. The windows were
furnished with paper curtains, which, judging from the quantity of
pulleys, fish-bone rings, cords, and other rigging attached, were
evidently put up by Clinton with an eye rather to ingenuity than
simplicity of arrangement.
Such was the room to which Clinton introduced his cousin, when the
family retired at night. After glancing at the various objects I have
described, Whistler noticed a slate and several school books upon the
table, and inquired:
“When do you study your lessons, Clinton? Have you got to get one this
evening?”
“No,” he replied; “I’m going to have a vacation now. Father thinks I had
better suspend my studies while you are here, so that I may have as much
time to spend with you as possible. I am going to arrange my work, too,
so that it won’t take so much of my time.”
“You needn’t do that,” said Whistler; “I can help you some about your
work, and I’d rather do it than not. I can drive the cows home, and help
weed the beds, and hoe the corn, and do lots of other things.”
“Well, you can help me some, if you want to,” replied Clinton. And the
boys continued to lay their plans, and talk over matters of mutual
interest, for an hour after they had got into bed, when sleep began to
steal over their senses, and their pleasant schemes melted imperceptibly
into airy dreams.
Early the next morning, before the sun was up, a rap on the chamber door
aroused the boys, and was instantly obeyed; for it was the signal to
arise, from Clinton’s mother. Having hastily dressed themselves, they
proceeded to the barn-yard, where they found Mr. Davenport engaged in
milking the cows. A vacant stool, an empty bucket, and a gentle-looking
cow, were awaiting Clinton’s movements and without any delay he seated
himself by the side of “Daisy,” and the milky stream began to flow.
There were two other cows, “Princess” and “Nelly.” As Whistler could be
of no service, he stood looking on, discussing the merits of the several
cows with his uncle and cousin. He found that each of the animals had
its own private character. Nelly was a red and white cow, with a gentle,
motherly look. She evinced much attachment for Daisy, who, indeed, was
her daughter, and resembled her in appearance and disposition. Daisy,
however, was the tamest of the three, and a trifle handsomer than her
mother. She would follow any of the family, and eat a turnip or an ear
of corn out of their hands. Princess was dark-colored, and gave the most
milk; but, as is apt to be the case with those bearing royal names, she
was selfish, stubborn and mischievous. One curious thing about her was,
that she always wanted to be milked first; and if the preference was
given to one of the other cows, she showed her indignation very plainly.
If any little attention was manifested towards the others, such as
carding or stroking them, she would seem very jealous, and try to
interrupt their enjoyment.
As the conversation was proceeding, Daisy showed some signs of
uneasiness, upon which Mr. Preston said, in a pleasant tone:
“Mind your milking, Clinty, and postpone your stories until you get
through. You haven’t learned yet to milk well and talk at the same
time.”
Milking is an operation that ought to be done rapidly and without
interruption, to be thoroughly and properly performed. Conversation is
very apt to distract the attention of the milker, and thus interfere
with his work, as it did in the case of Clinton.
The milking was soon completed, and the boys, as they drove the cows to
pasture, talked as fast as they pleased. When they returned, breakfast
was upon the table, and the morning air had so sharpened their appetites
that they were prepared to do full justice to the ample meal.
“Now,” said Clinton, as they went out after breakfast, “work is the
first thing in the order of the day. I must attend to the fowls, and
then I have got to weed a piece of ground, and after that I shall be at
your service.”
“I’ll help you do the weeding, and I’ll see you do the feeding,” said
Whistler, laughing at his impromptu rhyme.
“Your kindness is exceeding,—come, let us be proceeding,” quickly
replied Clinton, taking up the rhyme.
“Good!” exclaimed Whistler. “Between us both we might make quite a
decent song.”
“That’s the song I like to hear,” said Clinton, as a hen, flying down
from the box in which she had just deposited an egg, set up a noisy
“Cut-cut-cut-cut-ca-_dah_-cut!” with the accent very strongly upon the
last syllable but one.
“I suppose that’s what you call ‘The Lay of the Last Minstrel,’”
observed Whistler.
“Yes,” replied Clinton; “and if it isn’t good poetry, it is good
poultry, which comes near enough to it.”
A flock of turkeys, which were at large, spying Clinton with his
familiar peck measure, now approached the boys, pompously marching like
a file of soldiers,—a solemn-looking gobbler taking the lead. A few
handfulls of corn scattered among them, gave them plenty of business,
and Clinton then turned his attention to the hens, which at this season
of the year were confined within their own quarters, in consequence of
their scratching propensity. Having fed them, and given them a dish of
fresh water, he was ready to commence work in the garden. Whistler
wanted a hoe, too; and he was provided with one, and set himself to work
by the side of his cousin.
“I shouldn’t think there were many weeds here,” said Whistler, after
hoeing a few minutes. “I can’t find hardly anything but grass.”
“I should say that was enough,” replied Clinton. “This witch-grass is
about the worst stuff that ever got into a garden.”
“Do you call this witch-grass?” inquired his cousin.
“Yes, that’s one name for it,” replied Clinton. “Some people call it
piper-grass. Just feel of the roots, and see how tough they are.”
“Why, they’re almost like wire!” said Whistler.
“I never saw anything like it to grow,” continued Clinton. “I’ve cleaned
out every spear of it from this ground three times this summer, and yet
see how it has grown. It is almost impossible to kill it. The roots will
grow right through a potato, or a chip, or almost anything that happens
to be in the way. I left a handful on the fence-rail last spring, and
the first thing I knew it had taken root in the wood, and was growing
finely. Father says that when he was a boy they used to say that the
only way to kill it was to dry it, and then put it in your pipe and
smoke it, and be very careful of the ashes.”
“Does it bother you so every year?” inquired Whistler.
“No,” replied his cousin; “this is the first time we have had any in
this piece of ground, and nobody knows how it came here. I suppose a few
seeds got scattered here somehow or other. Before the ground is planted
again, it will have to be dug all over with a ten-tined fork. That will
clear it out, if anything will.”
“If father was here now,” said Whistler, “how he would moralize over
this witch-grass! I can imagine just how he would talk. He’d say,
‘That’s right, boys!—pull away! This witch-grass has all got to come
out, at some rate or other. It’s an abominable pest, isn’t it? Well,
it’s just like a bad habit in a man’s mind.—It’s no trouble at all to
get it started; but if he ever wants to get rid of it, what a time he’ll
have of it! Why, he’ll have to be raked fore and aft with the ten-tined
fork of tribulation, and then he won’t be sure that he has got all the
plaguy roots out.’”
The half-serious, half-comic air with which this was said, and the
amusing imitation which Whistler gave of his father’s manner, proved too
much for Clinton’s gravity, and he indulged in a hearty laugh, in spite
of the excellent moral so queerly brought to his mind. It was not
Whistler’s design, however, to make sport of his father. He had merely
given as faithful an imitation as he could of what his father might have
said, could he have looked in upon the boys just at that moment. Mr.
Davenport, when in the company of his children, lost no opportunity of
drawing lessons of instruction from the natural world, and from the
daily events that happened around them; and this habit had so impressed
itself upon Whistler’s mind, that he often found himself instinctively
imitating his example.
The boys, who were now some distance apart, worked on in silence a short
time, when suddenly Whistler gave a vigorous stroke with his hoe, and
then said, as if talking to himself:
“There, old fellow,—you’re fixed now!”
“What is that?” inquired Clinton.
“A toad.”
“Did you kill him?”
“Not exactly. I only cut off his jumpers. Just look here, and see how
smooth I took off his hind legs.”
Clinton took a look at the poor victim, which was struggling in its
agony, and, shaking his head, said, seriously:
“That is too bad!”
“What is too bad?” inquired Whistler, with some surprise.
“Why, to torture a poor thing in that way. I’d put him out of his
misery, if I were you.”
Whistler felt the mild rebuke, and, having found a large stone, he gave
the poor reptile his death-blow with far less satisfaction than he
experienced when he cut him in halves with his hoe. He was not at heart
a cruel boy, but he was thoughtless,—a fault which is the excuse (and a
very poor one it is) for a great deal of suffering inflicted upon dumb
creatures. Having dispatched the toad, he resumed his hoe, saying, in a
half-apologetic tone:
“I never could bear toads;—they say they are poisonous.”
“I don’t believe that,” said Clinton; “I never heard of any body being
poisoned by a toad. Besides, they are very useful in a garden,—didn’t
you know it?”
“Useful? no, indeed! I thought they ate up the things,” replied his
cousin.
“They eat up the grubs, and worms, and bugs, and such things,” replied
Clinton; “but they don’t hurt the crops. They are good friends to the
farmer, and I’m always careful never to hurt them.”
“I didn’t know that; I thought they had no business here,” said
Whistler. “I’ve always been in the habit of pelting them, just as I
would a snake, wherever I found them; and that’s the way all the boys
serve them where I live.”
“You ask my father about them when we go home, and see if he doesn’t
tell you they are useful,” remarked Clinton, who thought his cousin was
not entirely satisfied on this point.
“O, I suppose you are right; only it is something I never heard of
before,” replied Whistler.
“I’ve tamed toads, before now, so that they would eat out of my hand,”
resumed Clinton.
“You have?”
“Yes; it is easy enough to tame them. If they find you don’t disturb
them they’ll come out from their hiding-places, and hop around you, and
follow you, especially if you give them something to eat. Did you ever
see them eat?”
“No; I never did.”
“Well, you ought to; for it’s a curious sight. When they get within
reach of a slug or a fly, they dart their tongue out as quick as
lightning, and seize it. The tongue is very long, and red; and it moves
so quick that people sometimes think they are spitting fire, when they
are only feeding.”
“I’ve heard that toads spit fire,” said Whistler.
“That’s only one of the old prejudices against them,” replied Clinton.
“They don’t spit fire any more than I do; but I can tell you of one
strange habit that they _do_ indulge in.”
“What is that?”
“They swallow their own skins.”
“How can they do that?” inquired Whistler, with a look of incredulity.
“They shed their skins, like snakes, at certain times; but, instead of
leaving their old coat where they happen to take it off, they always
swallow it.”
“How do you know that?—did you ever see them do it?”
“No; but father has a book that says so. Besides, I never found a toad’s
skin, although there are plenty of toads about here.”
“Perhaps they bury their cast-off skins,” suggested Whistler, who, now
that several of his illusions in regard to toads were dispelled, was
disinclined to allow them the credit of doing anything remarkable.
“If I were going to guess,” replied Clinton, “I should think that they
might hide them in some way. But the book I spoke of was written by a
great naturalist, and I suppose he knew what he was writing about. In
fact, I don’t know that they shed their skins at all, only from what I
have heard and read about it.”
“Well, poor toady, I’m sorry that I killed you; but I didn’t know any
better,” said Whistler, as he tossed away the remains of his victim with
his hoe, and resumed his work.
About two hours before the sun reached the meridian the boys finished
weeding the piece of ground, and Clinton’s work for the day was
accomplished.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER IV.
AN AFTERNOON EXCURSION.
THE boys, after completing their work, amused themselves in various ways
until dinner time. They proposed going over to Mr. Preston’s in the
afternoon; and as soon as dinner was dispatched, they were on their way.
The distance was about three quarters of a mile; but it was the nearest
house to Mr. Davenport’s. A walk of less than fifteen minutes brought
them to a large, old-fashioned farm-house, shaded by a great elm tree.
Three girls were just coming from the house, each with a small basket or
tin pail in her hand. Ella and Emily were among them, and the
first-named introduced the youngest to Whistler as her cousin Harriet.
Harriet was between ten and eleven years old. She and Emily were the
only children of the family now at home. The youngest of the flock—sweet
little Mary—fell sick and died about six months previous to the time of
which I am writing. A month or two before that sad event, the oldest of
the children, Jerry, took it into his head that he could find a better
place than home, and suddenly disappeared one Sunday, while the family
were at church. For a long time nothing was heard from him; but at
length he wrote to them, from a foreign port, stating that he had gone
to sea, and was bound on a long voyage.
It appeared that the girls were about starting on a strawberry excursion
when the boys arrived; and the latter having been invited to join them,
they all set out together. Strawberries grow wild in that part of the
country. Ella and Whistler, to whom this fruit was known only as a
dear-bought luxury, thought it must be fine to eat the berries fresh
from the vines, with no fear of coming to the bottom of the box, and no
two-shillings-per-quart drawback upon the indulgence. They sauntered
along in advance of the others, looking on every side for the red and
luscious fruit; but they found none; for it was a long walk to the
strawberry patch. In going to it, they had to pass through a swamp, near
the upper end of the pond, the entrance to which did not look very
inviting to Ella.
“O, dear! I never can go through that horrid place!” she exclaimed. “I
should be frightened out of my wits!”
“O, no, you won’t,” said Clinton. “There’s a good path all the way
through, and nothing will hurt you. You follow right behind me, and I’ll
help you over the bad places.”
Ella still stood in doubt, while Whistler in his eagerness was following
the faint track, forgetful of his companions. Emily and Harriet assured
their cousin that they had often crossed the swamp; and, with a little
further encouragement from Clinton, she set forward,—not, however,
without some misgivings. In some places the ground was very wet; and
they had to step upon stones, logs, stumps, etc., which had been used
for this purpose for years. Two or three brooks also crossed their
track, over which old logs had been thrown to serve as bridges. In many
places a thick growth of bushes, often armed with sharp thorns,
stretched across the path, making it difficult for them to force their
way through. Ella, however, was the only one who evinced any fear; and,
but for Clinton’s constant encouragement and aid, she would have
concluded that the strawberries were not worth the risk and trouble of
getting them.
“Are there any snakes here?” she inquired, a new terror bursting on her
mind.
“None of any consequence,” replied Clinton. “There may be a few
water-snakes: but they won’t harm any body.”
“It makes no difference what they are, if they are only snakes,—I’m as
afraid of one kind as of another,” said Ella, who had a city girl’s
dread of everything of the serpent kind.
“O, no; you wouldn’t be afraid of a water-snake. They are just as
harmless as toads,” said Clinton.
“I’m afraid of toads, too,—and I can’t help it,” replied Ella.
“If you should live in the country a little while you wouldn’t mind such
things,” said Emily.
“Yes, I should,” replied her cousin. “I always had a perfect antipathy
to snakes, and toads, and spiders, and all such creatures. I know they
won’t hurt me; but I can’t help hating them.”
Seeing how little headway they made against her prejudices, Clinton and
Emily dropped the subject. They were not yet out of the swamp, however;
and soon another terror arose in the mind of the timid city girl.
“I shall get poisoned here!—I know I shall!” she said, in a tone of
mingled alarm and resignation, as though she would have added, “You may
do what you please with me,—I’m resigned.”
“There’s no danger of that,” replied Clinton, with a laugh. “You keep
close to me, and I will look out for you.”
“Are there any poisonous plants in this swamp?” inquired Whistler, who
had heard Ella’s remark.
“Yes, there’s plenty of poison ivy,” replied Clinton.
“O, yes; I see some now!” said Whistler, who was still at the head of
the little party. “That’s poison ivy, isn’t it?” he continued, pointing
to a luxuriant vine that was twining around the trunk of a dead tree.
“No, that isn’t it; that’s the other kind of ivy, or woodbine, or
creeper, as we call it,” replied Clinton.
“What is the difference?” inquired Whistler.
“A good deal of difference;—one is poisonous and the other isn’t,” said
Clinton.
“I know that; but how do you tell one from the other?”
“You see the leaves grow in clusters?”
“Yes; there are five of them. Each leaf looks as if it were made up of
five little ones.”
“Well, the leaves of the poison ivy have only three in a cluster; and
that is the way I tell the difference between them. When the leaves grow
in threes, look out; but when they are in fives, there’s no danger.”
“I must try to remember that,” said Whistler, repeating to himself the
last remark of Clinton. “Let me see,—how can I fix that in my mind, so
that I shall know ‘which is which,’ as they say? Now, I have it! If the
leaf has five fingers, like my _hand_, I can _handle_ it; if it hasn’t,
I must not touch it.”
This process, in Whistler’s mind, was not a mere boyish whim. It was
founded on a law planted deep in our mental natures,—the law of the
association of ideas. It is difficult to remember a number or figure
standing by itself; and the matter becomes still worse when two numbers
are to be borne in mind, and distinguished from each other, as in this
instance. But, by associating the number in the mind with some
particular object, event or word, we have a clew to it, which will
seldom fail us; and if the word, event or object, bears any resemblance
to the number, it is all the better. Thus you see that Whistler was
quite a philosopher in this matter, although he did not know it. By
making the act of handling depend upon the fancied resemblance of the
leaf to his hand, he would never be at a loss to tell whether it was the
three or five-lobed leaf that he was to avoid.
“There’s a three-leaved one!—that’s a poison ivy, isn’t it?” exclaimed
Whistler, a few moments after, pointing to a vine that looked very much
like the other, except in the number of its leaflets.
“Yes, that’s one of them,—don’t touch it!” said Clinton, as Whistler
approached it.
“I shan’t look at it,” said Ella, turning her head in an opposite
direction.
“It won’t hurt you if you don’t touch it,—you needn’t be afraid to look
at it,” remarked Clinton.
“I’ve a great mind to touch it, just to see how it would operate,” said
Whistler, going still nearer to the vine.
“Why, William Davenport!—you silly boy!” exclaimed Ella, with a look of
astonishment.
“No! don’t touch it, Willie! You’ll be sorry if you do,” said Clinton.
“It will make your face and eyes swell up, so that you won’t know
yourself; and it won’t feel very comfortable, either.”
“But it doesn’t poison every body, does it?” inquired Whistler.
“No; some people can handle it without being hurt,” said Clinton; “but I
wouldn’t risk it, if I were you. If you get poisoned once, you’ll be
more liable to it next time; and so the danger will keep increasing,
every time you come in contact with it.”
“Is there any dogwood about here?” inquired Whistler, turning away from
the ivy.
“Yes; there’s a little, I believe,” said Clinton.
“That is awful stuff! I’ve heard that you can’t look at it without
getting poisoned,” said Ella.
“I don’t believe that story,” replied Clinton. “I’ve looked at it myself
without being poisoned. Sometimes people who have been poisoned a good
many times, get to be so susceptible that they can’t go near ivy or
dogwood without being infected, even if they don’t touch it; and I
suppose that accounts for the notion that dogwood will poison you if you
only look at it.”
“What sort of a thing is dogwood? What does it look like?” inquired
Whistler.
“It is a very pretty shrub,” replied his cousin. “It grows almost large
enough to be called a tree, and has smooth and glossy branches and
leaves. It thrives only in wet places, I believe; but it is not near so
common as the poison ivy.”
There are one or two other facts relating to these plants, which Clinton
did not know, but which may be of some advantage to my readers when they
ramble through the woods and swamps. These two shrubs, known in common
language as “poison ivy” and “poison dogwood,” both belong to the sumach
family, and are the only plants in our New England woods that are
poisonous to the touch. Neither of them bears a conspicuous blossom or
fruit; so that if the young botanist should chance to discover a strange
plant with a beautiful and prominent flower, he may be sure that it will
not harm him to pluck it. An unknown plant should never be eaten,
however; as many species of the vegetable kingdom, which may be handled
with impunity, are poisonous if taken into the stomach.
Our party had now emerged from the swamp, and were ascending to higher
land. They soon came to the strawberry patch, but did not find the
berries quite so plenty as they anticipated, other pickers having been
there before them. Clinton proposed going further, and Whistler fell in
with the suggestion; but the girls preferred to stop and glean the few
berries that were left, rather than to seek new fields. The boys,
however, concluded to extend their tramp to the hills, about a mile
distant, leaving the girls to look out for themselves. Their course lay
through a succession of fields and pastures, gradually ascending, until
they reached the base of the high hills shown in the upper part of the
map of Brookdale. These hills were thickly wooded, many of the trees
being of majestic size and great beauty. They were chiefly pines, and
the ground beneath was cushioned with the brown foliage of former years,
while the air was full of the balmy odor that distills from this noble
tree. Now and then a decayed stump, which their united arms could
scarcely encircle, showed where some giant of the woods had fallen; but,
in the main, this hill-side forest was as nature made it.
The boys found it a slippery and toilsome path up the hill; but, once on
the top of “Bald Peak,” as the eminence was called, they were rewarded
for their pains by the extensive prospect that met their eyes. The spot
was very rocky, and, as its name implied, was destitute of trees. The
view took in a wide range of country, dotted with houses and cultivated
fields.
“There!” exclaimed Clinton, as they seated themselves upon a mossy
stone,—“have you got anything in Boston that beats this?”
“I don’t know,—we have some pretty good views in Boston,” replied his
cousin.
“From the top of the State House?” inquired Clinton.
“Yes, that’s one of the places,” said Whistler; “but we have a pretty
distant prospect from our house,—fully equal to this, I should say.”
“How far can you see?” continued Clinton.
“Well, I can’t say exactly,” replied Whistler, with the utmost
soberness; “but I believe we can see about ninety-five million miles, in
the day time, and considerably further in a clear evening.”
“I’ll knock under,—I don’t think even Bald Peak can beat that,” replied
Clinton, with a laugh.
After resting themselves, the boys, suddenly remembering that they had
started in quest of strawberries, concluded to go down to the foot of
the hill on the side opposite to the one they ascended, where Clinton
thought they should find some berries. They had not proceeded far, when
the sharp crack of a musket was heard not far off.
“Halloo! somebody’s gunning about here! I wonder who it can be?” said
Clinton.
“Are there many houses over this way?” inquired Whistler.
“No; there isn’t one nearer than our house,” replied Clinton. “There
isn’t a road within two or three miles either, except a logging-road
through the woods.”
“Then it must be somebody from Brookdale,” observed Whistler.
“I suppose so,” added his cousin.
[Illustration]
They soon reached a clearing in the woods, and discovered a
rough-looking man concealed behind the prostrate trunk of a large tree,
getting ready to fire at a pair of rabbits, which were nibbling the
herbage at a short distance from him. The timid creatures apparently
heard the boys’ footsteps, for they suddenly fled, before the man
noticed that any one else was near. When he turned about and saw the
boys, he looked surprised, and a scowl settled upon his face.
“What did you scare my game for?” he inquired, in a surly tone,
addressing Clinton.
The latter seemed somewhat alarmed, and replied that it was entirely
accidental. The appearance of the man was far from prepossessing,
leaving out of the account his cross looks, and the solitary place in
which they encountered him. His face was coarse and unshaven, and his
hair looked as if it was not on good terms with the comb. He wore a
loose blouse, or frock, and a queer slouched cap, and his feet were
without stockings. After giving the boys a searching look, he said,
addressing Clinton:
“Do you know me?”
“Yes, sir,” he replied.
“Who is this boy?” continued the man, pointing to Whistler.
“He is a cousin of mine, from Boston,” replied Clinton.
“What are you here after?” inquired the gunner.
“Partly to take a walk, and partly to get some strawberries,” said
Clinton.
The man now got up, and the boys noticed—what had before escaped their
attention—that he was quite lame. Using his gun to help support his
body, he hobbled a little ways, and then turned back toward the boys,
and said, in a kinder tone than before:
“Clinton, I want you to do me a little favor, if you will.”
“I will, with pleasure,” replied Clinton.
“I met with an accident this morning,” continued the gunner. “I’m taking
a tramp after game, you see. I started last week, and am on my way to
Moosehead Lake, all alone. I camp out nights, and have got a booth over
yonder, where I slept last night. But this morning, as bad luck would
have it, I fell from a tree and sprained my ankle, and it’s just as much
as ever I can do, now, to hobble about. I’m afraid I shall be laid up
here two or three days, if I don’t do something for it. If I could only
get a little rum, or balm of Gilead, or pain-killer, or something of
that sort, to bathe it with, I should be right down glad.”
“I guess mother has got something that would be good for your ankle,”
said Clinton, anticipating the man’s request. “I’ll ask her, and if she
has, I’ll bring it over to-morrow forenoon.”
“Couldn’t you get it yourself, without saying anything to her about it?”
inquired the sportsman.
“No, I don’t think I could,—I don’t know anything about her medicines,”
replied Clinton. “But if she has got anything that is good for a sprain,
she would send you some, I’m certain of that.”
“But I don’t want her nor any body else to know that I’m here,” said the
man.
Clinton did not know what to say to this. After a brief pause, in which
the sportsman seemed in deep thought, he continued:
“The case is just this: I’m owing old Ben Brown a little money, and I
can’t pay it now; but Ben is such an ugly old dog, that if he should
hear that I’m around here, it would be just like him to have a writ out
after me, or do some other rascally thing. You mustn’t tell a single
soul that you saw me here. If you do, it might get to him. Do you
understand?”
“Yes, sir; I’ll keep dark,” replied Clinton.
“You promise, on your word of honor, that you won’t say a word about
me?” continued the man.
“Yes, sir,” replied Clinton.
“Well, I believe your character is pretty good, and I suppose I can
trust you,” said the man; “but if you _should_ betray me, all I have got
to say is, look out for Dick Sneider!”
The savage tone with which this last sentence was uttered, startled the
boys somewhat; but they made no reply. The man then bound Whistler to
secrecy by a similar promise. The boys, who had seated themselves on the
log, now arose to depart, Clinton observing as he did so:
“I’m sorry that I can’t bring you something for your sprain, Mr.
Sneider; but I don’t see how I can, unless you will let me ask mother.”
“Never mind that. I’ll give my ankle a good bathing in cold water
to-night, and I guess I shall be able to travel in a day or two.”
The sun was getting low, and the boys now started for home, at a brisk
pace. Their adventure supplied a topic of conversation most of the way;
but, in reply to Whistler’s numerous questions, Clinton could give no
very definite information in regard to the man they had so unexpectedly
encountered. All that he knew about Sneider was, that he once kept a
disreputable shop at the Cross Road, where he sold intoxicating liquor,
in violation of law; that his establishment was finally broken up, and
himself sent to jail; and that he had the name of being a desperate
fellow.
On their way the boys passed through the pasture in which the cows were
kept. They found Daisy, Nelly and Princess, quietly awaiting their
coming at the gateway; and, having taken down the bars, they drove, or
rather followed, the sober and dignified animals to their home.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER V.
THE ACCIDENT.
“YOU will have to amuse yourself indoors to-day,” said Clinton to his
cousin, the next morning, as he looked out of the window, soon after the
accustomed triple rap had aroused him from his slumbers. The rain was
falling fast, and the direction of the wind betokened a storm rather
than a shower. Whistler was somewhat disappointed, as he and Clinton had
planned a ride; but he concluded to make the best of it, and find such
amusement as he could in the barn, the shop, and the house.
After breakfast the boys went out to the barn, Clinton having several
jobs to attend to. Whistler, not liking to be idle, took it into his
head to cut up some hay for the horse,—a kind of work which he could do
as well as Clinton. The hay-cutter, as most of you know, consists of a
sort of shallow wooden trough, with a cylinder, in which are several
sharp knives, at one end of it. The cylinder is made to revolve very
fast, by means of an iron wheel and crank turned by the hand; and as the
hay is pushed slowly against the knives, it is cut into short pieces,
and falls into the vessel placed to receive it. Whistler had worked at
the machine but a few minutes, when some drops of fresh blood on the hay
attracted his attention. He looked at his left hand, which was feeding
the machine, and found, to his astonishment, that the end of the fore
finger was missing! For an instant, he could hardly believe his eyes,
for the knife had done its work so neatly that he felt no pain nor
unusual sensation in the mutilated finger; but the flowing blood quickly
dispelled all doubt as to what had happened.
“Clinton!” he called, “come here, quick! I’ve cut my finger off!”
Clinton, pale with fright, ran to his aid; but he seemed somewhat
relieved when he found that his cousin had not lost the whole finger,
but only about half an inch of it. It was bad enough, however, as it
was; and he sympathized most tenderly with Whistler. They were about to
go into the house, when a new idea occurred to Clinton.
“Where is the piece that came off? Have you found it?” he inquired.
“No,” replied Whistler.
“We must find it, then, and put it on before it gets cold. I shouldn’t
wonder if it would grow on again. I believe I’ve heard of such things,”
said Clinton.
“You look for it, then,—I can’t. I don’t want to see it,” said Whistler,
who began to feel faint and sick from the sight of blood. “O, dear!” he
added, “what shall I do? My visit is spoilt!—and I thought I should have
such a good time!” And the tears began to flow fast.
“Don’t say so, Willie,” said Clinton, who was looking among the hay for
the end of the finger. “This won’t be a very bad affair. I know you’ll
have a good time yet, before your vacation is over.”
“What will uncle say?” continued Whistler. “He cautioned me about the
hay-cutter this morning; and father did, too, before I came down here. I
thought I was careful, and I don’t see, now, how I did it.”
“Here’s the piece!” said Clinton, as he discovered the missing tip. “It
looks as natural as life, doesn’t it? Now, let me put it on, just as it
belongs, and then we’ll go in and get mother to do the finger up.”
Clinton carefully pressed the severed parts together, and put a
handkerchief over the hand, and they then went into the house. Willie’s
appearance, as he entered the room, gave his aunt quite a shock; but she
quickly recalled her presence of mind, and, on learning the nature of
his injury, took immediate measures for his relief. Clinton, in the
meantime, called his father. As his uncle entered, Whistler gave vent to
a new outburst of tears; but when Mr. Davenport, instead of alluding to
the warning he had given him, or charging him with carelessness, spoke
of the danger attending the use of the hay-cutter, and of the frequency
of accidents of this kind, Willie’s tears gradually dried up, and he
began to regain something of the self-command he had lost. It often
happens that the first shock of a misfortune unmans even the bravest of
spirits; and we need not wonder, therefore, that Whistler was at first
so much affected by what was after all not a very serious accident.
It was thought best to send for the physician at once; and Clinton was
despatched for him, in a covered wagon, as the rain was still falling
fast. Dr. Hart lived a mile or two from Mr. Davenport’s; and it was
nearly an hour before he drove up in his gig. He found his young patient
quite calm and cheerful, and received from him a minute account of the
accident. He then tenderly unbound the wounded finger, and examined into
the extent of the injury.
“This is not going to be a very bad affair, Willie,” said the doctor,
after he had completed his examination. “It isn’t near so serious as it
would be if you had cut off two or three of your fingers, as I have
frequently known boys to do when playing with a hay-cutter. I think the
tip will grow on again, and the finger will be about as good as it ever
was. It is very fortunate that you did not forget to put the piece on
again.”
“I must give Clinton the credit of that; I shouldn’t have thought of
it,” said Whistler.
“Suppose the piece shouldn’t grow on, what then?” inquired Clinton.
“Then his finger will always be half an inch short, and it will be
rather tender for a time,” replied the doctor. “But I feel quite
confident that it will knit together. I shall have to sew it on, to keep
it in its place; but that won’t hurt him much.”
The doctor drew from his coat pocket a small case of instruments, at the
sight of which little Annie retreated from the room. Clinton soon
followed her example, feeling that he had not the nerve to witness the
operation. Whistler himself looked rather anxious, but not more so than
his uncle and aunt. He promptly obeyed all the directions of the doctor,
however; and when the needle was inserted through his flesh, he did not
flinch, nor utter a single cry, although the pain sent the tears into
his eyes. No resistance being offered, and no time lost in coaxing the
patient, the operations of sewing and dressing were performed very
quickly and neatly.
“There,” said Dr. Hart, as he applied the last bandage, “you bore that
like a hero. There are few men who would behave so well as you did under
such an operation. Now, if you take good care of your finger, I have no
doubt it will heal up nicely. You must make a baby of it for a while,
and treat it very tenderly; if you don’t, it will be likely to let you
know it.”
The doctor then gave Mrs. Davenport some directions in regard to the
management of the wounded finger. Having thus fulfilled his professional
duty, he branched off to the topics of village news, as was his wont,
remarking to Mr. Davenport:
“Friend Walker met with a pretty serious loss last night.”
“What loss? I’ve heard nothing about it,” replied Mr. Davenport.
“Heard nothing about the fire!” exclaimed the doctor, with surprise.
“Why, his barn was burned flat last night, with everything in it.”
“Is it possible?” exclaimed Mr. Davenport.
“Yes,” continued the doctor; “and his oxen, and one of his cows, and all
of his hogs, were burned to death. Then his barn was full of hay—about
twenty tons. It’s quite a sad loss to the old man, and he’s almost crazy
about it.”
“O, I am sorry for the old gentleman,” said Mrs. Davenport, with much
feeling. “It’s a great loss, at his time of life, and he has seen so
much trouble, too.”
“But where were we, that we knew nothing about this before?” inquired
Mr. Davenport.
“O, I don’t wonder at that at all,” replied his wife. “You know his
house is over a mile from us, and there’s quite a hill between us, so
that a fire in his neighborhood wouldn’t show very plain here.”
“How was it with his horse? I suppose he was in the pasture,” said Mr.
Davenport.
“Yes,—they turned him into the pasture last night; but they can’t find
anything of him this morning,” replied the doctor.
“That is very singular; it looks as if some roguery had been going on,”
observed Mr. Davenport.
“O, yes; the barn was set on fire,—there is no doubt of that,” continued
the doctor. “There hadn’t been any fire or light near it for several
months.”
“Who do they suppose did it?” inquired Clinton, who had returned to the
room while the doctor was telling the news.
“They don’t suspect anybody, that I know of,” replied the doctor. “Mr.
Walker says he hasn’t the slightest idea who did it, and other folks are
as much in the dark as he is. People can’t help thinking of that
drunken, vagrant son of his; but, then, I don’t believe Tom would do
such a fiendish act, bad as he is.”
“O, no; Tom Walker never could have done such a thing as that,” said
Mrs. Davenport.
“Well, I’m sorry it has happened,” said the doctor, as he arose to
depart, “not only on Mr. Walker’s account, but because it diminishes the
security of the whole community. There is no safety for any of us, when
such villains are prowling around. Good-by, Willie; I’ll call to see how
you are getting along, in a day or two. Good-day, all.”
Soon after the doctor departed, Clinton and his father rode over to Mr.
Walker’s to see the ruins, and to tender their sympathies to the
sufferers. It was indeed a sad, and, in that village, an unusual
spectacle, that they beheld. The smouldering heaps of half-burned grain
and hay, the blackened remains of the animals that perished, the
partially consumed carts, ploughs and implements, the iron of which only
remained, and the surrounding trees, stripped of every green leaf,
presented a gloomy picture of desolation, where peace and plenty smiled
but a few hours before. The family had not recovered from their alarm
and excitement, and seemed to feel their loss very deeply. Mr. Davenport
tendered his sympathies and his services to his afflicted neighbors, and
soon after returned home.
Whistler, during the absence of his uncle and cousin, talked quite
cheerfully with Annie, and seemed in his usual spirits.
“I’ve got a baby, now, that beats yours,” he said, as Annie brought out
her doll to play with it.
“Where is it?” inquired Annie.
“Here it is,” he said, pointing to his bandaged finger.
“O, I wouldn’t have such a baby as that!” exclaimed Annie.
“He’s a real good baby; he’s alive, and yours isn’t,” said Whistler.
“But his head is cut off,” suggested Annie.
“No matter; the doctor has sewed it on again,” replied Whistler.
“Well, it’s an ugly baby; I don’t like it,” said Annie.
“No, he isn’t ugly; he never cries, nor makes any fuss,” replied
Whistler.
“He makes _you_ cry, though,” retorted Annie, with a look so arch that
Whistler laughed merrily.
“I guess your finger doesn’t pain you much, Willie, does it?” inquired
Mrs. Davenport.
“No, ma’am,” he replied, “I don’t feel it hardly any, now; and it hasn’t
hurt me much yet, only when the doctor was fixing it.”
For the greater security of Whistler’s finger, which could not bear the
slightest touch, his aunt fixed a sling, in which he carried his arm.
During the day he experienced but very little pain from the wound, and
in this respect was most disagreeably disappointed. Mr. Davenport
suggested that his father ought to be informed of the accident; and
Whistler decided to write to him that afternoon, as he had the free use
of his right hand. The thought of doing this, however, brought a shadow
over his countenance.
“I wish I could get along without letting the folks at home know
anything about this,” he at length said.
“That would hardly be possible,” said his uncle, “as your finger will
not have time to heal up entirely before you go home; and, even if it
were possible, do you think it would be right to do so?”
“No, sir,—I did not think of doing so; but I dread to have them know
it,” replied Whistler. “Mother will worry about me, and father will say
that I was careless,—that’s what he always says when anything happens to
me.”
“Isn’t it possible that you were a trifle careless?” inquired Mr.
Davenport.
“I suppose I was,” he replied.
“Clinton has used that hay-cutter, more or less, for four or five years,
and he never hurt himself with it,” said Mr. Davenport, who really
thought that Willie was a little heedless, and wished this accident
should prove a valuable lesson to him.
The gathering tears in the boy’s eyes warned Mr. Davenport that he had
said enough, if not too much. Clinton, noticing his cousin’s
sensitiveness, came to his relief, saying:
“Well, father, I always thought that hay-cutter was a dangerous thing,
and I’ve come pretty near cutting my fingers with it more than once. But
I’ve thought of a way that I can fix it, so that it won’t cut off any
more fingers. I’m going to nail a strip of wood over the place where you
put the hay in, close up to the cylinder, so that you can’t reach the
knives with your fingers. I’ll go and do it now, and see how it works.”
Whistler proceeded with his letter. Clinton came in, after a short
absence, and reported that he had applied his safety-guard to the
hay-cutter, and that it worked admirably. He said it interfered but very
little with the operation of the machine, and he thought it would not
trouble him at all after he became accustomed to it. It was impossible,
he said, for a person to cut his fingers when this guard was on, unless
he did it with design.
When Whistler had finished his letter, Clinton took it over to the Cross
Roads, this being the nearest post-office. The rain had ceased, and Mrs.
Davenport, having an errand to do, accompanied Clinton, leaving the
house in charge of Whistler and Annie, who found plenty of ways of
amusing each other until the return of the absentees.
It was not until bed time that Whistler began to experience much
inconvenience from his cut finger. He then found that he should need
Clinton’s assistance in undressing; and he subsequently discovered that
it was not quite so easy to keep his finger from contact with
surrounding things in bed, as it was when sitting up.
As the boys talked over the incidents of the day, after they had got
into bed, Clinton inquired, in a low tone:
“Didn’t you think of Dick Sneider, Willie, when you heard of the fire?”
“Yes, I thought of him the very first thing, and I should have spoken of
it if we hadn’t promised not to,” replied Whistler.
“So should I,” added Clinton; “but, then, it isn’t likely he set the
fire, for he was so lame he couldn’t have got over to Mr. Walker’s.”
“No, I don’t imagine he did it,” said Whistler; “but there was something
about his looks that I didn’t like. How cross he looked when he first
saw us!”
“I know it; and how afraid he was that we should tell somebody we saw
him!” added Clinton.
“Well, if he wasn’t so lame I should have some suspicion of him,” said
Whistler.
“But, perhaps he wasn’t so very lame; he might have only made believe
so,” suggested Clinton.
“I wish we hadn’t bound ourselves not to say anything about him,” said
Whistler.
“They say a bad promise is better broken than kept,” added Clinton.
“Yes; but how do you know that was a bad promise?” inquired Whistler.
“I don’t think it was a very good one, even if the excuse he gave about
his owing Mr. Brown some money was the real one,” replied Clinton.
“Well, I hope they will catch the rascal that set the fire, whoever he
is,” said Whistler; “but, after all, I don’t think it could have been
the man we met in the woods.”
Whistler did not pass the night very comfortably. When he slept he was
visited by troubled dreams, the effect of the nervous excitement of the
day; and his wounded finger was continually receiving knocks, the
throbbing pain of which awoke him, sometimes keeping him in agony for
half an hour afterwards. Daybreak was never more welcome to him than it
was the next morning.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER VI.
A LITERARY ENTERPRISE.
WHISTLER soon found that his visit to Brookdale was not quite “spoilt,”
as he feared it was, by the accident that had happened to him. His
injured finger was somewhat troublesome, it is true, especially at
night, when it received many unfortunate knocks, which often awoke him
from a sound sleep. It also prevented his joining in the rough and
active sports of which boys are generally so fond; and, as he had but
one hand to work with, he found, moreover, that he could render but
little assistance to Clinton, in his regular duties. But there was
another and a pleasanter side to the account. The wound pained him but
slightly, and his health was not at all affected by it. He could walk
and ride as much as he pleased; and then, when Clinton could not
accompany him in his excursions, he never failed to find sources of
amusement about the house, or in the shop or the barn. The doctor called
occasionally to look after the finger, and always reported that it was
doing well, never omitting to praise Whistler for the good care he took
of it.
[Illustration]
One stormy day, about a week after the accident, as Whistler was sitting
in the house, deeply engaged with a book, the lively “Clack! clack!” of
the flail struck up, and, taking his cap and book, he ran out to the
barn. He found Clinton in the back part of the barn, engaged in
threshing rye. The grain, tied up in bundles, was piled on each side of
him as high as the flooring above. The process of threshing hardly need
be described; and yet, as possibly some young city reader may never have
witnessed it, I will say that a quantity of straw is laid upon the barn
floor, and the heads of it are beat by the flail until all the grain is
shaken out of it. The flail is made of hard wood, in two pieces, united
by leather, or some other flexible material, which allows the shorter
piece to play freely, something like the lash of a whip. When the grain
is all threshed out, the straw is removed, and tied up in bundles. The
grain is then shovelled up, and passed through a coarse sieve, and is
ready to be stored away.
“Have you found a piece, Willie?” inquired Clinton, as his cousin
entered the barn.
“No, I can’t find one that suits me,” replied Whistler.
“Well, I’ve thought of another plan, and a better one still,” continued
Clinton; “and that is, that you _write_ a dialogue for us.”
“_I_ write a dialogue! That’s a pretty joke!—ha! ha! ha!” replied
Whistler, with a merry laugh.
“Yes,—why not?” inquired Clinton. “You write compositions, and you have
got plenty of time now, while your finger is sore. Come, you’ll try,
won’t you?”
“O, no; I couldn’t do anything if I should try,” replied Whistler. “If I
had only known it before I left home, I could have got a copy of the
dialogue the boys spoke at our last exhibition. It was a real funny
piece; better than any in this book. One of these will do, though, if we
can’t find something better.”
“But we must have something better,” said Clinton, with earnestness,
laying down his flail. “If you won’t write one yourself, you’ll help me
do it, won’t you?”
“Yes, I’ll agree to do what I can; but I’m afraid I shan’t help you
much,” replied Whistler.
“If we put our heads together, I think we can get up something that will
answer,” said Clinton. “As soon as I’ve threshed this lot I’ll go into
the house with you, and see if we can’t make a beginning.”
The church and Sabbath-school which Clinton attended were making
preparation for a social festive gathering, to be held in a grove; and
among the entertainments proposed were to be declamations by several of
the young people. Clinton and Whistler had both been invited to take
part in these exercises, and they had also been requested to select a
dialogue for two or three smaller boys, and to see that they were
properly drilled in their parts. They felt that quite a serious
responsibility had been laid upon them; and for a day or two it had been
the subject of much consultation. Clinton had at length made a selection
for himself, and Whistler had concluded to repeat the piece which he
spoke at his school exhibition a few weeks before. The dialogue,
however, was yet to be determined on; and, as they had less than two
weeks for preparation, it naturally gave them some uneasiness,
especially as they had thus far been unable to find a suitable piece.
After Clinton had finished threshing the lot of grain which he had
begun, he went up to his bedroom, with Whistler, and opening the little
desk upon the table, they sat down, and tried to agree upon some plan,
or subject, for the dialogue. They did not accomplish much, however,
beyond making a few pen flourishes, and thoroughly overhauling the
contents of the desk, which contained, among other things, a few of
Clinton’s compositions, in which Whistler was much interested. The fact
was, neither of them had any idea to propose, and the longer they sat
there the farther their attention wandered from the subject in hand,
until, at last, the call to dinner interrupted their fruitless
consultation.
The boys had no better success in the afternoon with their literary
enterprise, and Clinton’s ardor began to cool off a little; for, to tell
the truth, the ardor was pretty much all on his side. They retired to
bed early in the evening, intending to have “a good talk” before it was
time to go to sleep. While thus engaged, telling stories to each other,
Whistler related an incident that once occurred in the school he
attended.
“There!” exclaimed Clinton, as soon as he had finished, “why can’t we
bring that into our dialogue? It would be a complete subject, wouldn’t
it? We might change it a little, if we wanted to, to make it tell better
in a dialogue, but it wouldn’t be very bad if we took it just as it is.
What do you say to that idea, Willie?”
“I don’t know; perhaps we might make something out of it,” replied
Whistler. “If we could only get it up equal to the original, it would
make some fun, I can tell you.”
“We’ll try, at any rate,” said Clinton.
And they did try, the next day,—yes, and several days following. The
result was, by their joint efforts, Whistler’s story was “done” into
dialogue, with some slight changes to give it more effect. The old and
very reasonable adage, that “Two heads are better than one,” proved true
in this case, as they made a better dialogue, together, than either
could have written alone. They seemed aware of this, and even Whistler
came to feel quite a lively interest in the literary bantling. As the
reader may like to know something of this production, I will give the
substance of it, or, rather, the story on which it was founded.
A group of boys were playing in a school-room, a little while before
school time, when a trifling dispute arose between two of them—John and
Benjamin. One gave the other the lie, and, both being of hot
temperament, it was “a word and a blow.” They clinched, fell, and rolled
together on the floor, and were pummeling each other well, when suddenly
the teacher walked into the room. Taking the pugilists by the collar, he
lifted them upon their feet, and sent the other boys to their seats. On
inquiring into the origin of the quarrel, he found that they were about
equally guilty. Accordingly, he reproved them both sharply for their
fault.
“If you must fight,” he said, “why don’t you do it in a decent and
gentlemanly way, and not act like a couple of bullies? I’ll show you how
it should be done. Here, John, take this stick (handing him the familiar
ratan), and now give Benjamin one dozen smart cuts with it across his
back. And don’t you lift a finger, Benjamin, unless you want me to take
you in hand.”
John seemed as much astonished as pleased, as he took the rod and began
to pay on the blows; while his antagonist received them without a word
or cry, but with a sullen and dogged look. After he had completed the
dozen, the teacher told Benjamin to take the ratan, and bestow the same
favor upon John’s back. Both faces changed at this unexpected turn in
affairs, and Benjamin laid on his dozen with a heartiness that showed he
fully entered into the spirit of this part of the arrangement.
This operation finished, the teacher asked each of them if he was
satisfied, and received an affirmative answer.
“Well, then,” said the teacher, “if you are both satisfied, your quarrel
is made up, and you may complete the reconciliation by shaking hands,
and giving each other the kiss of peace.”
There was a general titter among the scholars at these words, which the
teacher promptly suppressed. Seeing that the two culprits hesitated, he
repeated the order; but they did not move.
“Well,” he continued, “I see your feelings are hardly mollified, yet,—I
shall have to see what I can do;” and he took the rod, and advanced
towards them.
The boys, blushing to their temples, barely extended their hands, and
brought their faces together, followed by an explosion of laughter from
the whole school, which the teacher sternly silenced.
“That won’t do,” said the teacher; “it was too cold and
mechanical,—there was no soul in it. You can do better than that; now,
try again.”
After a little more coaxing (the ratan still impending over their
heads), the culprits concluded to comply, and went through the ceremony
in a much more cordial manner. There was a new burst of laughter from
all hands, in which the teacher himself joined, this time; and the two
offenders retreated to their seats, with faces as red as peonies, not
knowing whether to laugh or cry.
Such was the story upon which the dialogue was founded. In dramatizing
it, however, Clinton and Whistler had found it necessary to make some
slight changes.
The boys made three copies of the dialogue—one for each of the principal
characters. It was decided that Clinton should take the part of
schoolmaster, and the two belligerents were to be represented by two
smaller boys. These boys had agreed to meet Clinton and Whistler on
Saturday afternoon, to study and rehearse their parts. The place of
rendezvous was a charming little dell, in a grove behind the
schoolhouse, which was well known to all the children in town by the
name of “Spouting Hollow,” from the circumstance that it was
occasionally used by the young orators as a place of rehearsal.
The boys had not yet shown their dialogue to any one. Clinton had
thought of getting his father to read it, but no opportunity had
presented itself as yet. On Friday evening, after tea, Mr. Davenport
took a chair from the house, and seated himself just outside of the
front door to enjoy the cool air, for the day had been quite sultry.
Annie, with her little chair, soon seated herself by his side and
engaged his attention, and it was some little time before Clinton could
get a chance to broach the subject which was upon his mind.
“Ah! have you finished the dialogue, so soon?” inquired Mr. Davenport,
when Clinton alluded to it.
“Yes, sir, it’s all done, and we’re going down to Spouting Hollow,
to-morrow afternoon, to rehearse it,” replied Clinton.
“Well, you have been pretty smart, and I hope you have done your best,
too,” said his father, in a tone that seemed to imply some slight
misgivings.
“_We_ think we have done pretty well,” remarked Whistler. “At any rate,
we’ve made a better dialogue than I thought we could.”
“Ah! I’m glad to hear that,” replied Mr. Davenport; “what is the subject
of it?”
“Perhaps you would like to read it,” said Clinton, with some reluctance,
slowly drawing the manuscript from his jacket pocket.
“Yes, I will read it, if you wish,” replied his father.
Mr. Davenport took the paper, and commenced reading it, for it was not
yet dark. The boys walked back and forth, around the house, both feeling
something of that indefinite dread which the modest literary aspirant
always experiences when his performances are submitted to superior
wisdom and judgment.
“How long it takes him to read it!” at length whispered Clinton, after
they had returned several times to the doorway, and found him still
absorbed with the dialogue.
After a few minutes’ absence they again returned, and Mr. Davenport had
commenced reading it anew.
“He’s reading it over again,—you may know he doesn’t like it,” whispered
Clinton, when they were beyond his hearing; and the hearts of both sank
within them.
The next time they approached the doorway, Mr. Davenport had finished
reading the paper, but seemed to be so absorbed in thought that he did
not notice the boys. They turned to go away again, when he suddenly
called to them, and they went back, feeling like a couple of culprits.
“I was thinking,” he said, “of deferring my judgment of this dialogue
for an hour or so, until I could collect my thoughts a little better;
but, as I see you are in considerable suspense, I won’t ask you to wait
any longer. And, to begin, I think you have executed your task very well
indeed, in a literary point of view. The dialogue is natural and
sprightly, and the whole arrangement is very good, and does you much
credit. And yet, I can’t say I am wholly pleased with the piece. Like
many other authors, I think you have been unfortunate in the choice of a
subject. Whose idea was it,—who suggested the plot?”
“It was my idea,” replied Clinton; “Willie told me the story, and I
thought it would make a good subject for a dialogue.”
“Ah! it is founded on fact, is it?” inquired Mr. Davenport.
“Yes, sir; it is almost word for word what happened in our school,
once,” replied Whistler.
“Well, I will tell you plainly what my objections are,” continued Mr.
Davenport. “They are of a purely moral nature, and perhaps you will not
feel their force so much as I do. In the first place, I don’t like the
fighting scene. I think it is so brutal and wicked for boys to maul each
other in that way, that I would not encourage it, even by imitating it
in sport. Besides, children are great imitators, and it wouldn’t be
strange if some little fellows, after seeing your dialogue represented,
should try to play off a fight on their own hook; and perhaps they might
get in earnest before they were through with it. And then, again, seeing
a sham fight, like yours, might strengthen a taste which too many boys
have for witnessing _real_ battles, in which bloody noses and torn
clothing are the prizes. I presume you didn’t think of these things; but
don’t you see there is some force in them?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Clinton.
“But they represent such things at the theatres,” suggested Whistler.
“I know they do, Willie,” said his uncle; “but, in my opinion, the
theatre is a very poor school of morality.”
“And we read about such things in books, too,” added Clinton, gathering
courage from his cousin’s objection to his father’s position.
“A written description of a fight, or any other species of wrong-doing,
is a very different thing from the same affair acted out by living
performers,” replied Mr. Davenport. “Still, such scenes ought to be
introduced very sparingly and very cautiously into books, in my
opinion.”
“Is there anything else in the dialogue that you don’t approve?”
inquired Clinton.
“Yes,” replied his father; “but I suppose I must blame Willie’s teacher
for the other faults, rather than you. I don’t think he took a very wise
or proper course to settle the dispute between the two boys. I should
say that the mutual flogging must have deepened their hatred of each
other, and encouraged their fighting propensities. Then I do not like
the forced reconciliation; it could only make deceivers and hypocrites
of them. Exposing them to the ridicule of the whole school was another
bad thing about the affair. In fact, I should think that the whole scene
must have had a bad effect, not only on the culprits, but upon all who
witnessed it; and for that reason I should not like to see it
represented in a dialogue.”
“Well, then,” said Clinton, in a desponding tone, “we shall have to give
up the dialogue, for we haven’t time to write another, even if we knew
we could write a better one.”
“I hope you are not going to allow one failure to discourage you,”
replied his father. “I do not find any fault with this, except with the
subject; and I do not see why you cannot write another as good as this,
that shall be free from all objectionable matter.”
Here the conversation ceased, and Mr. Davenport went into the house. His
decision in regard to the dialogue had not been announced without the
greatest pain, as he well knew how sore a disappointment and how deep a
mortification it would carry with it. There was no honest and proper
course, however, but to express his opinion freely and fully; and he
accordingly did so, in as kind a way as he could.
“I almost wish we hadn’t shown it to father,” said Clinton, when they
were alone. “I don’t believe anybody else would think there was any harm
in it.”
“Well, as for my part,” said Whistler, “I’m glad we _did_ show it to
him; for if there’s anything out of the way in it, I should much rather
know it now, than not find it out until after it was spoken.”
This manly remark had a decided effect on Clinton, who, in the
bitterness of his disappointment, had uttered a sentiment which, to do
him justice, we must say did not come from his heart.
“I suppose it’s all for the best,” he said; “but what shall we tell the
boys, when they meet, to-morrow, to learn their parts?”
“We can tell them that our dialogue did not suit us, and we’re going to
write another,” replied Whistler.
“Another?—how can we do that?” inquired Clinton.
“Why, you don’t mean to give it up, do you?” inquired Whistler. “I
don’t, at any rate. We’ve promised the boys an original dialogue, and I,
for one, shan’t back out without trying at least once more. We’ve got
over a week to do it in, and it didn’t take us three days to write
that.”
“Yes,—but the subject?” suggested Clinton.
“Ah, that’s the stick!” said Whistler. “Don’t you think your father
could tell us of something to write about?”
“You might ask him,” said Clinton, who seemed determined that if another
dialogue was written, his cousin should shoulder the burden.
Willie did ask his uncle, who was much pleased to learn that the boys
had concluded to try again. He talked with them during the evening in
regard to the matter, and suggested several plans and subjects, one of
which struck them very favorably, and they at once concluded to adopt
it.
Early the next morning the boys went to work upon their new dialogue;
and so earnestly did they labor, that, to their own astonishment, it was
finished when the dinner hour arrived. It was much shorter, however,
than the first one, and was also simpler in its construction. Mr.
Davenport read and approved it; and in the afternoon the nymphs of
Spouting Hollow—if that classic retreat was honored by such
inhabitants—had the pleasure of listening to its first rehearsal.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER VII.
THE INCENDIARY.
“THERE! I can’t do anything with only one hand!” exclaimed Whistler,
somewhat impatiently, as he was at work in the shop one morning with
Clinton. He was nailing two pieces of wood together, for some purpose or
other; but the nail split them both, and rendered them useless.
“You didn’t drive the nail in right, that’s the trouble,” said Clinton,
after glancing at the pieces. “If you had turned it round the other way
it wouldn’t have split. You have set the wide part of the nail across
the grain of the wood, and it acts just like a wedge. Don’t you see how
the nail widens towards the head? Well, that wide part ought to go the
same way as the grain, and not across it.”
“I’ve heard something of that before, but I didn’t think anything about
it,” said Whistler, who, it should be remarked, had far less mechanical
skill than Clinton, who had enjoyed unusual facilities for cultivating
this talent, and, besides, had a natural aptitude for it.
“Even if you were driving a nail into solid timber, where there was no
danger of splitting,” continued Clinton, “the wide part ought not to go
against the grain; for, if it does, there will be a little opening
around the head of the nail, and that will let in air and moisture, and
make the wood decay.”
“Well, I’ll try it again,” said Whistler; and he began to look around
for some more pieces of wood.
“There is another thing about driving nails,” continued Clinton; “did
you know that you can drive one into hard wood a great deal easier if
you wet it?”
“No, I never heard of that,” replied his cousin.
“It is so,” added Clinton. “Oil is the best thing to wet it with; but
water is good, or you can put it into your mouth, as the carpenters
often do.”
“There’s some knack even in driving a nail, isn’t there?” said Whistler.
“Ah, there comes Mr. Walker,” said Clinton, as a man appeared in the
yard, and he went out to speak to him.
“Where’s your father, Clinton?” inquired the man.
“I don’t know,—he is somewhere about here,” replied Clinton. “Shall I go
and find him?”
“No matter about it,—I’m in a hurry,” replied Mr. Walker. “I was going
by, and I thought I’d stop and let your folks know that father has heard
from his horse, and got track of the rascal that set fire to the barn.”
“Has he?—who is it?” inquired Clinton.
“We’ve traced the fellow to Bangor, and there we’ve lost him,” continued
Mr. Walker; “but I’m in hopes we shall get some clew to him again. He
sold the horse about twenty miles this side of Bangor.”
“But who is the fellow?” inquired Clinton, with a feeling of suspense
somewhat similar to what he experienced when his father had the rejected
dialogue under consideration.
“We don’t know for a certainty,—he went by two or three different names,
and probably all of them were assumed for the occasion,” replied Mr.
Walker; “but, from the description of him, we think it must be a fellow
that father complained of for selling rum, over at the Cross Roads. His
name was Dick Sneider.”
“There! that explains it all, then!” said Clinton, and the color
suddenly went from his face.
“Explains what? Do you know anything about it?” inquired Mr. Walker,
with surprise.
Clinton then told Mr. Walker of his interview with Sneider in the woods
the night before the fire. Willie also came out, on hearing the subject
of conversation, and supplied some omissions which Clinton, in his alarm
and nervousness, had overlooked. Mr. Walker was a quick-tempered and
impulsive young man, somewhat overbearing in his manner, and, when in a
passion, not a very agreeable person, by any means. He could scarcely
restrain his anger, as the boys related their adventure, and repeatedly
interrupted them with the inquiry, in a quick, snappish tone:
“Why didn’t you tell of this before? What does all this mean, I should
like to know?”
His passion rose as the boys proceeded, and he soon lost all
self-control, and broke forth in a most profane and outrageous manner,
applying all kinds of abusive epithets to Clinton in particular, for not
telling of his interview with Sneider before; pronouncing him a fool and
simpleton for being so easily deceived by him; and, with the usual
inconsistency of men in a passion, threatening to have him arrested as
an accomplice or partner in the crime. The boys hung their heads like
criminals, under the stinging reproof; but, fortunately for them, Mrs.
Davenport, who, unobserved, had heard the whole conversation, thought it
her duty to interfere, now that Mr. Walker’s temper had reached such a
pitch, and she accordingly stepped from the house. The young man
softened his words and tones a little when he saw her, but still
condemned Clinton’s error in severe terms. She admitted that he had
acted unwisely, but mildly rebuked Mr. Walker for the severity of his
reprimand, reminding him that Clinton was but a boy, and had probably
done what he thought was right. She also spoke of the accident which
Whistler met with, and of the busy preparations they had been making for
the picnic, which had caused them almost to forget the fire.
Mr. Walker now started for home; but he had not proceeded far when he
met Mr. Davenport, and he stopped to inform him of the discovery he had
just made.
“Is that man drunk, or crazy, or what is the matter with him?” inquired
Whistler, indignantly, as soon as Mr. Walker was out of hearing.
“No, Willie; he’s a fiery-tempered man,—that’s all that ails him,”
replied his aunt.
“Well, if I hadn’t thought he was crazy, or drunk, or something of that
kind, I wouldn’t have stood so much of his impudence,” added Whistler,
whose courage rose as the choleric young man rode off.
“I know one thing,” said Clinton, “if Bill Walker ever talks to me in
that way again, I’ll give him as good as he sends.”
“O, no; you don’t mean that,” replied his mother. “That would be putting
yourself on a level with him; and I’m sure you wouldn’t wish to do that.
His bad temper is a great injury to him. It is notorious all over town,
and nobody respects him so much as they otherwise would, on account of
it. He makes a great many enemies, too, and, I have no doubt, he feels
heartily ashamed of himself when he gets over his fits of passion. I
hope you will never try to meet such a man with his own weapons. The
best way is to keep silence, or speak mildly. ‘He that ruleth his spirit
is better than he that taketh a city,’ as the Bible says. If you had
been impudent to Mr. Walker, it would have made him more furious, and he
would not get over his resentment half so easily; but now, he will soon
get calmed down, and then he will see that he has treated you badly, and
the next time you meet him he will be as kind to you as ever,—you see if
he isn’t.”
“Yes,—but before he gets cooled off, he’ll go all over town and tell
what a fool I am,” said Clinton, bursting into tears.
“O, no, I think not,” replied his mother; “but, even if he should, every
body knows what he is, and his reports will not injure you any, in the
end.”
Mr. Davenport soon came in, to make inquiries concerning the affair of
which he had just heard. He could hardly credit Mr. Walker’s story, who,
to tell the truth, had not troubled himself much to explain the
mitigating circumstances in the case. He listened patiently to the boys’
statement, and was very glad to find that the affair was not so bad as
had been represented.
“I am very sorry this has happened,” said Mr. Davenport, after they had
made their explanations. “If you had told me of this as soon as we heard
of the fire, it is probable that Dick might have been arrested; for the
officers would have known who they were in pursuit of. Your silence has
probably defeated the ends of justice this time.”
“But he seemed to be so lame, that we thought he couldn’t be the
fellow,” suggested Whistler.
“Ah, he was too shrewd for you there,” said Mr. Davenport. “You
shouldn’t believe all that such a fellow tells you.”
“Well, to tell the truth, uncle,” said Whistler, “I don’t think Clinton
is so much to blame as I am. I remember, now, his saying that he was
suspicious of Dick, and that a bad promise is better broken than kept;
but I rather talked him out of it.”
Whistler had a nice sense of honor, hence this magnanimous confession,
which, indeed, was not a mere compliment, but was the truth. Clinton
would probably have made the revelation immediately after the fire, had
he not been influenced otherwise—slightly it is true—by his cousin.
This, however, did not wholly excuse his mistake. He knew more of Dick’s
bad character than Whistler did; and, besides, he ought not to have been
so easily influenced against his own convictions. This, indeed, had
always been one of Clinton’s chief failings,—a disposition to yield too
readily to the wishes and arguments of others, when his own better
judgment ought to have dictated a different course.
Clinton did not allow his cousin to assume all the blame in the matter,
but insisted on bearing his full share. He strongly protested, however,
that he thought he was doing right.
“I am a little inclined to doubt that,” replied his father. “It seems to
me you could not have given the subject much thought. I suppose you had
a sort of general impression that you were doing nothing wrong; but I
suspect that you did not turn the matter over in your mind as you ought.
But, even if you did, after due consideration, conclude that you had
done right, that would not make the action right.”
“But, in that case, I shouldn’t be to blame for doing as I did, should
I?” inquired Clinton.
“Yes, you would be to blame, unless you could give a good excuse for not
knowing better,” replied his father. “But, are you sure that you gave
the subject proper reflection, and acted according to the best of your
knowledge?”
“Yes, sir; I thought I did,” replied Clinton.
“Your promise to Dick was the only reason for your silence, was it not?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Why did you make such a promise? Supposing his story was true about the
debt, was it right for you to shield him from justice?”
“But he said he couldn’t pay.”
“Then you regarded him as an honest but unfortunate debtor, and thought
it would be an act of mercy to stand between him and his cruel creditor,
did you?”
Clinton could not answer that question, but looked perplexed. He finally
evaded it by saying:
“But he looked so ugly, that I didn’t dare to refuse him.”
“Did he threaten you, or use any compulsion?” inquired his father.
“Yes, sir; he threatened us after we had promised not to say anything
about it.”
“Well, that will hardly excuse you for making such a promise. I think
you yielded too willingly. You can hardly say that he _compelled_ you to
promise secrecy. But, suppose he did compel you, what then?”
“I suppose it would not have been binding on us.”
“Why not?”
“Because he forced us into it.”
“Then, when the barons of England compelled King John to sign the Magna
Charta, which secured to Englishmen their liberties, the act was not
binding upon him, because he was forced into it; was it so?”
Clinton made no reply.
“If I should catch a boy stealing apples from my trees,” continued his
father, “and should refuse to let him go until he had promised not to
steal any more, he would be under no obligations to keep his promise,
would he?”
“Yes, sir, he would.”
“Are there any circumstances, then, under which it is proper to violate
a promise?”
“Yes, sir,—when the promise is wrong.”
“Yes, that is a settled principle in morals, and one that commends
itself to every honest mind. If I promise to do what is wrong, I am
bound to break that promise. Now, apply this principle to your promise
to Dick. Do you think that was a promise that ought to have been kept?”
“I know it wasn’t, now, but I didn’t know then.”
“But I want you to banish from your mind all thoughts of the fire, and
what you have since learned about it. We will suppose that Dick’s story
was true. You meet him unexpectedly in the woods. You know that he is a
worthless fellow, a vagabond and a rascal. He pleads that he is in debt,
and unable to pay, and wants you to promise to tell no one that you saw
him. You know that if he is too poor to pay what he owes, it is because
he is too lazy to work. You know, moreover, that he is a man who would
be just as likely to tell you a lie as the truth. Now, was it right for
you to make such a promise to such a man?”
“No, sir.”
“And, after it was made, was it right to keep it, and shield such a
worthless fellow from the consequences of the life he is leading?”
“No, sir.”
“Well, then, why didn’t you find that out sooner?”
“I didn’t look at it in that light.”
“That confirms what I said at the beginning. You did not give the matter
much thought; if you had, you would have seen it in just this light,
even if the fire had never happened. But, what surprises me most of all
is, that, after you knew some villain had set Mr. Walker’s barn on fire,
and run off with his horse, you did not take the trouble to think over
this affair earnestly, and decide what it was your duty to do. You seem
to have let it slip from your mind, as soon as you could, without
knowing whether you were doing right or wrong. If you had done this
under somewhat different circumstances, it might have blasted your
character for life. Many an innocent man has found himself entangled in
the meshes of the law, by merely keeping a rogue’s secret.”
Clinton was much affected by his father’s plain dealing with him, and
attempted no further excuse. Whistler also felt badly about the affair,
and he could not help taking to himself a good share of the censure
bestowed upon his cousin. Mrs. Davenport, however, who had been a silent
listener to the conversation, was not wholly satisfied with the course
her husband had taken. She thought he had judged the boys with too much
severity, and she accordingly put in a plea in their behalf. Her
argument included pretty much all that could be said in mitigation of
their error; and if they had been on trial, and she had been their
lawyer, we may suppose that the heads of her “brief” would have been
something after this fashion:
(1.) Their youth and inexperience—not strange that a wicked and artful
man should mislead them—the young, by a beautiful law of our natures,
are more inclined to believe than to doubt what is told them; not
strange that so young persons should not go through a long process of
reasoning, as to the right and wrong of the matter.
(2.) Dick’s feigned lameness was well calculated to deceive them, and
allay all suspicion.
(3.) Their motive in keeping the secret was honorable—a regard for their
promises.
(4.) The hints thrown out by several people, that Mr. Walker’s
intemperate son, Tom, was suspected, may have had some influence on
their minds.
(5.) The excitement about Willie’s accident, the dialogues, etc., had
probably caused them to think less about the matter than they otherwise
would.
“Well,” said Mr. Davenport, after she had concluded her defence, “you
have made out something of a case; but, if my judgment was too severe, I
am inclined to think yours is too lenient. After all, perhaps the truth
lies about half way between us; so, Clinton, you can consider my
judgment as softened down a little; but,” he added, with a smile, “you
mustn’t think you are altogether so blameless as your mother makes you
out.”
“Mr. Walker will get his horse back again, won’t he?” inquired Willie.
“Yes; a man has a right to his own property, wherever he can find it,”
replied Mr. Davenport.
“I hope they will catch Dick, too,” said Clinton, “and then they won’t
have anything to blame me for. I should be willing to go to court, as a
witness against him, if they could only nab him.”
“I hope he will get his deserts,” said his father; “but, whether he does
or does not, you must let this unfortunate affair be a lesson to you in
the future; and beware how you listen to bad men, or make rash promises,
or keep a secret which you have reason to think ought to be revealed.”
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER VIII.
THE FOREST PICNIC.
THE long looked for twenty-fourth of August, the day appointed for the
picnic, at length arrived. At Mr. Davenport’s the whole family were
stirring before daylight had fairly appeared; for there was much to be
done, and it was necessary to start for the scene of festivities at an
early hour. A heavy mist hung over the village, at sunrise, but it soon
melted away, and the weather was all that could have been desired.
Fanny, who was to carry the family to the picnic, was furnished with an
extra allowance of oats; the pigs and poultry also received rations
sufficient to last them till night; and the oxen and cows were turned
into the pasture, to shift for themselves. After breakfast, the family
dressed themselves in their best suits; the horse was harnessed into a
large, open wagon; sundry cakes, and pies, and loaves of bread, were
stowed away in the bottom of the cart; and then, locking up the house,
all hands seated themselves in the vehicle, and they drove off towards
the Cross Roads. The place of rendezvous for the party was the vestry of
the church at the Cross Roads. This was the only church within a dozen
miles of Brookdale, the few scattered families in that village not being
able to sustain public worship among themselves. So the church at the
Cross Roads was _their_ church, although many of them lived four or five
miles distant from it.
When Mr. Davenport’s family arrived at the vestry, they found that the
people were nearly all assembled, and were about to start for the grove,
which was a mile distant. There was a singular collection of vehicles
around the church,—chaises, carryalls, wagons, hay-carts, &c.,—some of
which were neatly trimmed with green boughs. The word was given to get
ready, the various teams were loaded up, and the motley procession
started, escorted by several young men on horseback, and the rear
brought up by a large company on foot. Their route, most of the way, lay
through a noble forest; for the road was not a public highway, but was
little more than a path, being used chiefly for the teaming of wood. In
many places it was quite rough, narrow and steep, and the carriages were
obliged to proceed slowly; but it was free from dust, and was, withal, a
very pleasant and romantic road. Several men and children had gone on
ahead to open the gates, or, perhaps, to have the satisfaction of being
first on the ground. The principal manager of the arrangements, who was
mounted on a handsome horse, also rode in advance of the procession, to
see that the way was cleared.
[Illustration]
The grove selected for the picnic was at a place called “The Falls,”
about a mile from the village, in a southwesterly direction. At this
point the river becomes a miniature cataract, the current being
narrowed, and the descent quite abrupt. The bed of the stream is rocky,
and the waters, as they dance and tumble along their course, seem full
of the spirit of frolic. There are fine groves on each bank, extending
almost into the water.
The party reached the picnic ground in good order. The horses were
removed from the wagons and carriages, and hitched in shady places, on
the skirts of the woods. The young people were informed that they would
have two hours to ramble about and amuse themselves, while their parents
were looking after the provisions, arranging the tables, and gossiping
with their acquaintances. Clinton, Whistler and Annie, soon fell in with
Ella and her two cousins, and the six concluded to take a walk together
in the woods.
“What a charming place this is for a picnic!” exclaimed Ella; “we
haven’t anything that will compare with it around Boston,—have we,
Willie?”
“No, I never saw such groves as these around Boston, although we have
some pretty good places for picnics,” replied Whistler.
“Your brother Oscar used to like to come over here,” said Clinton,
addressing Ella; “he has rambled all over these woods many a time.”
“And so has Jerry; they used to come over here together, gunning,” added
Emily.
“Do you know that we expect Oscar home again pretty soon?” inquired
Ella, addressing Clinton in a low tone.
“Yes, Willie told me,” he replied.
“He is going to live with our Aunt Page, in Vermont; we think it will be
a real good place for him,” added Ella.
“I’m glad of it, and I hope he will do well,” said Clinton.
“He says he means to,” replied Ella; “he wrote mother a beautiful
letter, just before I left home. I wish you could read it; it doesn’t
seem like him, at all.”
“I wish I could see him once more. Perhaps I shall, when I go to Boston
next month,” said Clinton.
The boy of whom they were speaking was Ella’s oldest brother. He was at
this time about fifteen years old. He had been a wayward boy, and had
caused the family much trouble and sorrow. He had been disobedient and
disrespectful to his parents, and rough and domineering towards the
other children. He chose for his associates boys who were, to say the
least, no better than himself, and fell into indolent habits, neglecting
his studies at school, and shirking, as far as he could, the various
little services which he was expected to perform at home. At length his
misconduct became so troublesome, that it was thought best to remove him
from his city associates and temptations. Accordingly, he went to reside
with his uncle in Brookdale, where he spent several months. This,
however, did not reform him; but, instead of correcting his evil habits,
he exerted a bad influence on his new acquaintances. This was especially
true of his cousin Jerry, who was sadly contaminated by his example; and
even Clinton, with all his good habits and principles, did not wholly
escape the moral contagion. But at length his career in that place was
brought to a close by an act that entitled him to a cell in the county
prison, and his father was obliged to take him home, to save him from
the consequences of his crime. He then made a short voyage to sea; but,
not fancying that mode of life, he again became a loiterer about the
streets of Boston, fell into bad company, was arrested for stealing,
and, after a public trial, was sent to the Reform School; and there he
remained at the time this conversation took place.[1]
Footnote 1:
A fuller account of Oscar’s career is given in the first two volumes
of this series, namely, “Oscar” and “Clinton.”
The two hours allotted to the young folks for sports and rambles were
improved in various ways. Some strolled through the woods and fields, in
quest of flowers or berries; some sailed chip boats on the river, or
waded in its clear waters, or tried to catch imaginary fish with worms
impaled upon pin hooks; some amused themselves with a swing which had
been suspended from the limb of a lofty oak; others played “I spy!”
“hide and seek,” “tag,” and similar games; and others, reclining on the
grass under the trees, talked and sang, and watched the movements of
those around them. Clinton and Whistler, who felt some responsibility
for a portion of the entertainment that was to be provided, did not
remain long with the Prestons, but hunted up the boys who were to take
part in the declamations, and assisted in making the necessary
preparations for this part of the exercises.
At length the clear notes of a horn rang through the woods for several
minutes. This was the signal for the company to assemble, and it was
promptly obeyed. The “Log Cabin,” as it was called, was the place of
gathering. This was a long, low, and rude structure, the walls being of
logs, laid one upon another, and the roof thatched with bark. There were
several square holes in the sides, which let in the light, and an
opening at one end, which served as a door. A pole was fastened to the
gable over the door, from which floated an American flag. This log house
was erected for the accommodation of picnic parties, by the young men of
the neighborhood, several years previous.
The inside of the log house was as rude as the exterior. The end
opposite the entrance had a raised platform, but the rest of the
building had no floor except the native turf. On each side there was a
rough bench, the length of the cabin, which furnished the only seats for
the company. The interior was prettily decorated with hemlock and spruce
boughs, which were arranged in the form of an alcove and canopy, on the
platform, producing a very pleasing effect.
When the people had all assembled in this forest hall, the pastor
commenced the exercises by supplicating the divine blessing upon their
festivities. He also addressed the company in a familiar manner, and
then called upon the children for a song, which was given in a spirited
style. After one or two speeches, and another song, the declamatory
exercises were introduced by Clinton, who gave an extract from one of
Webster’s orations, in a creditable manner. Several misses and boys then
recited poems, or declaimed pieces, Whistler being one of the number.
Last of all came the following original dialogue, the joint production
of Clinton and Whistler, which we feel bound to copy in full:
THE RIVAL SPEAKERS.
SCENE—_The platform of a school-room._—CHARACTERS—THOMAS TROTTER, _a
large boy, with a “big voice,” and_ SAMUEL SLY, _a small boy, whose
vocal organ is pitched on a high key_.
[Thomas enters, and makes his bow to the audience, followed by Samuel,
who goes through the same ceremony, a little in his rear.]
TOM [_turning partially round._]—What do you want here?
SAM.—I want to speak my piece, to be sure.
TOM.—Well, you will please to wait until _I_ get through; it’s my turn
now.
SAM.—No, ’tain’t your turn, either, my learned friend; excuse me for
contradicting, but if I don’t stick out for my rights, nobody else will.
My turn came before that fellow’s who said “his voice was still for
war;” but I couldn’t think how my speech began, then, and he got the
start of me.
TOM.—Very well; if you were not ready when your turn came, that’s your
fault, and not mine. Go to your seat, and don’t bother me any more.
SAM.—Well, that’s cool, I declare,—as cool as a load of ice in February.
Can’t you ask some other favor, Mr. Trotter?
TOM.—Yes; hold your tongue.
SAM.—Can’t do that; I’m bound to get off my speech, first. You see it’s
running over, like a bottle of beer, and I can’t keep it in. So here
goes:
“My name is Norval; on the Grampian Hills.
My father feeds—”
TOM [_interrupting him, commences his piece in a loud tone_.]—“Friends,
Romans, countrymen!”
SAM.—Greeks, Irishmen and fellow-sojers!
TOM.—“Lend me your ears.”
SAM.—Don’t you do it; he’s got ears enough of his own.
TOM.—“I come to bury Cæsar, not to praise him.”
SAM [_mimicking his gestures_.]—I come to speak my piece, and I’ll do
it, Cæsar or no Cæsar. “My name is Norval—”
TOM [_advancing towards him in a threatening attitude_.]—Sam Sly, if you
don’t stop your fooling I’ll put you off the stage.
SAM [_retreating_.]—Don’t, don’t you touch me, Tom; you’ll joggle my
piece all out of me again.
TOM.—Well, then, keep still until I get through.
[_Turns to the audience._]
“Friends, Romans, countrymen! lend me your ears;
I come to bury Cæsar, not to praise him.”
SAM.—I say, Tommy, what are you bla-a-a-a-r-ting about; have you lost
your calf?
TOM.—“The evil that men do lives after them,
The good is oft interred with their bones;
So let it be with Cæsar.”
[_He is again brought to a stand by Sam, who is standing behind him,
mimicking his gestures in a ludicrous manner._]
Now, Sam, I tell you to stop your monkey shines; if you don’t, I’ll make
you!
SAM.—You stop spouting about Cæsar, then, and let me have my say. You
needn’t think you can cheat me out of my rights because you wear higher
heeled shoes than I do.
TOM.—I can tell you one thing, sir,—nothing but your size saves you from
a good flogging.
SAM.—Well, that _is_ a queer coincidence, for I can tell you that
nothing but _your_ size saves _you_ from a good dose of Solomon’s grand
panacea. [_To the audience._] I don’t know what can be done with such a
long-legged fellow,—he’s too big to be whipped, and he isn’t big enough
to behave himself. Now, all keep still, and let me begin again: “My name
is Norval—”
TOM.—“I come to bury Cæsar—”
SAM.—I thought you’d buried him once, good deeds, bones and all; how
many more times are you going to do it?
TOM.—Sam, I’m a peaceable fellow; but, if you go much further, I won’t
be responsible for the consequences.
SAM.—I’m for _piece_, too; but it’s _my_ piece, and not your long
rigmarole about Cæsar, that I go in for. As I said before, “My name is—”
TOM.—“The noble Brutus
Hath told you Cæsar was ambitious;
If it were so, it were a grievous fault,
And grievously hath Cæsar answered it.”
SAM [_in a loud whisper_.]—I say, Tom, did you know you had got a hole
in your unwhisperables?
TOM.—“Here, under leave of Brutus, and the rest.
(For Brutus is an honorable man,—
So are they all, all honorable men,)
Come I to speak in Cæsar’s funeral.”
SAM.—This isn’t Cæsar’s funeral,—it’s the exhibition of the Spankertown
Academy, and it’s my turn to officiate, so get out with Cæsar,—“My name
is Nor—”
TOM.—“He was my friend, faithful and just to me;
But Brutus says he was ambitious;
And Brutus is an honorable man.”
SAM.—Brutus be hanged; who cares for what he said? Come, you’ve
sputtered enough; now give me a chance to say something. “My name is—”
TOM.—Come, Sammy, _don’t_ interrupt me again, that’s a clever fellow.
Let me finish my piece, and then you shall have the whole platform to
yourself.
SAM.—You’re very kind, Mr. Trotter,—altogether too kind! Your generosity
reminds me of an Irish gentleman, who couldn’t live peaceably with his
wife, and so they agreed to divide the house between them. “Biddy,” says
he, “ye’ll jist be after taking the outside of the house, and I’ll kape
the inside.”
TOM [_to the audience_.]—Ladies and gentlemen, you see it is useless for
me to attempt to proceed, and I trust you will excuse me from performing
my part. [_Bows, and withdraws._]
SAM.—Yes, I hope you will excuse him, ladies and gentlemen. The fact is,
he means well enough; but, between you and me, he doesn’t know a
wheelwright from a right wheel. I’m sorry to say, his education has been
sadly neglected, as you all perceive. He hasn’t enjoyed the advantages
that I have for learning good manners. And, then, did you ever hear such
a ridiculous spouter! He might make a very decent town crier, or
auctioneer, or something of that sort,—but, to think of Tommy Trotter
pretending to be an orator, and delivering a funeral oration over Cæsar!
O my! it’s enough to make a cat laugh! And, now, ladies and gentlemen,
as the interruption has ceased, I will proceed with my part:
“My name is Norval; on the Grampian Hills
My father feeds his flocks——”
And—and—and—[_aside, to a boy near him_]—what is it?—[_to the
audience_]—“feeds his flocks”—and—and—and—there! I’ll be blowed if I
haven’t got dead stuck, a’ready! Just as I expected, that lubber that
came to bury Cæsar has bullied all the ideas out of my head! [_Beats an
inglorious retreat, with his hands over his face._]
* * * * *
How the hearts of the young authors beat, as, concealed from the
audience, behind the spruce boughs on the stage, they watched the
progress of the piece, and trembled lest, after all their pains, it
should prove a failure! But their anxiety was needless. The lads who
took the parts acquitted themselves admirably, and the whole assembly
seemed to join heartily in the applause which followed its conclusion.
After a few more addresses from gentlemen present, the assembly was
dismissed for one hour. The older people scattered themselves over the
grounds, in little groups, while the children, pleased with the
successful issue of their part in the entertainment, made the woods ring
with their merry voices, as they bounded through the grove. Clinton and
Whistler received many congratulations for the success of their dialogue
and the excellence of their speaking. Among those whose commendation was
most hearty, was young Mr. Walker, whom they had not seen, till now,
since the memorable morning when his passion so completely overmastered
him. The sight of him stirred up the sense of injury which was still
rankling in Clinton’s heart, and he tried to avoid him. Mr. Walker,
however, was now as calm as a summer’s day, and seemed to have entirely
forgotten the character of that interview. Familiarly slapping the boy
on the back, he said:
“Clinty, they say you composed that dialogue; is that a fact?”
“Willie and I wrote it, together,” replied Clinton.
“Well, it was a capital hit; every body says so. Your speaking was good,
too; you’ve covered yourselves with glory, both of you,” said Mr.
Walker.
The boys, somewhat abashed by praise from such a source, looked
confused, and made no reply.
“By the way,” continued Mr. Walker, putting a hand on the shoulder of
each of the boys, and drawing them aside from other groups that were
near, “you mustn’t think anything of what I said the other day. I was a
little excited, you know, and I suppose I said rather more than I ought
to. I have been sorry for it ever since, and I don’t want you to think I
meant it all.”
“We can see, now, that we did wrong,” said Whistler, perceiving that his
cousin was at a loss what to say; “but, the fact is, we didn’t think
much about it at the time. We didn’t mean any harm; that’s all the
excuse we can give.”
“No, we didn’t mean any harm, and we both felt bad enough when we found
how Dick cheated us,” added Clinton.
“Well, we won’t say anything more about that,” remarked Mr. Walker; “it
can’t be helped, now, and I rather think we shall catch Dick, after all.
If we do, he will have to sweat, that’s certain. He won’t get off with
less than three or four years in the state’s prison.”
Mr. Walker passed along to other groups, but his few words to the boys
had changed their feelings towards him very materially. Their resentment
had melted away before his apology, and they felt relieved from a heavy
burden of censure. Still, it must not be supposed that _all_ traces of
that outburst of passion were thus easily removed. No apology can sink
so deep into the heart as an angry word or an unjust reproach. The scar
remains after the wound is healed.
Another blast from the horn rang through the woods and summoned the
people to the feast, which had been spread upon a long table under the
trees, near the cabin. There was a bountiful supply of provisions, which
had been contributed by the various families; and the company, standing
around the tables, demolished the substantials and delicacies in a way
that evinced the sharpness of their appetites and the excellence of the
repast.
The dinner was followed by several speeches, stories, anecdotes and
songs, and then the people dispersed, to amuse themselves in their own
way. Clinton proposed a blueberry party; and his parents, Whistler,
Annie, the Preston children, and several others, entered into the
arrangement. A short walk through the woods, by a path well known to
Clinton, brought them to several acres of cleared land, which was
literally covered with blueberries, of a large size, and in full
perfection. To the regret of all, they had no vessels to fill; but they
picked as many as they could eat, and each broke off a few branches from
the well-laden bushes, to carry back to the grove, as specimens of the
generous yield of the blueberry pasture.
No hour was set for the breaking up of the picnic; but, as the sun
dropped down towards the west, one load after another started for home,
those who lived most distant being generally the first to leave. Mr.
Davenport and his family withdrew at an early hour, as they not only had
a long ride before them, but had many things to attend to after they got
home. The tongues of the young folks ran glibly enough as they jogged
along through the solitary roads, and all the scenes and enjoyments of
the day passed in vivid review before them. The sixth and last mile of
their homeward journey was half completed before they showed any signs
of having “talked themselves out;” and then the conversation suddenly
came to a stand, and they rode in silence for several minutes. Clinton,
who had talked more than any of the others, seemed all at once absorbed
in his own thoughts. He was thinking of the dialogue, and was about to
ask his father something about it, when it occurred to him that he had
already said full enough on that subject, and would perhaps be laughed
at if he alluded to it again. After a few moments’ silence, however, he
got the better of his modesty, and again broached the all but threadbare
topic.
“Father,” he said, “there is one thing I don’t exactly understand. You
didn’t like our first dialogue because the characters behaved so bad.
Now, I don’t see why you didn’t object to this other piece, for the same
reason. Tom and Sam didn’t come to blows, to be sure, but they
quarrelled bad enough.”
“I wonder that you did not think of that, sooner,” said Mr. Davenport.
“I did; I told Willie, before you read it, that you would object to it
on that account; but, as you didn’t find any fault with it, I thought I
wouldn’t,” replied Clinton.
“Until you were sure you should not have to write another dialogue?”
suggested his father, with a smile.
“O, we couldn’t have done that, any way,” said Clinton.
“Well,” continued his father, “I think I can clear myself of all
suspicions of inconsistency. And, in the first place, you must remember
that I did not say it was best to exclude _all_ exhibitions of bad
temper or character from a book or a dialogue. There are some faults
that may be very properly exhibited in this way. But there are certain
gross forms of evil which it is not wise to portray too minutely. For
instance, it would be painful to see the sins of murder, or drunkenness,
or lewdness, or profaneness, or fighting, acted out in a dialogue; and,
besides, the effect would be immoral. But, if you want to show off the
folly of vanity, pertness, ill manners, jealousy, ignorance, or any
similar fault, by giving an example, I have no objection to it, if it is
only done judiciously. Now, in regard to your dialogue, Tom behaved as
well as almost any boy would under the same circumstances. Sam was the
rogue; and he, I take it, was only a harmless personification of a pert,
self-conceited, but witty young blockhead, who, in the sequel, gets
abundantly punished for his impudence. Isn’t that the character you
intended to portray?”
“Yes, sir, I suppose it is,” replied Clinton.
“And do you see, now, why I didn’t object to the dialogue?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Clinton.
They had now reached their home, and Mr. Davenport took care of the
horse, while the boys went after the cows and oxen.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER IX.
THE MIDNIGHT ATTACK.
WHISTLER’S wounded finger continued to heal rapidly, and it now
occasioned him but little trouble. He did not use his left hand much,
however; and one day he was a good deal surprised, and a trifle alarmed,
on discovering that the arm itself had become much smaller than the
other. He at once showed it to his aunt, who relieved his apprehensions
by assuring him that its shrunken appearance was owing to its not being
used. She also improved the opportunity to give him a few hints on the
importance of exercise to bodily health.
“If you should keep your arm motionless for a long time,” she said, “it
would finally wither and become useless. So it is with our whole
bodies,—they suffer, and fall away, if they do not get exercised enough.
The reason that Clinton is stronger and stouter than you is, that his
body has been exercised more than yours. He was quite slender when he
was a little child. And it is precisely the same with our minds. If we
want to increase any of our faculties, we must make a good use of them,
and they will be sure to grow. But, if we don’t exercise them, they will
fall away, just as your arm has done.”
One morning, a few days after the picnic, there was a great commotion on
the premises, occasioned by the discovery that some murderous marauder
had visited the yard in the night, and taken the lives of a score of
Clinton’s hens and chickens. A brood of young chickens, which slept in a
barrel laid upon its side, apart from the other fowls, were all
murdered, together with their mother; while in the hen-house the ground
under the roosts was strewn with the bodies of the slaughtered. Clinton
rushed into the house in a high state of excitement, on making the
discovery, and the whole family hastened to see the bloody spectacle.
Many were the exclamations of sorrow and pity, as they gazed upon the
bodies of plump, matronly hens, and exemplary pullets, and feeble,
infantile chickens, now stiffened in death, their plumage ruffled and
stained with blood. Several of the fowls, however, were missing, having
evidently been either devoured or carried off. Among these was one of
the lords of the poultry-yard, who, perhaps, had attempted to defend his
family from the midnight assassin, and had been carried off bodily, as a
trophy of victory. The survivors were silent and melancholy, and the
shadow of a great calamity seemed to have settled upon them. The
remaining rooster, to be sure, was so ungracious as to crow lustily over
the bodies of his murdered household, in the presence of all the family.
Whistler charitably suggested that this was a song of triumph for his
own escape; but Clinton, who knew the jealous rogue better than his
cousin did, thought it was quite as likely that he was exulting over the
tragic downfall of his rival. Perhaps, however, with the bravado natural
to his race, he affected an indifference and stoicism which he did not
feel, and crowed, as boys sometimes whistle in a grave-yard, merely to
“keep his courage up.”
After the first outburst of regret and pity which the spectacle called
forth from all present, their curiosity was thoroughly awakened to
ascertain what animal had committed this cruel outrage upon a happy and
peaceful family. After a careful examination of the premises, no track
or trace of the creature could be found. All was mystery. There was
nothing but the slaughtered victims upon which to found a speculation,
and these told no tales against their murderer. Clinton was the first to
hazard a guess in regard to the assassin.
“It must have been either a fox or a wild-cat,” he said; “don’t you
think so, father?”
“If I were going to guess, I should say it was a skunk,” replied his
father.
“O, no, father,—a skunk wouldn’t have killed so many of the fowls, would
it?” said Clinton, who was unwilling to admit that so common and
despised an animal had done the mischief. “Besides,” he added, “we have
skunks around here all the time, and why didn’t they ever do such a
thing before?”
“If I remember right, they have done just such things before,” replied
his father.
“Well, it was a long time ago, before I owned the fowls,” said Clinton.
“It isn’t many months since Mr. White caught a skunk in the act of
killing his fowls,” added Mr. Davenport.
“But they have never disturbed our fowls since I owned them, and that is
over five years,” suggested Clinton.
“And there is a good reason for that; you have always kept your fowls
well secured against wild animals, until this summer,” replied his
father.
This was true. Clinton was at first very particular to shut up the
poultry at night, so that no animal could get at them; but their
exemption from attack for several years had gradually allayed all fears
on this score, and of late he had not properly secured his charge from
the midnight attacks of their natural enemies.
“Well,” said Clinton, “I don’t believe it was a skunk; I think it was a
fox or a wild-cat, or it may have been a ’coon. I mean to borrow Mr.
Preston’s trap, and see if I can’t catch him, to-night.”
“I’ll give you fifty cents for his skin, if you catch a ’coon, a
wild-cat, or a fox,” said his father, as he turned away from the scene
to resume his morning work.
“Agreed; and you shall have it for nothing, if it’s a skunk,” replied
Clinton, with a laugh.
“No, I thank you,—I shan’t accept that offer,” replied his father.
“Come, Annie, I wouldn’t look at the poor things any longer,” said Mrs.
Davenport, leading her little daughter away.
“Here, mother,” said Clinton, “what am I to do with them? Wouldn’t some
of those large ones be good to eat?”
“They may be good enough, for all I know; but I should not like to eat
anything that was killed in that way,” replied his mother. “Besides,
they are hardly fat enough to eat well. You had better bury them in the
garden; I don’t think they are good for anything else.”
“I will do it right away, then,” said Clinton; and he and Whistler
procured shovels, and began to dig the holes.
“I should like to see a skunk,” said Whistler; “do they show themselves
around here very often?”
“Yes, I see them occasionally,” replied Clinton. “One moonlight evening,
last spring, I had been away, and when I came home, I saw one sitting on
our door-step; but he walked off as soon as he heard me, and I didn’t
think it best to follow him.”
“They are nasty-looking things, I suppose,” said Whistler.
“Why, no; there is nothing very bad-looking about them,” replied
Clinton. “Their fur is brown, with white stripes, and if it wasn’t for
their odor, they would be hunted for their skins. People sometimes eat
skunks when they can’t get anything else, and they say the meat is very
well flavored.”
“What kind of a trap is it you are going to borrow?” inquired Whistler;
“will it kill the animal, or only make a prisoner of him?”
“It is a steel trap, such as they catch wolves with,” replied Clinton.
“It catches the creature by the leg, and he can’t get away, unless he
leaves his leg behind.”
“Perhaps you will catch a wolf,” suggested Whistler.
“No, a wolf didn’t do this. He would have eaten or carried off more of
the hens,” replied Clinton.
“Don’t you suppose the wolves come down here from the forests,
sometimes?” inquired Whistler.
“Yes, I know they do,” replied Clinton. “Last winter two men were in the
woods, about a dozen miles north of Brookdale, when a deer dashed out
from a thicket, within two rods of them, with a large wolf close on to
his heels. Before they could raise their rifles the wolf had the deer by
the neck; but they fired, and shot them both dead. I saw both of the
animals over to the Cross Roads. The wolf was over seven feet long, and
he was a savage-looking fellow, I can assure you. Another man, last
winter, was crossing a pond on skates, when a pack of wolves made after
him, and, in his hurry and fright, he skated into a hole in the ice, and
was drowned.”
“Do the wolves ever come this way in the summer?” inquired Whistler.
“Yes,” replied Clinton; “there are often great fires in the woods, in
summer, that burn for weeks, and then the wolves, and bears, and moose,
get driven from their quarters, and sometimes they pay us a visit. Mr.
Oakley, who lives on the Passagamet river, fifteen miles from here, had
ten sheep killed by wolves, about a year ago. A part of the flock came
round the house, and looked frightened, and the folks went over to the
pasture where the sheep were kept, to see what the matter was. They
found seven of them dead, and some of them were torn dreadfully; but
three of them were alive, and were hurt but very little. They only had a
little scratch on the throat, that looked as if it might have been made
with the point of a pin. They carried these three home, and clipped off
the wool around their wounds, and washed off the blood, and put on some
salve; but they all died in an hour or two. The wolves poisoned them, or
else they were frightened to death.”
“And you say bears sometimes prowl around here, too,” said Whistler.
[Illustration]
“Yes,” replied Clinton; “four or five years ago, one was seen over in
the woods, where we went the other day when we saw Dick Sneider. Last
winter father and I rode over to a logging-camp, in a sleigh, and spent
two or three days with the loggers. We had a capital time. We ate with
the men, and slept on heaps of leaves, in their log huts. They had
rousing fires, burning all night, in the middle of the huts; and,
instead of chimneys, the smoke went off through a large hole in the
roof. But that isn’t what I was going to tell you about. We stopped one
night at ‘Uncle Tim’s,’ as they call him, about half way between here
and the camp. He lives in a ‘clearing’ in the woods, and there’s no
other house for miles around. He told me a good many stories about wild
beasts, and one of them was about a bear that he killed last fall. One
morning he discovered that some creature had made great havoc in his
cornfield in the night, and he found the tracks of a bear all over the
lot. He saw, by the tracks, that it was a very large and heavy animal;
and, as he had a bear-trap, he thought he would try to catch him with
it, rather than have a fight with him. So he baited the trap, and set it
in the cornfield; but the next morning he found it just as he left it.
The bear had walked all around it two or three times; but he knew too
much to go into it, and he made his supper off of green corn again.
Well, Uncle Tim said his dander was up, then, and he made up his mind
that if the bear got any more of his corn, he should take some of his
bullets with it. So, in the evening, he took his rifle, and hid himself
among the trees just by the edge of his clearing, pretty near the place
where the bear’s tracks were. Well, he waited, and waited, hour after
hour, but he couldn’t hear nor see anything of the bear. It wasn’t very
dark, as there was a moon. His wife and two boys, and his big dog, were
in the house, waiting and watching as patiently as they could; for Uncle
Tim told them not to show themselves unless he gave a loud whistle.
Well, about one o’clock in the morning, he thought he heard a slight
noise, and, sure enough, there was the old fellow within a few feet of
him, and looking directly at him. Uncle Tim took good aim, and then
blazed away, with as heavy a charge as his gun would bear. The ‘varmint’
gave one spring towards him, and fell dead almost at his feet. He
weighed about five hundred pounds, and I don’t remember how much oil
Uncle Tim got out of him, but it was a good lot. He got a bounty from
the state, too, for killing him.”
“He must be a brave man,” said Whistler.
“O, these old pioneers don’t mind such things,” said Clinton; “they soon
get used to bears and wolves. But I saw in a newspaper, the other day,
an account of a fight a little boy had with a bear, that was really
worth bragging about. He lived near Lake Umbagog, which is on the line
between Maine and New Hampshire, and I believe he was only nine years
old. He saw a bear in an oatfield, near the house, and he thought he
would pepper him with a few buck shot. The bear was wounded, and showed
fight; so the little fellow picked up a club, and went at him. The boy’s
mother saw the fight, and she gave the alarm to his father and an older
brother, who were at work near by; but when the bear saw them coming, he
made off as fast as he could. The family gave chase, but they were not
well armed, and were obliged to let him escape. Well, a few days after,
that same bear was seen near the same place, with a sheep in his mouth;
and that same little fellow went at him again, with a club, and made him
drop the sheep, and scamper off into the woods. At another time this
bear came to the house, when the woman was alone. He put his fore paws
on the window sill, and stuck his head and shoulders into the room, and,
after he had looked around a little, he walked off without touching
anything.”
“That is being a little too neighborly. I shouldn’t like to live quite
so near the bears as that,” said Whistler.
“I should want something more than a club, if I had got to meet one,”
said Clinton.
“But I shouldn’t be afraid to meet a fox, or a wild-cat, or a ’coon, in
the woods,—should you?” added Whistler.
“I shouldn’t want any better fun than to meet a ’coon or a fox,” replied
Clinton; “but if I had got to tackle a wild-cat, I should want to be
pretty well armed. It isn’t every man that can ‘whip his weight in
wild-cats,’ as they say out west.”
“Why, I had an idea they were a good deal like our house-cats, only they
are not tame,” said Whistler.[2]
Footnote 2:
Whistler was partly right. The domestic cat, when deprived of a home,
sometimes takes to the woods, and leads a savage life. It is then a
wild-cat; but it is a very different pussy, for all that, from the
large, tiger-like creature to which that name properly belongs.
“They do look something like a cat,” replied Clinton, “but they are
twice as big, and almost as savage as tigers. I saw a dead one, once.
They have little short tails, and very strong, ugly-looking jaws. A boy
that lives at the Cross Roads killed the one I saw. He was hunting
rabbits, about half a mile from the village, when he saw the head of a
strange-looking animal in a tree right over him. He didn’t know what it
was, but he concluded to fire; and, just as he did so, the creature
sprang right at him. The shot didn’t seem to hurt him much, but he was
in a terrible rage. The boy dodged him as he leaped from the tree, and
then they had a pitched battle for three or four minutes. The fellow got
some pretty hard scratches, and had his clothes torn; but he beat the
wild-cat with the breach of his gun until he killed him. He lugged the
body home, and he felt as grand as any body you ever saw, for a month
afterwards. The wild-cat weighed about twenty-five pounds, and he had
the skin stuffed, and has got it now.”
The slaughtered fowls were now all buried, and the boys went in to
breakfast. In the course of the forenoon, after Clinton had done his
work, he and his cousin went down to Mr. Preston’s, to get the trap. The
story of the catastrophe awakened the interest and sympathy of the
neighbors, and quite a discussion ensued as to the nature of the enemy
that had done the mischief. Mr. Preston said it would not be at all
strange if a wild-cat or fox was prowling around the neighboring woods,
but he thought it quite as probable that a skunk had killed the fowls.
He did not think it was a raccoon, as, he said, this animal eats only
the heads of the poultry it kills. As Mr. Preston was an old logger,
having spent his winters in the forests for many years, he was well
acquainted with the wild animals in that quarter, and Clinton placed
considerable confidence in his opinion. Still, he was not quite
satisfied that his chickens had fallen a prey to the despised skunk, and
Mr. Preston accordingly hunted up his rusty wolf-trap, and gave him some
directions in regard to baiting and setting it.
Ella, who listened to this conversation, seemed somewhat alarmed to hear
that the woods around Brookdale were ever visited by such strangers; and
when Whistler told her that even wolves and bears sometimes came down
into the neighborhood, she declared most vehemently that she should not
dare to go out of sight of the house again while she stayed there.
“O, yes, you will; you will come over and see us,” said Clinton.
“No, I shan’t; you have wild-cats around your neighborhood,” she
replied.
“But Willie and I will come down with guns, and escort you up and back
again, if you’re afraid,” added Clinton.
“I hate guns; I should be afraid to go with you, if you carried
them,—boys are so careless with fire-arms,” replied Ella.
“Then we’ll come without guns,” remarked Willie.
“Yes; and I’m thinking _you_ would run as fast as I should, if you saw a
wild beast coming,” said Ella, laughing.
“No, I shouldn’t, either; I’d stand my ground as long as any body
would,” replied Whistler, with some warmth.
“Well, Ella,” said Clinton, “I really wish you _would_ come over once
more, before you and Willie go home; and Em, and Hatty, too,—I want you
all to come.”
“Well, perhaps we will, after you have caught your wild-cat,” said Ella,
as the boys moved off.
“She is pretty good at quizzing,” said Clinton to his cousin, as they
walked away. “I really hope I shall catch something; if I don’t play a
joke upon Ella, then, no matter.”
“If you do, you will be paid off, with interest, I can promise you
that,” replied Whistler; and he related an instance in which Ella “came
up” with a boy who took the liberty to play a practical joke upon her.
The day was very warm, and the heat of the sun almost overpowering. Mr.
Davenport took a long “nooning,” as was his custom when the weather was
oppressively hot. Throwing himself upon a settle, after dinner, in the
coolest room he could find, he sometimes indulged in a nap, but more
frequently employed the hour of rest with a book or newspaper, or in
conversation with his wife or children, or in thinking over the affairs
of the farm. On this occasion, Clinton brought in the trap, and showed
it to him. After examining it in silence, he inquired:
“How much is your loss, Clinty?—have you figured it up?”
“No, sir; I haven’t thought anything about that,” he replied.
“Then it doesn’t trouble you much, I presume,” said his father.
“No, sir; I care a good deal more for the poor hens than I do for the
money,” replied Clinton.
“That’s right!” said his father; “you’ve made considerable profit out of
your poultry, and you must expect to meet with some losses, once in a
while. Losses are inseparable from business; and the wisest way is to
make the best of them when we can’t avoid them. If a man meets with
nothing but prosperity, he is apt to grow reckless in his management,
and oppressive towards others; or he becomes wholly absorbed with the
world, and forgets that there is a God or a future life. But adversity,
if a man knows how to profit by it, will correct these faults. I have
met with some pretty serious losses in my day; but I can see, now, that
I am better off than I should have been if they had never befallen me.”
“Do you think you are better off for being cheated out of everything you
owned, when Mr. Jellison failed?” inquired Clinton.
“I have no doubt of it, now, although it was a severe blow to me at the
time,” replied his father. “I was a young man then, and had set my heart
too intently on making money, as though that were the great object of
life. Perhaps, if I had not met with that loss, I should have grown up a
miser. I have learned this lesson, on my way through the world: that a
man’s happiness doesn’t depend on the amount of money he owns. In one
sense, in fact, we do not own anything—we are only stewards. The
property is lent to us for the time, and we are bound to make a good use
of it. It belongs to the world, or, rather, to God. It was in the world
before we came, and it will remain here after we have gone; and we shall
have to give an account of the use we make of it while it is in our
hands. As I have a claim on all you own, so there is One who has a claim
on whatever I possess.”
“But I didn’t know you had a claim on my money,” replied Clinton.
“Have you ever settled for your board, and clothing, and education, and
all the other expenses of your bringing up?” inquired his father.
“No, sir,” said Clinton.
“Well, your hundred dollars would not go far, if you undertook to pay
those bills,” continued his father. “More than that, the law of the land
gives me a right to all your earnings until you are twenty-one years
old; did you know that?”
“No, sir; I never heard of that before,” replied Clinton.
“It is so,” resumed his father; “but, in return, the law obliges me to
support you, during that time, unless you run away from me, or refuse to
obey me. And you will find that this dependence upon others will follow
you through life. We never outgrow it, no matter how old or how rich we
become. We are all of us beholden to others, but most of all to God,
every day of our lives.”
This conversation led Clinton to make an estimate of his pecuniary loss
during the afternoon, and he found that it amounted to the sum of five
dollars and fifty cents. He showed Whistler his account book, which was
kept in a neat and accurate manner. In this book he set down all his
receipts and expenses on account of the poultry, and at the close of
each year he “struck a balance,” and ascertained the amount of his
profits. At this time he had one hundred dollars in a savings bank, on
interest, besides about five dollars in his own hands,—all of which his
fowls, and the labor of his own hands, had earned him. He also owned his
stock of poultry, which, before the disaster of the previous night, he
valued at about twenty dollars.
After tea the boys baited the trap, and set it in the garden, near the
hen-house. They skilfully concealed it under leaves and other litter,
leaving only the bait prominent; and, after watching it from the chamber
window as long as there was light enough to distinguish anything, they
went to bed, to dream of bears, and wolves, and wild-cats, and to see
visions of nondescript beasts not to be found in any work on natural
history.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER X.
THE HOMEWARD TRIP.
“WELL, Clinty, have you caught your wild-cat?” inquired Mr. Preston, the
morning after the boys set the trap.
“No, sir; it’s so stormy, I suppose he thought he would not go out,”
replied Clinton.
“Postponed his supper on account of the weather, eh? He must be a very
fastidious fellow,” added Mr. Davenport.
“Or, perhaps he was afraid he should wear his welcome out, if he went to
the same place two nights in succession,” suggested Whistler.
“I shan’t give him up yet; I mean to keep the trap set till I go to
Boston,” said Clinton.
The storm, which set in soon after the boys had fixed the trap,
continued, with but slight intervals, for nearly two days. It was quite
severe, obliging all the family to keep indoors during its continuance.
Clinton and Whistler found a very pleasant, and not altogether
unprofitable amusement, during this protracted storm, in constructing a
“dissected map” of the United States, which they designed as a present
to Whistler’s little sister, Ettie. Whistler, who had been taught to
draw maps at school, made a handsome copy of the map of the United
States, on a single sheet of paper. The first draft included only the
boundaries of the states and territories, the principal rivers, chains
of mountains, lakes, &c. He then cut apart, with the scissors, the
several states and territories. Clinton, who had been preparing a number
of thin blocks of wood, of a uniform height, now cut them out into the
exact shape of these various sections of the map; and, meanwhile,
Whistler was engaged in finishing up each state by itself, inserting the
principal towns, coloring the surface, and, finally, pasting the several
sections upon the blocks which Clinton had made ready. Clinton also made
a neat little box in which to keep it. The whole affair was very well
done; and the boys found that the putting of the little blocks properly
together, afforded an interesting and instructive amusement, even to
them, familiar as they were with the geography of the country. To Annie,
who knew little of this study, the game was even more curious and
puzzling.
The storm at length passed away, but only two or three more days
remained for Whistler to spend in Brookdale; and, as Clinton was to
accompany him home, a good share of their time was occupied in preparing
for the journey, and in talking over their plans. The trap was inspected
early each morning, but it remained undisturbed; and, although several
times freshly baited, not so much as the track of a creature was to be
seen around it. Clinton at length lost his faith in its virtues, and
returned it to Mr. Preston, the afternoon before he left for Boston.
Whistler was hardly aware how much he had become attached to his uncle’s
family, until the hour of separation came. Then the old farm-house
seemed suddenly invested with a new beauty, and he felt himself drawn
towards its inmates by a stronger cord than ever before. There was but
little time, however, for farewells or last words of counsel. The
travellers were obliged to be on their way soon after sunrise, and Mr.
Davenport had the horse punctually at the door, to take them over to the
Cross Roads. A few hasty good-bys, a lingering look behind, and their
long journey was commenced. They stopped at Mr. Preston’s, and took Ella
into their wagon, as she also was going home.
The stage coach came along soon after they reached the Cross Roads, and
the three young passengers took their seats within it. For about five
hours they were jolted along over rough roads, and steep hills, and log
bridges, occasionally passing through pretty villages, or among thrifty
farms; but much of the time hemmed in by forests on either side, or
surrounded by miles of wild land, from which the timber had been
removed. They all were wise enough to take some luncheon with them, and
they found a good use for it by the time they reached the end of the
stage route.
After purchasing their tickets for Boston, the young travellers found
that they had nearly half an hour to spare before the cars would start.
Clinton, who had never traveled on a railroad but once before, and had
never seen a locomotive except on that occasion, proposed to go and see
the machine, which was then receiving its wood and water just outside of
the station house. Before going, however, they picked out their seats in
the train, and left them and their valises in charge of Ella. The boys
then spent some time in looking at the engine, and watching the
movements of those who had it in charge. After the wood-box and
water-tank of the tender were filled, the machine was backed to its
place at the head of the train. One of the men now jumped off, and the
other began to oil some of the joints and bearings of the engine.
Although a locomotive was something of a curiosity to Clinton, it was
soon evident that he knew more about it than many boys of his age, to
whom a railroad train is an every-day sight. His mechanical taste had
led him to read whatever he could find about steam engines, and, by the
help of his father, he had acquired a pretty accurate idea of the
principles involved in their construction. He was thus able to name and
explain the action of parts of the locomotive of which even Willie had
no definite notion.
The train was fast filling up, and the boys now took their seats. The
signal to start was soon given, the engine gave a jerk and a rapid
succession of puffs, and the cars began to glide over their iron course.
The views from the car windows now took up the attention of Ella and the
boys. The solemn forest and the bustling village,—the thrifty farm and
the wild and rocky pasture,—the rough old hills and the narrow, winding
valley,—the quiet river and the noisy mills upon its banks,—these were
the scenes that passed before them in a rapid panorama.
They had proceeded fifteen or twenty miles, and their interest in the
outside world was beginning to flag a little, when the conductor of the
train came along, and, taking a vacant seat by the side of Whistler,
commenced a conversation with a man seated behind them.
“Reed has got one of his odd fits to-day,” said the conductor, in a tone
which Whistler could not help overhearing.
“Has he?” inquired the other man.
“Yes; he’s as short as pie-crust,” replied the conductor.
“Well, Reed always was subject to these cross spells from a boy,” said
the other. “We were as intimate as two mice in a stocking when we went
to school; but he used to have the sulks terribly then, once in a while,
and wouldn’t speak to any body all day long. I reckon it has grown upon
him ever since.”
“Yes, I think it has,” said the conductor.
“But Reed is as good-hearted a fellow as ever lived, after all, and a
_first-rate_ engineer,” added the passenger, laying great stress on the
last adjective.
“Yes, he is the best engineer that runs on this road, by all odds,” said
the conductor. “He is always on hand, and he is cautious and careful
almost to a fault. He is cool, too, and thinks quick when any accident
happens.”
“He understands machinery pretty well, I should think,” observed the
passenger.
“Yes; he knows every bolt and screw in his engine just as well as you
know the way from your house to your shop,” replied the conductor.
“Well, an engineer’s berth is a pretty responsible one,—more so than
yours. Don’t you think so?” inquired the passenger.
“Yes; so far as the safety of the train is concerned, more depends on
him than on the conductor, or any body else,” replied the other.
“But if every thing goes right, the ‘gentlemanly conductor’ takes all
the glory,” said the passenger, with a sly chuckle.
“Yes, and he is saddled with all the blame if every thing doesn’t go
right,” retorted the conductor.
“No, it isn’t so; people remember that there is such a person as the
engineer when an accident happens, and that’s about the only time they
do think of him,” replied the passenger.
“Well, the conductor is held responsible for the train; but, after all,
a great deal depends upon the engineer, as you say,” said the conductor.
“He has his hands full every moment while the train is in motion. He
must judge of and regulate the speed, and see that the boiler is kept
supplied with water. At the same time, he must keep his eye on the
track, and see that there are no switches wrong, nor broken rails, nor
men, nor teams, nor other obstructions, in the way. He must look out for
signals of caution, and keep his machinery well oiled. He must watch his
engine closely, to see that every part works right; and if he hears any
unusual noise about the machinery, he must discover the cause of it.
When the train approaches a station, in order to bring it to a stand at
the right spot, he must take into account the speed and weight of his
train, the number of brakemen, the grade of the road,—whether upward,
downward, or level,—the state of the track,—whether dry, wet, or icy,
&c., &c. Besides all these things, he must be ready to act
instantaneously if any accident happens, and to do two or three things
at the same moment, if necessary. A man ought to have a pretty good head
to do all this, day after day, and never make a blunder.”
“That’s a fact,” replied the other. “We’re going at a pretty fair jog,
now,” he added, after a moment’s pause.
“Yes,” said the conductor; “the road is very straight along here, and we
get up an extra speed. I suppose we are going at the rate of forty miles
an hour, now.”
“Did you ever think what the consequences would be if the engineer
should lose the control of the engine when it is going at full speed?”
inquired the passenger.
“There isn’t much danger of that,” replied the conductor; “but, still,
such things have happened. We had an engine break its throttle-valve
once on this road, and the only way the engineer could stop it was by
putting out the fire. It ran about three miles before he could bring it
to a stand. If such an accident should happen near the end of the line,
it might do a good deal of mischief. But the greatest accident of this
kind that ever I saw, happened when I was out west. I was in a train
that was stopping at a dépôt, when a freight train suddenly came along,
and run into us. Our engineer and firemen saw that a collision was
coming, and jumped from the engine. Well, sir, the force of the blow
uncoupled the locomotive and tender from the baggage-car, and actually
jerked back the lever, and started the engine under a full pressure of
steam. She shot forward like an arrow, and we could see her for several
minutes flying over the track at the rate of seventy miles an hour. The
furnace had just been crammed with wood, and there was a full head of
steam on. The distance from Cincinnati was only fourteen miles, and we
knew she would get over the ground in about twelve minutes if the track
was clear, and then would come the crash. We listened, and almost
expected to hear it. But, as good luck would have it, the furnace door
flew open, and that stopped the draught, and the runaway came to a dead
halt just before it reached the city. I call that a pretty narrow
escape.”
“Yes, it was, truly,” remarked the passenger.
The train was now approaching a station, and the conductor broke off the
conversation, to which Whistler had listened with much interest, and
left the car.
[Illustration]
Railroad travelling, after the first hour or two, usually becomes rather
tedious, and the experience of our young travellers was not materially
different from that of older people. Now and then, however, as they
dashed on, an incident served to enliven the way. The attention which
the train every where attracted, although it must have been as familiar
a sight as the rising of the sun, accorded well with Clinton’s feelings;
but he was somewhat at a loss to account for the fact itself. In the
villages and at the dépôts people stared at the engine and cars as
intently as if they had never before seen such a sight. In passing over
a river they were greeted with cheers, the swinging of hats, and the
elevating of oars, by a party of boys in a small boat. At one station a
little black dog had the presumption to run a race with the train as it
started up, but he soon gave up the contest. A horse in a pasture kicked
defiance at his iron namesake, with heels high in the air, and galloped
to the remotest bounds of his enclosure. A flock of sheep in a field
huddled tremblingly together, and then broke the solid phalanx, and
hastily fled, as the train went thundering by. A brood of chickens
snuggled under their mother’s ample wings; and even that most grave and
unimpassioned of domestic animals, the cow, many of which they passed,
almost invariably looked up with a wondering expression of countenance,
and seemed more than half inclined to ask what the fuss was all about.
Such is the homage which man and beast ever pay to the railroad train,
the novelty and wonder of which are scarcely diminished by our
familiarity with it.
It was late in the evening when our young travellers reached their
journey’s end. Ella’s brother, Ralph, was waiting their arrival at the
dépôt, and his fair young face lit up with joy when he saw his sister
and Whistler descend from the train. As Ella was encumbered with a
trunk, he procured a place for her and her baggage in a coach, and then
walked, with the other boys, towards the quarter of the city in which
both families resided.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER XI.
THE CITY HOME.
WHEN Clinton awoke the next morning, and looked around upon the large,
high chamber, and the strange furniture, and caught a glimpse through
the windows of a long row of brick buildings, he could, at first, hardly
tell where he was. Consciousness quickly returned, however, as he called
to mind the long journey of the day before, and the warm greetings which
he and Whistler received at the end of it. His cousin, whose bed he
shared, was still soundly sleeping, although the sun’s bright rays had
found their way into the room. People are apt to be more wasteful of
their morning hours in the city than in the country. Clinton’s curiosity
to see how the neighborhood looked by daylight would not allow him to
remain long in bed. He got up quickly, dressed himself, and was peering
inquisitively from the windows, when a loud scratching at the door led
him to open it, and in sprang Bouncer, Whistler’s handsome and
intelligent dog. With one leap he was on the bed, and in a moment the
sleeper was awakened, and engaged in a lively frolic with his
four-footed friend.
“O, you black rogue!” said Whistler, seizing him by the fore paws;
“you’re glad I’ve got home, are you? Then kiss me, that’s a good fellow.
There! that will do! Yes, he’s glad his master’s got home, so he is; and
he almost flew off the handle last night, didn’t he? and he couldn’t
wait for him to get up this morning, could he? Well, his master’s glad
to see him, too, so he is. There, sir, you’ve kissed me enough; now jump
down, and let me get up. Go and kiss him,” pointing to Clinton. “That’s
cousin Clinton. Don’t you know him?”
“You ought to know me, Bouncer, for you sent me a wag of your tail in a
letter last spring,” said Clinton, alluding to a rough pen and ink
sketch of Bouncer’s tail which Whistler’s father had enclosed in a
letter to Clinton, among sundry little love messages from the family.
“O, yes, I remember that!” said Whistler, with a laugh, as he jumped out
of bed. “What did you think when you saw it? Didn’t you laugh?”
“I rather think we all laughed a little over it,” replied Clinton. “I
had some idea of sending you back one of our cat’s purs in my letter,
but I didn’t know exactly how to do it.”
“But what did you get up for, and leave me here asleep? Is that the way
to serve a fellow?” inquired Whistler.
“O, I thought I wouldn’t disturb you,” replied Clinton. “I wanted to see
that splendid view you told me of when we were on Bald Peak. Do you
remember?”
“Yes; ninety-five millions of miles. But, you see, it’s all sky-scape;
there isn’t much landscape to boast of,” said Whistler.
“No, I see there isn’t,” replied Clinton, as he glanced at the
interminable brick block, with its row of low wooden sheds in the rear,
all of uniform size and pattern, and its little bits of open spaces
between the sheds, which served as back yards.
The row of houses, the backs of which bounded the prospect from
Whistler’s window, was situated on a street parallel with that on which
Mr. Preston lived. Dwellings and stores are usually built in blocks, or
joined together, in cities and towns, because the land is too valuable
to admit of an open space around each separate building. Mr. Davenport’s
house was a fair specimen of this style of building. It was not far from
the centre of a block of about twenty houses, which were very nearly
uniform in their external appearance. It was of brick, and three stories
high, besides the basement and attic. There were two entrances to each
house,—the front door, reached by four stone steps, and a door opening
into a narrow archway, which led to the back yard. An iron balustrade
extended the entire length of the block, in front of the second story.
Add to this a brick sidewalk, with a line of young trees near the edge,
and a clean and well-paved street, and you have a tolerably distinct
picture of the outside of Whistler’s home.
Whistler’s chamber was in the third story, on the side of the house
farthest from the street. It was quite neatly furnished. The floor was
carpeted, and the windows curtained. It contained a bureau, with a
mirror attached to it, a small dressing-table, and several chairs, all
of which, together with the bedstead, were painted a light chocolate
color, ornamented with dark stripes. In one corner was a marble
wash-basin, supplied with Cochituate water by means of a pipe, and
furnished with an outlet at the bottom, connecting with another pipe, to
let off the dirty water. There was a grate in the room, and a marble
mantel-piece, over which hung a large engraved likeness of Washington,
in a rosewood frame. On the side of the room opposite the bed there was
a small book-rack, which was filled with volumes and pamphlets, many of
which belonged to Whistler. There was a closet in the room, in which he
kept his clothing, and many of his playthings. The general appearance of
the chamber bore witness to the neat and orderly habits of its occupant.
The boys had now dressed and washed themselves, and brushed their hair,
and went down stairs, followed by Bouncer. In the sitting-room they
found Mr. Davenport, in his dressing-gown, so absorbed in his morning
paper that he apparently did not notice their entrance. Not wishing to
disturb him, they soon left the room, but had not gone far when he
called to them in a loud and rather authoritative tone:
“Boys! boys! come back!”
They returned, wondering what the matter was, and Clinton, at least,
feeling a little alarmed at such a stern call. They stood, just inside
the door, about a minute, before Mr. Davenport spoke; and then, lifting
his eyes from the paper, in a very sedate manner, he said:
“Good morning, boys.”
“Good morning, sir,” replied the boys, in a somewhat reserved and
confused manner.
Another awkward pause followed, during which Mr. Davenport was engrossed
with his paper. Whistler at length inquired:
“Is that all, father?”
“That is all,—what more would you have?” replied his father, a twinkle
of fun now appearing in his eyes, and about the corners of his mouth.
They left him to the quiet enjoyment of his joke and his paper, and went
into the dining-room, as the apartment was called where the meals of the
family were spread. There they found Mrs. Davenport, assisting in
putting the breakfast upon the table, while Ettie, Whistler’s little
sister, was arranging the chairs. These, with Margaret, the domestic,
constituted the whole of Mr. Davenport’s family at this time.
The breakfast-bell was rung, and the family gathered around the table,
and soon commenced a lively conversation, much of which was addressed to
Clinton.
“I believe this is your first appearance in Boston, Clinton,” observed
Mr. Davenport.
“Yes, sir, it is,” replied Clinton.
“Well, you will see a great many strange sights, as you go about the
city,” continued his uncle. “Boston isn’t a London, nor a New York; but
it beats Brookdale, by considerable, in business, wealth and population.
When I first visited Boston, thirty years ago, I thought it was about
the biggest city in the world, and I can assure you it has grown a
trifle since then. But I’ve got a word of advice to give you, and that
reminds me of it. You don’t want to appear green, verdant, raw,
countryfied, as we city folks say?”
“No, sir,” replied Clinton, in some trepidation at this startling array
of epithets.
“Well, then,” continued his uncle, “you must follow these three rules.
First, don’t stare at anything; that means, don’t look at anything as
though it were new or strange. The second rule is, don’t be astonished
at anything. And the third is like unto it,—don’t admire anything.”
Clinton looked perplexed. Sight-seeing was one of the principal objects
of his visit to the city; and a pretty kind of sight-seeing that would
be, he thought, if he could not look at anything, nor evince any
surprise or pleasure, for fear of violating the cold proprieties of city
manners. Whistler also shared in his perplexity; but, believing there
was a “catch” somewhere in his father’s advice, he said:
“Father isn’t in earnest; he doesn’t mean what he says, I know.”
“Yes, I am in earnest,” replied his father.
“But, how can he see the city, if he mustn’t look at anything?” inquired
Whistler.
“That’s another affair, altogether,” said Mr. Davenport. “I was telling
him how to avoid appearing green, not how to see the sights. When I
first came to the city myself, I suppose I was grass-green,—fast color,
warranted to wash,—although I didn’t know it then. I used to go staring
about at every thing and every body, looking into all the shop windows,
reading all the signs, and seeing more wonders than there were chimneys
in town. This used to provoke my brother, who had lived in the city a
whole year, and had grown wonderfully genteel in his notions. He carried
himself as stiff as a poker, and every time I turned my head he would
say, ‘Don’t stare about so! you act like a regular greenhorn!’ At last I
got quite angry with him, and I told him, right up and down, that I
didn’t care if I was green,—it was my favorite color; I liked it; I
gloried in it; I should be just as green as I pleased, and he needn’t
throw it in my face any more. Now, if you want to see the sights,
Clinton, I don’t know as you can do any better than I did; but, if you
do not want people to suppose that you are not accustomed to the city,
then you can follow the rules I have given.”
“I want to see things; I don’t care whether people think I’m from the
country, or not,” replied Clinton.
“Very sensibly said, and I am happy to see that you take after your
uncle,” said Mr. Davenport. “But we city folks are queer people. We get
up all manner of wonderful clap-traps and contrivances, to astonish our
country cousins, and then, if they look at them, we laugh, and tell them
they’re green. But all the greenies don’t come from the country, by a
good deal. I’ll warrant you see a specimen from the city, now and then,
down in Brookdale. How was it?—did the cows chase you, Whistler, or
didn’t they appreciate your verdancy?”
“No, sir, they didn’t chase me; but I suppose it was because feed was
uncommonly good,” replied Whistler.
“Pretty fair,” said his father, who always relished a joke.
“Do cows ever eat boys, father?” inquired Ettie, who had soberly
listened to the conversation, but apparently without fully comprehending
the drift of it.
This question, asked with all gravity, and affording such a fine
specimen of the very thing they were talking about,—city verdancy,—was
received with a general laugh, which sent the tears brimming to Ettie’s
eyes, when her father kindly replied:
“No, darling, the cows don’t eat boys; but they sometimes chase them,
and toss them in the air with their horns, when they feel cross.”
“When we went to ride, the other day,” continued Ettie, “we saw a cow
shaking her head at a dog, and running at him; and the dog kept jumping
before her, and barking right in her face. She wanted to hook him,
didn’t she?”
“Yes,” said her father; “and if the dog hadn’t been a little too spry
for her, she would have sent him spinning into the air, just as you
would toss up your doll.”
The conversation now changed to other topics, which we need not follow.
It was not without an object that Mr. Davenport introduced the subject
that has just been alluded to. This object was twofold. First, he wished
to put Whistler on his guard against manifesting any impatience or
unkindness if his cousin, in their walks about town, should happen to
look at things pretty hard. And then, again, he thought it would be well
enough to hint to Clinton, in a delicate way, that prolonged and
excessive staring at novelties in the public streets, is regarded as a
mark of rusticity by well-bred people. He knew that Clinton would not
attempt to follow the rules he gave; neither did he suppose he would
imitate his own example—somewhat exaggerated, no doubt—and make himself
“as green as he pleased.” Curiosity would forbid the first, and that
regard for the opinions of others which we all feel, deny it though we
may, would prevent the other. He left it for his nephew’s good sense to
find “the golden mean” between these two extremes.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER XII.
ROMANCE AND REALITY.
CLINTON’S first day in the city was diligently devoted to sight-seeing,
under the direction of Whistler. As it was Saturday, and the last day of
Whistler’s vacation, they were both naturally anxious to make the best
use of the time. It would be no easy matter to track them through the
crowded and intricate streets, and mark the weary miles of brick
sidewalk they travelled over, now pausing to look into a gay shop
window, or to gaze at an imposing building; now sauntering along the
water’s edge, amid a forest of shipping and long ranges of granite
warehouses; now making a pleasant detour to the Common, and resting
themselves under the shadow of its lofty trees; and now picking their
way through the narrow streets of the poor, with their tipsy rows of
weak-jointed buildings, their plenitude of foreign faces and strange
brogues, and their astonishing overflow of infantile humanity, scattered
all along the sidewalks, in undress, half-dress, and almost no dress at
all. Nor were these the only novelties that attracted the notice of
Clinton. The constant succession of strange faces of every conceivable
type, the curious variety in dress and manners, the novel vehicles and
equipages in the streets,—these and many other things arrested his
attention at every step, and often suggested remarks that seemed very
droll to Whistler.
At length, however, the boys were both forced to confess that they were
very tired; and towards the middle of the afternoon Clinton concluded
that he had seen enough for one day, and proposed to Whistler to return
home. His feet, unused to the brick and stone pavement, were now so sore
that he walked with difficulty; and he declared that he felt more
fatigued than he should if he had hoed corn all day. They accordingly
took the shortest route home. Just before they reached the house, the
bell in a church steeple which they were passing began to toll.
“What is that for—a funeral?” inquired Clinton.
“No, it’s for a fire, I suppose; they don’t toll the bells for funerals
in Boston,” replied Whistler.
“Is it a fire?—let’s go to it!” exclaimed Clinton, forgetting, in his
excitement, his weary limbs and tender feet.
“No, I wouldn’t; we’re too tired to run to a fire now,” said Whistler.
“Besides, it’s a great way off; I believe it’s over to South Boston. Let
me count again.”
The tolling, which had ceased for a minute, was now resumed, and six
loud strokes were given, followed by another pause.
“Yes, the fire’s in District No. 6; that’s South Boston,” continued
Whistler.
“How far is it from here?” inquired Clinton, who still felt inclined to
go to the fire.
“It can’t be less than a mile, and it may be two, if it’s in the further
end of South Boston,” replied Whistler.
“Nobody seems to be going to it. Why, I should think every body would
run when the bells ring for fire,” said Clinton, who was surprised to
see how little notice was taken of the alarm.
“The firemen run, but other people don’t mind the alarm, unless they see
the light or the smoke,” replied Whistler.
An engine now came along, making a great noise as it rattled over the
pavements, although there were no bells upon it, and but little shouting
among the men who had charge of it. It was very gayly painted, and
decorated with highly-polished brass mountings. There were only about a
dozen men at the rope when the engine first came in sight; but their
ranks soon filled up by the arrival of other members of the company, and
the engine went spinning through the street at a rapid rate, followed by
a swarm of ragged boys. Clinton was more than half disposed to fall in
with the crowd of urchins; but, perceiving that Willie had no idea of
joining in the race, he prudently concluded to forego the pleasure.
The boys had now reached the house, and, on throwing themselves into
comfortable seats, began to realize how tired they were. They found
Ettie at full length upon the floor, engaged in putting together the
dissected map which the boys had made for her. Her knowledge of
geography was so slight, that the puzzle was anything but a simple one
to her.
“What’s the matter, Sissy?—can’t you put it together right?” inquired
Clinton.
“Yes, I can, _almost_,” replied Ettie; “but two or three of these pieces
are real ugly,—they won’t go in any where.”
“Let me see if I can’t help you,” added Clinton, getting down upon the
floor with his little cousin.
“I’d rather find it out myself,” replied Ettie, timidly.
“O, well, then, I won’t meddle with it,” said Clinton. “You’re just like
me; I don’t like to have folks show me how to do things, when I can find
out myself.”
Clinton could not repress a quiet smile as he glanced at the map, and
witnessed the strange positions which some of the states had assumed.
Illinois and Mississippi had exchanged places, both apparently quite
unconscious that they had “got into the wrong pew.” Tennessee had turned
half a somerset, and was standing upon her head. Maine was vainly trying
to fill the space that rightfully belonged to New York, while for the
last-named state no place had yet been found.
“What a curious thing that fire-alarm is! Do you understand how it
works, Willie?” inquired Clinton.
“Yes, I’ve heard it all explained,” replied Whistler. “In the first
place, the city is divided into seven fire districts. In each of these
districts there are a number of little cast-iron boxes, fastened to the
sides of buildings, such as I showed you on Faneuil Hall. These are the
signal stations. When a fire breaks out near one of these stations, the
watchman, or the man who keeps the key, goes to the box and turns the
crank in it slowly six times. That sends the alarm along the wires to
the central office, in Court Square, and the man there knows just where
it came from, and he strikes the number of the district upon the bells.
There are about forty of those signal boxes, and each has its wire
running to the central office. Then there is another set of wires that
lead from the office to the bells.”
“All the bells in the city strike at the same time, don’t they?”
inquired Clinton.
“No, there is no need of ringing all the bells,” replied Whistler.
“There are only seventeen bells, I believe, connected with the alarm,
and these all strike together. The ringing is done by machinery,
something like the striking part of a town clock. It has a weight, and
an electro-magnet; and the power that sets it in motion comes from the
great battery in the central office. If the fire is put out before all
the engines get there, an engineer goes to the nearest signal box and
telegraphs ‘all out,’ and the man in the central office gives the signal
on the bells, and then the firemen go home.”
“It’s a complete arrangement, isn’t it? I should think the firemen would
like it. It must save them a good many steps,” said Clinton.
“It does,” added Whistler. “Before we had this telegraph there used to
be a great many more false alarms of fire than there are now. Besides,
when there is a fire, it saves them a good many steps in finding it.”
Mr. Davenport now came in, and, after a few words with Ettie, who had
not yet mastered the secret of the dissected map, he added, turning to
the boys:
“Well, young gentlemen, have you seen all the sights, and got home at
this time of day?”
“No, sir, we haven’t seen half of them; but we got pretty tired, and
thought we’d been about enough for one day,” replied Clinton.
“And you looked at everything just as hard as you pleased, did you?”
continued his uncle.
“Yes, sir,” replied Clinton.
“But he didn’t act green at all, father,” added Whistler.
“My feet got real sore, though,” said Clinton, whose modesty led him to
turn the subject. “I told Willie I’d rather hoe corn all day than walk
about the roads here,—I mean the streets.”
“Well, I’m about used up, too,” said his uncle. “I’ve been cudgelling my
brains all day over a very intricate insurance case, and I believe I
don’t understand it now quite so well as I did when I began. Why,
Clinton, hoeing corn is real fun compared with much of the work that we
city folks have to do. If you were to live here, and earn your living,
you would have to put up with worse things than sore feet. Many country
people seem to think that we have nothing to do but to sit in our
armchairs, and read the papers, and discuss the news, and take money;
but if they could exchange work with us a little while, they would be
more contented with their lot forever after. They work hard and get
tired, I know; but we not only get tired, but sick, too, and worry and
fret ourselves into our graves, while they are in the prime of life.
They work out in the pure air, while we are stived up in little hot
rooms, breathing everything but the odors of heaven. After all, the
country’s the place to enjoy life. Don’t you think so, Whistler?”
“Yes, sir, the country’s the place for me,” replied Whistler. “When I’m
a man I mean to have a great farm, and have it stocked with the best
horses, and cows, and sheep, and pigs, and poultry. And you’ll come and
live with me, too; won’t you, father?”
“Yes, I think I will, if you lump me in with the pigs, and poultry, and
other live stock,” said his father, with an assumed air of offended
dignity.
“No, father, I didn’t lump you with the stock; I put a period after
them, and began a new sentence with you,” replied Whistler.
“I think it must have been a very brief period; however, I’ll take your
word for it,” added his father. “But, speaking of the country, I suspect
you will find playing and working on a farm two very different things.
At any rate, I shall advise you not to invest your funds very deeply in
agricultural improvements, until you have worked on a farm a year or two
as a hand.”
“But I thought you just said farming was the best employment for a man,”
observed Whistler, in some perplexity.
“I did say what was equivalent to that,” resumed his father; “but all
men are not fit for farmers. Some are too lazy; some are too genteel;
some don’t know enough; some know too much, in their own estimation, and
so get their living by their wits; some are too uneasy to stay long
enough in one spot to raise a crop of six-weeks beans; some haven’t the
bodily strength to work on a farm; and some are too tricky to follow any
honest calling. Then there are others who were born to be sailors, or
mechanics, or students, or political leaders, or merchants, or doctors,
or clergymen, or lawyers. They have special talents for these or other
professions, and, of course, they can’t be farmers. You might as well
try to drown a man who was born to be hung, as try to make a farmer of a
man that was born to ‘plough the sea.’ But the great body of men do not
have these particular talents. They are about as well fitted for one
common employment as for another, and so they decide on the one that
they consider the most easy, profitable, and genteel; and it is just
here that they oftentimes make their great mistake. Are you going to
sleep over my lecture, Clinton?” he abruptly added, on observing that
his nephew had partially closed his eyes.
“No, sir, I understood every word,” quickly replied Clinton, slightly
blushing.
“Because, if you were, I thought I should like to keep you company,”
continued Mr. Davenport. “It’s a rather dry subject, I know; but it will
soon be one of practical importance to you, and Whistler, too. Have you
made up your mind what profession you should like to follow, Clinton?”
“No, sir,—not exactly,” replied Clinton. “I like farming very well, but
I’ve thought I should rather be a merchant than anything else.”
“Why do you think you should like to be a merchant?” inquired his uncle.
Clinton was somewhat at a loss for an answer; but at length he replied,
with some misgivings:
“Why, it must be fine to own ships and warehouses, and do a great
business, and make lots of money, and have everything you want, and be
looked up to by every body. Besides, the merchant can have his farm,
too, if he likes.”
“But you have tried farming, and you say you like that pretty well?”
inquired his uncle.
“Yes, sir,” replied Clinton.
“Well,” resumed Mr. Davenport, “let me tell you one thing. With you,
mercantile life is all romance, just as farming is to your cousin. On
the other hand, farming is real to you, while Whistler has had a chance
to observe something of the dark side of mercantile and professional
life. When you think of being a merchant, you think only of fine ships,
and great warehouses, and sumptuous dwellings, and the portly and
dignified men who rule on ’change. You don’t think of the early years of
drudgery and poverty most of these men went through, or of the
temptations they were exposed to, which, perhaps, overcame a score of
their companions for every one that escaped; you don’t think how they
have risked health, and perhaps lost it; you don’t think what fierce
struggles they have encountered, what crushing losses they have met, and
what a weight of care rests upon them night and day; you don’t think it
is possible that they will yet meet with overwhelming reverses, and die
in poverty; and, more than all, you don’t think that these successful
merchants are themselves exceptions to the great mass of the profession,
who were only moderately successful, if they did not wholly fail. Is it
not so?”
“Yes, sir, I never thought much of the dark side,” replied Clinton.
“I do not say this to discourage you from being a merchant,” resumed his
uncle. “I would discourage no boy from entering any honest calling, if
he chooses it, and appears to be fitted to it. I don’t know but that you
have special qualifications for the mercantile profession. If you have,
I would advise you to make that your business. Otherwise, you had better
remain where you are. At all events, you ought to look at your favorite
profession on all sides, dark as well as bright, before you tie yourself
down in it for life. To sum up, as we legal gentlemen say—but we ought
to have the decision reported; have you got a scrap of paper, Willie?”
“Yes, sir,—here’s a piece.”
“Well, you shall be clerk of the court, and write down the decision.
Take your pencil, and write as I dictate, commencing each sentence upon
a new line.”
Whistler followed his father’s directions, and the result was the
following memoranda:
“All men ought to follow some useful employment.
“Every man ought to choose that employment in which he can be
most useful and successful.
“Agriculture is the primitive and natural employment of man.
“It is an employment which combines the greatest number of
advantages with the fewest evils and temptations, and is
therefore best fitted to secure the happiness and good of
mankind.
“It is an employment which must ever demand the hands of the
great bulk of the race.
“But the state of human society, and the interests of the race,
render many other professions necessary.
“God gives certain persons special talents for these special
callings, so that they enter them as if by instinct.
“Many others are providentially thrown into them, having no
particular choice or inclination in the matter.
“Others still enter them from choice.
“Those who enter any profession from choice, should do so
deliberately and understandingly, and not suffer themselves to
be misled by a thin veil of romance.
“All employments are honorable, so far as they are useful in
themselves, and are pursued in an honorable manner.”
Mr. Davenport read the above after Whistler had taken it down, and then
handed it back to him, saying:
“There, Willie, you have a legal opinion, without fee. You may keep it
among your valuables, and give Clinton a copy, too, if he wants one. You
may not fully understand these principles now, but you will by-and-by,
and they will be of great value to you, if you follow them.”
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER XIII.
SIGHT-SEEING.
“NOW for school, once more!” exclaimed Whistler, as he threw his
well-filled satchel over his back, fifteen minutes before eight o’clock
Monday morning. “Don’t you feel queerly at the beginning of a term? I
do. I’m glad to go to school again, and yet I feel sort of bad, too,
because the vacation is over. I feel worse than usual now, because I
can’t go round with you.”
“You needn’t think of that; I can find my way about town alone,” said
Clinton.
“You can tell about that better to-night,” replied Whistler.
“Well, I won’t crow till I get out of the woods, at any rate,” said
Clinton. “But I’m going with you as far as your schoolhouse,—are you
ready?”
“Yes,—come,” replied Whistler.
[Illustration]
They walked to the schoolhouse, accompanied by Bouncer, and remained
together till the bell summoned Whistler to his seat, and then Clinton
started upon his first exploration, alone. Turning his face towards the
business section of the city, which was in a northerly direction from
his uncle’s house, and occasionally whistling to Bouncer, who was still
looking wistfully towards the schoolhouse, he walked leisurely along,
with the air of one who is determined to see everything that is worth
seeing. Bouncer did not think it worth while to favor him with his
company; but Clinton found plenty of other dogs in his wanderings, of
all sorts and sizes,—quite as many, in fact, as he wished to see. One of
these dogs, which he encountered in a narrow alley, amused him very
much. He was harnessed into a little cart, and trotted along quite
briskly with his load. Two boys accompanied him, who appeared to be
Irish. One of them was quite large, and wore a coat which seemed
intended for his father. He had a little whip, with which he enforced
the orders he was constantly shouting to the dog. The other boy was much
smaller, and ran behind, pushing the cart. The load consisted of several
bundles, tied up in handkerchiefs. They contained dirty clothes, which
the boys were collecting for their mother, who was a washerwoman.
[Illustration]
The next object that attracted Clinton’s notice was a group of busts and
images, arranged upon a board, which a young man carried upon the top of
his head. Clinton thought it rather strange that he should carry so
heavy a burden in such a way; but the images were of plaster, and
hollow, and were much lighter than they appeared. The man was an
Italian; and whenever he met a gentleman, or saw a lady at a window, he
would call out, “E-me-ges!—buy any e-me-ges?” in his most persuasive
tone. He was a mild-eyed, dark-complexioned man, not very neat in his
personal appearance, and his clothing was a good deal be-patched, as you
will see by the engraving.
In the course of the morning an incident happened to Clinton which made
him smile many a time during the day, as it came to mind. In passing a
shop, in front of which several birds were hung out in cages, he noticed
that the door of one cage was open, and that its tenant was on the
outside, apparently meditating a flight. The bird was nearly the size of
a pigeon, but he did not know what it was. Stepping into the shop, he
said:
“One of your birds has got his cage door open, sir, and is hopping all
around outside.”
“I know it,—but he won’t go off,” replied the man. “We leave the door
open purposely, and let him have the run; he never leaves the premises.”
“O, I didn’t think of that,” stammered Clinton, a slight blush mantling
his cheeks.
“Never mind; I’m just as much obliged to you as though he _had_ broken
out,” added the man. “You intended to do an act of kindness, and you
ought to have the credit of it. Won’t you walk in and look at the birds?
We’ve got a pretty large collection.”
Clinton thankfully accepted the invitation, and found a large room
entirely filled with birds, this being the sole article in which the man
dealt. The collection embraced birds of almost every description, from
an eagle to a Java sparrow. Many of them were very rare and beautiful.
The singing birds seemed to vie with one another, to see which should
make the loudest noise; and the deafening clatter was by no means
improved by the occasional rough and discordant note of some unmusical
member of the family. In addition to the living birds, there were also
many stuffed ones, for the owner of the collection was a taxidermist. A
taxidermist is one who is skilled in preparing and preserving the skins
of birds, or other animals, so as to represent their natural appearance.
After walking an hour or more about the business portion of the city,
examining the sights in a leisurely way, Clinton suddenly found himself
approaching the beautiful Common, of which Boston is justly proud. It
took him some time to reconcile his mind to its unexpected location, for
it seemed to him that he ought to be going from it instead of towards
it. However, there it was, and there was no disputing that. And he was
not very sorry, either, for he began to feel tired, and there are plenty
of seats and acres of soft grass on the Common. Entering the grounds at
the gate opposite Park-street Church, he threw himself upon the grass,
in the shade of a large tree, on a spot which commanded a view of the
greater part of the enclosure.
The Common contains forty-eight acres, the surface of which is agreeably
diversified, much of it being broken into gentle swells. A vast amount
of money has been expended in beautifying it. A tall and handsome iron
fence surrounds it, which is nearly six thousand feet long, and cost
upwards of a hundred thousand dollars. Nicely gravelled walks, shaded by
trees, run around the enclosure, and cross it in various directions.
These walks are lit by gas, at night. The trees number nearly two
thousand, and comprise eighteen or twenty varieties, but about half of
them are elms. Scattered over the Common are several cast-iron hydrants,
from which streams of Cochituate water are always flowing, for the
refreshment of the thirsty. There is also a beautiful pond,—the “Frog
Pond” of olden times,—which is supplied with one of the finest fountains
on the continent.
Such was the scene spread out before Clinton, as he sat upon the grass.
Add to the picture the scattered groups of well-dressed people who were
threading the walks or lounging on the seats, the merry children
gambolling upon the grass, and the birds flitting among the trees, and
you have made up a sight well worth seeing.
As Clinton sat enjoying the scene, a huge column of water suddenly burst
forth from the pond, with a noise plainly perceptible, even at his
distance from it. It was the fountain. Forgetting everything else, he
ran with all speed towards it, for he had never seen it; and, as it was
allowed to play but seldom, owing to a scarcity of water at that time,
he had hardly dared to hope that his curiosity would be gratified. His
haste was needless, however, for it kept on playing, and he had ample
leisure to examine and enjoy it. It sent up a tall jet, which tapered
almost to a point, while a cloud of spray and vapor rose from the base.
The water sparkled gloriously in the sunlight, and the hues of the
rainbow danced among the mists. Clinton sat down under a tree, and drank
to his fill of the beautiful scene.
[Illustration]
This fountain has a dozen or more different jets. The highest one rises
to the height of ninety-eight feet, under favorable circumstances, and
is fed through an open pipe three inches in diameter. A pipe six inches
in diameter throws the water about eighty feet high. Another, with the
whole breadth of twelve inches, reaches but about forty feet. There is a
jet which is set at an angle, designed to play against the wind. There
are also jets which represent a variety of figures. One is called the
“willow,” from its resemblance to that tree. Another is the “lily,”
which sends out three side jets, representing the petals, and an upright
one in the centre, forming the pointal of the flower. Another is the
“vase,” and very graceful and picturesque it is. The amount of water
consumed by the fountain when it is in play is almost incredible. The
water rushes out with immense force; and some of the larger jets, if
kept in operation perpetually, would nearly or quite exhaust the regular
daily supply from Lake Cochituate. Of course the luxury can be indulged
in only occasionally, and for a few hours at a time.
As Clinton sat gazing at the fountain, the majestic column of water
began to falter, and almost instantly lowered its proud crest and
disappeared, leaving no trace of the fountain but the iron pipe through
which it gushed forth. The man who had charge of it had shut off the
water, which is done by means of a stop-cock near the pond. He soon
after appeared, walking through the pond, towards the fountain. He wore
a pair of high, water-proof boots; and, as there was a series of stone
blocks from the border of the pond to the fountain, sunk but a few
inches under water, for him to walk upon, he got along very comfortably.
Having removed the mouth-piece of the fountain, he screwed on another
one, and returned. In a few moments the water burst forth in a new
shape. There were a number of small jets arranged in a circle, each jet
taking an outward direction. The water formed a graceful curve, as it
rounded over towards the lake; and though it was not so lofty and
imposing as the other jet, it was in some respects more beautiful.
The fountain at length stopped playing, and Clinton, after watching a
while some boats which boys were sailing on the pond, started off in
quest of new sights. He first paid a visit to the great elm tree, near
the pond, admired its magnificent proportions, read its brief and
imperfect history, as inscribed on a tablet inserted in the iron fence
which surrounds it, and mused on the stirring scenes it had looked down
upon during the lapse of two hundred years. While thus engaged, he came
in contact with a quiet, modest-looking lad, of about his own age, who
seemed to be engaged in the same pursuit as himself—sight-seeing. A
mutual feeling of lonesomeness, or an intuitive perception of sympathy
and congeniality of character, or some other attractive principle,
seemed to draw them together, at first sight, and they were soon engaged
in conversation. In a short time Clinton had learned from his new
acquaintance that his name was Henry; that he came from the country, to
get a situation as apprentice, or clerk, but had not yet succeeded; and
that he had two older brothers in Boston, with whom he was staying.
“Have you been up to the top of the State House?” inquired Henry, as
Clinton began to look about for some new object of interest.
“No,” replied Clinton; “have you?”
“Yes, I went up last week with my brother,” said Henry. “Come, let’s go
up now,—I should like to go again, and I can promise you it’s a splendid
sight.”
“Come on, then,—it’s just where I want to go,” said Clinton, much
pleased that he was to have a companion in making the toilsome ascent.
So they passed on, through the spacious front yard, with its many
flights of stone steps; paused a moment to look at the fountains in
front of the capitol; paid a visit to the marble statue of Washington,
in the alcove opening from Doric Hall; inspected such portions of the
building as were open to the public; and then began their long journey
to the lantern which surmounts the dome. Up, up, up they went, through
the state’s great garret, with its interminable stairs, its dreary
passages, its venerable dust and cobwebs, and its hot and stifling
atmosphere. Now they are in the great dome, whose huge frame-work
encompasses them on every side, and fills the mind with something like
awe. And now the light increases—they breathe easier. They have ascended
the last of the one hundred and seventy steps; they are two hundred and
thirty feet above the level of the sea.
Clinton found that the lantern of the dome, which looked so small from
the street, was in reality a room of pretty good size. It was a museum
of autographs,—every place where it was possible to write, scratch or
cut a name, having been improved by the hundreds of thousands who have
visited this favorite resort of strangers. But the inside attractions
did not long detain the boys from the magnificent scene without.
Clinton’s exclamations, as his young companion hurried him from one
window to another, were few and brief, but by no means tame or
inexpressive. There lay the Common at his feet, looking like a
garden-patch of moderate size. The horses and carriages in the streets
seemed to be but baby toys, and the people were like ants creeping over
the ground. The city spread itself out on every side, with its long
lines of brick walls and slated roofs, and its innumerable steeples,
towers and cupolas, all compactly wedged together. Outside of this
shapeless mass of brick and stone was a line of water, which nearly
surrounded the city. A part of the way it was a narrow ribbon, crossed
by numerous bridges, over some of which railway trains were slowly
crawling, like caterpillars. Towards the east, however, the shore was
fringed with a forest of masts, and the waters stretched outward into
the great ocean, and the gleaming of white canvas could be seen, far
beyond the green islands that guard the entrance of the harbor. To the
landward were to be seen cities and villages, hills, fields and forests,
extending for many miles. The boys felt that but two things were
wanting, and these were, a good spy-glass, and some one, familiar with
the ground, to point out and name the various objects of interest that
were spread before them.
After stopping more than half an hour in the lantern, Clinton and Henry
commenced the descent. It was nearly noon when they reached the street;
and, as Clinton had a long distance to go, and was not familiar with the
way, he soon parted with his companion, whose stopping-place lay in
another direction, and set his face towards the South End. He trudged
along carelessly, until he thought he must be in the neighborhood of the
street where his uncle lived. And now he tried to find his bearings, but
without success. Nothing looked familiar. He was in a maze. But, as he
always preferred to solve his own difficulties, rather than have others
help him out of them, he determined that he would make no inquiries so
long as there was a chance of finding his way out. Pretty soon he came
out on an avenue, which he knew must be Washington Street, from its
appearance. Now he felt that he had got a clew that would enable him to
find his uncle’s house. He walked along for nearly half a mile, but
could not find the street for which he was looking. He was beginning to
feel some misgivings, when he came in sight of a steeple on which the
points of the compass were indicated, and he discovered that instead of
going south he was actually heading towards the north. He also
recognized the church as the Old South, and he was, consequently,
further from his destination than when he left the Common. The sun was
so nearly overhead that it did not afford him much aid in directing his
course, and he had therefore trusted to instinct, which, in the human
kind, is not always a very safe guide.
Of course Clinton faced about and retraced his steps. The dinner hour
was at hand; and, wisely concluding that he had experimented enough for
one day in the navigation of unknown streets, he inquired his way, and
at length reached his uncle’s, faint and weary with his forenoon’s
adventures. His account of his walk from the State House furnished
considerable merriment to the family. Whistler declared that he was
about to go after the city crier, and tell him to cry, “A child lost,
about fourteen years old,” &c., &c.; while Mr. Davenport, who always had
a story ready, said that Clinton was almost as bad as an old Quaker he
once knew, who used to come to Boston occasionally with a load of
chairs, and who would sometimes get so bewildered by the hubbub and
confusion of the city, as to go up three or four flights of stairs, into
the attic, to find his way to the street! He also related the case of a
little Irish boy, who landed in Boston from an emigrant ship, and
actually became insane from bewilderment. The little fellow, who was but
thirteen years old, had no friends here but a brother, who came over a
short time before. Confused by the strangeness, and, to his eyes, the
magnificence of the city, which for weeks had been the culminating point
of his anticipations, he wandered about, gazing upon the novelties by
day, and dreaming of them by night, until he believed himself the
inhabitant of a fairy-land, and could not recognize the brother whose
bed he shared; “for,” said he, “he was dressed so nice, and we used n’t
to be so at home.” Reason soon fled, and for weeks he by turns babbled
like a child and raved like a madman. He was taken to the lunatic
hospital, and it took several weeks to cure him.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER XIV.
SCHOOL TRIALS.
WHISTLER’S first day at school was not a day of unalloyed pleasure. It
was not without a severe struggle with his feelings that he met his
comrades and teachers, and took the familiar seat he had so long
occupied. The exciting scenes of the exhibition day, a few weeks
previous, came up vividly in his mind. The general credit with which he
passed through the examination, the applause with which his declamation
was received, and the praise bestowed upon several drawings and maps
executed by his hand, certainly were not of themselves unpleasant
recollections. But these happy memories were all embittered by another
thought, which he could not drive from his mind. He had left the school,
at the close of the last term, expecting to return to it no more. He had
presented himself as a candidate for admission to a school of higher
grade, and, to his great surprise and mortification, had been found
lacking in some of the necessary qualifications.
This was the severest blow Whistler ever received. He went home and gave
himself up to his grief. His vacation was blasted, his visit to
Brookdale was spoilt, and, indeed, it almost seemed to him as if his
prospects for life were ruined. His mother tried to comfort him, but
without much success. When his father came home, at night, he was
informed of the result of Whistler’s application by Mrs. Davenport. The
tea-bell rang, but Whistler did not appear. The servant was then sent to
his room to call him, and brought back the reply that he did not want
any supper. After tea, Mr. Davenport went up to his chamber, and found
him lying upon the bed, with his face buried in a pillow.
“Hallo! what does this mean, Whistler? What’s the matter with you?” he
inquired.
There was no reply, but a sob.
“Come, speak up!—what ails you?”
“I—couldn’t get into the—High School,” sobbed the poor boy.
“Couldn’t get into the High School? How happened that? Some partiality
or trickery, I suppose; they gave you all the hard questions, and the
others the easy ones,—didn’t they?”
“No, sir,” replied Whistler, somewhat reluctantly; “the questions were
printed, and all the candidates had to answer the whole of them in
writing.”
“Ah, that’s the way they manage, is it? Not much chance for foul play
there, I should say. Then it seems you couldn’t answer the questions.”
“No, sir,—not all of them.”
“Well, whose fault was that?”
“Mine, I suppose;” and the tears started fresh from Whistler’s eyes.
“I don’t know about that; perhaps no one was to blame for this failure.
I have had some doubts, all along, about your success; but I thought it
best not to trouble you with them, as I supposed you studied as hard as
you ought to. Was I right in my supposition?”
“I believe I’ve done the best I could,” replied Whistler.
“If you can say that with a good conscience,” continued his father,
“then I’m sure I shan’t blame you, and you ought not to blame yourself;
and I think you _can_ say it, for it agrees with what your teacher told
me. Come, cheer up! and don’t think any more about it. It will all come
out right, by-and-by. You’ll be admitted next year, and you’ll be able
to keep up with your class better than though you entered now.”
These words of encouragement somewhat revived Whistler’s feelings, and
as nothing more was said in his presence about the matter, by his
parents, the tide of disappointment and mortification soon began to
subside. His sensitive mind, however, was not wholly relieved, and,
intimate as he shortly after became with Clinton, he could not impart to
his cousin this unhappy secret. Immediately on his return from his
vacation, in accordance with a plan he had formed, he asked his father’s
permission to enter a private school, instead of returning to the old
one; but the reasons he gave were not deemed satisfactory, and the
request was not granted. He accordingly reëntered the public school,
and, to his great relief, none of his mates laughed at him for coming
back, or even alluded to his unsuccessful attempt to get into more
select, if not better company. But he was very glad when the first day
of the term was over.
Whistler was a diligent scholar; but, although by no means a dull boy,
he did not learn his lessons without much hard labor. Some branches he
acquired more easily than others. He had a taste for drawing, and copied
maps and even pictures very neatly. He was also a good reader, and in
declamation and composition he stood among the best in his class. But in
some other branches, particularly spelling and arithmetic, he was rather
backward. Nevertheless, he was an industrious scholar, and made fair
progress in his studies.
But Whistler was not destined to get through the first day of the new
term without some unpleasant experiences. It so happened that in his
first recitation, which took place in the afternoon, he “missed” two
questions that were put to him. He felt vexed and mortified, and, at his
second failure, he could not keep the tears from coming into his eyes.
The teacher, as he recorded the demerits, noticed his pupil’s emotion,
but made no remark. He afterwards requested Whistler to step to his
desk, when school was dismissed.
When the school closed for the day, Whistler proceeded to the place
appointed, but not without some unpleasant apprehensions, arising from
the imperfect lesson referred to. His fears were dispelled, however,
when the teacher, pointing him to a seat, remarked very pleasantly:
“William, you are a pretty good draughtsman, and I’ve been thinking that
perhaps I could get you to do a small job for me.”
“I should be happy to,” replied Whistler.
“Do you suppose,” continued the teacher, taking a couple of pictures
from his desk, “that you could make a large copy, in outline, of each of
these figures?”
Whistler looked at the engravings a moment, and replied, with some
hesitation:
“I could copy them better on the same scale they are there.”
“I know you could,” continued the teacher; “but that will not answer my
purpose. I want them to illustrate some remarks I wish to make to the
school, and they must be large enough to be seen across the school-room.
I have no time, just now, to copy them myself, and it occurred to me
that perhaps you would like to try your hand at it. You will find it
somewhat difficult, I suppose; but it will be a good exercise for you,
even if you should not succeed very well.”
Whistler readily consented to undertake the job, and his teacher
furnished him with some large sheets of drawing paper, and gave him such
directions in regard to the work as he deemed necessary.
Whistler now hurried home, where he found Clinton, who was so exhausted
by his forenoon’s tramp that he was glad to remain in the house the rest
of the day. With his characteristic dread of idleness, however, he was
busy at work with his pocket-knife, whittling out a puzzle for Ettie. It
was nearly completed. It consisted of a thin piece of wood, in which
three holes were cut,—one square, one round, and one triangular. The
holes were all of the same height and width. The puzzle consisted in
shaping a piece of wood so that it would stop up either of these holes.
To do this, he first made a square block,—a perfect cube. This, of
course, stopped up the square hole. He next rounded this into a
cylinder, so that it just fitted the circular hole, while by turning it
the right way, it would still answer to fill up the square one. He now
sharpened one end of this cylinder, until he had made a perfect
triangle, or wedge. This fitted snugly into the remaining hole, while
enough of the original form of the block remained to fill the other two
holes.
As soon as the puzzle was finished, Whistler went up to his chamber, and
began one of the drawings he had engaged to make. His cousin watched his
operations with interest, but was unable to render him any assistance.
Indeed, this hardly seemed necessary, for the swelling outline grew
quite perceptibly under Whistler’s pencil; and, although he did not get
along without a frequent recourse to the India-rubber, his success was
quite equal to his own anticipations. He had drawn maps on both an
enlarged and a reduced scale from the original, but he had never before
attempted to do either with the human figure, which is far more
difficult. He determined to try hard for success, however; and the
somewhat doubtful manner in which his teacher spoke of his ability to
execute the drawings, seemed rather to stimulate than discourage him.
This was precisely what the teacher intended to do. He knew that the
task was a difficult one, though not beyond Whistler’s ability. He knew,
moreover, that if he had told his pupil it was easy, the latter would
scarcely have believed him, and would, perhaps, have been disheartened
by the first difficulty; whereas, by taking the other course, the boy’s
ambition and spirit were more fully aroused, and he was prepared for a
strong and patient effort.
The next morning, Clinton having expressed some curiosity to see how a
Boston school was managed, he was invited by his cousin to accompany him
as a visitor, and he concluded to do so. Reaching the schoolhouse a
little before the hour of commencement, they stood in the yard, watching
the movements of the merry groups around them, when a large, ill-favored
boy cried out:
“There comes that big dunce that’s down in the fourth class! Let’s poke
some fun at him, boys. What’s his name?—does any body know? No matter,
we’ll call him Donkey,—ha! ha! Let’s give him that for a nickname! Don’t
you call him anything else,—will you, boys?”
“Good!—his name shall be Donkey!” said another boy; and several others
seconded the motion, while one or two began to shout “Donkey! Hallo,
Donkey!” to the unsuspecting butt of their sport.
Whistler, perceiving how matters were tending, now stepped forward, and
said:
“Don’t you do it, boys! It’s too bad to twit a fellow for what he can’t
help. That boy has been sick all his lifetime, and couldn’t go to
school, and that’s the reason he’s in the lowest class.”
“That’s all gammon!” retorted the boy who proposed the nickname, and
whose name was Nathan Clapp. “Bill Davenport has a natural sympathy for
dunces,—he doesn’t want much of being one himself. You know he tried to
get into the High School, the other day, and they wouldn’t take him, and
he had to come back here again. Let him stick up for Donkey, if he wants
to; it’s natural for him to stand up for his own breed!”
“If I’m a dunce, I should like to know what you are?” exclaimed
Whistler, his eye flashing with anger.
“I wasn’t such a big fool as to try to get into the High School, at any
rate!” replied Nathan.
“Don’t say anything more to him,—he isn’t worth noticing,” whispered
Clinton in the ear of his cousin; and the latter wisely heeded the
advice, and suppressed the angry retort which was trembling upon his
lips.
“Can’t say anything more, can you? Well, I think you had better shut
up!” continued the other boy; and then, turning to the lad in whose
behalf Whistler had interfered, and who had now entered the yard, he
continued, “Hallo, Donkey! how d’ ye do? Got your lesson, hey? Let’s
hear you say your a, b, c’s. There, Donkey,”—snatching the book from
under his arm, and pointing to a line,—“what letter’s that? Don’t you
know, hey? Can’t you speak, you dunce? Come, talk up like a little man!
nobody will hurt you. What’s that letter, hey?”
The boy, who was a peaceable and good-natured fellow, was evidently
annoyed by his tormentor; but he tried to take his jeers in good part,
and joined—not very heartily, it is true—in the laugh that was raised at
his expense. Nathan continued to hector him in this way for some
minutes, when Whistler, unable longer to repress his indignation, cried
out:
“Don’t mind what he says, David; I’ll warrant you will rank ahead of him
in less than six months.”
“You say that again, and I’ll rap you over the head!” exclaimed Nathan,
drawing himself up in a menacing attitude before Whistler.
“There’s no need of saying it again; but I’ll stick to it,” replied
Whistler, with firmness.
“Yes, you’d better back out! I knew you daresn’t say it again!”
continued the young bully.
“If you call that a back-out, you’re welcome to all the comfort you can
get out of it,” calmly replied Whistler.
“If you want to fight, then, come out here!” said Nathan, doubling up
his fists.
“No, I thank you,” replied Whistler; “I don’t believe in fighting.”
A boy here whispered to Nathan that the principal was in the
schoolhouse, and might overhear him. His voice, which had been loud and
defiant, was suddenly modulated to a very low tone, as he added:
“You’re a mean, sneaking coward! I’ll leave it to all of the boys if you
aren’t.”
This sudden transition from the loud tone of bravado to that of absolute
cowardice, was so ludicrous, that there was a general outburst of
laughter among the boys, in which Whistler himself heartily joined. They
began to challenge each other, in whispers, and declared that they were
not afraid of any body, in the softest tones. Nathan quickly disappeared
around the corner of the building, but the merriment went on until the
signal was given for school to commence.
Clinton went in with his cousin, and remained through the forenoon, an
interested spectator of the proceedings. The boys first assembled in a
large hall, where a chapter was read from the Bible, and the Lord’s
Prayer repeated by the whole school. The several divisions then went to
their own rooms, each with its own teachers, and remained in separate
session, with the exception of the recess, until it was nearly time for
the school to be dismissed. All the pupils were then assembled in the
large hall, and, after singing two or three verses of a hymn, the
principal observed that he wished to say a few words before they
separated. He then proceeded, somewhat in the following strain:
“I once knew a boy who was afflicted with a very painful disease, almost
from his infancy. For years he was confined to his bed, and it was
supposed that he would never be able to run about like other boys. He
had no father, and his mother was poor, and unable to provide him with
many of those little comforts that might have made his lot more
tolerable. He had a thirst for knowledge, but could not go to school,
and, indeed, he could not apply himself to books for any length of time,
his eyes were so weak. Still he managed to learn to read, and was quite
patient under his sufferings.
“When this boy got to be twelve or thirteen years old, his health
improved so much that he was able to walk about. The first desire he
expressed was to go to school; and as soon as he was well enough, he was
permitted to attend one of the public schools. As he had enjoyed few
opportunities of learning, the teacher was obliged to place him in a
class of smaller children than himself; but, for all that, he was as
intelligent a boy, and as promising a scholar, as you could find in the
school, all things considered. But he had not been in the school two
days, before one of the large boys, who was not a remarkably good
scholar himself began to make him the butt of his ridicule, calling him
a ‘dunce’ and a ‘donkey,’ and tried to set the other boys upon him.”
At this abrupt pause, most of the scholars looked earnestly, as if
impatient for the conclusion of the story; but a few, who recognized the
characters introduced, turned their faces towards David and Nathan.
After a moment’s delay, the teacher resumed his narrative:
“There was another boy in that school, who, though he did not learn his
lessons so easily as some children, was nevertheless a diligent and
faithful scholar, and behind none of his comrades in intelligence. This
boy gallantly interfered in behalf of the new pupil; whereupon the large
boy fell upon him, and began to ridicule him because he had been an
unsuccessful candidate for another school.”
The teacher again paused, and those of the boys who were not in the
secret began to wonder at the pointless conclusion of a story that
opened so promisingly. He soon continued:
“I’m not going to call any names,—I shan’t say, as David said to Nathan
of old, ‘Thou art the man!’ but—”
“It was Nathan who said that to David,” interrupted one of the older
boys.
“I believe you are right,” continued the teacher, who possibly had not
blundered without a purpose; “but, as I was saying, I shall call no
names. I will merely say that those three boys are members of this
school, and that I have related only what actually happened. And now, I
want to put two or three questions to the school, and I wish every boy
to answer yes or no. Those of you who think it is fair and honorable to
ridicule a boy for his low standing in school, when he has been sick all
his days, and had no opportunity to learn, will please to say ‘Aye.’”
There was no response.
“Those,” continued the teacher, “who think it is mean and dishonorable
to do so, will please to say ‘Aye.’”
There was a prompt and universal shout of “Aye!”
“Now, those who think it is fair and honorable to ridicule a boy, who
studies hard and makes good progress, because he happened to make a
failure once in his life, may say ‘Aye.’”
All were silent.
“Those who think it base and mean to do so, will please to say ‘Aye.’”
Again there was a prompt and hearty “Aye!”
“Yes, I think there can be but one side to that question,” continued the
teacher. “A boy who has had no opportunity to study, ought not to be
blamed for his ignorance; and one who studies diligently, should not be
laughed at if he does not happen to know everything. These are not
dunces. The real dunce is the scholar who has the ability and the
opportunity to learn, but who will not exercise the one or improve the
other, and so remains ignorant. I can’t blame you much for laughing at
such a boy. He deserves it.
“On the other hand, I do not consider that boy the most promising who
learns his lessons in the shortest time. Some of you have only to read
over a lesson a few times, and you are ready for recitation; while
others are obliged to work hard over it for an hour or more before they
can master it. Now, if some one should come in here, and ask me to point
out the six most promising scholars among you, I do not know that I
should select one of those lads who commit their lessons to memory with
so little effort; but I _do_ know that the boy who was laughed at
because he failed to get into the High School would be among the six,
and the others would be boys who, like him, appear to appreciate the
value of knowledge, and make a diligent use of their school privileges.
“I will close,” continued the principal, “by reading to you a few facts
from a magazine I have in my desk, which go to show that some of the
most eminent men of all ages were remarkable only for dulness in their
youth. Rev. Dr. Channing, at one period of his youth, says the writer,
was considered a dull, plodding character. At nine years of age, one who
afterwards became a chief justice in this country, was, during a whole
winter, unable to commit to memory the little poem found in one of our
school books, commencing,
“‘You’d scarce expect one of my age,’ &c.
Dr. Scott, the commentator, could not compose a theme when twelve years
old; and even at a later age, Dr. Clark, after incredible effort, failed
to commit to memory a poem of a few stanzas only. Wellington, at the
military school, was not brilliant. The teachers of Linnæus thought he
was fit for nothing but a common mechanic. Sir Isaac Newton ranked very
low in school until the age of twelve. When Samuel Wythe, the Dublin
schoolmaster, attempted to educate Richard Brinsley Sheridan, he
pronounced the boy an ‘incorrigible dunce.’ The mother of Sheridan fully
concurred in this verdict, and declared him the most stupid of her sons.
Walter Scott had the credit of having the ‘thickest skull in the
school,’ though Dr. Blair told the teacher that many bright rays of
future glory shone through that same ‘thick skull.’ Milton and Swift
were noted for dulness in childhood. The great Isaac Barrow’s father
used to say that, if it pleased God to take from him any of his
children, he hoped it might be Isaac, as the least promising. Goldsmith
was dull in his youth, and Shakspeare, Gibbon, Davy and Dryden, do not
appear to have exhibited in their childhood even the common elements of
future success.”
The principal now dismissed the school, and the boys filed out, in
military order, at the touch of a bell
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER XV.
LESSONS IN PHYSIOLOGY.
WHISTLER persevered with the drawings which his teacher had requested
him to make; and, though he was frequently obliged to rub out and
re-draw his lines, he became so much interested in the work that the
idea of being discouraged scarcely occurred to him. He devoted to it all
the time he could spare out of school, which was not much, now that he
had Clinton to entertain. In two or three days, however, the drawings
were completed; and it was but the work of an evening to shade the lines
with Indian ink. The next morning the young artist had the satisfaction
of handing them to his teacher, and of receiving both his thanks and
praise for the neat and faithful manner in which he had executed his
commission. After the opening exercises of the school, while all the
boys were assembled in the large room, the principal remarked that he
wished to address a few words to the scholars before they separated to
their several rooms.
[Illustration]
“I have noticed,” he said, “a somewhat prevalent fault in the school,
which I wish to correct now, at the beginning of the term. Some of you,
I perceive, do not know how to sit or stand properly. It is very
important that you all should acquire this art, or rather habit. If
necessary, you had better neglect your grammar or arithmetic a little,
rather than fail of this accomplishment. As you sit or stand now, you
will be likely to sit or stand as long as you live. Your bodies are now
growing very fast, and they will grow into the shape which you accustom
them to. If it is a bad shape, it will be difficult to correct it a few
years hence.
[Illustration]
“The great thing, in sitting, standing and walking, is _erectness_. Keep
the head up, and the body straight. Don’t try to hump your backs, nor
hang your heads as though they were too heavy for you. There are two
great objections to the crooked position. One is, it looks badly; and
the other is, it is very injurious to the body. I consider this subject
of so much importance that I have procured a few drawings to illustrate
it, which I shall fasten upon the wall, where you can all see them
several times every day. The first two that I shall show you were
executed by Master William Davenport; and I think you will all admit
that they are very creditable to him. This drawing”—and here the
principal held up the first design on this page—“shows the wrong
standing posture. There are not many of you that cut quite so bad a
figure as that when you stand up to read, but some of you resemble it a
great deal more than you ought to. Look at it, and see how ungainly it
appears! How unnatural it is! Now, just compare it with this
boy”—holding up the other design. “This is the right position. It is
easy, natural, graceful, and favorable to health. I wish you all to
imitate it.”
The teacher now wrote “_wrong_” under the first drawing, and “_right_”
under the other, and then fastened them upon the wall. He then held up
to the school a large drawing, represented in the following engraving,
and said “For this drawing, and the mate to it, which I shall soon show
you, I am indebted to Miss Martin.” (This lady was one of the assistant
teachers.) “It shows the wrong sitting position, and it is a pretty good
likeness of the posture which many of you get into when you are writing
and ciphering. Just study that boy’s attitude. See his head, hanging
down as if it were loaded with lead,—and very likely it is, for he looks
like a dunce! See his cramped and hunched chest, and his twisted legs! I
will label it ‘_wrong_,’ and fasten it up here; and as often as you look
at it, let it be a warning to you.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
“And here, boys,” continued the principal, exhibiting the above drawing,
“you see the right sitting position. What an improvement it is upon the
other position, even if we think only of the looks! But the effect on
the health is far more important than that. I suppose you all know that
the spine, or backbone, is intended to support the body and keep it
erect. It is one of the most curious contrivances in our bodies. It is
composed of twenty-four small bones, between each of which there is a
piece of cartilage, or gristle, which we may compare to an India-rubber
spring. The whole makes a strong column, and yet it can be bent in any
direction, and is so elastic or yielding that it protects the head from
jars as completely as the softest cushion could do it. But the proper
position of this spinal column is the upright one; and it can never be
kept long out of that position without injury. Look at either of those
boys who are in the wrong position. The spine, you see, must be very
crooked. If they assume that unnatural position often, and remain in it
for a long time, there is danger that the cartilages or springs in their
backbones will harden where they are compressed, and then they will
always be distorted. Besides, there are certain muscles in our trunks
that sustain the spine. When we habitually sit or stand in a crooked
position, these muscles are severely taxed, and finally lose their
strength, and then we become liable to weakness and disease. Diseases of
the spine are very difficult to cure. People are sometimes confined to
their beds for ten, twenty, or thirty years by such complaints, before
death comes to their relief.
“But the backbone is not the only sufferer from this bad habit. It
crowds the lungs, so that they do not have room to work. They become
contracted; the chest grows flat and narrow; the stomach and abdomen are
pressed together unnaturally; and, after a while, you will be unable to
take in air enough to give life and vigor to the blood. Then sores will
form in your lungs; the doctors will tell you that you are in
consumption, and death will begin to knock at your door. You can easily
satisfy yourselves on this point by an experiment or two. Put yourselves
into a crooked position, and then speak or read aloud a few minutes.
Then do the same thing in an upright position, and see how much easier
it is. Or, you may try to take a full breath without raising the
shoulders, and then do so giving the shoulders fair play. You will find
there is a right way and a wrong way to breathe, and that you cannot
breathe right when you are sitting, standing, or lying in an unnatural
position.
“There is one other bad sitting position to which I wish to call your
attention. It arises from not keeping the arms on the same level, and is
generally caused by sitting at a table or desk that is too high or too
low. In resting one elbow, you throw up the shoulder on one side, and
depress the other, and the spine is thus made very crooked. You should
keep your shoulders as level as possible. Heads up, chest erect and
straight, and shoulders square and thrown back—that’s the true position.
Now, boys, you may go to your rooms, and see if you can put this lesson
in practice.”
A few days after this, Whistler received another physiological lesson,
which made a still deeper impression upon his mind. It happened in this
wise. Ettie had a beautiful kitten, to which she was very much attached.
It was as white as snow, with the exception of its feet, and a black
spot under its neck. Its fur was very fine, soft and clean. One
afternoon, on returning from school, Whistler found the kitten asleep in
a little apartment which was devoted to Ettie’s especial use as a
play-room. His sister’s playthings were scattered over the floor, and
among them was a small box in which she kept many of her valuables, and
which she called her work-box. It was made of mahogany, and the top slid
on in a groove. Thoughtless of everything but fun, Whistler deposited
kitty in the box, and closed the top, chuckling to himself as he
imagined how Ettie would jump when she returned to her sports and opened
pussy’s prison.
In the evening Ettie searched the house from cellar to attic for her
kitten, but it did not come to her call. Besides herself, no one was at
home but her father and the domestic, the rest of the family having gone
to hear the band play upon the Common, this being one of the evenings in
which music was provided for the public at the city’s expense. Ettie,
however, would give neither her father nor the domestic any peace until
they had joined her in the search; and when, after thoroughly exploring
the premises, outdoors and in, without avail, they told her she must go
to bed without seeing the kitty, she did not yield to their wishes
without some tears, although assured that the little stray-away would
doubtless come home in the morning.
The next morning Ettie was among the first in the family to arise, and
she anxiously resumed her search for the lost kitten. Whistler heard her
from his chamber, and his intended joke then flashed upon his mind,
almost for the first time since he shut the box upon the kitten.
Hurriedly dressing himself, he went down to Ettie’s play-room, and found
the box just as he left it. Drawing off the cover, there lay the missing
kitten, cold and stiff in death. It had evidently died of suffocation,
or want of air. The joints of the box were fitted together with glue,
and the top slid on very snugly, so that it was nearly air-tight.
Whistler felt sad enough at this unexpected issue of an act of
playfulness. His sadness was greatly increased by the consciousness
which flashed upon him that he was not altogether innocent in the
matter. But, at the same moment, another thought flashed upon his mind,
and that was, that the fate of the kitten need never be known to any one
else. Fortunately he had said nothing about shutting her up, and it
would now be very easy to dispose of her remains in a private manner. He
was not sure but that it would be a kindness to Ettie to leave her in
the dark as to the sad and untimely fate of her four-footed playmate.
Then he thought of an admonition which his father had often urged upon
him from early childhood. It was this: “When you accidentally do any
mischief, always promptly confess it, for I can forgive your
carelessness much more easily than your attempt at concealment.” He had
been too faithfully trained to this excellent rule to disregard it now;
and he made up his mind very quickly what course to pursue. Shutting up
the box, and placing it where Ettie could not get at it, he went to his
father’s chamber door, and knocked. Mr. Davenport was dressing himself,
and admitted him.
“Father, I have done some mischief, but I didn’t mean to,” said
Whistler, with some hesitation.
“What now?—some more of your heedlessness?” inquired his father.
Whistler related his unhappy attempt at a joke, and its sad sequel.
“Well,” said his father, when he had finished his confession, “that was
very bright in you, I must confess. Didn’t you know that cats have
lungs, and can’t live without air? What has become of all the physiology
you have learned at school and at home? Couldn’t you put enough of it in
practice to save that poor kitten’s life?”
Whistler was silent. He was almost as much astonished as his father at
his own thoughtlessness, for his parents had taken unusual pains to
impress upon his mind some of the great laws of health, foremost among
which was the necessity of an abundant supply of pure air. He could
explain the uses of the lungs; he could name the gases of which air is
composed; he knew that a pair of human lungs need a hogshead of fresh
air every hour, to sustain health; and yet it did not occur to him that
a kitten would suffer, and perhaps die, if shut up in a box but little
larger than itself, and nearly air-tight.
“Well, it can’t be helped now; but be more careful hereafter,” added Mr.
Davenport.
“Had I better tell Sissy the kitten is dead, or would you say nothing
about it to her?” inquired Whistler.
“Yes, go at once and tell her about it, and don’t keep her in suspense
any longer,” replied his father.
Whistler promptly obeyed, breaking the news as gently as possible to his
little sister; but, in spite of his precautions, she gave vent to a
flood of tears, and refused to be comforted. Poor kitty had one sincere
mourner.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER XVI.
THE PRESTON FAMILY.
“MOTHER, may I go over to Ralph Preston’s, this evening, with Clinton?”
asked Whistler, one day, about the middle of September. “Oscar has got
home, and his cousin Marcus has come with him. I’ve seen them both. We
are going to take Clinton and Oscar by surprise. Oscar doesn’t know that
Clinton is in town, and Clinton doesn’t know that Oscar is. There’ll be
quite a scene, I guess, when they come together; you know they used to
be pretty intimate, when Oscar lived down to Brookdale.”
Mrs. Davenport readily granted the desired permission; for, although it
was a rule of the house that the children should never be absent from
home after dark without the consent of one of their parents, the rule
was intended merely to shield them from the moral dangers to which the
young are exposed in the streets of towns after nightfall, and not to
debar them from any proper and innocent amusement.
Whistler and Ralph attended the same school, and, although there was a
difference of two or three years between their ages,—Ralph being the
younger,—they were intimate friends. There were many excellent traits in
Ralph’s character. Whistler was also on terms of friendship with the
other members of the family—Alice, Ella and George. Alice was a young
lady of seventeen. Ella has already been introduced to the reader.
George, the youngest, was about nine years old. With Oscar, who was now
half way between fifteen and sixteen, Whistler had never been on very
good terms. Until within a little more than a year, they had been
classmates in school; but the character of Oscar, at that time, was not
such as Whistler could admire; and, on the other hand, Oscar seemed, for
some reason known best to himself, to take a dislike to Whistler, which
more than once manifested itself in blows. For all this, however,
Whistler now cherished no feeling of resentment towards his old enemy.
On the contrary, the shame and suffering which Oscar had brought upon
himself, and the desire and determination he had expressed to reform,
warmly enlisted Whistler’s sympathies in his behalf.
Marcus Page, Oscar’s cousin, who had come to Boston with him, was about
eighteen years old, and lived in the small town of Highburg, in Vermont.
His mother had agreed to take Oscar into her family, where he would be
under good influences, and secure from the evil associations and
temptations of the city; and his release from the State Reform School
was conditioned upon this arrangement. Marcus was to spend a few day in
Boston, and then to return to his home, with Oscar.
When Mr. Davenport came home to tea that evening, he brought a letter
for Clinton. It was from his mother, and was the first intelligence he
had received from home since his departure. It contained several items
of intelligence which, to him, were of considerable importance. Dick
Sneider, the supposed incendiary, had at length been arrested, and after
a preliminary examination, had been committed to jail, to await a trial
by jury. Clinton had been summoned as a witness against him; but, as the
trial could not take place for several weeks, he would have an
opportunity to finish his visit before returning. Nor was Dick the only
rogue that had been caught since Clinton left home. The letter stated
that some creature entered Mr. Preston’s barn, one night, and killed
four geese. A trap was set the next night, and the following morning it
held securely by the paw of the left fore foot a wild-cat that stood
seventeen inches high, measured three feet in length, and weighed
thirty-three pounds. He was alive, and not in a very amiable mood, when
discovered, but was despatched by two or three blows with a heavy stick.
His skin had been preserved. “It is the opinion of the folks here,”
continued the letter, “that this was the identical rascal that made such
havoc with your fowls, just before you left home; but we shall probably
never know for a certainty whether this was so or not. When we discover
a rogue, we are apt to lay upon him not only his own sins, but many
others for which we can find no owner.”
If Mrs. Davenport entertained any doubt as to the guilt of the wild-cat
in the chicken affair, Clinton did not. It was as plain to him as day
that the feline monster was the real culprit. He had suspected as much
from the first, against his father’s doubts and ridicule; and now that
the presence of such a creature had been demonstrated, he wanted no
further proof. There was somewhat of a chasm between the two links of
the argument, it is true; but although the reasoning would hardly be
sufficient to hang a man, Clinton deemed it amply conclusive to condemn
a wild-cat. He exulted quite as much over the conquest of this midnight
marauder, as he did over the capture of the other and greater rogue
mentioned in the letter.
After tea, Clinton went over to Mr. Preston’s house with his cousin. The
“surprise,” when Oscar and Clinton met, was quite as great, on both
sides, as had been anticipated. They were right glad to see each other
face to face once more; and, although Oscar at first seemed to feel some
restraint, the cordial manner with which his old comrades received him,
put him at his ease again. From regard to his feelings, no allusion was
made to his past career; but future plans and hopes were discussed quite
freely.
“How do you think you shall like living on a farm?” inquired Clinton,
addressing Oscar.
“O, I’ve made up my mind to like it, whether or no,” was the reply.
“If you stick to that, you will be contented enough,” said Marcus.
“You won’t have to work very hard this winter, I suppose,” added
Clinton, who remembered that industry was not one of Oscar’s virtues,
when he knew him in Brookdale.
“No,—I’m going to the academy till next spring, if not longer,” replied
Oscar.
“Are you?” inquired Clinton.
“And I shouldn’t wonder if I had Cousin Marcus for a teacher, too,”
added Oscar.
“Why, that would be complete!” said Whistler.
“Yes; the trustees want him to be an assistant teacher this winter, but
he hasn’t given them any answer yet,” continued Oscar.
“I should admire to have you for a teacher, I know I should,” said Ella.
“I should expect you would show me lots of favors.”
“Perhaps I should,” replied Marcus; “but possibly they might not be just
such favors as you would like. We had a teacher in our district school,
once, who had his wife’s brother for one of his pupils. He was a large
boy, and quite a good sort of a fellow, too; but he got more whippings
than any two boys in the school. I suppose his brother-in-law thought he
must show him some favors.”
“But you wouldn’t serve _me_ in that way?” said Ella.
“I should hope not,—nor Oscar, either,” replied Marcus; “but I must tell
you what I told Ronald. He was quite tickled with the idea of my being
teacher; but I told him that if I showed him any partiality, it would
only be in looking after him a little sharper than I did after the other
scholars.”
“Then Ronald is going to the academy this winter?” inquired Mrs.
Preston.
“Yes, ma’am; he is to commence with the next term,” replied Marcus.
“Ronald,—that’s a queer name!—who is he?” inquired Whistler.
“He’s a little fellow that has lived with us several years,” replied
Marcus. “He is a French Canadian by birth; but his parents are dead, and
mother took him out of pity, and has brought him up, so far.”
“He thinks a great deal of you, doesn’t he?” inquired Ralph.
“He appears to,” replied Marcus.
“He certainly ought to; your cousin Marcus has been almost a father to
him,” said Mrs. Preston. “He takes nearly the whole care of him, and has
made him what he is; and I suppose Ronald feels towards him very much as
he would towards a father.”
“You give me more credit than belongs to me,” interposed Marcus. “If it
hadn’t been for mother and Aunt Fanny, I couldn’t have done anything
with him. He was the queerest little fellow you ever saw when he first
came to us. He was full of all sorts of pranks, and was as wild and
untrained as an Indian child.”
“Did he talk English?” inquired George.
“Yes, after his fashion,” replied Marcus. “His parents spoke broken
English, but French was their natural tongue.”
“Does he speak French, too?” inquired Clinton.
“No, he has lost that,” replied Marcus. “When I began to study French at
school, I thought he might be of some help to me; but I soon found that
his _patois_, as they call it, was about as bad as the English of a raw
Irishman. So we thought he might as well let it go.”
“Does he speak English well now?” asked Whistler.
“O, yes,—very well,” said Marcus.
“What did you think of him, mother? You saw him this summer, didn’t
you?” inquired Oscar.
“Yes, I saw him, and liked him very well,” replied Mrs. Preston. “He is
a bright, intelligent, wide-awake boy, but a little roguish, I should
say.”
“But, mother, he is a good-hearted and well-meaning boy,” said Alice,
who also had visited Highburg that summer.
“I have no doubt of it,” added Mrs. Preston; “but for all that he is a
little mischievous. I have laughed a good many times over one scrape he
got himself into while we were there. There are two buildings on the
farm that stand very near together, but do not touch. There is just
about enough space between them for a cat to walk through. Well, Ronald
took it into his head, one day, to crawl through that narrow space. So
he squeezed himself in, and pretty soon we heard a great outcry in that
direction. We all ran out to see what had happened, and there we found
the young rogue, wedged in so closely between the two buildings that he
couldn’t move an inch, and almost frightened out of his wits. Marcus got
ropes and pries, and we worked over him about an hour before we got him
out; and then he had to leave a good part of his clothing behind him. I
shall never forget how cheap he looked when he came out of that
place—his jacket in tatters, his clothes covered with mould and dirt,
and his face as red as a beet.”
“He has a faculty for getting himself into such scrapes,” said Marcus.
“Last spring I had some business at Montpelier, and I took him with me.
The man I wanted to see was an officer of some kind,—a sheriff, I
believe. He wasn’t in when I called at his place of business, and so I
took a newspaper, and sat down to wait. I didn’t notice what Ronald was
about; but after a few minutes he came to me, with one of his droll
looks, and carrying his hands in a singular manner. He was handcuffed. I
at first thought it was a good joke, and laughed at it; but I soon found
it was a sorry joke to him, for he couldn’t get the handcuffs off. They
had spring locks, and fastened themselves, but could not be opened
without a key. Though they were too large for his wrists, I found I
could not slip them off without endangering his hands. Pretty soon a man
came in, and he told me that Ronald would have to wear the handcuffs
until I could find their owner, if it was for a week, as no key would
unlock them but the one that was made for them. This rather put a damper
on Ronald; but, fortunately, the man came in after a little while. Then
I thought I would carry the joke a little farther; so I pointed to
Ronald, and told him I had got a prisoner for him. He wanted to know
what he had done, and I told him he had put his hands where he ought not
to. ‘Ah, that’s bad!—that’s bad!’ said he; ‘how much did he steal?’—‘I
didn’t steal anything,’ said Ronald; ‘but I saw these things, and I
thought I’d try them on, and now I can’t get them off.’ The man saw
through the joke, then, and he got the key and took off the handcuffs.”
“Ronald isn’t the first boy who has handcuffed himself,” said Mr.
Preston, looking up from one of several letters which he had been
opening and reading during the preceding conversation. “Here’s a boy,
now, who has put himself into worse handcuffs than Ronald’s, and, what
is more, he doesn’t know it; but any body else can see it plainly
enough.”
“Who is he, father?—what has he done?” inquired Ralph.
“He is a boy who wants a situation in my store,” replied Mr. Preston. “I
put an advertisement in the papers for a boy, and these letters are all
answers to it. Here is the advertisement; you may read it aloud, Ralph,
and then those who wish may examine this reply to it.”
Ralph then read as follows:
“WANTED, in a W. I. Goods Store, an active, intelligent boy,
about fourteen years old, who writes a fair hand, is quick at
figures, and whose parents reside in the city. Address, in
handwriting of applicant, ‘W. I. G.,’ at this office.”
The letter to which Mr. Preston alluded was then handed around, and read
by all present, eliciting many amusing comments. The handwriting was
cramped, awkward, and in some parts scarcely legible; the spelling was
quite original; the sentences were run into each other with an utter
contempt for marks of punctuation; capital letters were withheld and
dispensed according to a system not laid down in any of the books; and
the general structure of the composition indicated an entire ignorance
of all rules and laws of established usage. It read as follows:
“FALL RIVER, sep 14
“Honered sir—i see by the Boston dayly papers printed in Boston
that you want a boy if you do i think i might answer perhaps i
am fifteen old smart and strong have a good education have
ciphered through adams arithmetic once and took a meddle at the
last righting school——Perhaps you wont Think so by my righting
as i have got a very bad pen i have had some experience in my
unkles grocery and should staid there if was not so verry dull i
think i should like Boston a great deal Better.
“As for sallary i think 50 ayear besides my board and cloathes
about right the first year i can come as soon as you want please
write to obedient Servant
JOHN MORROW.”
“Sure enough,” said Mrs. Preston, “that boy has put on
handcuffs,—handcuffs of ignorance! If he tells the truth, he has had
some opportunities of getting an education; but it is very plain that he
did not profit by them. He has put the handcuffs on, and he will have to
wear them, now.”
The children insisted upon seeing the letters of the other applicants,
and they were accordingly handed around, read, and criticised, affording
much amusement to the company. None of them were quite so faulty as John
Morrow’s, though several of them did not do much credit to the writers.
Two or three, however, were very well expressed, and neatly written. One
of the best read as follows:
“BOSTON, Sept. 15, 185-.
“DEAR SIR: I read your advertisement for a boy, and think I
might answer your purpose. I was fourteen years old last June,
and have just left school, and come to Boston to earn my living.
My parents live in Dracut; but I have two grown-up brothers in
Boston, with whom I live, and who will look after me. I have the
recommendation of my school teacher, and several other
gentlemen, which I will show you if you wish. If you will try
me, I will endeavor to give satisfaction. You can find me at No.
—, —— Street.
“Yours, respectfully,
“HENRY E. HOYT.”
“Why, Mr. Preston, I know that boy!” exclaimed Clinton, as soon as his
eye rested upon the above signature; “and I think he’s a good boy, too.”
“Ah!” said Mr. Preston; “what do you know about him?”
“I don’t really _know_ much about him,” replied Clinton; “but I liked
his appearance. I got acquainted with him on the Common, a week or two
ago, and I went up to the top of the State House with him. He told me he
came from Dracut, and lived with his brothers, and was trying to get a
place. This must be the same boy.”
“Is that all you know about him?” inquired Mr. Preston, with a smile.
“Yes, sir,” replied Clinton; “but he _looked_ like a good boy, and his
letter reads well, too. Don’t you think so?”
“Yes,” replied Mr. Preston; “and, as you were so well impressed by him,
I think I will see him, at any rate, before I engage a boy.”
“And if he gets the place, he must thank you for it, Clinton,” said
Whistler.
“No, it will be owing to his writing such a good letter,” replied
Clinton. “If he had made such a bungling piece of work as that other boy
did, I wouldn’t have owned him as an acquaintance.”
Thus the evening passed away in pleasant conversation, and all seemed
sorry when the stroke of the clock announced the hour at which Whistler
and his cousin were obliged to leave.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER XVII.
A WATER EXCURSION.
THE next Saturday Whistler came home from school in great haste, at
noon, and informed his mother that several of his young associates were
going to get a sailboat and take a cruise in the harbor, immediately
after dinner, and had invited him to go with them. Each boy was to pay a
small sum for the use of the boat, the amount of which assessment would
depend upon the number in the party. Whistler was quite anxious to go
with them, and he knew Clinton would be, also, although he had not been
able to find him since school was dismissed. The day was calm and
pleasant, the boys who were going were of good character, several of
them understood managing a boat, and they could not help having a good
time. Such was Whistler’s story.
But his mother was not at all pleased with the project. She did not
consider it safe for a party of such boys to venture upon the water,
without a man capable of managing the boat. Whistler argued and pleaded,
but could not change her mind. She finally told him that she should not
give her consent to his going, and wished he would abandon the idea; but
added that, if he was very anxious to go, he might ask his father’s
permission, and if it was granted she should say nothing more about it.
As Mr. Davenport generally dined down town when business was pressing,
Whistler started at once for his office. He found his father deeply
engaged with several gentlemen, and some time elapsed before he could
get even a look from him. After a while the busy lawyer stepped aside,
and, telling his son to “speak quick,” listened to his request. He asked
a question or two about the boys who were going, and, taking a handful
of change from his pocket, gave Whistler enough to pay for himself and
Clinton, and told him they might go with the party.
Whistler hastened home, and informed his mother of his success; but she
kept her promise, and said nothing about the matter, although he tried
hard to draw from her some modification of her judgment. Soon one of the
boys who was getting up the party called to see whether Whistler was
going. For a moment he was in doubt what reply to make. He could not
consult Clinton, who had not yet returned. He wanted to go very much,
but he did not wish to set at defiance the known wishes of his mother.
He soon, however, made up his mind what to do. After a short but severe
struggle in his mind, he told the boy that he should not go. When
Clinton came in, and was informed of the affair, he appeared to be
satisfied with Whistler’s decision, though it was no less a
disappointment to him than to his cousin.
“Well, boys, you have got back in good season from your excursion,” said
Mr. Davenport, when he came home from his business that afternoon.
“We didn’t go,” replied Whistler.
“Didn’t go!—how happened that?” inquired his father.
“Mother didn’t want us to go, and so I thought we had better give it
up,” replied Whistler.
“That was a good reason,—a very good reason,” said his father. “On the
whole, I think your mother was about right. It isn’t safe for a lot of
boys to go on the water alone; and I was sorry, five minutes afterwards,
that I consented to your going.”
There the matter dropped; but the regard Whistler had manifested for his
mother’s wishes was not forgotten by either of his parents. It was
talked over when they were alone, and it was determined to reward him in
some way for his self-denying decision. The next Monday his mother had
the pleasure of informing him that the whole family were going to sail
in the harbor the following Wednesday, which was his birthday. Mr.
Davenport had chartered a fine yacht[3] for the occasion. Whistler had
liberty to invite the Preston children, and also Marcus, to go with
them; and several other invitations were likewise to be extended.
Footnote 3:
Pronounced YOT.
Whistler lost no time in spreading the news of this arrangement among
those who were interested. He learned that Marcus and Oscar had intended
to start for Vermont on the day of the proposed excursion; but they were
easily persuaded to postpone their journey for one day, for the sake of
joining the party. Ella and her brothers, Ralph and George, only awaited
their father’s consent to give the invitation a cordial acceptance.
Indeed, so impatient were they, that Ralph proceeded at once to his
father’s store, and obtained the desired permission. Clinton and
Whistler went with him, and the first-named had the gratification of
meeting his chance acquaintance, Henry Hoyt, who had that morning
entered upon the service of Mr. Preston. Henry was not a little
surprised to find that there was so close a connection between his
courtesy to a fellow stranger and the success of his application for a
situation.
Wednesday came, and Whistler was fourteen years old. The accustomed
birthday present from his parents, which had never failed him within his
recollection, was found upon his table when he awoke. It was a plain but
highly-polished rosewood box, filled with implements and materials for
drawing. Everything that a young artist could desire in the pursuit of
his favorite study was here to be found, neatly secured in its own
place. Whistler was delighted with the gift, and assured his parents
that they could not possibly have selected a present that would have
pleased him better.
After breakfast, active preparations were made for the excursion; and
promptly, at the hour appointed, all of the company invited were
assembled upon the wharf where the yacht lay. The “Echo,” as she was
called, was rigged as a sloop,—that is, she had but one mast, and a
bowsprit. She was of about twenty-five tons burden, and looked quite
small by the side of the huge ships of ten or twelve hundred tons which
surrounded and overshadowed her. While these leviathans towered high
above the wharves, the modest Echo sat so low in the water that the
party had to go down a ladder to reach her deck. She was a neat, trim,
and graceful craft, however, and everything about her was scrupulously
clean. A blue pennant was flying from her masthead.
The party seated themselves in the stern of the yacht, where they found
very good accommodations, while the skipper and his two men—who
constituted the whole crew—took their positions forward. Having cast off
their lines, they hoisted the jib, and began to push out from the wharf.
Both the wind and tide were contrary, and it required some nautical
skill to get out into the stream. Once clear from the wharf, the first
thing they did was to run into a small row-boat, and the next was to
thump against the side of a large steamboat which lay at the opposite
wharf. No harm was done, however; and, after a few unintelligible orders
from the skipper,—who had now taken his post at the helm,—they swung
clear of every obstacle, the mainsail was hoisted, and they were under
way.
[Illustration]
The wind being in an easterly direction, the yacht was obliged to “beat
out,” as it is called; that is, instead of taking a direct course for
the outer harbor, she had to sail in zigzag lines, approaching very
gradually towards the point to which she was bound. The first “tack,” as
the sailors term the course of a ship when beating against the wind,
took the Echo close to the shore of East Boston. A large steamship, just
arrived from Europe, was entering her berth; and, at the request of
several of the party, the captain of the yacht sailed up to within a few
yards of her, giving all on board a fine opportunity to inspect the huge
and stately leviathan. What an impression of strength and beauty, of
gigantic power and indescribable grace, did they derive, as they gazed
up from their frail and tiny craft upon the towering walls of this ocean
monster! A crowd was assembled upon the wharf, awaiting the landing of
the passengers; and several small boats were hovering around, drawn
thither, probably, like the Echo, by curiosity. Altogether, it was a
very lively and interesting scene. After sailing slowly by the
steamship, the Echo was put upon a new tack, heading towards the
opposite side of the stream. In taking these tacks from one side to the
other, considerable skill was required to steer clear of the numerous
vessels of all sorts that were lying in the course of the yacht.
“Beautiful!” “charming!” “splendid!” were exclamations that frequently
arose above the general buzz of conversation, in the stern, as the Echo
glided smoothly over the waters. Nor were these extravagant terms; for a
sail down Boston harbor, on such a day, and in such a craft, is one of
the pleasantest excursions that can be imagined. But, while some of the
party were enjoying the beautiful views that presented themselves,
others, and especially the boys, were engaged in watching their boat,
and in examining its various appointments.
“What queer seats these are! What is the object of making them in that
shape?” inquired Clinton, as he examined a stool that was shaped
somewhat like an hour-glass, and was made of tin, and painted, with the
name of the yacht inscribed upon it.
“That is a life-preserver, as well as a stool,” replied Whistler. “If
any one should fall overboard, they would throw him one of these stools,
and that would keep his head above water till they could get him out.”
“Now, look out for your heads, ladies, if you please!” said the captain,
as he was about to swing the boom around to the other side of the boat,
for the purpose of changing the tack.
“No matter about the gentlemen’s heads!” said Whistler; and, suiting the
action to the word, he sat upright until the boom came upon him, and
then, dodging it a little too late, it took his hat from his head, and,
but for a quick movement on his part, would have sent it whirling into
the water.
“If you had sat still a moment longer, Willie, we might have had an
opportunity to experiment with one of these life-preservers,” said
Marcus.
“I know it,” replied Whistler; “and I’m not going to stay here and be
knocked round in this way! Come, boys, let’s go down into the cabin.”
Several of the party accepted Whistler’s invitation. The cabin occupied
the middle part of the boat. Of course it was a rather small apartment;
but, for all that, there was a good deal in it. Every available inch of
room was fully improved. It was only about five feet high,—not high
enough to allow Marcus and Oscar to stand up straight. A permanent table
ran nearly the whole length, with leaves that dropped down when not in
use. There was a raised edge around the table, to keep the dishes from
sliding off when the sea is rough. The mast came up through the table,
but was handsomely paneled, and, but for its decided slant, might have
passed for a pillar. A castor and a basket full of tumblers were hanging
over the table, and benches were placed on each side of it.
The cabin was also fitted up with berths, very much like the one which
Whistler occupied on board the steamboat, on his journey to Brookdale.
There were four of them on each side, and they were furnished with neat
white bedding. Under each berth there was a locker, for stowing away
clothing, &c. The cabin was lighted by the doorway, and by a skylight,
which was raised a little above the level of the deck.
Forward of the cabin, and connected with it by a door, was the
cook-room. It contained a cooking-stove, with a bright brass railing
around the top, to keep things in their places. The funnel went up
through the deck. A man was kindling a fire, and as the room seemed too
small to hold two at once, the boys did not go in.
Returning to the deck, the boys found that they were off Fort
Independence (Castle Island), distant a little more than two miles from
the city. The view was now very fine. The numerous islands of the harbor
began to appear, and glimpses of the ocean were obtained between their
green and sunny slopes. Several vessels, availing themselves of a
favorable wind, were entering the port in gallant style. Among them was
a noble ship, returning from a distant voyage. But few of her sails were
spread, yet she dashed through the waters with such grace and speed that
the boys could not refrain from giving her three cheers as she passed
their boat. The compliment was promptly returned by the sailors.
The next object of interest that the Echo passed was the Long Island
Light, distant about five miles from the city. The air was now growing
uncomfortably cool, and the captain brought up from the cabin a quantity
of shawls, hoods, old hats, &c., which he said he kept expressly for
company. They were gratefully accepted; and the sudden outward
transformation which the party underwent, furnished no little food for
merriment.
At noon, the captain invited the company to take something to eat. On
descending to the cabin, they found the table spread with a variety of
eatables. There were boiled ham, and tongue, and eggs; pies, crackers,
and bread; sardines, olives, and pickles; hot coffee and tea, and
genuine Cochituate, fresh, not from the pipes, but from an ice-tank.
There is nothing like snuffing the sea air to give one an appetite; and
the plain, substantial fare disappeared very rapidly from the table.
Before the meal was concluded, however, Ella and one or two others left
the table rather suddenly. Oscar, who was more of a sailor than any of
the rest, rallied his sister on her prompt acknowledgment of the claims
of Neptune; but she protested that she did not feel at all sick. Very
possibly she would, though, had she remained below a little longer. The
fresh air revived her, and the slight nausea she began to experience in
the cabin soon passed away.
The Echo was now seven miles out, but had, in reality, sailed
twenty-five miles in making that distance. The broad ocean was in full
view, studded with sails, and the sea was much rougher than it was
before dinner. A large steamship was soon discovered, threading its way
out from among the islands. It was watched with much interest by all,
and as it passed near them they had a good view of it. It proved to be a
screw steamer; that is, instead of paddle-wheels on the sides, the power
was applied to a propeller under the ship’s keel. She presented a noble
and substantial appearance as she sailed down the harbor, impelled by an
invisible power, and seemed strong enough to withstand any shock that
she might encounter on the ocean. A clipper ship, outward bound, also
passed near them, having most of her canvas spread, and was an object of
scarcely less interest than the steamship.
The yacht was now approaching George’s Island, where the party had
decided to land. This island, which is the key to the outer harbor,
commanding the open sea, belongs to the United States, and contains one
of the most extensive and costly fortifications in the country. The
fortress, however, is in an unfinished state. As they drew near to the
island, they found that it was surrounded by a sea wall, composed of
immense blocks of granite. This is necessary, to prevent the washing
away of the island in the furious storms which sweep over the coast. The
winds and waves have made sad inroads upon the islands in the harbor,
even within the memory of many now living. It is said that the breakers
now roll where large herds of cattle were pastured seventy-five years
ago.
Having landed at the wharf, the party walked up towards the fort, which
is named after General Warren. Immense walls of granite, of the purest
quality and smoothest finish, towered above them. On the top of the
walls were banks of earth, neatly sodded. The road led them to a
substantial stone gateway, which was open, and they accordingly entered
it. They now found themselves in a narrow passageway, with high walls on
either side. There were many long and narrow openings in the walls,
through which muskets could be fired, should an enemy succeed in
landing, and try to take the fort. An invading force, hemmed in by the
walls, would receive a dreadful raking from these loopholes before they
could get inside of the fortress.
On reaching the interior of the fortification they found themselves in a
large area. The captain of the yacht, who acted as their guide, informed
them that twelve acres were enclosed, and three more were occupied by
the walls. There were several workshops and a large dwelling-house
within the enclosure. As they were examining the fine specimens of
masonry which the walls presented, a gentleman wearing the uniform of an
army officer came up to them, and politely offered to show them over the
fortress. His offer was gratefully accepted.
“We will first ascend the parapets, if you please,” said the officer,
leading the way towards a long flight of stone steps.
“Work seems to be suspended here,” remarked Mr. Davenport, as they
passed several ox-carts that were covered with rust.
“Yes, sir,” replied the officer; “the appropriation is exhausted, and
nothing has been done here for several months.”
“This place will have cost Uncle Sam some money, when it is finished,”
continued Mr. Davenport.
“Something over a million of dollars, probably,” replied the officer.
“Well, perhaps it will be worth that money, in case of war,” said Mr.
Davenport; “but it strikes me that fighting is a pretty costly
business.”
“O, what a splendid view!” was the general exclamation, as the party
reached the top of the parapet.
“You perceive that the whole harbor is completely commanded by the
fort,” continued the officer. “Here, within a pistol shot, is the main
channel, through which all large vessels must pass as they enter or
leave the harbor. If an enemy’s ship were to try to pass here, after the
fort is mounted, we could bring from a hundred to a hundred and fifty
guns to bear upon her, at the same time, at any point.”
They continued their walk upon the top of the parapet for some minutes,
enjoying the fine view to be had on every side. It is here that the
heaviest guns are designed to be placed, in the open air. Large square
stones are set for the guns to rest upon, and semi-circular ones for the
gun carriages to traverse. There is also a wall, behind which the men
can hide.
On descending from the parapet, the officer unlocked a door, and,
through a rather gloomy passage, led them into the interior of the
fortress. Here they wandered for a quarter of an hour through a
labyrinth of massive masonry, gazing with wonder at the solid walls, the
arched stone roof, and the long series of rooms connected by doors. They
found but one gun mounted, but that served to illustrate the principle
on which the cannon are intended to work. The port-holes are so shaped
that the guns are allowed a wide range, and yet there is little room for
shot to enter from without. They have an inner and an outer flare, being
narrowest in the centre of the wall. That part of the carriage farthest
from the muzzle has a sideway motion, so that the gun may be readily
pointed in any direction required. The fort will mount about three
hundred guns.
Besides the gun-rooms there are a large number of other apartments, to
which the party were introduced. Some of them are intended for
ante-rooms, into which the soldiers may retire. They have fireplaces,
and will doubtless wear an air of comfort and cheerfulness when finished
and furnished. Other apartments, designed as parlors for the officers,
are still more expensively finished. There are also kitchens,
sleeping-rooms, magazines, cells for prisoners, &c.
“This must be one of the finest fortresses in the country,” said Mr.
Davenport, as they came out once more into the open air.
“Yes, sir, it is,” replied the officer. “It is impregnable from sea;
but, if it could be attacked by land, it might be blown to pieces, after
a while. No masonry is solid enough to be proof against efficient land
batteries,—that was proved at Sebastopol.”
“Well,” said Mr. Davenport, “the worst wish I have for Uncle Sam is that
he may never have occasion to use this immense fortress.”
“I heartily join you in that wish, in spite of my profession,” replied
the officer; and he then politely took leave of them.
Warmly thanking their guide for his attentions, the party hastened to
their boat, and were soon on their way back. The wind had died away, and
their progress homeward was not very rapid. The skipper evidently felt
somewhat concerned for the credit of his craft. He declared that she was
a swift sailer; but nothing, he said, could sail without wind, or in the
face of a stiff breeze. His equanimity seemed to be still more seriously
disturbed when a large schooner, with a great spread of canvas, came up
behind him, and began to gain upon the Echo. He kept a sharp eye upon
the intruder, as he evidently regarded her; and when she passed the Echo
to the windward, instead of the leeward, he could no longer restrain his
disgust, but remarked to Mr. Davenport, with some warmth:
“A fellow that’ll do that is no gentleman!”
A puzzled look from several of the ladies, who did not understand the
nature of the offence, recalled him to a sense of his dignity, and he
was soon as gallant and as good-natured as usual. In justice to him, it
should be remarked that the schooner, by going to the windward, had
taken the wind out of his sails, which is not considered a very
courteous act among sailors.
The party reached the wharf in safety, and all declared that they never
spent a pleasanter day than in their trip down the harbor.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER XVIII.
LAST DAY OF THE VISIT.
CLINTON remained in Boston about six weeks, or until the middle of
October. During that time he made himself pretty well acquainted with
the city, and visited all the objects of interest in and around it. At
length the last day of his sight-seeing was over, his valise was packed,
and he sat down with his uncle’s family for the last time. It was a cool
evening, and a fire in the grate sent out a cheerful warmth. His uncle
sat near the table, reading the evening newspaper. His aunt was busy
with her needle. Whistler was conning his next morning’s lesson, and
Ettie was showing to kitty the pictures in one of her books, while
Bouncer was asleep upon the mat. Clinton alone sat idle; but he was not
wholly unoccupied. His thoughts were busy, and a feeling of sadness was
stealing over him as the hour of his departure drew near.
After a while Mr. Davenport laid his paper aside, and Whistler took it
up. He glanced over one of its columns with some care, and then said:
“No news from the Susan yet; you will have to go home without Jerry,
Clinton.”
The Susan was the brig in which Jerry Preston sailed. She was now
expected at Boston; and the boys had looked daily in the newspapers for
the intelligence of her arrival. Clinton had some hope that Jerry would
get back in season to return with him to Brookdale; but in this he was
disappointed.
“Well, Whistler, what have you learned to-day?” inquired Mr.
Davenport,—a question which he frequently addressed to his son, in the
evening.
“Let me see,” replied Whistler, slowly. “O, I’ve learned which are the
three hardest words to pronounce in the English language.”
“Ah! what are they?” inquired his father.
“They are, _‘I was mistaken_,’” replied Whistler.
“What is there so very hard to pronounce about them?” inquired his
father, with affected simplicity.
“It isn’t the words that are hard,—it’s the _sentiment_,” replied
Whistler. “Our teacher told us that some great man once said those were
the three hardest words to pronounce in the English language. He told
us, besides, of a great general who was defeated in battle, and who sat
down and wrote to the senate: ‘I have just lost a great battle, and it
was entirely my own fault.’ He said that confession displayed more
greatness than a victory.”
“That is very true,” added Mr. Davenport. “But have you learned to
pronounce the words yourself? If you have, you have learned something
worth knowing.”
“I don’t know,” replied Whistler, with some hesitation.
“The item of knowledge you have picked up to-day,” continued his father,
“will not be of much benefit to you, unless you make a practical use of
it. Your teacher, I suppose, wished to teach you the duty of confessing
your errors. That is one of the hardest things a man ever has to do. It
takes a brave man to confess that he has done wrong, or has embraced
wrong opinions.”
“I’ve learned another thing to-day,” continued Whistler; “I’ve learned
how much meanness there is in the world.”
“Ah, you _have_ made an important acquisition!” said his father. “I’ve
lived in the world forty years, and I haven’t begun to find out all its
meanness yet.”
“Well, if I haven’t found it all out, I’ve found enough,” resumed
Whistler. “This was the way it happened. Two or three boys of our class
came to me, this morning, and wanted me to sign a petition asking the
teacher to give us shorter lessons. About a dozen boys had signed it,
but they wanted me to put my name before theirs, at the head of the
petition, because I was one of the oldest boys. As soon as I found what
it was for, I told them I didn’t think our lessons were too long, and I
shouldn’t sign it. Then they all set upon me, and coaxed and flattered
as hard as they could. They said they were so sure that I would sign it
that they had left a place for my name, and that I should have more
influence with the master than they, &c., &c. And when they found that
that wouldn’t work, then they tried to bully me into it. Nat Clapp said
I needn’t pretend to be a better scholar than the rest of them, for I
had as hard work to get my lessons as any body did. Jo Clark said I
wouldn’t sign it because they didn’t consult me about it before they got
it up. Bill Morehead said I didn’t dare to sign it. I told him I dared
to refuse to sign it, and I thought that was more than some of them
could say. But I can’t tell you half what they said. I got real provoked
at last. I should like to know if I hadn’t as good a right _not_ to sign
that petition as any of them had to sign it? What business had they to
say my motives were bad, because I didn’t please to do just as they
wanted me to?”
“How much boys are like men!” quietly remarked his father.
“But you didn’t sign the petition after all, did you?” inquired Clinton.
“No, that I didn’t,” replied Whistler; “and I was glad enough of it,
too, this afternoon. They couldn’t get but about a third of the class to
sign it, and they left it on the teacher’s desk this noon. He didn’t say
anything about it till just as school was about to be dismissed at
night. Then he told the scholars that he had received a petition for
shorter lessons from a portion of the first class. He said the request
was not only unreasonable, but the petition was disrespectful in tone,
and he considered it insulting. He said most of the boys who had signed
it were the idlest fellows in the class, and, he supposed, they would
like it better if he would give them no lessons at all. But, he said,
there were one or two names on the petition that he was surprised to see
there. He talked pretty hard to them, I can tell you. He said every boy
that had put his name to it deserved to be called out and punished; but
he concluded to let them off, this time, with merely reading their names
aloud to the school. So he read off the list; and if some of the fellows
didn’t feel cheap enough, then I’m no judge, that’s all!”
“Did any body sign it that I know, except Nat?” inquired Clinton.
“Yes, there was one other boy that you know; but I shan’t tell you who
he is,” replied Whistler.
Clinton did not feel much curiosity in the matter, and did not press the
inquiry. The boy referred to was Ralph Preston, who had thoughtlessly
yielded to the solicitations of his comrades, and affixed his name to
the petition, without noticing that it was not couched in respectful
terms. He felt the public reprimand of the act very keenly; and
Whistler, out of friendship for him, kindly abstained from giving any
further notoriety to his error.
“Well, Clinton,” said Mr. Davenport, after a short pause, “you’ve
explored our city pretty thoroughly,—now let us have your judgment upon
it. What do you think of it, on the whole?”
“O, I like it very well!” replied Clinton.
“That is rather faint praise,” observed his uncle.
“I like some things very much,” continued Clinton, “and others I don’t
like so well.”
“On the whole, don’t you feel quite willing to go back to the country?”
inquired his aunt.
“I don’t know but I do,” replied Clinton, with some hesitation.
“I see you haven’t wholly given up the idea of being a merchant, yet,”
remarked his uncle.
“O no, sir, I wasn’t thinking of that!” replied Clinton. “But I should
like to enjoy some of the opportunities that boys have here,—good
schools, and plenty of books, and lectures, and everything else.”
“These privileges or opportunities are very valuable, I know,” added Mr.
Davenport; “but, after all, don’t you know that the making of a man is
not in opportunities, but in himself? If you determine to be a man, the
lack of opportunities will not keep you back. You will work and struggle
till you have overcome every obstacle. On the other hand, if you haven’t
this strong will within, all the opportunities in the world won’t make a
man of you. Indeed, there is such a thing as having too much assistance.
If you set out a tree, and keep forever handling it, and scratching
about it, and trying to help it grow, it won’t come to much. It needs a
little wholesome neglect to teach it to take care of itself. So, if a
man wants to produce a strong, rugged character, he mustn’t go into a
hothouse to do it. Such a thing won’t grow there. So far as I can judge,
Clinton, you are doing very well with your present opportunities. Make
the most of them, and I think you will get along as well as most boys in
the city, to say the least.”
“But I don’t have much time to study,” added Clinton.
“Many men have stored their minds with valuable information,” continued
his uncle, “in odd moments snatched from their labors. Two of the most
learned men, in many respects, that I ever met with, did this. One of
them is Elihu Burritt, the ‘Learned Blacksmith,’ who acquired more
languages at the anvil than I can remember the names of. The other is
Charles C. Frost, of Brattleboro’, Vermont, who deserves to be called
the ‘Learned Shoemaker.’ I must read you a short account of Mr. Frost,
to show you what can be done in _one hour a day_.”
So saying, Mr. Davenport took down a volume from the bookcase, and read
as follows:
“At fourteen years of age, Mr. Frost left school, and commenced
learning the trade of a shoemaker. He worked as an apprentice in
his father’s shop seven years, when he shortly after became
interested in the business of making and vending shoes, in a
neat and tasteful shoe store, on his own account. He early
evinced a love of mathematical science, and has displayed
talents of no ordinary character in its pursuit. He says, in a
letter which I have received from him: ‘I early imbibed a love
of study. I recollect my first acquisitions were in Arithmetic,
and that the results gave me the highest pleasure. When I
excelled other boys in the school, my progress was attributed by
them to some peculiar mathematical talent. But it was not so. I
boast of no genius. I attribute my success uniformly to more
study than others gave their lessons or work, and, perhaps, to a
greater _love_ of study.’ Mr. Frost has found time, not only to
become master of all existing forms of algebraic numbers, but is
also familiarly and thoroughly acquainted with Geometry,
Trigonometry and Astronomy. He is at home in the Modern Calculus
and in the Principia of Newton, where few of our learned
professors venture, or feel at ease. Indeed, in mathematical
science he has made so great attainments that it is doubtful
whether there can be found ten mathematicians in the United
States who are capable, in case of his own embarrassment, of
lending him any relief. Remember that we are speaking of a
self-taught scholar, and he no genius. Let me tell you how it
was done. He says: ‘When I went to my trade, at fourteen years
of age, I formed a resolution, which I have kept till
now,—extraordinary preventives only excepted,—that I would
faithfully devote _one hour each day_ to study, in some useful
branch of knowledge.’ Here is the secret of his success. He is
now forty-five years of age, and is a married man, the father of
three children; yet this _one-hour_ rule accompanies him to this
day. ‘The first book which fell into my hands,’ he says, ‘was
Hutton’s Mathematics, an English work of great celebrity, a
complete mathematical course, which I then commenced,—namely, at
fourteen. I finished it at nineteen, without an instructor. I
then took up those studies to which I could apply my knowledge
of Mathematics, as Mechanics and Mathematical Astronomy. I think
I can say that I possess, and have successfully studied, _all_
the most approved English and American works on these subjects.’
After this, he commenced Natural Philosophy and Physical
Astronomy. Then Chemistry, Geology, and Mineralogy, collecting
and arranging a cabinet. ‘Next Natural History,’ he says,
‘engaged my attention, which I followed up with close
observations, gleaning my information from a great many sources.
The works that treat of them at large are rare and expensive.
But I have a considerable knowledge of Geology, Ornithology,
Entomology, and Conchology.’ Not only this; he has added to his
stores of knowledge the whole science of Botany, one of the most
extensive now pursued, and has made himself completely master of
it. He has made actual extensive surveys, in his own state, of
the trees, shrubs, herbs, ferns, mosses, lichens, and fungi. Mr.
Frost thinks that he may possess the _third_ best collection of
ferns in the United States. He has also turned his attention to
Meteorology, and devotes much of his time, as do also Olmstead,
Maury, Redfield, Smith, Loomis, Mitchell, and many others, to
acquire a knowledge of the law of storms, and the movements of
the erratic and extraordinary bodies in the air and heavens. He
has also been driven to the study of Latin, and reads it with
great freedom. He has read and owns most of the gifted poets,
and is, to a considerable extent, familiar with History; while
his miscellaneous reading has been very extensive. He says of
his books: ‘I have a library, which I divide into three
departments,—scientific, religious, literary,—comprising the
standard works published in this country, containing five or six
hundred volumes. I have purchased these books, from time to
time, with money saved for the purpose by some small
self-denials.’
“Here, then, we have an account—I assure you it is wholly
reliable—of one, a plain man of forty-five, who has made the
compass, so to speak, of the hill of science, studying his HOUR
a day, when the day’s labor was done, for more than thirty
consecutive years. He began this one-hour system when he was
fourteen years old. Behold the result! Here is a man with the
cares, business, and responsibilities of life on his hands, yet
a devoted, faithful, successful student; a man who is a profound
scholar, and yet a plain-spoken, humble, pious, laboring man,
residing still in his native village, far inland, supporting
himself by his trade and daily labor, while he is worthy of a
position as a teacher in one of the best institutions of
learning in the land.”[4]
Footnote 4:
“Dreams and Realities in the Life of a Pastor and Teacher.”
1856.
“There,” resumed Mr. Davenport, closing the book, “you see what a man
can do in only one hour a day, diligently improved. Don’t you think you
might manage to devote that amount of time to study, Clinton?”
“Yes, sir, I suppose I could,” replied Clinton.
“Do you suppose every body could learn as much as Mr. Frost knows, if
they should try as hard?” inquired Whistler.
“I suppose any man of fair natural powers, who should study as earnestly
and perseveringly as he did, would be about as successful,” replied Mr.
Davenport. “But, after all, we must aim at something higher than
success. We cannot all be great, or learned, or rich, or eloquent; but
we can all be what is better,—we can be good men and women. Indeed,
without a good character, all other gifts and acquirements only make a
man the more dangerous. And character, you know, is formed by little and
little. It is the result of a great multitude of little thoughts, and
acts, and emotions, all spun together into a complete fabric. Did you
ever go into a ropewalk, Clinton?”
“Yes, sir; Willie and I went through the ropewalk in the Navy Yard,”
replied Clinton.
[Illustration]
“Well,” resumed his uncle, “the process of making character is something
like making a cable. First, there are the little fine fibres of hemp; a
great mass of these, twisted together, become yarn; several yarns make a
strand; three strands make a rope; and three ropes make a small cable. A
fibre of hemp is a very small and weak affair; but twist enough of them
together, and they will hold the largest ship in the gale. So the little
trifling acts and habits of the child seem very insignificant; but,
by-and-by, when they are spun into character, they will become as strong
as cables. Look out now, boys, and see that the little fibres, and
yarns, and strands, are all right; and in due time the great ropes and
cables will appear, and will hold the anchor fast, when you are
overtaken by the storms of life.
“There, I have spun you out quite a speech; and a pretty eloquent one,
too!—eh, Whistler? Well, the fact is, I’ve been addressing a jury this
afternoon, and I haven’t had time to shake the kinks of oratory out of
my tongue, yet. Ettie, darling, did my fine speech put you to sleep?
Never mind,—don’t disturb her. We shall have to follow her example
before long, if we mean to see Clinton off in the morning.”
The family retired at an early hour; and the next morning Clinton bade
them good-by, and set out for Brookdale.
THE END.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
New and Popular Series for Boys and Girls.
--------------
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WITH NUMEROUS ILLUSTRATIONS.
--------------
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A work admirably adapted to the instruction and amusement of the
young.—_Reg._
A pleasant book, full of all sorts of information upon all sorts of
subjects.—_Jour._
One of the most delightful works for young people we have ever met with.
Few persons, young or old, could examine its pages without gaining
knowledge of a useful kind. It is one of the most successful
combinations of the pleasant with the useful to be found.—_Daily
Advertiser._
A book of not only “pleasant pages,” but of singularly instructive
pages. Even people not so very young might be profited by its
perusal.—_South Boston Gazette._
It presents much solid information, and opens before the young new
fields of observation. The youngsters will clap their hands with
joy.—_Scientific American._
There is a great deal of valuable information communicated in a very
simple and easy way. While it is full of useful instruction to children,
it is also suggestive to those who are called to conduct their
education.—_Puritan Recorder._
We like this book: it is well fitted for the family library. The young
like facts; when these are set forth in a pleasant way, the interest is
greater than fiction ever awakens, unless the fiction is made to appear
like truth.—_Godey’s Ladies’ Book._
THE GUIDING STAR; or, The Bible God’s Message. By LOUISA PAYSON HOPKINS.
With Frontispiece. 16mo, cloth, 50 cts.
An excellent work to put into the hands of youth. It is written in
conversational style, and opens up most beautifully, and with great
simplicity, the great leading evidences that the Bible contains God’s
message to man. Those seeking after truth will find it worthy of
frequent perusal.—DR. SPRAGUE, _in Albany Spectator_.
We cordially commend the work to parents, children, and Sabbath
schools.—_Cong._
This volume should be in the hands of every youthful reader, and adult
persons would find it not only interesting, but instructive.—_Ch.
Chron._
The popular author of this book has conferred a favor on the public, for
which she deserves something more than _thanks_.—_Ch. Secretary._
One of the most valuable books for youth that we have seen.—_Cong.
Journal._
A book of more than common excellence. How often have we wished that all
the youth of our land might become familiar with its contents.—_Ch.
Mirror._
NATIONAL SERIES OF AMERICAN HISTORIES.
=By Rev. Joseph Banvard.=
--------------
PLYMOUTH AND THE PILGRIMS; or, Incidents of Adventures in the History of
the First Settlers. With Illustrations. 16mo, cloth, 60 cts.
When once taken up it will not be laid down without regret until
finished.—_Courier_.
An exceedingly interesting volume.—_Am. Traveller._
Popular reading, particularly adapted to entertain and instruct
youth.—_Mercantile Journal._
Every New Englander, wherever he resides, should own this
book.—_Scientific Am._
An extremely interesting volume, written in a plain but vigorous style,
adapted to the young, but will be read with interest by the older
ones.—_Ch. Freeman._
Highly attractive in style and instructive in matter.—_N. Y. Com. Adv._
NOVELTIES OF THE NEW WORLD; an Account of the Adventures and Discoveries
of the First Explorers of North America. With numerous Illustrations.
16mo, cloth, 60 cts.
A series of books which will serve as valuable introductions and
enticements to more extended historical reading.—_Am. Traveller._
It has all the interest of a romance.—_Portland Transcript._
We have seen the boys bend over these pages, unwilling to leave them,
either for play or sleep; and when finished, inquiring anxiously _when
the next_ would come.—_Watchman and Reflector._
Neither too childish for adults, nor yet too difficult of comprehension
for children. They will delight as well as instruct.—_Mercantile
Journal._
Interesting scenes and events in the New World are here brought together
and invested with a charm that is irresistible by old as well as
young.—_Ch. Intelligencer._
ROMANCE OF AMERICAN HISTORY; or, an Account of the Settlement of North
Carolina and Virginia, embracing the tragic Incidents connected with
the Spanish Settlements, French Colonies, English Plantation at
Jamestown, Captivity of Captain Smith, the Adventures of Pocahontas,
etc. With Illustrations. 60 cents.
All the interest of romance, and the addition of veritable
history.—_Puritan Rec._
It is a most pleasing and instructive book.—_Home Journal._
Interesting as a novel, and a thousand times more profitable
reading.—_Lit. Mes._
Every library should be furnished with this Series of American
Histories.—_N. E. Farmer._
Admirably fitted for family reading, and calculated to interest the
young.—_Trav._
Attractive series of books founded on the early history of our country;
it will make a most valuable addition to all family libraries.—_Arthur’s
Gazette._
No more interesting and instructive reading can be put into the hands of
youth.—_Portland Transcript._
The series will embrace the most interesting and important events which
have occurred in the United States since the settlement of the country.
Each volume to be complete in itself; and yet, when all are published,
they will together form a regular SERIES OF AMERICAN HISTORIES.
VALUABLE WORKS FOR THE YOUNG.
=BY REV. HARVEY NEWCOMB.=
HOW TO BE A MAN; a Book for Boys, containing Useful Hints on the
Formation of Character. Cloth, gilt, 50 cts.
“My design in writing has been to contribute something towards forming
the character of those who are to be our future electors, legislators,
governors, judges, ministers, lawyers, and physicians,—after the best
model. It is intended for boys—or, if you please, for _young_ gentlemen,
in early youth.”—_Preface._
“How to be a Man” is an inimitable little volume. We desire that it be
widely circulated. It should be put into the hands of every youth in the
land.—_Tenn. Bap._
HOW TO BE A LADY; a Book for Girls, containing Useful Hints on the
Formation of Character. Cloth, gilt, 50 cts.
“Having daughters of his own, and having been many years employed in
writing for the young, he hopes to offer some good advice, in an
entertaining way, for girls or misses, between the ages of eight and
fifteen. His object is, to assist them in forming their characters upon
the best model; that they may become well-bred, intelligent, refined,
and good; and then they will be real _ladies_, in the highest
sense.”—_Preface._
Parents will consult the interests of their daughters, for time and
eternity, in making them acquainted with this attractive and most useful
volume.—_N. Y. Evangelist._
_The following Notices apply to both the above Volumes._
It would be better for the next generation if every youth would “read,
learn, and inwardly digest” the contents of these volumes.—_N. Y.
Commercial._
These volumes contain much matter which is truly valuable.—_Mer.
Journal_.
They contain wise and important counsels and cautions, adapted to the
young, and made entertaining by the interesting style and illustrations
of the author. They are fine mirrors, in which are reflected the
prominent lineaments of the _Christian young gentleman and young lady_.
Elegant presents for the young.—_American Pulpit._
Newcomb’s books are excellent. We are pleased to commend them.—_N. Y.
Obs._
They are books well calculated to do good.—_Phil. Ch. Chronicle._
Common-sense, practical hints on the formation of character and habits,
and are adapted to the improvement of youth.—_Mothers’ Journal._
ANECDOTES FOR BOYS; Entertaining Anecdotes and Narratives, illustrative
of Principles and Character. 18mo, gilt, 42 cts.
ANECDOTES FOR GIRLS; Entertaining Anecdotes and Narratives, illustrative
of Principles and Character. 18mo, gilt, 42 cts.
Interesting and instructive, without being fictitious. The anecdotes are
many, short, and spirited, with a moral drawn from each, adapted to
every age, condition, and duty of life. We commend them to families and
schools.—_Albany Spectator._
Works of great value, for a truth or principle is sooner instilled into
the youthful heart by an anecdote, than in any other way. They are well
selected.—_Ev’g Gaz._
Nothing has a greater interest for a youthful mind than a well-told
story, and no medium of conveying moral instructions so attractive or so
successful. The influence is far more powerful when the child is assured
that they are _true_. We cannot too strongly recommend them to
parents.—_Western Continent, Baltimore._
VALUABLE WORKS.
--------------
KNOWLEDGE IS POWER: A VIEW OF THE PRODUCTIVE FORCES OF MODERN SOCIETY,
and the Results of Labor, Capital, and Skill. By CHARLES KNIGHT.
American edition, with Additions, by DAVID A. WELLS, Editor “Annual of
Scientific Discovery,” etc. With numerous Illustrations. 12mo, cloth.
$1.25.
This work is eminently entitled to be ranked in that class styled “books
for the people.” The author is one of the most popular writers of the
day. His style is easy and racy, sufficiently polished for the most
refined, while it is peculiarly fitted to captivate plain, unlettered,
but thinking men. It is remarkable for its fullness and variety of
information, and for the felicity and force with which the author
applies his facts to his reasoning. The facts and illustrations are
drawn from almost every branch of skilful industry. It is a work, in
short, which the mechanic and artisan of every description will be sure
to read with a RELISH.
MY SCHOOLS AND SCHOOLMASTERS; OR, THE STORY OF MY EDUCATION. By HUGH
MILLER, Author of “Footprints of the Creator,” etc. 12mo, cloth.
$1.25.
“This autobiography is quite worthy of the renowned author. His first
attempts at literature, and his career until he stood forth an
acknowledged power among the philosophers and ecclesiastical leaders of
his native land, are given without egotism, with a power and vivacity
which are truthful and delightsome.”—PRESBYTERIAN.
“Hugh Miller is one of the most remarkable men of the age. Having risen
from the humble walks of life, and from the employment of a
stone-cutter, to the highest rank among scientific men, everything
relating to his history possesses an interest which belongs to that of
few living men. The book has all the ease and graphic power which is
characteristic of his writings.”—NEW YORK OBSERVER.
“This volume is a book for the ten thousand. It is embellished with an
admirable likeness of Hugh Miller, the stone mason—his coat off and his
sleeves rolled up—with the implements of labor in hand—his form erect,
and his eye bright and piercing. The biography of such a man will
interest every reader. It is a living thing—teaching a lesson of
self-culture of immense value.”—PHILA. CHRISTIAN OBS.
“It is a portion of autobiography exquisitely told. He is a living proof
that a single man may contain within himself something more than all the
books in the world. This is one of the best books we have read.”—LONDON
CORRESP. N. Y. TRIBUNE.
“It is a work of rare interest; at times having the fascination of a
romance, and again suggesting the profoundest views of education and of
science. The ex-mason holds a graphic pen; a quiet humor runs through
his pages.”—N. Y. INDEPENDENT.
“This autobiography is THE book for poor boys, and others who are
struggling with poverty and limited advantages; and perhaps it is not
too much to predict that in a few years it will become one of the poor
man’s classics.”—NEW ENG. FARMER.
THE HALLIG; OR, THE SHEEPFOLD IN THE WATERS. A Tale of Humble Life on
the Coast of Schleswig. Translated from the German of Biernatzski, by
Mrs. GEORGE P. MARSH. With a Biographical Sketch of the Author. 12mo,
cloth. $1.00.
The author of this work was the grand-son of an exiled Polish nobleman,
His own portrait is understood to be drawn in one of the characters of
the Tale, and indeed the whole work has a substantial foundation in
fact. As a revelation of an entire new phase of human society, it will
strongly remind the reader of Miss Bremer’s tales. In originality and
brilliancy of imagination, it is not inferior to those;—its aim is far
higher. The elegance of Mrs. Marsh’s translation will at once arrest the
attention of every competent judge.
AMOS LAWRENCE.
--------------
DIARY AND CORRESPONDENCE OF THE LATE AMOS LAWRENCE; with a brief account
of some Incidents in his Life. Edited by his son, WILLIAM R. LAWRENCE,
M. D. With fine steel Portraits of AMOS and ABBOTT LAWRENCE, an
Engraving of their Birth-place, a Fac-simile page of Mr. Lawrence’s
Handwriting. Octavo, cloth, $1.50. Royal duodecimo edition, $1.00.
This work was first published in an elegant octavo volume, and sold at
the unusually low price of $1.50. At the solicitation of numerous
benevolent individuals who were desirous of circulating the work—so
remarkably adapted to do good, especially to young men—GRATUITOUSLY, and
of giving those of moderate means, of every class, an opportunity of
possessing it, the royal duodecimo, or “CHEAP EDITION,” was issued,
varying from the other edition, only in a reduction in the SIZE
(allowing less margin), and the THICKNESS of the paper.
Within six months after the first publication of this work, TWENTY-TWO
THOUSAND copies had been sold. It is the memoir of a Boston merchant,
who became distinguished for his great wealth, but more distinguished
for the manner in which he used it. It is the memoir of a man, who
commencing business with only $20, gave away in public and private
charities, DURING HIS LIFETIME, more, probably, than any other person in
America.
“We heard it once said in the pulpit, ‘There is no work of art like a
noble life,’ and for that reason he who has achieved one takes rank with
the great artists, and becomes the world’s property. WE ARE PROUD OF
THIS BOOK. WE ARE WILLING TO LET IT GO FORTH TO OTHER LANDS AS A
SPECIMEN OF WHAT AMERICA CAN PRODUCE. In the old world, reviewers have
called Barnum THE characteristic American man. We are willing enough to
admit that he is a characteristic American man; he is ONE fruit of our
soil, but Amos Lawrence is another. Let our country have credit for him
also. THE GOOD EFFECT WHICH THIS LIFE MAY HAVE IN DETERMINING THE COURSE
OF YOUNG MEN TO HONOR AND VIRTUE IS INCALCULABLE.”—MRS. STOWE, IN N. Y.
INDEPENDENT.
“This book, besides being of a different class from most Biographies,
has another peculiar charm. It shows the inside life of the man. You
have, as it were, a peep behind the curtain, and see Mr. Lawrence as he
went in and out among business men, as he appeared on ’Change, as he
received his friends, as he poured out, ‘with liberal hand and generous
heart,’ his wealth for the benefit of others, as he received the
greetings and salutations of children, and as he appeared in the bosom
of his family, at his own hearth-stone.”—BRUNSWICK TELEGRAPH.
“We are glad to know that our large business houses are purchasing
copies of this work for each of their numerous clerks. As a business
man, Mr. Lawrence was a pattern for the young clerk.”—BOSTON TRAVELLER.
“We are thankful for the volume before us. It exhibits a charity noble
and active, while the young merchant was still poor. And above all, it
reveals to us a beautiful cluster of sister graces, a keen sense of
honor, integrity which never knew the shadow of suspicion, candor in the
estimate of character, filial piety, rigid fidelity in every domestic
relation.”—NORTH AMERICAN REVIEW.
“We are glad that American Biography has been enriched by such a
contribution to its treasures. In all that composes the career of ‘the
good man’ and the practical Christian, we have read few memoirs more
full of instruction, or richer in lessons of wisdom and
virtue.”—NATIONAL INTELLIGENCER.
“A more beautifully printed volume, or one calculated to do more good,
has not been issued from the press of late years.”—EVENING GAZETTE.
“This volume has been read with the deepest interest. It will be widely
circulated, will certainly prove a standard work, and be read over and
over again.”—BOSTON DAILY ADVERTISER.
CHAMBERS’S WORKS.
--------------
CHAMBERS’S CYCLOPEDIA OF ENGLISH LITERATURE. A Selection of the choicest
productions of English Authors, from the earliest to the present time.
Connected by a Critical and Biographical History. Forming two large
imperial octavo volumes of 1400 pages, double column letter-press;
with upwards of 300 elegant Illustrations. Edited by ROBERT CHAMBERS,
embossed cloth, 5,00.
This work embraces about _one thousand authors_, chronologically
arranged and classed as Poets, Historians, Dramatists, Philosophers,
Metaphysicians, Divines, etc., with choice selections from their
writings, connected by a Biographical, Historical, and Critical
Narrative; thus presenting a complete view of English literature from
the earliest to the present time. Open where you will, you cannot fail
to find matter for profit and delight. The selections are gems—infinite
riches in a little room; “A WHOLE ENGLISH LIBRARY FUSED DOWN INTO ONE
CHEAP BOOK!”
FROM W. H. PRESCOTT, AUTHOR OF “FERDINAND AND ISABELLA.” The plan of the
work is very judicious.... Readers cannot fail to profit largely by the
labors of the critic who has the talent and taste to separate what is
really beautiful and worthy of their study from what is superfluous.
I concur in the foregoing opinion of Mr. Prescott.—EDWARD EVERETT.
A work indispensable to the library of a student of English
literature.—WAYLAND.
We hail with peculiar pleasure the appearance of this work.—_North Am.
Review._
It has been fitly described as “_a whole English library fused down into
one cheap book_.” The Boston edition combines neatness with
cheapness.—_N. Y. Com. Adv._
☞ The American edition contains additional likenesses of SHAKESPEARE,
ADDISON, BYRON; a full length portrait of DR. JOHNSON, and a beautiful
scenic representation of OLIVER GOLDSMITH and DR. JOHNSON. These
important additions, together with superior paper and binding, render
the American far superior to the English edition. The circulation of
this work has been immense, and its sale in this country still continues
unabated.
CHAMBERS’S WORKS
--------------
CHAMBERS’S MISCELLANY OF USEFUL AND ENTERTAINING KNOWLEDGE. Edited by
WILLIAM CHAMBERS. With Elegant Illustrative Engravings. Ten volumes,
16mo, cloth, 7,00.
This work has been highly recommended by distinguished individuals, as
admirably adapted to Family, Sabbath, and District School Libraries.
It would be difficult to find any miscellany superior or even equal to
it; it richly deserves the epithets “useful and entertaining,” and I
would recommend it very strongly as extremely well adapted to form parts
of a library for the young, or of a social or circulating library in
town or country.—GEORGE B. EMERSON, ESQ., CHAIRMAN BOSTON SCHOOL BOOK
COMMITTEE.
I am gratified to have an opportunity to be instrumental in circulating
“Chambers’s Miscellany” among the schools for which I am
superintendent.—J. J. CLUTE, _Town. Sup. of Castleton, N. Y._
I am not acquainted with any similar collection in the English language
that can compare with it for purposes of instruction or amusement. I
should rejoice to see that set of books in every house in our
country.—REV. JOHN O. CHOULES, D. D.
The information contained in this work is surprisingly great; and for
the fireside, and the young, particularly, it cannot fail to prove a
most valuable and entertaining companion.—_N. Y. Evangelist._
An admirable compilation. It unites the useful and entertaining.—_N. Y.
Com._
CHAMBERS’S WORKS.
--------------
CHAMBERS’S HOME BOOK AND POCKET MISCELLANY. Containing a Choice
Selection of Interesting and Instructive Reading for the Old and the
Young. Six vols. 16mo, cloth, 3,00.
This work is considered fully equal, if not superior, to either of the
Chambers’s other works in interest, and, like them, contains a vast fund
of valuable information. Following somewhat the plan of the
“Miscellany,” it is admirably adapted to the school or the family
library, furnishing ample variety for every class of readers, both old
and young.
We do not know how it is possible to publish so much good reading matter
at such a low price. We speak a good word for the literary excellence of
the stories in this work; we hope our people will introduce it into all
their families, in order to drive away the miserable flashy-trashy stuff
so often found in the hands of our young people of both
sexes.—_Scientific American._
Both an entertaining and instructive work, as it is a very cheap
one.—_Puritan Rec._
It cannot but have an extensive circulation.—_Albany Express._
Of all the series of cheap books, this promises to be the best.—_Bangor
Mercury._
If any person wishes to read for amusement or profit, to kill time or
improve it, get “Chambers’s Home Book.”—_Chicago Times._
The Chambers are confessedly the best caterers for popular and useful
reading in the world.—_Willis’s Home Journal._
A very entertaining, instructive, and popular work.—_N. Y. Commercial._
The articles are of that attractive sort which suits us in moods of
indolence when we would linger half way between wakefulness and sleep.
They require just thought and activity enough to keep our feet from the
land of Nod, without forcing us to run, walk, or even stand.—_Eclectic,
Portland._
It is just the thing to amuse a leisure hour, and at the same time
combines _instruction_ with amusement.—_Dover Inquirer._
Messrs. Chambers, of Edinburgh, have become famous wherever the English
language is spoken and read, for their interesting and instructive
publications. They combine _instruction_ with _amusement_, and
throughout they breathe a spirit of the purest morality.—_Chicago
Tribune._
CHAMBERS’S REPOSITORY OF INSTRUCTIVE AND AMUSING PAPERS. With
Illustrations. An entirely New Series, containing Original Articles.
p. 260, 16mo, cloth, per vol. 50 cents.
The Messrs. Chambers have recently commenced the publication of this
work, under the title of “CHAMBERS’S REPOSITORY OF INSTRUCTIVE AND
AMUSING TRACTS,” similar in style, etc., to the “Miscellany,” which has
maintained an enormous circulation of more than _eighty thousand copies
in England_, and has already reached nearly the same in this country.
Arrangements have been made by the American publishers, to issue the
work simultaneously with the English edition, a volume every two months,
to continue until the whole series is completed. Each volume complete in
itself, and will be sold in sets or single volumes.
☞ Commendatory Letters, Reviews, Notices, &c., of _each_ of Chambers’s
works, sufficient to make a good sized duodecimo volume, have been
received by the publishers, but room here will only allow giving a
specimen of the vast multitude at hand. They are all popular, and
contain valuable instructive and entertaining reading—such as should be
found in every family, school, and college library.
VALUABLE WORK.
CYCLOPÆDIA OF ANECDOTES OF LITERATURE AND THE FINE ARTS. Containing a
copious and choice selection of Anecdotes of the various forms of
Literature, of the Arts, of Architecture, Engravings, Music, Poetry,
Painting, and Sculpture, and of the most celebrated Literary
Characters and Artists of different Countries and Ages, &c. By KAZLITT
ARVINE, A. M., Author of “Cyclopædia of Moral and Religious
Anecdotes.” With illustrations. 725 pages octavo, cloth, 3,00.
This is unquestionably the choicest collection of anecdotes ever
published. It contains _three thousand and forty Anecdotes_, and such is
the wonderful variety, that it will be found an almost inexhaustible
fund of interest for every class of readers; and to public speakers, to
all classes of _literary_ and _scientific men_, to _artists, mechanics,
and others_, a perfect DICTIONARY, _for reference_. There are also more
than _one hundred and fifty fine Illustrations._
We know of no work which comprises so much valuable information in a
form so entertaining.—_N. Y. Chronicle._
Here is a perfect repository of the most choice and approved specimens
of this species of information. The work is replete with such
entertainment as is adapted to all grades of readers, the most or least
intellectual.—_Methodist Quarterly Magazine._
One of the most complete things of the kind ever given to the public.
There is scarcely a paragraph in the whole book which will not interest
some one deeply; for, while men of letters, argument, and art cannot
afford to do without its immense fund of sound maxims, pungent wit, apt
illustrations, and brilliant examples, the merchant, mechanic and
laborer will find it one of the choicest companions of the hours of
relaxation. “Whatever be the mood of one’s mind, and however limited the
time for reading, in the almost endless variety and great brevity of the
articles he can find something to suit his feelings, which he can begin
and end at once. It may also be made the very life of the social circle,
containing pleasant reading for all ages, at all times and
seasons.”—_Buffalo Com. Advertiser._
A well spring of entertainment, to be drawn from at any moment.—_Bangor
Whig._
A magnificent collection of anecdotes touching literature and the fine
arts.—_Albany Spectator._
The most comprehensive collection of anecdotes ever published.—_Salem
Gazette._
A publication of which there is little danger of speaking in too
flattering terms; a perfect Thesaurus of rare and curious information,
carefully selected and methodically arranged. A jewel of a book to lie
on one’s table, to snatch up in those brief moments of leisure that
could not be very profitably turned to account by recourse to any
connected work in any department of literature.—_Troy Budget._
No family ought to be without it for it is at once cheap, valuable, and
very interesting; containing matter compiled from all kinds of books,
from all quarters of the globe, from all ages of the world, and in
relation to every corporeal matter at all worthy of being remarked or
remembered.—_New Jersey Union._
A rich treasury of thought, and wit and learning, illustrating the
characteristics and peculiarities of many of the most distinguished
names in history.—_Phil. Chris. Obs._
The range of topics is very wide, relating to nature, religion, science,
and art; furnishing apposite illustrations for the preacher, the orator,
the Sabbath-school teacher, and the instructors of our common schools,
academies, and colleges. It is a valuable work for the fireside,
calculated to please and edify all classes.—_Zanesville Ch. Reg._
This is one of the most entertaining works for desultory reading we have
seen. We hardly know of any thing at once so instructive and
amusing.—_N. Y. Ch. Intel._
THE CRUISE OF THE NORTH STAR:
A NARRATIVE OF THE EXCURSION MADE BY MR. VANDERBILT’S PARTY, IN THE
STEAM YACHT, in her Voyage to England, Russia, Denmark, France, Spain,
Italy, Malta, Turkey, Madeira, etc. By Rev. JOHN OVERTON CHOULES, D.
D. With elegant Illustrations, and fine Likenesses of Commodore
Vanderbilt and Capt. Eldridge. 12mo, cloth, gilt backs and sides.
$1.50.
The cruise of the North Star was an event of almost national concern,
and was watched with universal interest. This volume is as different
from ordinary books of travel as the cruise of the North Star was
different from an ordinary trip to Europe. We need not bespeak for it
many readers.—_Providence Jour._
The American people ought to be proud of, and grateful to, Cornelius
Vanderbilt. This man has done more than a dozen presidents to give
America a respected name in Europe. In the person of Cornelius
Vanderbilt, American enterprise told the people of Europe what it could
do. The desire to get this curious narrative was so great that the whole
of the first edition went off in two days!—_Star of the West._
Those who remember to have met with a very interesting work, published
some two years ago, entitled “Young Americans Abroad,” will be glad to
learn that here is another book of travels from the same source. Do you
say your shelves are all full of books of travel?—we reply, with Leigh
Hunt,—then put in another shelf, and place this one on it—_Methodist
Protestant._
The work is one of the most entertaining, and, in its way, vivid,
portraitures of scenes in the Old World, that we have ever seen.—_Boston
Transcript._
The book is in many respects as novel as the occasion which produced it
was unique and memorable. Both the accomplished author and the
publishers deserve the best thanks for so tasteful a record of a
performance which has reflected so much credit abroad upon American
enterprise.—_N. Y. Courier & Enquirer._
This work is interesting, not only as a memorial of the North Star, and
her trip to Europe, but also as a record of European travel, narrated in
a lively manner, by a gentleman whose taste and attainments eminently
qualify him for the task.—_New York Times._
Never before did a private individual make so magnificent an excursion
as Mr. Vanderbilt. Dr. Choules, who was one of his guests, has given to
the world a charming account of this unique voyage, in a beautifully
printed and illustrated volume. We commend it to our readers as a very
entertaining, well-written book.—_Zion’s Herald._
The book will be eagerly perused, as a record of one of the unique
occurrences of the age; is written with a kind of drawing-room,
etiquette-like style, is mellow in sentiment, and is wholly destitute of
that straining after the sublime, and stranding in the “high-falutin,”
that characterize the effusions of the tourist generally.—_Chicago
Advertiser._
This beautiful volume describes, in a chaste and readable manner, the
fortunes of the widely-known excursion of the princely New York
merchant and his family and guests. From the eclat of the voyage
itself, and the pleasant way of Dr. Choules’ account of it, we think
the book is destined to have—what it deserves—a very large
sale.—_Congregationalist._
MY FIRST IMPRESSIONS
OF ENGLAND AND ITS PEOPLE.
BY HUGH MILLER, author of “Old Red Sandstone,” “Footprints of the
Creator,” etc., with a fine likeness of the author. 12mo, 1,00.
Let not the careless reader imagine, from the title of this book, that
it is a common book of travels, on the contrary, it is a very remarkable
one, both in design, spirit, and execution. The facts recorded, and the
views advanced in this book, are so fresh, vivid, and natural, that we
cannot but commend it as a treasure, both of information and
entertainment.—_Willis’s Home Journal._
This is a noble book, worthy of the author of the Footprints of the
Creator and the Old Red Sandstone, because it is seasoned with the same
power of vivid description, the same minuteness of observation, and
soundness of criticism, and the same genial piety. We have read it with
deep interest, and with ardent admiration of the author’s temper and
genius. It is almost impossible to lay the book down, even to attend to
more pressing matters. It is, without compliment or hyperbole, a most
delightful volume.—_N. Y. Commercial._
This is a most amusing and instructive book, by a master hand.—_Dem.
Rev._
The author of this work proved himself, in the Footprints of the
Creator, one of the most original thinkers and powerful writers of the
age. In the volume before us he adds new laurels to his reputation.
Whoever wishes to understand the character of the present race of
Englishmen, as contradistinguished from past generations; to comprehend
the workings of political, social, and religious agitation in the minds,
not of the nobility or gentry, but of the _people_, will discover that,
in this volume, he has found a treasure.—_Peterson’s Magazine._
His eyes were open to see, and his ears to hear, every thing; and, as
the result of what he saw and heard in “merrie” England, he has made one
of the most spirited and attractive volumes of travels and observations
that we have met with.—_Trav._
Hugh Miller is one of the most agreeable, entertaining, and instructive
writers of the age. We know of no work in England so full of adaptedness
to the age as this. It opens up clearly to view the condition of its
various classes, sheds new light into its social, moral, and religious
history, its geological peculiarities, and draws conclusions of great
value.—_Albany Spectator._
The author, one of the most remarkable men of the age, arranged for this
journey into England, expecting to “lodge in humble cottages, and wear a
humble dress, and see what was to be seen by humble men only,—society
without its mask.” Such an observer might be expected to bring to view a
thousand things unknown, or partially known before; and abundantly does
he fulfil this expectation. It is one of the most absorbing books of the
time.—_Portland Ch. Mirror._
-------
NEW WORK.
MY SCHOOLS AND SCHOOLMASTERS;
OR THE STORY OF MY EDUCATION.
BY HUGH MILLER, author of “Footprints of the Creator,” “Old Red
Sandstone,” “First Impressions of England,” etc. 12mo, cl.
This is a personal narrative of a deeply interesting and instructive
character, concerning one of the most remarkable men of the age. No one
who purchases this book will have occasion to regret it, our word for
it!
A PILGRIMAGE TO EGYPT;
EMBRACING A DIARY OF EXPLORATIONS ON THE NILE,
WITH OBSERVATIONS, illustrative of the Manners, Customs, and
Institutions of the People, and of the present condition of the
Antiquities and Ruins. By J. V. C. SMITH, M. D., Editor of the Boston
Medical and Surgical Journal. With numerous elegant Engravings. 1,25.
There is a lifelike interest in the narratives and descriptions of Dr.
Smith’s pen, which takes you along with the traveller, so that when he
closes a chapter you feel that you have reached an inn, where you will
rest for a while; and then, with a refreshed mind, you will be ready to
move on again, in a journey full of fresh and instructive incidents and
explorations.—_Ch. Witness._
Every page of the volume is entertaining and instructive, and even those
who are well read in Egyptian manners, customs, and scenery, cannot fail
to find something new.—_Mercantile Journal._
This volume is neither a re-hash of guide books, nor a condensed
mensuration of heights and distances from works on Egyptian antiquities.
It contains the daily observations of a most intelligent traveller,
whose descriptions bring to the reader’s eye the scenes he witnessed. We
have read many books on Egypt, some of them full of science and
learning, and some of wit and frolic, but _none which furnished so clear
an idea of Egypt as it is_,—of its ruins as they now are, and of its
people as they now live and move.—_Watchman and Reflector._
One of the most agreeable books of travel which have been published for
a long time.—_Daily Advertiser._
It is readable, attractive, and interesting. You seem to be travelling
with him, and seeing the things which he sees.—_Bunker Hill Aurora._
We see what Egypt was; we see what Egypt is; and with prophetic
endowment we see what it is yet to be. It is a charming book, not
written for antiquarians and the learned, but for the _million_, and by
the million it will be read.—_Congregationalist._
Mr. Smith is one of the sprightliest authors in America, and this work
is worthy of his pen. He is particularly happy in presenting the comical
and grotesque side of objects.—_Commonwealth._
The reader may be sure of entertainment in such a land, under the
guidance of such an observer as Dr. Smith, and will be surprised, when
he has accompanied him through the tour, at the vivid impression which
he retains of persons, and places, and incidents.—_Salem Gazette._
This is really one of the most entertaining books upon Egypt that we
have met with.—_Albany Argus._
One of the most complete and perfect books of the kind ever
published.—_Diadem._
Of all the books we have read on Egypt, we prefer this. It goes ahead of
Stephens’s. Reader, obtain a copy for yourself.—_Trumpet._
The author is a keen observer, and describes what he observes with a
graphic pen. The volume abounds in vivid descriptions of the
manners, customs, and institutions of the people visited, the
present condition of the ancient ruins, accompanied by a large
number of illustrations.—_Courier._
SCRIPTURE NATURAL HISTORY; Containing a Descriptive Account of
Quadrupeds, Birds, Fishes, Insects, Reptiles, Serpents, Plants, Trees,
Minerals, Gems, and Precious Stones, mentioned in the Bible. By
WILLIAM CARPENTER, London; with Improvements, by REV. GORHAM D.
ABBOTT. Illustrated by numerous Engravings. Also, Sketches of
Palestine. 12mo, cloth, 1,00.
THE CAPTIVE IN PATAGONIA;
OR LIFE AMONG THE GIANTS.
By BENJAMIN F. BOURNE. With Illustrations. 12mo, cloth, 85 cts.
This work, by Captain Bourne,—who was taken captive and retained three
months by the Patagonians,—gives an account of his capture and final
escape; a description of this strange people; their manners, customs,
habits, pursuits; the country, its soil productions, etc., of which
little or nothing has heretofore been known. ☞ A work of thrilling
interest, and of instruction to every class of readers.
Any book, descriptive of a country which is almost like fable land to
the civilized world, must possess great interest; but this work, besides
having _this_ attraction, is written with much vigor and spirit, and is
replete with a variety of interesting facts, descriptive of the manners,
customs, character, etc., of the Patagonians.—_Sav. Jour._
A work of thrilling interest, and bids fair to be another Uncle Tom’s
Cabin. Captain Bourne is well known and highly respected in this
community; and the narrative of his strange adventures, startling and
romantic as they may seem, can be relied upon as strictly
true.—_Nantucket Eagle._
We have seldom read a work of such intense interest.—_N. H. Sentinel._
This is a narrative of great interest—_Phil. Ch. Observer._
We question whether the scenes, trials, hardships, adventures, etc.,
could have been more vividly drawn had they emanated from the pen of an
IRVING or a COOPER.—_Rutland (Vt.) Herald._
The author is known as a respectable man, and one of high integrity; and
from his own experience has given particulars of the manners, customs,
habits, and pursuits of the natives. It is a thrilling narrative, and as
exciting as Typee.—_Newport Merc._
No work of romance can exceed to enchain the mind and awaken
interest.—_Cong._
Seldom, if ever, have we perused a work with so intense an interest. No
work of romance can excel it in power to enchant the mind, and awaken a
nervous desire to possess the valuable information which it
communicates.—_Amherst Express._
Having begun it one evening, we would not quit until the book had been
finished.—_Montpelier Journal._
Uncle Tom may stand aside for the present. Mrs. Stowe may herself, as
well as her readers, listen to the tale of a New Bedford sailor. His
narrative is one that cannot fail to move both to smiles and
tears,—containing touches of the broadest and most genial humor, as well
as passages of simple pathos, which dissolve the soul in sympathy.—_B.
H. Aurora._
Possessing all the interest of real adventure, with all the
attractiveness of romance, we do not wonder at its popularity.—_Boston
Atlas._
We have never before perused any personal narrative that has interested
us as this one.—_Fountain and Journal, Me._
We have scarcely been able to leave its attractive pages. If the reader
wishes to be amused, instructed, delighted, and benefited, he cannot do
better than to procure a copy.—_Gardiner Evening Transcript._
THE HISTORY OF BANKING; with a Comprehensive Account of the Origin,
Rise, and Progress of the Banks of England, Ireland, and Scotland. By
WILLIAM JOHN LAWSON. First American Edition. Revised, with numerous
additions. By J. SMITH HOMANS, Editor of Bankers’ Magazine. 1 vol.
octavo, 2,00.
☞ A novel book, yet interesting and instructive; containing anecdotes of
men who have figured largely in the business, cases of forgeries,
counterfeits, detections, trials, etc.
WORKS JUST ISSUED.
--------------
VISITS TO EUROPEAN CELEBRITIES. By WILLIAM B. SPRAGUE, D. D. 12mo,
cloth. $1.00.
It consists of a series of Personal Sketches, DRAWN FROM LIFE, of many
of the most distinguished men and women of Europe, with whom the author
became acquainted in the course of several European tours. They are
portrayed as the author saw them in their own homes, and under the most
advantageous circumstances. Accompanying the sketches are the AUTOGRAPHS
of each of the personages described. This unique feature of the work
adds in no small degree to its attractions. For the social circle, for
the traveller by railroad and steamboat, for all who desire to be
refreshed and not wearied by reading, the book will prove to be a most
agreeable companion. The public press, of all shades of opinion, north
and south, have given it a most flattering reception.
THE STORY OF THE CAMPAIGN. A Complete Narrative of the War in Southern
Russia. Written in a Tent in the Crimea. By Major E. BRUCE HAMLEY,
author of “Lady Lee’s Widowhood.” With a new Map, expressly for the
work. 12mo. Thick. Printed paper covers. 37½ cents.
CONTENTS.—The Rendezvous; The Movement to the Crimea; First Operations
in the Crimea; Battle of the Alma; The Battle-field; The Katcha and the
Balbek; The Flank March; Occupation of Balaklava; The Position before
Sebastopol; Commencement of the Siege; Attack on Balaklava; First Action
of Inkerman; Battle of Inkerman; Winter on the Plains; Circumspective;
The Hospitals on the Bosphorus; Exculpatory; Progress of the Siege;
Burial Truce; View of the Works.
It is the only connected and continuous narrative of the War in Europe
that has yet appeared. The author is an officer of rank in the British
army, and has borne an active part in the campaign; he has also won a
brilliant reputation as an author. By his profession of arms, by his
actual participation in the conflict, and by his literary abilities, he
is qualified in a rare degree for the task he has undertaken. The
expectations thus raised will not be disappointed.
TRAGIC SCENES IN THE HISTORY OF MARYLAND AND THE OLD FRENCH WAR. With an
account of various interesting contemporaneous events which occurred
in the early settlement of America. By JOSEPH BANVARD, A. M. With
numerous elegant Illustrations. 12mo, cloth. 60 cents.
“The volume is one of a series by the same author, and all those who
have purchased its predecessors will be sure to buy the present
work.”—HARTFORD PRESS.
“We commend the work to our readers as a capital one for the instruction
as well as the amusement of youth.”—BOSTON ATLAS.
----------------------------
☞ G. & L. would call attention to their extensive list of publications,
embracing valuable works in THEOLOGY, SCIENCE, LITERATURE AND ART; TEXT
BOOKS FOR SCHOOLS AND COLLEGES, and MISCELLANEOUS, etc., in large
variety, the productions of some of the ablest writers and most
scientific men of the age, among which will be found those of Chambers,
Hugh Miller, Agassiz, Gould, Guyot, Marcou, Dr. Harris, Dr. Wayland, Dr.
Williams, Dr. Ripley, Dr. Kitto, Dr. Tweedie, Dr. Choules, Dr. Sprague,
Newcomb, Banvard, “Walter Aimwell,” Bungener, Miall, Archdeacon Hare,
and others of like standing and popularity, and to this list they are
constantly adding.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
● Transcriber’s Notes:
○ Missing or obscured punctuation was silently corrected.
○ Typographical errors were silently corrected.
○ Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation were made consistent only
when a predominant form was found in this book.
○ Text that:
was in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_);
was in bold by is enclosed by “equal” signs (=bold=).
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