Produced by David Edwards, Martin Pettit and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
book was produced from scanned images of public domain
material from the Google Books project.)






THE Whispering Pine SERIES

Elijah Kellogg.

THE TURNING OF THE TIDE.

Illustrated.

LEE & SHEPARD: BOSTON.




By GEORGE MAKEPEACE TOWLE.

Heroes and Martyrs of Invention.
Vasco da Gama; His Voyages and Adventures.
Pizarro; His Adventures and Conquests.
Magellan; or, The First Voyage Round the World.
Marco Polo; His Travels and Adventures.
Raleigh; His Voyages and Adventures.
Drake; The Sea King of Devon.


By CAPT. CHARLES W. HALL.

Adrift in the Ice Fields.


By DR. ISAAC I. HAYES.

Cast Away in the Cold; An Old Man's Story of a Young Man's
Adventures.


By W. H. G. KINGSTON.

The Adventures of Dick Onslow among the Redskins.
Ernest Bracebridge; or, School Boy Days.


By JAMES D. McCABE JR.

Planting the Wilderness; or, The Pioneer Boys.


By DR. C. H. PEARSON.

The Cabin on the Prairie.
The Young Pioneers of the Northwest.


By JAMES DE MILLE.

The Lily and the Cross; A Tale of Acadia.


By F. G. ARMSTRONG.

The Young Middy: or, The Perilous Adventures of a Boy
Officer.


By R. M. BALLANTYNE.

The Life Boat; A Tale of Our Coast Heroes.


_Sent by mail, postpaid, on receipt of price._


LEE AND SHEPARD, PUBLISHERS, BOSTON


[Illustration: THE FIRST MONEY. Page 29.]




_THE WHISPERING PINE SERIES._

THE TURNING OF THE TIDE;

OR,

RADCLIFFE RICH AND HIS PATIENTS.

BY

ELIJAH KELLOGG,

AUTHOR OF "LION BEN," "CHARLIE BELL," "THE ARK OF ELM ISLAND," "THE BOY
  FARMERS," "THE YOUNG SHIP-BUILDERS," "THE HARD-SCRABBLE," "ARTHUR
      BROWN," "THE YOUNG DELIVERERS," "THE CRUISE OF THE CASCO,"
       "THE CHILD OF THE ISLAND GLEN," "JOHN GODSOE'S LEGACY,"
            "THE SPARK OF GENIUS," "THE SOPHOMORES OF
                RADCLIFFE," "THE WHISPERING PINE,"
                    "WINNING HIS SPURS," ETC.


_ILLUSTRATED._


BOSTON 1892
LEE AND SHEPARD PUBLISHERS

10 MILK STREET NEXT "THE OLD SOUTH MEETING HOUSE"

NEW YORK CHAS. T. DILLINGHAM

718 AND 720 BROADWAY


Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1873,

BY LEE AND SHEPARD,

In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.




PREFACE.


A distinguished professor of Mathematics in a New England college was
wont to remark to the Freshman class when meeting them for the first
time at recitation, "that every person is as lazy as he can be." However
we may demur to this sweeping assertion, it is doubtless true that more
persons fail in life through indolence and the absence of appropriate
and wholesome stimulus than from lack of capacity to become useful and
even distinguished.

Misfortune, undesirable as it may seem, nevertheless furnishes an
effective test of character, for, while the effeminate nature of lax
fibre crumbles and is disintegrated beneath the pressure, the manlier
spirit, like Dannemora iron, defies the fury of the furnace, and even
beneath the hammer, gathers both temper and tenacity.

How great the change produced in a Scotch pebble, taken from the banks
of a Highland lake, when the wheel of the lapidary has brought out the
hues, and it appears what it really is, a gem; thus the thrill of sudden
calamity, the sharp anguish that makes the blood spring from the lip
have often supplied both object and motive to many a spirit that
(capacious of better things) was fast becoming honeycombed by the rust
of luxury and indolence, and has developed gifts of which even the
possessor was unconscious.

The TURNING OF THE TIDE places before our readers this entire process in
the person of RADCLIFFE RICH, from the rude awakening, the moment when
the half-benumbed faculties rally for the mastery, to the stern conflict
and the hard-won victory.




CONTENTS.


CHAPTER I.

                                 PAGE
THE SMITH OF THE WILDERNESS.        9


CHAPTER II.

THE FIRST MONEY.                   18


CHAPTER III.

EXPERIENCE THE BEST TEACHER.       31


CHAPTER IV.

HAMMER AND TONGS.                  42


CHAPTER V.

DREW SORE AND SAVAGE.              51


CHAPTER VI.

PATIENT, BUT DETERMINED.           63


CHAPTER VII.

HE FINDS THE CLUE.                 78


CHAPTER VIII.

A TRADE THE BEST INHERITANCE.     101


CHAPTER IX.

BLOOD WILL TELL.                  113


CHAPTER X.

DEAD LOW WATER.                   125


CHAPTER XI.

A STRIKING CONTRAST.              134


CHAPTER XII.

DID NOT COME TO SEE THE WRECK.    142


CHAPTER XIII.

MORTON'S BUSINESS.                150


CHAPTER XIV.

WINNING GOLDEN OPINIONS.          160


CHAPTER XV.

HOW DAN TOOK HIS MEDICINE.        170


CHAPTER XVI.

PERIL OF BEING OUT EVENINGS.      180


CHAPTER XVII.

THE YOUNG SAMARITANS.             192


CHAPTER XVIII.

DAN WANTS TO KNOW HIMSELF.        205


CHAPTER XIX.

DAN TRAPS LARGE GAME.             214


CHAPTER XX.

GOES FOR WOOL, AND GETS SHORN.    222


CHAPTER XXI.

PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE.           231


CHAPTER XXII.

SUITING MEANS TO ENDS.            244


CHAPTER XXIII.

THE TURN OF THE TIDE.             260


CHAPTER XXIV.

THE YOUNG FLOOD.                  278




THE TURNING OF THE TIDE.




CHAPTER I.

THE SMITH OF THE WILDERNESS.


With Rich, the chum and friend of Morton, and who, animated by the
contagion of a noble example, became his rival in rank as a scholar and
in all athletic sports, his companion in labor, and between whom, though
neck and neck in the pursuit of those college honors that each most
highly prized, there was never a shadow of jealousy or distrust, while
their sympathies met and mingled like fibres of a kindred root, drawing
their nutriment from a common soil,--with Rich, refined in all his
tastes, of delicate sensibilities, and a playful humor that never stung,
sunny tempered, generous, companionable, yet firm in principle as a
granite shaft, and whom all Radcliffe idolized, our constant readers are
already well acquainted; but the exigencies of this story, and the
necessity of imparting information both to them and others, render it
imperative that we should speak more definitely respecting his family
and home life, to which we have heretofore barely alluded; indeed, we
are not aware that we have ever distinguished him by any other name than
that of Richardson, and much more frequently made use of the college
term, Rich.

His grandfather, with ten other young married men, first broke ground in
our hero's native town, then a wilderness, and built their camps on the
borders of a stream heavily timbered, soon after the formation of the
federal government with Washington as president. They were, with a
single exception, poor, having taken up their abode in the wilderness
because they wanted a home, and could buy the wild land for ten cents
per acre. Full of enterprise, and strong in limb, this little community
felt themselves equal to the struggle. They had as yet neither sawmill
nor gristmill, though a noble stream fell over the rocks close to their
doors, but pounded the corn they raised on burns in large mortars, or
went in canoes eleven miles to mill, to a village farther down the
stream, where they likewise procured salt. There were neither roads nor
horses in the clearing, and at first everything was brought through the
woods, in the winter on men's shoulders, walking on snow-shoes, and in
summer in canoes or on rafts up the river.

They were accustomed to put the grain and corn belonging to several
neighbors into a large canoe, and thus take it down the river to the
mill. At length a road was spotted through the woods to the
village--that is, a piece of bark and wood was taken off the side of
trees with an axe, for a guide to the traveler. The path was crooked,
going through those portions of the forest that were thinnest, and
winding around obstacles. Occasionally a tree that stood very much in
the way was cut, and a log flung across some gully, brook, or mire.

In the early part of winter, when the brooks and swamps were frozen, and
the snow deep enough to cover, in some measure, the windfalls, and fill
the ravines, and at other times in the latter part of it, when the crust
would bear light cattle, they went through the woods with oxen to mill,
improved the occasion to obtain articles of absolute necessity, and
whenever their stock of bread-stuff fell short, had recourse to the
mortar.

At first it was a bitter struggle for existence; the land was covered
with a dense forest, and there was neither pasture for cattle in the
summer, nor hay to keep them through the winter. In this condition of
things, they managed to keep a few cattle by cutting the wild grass that
grew in the swamp and along the banks of the river, and felling yellow
birch and maple trees in summer for browse. By dint of patient labor,
their circumstances improved from year to year; more land was cleared,
their stock of cattle increased with the increase of hay and pasture,
and they began to keep sheep and horses, to make staves and shingles,
cut logs and drive them down the river in spring, and beech withes to
bind loads and rafts were exchanged for chains.

Cattle and horses were now to be shod, and they began to feel greatly
the need of a blacksmith. If a chain or axe was broken, a horse or yoke
of oxen to be shod, there was no smith nearer than eleven miles, and no
road except a bridle-path through spotted trees. Previous to this, they
had worked their oxen without shoes, and horses were only shod forward.
But now they wanted to haul logs and shingles on the ice of the river,
and they must be shod. They were in great need of a smith, and yet there
was not work sufficient to afford a blacksmith constant employment, and
consequently, a living. But there was money in the logs and shingles,
and necessity sharpens invention. They hired John Drew, the smith at the
village, to come in the fall, just before the river shut up, bringing
horse-shoes, ox-shoes, nails, and his tools. He went round from house to
house, the oxen were cast on the barn floors, and the shoes put on. Thus
they managed, feeling more and more the want of a smith. Richardson was
possessed of remarkable mechanical ability, and was what is termed a
handy man--a great thing in the woods. He had a few carpenters' tools,
made ox-yokes, and sleds for himself and neighbors. At length a cart
road was made through the woods, and Richardson built the first, and
for some time the only, pair of wheels in the clearing. Surrounded by a
young and rapidly increasing family, necessity led him to improve to the
utmost every talent he was conscious of possessing.

On the 10th of January, some two years before the road was made, he
went, in behalf of himself and the little community, to the village,
through the woods, with an ox-team, carrying corn and grain to be
ground. He also carried plough-irons to be new laid, chains to be
mended, axes to be new "laid" or "upset," and orders for some to be
manufactured. In order to get the large grist ground, and the iron work
done, he was obliged to remain three days. While watching the smith at
his work, the idea occurred to him that he could work with iron as well
as wood. All the way home he brooded over it, till the idea took entire
possession of him, and that long wilderness road never seemed so short
before. After a while he opened his mind to his wife, who encouraged him
to make the attempt. But he had no money to buy either iron or tools,
and iron in those days was difficult to obtain, and high in price, being
nearly all imported. It seemed a hopeless undertaking; still he could
not banish the thought from his mind. It haunted him; lay down with him
at night, and rose up with him in the morning. One day he broke a chain
in the woods; he had but two. The next day came a snow storm, affording
leisure. The smith was eleven miles off. He could not do his work
without the chain, and resolved to try to mend it by welding again the
broken link he had saved. He made a great fire in the kitchen, and put
in the iron. The kitchen tongs served to hold, a nail hammer to work it,
and a flat stone for an anvil. To his great mortification, he found that
although he could heat it to redness, he could not make it hot enough,
with a wood fire, to weld. He put wood in the oven, stopped the draft,
and burnt it to coal; but even with charcoal he did not succeed at first
in obtaining a welding heat. His wife, who was looking on with the
greatest interest, suggested the use of the kitchen bellows, and by
their aid he partially succeeded.

His next attempt was to mend the staple of an ox-yoke. This was much
more difficult, as the iron was larger, and he had nothing to bend it
over. But after several trials, he at length accomplished his purpose.
It was supper time when William Richardson struck the last blow upon the
staple, and put it into the yoke. When the meal was finished, and Mrs.
Richardson had washed the dishes, and put the children to bed, she sat
down to her cards, with a basket of wool beside her, while the father of
the family, having taken off his shoes, and hung his buskins in the
corner to dry, sat with folded arms, looking intently upon the glowing
coals. No sound was heard save the crackling of the fire, the rasping of
a solitary wood-worm that was boring into a log of the walls, and the
sound of the cards as the good wife plied her labor.

"Well, wife," said Richardson, at length, starting from his reverie, and
flinging fresh fuel on the fire, "what do you think of it?"

"Think of what, William?"

"Why, of my day's work, and this blacksmithing. Don't you think I'd
better fling the stone into the river and give it up? All I have done
this blessed day, besides taking care of the cattle, is to mend that
staple--a thing John Drew would have done in fifteen minutes."

"No, he wouldn't, for if he had no better tools than you, he wouldn't
have thought he could do it at all. I think it is the best day's work
you ever did in your life."

"O, Susan, how do you make that out? You just say that because you know
I feel a little down in the mouth; not because you really think so."

"Yes, husband, I really think so; and you will, if you look at it right.
You must expect to creep before you can walk. You couldn't have got
along without that chain, and would have been obliged to travel
twenty-two miles through the woods on snow-shoes, with that chain on
your back, in order to get it mended, and a half bushel of corn besides
on your shoulder to pay John Drew for doing it; for we've got no money.
It would have been the same with the staple. You couldn't have worked
your oxen without it, and would have been forced to leave your work in
fair weather, for you could not have gone in a storm. Now, you have done
it yourself, in stormy days, when you couldn't have done much else,
saved your corn, yourself all that travel, and, more than that, found
out that you can work iron whenever you can get the tools to do it
with."

"I don't know but you are right, wife; but how am I to get either the
tools or the iron without money? I can't barter corn for iron, and John
Drew has so much produce brought to him now that he is loath to take any
more; says his house is full of corn, grain, meat, potatoes, and cloth,
butter and eggs, and he can't get _money_ enough to pay his taxes."

"I think there will be some way provided. We had nothing when we came
here but the clothes on our backs and twenty dollars in money; had to
run in debt for our land. Now we've nearly paid for the land, we cut
hay, keep quite a stock of cattle and sheep, have but seldom been put to
it for bread, and have a warm, comfortable house, if it is a log one,
and the children are warm clothed."

"You always look on the bright side, Sue."

"I think that's the best side to look on."

We would inform our readers that the house Sue thought so comfortable
was built of rough logs, the crevices stuffed with moss and clay, had
but two rooms in it, the partition between them being blankets hung up.
The fireplace and oven were built of rough stones, and the chimney of
sticks of wood laid in clay (to prevent their taking fire from sparks),
that, as it fell off, was renewed from time to time.

"I could buy tools with the money I shall get for logs that I cut this
winter, didn't I want every cent of it to turn in towards paying for the
land. I'm half a mind to take a little. If I only had a hammer, a punch,
something to cut iron with, and a pair of tongs to hold it, I could mend
my own chains and other things, save something, be learning all the
time, and, after we pay for the land, I could get more tools."

"I never would do that, husband. If we must take that money for
anything, let us take it for the school. They are going to have a school
at Montague's the latter part of the winter."

This man had three rooms in his house, and it was built of hewn timber,
in one of which the school was to be kept. Richardson and his wife had
received a good common school education, and were anxious that their
children should not grow up in ignorance.




CHAPTER II.

THE FIRST MONEY.


From the preceding chapter our readers will perceive the value of iron,
and also the importance to the community of the mechanic who is able to
work it. We would invite them to reflect upon some facts that may seem
incredible to them at first view. A boy who has no disposition to
reflect is not much of a boy, and when grown, will only be a servant to
those who do.

Iron is far more valuable than gold, and the blacksmith than the
jeweler, for the same reason that bread is worth more than diamonds, and
water than silver. Gold has a very great representative value in
civilized society, where iron is abundant, and it will buy iron, and is
an equivalent for the work of the smith; but it is only because men have
agreed to make it so. Whereas iron has a value in itself considered. It
fells the forest, tills the soil, annihilates time and distance, and
underlies the whole economy of domestic life; for our readers will bear
in mind that steel is only another form of iron.

The value iron acquires under the hammer is something wonderful. It is
said that a bar of iron worth $5 is worth $10.50 when made into
horse-shoes, $55 when made into needles, $3,285 made into penknife
blades, $29,480 in shirt buttons, and $250,000, in balance springs of
watches. Boys may, from this, see what labor is worth, and learn to
value and respect it, for it is the labor the mind put into the iron
that so increases its value. Consider what would be the result if there
were no iron.

A boy might search long to find a better subject for his theme than iron
and its uses, or one the treatment of which would be more instructive to
himself. The showers of sparks you see pouring out of a blacksmith's
chimney, at times, of an evening when he is pressed with work, and
forgets the ten-hour system, have a language to a reflecting mind; they
mean power, progress, the plough, the telegraph, the mariner's compass,
and the sword.

We have taken advantage of a pause in the conversation, during which
William Richardson resumed his reverie, and his wife plied her cards, to
make this digression. At length the mother laid her cards into the
basket of wool, and folding her hands in her lap, remained a few moments
wrapped in thought. She then said,--

"Husband, I feel so sure that good will come of this, that it will be,
in the end, the best thing for us all (for I know you can do whatever
you put your hand to), that I am willing to undergo almost anything to
bring it about. There are three articles that will always sell at the
store for half cash and half goods--butter, woollen cloth, and linen
yarn. I will sell what we have to get your tools, and, perhaps, a little
iron."

"Susan, what did you make this cloth for, and what shape is it in?"

"There's a piece of fulled cloth that I meant to make clothes of for you
and the boys, some that I wove for a gown for myself and the girls, and
some blanket stuff."

"I won't take it; I won't take the clothes from your back and the
children's if I never have any tools: the butter, I suppose, you have
laid down for winter, and the blankets are needed for the children's
beds."

"Yes, you must take it; if you can work iron, we shall have the house as
full of butter, meat, and cloth as John Drew's is."

"But we can't get along without these things."

"We can if we only _think_ so. We can put some brush on the children's
beds, over the clothes,--hemlock brush over a few clothes is real
warm,--then, when it is very cold, we can leave a large fire when we go
to bed, and you can get up at twelve o'clock and put on wood. The
children can get along with their old clothes, and I with mine; there's
nobody to look at us here. We have pork enough, and can do without
butter till we can make some. One of the cows calves in March. I meant
to have made some towels of the linen yarn, but tow will do just as
well."

"Susan, I think a man must be made of poor material who could be
discouraged with a wife like you."

"Mother always used to say, 'Think you can do a thing, and it's half
done.'"

The sledding was now good, and Richardson, engaged in hauling logs to
the river, had no leisure to meddle with iron; he, however, at odd
moments, when the cattle were eating, and on stormy days, made
preparation in anticipation of the future.

Near to his house stood the stump of a pine tree that had been cut when
the snow was deep, and was higher than usual. Around this he built a log
camp, in such a manner as to bring the stump on one side of the camp.
The water was low in the river, and where it fell over the rocks, and by
shovelling away the snow, he found a stone of sufficient size, hardness,
and the right shape, for an anvil. Levelling the top of the stump, he
made a cavity in it to receive the stone, and secured it firmly in its
bed. This was much superior to a stone on the kitchen hearth, and would
bear any blows that could be given with a hand-hammer. There was not a
board or plank within eleven miles by land, and thirteen by the river.
He flattened some pine saplings, and built up a pen, nearly square, for
his forge, found a place in the swamp where the soil was not frozen, and
obtained earth to fill it. By cutting through the frozen ground at the
bank of the river, he obtained clay for mortar, and with stones built up
a little abutment at one end of the forge, to lay his coal and build the
fire against. There was no chimney, a hole being left in the roof for
the escape of the gas and smoke. He then put a trough at the end of the
forge, in which to cool his iron. The floor cost no labor, as it was
supplied by mother earth. There was no window, but light came in at the
smoke-hole in the roof between the logs and through the chinks of the
door, made of joist hewed from small trees, treenailed together and hung
on wooden hinges. All this was done little by little, as opportunity
offered, and his wife and the children made charcoal by charring wood in
the oven, as he could not obtain turf to burn a kiln out of doors in the
winter. In mending his chain and staple, Richardson had felt very much
the need of something to turn his iron around. One end of a smith's
anvil terminates in a point, called the horn, and around which, whenever
he wishes to make a hoop, ring, or link of a chain, he can bend it.
Richardson had brought into the forest with him a large crowbar. At the
expense of much labor with his nail-hammer, he rounded the extremity of
the largest end, leaving the rest square; then boring a hole in the
stump on the right side, he drove the bar into it. This served as a
very good substitute for a horn to his stone anvil, as he could turn a
chain link on the round part, and bend iron at right angles on the
square edge; and he was not a little proud of it when done.

Richardson's ability to work in wood was well known to his neighbors,
but he had carefully concealed his attempts in the blacksmith line, as
he did not wish to attract attention till he could obtain tools, and had
made some progress. But a matter of such general interest could not long
be hid. The children told about their father's mending the chain and the
staple, and it was soon known, to the great satisfaction of the
neighbors.

This little community, secluded from society and embosomed in the
forest, most of them having emigrated from the same neighborhood, and
enduring like hardships, were extremely social in their habits, much
attached to one another, and ready to make sacrifices for the common
good. David Montague was especially beloved by his neighbors, being a
man of good abilities, and most open and affectionate disposition. In
better circumstances than the rest, he was able to hire help to clear
his land, and also kept a horse and a large stock of cattle.

A few days after Richardson had made his preparations, he came in of an
evening with his wife, and bringing a chain in his hand, that he flung
down at the door. After greetings were exchanged, and they had drawn
together around the fire, Montague observed,--

"Neighbor, I hear that you have turned blacksmith, and do your own iron
work."

"I'm sure," said Mrs. Montague, "it is going to be a great thing for the
place if we have got a smith among us."

"They say," replied Richardson, "that stories never lose anything by
going, and I think this is a pretty good proof of it, for it all grew
out of this: I went to the village, you know, a while since, to mill,
for all hands, and to get some iron work done. While I stood watching
Jack Drew, and blowing the bellows for him, I said to myself, 'I could
do that work, or I could learn to do it, if I only had his tools and
fire, just as well as I can make a pair of wheels, or an axletree, or
frame a building, or make a cider-press.' I used to do that kind of work
sometimes before I came here. I thought it over going home, and the next
time I broke a chain, I set to work with a flat stone before the fire,
and mended it, and then I mended a staple; that's the way it came about.
I made up my mind then I'd mend my own things, if I could, and save the
expense and the long tramp. As we've got only these two rooms, and there
isn't much room round the fire, I built a hovel to work in."

"I can tell you, Mr. Montague, he made out firstrate. Husband, show Mr.
Montague the chain you mended."

Richardson went to the barn and brought in the chain and the staple.

"Well," said his visitor, after examining the work with great interest,
"if you can mend my chain as well as that, I'll never carry another one
to Drew, and I'll pay you in cash just what I should have to pay him,
and be greatly obliged, besides."

"That's just what I've been telling husband," said his wife; "if he
would give his mind to it, get a few tools, and begin in a small way, at
first, it would give him work in stormy weather, and times when he
couldn't do anything else, be a great accommodation to the neighbors,
help the place, and be a good thing all around."

"That's it, Mr. Richardson. Your wife's got the right of it, neighbor.
The place is settling, people moving in, and taking up land, stumps
rotting, and ground getting fit to plough; and work will grow as fast as
you can grow to be able to do it."

"I'll mend your chain, neighbor, in the best fashion I can; but I have
to work in such a roundabout way, that I must have my time. Have you got
the broken link?"

"No; it flew into the snow, and I couldn't find it."

"Then I shall have to cut one of the links, put the next link in, and
weld it."

"I hate to have that done, because it will shorten the chain; and it's
barely long enough to bind a load of logs and 'fid' now."

"Haven't you any links lying round?"

"Not I, indeed. Iron is as scarce as money with me, as with all the
neighbors. Every link of a chain, piece of a horse or ox shoe, old
spike, and every scrap of iron, is worked up. There is one thing,
though, I remember now, though I don't know as it's of any use to you."

"What is that?"

"I got Drew to make me a plough-colter, more than a year ago, and found
the iron. There was a piece left, a bar about a foot long."

"If I could heat it, and contrive any way to cut it, I could make a link
of it."

"I will leave the chain, and send Andrew over with the bar, and if you
find that you can't do anything with the bar, why, cut a link and make
the chain shorter, for I am determined you shall mend that chain."

Mr. Montague and his wife now took their leave, and in the course of an
hour Andrew Montague brought over the bar of iron.

It was the wife's turn to be discouraged now.

"William," she said, "you never can cut that great bar of iron. Why,
it's almost as thick as my press-board, and you haven't one single tool
to do it with. I'm sorry, but you will certainly have to shorten the
chain."

"No, I won't shorten the chain, and I'll find some way to split it and
forge a link out of it, if it takes from now till' next spring: that is,
if you'll help me. Montague hates to have the chain shortened. It's the
first job of work, and I'll do it as he wants it."

"I'll do anything I can; anything in the world, to get bread for the
children."

"I'll help you, father; I'm real strong," said Clem, a boy of twelve,
afterwards the father of Radcliffe Rich.

"And I, too," said Robert, who was eighteen months younger. Two girls,
still younger, would have doubtless volunteered, but they were abed, and
not much could reasonably be expected of the baby in the cradle.

William Richardson, in addition to his mechanical ability, was a
resolute, powerful man. The encouragement afforded by the visit of
Montague, and the prospect of abundance of work, if he could do it, had
effectually roused all his energies. His wife, by no means ignorant of
her husband's capacities, dismissed her anxieties, for she knew that he
would find some way to accomplish whatever he had determined to do.

After sitting a few moments buried in thought, he took a brand from the
fire, and his axe, and, followed by Clem, started for the woods, where
he soon found a hornbeam tree, the wood of which is very firm and heavy.
The boy held the brand while he cut it down, and took off a cut three
feet in length. With axe, saw, and auger, by the light of the kitchen
fire, he soon made a beetle, that, during the time it lasted,--for he
had no iron to hoop it with,--would enable him to strike a harder blow
than even a blacksmith's sledge, for it was much heavier, indeed, too
heavy for constant use; but a very strong man could swing it for a
while, and upon an emergency. He then went down to a brook about an
eighth of a mile from the house, for an old axe, kept to save a better
one, and to cut ice, in order that the cattle might drink. The axe, by
frequent grinding, had become very thick on the edge, and the bitt was
rounded.

The next morning Richardson started the fire on his forge with plenty of
coal, and put in the bar, while Clem and Rob plied the kitchen bellows
by turns, the two little girls looking on with the greatest interest.

To cut iron, less heat is required than to weld it.

"Clem," said Richardson, "call your mother."

The boy returning, said,--

"Mother says one of the girls must come in to watch the cradle."

It was now, "Nan, you go," and "Sue, you go," when the indulgent father,
who knew just how the children felt, compromised the matter by bringing
the cradle, with the baby sound asleep in it, and setting the sleeper
as far as possible from the forge, in order that the noise of the blows
might not awaken him.

Richardson, now taking the iron from the fire with the kitchen tongs,
placed it on the anvil, and gave it in charge to the boys to hold. He
then put the axe-edge down on the iron where he wished to split it, and
told his wife how to hold it; then with the beetle he struck heavy blows
upon the axe, forcing it into the iron at every stroke, while his wife,
after every blow, drew the axe to a new place. The old axe, of excellent
temper, and thick edge, that would neither turn nor break, being dipped
in water when it became heated, answered the purpose of a chisel
admirably, and the beetle was _superb_. Indeed, they would have nearly
finished that heat, but the baby waked, screaming, and would not be
pacified without his mother. Richardson clapped the iron in the fire,
one of the children got a chair, and the mother sitting down, nursed the
babe while the iron was heating. After this it became quiet, and the
little girls took care of it, while the others cut the iron so nearly
through that by bending it back and forth a few times, it fell apart.

He now found that the strip he had cut off was sufficient to make two
links by drawing it some. He therefore made two. But it was a deal of
work to heat the iron hot enough to weld, because the hand-bellows were
single, and only operated by short puffs, the iron cooling in the
intervals, whereas a blacksmith's bellows, being double, one part fills
while the other is discharging, thus keeping up a steady current of air.

Montague was much pleased when he found that his chain, instead of being
made shorter, was lengthened, and now sufficient for all purposes, paid
Richardson liberally, and brought another chain that was too short, and
had the remainder of his iron put into that.

"There, wife," said Richardson, as he placed the money his neighbor had
paid him on the table, "is the first money earned by the hammer. You
were just right when you said that mending that staple was the best
day's work I ever did, and I'm sure I never earned any money so sweet as
this."




CHAPTER III.

EXPERIENCE THE BEST TEACHER.


The morning succeeding the events we have related, David Montague sent
over the chain, into which, he wished the rest of his bar of iron
worked. Richardson kindled his fire, put in the iron, and began to blow
with the hand-bellows; but when he recollected how difficult it was to
make iron hot enough to weld in that way, he flung down the little
affair, and gave up the undertaking. Convinced that he needed a pair of
bellows even more than a hammer or anything else,--for if he could only
get a good heat, he could manage to hold the iron with the kitchen
tongs, and work it with the claw-hammer,--he resolved to have them,
especially as he felt that he could obtain them by his own efforts,
without paying out money.

He knew that John Bradford, with whom he was on terms of greater
intimacy than any other of his neighbors, had a large lot of logs to
haul, and that he was the owner of a whip-saw. Leaving the shop, he went
over to John's and said to him,--

"John, I suppose by this time you've heard all about my blacksmithing."

"Reckon I have, and everybody else in this place. They say you hammer
the iron on a lapstone, same as a shoemaker his leather."

"Not quite so bad as that; but I find I must have a pair of bellows, and
I want inch-and-a-half stuff to make the 'woods.' I have got a pine log
at the door, and I can't go eleven miles to a sawmill; indeed, I don't
think I could get there with cattle, the snow is so deep. Will you take
your saw, and help me saw out the stuff? and I'll take my oxen and haul
logs for you."

"Won't I? I'll be right glad to do it."

"Then I'll go home, and get my log on the saw-pit and come over in the
morning."

Two men accustomed to the work will saw out boards and plank with a
whip-saw as well as they can be sawed in a mill, only it takes more
time. Richardson had a place fixed near the bank of the river, where the
ground fell off abruptly. Here stringers were laid on uprights set in
the ground, on which the log to be sawed was rolled, and the descent of
the ground afforded room to work the saw, which is nearly as large as a
mill-saw, one man standing on top of the log, and the other on the
ground below.

With the aid of his neighbor, Richardson not only sawed out plank enough
for the woodwork of his bellows, but one to make a bench, and boards
enough to make a door to replace the rude one of poles, and to close a
window he meant to make over the bench.

Having procured the material for the woods, the next article needed was
leather to cover the woods. Putting on his snow-shoes, he tracked and
killed a moose, took the hair off with strong lye, then tanned it with
salt and alum, and pounded it upon the anvil with a stick, kneaded it in
his hands, and greased it with the marrow of the moose till it was as
limp as a rag.

He now made the woods of the bellows, and bows, and as he had neither
nails nor tacks, fastened the skin to the woods with wooden pegs. All
this he accomplished without much difficulty; but without iron how was
he to make the nose, which must enter the fire, or at least must
approach within a few inches of it? The nose of a smith's bellows is of
iron, and enters what is called the tuyere pipe, which is in these days
quite a complicated affair, and communicates with the fire.

"It's no sort of use, William," said his wife; "it must be iron, and
you'll have to go to John Drew, and get him to make it."

"I'll sleep a night on it," was the reply, "before I give it up."

Whether he received any information in dreams, or not, I am unable to
say; but this much is evident--that he rose in a hopeful frame of mind,
and, to the great surprise of his wife, whose whole soul was in the
matter, set to work without the least hesitation.

Our readers will recollect that swamps in the forest do not freeze to a
great depth, and often, when the snow comes before the cold is severe,
not at all. Richardson found clay that he could get at in the swamp, and
by cutting the ice obtained sand from the bottom of the brook. He now,
with a hoe, broke up all the lumps in the clay, put water to it, and
worked it with the hoe till it was fine and tough; then he worked in the
sand, made a box a foot square, without ends (by nailing four pieces of
boards together), and three feet in length. In the middle of this box he
set a pine plug, larger at one end than the other, and tapering to the
size he thought requisite, and filled the space between it and the sides
of the box with the mixture of clay and sand, ramming it hard with his
hammer-handle, in order that there should be no hollow places; put it in
the kitchen, where it might dry gradually without freezing; made the
frame, and hung his bellows on wooden pins, in default of iron; made the
pole to blow with, while a strip of moose-hide served instead of a chain
to lift the "wood" of the lower bellows; and then went into the woods to
haul logs while his clay was drying, which required time, as the box
excluded, in a great measure, the air.

In the mean while, work accumulated on his hands. Reuben Hight brought
a chain to be mended, John Bradford a kitchen shovel, the handle of
which was broken in two. These shovels were very large, the handle as
long as a broom-handle, and the blade nearly as wide as that of a barn
shovel. James Potter brought the bail of a Dutch oven; John Skillings
wanted a hook made to a chain, and brought a harrow tooth to make it of.
Richardson promised to do the whole when he got his bellows done, if he
could, of which he felt by no means assured.

The clay was now thoroughly dried, being kept near the fire, and
Richardson put the box on the kitchen hearth, and built a very moderate
fire. This he gradually increased, till the box was burnt, the plug of
pine consumed, and the clay brought to the condition of brick. He then
permitted the fire gradually to burn out, and, when the operation was
over, he had, as the result, a complete cone, thoroughly burnt. He made
a square hole in his butment, put the pipe through it, with the smaller
end towards the forge, and bedded it in clay mortar.

Into the large end of this brick cone he put the wooden nose of his
bellows. It being a great deal smaller than the cone, he filled around
it with clay mortar; his object in giving this shape to the passage
being to admit filling, in order to prevent burning the wooden nose of
the bellows. The length of the cone prevented its heating sufficiently
to burn the bellows-nose by reason of its great distance from the fire,
being out of the stone butment, in the cool air; and the clay mortar
around the nose was, he thought, a poorer conductor of heat than the
brick cone itself.

Richardson completed his work about noon, and it was a good deal of
self-denial to him to abstain from making a coal fire at once, and going
to work; but he thought it best to let his mortar dry. He, however,
satisfied himself that there would be no difficulty in raising all the
wind he needed, and he made a small wood fire to dry the clay before it
should freeze.

The next morning the shop presented much the appearance of a jubilee.
The children had obtained a promise from their father that he would not
kindle the fire till they were up. They were out of bed before a ray of
light streaked the sky, and the moment breakfast was despatched, the
whole family, even to the dog and cat, hastened to the shop. It was
Saturday, and Richardson, knowing that Bradford's wife would want to
bake, and need the shovel, began with that, putting the two parts in the
fire, after having made them ready to weld, or, as he termed it, "shut."
He resolved to have a heat this time; put on the coal, and plied the
bellows; but by and by he noticed that the iron began to send off
sparks, and saw little black specks of charcoal sticking to the iron.
Pulling it out of the fire, he found it was all burnt to a honeycomb:
that the little black specks of charcoal had burnt into the very
substance of the iron, and yet they were black, and the iron came to
pieces the moment he struck it. The anvil was covered with scales, and
he found it would not weld.

He was sadly puzzled, and most of all, that the charcoal that stuck to
the iron, and burnt into it, did not get red hot itself: and he found
there was such a thing as getting iron _too hot_. Little Clem had been
to John Drew's with his father in the canoe, and now came to the rescue.

"Father," he said, "why don't you do like as Mr. Drew did?"

"How did he do, child?"

"I seed him stick the iron into sand, and once I seed him poke the coal
away, and fling the sand right into the fire."

The father now recollected that he had often seen the blacksmith put his
iron into sand, but did not know what he did it for. He got some sand,
and put the iron into it, then put it into the fire, found the iron did
not burn, and he welded it without any more trouble.

He now got along bravely, being able to heat his iron so that it would
draw easily. Even the harrow-tooth presented no obstacle; for, after
bringing it to a white heat, he got his wife to hold it with the tongs,
and using the old axe as a sledge, soon brought the tooth to a size that
he could work with his nail-hammer, and finished his job. As to the
bellows, they were a great success, afforded a strong blast, and he
found the constant current of cold air passing through the cone kept it
from becoming hot enough to burn the nose of the bellows.

"William," said his wife, "I'll never say you can't do anything again."

It may seem strange to our readers that Richardson should be able to
heat iron sufficiently to be drawn and cut with an axe, and still should
have so much difficulty in making it hot enough to weld. They may
likewise wish to know what good the sand does.

Iron can be cut and hammered when red hot; but, in order to weld, it
must be brought to a white heat--almost melted. When in this state, the
two pieces of iron to be united are laid one upon the other, and made to
unite by a few smart blows with a hammer. If the operation is rightly
performed, the two pieces of iron will become perfectly united, and be
as strong at the place where they are welded as elsewhere.

It is, however, quite a nice operation to weld thoroughly. Iron, when
highly heated, inclines to oxidize rapidly. This forms a scale similar
to that which you perceive on iron when it is rusty. If the two pieces
of iron are put together in this condition, these scales that are loose
on the iron will prevent the union of the parts. That is the way iron
burns up. It oxidizes, and the iron flies off in sparks that are scales
red hot. When the smith sees the iron begin to sparkle, he takes it out
of the fire, and rolls it in sand, and then puts it in again, or opens
the fire, and sprinkles sand upon it. The sand melts, combines with the
oxide of iron, and forms silicate of iron, spreads over the surface of
the iron, protects it, prevents the formation of scales, and when it is
struck with the hammer, leaves the surface clean, and the iron unites
perfectly, and forms a solid junction. The smith also leaves the surface
of the two pieces to be welded highest in the middle, in order that they
may touch there first, and then, when struck with the hammer, the melted
sand or oxide will be squeezed out.

The possession of a pair of bellows, with which he was enabled to heat
his iron thoroughly, and soften it to such a degree that he could work
it with his nail-hammer, proved of the utmost service to our persistent
smith, and he was enabled, by the aid of his wife and the children, to
mend chains, staples of yokes, domestic utensils, and most of the
articles his neighbors brought to him, and, as we have seen in the last
chapter, was gaining knowledge even by his mistakes.

But there was a good deal of work that would be more profitable than any
he had hitherto done that he was compelled to lose for the want of
tools. There were oxen to be shod. Four of the neighbors now kept
horses. These they worked before their oxen, and therefore wanted them
shod all round, and were obliged to pay John Drew an exorbitant price to
leave his shop, and come through the woods on snow-shoes to do it. It
was quite as important that he should have iron as tools, in order to
learn by practice, as he could not expect his neighbors to find iron for
him to spoil in learning. To this end he laid by every cent he earned by
his blacksmith work, in order with that, the cloth, butter, and linen
yarn, to obtain both.

The tools for the lack of which he was the most crippled in his work
were a pair of smiths' tongs, a hammer, and a punch. The kitchen tongs
were wretched things to hold iron with. It required all his strength to
hold a small piece of iron, and the jaws were so short that it was
constantly slipping; whereas, the handles of a smiths' tongs, being
crossed like scissor-blades, act as a lever, and the jaws are long, to
hold the iron; while a smiths' hammer, being much heavier, and with a
larger face, deals a more effective blow, and is, by its form, adapted
to the work. In addition to all this, he had but one pair of kitchen
tongs, and when he had to weld two pieces of iron, he made a pair of
wooden ones, with which his wife took out one of the pieces of iron, and
held it till it was "stuck."

He longed--O, how he longed!--for a little iron that he could call his
own. It consumed him--this desire--even as does the greed of gold a
miser. He reckoned with a piece of charcoal on the top of the bellows
the amount of money he had on hand, the cost of getting Drew to make him
the tools, and the probable proceeds of the articles he had to sell. To
his dismay he found, after purchasing even the few tools he must have,
there would remain but a mere trifle with which to buy iron.

"I must," he said to himself, "either go without the iron or the tools.
No, I won't; I'll _make_ the tools.--I _will_ do it, and save the money
to buy iron."

Just then his wife came in to call him to supper, and overheard the
remark, but did not, as before, say, "William, you never can do it."




CHAPTER IV.

HAMMER AND TONGS.


Most persons accompany the act of close thought with some physical
effort; some whittle, smoke, or chew tobacco furiously. William
Richardson was not an exception. When he had fed the cattle for night,
brought in the night's wood, a turn of water, and renewed the fire, he
placed the long handle of his wife's frying-pan across a tub, and began
to shell corn.

His wife, who knew there was corn enough shelled for a long time, made
no remark, but noticed, while she sat spinning at her flax-wheel, that
he dropped a good many ears of corn into the tub half shelled, and some
untouched. He was evidently thinking of anything but shelling corn.

Thus they sat an hour or more; not a word spoken. On the other hand, it
was whir, whir, whir; scrape, scrape, scrape. At length his wife saw, as
the cobs he had been from time to time flinging into the fire caught and
blazed, the muscles of his face relax, and a smile flit across it.

"Sue?"

"Well, William."

"Do you think you could get along without the tongs?"

"I do get along without them; they are out to the shop the greater part
of the time; I haven't had 'em in my hands, except out there, this three
weeks."

"But could you do without 'em altogether?"

"Yes. Why?"

"Because I can make a pair of blacksmith's tongs of 'em."

"Take 'em, husband."

"Could you get along without the fire-shovel?"

"No; because I couldn't clear out the oven."

Whir, whir, whir; scrape, scrape, scrape, for half an hour more.

"Sue!"

"Well."

"Could we get along without one of the andirons?"

"I don't kno-o-w. What in the world can you want of that?"

"To make a hammer."

"We could get along as well without both as without one."

"I don't want the whole of it, only part of the end that's in the fire;
we could put a rock under that, and the rest of it would keep the wood
from the hearth, and from rolling out."

"Then I would take it, William. We can get along very well, I dare say.
Haven't you got corn enough shelled?"

"Haven't you spun long enough?"

"Yes."

"Then we will go to bed."

The sledding was good, and it was sometime before Richardson put his
designs into execution. But the sledding broke up, work came in, and he
felt the need of the tongs more than ever, as the children were at
school, and it was oftentimes impossible for his wife to leave the baby,
that was cutting its teeth, and began to be fretful.

He placed a block beside his anvil, knocked the handle out of the old
axe, and mortised it into the block, edge up: upon this he could lay hot
iron and cut it without calling his wife to assist him.

It was with great reluctance that our smith proceeded to take the tongs
and the andiron, when the time came for doing it. "I feel," said he to
his wife, "as though I was sheep-stealing: it seems real mean to strip
the fireplace, and take your tongs and andirons, especially as we are so
miserably off for household stuff."

"I wouldn't feel so, William. The first two years we got along without
them; then we thought we needed the tongs, and got John Drew to make
them; and now, if you need the hammer more than the tongs, I don't see
why you shouldn't take them."

The kitchen tongs were huge affairs; there was more iron in them than
in three pairs of light smith's tongs, such as Richardson needed at
present, only it was not in the right place, but just the reverse, as
the legs of the house tongs were shaped like the human leg and thigh,
largest at the fork, and tapering towards the feet, where they
terminated in a large, oval lip, very thick and broad, adapted to seize
and hold the great brands in the old-fashioned fireplaces; whereas
forge-tongs have the most iron in the jaws, and at the cross, and taper
from thence to a small size.

To his great delight, Richardson found that he did not need more than
half of the legs of the tongs.

"I'll save the body of them," he said, "and when I get some new iron,
put on new legs, and Susan can have her tongs again."

He put them into the fire, and cut off the lips, drew down the small end
to half its size, in order to save iron, and that the handles might
occupy less room in his hand. A new difficulty now presented itself.
Indeed, our smith, who was in want of everything but brains and
perseverance, trod a brier-planted path. He had no punch to make a hole
for the rivet, and without it all his previous work was useless. Punches
are made of steel, or, at least, pointed with it; but he had no steel,
except his tools and a file, that he needed to sharpen his saws and
augers, and could not do without. He knew that an iron punch would
answer the purpose; but where should he get the iron to make it of, for
he had now discovered that he needed two pairs of tongs, in order to
take two pieces of iron from the fire at the same time, to weld, and
could spare none from the legs of the fire-tongs for a punch. He took
the two oval buttons that had formed the lips of the house-tongs, welded
them together, and made his punch. To be sure, at every three or four
blows it bent; but he straightened it again, and, by heating the iron as
hot as it would bear, succeeded in punching the holes in both pairs of
tongs, and then took part of the punch to make the rivets.

So delighted was he when the whole matter was accomplished, that the big
man capered around the shop for joy, and ran in to tell the good news to
his wife.

"Now, Sue," he said, "let us have a thanksgiving to-day, for I have two
pairs of tongs; let us have pea-soup."

There was not much left of the house-tongs, only the head, and about two
inches of each leg, below the fork, just enough to weld to. The great
benefit of the tongs was instantly apparent. Returning to the shop,
William took up what remained of the punch, and exclaiming, "A
blacksmith has the advantage of a carpenter, for he can work up his
chips," made a hook. This he fastened to a belt around his waist. Of the
remainder he made a clasp that he could slip over the handles of the
tongs, thus holding the iron and liberating his hand.

Now, if he wanted to use his left hand to hold a punch or cutter, he
could put a clasp over the handles of the tongs, and drop them into the
hook at his waist; the iron, also, was not slipping out of the tongs and
dropping on the ground, every three or four blows. He could now work
alone to very good advantage, as he had no large iron to draw, and his
wife was not compelled to take her hands out of the dough to help him.

"Wife," said William, when he came in from his work that night, "I am as
tired as a dog. It's hard work trying to make something out of nothing."
After resting his brain a while, and doing the new work his neighbors
had brought, he began to think about making a hammer; so he cut off
sufficient iron from one of the andirons, lapped it over, welded it, and
formed the body of the tool. But in this a large hole was to be punched
to receive a handle. It was necessary that he should have more than one
punch, a small one to make the hole, and another to enlarge it, as he
could not, with his nail-hammer, strike with sufficient force to drive a
large punch through so thick a piece of iron.

"I am sure, wife," he said, "I don't know what I shall get to make
punches of. I have a good mind to take one of the teeth out of your
flax-comb--they are _steel_--to make the small punch, and cut a piece
off the crowbar to make the big one."

"I wouldn't cut the crowbar, William. Take part of the other andiron; we
might as well have a stone under the ends of both as under one. There's
an old wheel spindle will make the small one."

He acted upon his wife's advice, and made the hammer. Hammers are faced
with steel, whereas this was all iron; but Richardson knew that, like
his iron punches, it would answer a temporary purpose, and that when it
was battered up, he could hammer it back again. He now was able to do
all the work his neighbors brought, and in half the time required
before. While he was congratulating himself upon his success, David
Montague came to the shop, bringing the chain he had mended first; the
link had straightened when put to a severe test.

"I know the reason," said Richardson. "I couldn't get a proper heat with
the house-bellows." He mended it, and this time there was no failure.

William Richardson, during all these struggles and make-shifts, had
learned much, and, in a way that insured its being remembered; had
learned the value and use of sand, found that it protected the iron,
kept the outside from burning, while the inside was heating; that, if he
put two pieces of iron in the fire, and one of them became hot before
the other, he could take it out, roll it in sand, and put it back, and
the sand would keep it from burning up, while the other was getting
ready. He likewise perceived that there was a great difference in the
effect of heat upon the different kinds of iron brought to him by his
neighbors: some was fine-grained, tough, and would bear a great heat;
another kind was coarse, brittle, and, if made too hot, would fly under
the hammer, and fall to pieces. Every mistake added to his experience,
and he was every day acquiring dexterity in the use of the hammer.

His neighbors, who watched his progress with the greatest interest, were
as much delighted as himself, since they were no longer obliged to go
through the woods to the village for every little job. They now told him
he must learn to shoe oxen and horses, work steel, make axes and
plough-irons.

You may well think Richardson was as anxious to be able to do this work
as they were to have it done; and the way for the gradual attainment of
it came about in the natural order of events.

David Montague had, during the winter, got out the timber for a barn,
and employed Richardson to frame, board, and shingle it. This increased
his stock of money very sensibly, and he felt that he could now, with
the money he had saved by making his tools, the proceeds of his butter,
and other matters, and that which he had earned by working for Montague,
buy some iron and steel. He had also in the distant future, visions of
an iron anvil, that he foresaw he must one day have.




CHAPTER V.

DREW SORE AND SAVAGE.


It was now past the middle of March. A copious rain was succeeded by a
sharp frost, making excellent going on the river, and Richardson
resolved to improve it; the only drawback being that the river was one
glare of ice, and his oxen had lost many of their shoes. He had saved
part of the shoes, borrowed some more of John Bradford, and could have
put them on himself, as Moody Matthews had a shoeing-hammer, but there
were no nails in the neighborhood.

Richardson, however, knew that by taking time and by careful driving, he
could get the cattle to the village, and determined to carry the shoes
with him, and hire Drew to sharpen and nail them on. He put on the sled
half a cord of hemlock bark, his own grist, the butter, cloth, and yarn,
together with some corn and grain for his neighbors.

About eight o'clock in the evening his wife went to bed; but William
made up a warm fire in the stone fireplace, fed the cattle, and lay
down before it. At twelve o'clock he went out, fed the cattle again, and
called his wife, who got his breakfast, and he set out. He carried in a
basket doughnuts, baked beans, cold boiled pork, Indian bread, and
butter, and a jug of coffee, also hay for the oxen. His plan was to stop
for the night at Hanson's, who put up teams, paying fifty cents a night
for barn-room for the cattle and a bed for himself, Hanson's wife
warming his beans, and making tea or coffee for him, as the coffee he
carried was to drink on the road. This expense was paid by the neighbors
whose errands he did.

At his arrival, he found John Drew, who before had always received him
very cordially, in a most surly humor. He was making axes. Tom Breslaw,
an apprentice, nearly out of his time, was striking, and blowing the
bellows. Barely nodding, in response to the greeting of Richardson, he
took an axe, into which he had stuck the steel, from the fire, flung it
savagely on the anvil, crying to Tom, "Strike!" and after the heat put
it in the fire again, taking not the least notice of Richardson, but
giving all his attention to his iron. Finding he was not noticed, and at
a loss to know what this strange conduct of the smith meant, he at
length said, "Mr. Drew, can you put a few shoes on my oxen?"

"No, I can't. I've got this axe and another one to make for a man that's
waitin' for 'em."

"Perhaps you could do it in the morning. I shall be obliged to stay all
night to get my grist ground. It would be a great accommodation to me if
you could. I had hard work to get the cattle here, and if I am obliged
to drive them home as they are, I shall lame them."

"Can't do it, I tell you, and that's the long and short of it."

"Perhaps you could make some nails, lend me a shoeing-hammer, and I
would try and nail them on myself. If you don't, I am sure I don't know
what I shall do. I had hard work to get the cattle here with no load of
any amount. I must haul more back, and I don't know how I can get home."

"And I don't care how you get home, Bill Richardson; nor whether you get
home at all. Here I've slaved myself for years, going up to your place
through the woods on snow-shoes once or twice every winter, and hauling
my tools and shoes on a hand-sled, leaving work here in the shop just to
accommodate you folks up there, and took my pay in white beans and all
sorts of trash, when I left cash jobs at home and lost 'em; and here you
come smelling round, and palavering, as though butter wouldn't melt in
your mouth; watch and sneak round, and steal the trade, and then go
back, cut off my custom, and take the bread right out of my mouth. Now
I've got you where the hair is short. You may shoe your own cattle,
you're such a great smith. I won't make you a shoe, nail, lend you a
tool, or obleege you in any way, name, or natur'. Strike, Tom
Breslaw--what are you gaping at?"

Waiting patiently till the din of blows had subsided, and the iron was
returned to the fire, Richardson replied,--

"As for stealing your trade, Mr. Drew, and coming here for the purpose,
it is certainly a mistake of yours. I never thought of trying to work a
piece of iron till the last time I was here, when the thought came into
my mind. You surely can't think it strange, when you know what great
labor and expense it is for myself and neighbors to come here, that we
should try to do somewhat for ourselves. You would do the same were you
in our place. If you complain so bitterly of coming to our place twice a
year, what do you think it must be for us to come to you all the time?
You must remember, also, that at those times you charged a corresponding
price, that was cheerfully paid. I can't well see how you could lose any
work by going, as there is no other smith anywhere round, and you must
have found the work waiting when you came back. I have never been
reputed a thief among my neighbors, or made a practice of stealing. I
did wish to obtain some information of you, before I went home, about
working and tempering steel, but expected to pay for it. As for taking
bread out of your mouth, you have all the work you can do right here,
without doing a stroke of work for us."

"Well, all the knowledge you'll worm out of me you may put in your eye,
for you won't get any."

"I don't expect, or even desire to, after what has passed between us;
but, as I have given you full opportunity to free your mind, and express
your opinion of me, any more talk of that kind before my face or behind
my back will be at your own risk. I suppose you understand me."

Drew hung his head, and made no reply; for, though a patient and
good-natured man, William Richardson was by no means a safe person to
provoke.

It was now the dinner hour, and as Richardson left the shop he was
followed by Breslaw, who said,--

"Mr. Richardson, where are you going?"

"First, Tom, to your father's, with this bark. He is tanning a couple of
hides for me, and told me he would take part of his pay in bark. I was
going to buy some iron and steel at the store; but I shall have to give
that up; for, as Drew won't shoe my cattle, I shan't be able to haul one
pound more than my grist."

"He's a mean wretch, and I don't see how you kept your hands off him.
But he's been drinking; that's part of it. Give me your shoes. I'll run
into Aunt Sarah's, and get my dinner; it won't take me so long as to go
home; and before Drew gets back I'll fit the shoes and make the nails,
and this evening we will put them on. Most of the shoes have been on the
cattle before. I'll fit the others by them, and if there's any of them
too far gone to sharpen, I'll make new ones."

"But where will you get iron? Shan't I run to the store and get some?"

"I keep a little of my own, and do small jobs out of shop time. Any
little scraps will do for that."

Richardson hauled his bark to the tan-yard, and Breslaw's father invited
him to stop to dinner. As he was passing Drew's shop on his return, Tom
came out.

"I've made the shoes and nails, Mr. Richardson; and I'll tell you what
I've been thinking of. I suppose money is none too plenty with you."

"You may well say that, Tom; for I'm paying for my land, and every cent
counts."

"Well, now, you can, while you are waiting for your grist, go round the
village, and pick up old iron, and perhaps some steel, that won't cost
you one quarter what it would to buy new at the store, and be just as
good, and better, for your use, as it will be smaller, and save
hammering. Only look out that it is not too rusty. Perhaps you remember
Bosworth, the stone-mason."

"Very well. He made the stones in the grist-mill, and built the piers of
the great bridge."

"He died this last winter, and his widow has his drills and other tools,
and wants to sell 'em. The drills are all steel, and the best of steel,
too; and I've no doubt you could buy 'em for half what the same amount
of steel would cost you at the store, and perhaps for even less."

In accordance with this advice, Richardson went to the place, and bought
four hand-drills, a foot or more in length, used for splitting stone,
and two dozen steel wedges. The latter, he thought, would, at some
future time, serve to make toe-calks for horse-shoes. The purchase that
delighted him most of all, however, was a churn-drill. This was four
feet in length; but only four inches of each end was steel, being much
worn, the remainder iron, shaped like the stalk of a seed onion, with a
bulb of iron in the middle, three inches in diameter. He also bought a
light stone-hammer. This was likewise a great acquisition, as it would
serve the purpose of a sledge. Clem could now strike with it for a short
time, and would, in a few months, be able to handle it easily; for he
was large of his age, and muscular. He could likewise get one of his
neighbors to strike, upon an emergency. Pursuing his search, he found
several old axes, beetle-rings, three mill-files, the handle of a
kitchen shovel, one leg of a pair of kitchen tongs, and an old crane
(the latter was a large piece of iron), and some old ox-shoes. At the
mill he obtained some of the mill-stone picks that had become too short
for use.

Just as he had finished his supper that night, Tom made his appearance
at Hanson's with the shoes, nails, and his tools. A rope was procured,
and the oxen were cast on the barn floor. Richardson held a candle,
stuck into a potato, while Hanson assisted Tom. The latter put on the
new shoes, clinched up all the old ones that were loose, and, with a
smith's large file, sharpened the dull calks.

He not only refused to take any pay for his work, avowing that Jack Drew
was hog enough for one small place, but, sitting down before the fire
with Richardson, gave him a great deal of valuable information
respecting working iron.

In the morning Richardson rose early, and prepared to start. After
paying his expenses at Hanson's, he was able to buy considerable iron at
the store, and still had a little money left. The wind was north-west, a
bright sun, the ice smooth and hard, and the cattle, sharpshod, were
able to travel. Thoroughly rested, and eager to get home, they seemed to
regard the load no more than though it had been feathers. Snorting with
eagerness, proud of their new shoes, and perhaps elated with the idea
of having been to the village, they could at first scarcely be kept from
breaking into a run.

Was not Will Richardson a happy man that bright, sunny morning! The keen
air braced his limbs, and his heart throbbed with joy. Things had turned
out so much better than he anticipated. He feasted his eyes upon the
iron and steel--the great bar, the nail rods--he had bought at the
store, or rather the thin bar he had purchased to be split into nail
rods; for at that day iron did not come from the forges in shapes to
suit the smiths, but in large bars, and there was a vast deal of work to
be done with the sledge and hammer.

Never did a boy gloat over a ripe plum as did Will Richardson over the
great bunch of iron in the middle of that churn-drill. He couldn't keep
his eyes off of it, and had already decided in his own mind what use he
would make of it.

Thanks to the noble spirit of Tom Breslaw, the cattle travelled so fast
that he arrived home long before his wife expected him. The children had
come half starved--as children always do in the country--from school,
and were screaming, "Do, mother, give me something to eat."

"I'll give you a luncheon, because you'll want to eat with your father
when he comes, and you'll want to tie up the cattle, and get the
night's wood in, and a turn of water, so you can have time to see him."

This being assented to by Young America, the mother, taking half of a
loaf of rye-and-Indian bread, began to spread butter on the loaf, and
then cut off and distribute huge slices to the hungry expectants. She
had cut off the last slice when the sound of Richardson's voice,
shouting to the oxen, came through the half-open door.

"Father--father's come!" screamed the children; and, followed by their
mother, they ran to the river. Down the slope they rushed, pell-mell,
and, just as the cattle put their fore feet on the edge of the bank, and
taking advantage of a momentary pause occasioned by the steepness of the
grade, piled on to the sled, the two girls holding on to their father's
legs, who, standing on the hinder end of the sled, and holding by one
hand to a stake, with the other waved his hat to his wife, shouting, "O,
Sue, the best of luck! 'Lashings' of iron and steel; and I've brought
back the fulled cloth, and the stuff for your and the children's
clothes, and money--only think of it, wife, brought money home with me!
You can have your tongs, and your andirons, and I can have all the tools
I want? and won't we go ahead?"

His wife was too full to speak; but happiness beamed from every feature,
as standing half-leg deep in the snow, she drank in the words of her
husband, who, taking her in his arms, seated her upon a bag of meal,
and, while the cattle went on, narrated the incidents of his journey,
the surliness of Drew, and how nobly it was offset by the generous
conduct of Breslaw.

"Ain't it glorious, wife? I tell you what it is, Sue, it's better to be
born lucky than rich."

To which we might add, that it is better to be born with brains and
energy than rich; for the riches may be lost; but the former are an
enduring possession, and when under the control of virtuous principles,
a source of unfailing happiness and self-respect.

William Richardson was by no means a talkative man. On the contrary he
was by nature reserved and thoughtful. But now his tongue ran like a
mill-clapper, and ceased not till the cattle stopped of their own accord
before the door.

In the meanwhile his wife remained, listening to the excited narration
of her husband, in a sort of silent rapture; but when, after the oxen
stopped, he began to show her the iron, and expatiate, saying, "Only see
this churn-drill, wife; both ends steel; and what a great bunch of iron
in the middle--Swedish iron, too; and three picks, and drills, and
wedges--all steel; and that crane--see what a great junk of iron _that_
is!--didn't cost me much of anything, either; and that big bar, to make
axes; and the thin iron for horse and ox shoes, and nail-rods;"--I say,
as he thus ran on, showing and explaining the value of one piece of iron
after another, tears of joy ran down the cheeks of the faithful wife,
and after that she found her tongue.

Now you needn't laugh, boys, and say, "What a fuss over a little old
iron!" It was worth a great deal more to that family than though it had
been so much gold; and you needn't say, "O, what a whopper!" Just see if
it don't come out so before we have done with the Richardsons. That
amount of gold might, and probably would, have ruined them; but on every
grain of that rusty metal were written encouragement, inspiration,
opportunity; and God Almighty had given to William Richardson the
ability to read for himself and his neighbors what was written on those
iron leaves.

"Father," cried Clem, seizing the stone-hammer, "what is this awful
great hammer for?"

"For you, my son, to help me draw these great bars of iron with--at any
rate, by and by, if you can't handle it now."

"I can swing it now, father, just like anything. See here"--swinging it
over his head, and bringing it down with considerable force on the iron.




CHAPTER VI.

PATIENT, BUT DETERMINED.


Perhaps our readers would like to know what were the first words Susan
Richardson uttered after she found her tongue.

"The first thing I'll do, when I get up to-morrow morning, shall be to
spin some linen yarn as fine as I can spin it, scour and bleach it the
best I know how, weave it, and if I don't make Tom Breslaw as handsome a
pair of linen shirts as any man in this state ever had to his back, it
will be because I can't."

The children all had to take a turn at the stone-hammer. Rob could
strike with it, but could not swing it over his head; besides being
younger, he was much less muscular than Clem, who was very large of his
age. Sue could lift it to the height of her shoulders, Sally but a few
inches. They now began to carry the iron to the shop. Clem and Rob took
each an end of the churn-drill, but the girls insisted on taking hold in
the middle, and entirely monopolized the conveyance of the drills,
wedges, and smaller things, notwithstanding the boys told them they
should think it would look a great deal better for them to go into the
house and help their mother get supper. All the satisfaction they got
was, "It's nothing to you; mam said we might."

The first work William Richardson did in the shop was with the remnants
of the kitchen shovel and tongs he had bought to repair his wife's
tongs, and cutting a piece off the old crane, he repaired the andirons.

Sitting on the anvil, he now looked over the iron and steel spread in
imposing array by the children over the shop, as a militia captain makes
his company take open order on muster-day for the sake of show,
reflecting in what way he should make the most of his treasures, when
Clem, who had been examining the drills with great interest, striking
one upon the other, and listening to the clear, sharp ring thus
produced, so different from the dull sound emitted by the iron, said,--

"Father, what is steel?"

The parent, occupied with his reflections, neither heard nor heeded the
question.

"Who don't know that, Clem?" replied Robert. "It's what makes father's
axe and draw-shave cut: iron won't cut."

"I guess I know that as well as you do. But what makes steel cut any
more'n iron? It looks just like it."

"'Cause it's steel."

"You know a great deal about it--don't you?"

"What is it, boys?" said the father, rousing up.

"What is steel, father?"

"It's made out of iron refined and hardened, so as to give it temper."

"What do they do to it?"

"I don't know; it's done in England."

"Will the temper stay there forever?"

"Yes; you can draw it most all out if you heat it, but if you put it in
cold water it will come back again."

"What makes you, when you want to burn the handle out of your axe, put
wet cloths all over the edge of it?"

"Because I don't want to heat the steel and start the temper."

"What if you did? couldn't you put it into cold water and make it come
back?"

"Perhaps I shouldn't get the same temper: if the axe cuts well, I prefer
to let well enough alone; if I spoiled it, I should have to go clear to
the village to get John Drew to temper it over."

"But, father, I seed you take and put the new broad axe in the fire with
no cloth on it, nor nothing, and heat it real hot, so when I spit on it
it sissed."

"Yes, my son; but I didn't do that to take the handle out, but to draw
the temper. It was so high tempered it broke, and I couldn't do
anything with it; so I thought, as it was of no use as it was, I might
as well try to draw down the temper, and if I got too much out, it would
only be going to Drew after all. Do you understand now, my son?"

"Yes, father; but I heard you tell mother you meant to try to temper an
axe."

"I mean to try, dear. That's what I got the iron and steel for."

"Won't you spoil it?"

"I expect I shall, a good many, before I learn."

"Father, I want to see you learn. Can I see you spoil the axes?"

"Yes, child, I shall want you to help me."

"Think you can learn, father?"

"I guess so."

"Then I can learn too. Perhaps there's a man in the steel what lives
there and makes it cut."

"If there is, he must have a pretty warm berth sometimes."

"Father, when you learn and I learn, can I make me a hatchet?"

"And me too?" said Robert.

"Yes, I guess so."

Now we intend as briefly as possible to answer Clem's first question. It
would be very ridiculous, if a good-looking, nice-feeling boy in the
high school, being asked what made his knife cut, should have to stick
his thumb in his mouth, look like a dunce, and say, "I don't know."

We must begin with and say a few things in relation to iron, from which
steel is made.

The iron ore is put into the furnace, a layer of iron ore and another of
coal, together with lime, either in the shape of oyster-shells or stone
lime. It is there melted and run into large junks called _pigs_. The
lime causes all the flint, sand, and earthy matters to melt and separate
from the iron, which, being heaviest, drops to the bottom of the
furnace, while the slag, that is lighter; floats on top, and is taken
off. This is _cast_ iron; you see pigs of it piled up on the wharves in
seaports, the outside incrusted with the sand in which it was run, and
looking as rough, some of it, as the cinders of a smith's forge. It is
highly charged with carbon, coarse, hard, and brittle; can neither be
filed, welded, nor worked, under the hammer; is more or less filled with
slag and other impurities, and fit only, when melted again and purified,
to be cast into pots, pans, stoves, wheels, and various articles. It is
now melted two or three times more, and slightly hammered, to beat off
some of the slag. Then it is made red hot, and put under steam-hammers.
In old times it was hammered by water power, or by men with sledges.
This is done in order to take out the carbon, that renders it hard and
brittle.

Probably by this time you wish to know what carbon is, to extract which
from the iron has cost so much labor. Should I give you the definition
of the books, you would probably want that definition defined.

Many boys have seen a diamond: that is carbon in a solid form: pit coal
is solid carbon mixed with sulphur, phosphoros, and other elements.
Charcoal is solid carbon in a nearly pure state. Carbon has so strong an
affinity for oxygen, that when any of the substances that contain it are
burned, they give up their carbon, that instantly mingles with the
oxygen of the air.

Thus, when iron is heated, its pores are opened, the carbon on the
outside is carried away by the air, and more is liberated from within,
to pass off in the same way; the object of the frequent meltings and the
hammering is to expose new surfaces to contact with the oxygen of the
air, and get rid of the carbon, just as the farmer turns his hay, and
brings new surfaces to the sun, to dry off the dew.

As the result of this we have wrought iron, soft, tough, of close and
fibrous, instead of a crystalline or granular texture, that may be made
red hot and quenched in water without hardening or becoming brittle; may
be welded, split, punched, made into wheel-tires, hoes, shovels, axes,
hammers, pitchforks, knives, or razors. But there is one grand defect in
this iron, although it is so tractable that it may be worked under the
hammer into a thousand different shapes at the will of the smith; may be
drawn into wire so fine as to be woven in a loom or made into a watch
spring that weighs only the tenth of a grain, and rolled into leaves as
thin as paper, insomuch that a pound of raw iron costing a cent affords
steel sufficient for seventy thousand watches, worth one hundred and
seventy-five thousand dollars. It is, however, too soft to form a
cutting edge that will stand. Make a pitchfork of it, it is harder work
to stick it into the hay than it is to pitch the hay, as we know from
experience; an axe, it will take all your strength to cut through the
bark, and you must grind it every hour; a razor, you can shave but once,
and then with tears of agony. Make a hammer of it, and it batters up
forthwith; a punch, it bends; a drill, at the first stroke of the sledge
it turns.

What next?

Troughs are made of fire-brick, from eight to sixteen feet in length,
and two or three feet in depth. The troughs are placed in a furnace, and
on the bottom of each of them a mixture of powdered charcoal, ashes, and
salt. Bars of wrought iron are laid upon this mixture half an inch
apart, to the amount, perhaps, of twelve tons, and covered with
charcoal; then another layer of iron and more charcoal, till the trough
is full. The top is covered with cement that has been used before, and
damp sand. The fire is then made in such a manner that the heat passes
all around the troughs, and is kept up from six to ten days, according
to the size of the bars and the purposes for which the contents of the
troughs are wanted.

The heat of the furnace opens the pores of the iron, and sets free the
carbon contained in the charcoal; and as the cement prevents it from
escaping and uniting with the oxygen of the air, it enters the pores of
the iron and impregnates it. The fire is now suffered to die out, and
the metal is taken from the troughs. It is no longer iron, but steel. We
now have that which is the "king of metals," and by the aid of which the
skilful mechanic can do what would once have been thought miraculous.

The surface of this material is covered with blisters, hence it is
called blistered steel. It resounds when struck. Iron once bent remains
so; but steel is so elastic that it may be bent to an angle of
forty-five degrees, and will spring back to its original position. It is
said that Andrew of Ferrara manufactured swords so elastic, that the
point of the blade would bend to touch the hilt, and spring back again
uninjured. The quality of steel depends upon the quality of the iron
from which it is made. The English have carried the art to great
perfection, nevertheless are obliged to import the iron from which their
razor-steel is made from Sweden. This blistered steel is the kind that
lay upon the floor of William Richardson's shop, and in the possession
of which he so exulted.

Now you have an article that gives to the axe its temper, the fork its
point, the mainspring of the watch its elasticity, and to all tools an
enduring edge that may be so attempered as to pierce the hardest rocks
and crush the hardest stones; that may be welded to iron, and thus
economized. Do you think it strange that Will Richardson rejoiced at the
acquisition in his circumstances, or reflected long and seriously in
respect to the manner in which he should use his treasures to the best
advantage?

And now, perhaps, some thoughtful boy may say,--

"Why be at so great expense of labor and material to take carbon from
iron, and then set right at work to put it back again?"

Because there is too much in the cast iron, and so it is all taken out,
and just the right amount put in.

"Why not, then, when decarbonizing the cast iron, leave just enough in,
and save the labor of three processes?"

This has been attempted, but the results have not given satisfaction. It
is not so easy to ascertain when the right amount is left in as when it
is put in. The latter can be determined very accurately by means of
try-bars, the ends of which are left protruding from the troughs. When,
upon drawing one of them out, it is found to be blistered, the process
is done. Although blistered steel be so superior to iron, it has
imperfections, that impair the quality of edge tools manufactured from
it--the result of imperfections in the iron of which it is made. At
times there will be differences even in the same bar; one portion will
be softer than another, or there will be flaws and shelly places.

When the steel made from such iron is wrought into a tool and ground,
the edge is uneven, serrated, softer in one place than another. This
amounts to a fatal defect in those articles where great and uniform
hardness is required, as in screw-taps, wire-drawers, plates, dies, and
stamps for coining and engraving. It is evident, as the carbon is
introduced from the surface, that there will be less in the middle than
at the outside of the bars; thus the steel is not of a uniform
character. In order to obviate this, the bars of steel are made into a
fagot heated in a great forge, welded together with a hammer worked by
machinery, and drawn into bars, which closes up all the fissures and
renders it tough and compact. It is now called shear steel, because
shears for dressing cloth were made of it, and it will take a better
polish than blistered steel. But the process is not yet completed. Bars
of blistered steel that have been the most highly charged with carbon,
and are therefore the hardest, are broken into short pieces,--those
being put together that are of a like hardness,--and placed in pots of
fire-clay, about thirty pounds in a pot, with covers fitting perfectly
tight. The pots are placed in a furnace, and the steel in them melted,
when it is poured into cast iron moulds, and made into ingots. These are
under a tilt-hammer drawn into bars of all sizes. This is cast steel,
and it is evident, must be of uniform quality and hardness. This process
was discovered in 1750, by a citizen of Sheffield, and for many years
kept a secret. It is of this steel that the best tools, swords, knives,
and instruments of all kinds are manufactured. But not even shear steel
was within the reach of most of the smiths at the date of our story,
very little being imported, save in the form of tools.

There is another property pertaining to steel. When heated to a white
heat or cherry red, according to its quality, and quenched in water, it
becomes hard as glass, and very brittle. The higher the temperature, and
the more suddenly it is cooled, the harder and more brittle it becomes.
It is this quality that renders steel the "king of metals," and has
given to the smith power over all material substances. Even the diamond
is forced to yield the palm, for recently steel has been tempered to
take its place in cutting glass.

The result of William's reflections was, that, in order to draw and work
the large iron now in his possession, he must have better tools and a
heavy sledge, as he could upon occasion get one of his neighbors to
strike for him. John Bradford lived nearest: he knew that John would be
glad to accommodate him, and take his pay in blacksmith work; besides,
by employing the same person all the time, that individual would acquire
facility, and learn to strike fair.

Commencing with the churn-drill, he cut it off just below the great bulb
in the middle, "upset" the end by striking it endwise upon the anvil,
and by the aid of Clem, with his stone-hammer, formed it into something
like the proper shape for the face end of a sledge. He then partially
formed the "pean," or top portion, that in a smith's sledge is
wedge-shaped. He wished to punch the hole for the handle before cutting
off the rest of the drill, in order to hold it by that part, as he had
no tongs that were large enough. To make this hole in so thick a piece
needed, he thought, a steel punch, or at least a steel-pointed one. The
material was at hand in that part of the drill he had just cut off, only
wanting to be pointed.

There was more length than was either necessary or convenient; but he
resolved to point first, and shorten it afterwards. Ignorant of the
nature of steel, or the degree of heat it will endure, he supposed, as
it was very hard, it should be made all the hotter, blew up the fire,
and treated it just as he would a piece of wrought iron. The drill had
been imported from England,--as were nearly all the tools in that
day,--was pointed with the best of double shear steel, and hardened all
that it would bear. The result was, that the moment he struck it with
his hammer, it crumbled and fell to pieces, like so much brick, till, as
there was but about four inches of the steel, nothing remained except
the iron to which it had been welded.

Richardson stood looking at the fragments in utter despair. To lose that
steel was almost like losing a limb; but it was gone past redemption. It
had cost him something to learn that steel will not bear so much heat as
iron. Afraid to meddle with the other end of the drill, he resolved,
since it needed very little alteration, to take off the corners and
square the end on the grindstone; but it proved so hard that he soon
gave up the attempt, and felt that he must run the risk.

"I'll try it," he said; "no doubt John Drew spoiled plenty of steel when
he was apprentice, and had a master at his back, to boot."

Well aware that the other steel was burned, he watched it narrowly, put
on plenty of sand, and before it was white hot, worked it without
difficulty.

All he knew in regard to tempering was, that steel becomes hard by being
quenched in water while red hot, and if plunged in water after that
period, less so; while if suffered to cool of itself, it is not so much
harder than iron. He was ignorant of a fact most important to a smith,
and by the knowledge of which he is enabled to produce any degree of
temper he pleases, after practice and experience of the different
qualities of the various kinds of steel; to wit, that the gradations
from extreme hardness to extreme softness are denoted by the different
colors it assumes while cooling.

Trying with a file the punch that had now cooled on the forge, he found
that it was quite soft, and supposed it needed hardening. Heating it as
hot as he dared, he plunged it in water, held it there till cold, and
then twisted a withe around it for a handle.

He now took a welding heat on his iron, that it might punch the more
easily, and set Robert to hold it, while Clem held the punch. So much
time was occupied in placing the iron and punch, and instructing the
boys how to hold both, that it had cooled, and become harder to punch;
nevertheless, he resolved to try it, and lifting the great beetle,
struck with all his might upon the punch. At the second blow it broke in
two, as short as a pipe-stem.

Clem, who had followed every motion, seeing the blank look of his
father, began to cry; while Rob ran to tell his mother.

"Jackass that I was," he said, "to make that punch so hard. Didn't I
know that I could punch hot iron with an iron punch, and have done it?"

Finding that there was still a little steel left, he put it in the fire
again, let it cool to a black heat before he quenched it, then punched
his hole, and finished the sledge. By patient perseverance, and after
many ineffectual attempts, he succeeded in learning to weld steel to
iron, and made himself several pairs of tongs of different shapes and
sizes, also flat punches of files, but of low temper, also chisels. He
did not dare to make them hard, as he did the punch; so he let them
become almost cold before quenching.

He shod Montague's horse, making all the nails and two new shoes; but he
was all day about it, and had nothing better to pare the hoof than a
jack-knife. No matter for that--the thing once done, and done right:
facility is the result of practice.




CHAPTER VII.

HE FINDS THE CLUE.


Thus far our smith had by no means realized the benefits anticipated
from the possession of steel. He had, indeed, ascertained what degree of
heat it would bear, learned to weld it to iron, made some punches that
were a little better than iron ones, and yet he was as far removed from
a knowledge of tempering that would enable him to forge and finish a
reliable tool of any kind as before; since to heat a piece of steel and
plunge it in water, making it so hard and brittle as to be useless, or
quenching it when nearly cold, thus rendering it about as soft as iron,
did not amount to anything practically.

And yet this man aspired to make an axe; yes, even had dim visions of
plane-irons, draw-shaves, chisels, and gouges manufactured by William
Richardson, edge tool maker. Aspired, did I say? The expression is too
feeble. The idea absorbed his thoughts, and, ever present to his mind,
assumed the character of a passion. It was not a mere whim, but based
upon solid grounds.

There were but few ploughs in the place, and not many horses, and they
were not shod all round except in the winter. But the axe was in
universal use, subject to continual wear, and frequently broken. John
Drew was celebrated for giving to his axes a high temper, that rendered
them liable to break in frosty weather; one cause of which probably was,
that he made up a lot of axes, and then tempered the lot. Upon tempering
days he was always more or less under the influence of liquor. Indeed,
he thought he could not temper an axe properly, unless he was half
drunk; and it must be allowed that many of his neighbors were of the
same opinion, while others said, he wanted them to break, in order that
he might have a job of repairing. It was too early in the season to
plough; the ice had broken up in the river, and having first driven the
logs, cut and hauled in the winter, to the mill, he gave his undivided
attention to the work, and employed John Bradford to help him cut up and
draw the large bar of iron purchased at the store, while Clem and Robert
mounted on a block--not being tall enough to reach the handle
without--and blew the bellows. John had not struck through two heats
with the large sledge when the stone anvil broke in two. This mishap,
however, was soon repaired, as there was no lack of stones.

While they were placing another stone on the stump, David Montague came
in.

"Neighbor Richardson," said he, "it is too bad that a man who is
possessed of the industry and ingenuity you are, should be so put to it
for tools, and be obliged to work iron on a stone. Now I tell you what
I'll do with you. I mean to get out timber and boards in the course of
next year to build me a frame house the year after; 'twill take two
years to make the shingles and clapboards, hew the frame, and put the
house up. Now I'll advance you money to buy an anvil beck (beak) horn,
stake, tools to head nails with, and you may pay me in work, shoe my
horse and oxen, and make all the nails for my house. I shan't want a
nail under a year, and not many under fourteen months, so that you can
make them next winter, and at odd jobs."

Nails were then made by hand, of wrought iron. The stake was a species
of anvil of small size, and used to point horse-nails on. The beak horn
was a very necessary thing at that day, used for welding hollow
articles, and for work upon plough irons.

"I am sure, neighbor, you couldn't do me a greater favor, for I need an
anvil sadly, though I can get along without the stake and the beck
horn."

"You can, perhaps, at present, but you will soon need them both. I
don't think you ought to feel under the least obligation to me, for in
advancing this money, I am benefiting myself and the whole neighborhood
more than you. It will save me and all of us many a hard tramp through
the woods. Besides, I don't like to get down on my knees to John Drew,
beg him to work for me, and then pay him twice as much as it is worth."

"So I say, neighbor," said Bradford, "though--to give the devil his
due--Drew is as good a blacksmith as ever stood behind an anvil, but
mighty uncomfortable. But where are you going to get the bricks,
neighbor, to build your chimneys?"

"Make them, John; there's sand and clay both in my pasture. So you see
there's work enough for two years to hew the frame, make the shingles
and clapboards, cut logs for boards, and make and burn the bricks."

Richardson improved the opportunity, while assisted by Bradford, to
forge the polls or iron portion of two axes, and split up iron for
nail-rods and also for horseshoes. He had never seen any one temper a
tool, but he had often struck for Drew to forge axes; had seen him weld
the steel to the iron, and knew he could do that. Although he had hired
John to help him draw the large iron, because he could not do it, even
with the aid of the boys, without great outlay of both time and labor,
he didn't care to expose his awkwardness before him. In short, he
preferred to be alone while adventuring upon this portion of the work,
in order that he might study out the matter as he went along with no
witness to his mistake but the boys, and as for tempering, we have seen
how little he knew in respect to that.

The next morning he made his steel in the shape of a wedge, and split a
corresponding crevice in the blade of the axe, and not quite so wide as
the steel was thick, in order that it might bind on the sides as it
entered, to hold it while heating, and put the whole in the fire for a
weld. At the first trial the steel fell out on the ground the moment he
struck it, and he lost his heat. He now shut the slit together so that
the steel did not quite reach to the bottom, closed it up on the steel a
little harder, put the axe in the fire, and before striking, struck the
edge of the steel against the side of the anvil, to drive it home to the
bottom of the slit, and thus succeeded in making a perfect weld.

But now came the crisis--to temper it. All depended upon this. So
important a tool was an axe at that day, men wouldn't hesitate to travel
twenty miles additional to a smith who had the reputation of excelling
in the art, and no excellence of form or finish could compensate an
axe-man for its absence.

He was well aware the reason the punch broke was on account of its
hardness, and also that if he had, after putting it in water, let it
cool some, it would have been less brittle; but he also knew the harder
a tool is, the keener it cuts, and, forgetful of the fault in Drew's
axes, imagined he could not get it too hard to cut wood. He thought
there must be a vast difference between wood and iron, and that the
harder the better; it would never break in wood.

Therefore, after finishing as well as he could, he made it as hot as he
could without burning, and quenched it, put in a handle, and set to work
grinding. The axe proved so hard, although he had made the blade very
thin by hammering, that it was almost impossible to grind it, though he
put a liberal allowance of sand on the stone. Susan and the boys took
turns at the stone, the father encouraging them by declaring that it
would cut like a ribbon, for it was harder than Pharaoh's heart.

The implement was ground at length. Richardson whet the edge and
forthwith proceeded to a large hemlock that grew near, to try it. If
unskilled in making, he was very far from being a novice in the use of
an axe.

At the first blow he cried to his family, who were all gathered at the
foot of the tree, his wife with the babe in her arms,--

"It's going to cut; I know it is."

Leaving the keen instrument buried in the wood, he pulled off his outer
garments. The blows now fell thick and heavy.

"Cuts like a razor. Throws the chips well. Never saw an axe work easier
in the wood," broke from him at intervals, while the children clapped
their hands and capered around the tree till it came crashing to the
ground.

The hemlock was scrubby, and one of the lower limbs was dead. Richardson
struck the axe into it with all his might; but when he pulled it out,
there was a piece of steel out of the middle of the bitt as large as a
half-dollar.

Greatly to the surprise of his wife, he manifested no symptoms of
discouragement at this disappointment in the moment of victory; he
merely said, as with one foot on the butt of the tree, he looked at the
shining and crystalline surface of the fracture,--

"Well, I've found out the temper that will shave the wood. I must now
find out the highest temper that will stand hemlock knots."

The next thing Richardson did was to try with a file his saw and a
draw-shave that cut well. He found they bore no comparison in hardness
with the axe he had just broken, yet they were both wood tools, and good
ones. He then tried a chopping axe made by Drew. It was softer still,
but it cut well and stood hemlock, fir, and spruce knots. He now
understood that tools for wood, especially where blows were given, did
not admit of a very high temper.

"I wish," he said, "I did know how it is that blacksmiths tell when
steel cools down to a right temper. How I wish I had asked Tom Breslaw!"
He sat down on the butt of the tree to reflect. Clem seated himself by
his side, while Robert, standing on the tree, wiped the drops of sweat
from his father's brow.

"Father," said Clem, at length, clambering into his parent's lap, "what
you going to do with the axe now?"

"I'm going," said he, putting his arm fondly around the little
questioner, "to try and make it just hard enough to cut, and not break
or turn."

"How will you know, father, when you've got just enough out?"

"Guess at it. I can't do any better. If I only had a watch or clock, I'd
let it cool two minutes, then four, and see what that would do. Do you
understand, my little man?"

"I don't know, father; ain't it just like when mother takes a candle,
makes a mark on it with her knitting needle, and says, 'When the candle
burns down to that mark, 'twill be half an hour, and then you'll have to
go to bed, Clem?'"

"Something like it; but I want something that will tell the minutes."

"Then it would be two minutes hard, father," cried Clem, who, with both
arms around his parent's neck, had almost got into his mouth. "How
funny! Shall I go borrow Mr. Montague's watch?"

"Not now, dear."

Taking the boy by the hand, and the axe in the other hand, he walked
thoughtfully towards the shop.

After heating to a cherry red, he laid it on the forge to cool, began to
count, and continued counting till the axe was cool. He then chalked
down the number on his bellows.

"Father?"

"Don't bother me now, dear;" and he began to think aloud.

"This axe was as hard as glass before I het it; now the temper's all
out. It has taken while I could count sixty-four to come out. Now, if
sixty-four takes out the whole, thirty-two ought to take out half,
sixteen a quarter, eight an eighth. The temper is put into steel when
it's put into water; and the hotter the steel, and the quicker the
chill, the harder it is. What made that axe so hard was, that I het it
so hot, and chilled it quick. If I had made it only half as hot, and
then put it in water, the temper wouldn't have begun but half as soon,
and then it would have been only half as hard. I guess that axe's about
an eighth too hard. I'll heat it just as hot as I did before, and count
eight, then put it in water. I wonder if that'll be the same thing as
though I hardened it at full heat, and after that found some rule by
which to reduce the temper. I'm afraid it won't. Let me think of it." He
sat down on the forge, while Clem, not daring to speak, stood with his
great round eyes staring anxiously in his father's face.

"I had an axe of John Drew once that was too hard--kept breaking; but it
cut like a razor. I was afraid to touch it to draw the temper; but one
day I put the 'poll' of it in the fire to burn the handle out, and the
wet cloths I had on the steel to keep it cool got dry while I was
talking with a neighbor, and the poll got red hot. I thought I'd drawn
all the temper out and spoilt it, but after that it was just hard
enough. Now I'll just do the same thing again."

He heated the whole axe, steel, and all, then quenched the whole of the
steel in water till it was cold, leaving the rest of the axe red hot.

"Now I'll let that hot iron draw on the steel while I count eight."

He did thus, then quenched the whole; tried it in the knot; it broke,
but very little; put it in again, and counted sixteen. It was too soft;
the edge turned.

"I don't believe but that red-hot iron draws too savage on the steel;
takes the temper out too fast. I'll draw it more gradual and count the
same number of times."

He now dipped the whole axe in water, edge first, took it out directly,
put the poll only on the outside of the fire to keep up a gradual heat,
counted sixteen and quenched it. The axe cut much better and neither
broke nor turned. He thought he would heat it, count but twelve, and
thus see if it wouldn't bear a little higher temper. Just as he was
about to take it from the fire little Sue came to call him to dinner.

"Tell your mother I can't come yet; don't know when I can come; to eat
dinner, and not wait for me."

"Nor me, nuther," said Clem. "I ain't coming till father comes."

He quenched the axe, put the poll on the fire, and while looking at it
and counting, thought he noticed a flaw in the steel. Rubbing it in the
sand and coal-dust of the forge till it was bright, he found it was only
the edge of a scale raised by the frequent heats. But his attention was
instantly arrested by seeing the bright steel change under his eye to a
pale yellow, commencing at the point where the steel joined the iron,
and gradually extending over it; while he looked, it changed to a darker
shade, became brown, almost purple. He had now counted twelve, and
quenched it. When he took the axe from the water, the same tinge was on
the steel. The axe now cut better and stood well. But he had got hold of
an idea he meant to follow out.

"I wonder what those colors are," he said. "Who knows but they may be
the temper? Just as fast as the temper was let down they changed--grew
darker. Wonder what they would have come to, if I hadn't quenched the
steel. I'll know." Heating the axe once more, he rubbed it bright, and
looked for the colors. For a little time the steel was white; then the
pale straw color appeared again, growing darker, till it became brown,
with purple spots, then purple, light blue, pigeon blue; then darker,
almost black.

"O, father, what handsome colors!"

No reply. Much excited, he quenched the steel, and determined to
ascertain whether the colors represented different degrees of hardness.
When he found, by careful experiment, they did, he caught the wondering
boy in his arms, ran into the house crying,--

"Now, my boy, we've got something that's a better regulator than David
Montague's watch, your mother's candle, or counting, either."

Entering the house he shouted,--

"Sue, I've got it! I've found how the blacksmith's do it, or, if I
haven't, I've found a way just as good."

His progress was now rapid; he soon ascertained the proper temper for
all kinds of tools. The steel of the axe he had experimented with had
been through the fire so many times that the life of it was all gone. He
therefore put new steel in it, improved the shape somewhat, ground the
whole surface of it before tempering, to take off the hammer marks,--for
he had not learned to hammer smooth,--tempered it carefully, and hid it
away in the shop.

The next week he procured his anvil, beak-horn, stake, and tools for
nails. They came from Boston to Portsmouth, from thence to
Kennebunkport, by water; on an ox team to the village, and from there up
the river in a canoe.

His land joined Bradford's, and they had appointed a day to build a
piece of log fence together. Richardson took his new axe with him,
having ground it sharp. Watching his opportunity while Bradford was
putting some top poles on the fence, he took Bradford's axe, putting his
own in the same place. Bradford, without noticing the difference, took
it up and began to chop into the side of a tree.

"Whew! How this axe cuts! Gnaws right into the wood. It ain't my axe;
it's William's. Will, where'd you get this axe?"

"Made it."

"The dogs you did."

"It is one of those you helped me forge."

"It's worth two of that axe you are using that John Drew made me. Will
you sell it?"

"Yes; that's what I made it for."

"May I put it into the knots?"

"Yes; try it in any fair way, and if it breaks or turns, you needn't
take it."

Bradford, after making a thorough trial, took it. It was soon noised
round that William Richardson had made an axe for John Bradford that
beat Drew's all hollow. Every body wondered at the ease with which he
took up anything, little knowing the struggle it cost him.

His farming work now came on; but at intervals he made axes that found a
ready sale. He made a small pair of bellows in the fall, and a little
forge in the chimney corner. The boys learned to make nails, and made
nearly all Montague's nails in the winter evenings. He paid less and
less attention to farming, and more to working in iron, paid for his
land, and built him a frame house. In the autumn of the year that he
made the first axe, he found that he could not well make ox and
horse-shoes without a vice, and resolved to make something that would
answer the purpose.

He began by taking two wide, flat bars of iron, and turned the edge of
them over the edge of the anvil, like the head of a railroad spike, in
order that, when the flat surfaces came together, these edges might make
a face to the vice. To the other ends of each of the bars he welded
pieces of the old crane, rendering that portion of the vice that was to
fasten to the bench long enough to reach to the ground, and rise eight
inches above the edge of the bench, and welded an old horse-shoe on the
back side to fasten it to the bench. The other he made but two-thirds
as long, and by making a slot in one, with a hole for a pin, and
punching an eye in the other, he contrived both to connect them, and
form a hinge joint on which the outer leg of the vice might traverse.
Two holes were now punched to receive a bolt that was designed to answer
the purpose of a screw, one end of which terminated in a head; the
remaining portion was punched at short distances with eyes very long and
wide, to receive broad, thick keys or wedges that would endure hard
driving.

He now set up the permanent portion of his vice, put the lower end into
a flat rock set in the ground, and fastened the upper part to the bench,
brought up the other side, and put the bolt through both. The hinge at
the bottom permitted the outer jaw of the vice to play back and forth on
the bolt in order to open or close it. By means of tapering wedges
driven into the eyes in the bolt, he could wedge a piece of iron firmly
into his vice to file it, could turn the calks of a horse-shoe or set
them at any angle he wished. Whenever the vice did not come up to the
eye, and the wedge would not draw, he slipped washers--iron rings--over
the bolt to fill the space, and then entering the point of his key,
drove it with great force. It was not very convenient, but it answered
the purpose effectually, for it was substituting the power of the wedge
for that of the screw.

"Mother," said Clem, one morning, "will you let me have a piece of your
tongs?"

"My tongs, child? What do you want of my tongs?"

"To make some bow-pins--iron ones--for my steer's yoke; father's gone,
and said we might play."

"No, child; you're crazy."

"You let father have 'em."

"Well, that was because he wanted a pair of tongs to hold his iron."

"So I want the bow-pins."

"Well, I shan't have my tongs spoilt for nonsense."

"Mother, is that red and white rooster mine?"

"Yes."

"Mine to do what I'm a mind to with?"

"Yes."

In the course of half an hour, Clem, with his rooster under his arm,
presented himself at David Montague's door.

"Good morning, Clem. What are you going to do with that rooster?"

"I want to sell him. Andrew said you wanted one."

"Yes; mine froze last winter. What do you ask for him?"

"I'll sell him for that horse-shoe what's hanging on your barn-yard
fence."

"What on earth do you want of that horse-shoe?"

"I want to make some bow-pins for my steers."

"Well, you may have it, and after you have made 'em, I want to see 'em."

As William Richardson came home, he saw smoke coming out of the chimney
of the shop, and heard the sound of the hammer and sledge. Looking
through a chink, he saw the boys busy enough. Clem was behind the anvil.
They had flattened out the heel calks of the horse-shoe, straightened
it, and lapped one part over the other. Just as he looked in, Clem was
putting sand on it; in a few moments he took it from the fire, welding
hot: Robert struck with the sledge, and they soon drew it out into a
thin, square bar.

"I hope you ain't wasting my iron, boys."

"No, father," said Clem, "it's mine. I sold my rooster to Mr. Montague,
and bought it. We are going to make some bow-pins, and we don't want
anybody to help nor show us; we want to do it."

At this hint Richardson walked into the house. When Clem took the
bow-pins to Mr. Montague, the latter told him to make two pairs, and he
would buy them of him.

Settlers now began to flock in; a carriage road was made through the
woods; wagons and carts came into use. Montague and others built a
sawmill and a grist-mill; the town was incorporated, and Richardson made
the mill-chain. This was a wonderful advance from mending the ox-chain
before the kitchen fire on a flat stone.

"Neighbor Richardson," said Montague, as he came to get his horse shod,
"I was coming home from the village last Tuesday, and met Sam Parker
going to get screw-bolts made. Now, it always galls me to have work go
out of this place. I think you'd better send to Boston and get tools, so
that you can cut screws whenever they are wanted; there will be more
call for them every day, for the town is growing fast."

"Thank you, neighbor. I'll think of it."

He resolved to see if he could not make something that would cut screws,
before sending to Boston.

It is said that the idea of the principle of gravitation was suggested
to Sir Isaac Newton by seeing an apple fall from a tree. He wondered
what made it drop to the earth, rather than go in the opposite
direction. However that may be, it is certain that a thoughtful man will
receive suggestions from things that make no impress upon the stupid and
careless.

As William Richardson sat before the fire that night reflecting upon the
conversation with Montague, he noticed Clem putting powder into a horn.
The boy had rolled a leaf of his last year's writing-book into the form
of a tunnel, fastened it with a pin, and was pouring the powder through
it.

When the boy had finished, he said,--

"Clem, hand me that paper before you unpin it."

After looking attentively at it for some time, he said to the boy, who,
interested in whatever attracted his father's attention, was looking
over his shoulder,--

"Clem, the lines on that paper are a screw."

"Be they, father?"

"Unpin the paper."

Clem did so, and they were all straight again.

"How funny, father!"

"Get my square, and you, Robert, go to the wood-pile and get a piece of
birch bark--white birch."

After stripping the bark to a thin sheet, he cut it square. He then set
off an inch at one corner, and drew a line from that mark to the corner
of the paper on the same side, making an oblique line.

"You see that is up hill, boys--don't you?"

"Yes, father."

He then wrapped the bark round the broom-handle.

"Now it climbs right up the broom-handle; that's the way a screw does;
it's just getting up hill by going round."

"What's the good of it, father?" said Clem, who was altogether of a
practical turn, but had never seen a screw.

"I'm going to try to make one in the morning; then you'll see."

The next day he made a steel bolt, or blank, tapering, and of the size
of the screws he thought would be generally needed, leaving the head
square, and sufficient length of steel to hold it by in the vice. The
next thing to determine was, the pitch or inclination of the thread, and
its size. On the edge of a piece of birch bark he set off quarter of an
inch, and drew a line from that mark to the edge of the bark, and cut it
off, giving the rise or pitch. It was the time of year when boys make
whistles. He cut an elder sprout just the size of his bolt, spit on it,
and pounded it on his knee with the handle of his knife till the bark
came off; this bark he slipped over the bolt, pounded up and boiled some
pieces of moose horns, made glue and glued it on solid, put the strip of
birch bark around the lower part of the bolt, its straight edge in line
with the lower edge, and glued it on. There was now a perfectly true
spiral round the bolt, the quarter of an inch offset determining the
inclination, and also the size of the thread. He now filed out a fork
from a thin piece of iron just a quarter of an inch in width, the two
points, chisel-edged, one sixteenth of an inch in width each, leaving a
space of two sixteenths between them. Commencing at the narrow end of
the birch bark, he followed along its edge, cutting the bark sheath as
he went, till he came again to the point from which he started, having
cut two spirals through to the steel, with a ridge of bark between them
two sixteenths of an inch wide. Putting one side of his fork in the
furrow already made, he followed round till he came to the head of the
bolt. Placing it in the vice with a three-cornered file, he cut out his
thread, the ridges of bark on each side forming a guide for a true
thread. With file and cold-chisel he cut out segments in the middle of
his bolt, the whole length, leaving the thread on the corners unbroken,
thus forming a cutting edge at each corner where the thread was broken.
He now hardened and tempered it.

As the next stage of the process, he forged a steel plate,--the ends
terminating in handles,--in which he made round holes of various sizes,
corresponding to the size of the two ends of his bolt. Into these holes
he put this hardened steel screw-tap with plenty of bear's grease,
turning it forcibly round with a wrench till the sharp edges at the
squares cut a thread on the inside of the hole, and then hardened the
plate. With this plate he could cut a screw on the head of a bolt, and
with the screw could cut a thread on the inside of a nut. Seizing his
broadaxe, he hewed a great spot on one of the logs of the shop, and
wrote on it with chalk,--


     "SCREW BOLTS CUT HERE."


Having paid for his land, and being able to buy iron, and in the
possession of suitable tools to work with, he resolved to make a proper
vice with a screw, instead of a bolt. He made the vice-body, taking
pattern from John Drew's, of English make; but the screw of a vice must
be square threaded, not a diamond thread, like those he had hitherto
made; since, being in constant use, the thread would wear off in a short
time. He laid out the screw in the same manner as before, except that
instead of sheathing it in bark, he dipped it in beeswax till it was
coated, and cut the thread with a file and cold-chisel, and instead of
putting the screw through both parts of the vice, made a box for it to
work in. It is evident he could not cut a thread in the box, that must
be square, like that of the screw, with a screw that was
square-threaded; neither could he do it with a chisel or file. He did it
in this way: he hammered out some steel wire large enough to more than
fill the thread of the screw, and wound it around it; then he drove the
screw with the wire on it hard into the box, filling it completely, and
fastened the ends of the wire. He then turned the screw carefully back,
and took it out, leaving the hole lined with the wire.

Richardson had in the house a brass plate that had been on a soldier's
belt, and procured from Montague the brass top of a fire-shovel; these
he cut up and filed up, putting the filings and pieces into the box
between the coils of wire with borax. He wrapped the whole box in clay
mortar, and dried the mass; then put it in the fire till the clay was
red hot, and the brass melted, which soldered the coils of wire fast to
the sides of the box, forming a thread.

With the two springs of a broken fox-trap welded together, he made a
spring to throw back the jaw of his vice when the screw was turned.
After accomplishing all this, he built a frame shop with a brick
chimney, paying Montague in work for the bricks, laying them himself;
and now he considered himself entitled to wear a leather apron.




CHAPTER VIII.

A TRADE THE BEST INHERITANCE.


The boys standing, as it were, upon their father's shoulders,
sympathizing with and aiding him to the utmost of their ability, early
obtained a knowledge of working iron far beyond their years, and
contracted a love for the occupation, especially Clem, who seemed to
inherit all the patience, energy and originality of his father, together
with an amiable disposition and strength of limb. Until Clem was
nineteen they lived at home, doing nearly all the farming work, and at
the same time helping their father in the shop. They were then desirous
of going where a better quality of work was demanded than in their
native place.

"Well, boys," said Richardson, "I'm entirely willing you should go. I
began too late--had too little to do with, no tools, and poverty to
struggle with--to accomplish much. I've done the best I could; but I
want you to have a better chance. I think you've both got the mechanical
principle in you, and had better go where you can work it out, have
tools to work with, and learn all that comes up."

They went to Portsmouth, New Hampshire, where their father had
relatives, and after working a week on trial, were both hired as
journeymen. Clem never wanted to meddle with anything but edge tools,
displaying remarkable ability for that kind of work, while Robert proved
an excellent shoer, and had but few equals in wheel-tiring and all kinds
of carriage work. He could also make a wheel as well as iron it, and
manifested his father's ability for working in wood. Learning the use of
hammer and file when mere children, and growing up to it, their work had
a finish about it that is seldom attained by those who commence work in
manhood, and when their habits are formed.

After perfecting their trade, they hired a shop and set up business for
themselves, Clem devoting the greater part of his time to making edge
tools, while Robert attended to the other portion of the work. Business
was good, and they accumulated property, and frequently sent money to
their parents, and cherished a strong affection for their native place,
going home every year to Thanksgiving.

When the boys had been a year from home, their father went to visit
them. At his leaving, the boys would have loaded him with
tools,--"swages," "fullers," "screw-taps," "drills," and "shears," to
cut iron,--but he refused to take them.

"You know, boys," said he, "I like to make things myself, and think as
much again of anything I make myself. I'm just as much obliged to you as
though I took them. I've seen all the tools you have here, and been
round among the shops and seen all the ways they do their work, and I'll
go home and make every one of these tools; and I think I can improve
upon some of them. I've got help now, for Henry Bradford, John's boy, is
coming to work with me, and learn the trade--that is, learn what little
I know."

Finding he did not incline to take the tools, they put a lot of iron and
steel on board the sloop in which he started to return by the way of
Kennebunk, or, rather, Cape Porpoise, which was the landing-place then.

There was a little girl, Lucy Armstrong, who went to school with Clem
when it was kept in David Montague's house, and they formed a childhood
liking for each other which continued and strengthened as they grew
older. Lucy was a girl of excellent abilities, the best scholar in the
school, and as she grew up manifested qualities that are not often
united. She possessed great energy of character, a robust constitution,
and most affectionate disposition. Everybody loved and pitied Lucy; for
her girlhood was embittered by many trials and sorrows.

Her father she never saw to recognize; he was killed by a bear when she
was a babe, and her mother was taken away when she was four years old.
Lucy, after her mother's death, went to live with an uncle--her father's
brother. He was a hard, penurious man, and his wife resembled him, being
a morose, griping woman, with no children of her own to draw out her
affections and sweeten her disposition. She made poor Lucy serve with
rigor. She was poorly clad, poorly fed, went barefoot in the summer and
till late in the fall, was obliged to work both out doors and in. When
dropping corn and potatoes in the spring, her feet were red as a
pigeon's with cold, and in the fall they bled from being pricked with
the stubble. In the cold nights of November she must sit in the barn and
husk corn. The old folks did not intend to be cruel; but they had been
hardly dealt by themselves in childhood and youth, and hard treatment
renders people hard and callous in their treatment of others.

In one respect they faithfully discharged their duty--in sending her to
school every day so long as it kept, which was at first but six weeks in
the winter, but by the time Lucy was thirteen increased to fourteen
weeks; and after the town was incorporated and the ordinances of the
gospel established, she went to meeting every Sabbath. School days and
Sundays were the green spots, and all the green spots, in Lucy's
cheerless life of incessant toil, save the few moments when sent to hunt
eggs; and hidden in the haymow from the eagle eye of her aunt, she read
Clem's letters for the hundredth time. Clem seldom came to the house; a
visit from him put her aunt into a perfect fury, as she was unwilling to
lose so good a drudge.

"Get married!" she would say, "yes, that's all girls nowadays think of.
Wonder what they expect to live on. Better get something ahead first."

Although how she was to get anything ahead while spending her youth and
strength in their service did not appear, especially as her uncle had
made his will, and left all his property to a nephew as close-fisted as
himself. He often remarked "that he meant to leave what he had got by
hard knocks to somebody who knew how to take kere of it."

"Clem," said Robert, when the time during which they had hired as
journeymen had nearly expired, "if ever you mean to marry that girl, why
don't you do it? What do you let her stay there for, suffer everything
but death, slave herself, and dry up, working for that old skinflint and
his woman? They'd move into a mustard seed, and then have rooms to let.
If you don't, I'll go and court her myself."

"I mean to the moment I feel that I can support her comfortably. You
know I'm like father--one of the kind to cut my garment according to the
cloth. I don't want to make her worse off than she is now."

"That's impossible. Get along with you; go hire two rooms somewhere, and
then go and get her. I'll board with you. Nothing comes amiss to her;
she's a treasure of a girl, smart as steel, and pleasant as a May
morning. What did father and mother have when they set up, and see where
they are now."

Clem took his brother's advice. Lucy's aunt raved like a mad woman at
first; but when she found that it was no use, and the neighbors were all
against her, she calmed down, gave Lucy a bed and pillows stuffed with
turkey feathers, and said they would be on the town before two years.
She proved a false prophetess. In two years they were blessed with a
nice baby. Clem and Robert had all the work they could do, the hammer
going every evening till nine o'clock in the winter months, though they
still lived in two rooms, with the privilege of another for occasional
use. They continued to thrive till the war of 1812, when the brothers
took a contract from the government to bore cannon, which, proving a
very profitable job, left them with abundant means. Robert still
continued to board with his brother, and, remaining single, put all his
money into the firm.

William Richardson, accumulating property by his trade, bought a piece
of timber land every year, and let it lie. In the latter part of his
life the rise in the value of this land made him affluent. At his
decease this portion of his property fell to the sons, his wife having
died some years before him, and the daughters receiving their portion in
money. The shop remained as it was; Clem would have nothing touched. It
was not, to be sure, the original log hovel; but it was the same forge,
and the building stood on the same spot. The old pine stump still formed
the anvil block, and the hammer fashioned from the andirons still lay on
the anvil, just as his father had left it after his last day's work.
There also were the tongs made from the legs of the kitchen tongs, and
the sledge forged from the churn-drill.

After the war business revived, and there was a great demand for lumber.
The Richardsons sold out at Portsmouth, returned to their native place,
bought the old mill privilege, and went to lumbering. Strange to say,
Clement Richardson and his wife, although retaining their simple and
industrious habits, felt that they did not want their children to work
as hard as they had; and going to the other extreme, while affording
them all the advantages of education and culture their altered
circumstances enabled them to bestow, trained them up in a way that
rendered them in all matters of practical life absolutely helpless.

This, as our readers know, was the character of Rich when he entered
college; he could scarcely tie his own shoes. The good fortune of
stumbling upon Morton for a while roused the energies that lay buried
beneath this effeminate training; but after separating from his mates,
he relapsed gradually into his former habits.

Thus passed the first year after leaving college; but with the
succeeding spring came something that, like to the shock of an
earthquake, effectually roused Rich from his poetic reveries and visions
of high art, rent with a rude hand the tissue of the dream-robe fancy
had woven, and set him face to face with the bitter, stern realities of
life.

Clement Richardson was naturally a prudent man, averse to incurring risk
of any kind; but uninterrupted success in all his plans for thirteen
years had rendered him sanguine. He found, soon after engaging in
lumbering, that very little was to be realized from small operations;
that, to accumulate, a person must either possess the capital and risk
it, or hire money and run the risk of losing that. He and his brother,
stimulated by the high price of lumber at that time, and intoxicated by
good fortune in lesser adventures, hired money largely, and expended
every dollar of their own in land and logs. They had a good drive, early
in the spring the logs were in the booms, and the mills running night
and day to manufacture them, in order to meet demands that were fast
maturing. The price of lumber was still high, future prospects were most
flattering, and the Richardsons felt that a fortune was within their
grasp, when rain began to fall while the water was still almost at
freshet pitch, and there was much snow in the woods at the head waters
of the river.

Clement concealed his anxiety from his children, and in some measure
from his wife, who, although she knew that great loss would follow the
breaking of the booms, was utterly ignorant of the extent of her
husband's liabilities and of the crisis at hand.

Directly after supper the two brothers went out. Rich occupied a good
portion of the evening in reciting to his mother and sisters a poem he
had spent weeks in composing. After the children had retired, Lucy
Richardson sat sewing, wondering at the continued absence of her husband
and his brother, and listening to the roar of water. At length there
came a crash; she with difficulty suppressed a scream. In a few moments
a servant came to tell her one of the mills had gone.

"Where is my husband, Henry?"

"He and Mr. Robert are watching the boom."

Another weary hour passed, when Clement Richardson came in; he was pale,
haggard, and dripping with water.

"Lucy," he said, "I am _ruined_ and _Robert_ with me. All the money we
had outside of our real estate was in those logs, and they have gone
into the Atlantic, the mills with them, and it will take all our real
estate, furniture, and the house over our heads to pay the money we've
borrowed." In those days creditors made a clean sweep, took everything
worth taking, and the wife's property was held for the husband's debts.

"It's a great misfortune, husband; but it might have been much worse."

"Worse, Lucy? How can a man lose more than all?"

"It would have been worse to lose health,--worse to lose our love for
each other, if such a thing could be,--worse to have a wicked,
disobedient, or deformed child; and I am sure it would be worse to lose
character, which you won't if you have property enough left to pay all
you owe. It would certainly have been worse had it come when we were
past labor; and I'm sure we were happier before we moved into this
house, and when you were working at your trade, than we have ever been
since."

"But the children, Lucy. I see it all now as one sees everything when it
is too late. We thought we had enough for them and us, and have taught
them everything except how to take care of themselves."

"They will learn that. They are not too old to learn."

The property of the brothers, very valuable, was sold, and the proceeds
divided among the creditors, who all relinquished voluntarily the
interest on their demands. This left the brothers, after paying
everything, one hundred and fifty dollars, as the remnant of a large
property. David Montague was dead; but his son Andrew inherited not only
his father's property, but his principles. One of the creditors, he bid
off the old Richardson homestead, house, shop, and outbuildings. As soon
as the business was settled, he offered Clement Richardson money to go
into business again. The latter thanked him for the offer, but said he
intended, as soon as he could find a place to work, to go back to his
anvil.

"Clem," said Andrew Montague, "our fathers come here and cut the first
trees together, and lived and died fast friends; you and I have grown up
together, and been just as good friends. I know you are proud-spirited,
and I love you all the better for it; but I beg of you, let me do this
much. There is the old shop; nothing has been disturbed; and there are
the tools your father _began_ with, and those more modern ones he used
in his latter days. Take it, rent free, and I'll bring you a
fortnight's work to-morrow morning. I will let you have the house as
soon as Coleman, whose family are sick, leaves it."

"I'll take it, Andrew, in the spirit in which it is offered, and may God
bless you. There's luck in that old hammer that lies on the anvil where
father left it. The first blow I ever struck on iron I struck with that,
and the first work I ever did was to make a pair of bow-pins for your
father."

As soon as Morton could leave the scholars he was instructing in
private, he set forward in the stage to see Rich, and well aware, by
letters received, of what had occurred, made inquiries, on arriving, for
the shop. Peering into the door around the corner of another building,
he saw a tall, strong-built man, past middle age, fitting a horse-shoe
at the anvil. Another person, of about the same age, but more slightly
built, was tearing the shoe from a horse's foot. A bar of iron was
heating in the fire, apparently to make a new shoe, and at the bellows
stood Rich, the glory of Radcliffe, class poet, elegant scholar; those
finely-cut and delicate features, that no one could look upon without
interest, begrimed with smut, save where partially streaked with streams
of sweat; for it was a warm afternoon in May. As he turned towards the
fire, to look at the iron, Morton slipped behind him and laid his hand
upon the shoulders of Rich.

[Illustration]




CHAPTER IX.

BLOOD WILL TELL.


The mingled expression of heart-felt delight, surprise, and
consternation that pervaded the features of Rich, when, upon turning, he
looked Morton in the face, was quite ludicrous.

"Mort!" he gasped.

"Yes, Mort," replied his visitor, grasping fervently the hand that was
timidly extended to meet his own; "ain't you glad to see me?"

"Glad!" shouted Rich, grasping both the hands of Morton in his own,
while the tears ran down his cheeks; "I hope you don't think I am not;
but--"

"But you are in a working dress, and not in a state to receive me, who
never cleaned out the president's barn, milked his cow, or dug his
potatoes, and you are smutty."

Thus saying, Morton rubbed his hand on the top of the bellows, and made
an awful smut spot across the whole side of his face.

"Will that remove your scruples, old chum? How are you?"

"O, Mort, I'm so glad to see you!"

"Expected you'd be; that's what I came for; didn't come for anything
else; 'kalkerlated,' as Uncle Tim would say, to make you glad."

Rich now introduced Morton to his father and uncle, who received him
without any of the embarrassment that had overwhelmed Rich, and in a
most hearty manner.

"You must excuse, Mr. Morton," said Clement, "my son's constraint upon
first seeing you; it was occasioned by the recollection of the change in
our circumstances, in consequence of which he cannot entertain as he
would wish the friend he loves so dearly, and whom we have all learned
through him to love, even before meeting. If we have been unfortunate,
it is no more than has overtaken more deserving persons than ourselves,
and our losses have neither chilled our hearts nor discouraged us from
effort."

"We think," said Robert, "that as we earned all we have lost by our own
industry, we can, by the same means, better our condition."

"I am sorry, Mr. Morton," said Clement, "to be obliged to keep my son
till this horse is shod, as the owner is waiting, and there is a new
shoe to make; but after that he will be at liberty.--Strike, Robert."

Rich, eager to be released, struck with good will; the sparks flew all
over the shop, and a second heat put the iron in such shape that Mr.
Richardson required no further help. Rich flung off his leather apron,
washed himself in a bucket, and wiped the smut from Mort's cheek with a
towel that did not put on much more dirt than it took off, when they
left to cleanse themselves more effectually at the house.

The dwelling was old, out of repair, and consisted of three rooms on the
ground floor, but two of them plastered, and a low attic. If Morton felt
depressed by finding his friends in such wretched quarters, he could not
but admire and wonder at the energy and cheerfulness with which Rich,
his father, mother, and uncle bore up under their reverses. The girls,
however, appeared chagrined and depressed, and seemed to him completely
heart-broken. They were considerably older than Rich, some children
having died between them. Rich, and Morton, after supper went to walk,
the former observing that by reason of their limited accommodations
there was no opportunity for conversation in the house. Following a
footpath that led along the bank of the river, they entered a noble
orchard, just commencing to blossom. It lay upon a declivity sloping to
the river. Passing through it, they came to a swale sprinkled with elms,
and commanding a fine view of the river, and flung themselves on the
grass side by side.

"Rich," said Morton, "do you know what has surprised me more than
anything else I have met with here?"

"I should think the pickle you found me in when you came into the
shop."

"No; it is to find yourself and your parents in such good spirits. Most
men, after having met with so great and sudden a reverse, would have
become entirely disheartened, and I expected to find _you_ completely
prostrated."

"The cheerfulness is not assumed for the occasion, Mort."

"I know that, you could not deceive me in such a matter."

"Believe me, as far as I am concerned, and were it not for my sisters,
and seeing my parents compelled to renew in their old age the hardships
of their youth, I should be happier to-day than for the last year and a
half, for I have now a clear conscience."

"What have you done? What crime have you committed to set your
conscience in arms?"

"The crime of doing nothing; of wasting myself. You know what fine
speeches I used to make in college about effort, setting the standard
high, and all that sort of thing, and how pat at my tongue's end I
always had '_per angusta ad augusta_' (I'm in a way to realize one part
of it now, I think); and as long as I was neck and neck with you and
Hill, I did do somewhat; but after I came home, I just fell right back
into the old ruts; could not make up my mind in regard to a profession;
didn't really want to. I was too comfortable; but I felt mean, felt
guilty. When I went to Portland, and heard you argue that case, and saw
how much labor it had cost you, and how nobly you came out of it, I felt
meaner still, and was half inclined to return without seeing you, and
resolved when I got home I would go to work; but I took it out in
thinking so, till the trouble came like a flash of lightning; since
then, I trust, I've done something, and been of some little use."

"Was it, then, so sudden? I knew that your father's difficulties came in
consequence of his lumber and mills being carried away; but even a
freshet gives some warning."

"None of us knew that father had every dollar invested in logs that were
like to go down stream. He and uncle were anxious enough, but kept it to
themselves; and the very night it came, when every man about the mills
was out in the pouring rain watching for trouble, I was
fooling--reciting a poem that I was going to deliver to a company of our
young folks; and I'm ashamed to say, that what I am now going to tell
you I had from Henry Alden, one of the men who was where I ought to have
been, with my father at the time. You see that smooth, perpendicular
ledge that makes out into the river?"

"Yes,"

"And that stake driven into a crack in the ledge?"

"Yes."

"When the water is up to that stake it is freshet pitch. All the morning
and afternoon the water had been rising; in the evening, it was the same
till it reached a fearful height, when one of the mills went. My father
and Uncle Robert stood under that ledge with a lantern, watching the
marks they had made on it with chalk. The rain had stopped, and for the
last hour the water had not risen, the clouds had broken away overhead,
and the stars came out. Every one of the men (all old river-drivers)
thought the danger was over. 'Robert,' said my father, 'I think the
booms will hold; the rain is over, and the river will soon fall.' The
words were scarcely out of his mouth before there was a great cry from
the bank above that the logs were coming. Henry said father turned pale,
but never opened his mouth, or turned to look, but went straight home.
When I came to the breakfast table the next morning, father was sitting
there, a little paler than usual, but just as calm as ever, and told us
what had taken place. You see now how sudden it must have been to me,
mother, and the girls, and almost as much so to him, for he thought the
crisis had passed."

"Why didn't the boom break before? and how came it to break after the
water was done rising?"

"About two miles above this place is a large intervale, where a great
quantity of hay is cut. Upon this flat stood a large barn, with no
cattle in it, used for storing hay; half a mile below this was a
toll-bridge. The water undermined the barn, and started it from its
foundations, and down it came against the bridge with an awful crash.
The toll-house stood on piles outside of the bridge. It struck the
bridge within ten feet of the house, in which the toll-keeper, his wife,
and three children, one a babe in arms, were sound asleep, they
supposing, as did my father, that the danger was over. Awakened by the
shock, and thinking, in their fright, the house was going, they ran out
on to the bridge, the mother with the babe in her arms, all in their
night clothes, and were swept off, with about twenty-five feet of the
bridge. If they had staid in the house they would have been all right,
for there it remained on its own foundation. The barn, bridge, a parcel
of fences and drift stuff, all came down into our upper boom together,
broke that and then the lower one. One mill had gone before. This vast
mass, borne on the raging torrent, carried away another, half the grist
mill, and a carding mill."

[Illustration: THE BREAKING OF THE BOOM. Page 119.]

"What became of the family on the bridge?"

"The barn, being so big, and taking so much wind, went ahead of the
bridge, that was low in the water, and when they got down where the
river was narrower, some men went off in a canoe and took them ashore."

"Rich, I am going to hazard a supposition. Will you tell me if I am
correct in it?"

"I'll tell you anything I know."

"You belong to a strong, resolute breed of men. Any person looking at
your father as he stands at the anvil, and your uncle, can see where you
came from. It is not in accordance with the make-up of persons having
such blood in their veins to live without effort or object. It causes
them to despise themselves--the meanest of all feelings, because the
rugged nature craves hardship. When you exerted yourself to the utmost
in college studies, chopped wood and hewed timber, although there was no
necessity for it; when in that tremendous race at Brunswick, through
gullies, thorns, coal kilns, dogs, and mires, you gave me, who had the
advantage of years of training, all I could do, and distanced all the
rest, that was the true nature asserting itself. I can understand why it
was that, after crossing the Alps, settling down in Capua, and becoming
effeminate, you lost your own self-respect, and were unhappy, and also
how these feelings were all intensified when you found that while ruin
was impending, your father's mind racked with agony, you were writing
verses to school girls, wasting time and talents, and throwing away
opportunities that would never come again. I can understand, likewise,
why, when you took your portion of the load and felt that your father
was encouraged by your aid and sympathy, you regained self-respect, and
experienced relief and comparative happiness. But there is much more I
cannot fathom."

"What is that, Mort?"

"Well, there is a light in your eye, and an expression of quiet,
trustful happiness in your face, that were never there before, and that
are not to be accounted for by anything you have yet told me, or that I
have observed here. It seems to me that while summoning all your own
resources to meet this exigency, you have gone out of yourself for aid;
and that, to my mind, accounts perfectly for all the results, and
renders happiness in untoward circumstances no mystery."

"Mort, I am going to answer your question, but not directly, because I
don't feel quite sure of myself yet. When we were in college there was
perfect sympathy between us. Perk, Hill, Savage, and the rest, had their
ups and downs, fallings out and makings up; but between you and me there
was never a shadow or a chill. We were as completely one in sentiment
and affection as that mist that's rising over the river; but after you
went to hear Mr. Sewall, and wrote me about it, there seemed to be a
dark shadow between us. I couldn't tell what it was, and I didn't love
you any the less, but somehow there was a difference. Mort, since this
trouble came I've read your letters over, and understand them as I never
did before. That shadow is gone, and the sun shines all over."

"I know what you mean, Rich; you need say no more."

"Now, Mort, this orchard, the swale, and all this land to the river,
were part of our place. You have seen where we live now, and I suppose
you would like to see the spot we left; if so, we had better go before
it gets dark."

"Perhaps you don't care to go."

"Yes, I do. I don't dislike to go. Father might have put it into
somebody's hands to cheat his creditors, and still lived there, as many
have done; but he paid his debts with that and other property, and went
behind the anvil; and every time I go there I consider what a temptation
he resisted, and feel proud of him. I don't know how others may feel,
neither do I care; but I had much rather have for my father a poor man
of principle, than a wealthy rascal; blood-blisters on every finger, and
earn my bread by hard blows on hot iron, than to feel the very clothes I
wore, and the luxuries I enjoyed, were swift witnesses against me."

It was plain enough to Morton that the grindstone grit of poverty was
fast cutting away the iron that overlaid the steel, and bringing out the
true temper. So delighted was he, that he could not forbear shaking
Rich. A playful scuffle followed, in which Morton by no means attained
the usual advantage.

"I tell you what it is, Mort," said Rich, "let me work at the anvil and
you study law a while longer, and I'll lay you on your back, and mud
both shoulders."

"It is always a pleasure to me to see a young man ambitious, for even if
he places his standard beyond the measure of his capacity, he is likely
to make the most of himself. I've got something in view when I go back
that will offset your sledge-hammer. See if I don't make your backbone
crack the next time we take hold, old fellow."

"I should like to know what kind of exercise it is. I'm sure you can't
hew timber there."

"A churn-drill, my boy. What do you think of that? Ain't that a good
deal like work? Won't there be some misery to that? There's a man by the
name of Noble, who blows rocks on Oak Street. He has two churn-drills. I
am going to use one of them as soon as he gets it steeled."

"You please yourself with that idea, young man, will you? You can't
start a hole with a churn-drill as it ought to be. I can tell you, it
takes a workman to do that. Your drill will bind, and you'll get stuck."

"I know I can't at first, but he'll start the holes for me and then I
can churn; and after a while I shall learn to start my own holes, and
strike true."

"You'll get sick of it. It is the hardest work that is done."

"Did you ever know me to get sick of, or give up anything, I undertook?"

"Yes, I have."

"Name it, slanderer, name it. Don't think to escape by dealing in
generalities. I demand date and place. When and where did I get sick of
anything, and give it up?"

"On the twenty-fifth of December, Christmas night, quarter before seven,
you got sick of eating pork pie at Uncle Tim Longley's, and Granny
Longley gave you a dose of thoroughwort tea, and made you _give it up_."

"If we are going to see that house, it is time we were about it, for it
is almost sundown, and will soon be dark."




CHAPTER X.

DEAD LOW WATER.


They ascended the rising ground, passing along the edge of the orchard,
till, upon gaining the height of land, they entered upon a broad, level
field of twenty-five acres, smooth as a lawn, green in all the verdure
of spring, and giving promise of an abundant yield of grass. A variety
of forest trees were scattered over it, among which the walnut and white
oak predominated. Here and there a clover head was seen, and bobolinks,
balancing on spears of herd's grass, were exhibiting themselves to the
best advantage, while now and then a forward apple tree on the warmer
ground was covered with white and red blossoms.

"Your father never planted these trees," said Morton, gazing at the
massive trunks, covered with moss and rough scaly bark; "who did?"

"I'm sure I don't know whether it was the wind, the crows, bears, or
squirrels, but they were here when the white men came."

In the centre of the field stood the mansion house. It was painted
white, with green blinds, and, seen through the mass of foliage by which
the house was surrounded, the color produced a very pleasing effect,
being scarcely more prominent than the streak of white peeping through
the green folds of an opening rose-bud.

Several very large white birches were scattered in front of the
buildings among other trees, that beautiful green peculiar to the leaves
of this tree in the spring contrasting pleasantly with the white bark of
the trunk and branches. The house, fronting the river, stood endwise to
the main road, from which a broad avenue led to it, approaching by a
gradual curve the front, a less spacious one conducting to the back
portion and the out-buildings. Both of these avenues were lined with the
Lombardy poplar, then highly prized throughout New England as an
ornamental tree. They still linger, a few in nearly every town, often
rising with decaying branches over some grass-grown cellar--sole memento
of a departed generation.

The mansion, standing in the midst of this vast green, large on the
ground, and high studded, without a fence to belittle the effect and
obstruct the view, with abundant out-buildings, well arranged and in
perfect repair, as seen through the mass of foliage, produced an
impression better felt than described.

Morton, enraptured with the sight, stood long before the main entrance
silent, his arm in that of his friend. At length his eyes moistened as
he said,--

"Rich, I never saw anything like this spot; so grand and beautiful!
Everything is fresh, in perfect repair, and yet these oaks and birches
seem two hundred years old. I never saw such trees, except in the
forest. I shouldn't be in the least surprised to see a black bear
acorning in one of them."

"I've no doubt they have done it. I've heard my grandfather say that the
whole of this land between us and the river was a heavy growth of such
trees as you see here, except the low ground, where it was yellow birch,
white maple, and elm; that a man by the name of Dingley, who was well
off, came here from Salem, built this house, cleared the land, all but
about two acres in front of the house; but his wife died, and his two
boys didn't want to stay here--wanted to go to sea. He went back to
Salem just before the embargo, and let the place to the halves. Then a
friend of his--another Salem captain, who had made money going to the
coast of Africa, when the embargo put a stop to his business--bought it.
He also spent money at a great rate; made the house almost over, built
stables, took away the fences, and as he was determined to have just
what trees he wanted, and didn't mind expense, selected those he wished
to remain, cut down the rest, and all the underbrush, and hauled the
trunks and brush off, because he knew, if he put fire into it, he should
kill the whole. That's the way, grandfather said, these old trees came
to be left here.

"While Captain Norris was building, planting, clearing, and turning
everything upside down, and making improvements, after some models he
had seen abroad, and while the embargo and the war of 1812 lasted, he
was contented; but when he had made about all the improvements his purse
would allow, and maritime business began to revive after the war, he was
as uneasy as a fish out of water, and sold the place to my father, with
all his improvements, for half what it had cost him, and went back to
Salem, and to sea again."

"It must have been a sad day to you, when you came to take leave of this
home, and--"

"And go to the place where you found us, you mean. Well, it was a bitter
day to all of us, but there were some reasons that made it especially so
to me. Father and mother had known sorrow, and so had my sisters. I had
a little brother and sister, neither of whom I ever saw. They died
within a year of each other, and my sisters were old enough to realize
it. But never since I can remember has there been a cloud in our sky
till now. Father was prosperous, I was petted and indulged, had all I
wanted, loved my books and my parents (never knew how much I did love
them till now), and never had a sorrow, except when some pet animal
died; but those tears were soon dried, and when I awoke the next morning
the sorrow was all forgotten in some new pleasure, or some new pet. It
seems to me now that I was just like one of the humming-birds that
always come to the honeysuckle that hangs over that western window.--By
the way, that was my room, Mort."

"I see it all, Rich; and now, let me tell you, I wasn't in a very
cheerful frame when, on my way to college, I met you at Portland. I had
left home, and was looking forward to a four years' course at college,
with hardly any funds, and the prospect for the future was gloomy
enough, when you came across my path, just like a gleam of sunshine, and
appeared so buoyant, happy, and trustful, that I said to myself,
'There's a boy that's grown up in some happy home, without a care or
sorrow.'"

"Just so, Mort. But there was another thing which gave to this place a
charm for me that it did not possess for the rest of our family."

"What was that?"

"I'll tell you. The girls were born in Portsmouth, and their earliest
associations were there. My father and mother also have had homes at
other spots; but if I was not born here, I grew up among these great
trees, and, I can tell you, the very roots of them were in my heart, and
it was hard parting. One of the very first things I can remember is,
crawling out of the front door, when mother's attention was turned, and
making for dear life towards that birch with the hang-bird's nest on it.
Sometimes in my haste, I'd tumble down the steps--roll from the top to
the bottom. If it half killed me, I wouldn't cry, for fear mother would
come and get me before I reached the tree; and when she did, O, didn't I
yell some? Here I made my little gardens, dug wells, and put water in
'em; here I had my pets, hens and ducks, pigeons, and kittens, and
birds; and when any of them died, I buried them under that walnut with
the drooping branches, because I thought it felt sorry for me. I didn't
have many playmates, for I was a shy boy, and so I loved the trees,
birds, and flowers all the more, and played with them, and my sisters,
and Uncle Robert. You see that large maple that stands next to the
hemlock--the biggest tree in the field?"

"Yes, it is almost as large as the great pine in the glen at Brunswick."

"Don't you think, when I was a little thing, wore long clothes, red
stockings, and red morocco shoes, my father tapped that tree, and used
to give us the sap to drink. One washing day, when they were all busy, I
got away, ran for the maple, and got down on my hands and knees to drink
out of the trough. I was having the nicest time, putting down the sap,
when a bee came whiz in my face, struck me on my upper lip, and ran his
stinger in the whole length. I suppose he thought I was going to drink
up all the sap, and he shouldn't get any. The girl was hanging out
clothes, heard an outcry, and saw me flat on my back, kicking and
screaming. She ran, and mother ran, and my sisters, and such a time as
there was when mother pulled the stinger out. I tell you, Mort, no other
place ever seems like the one where you played when you were little."

"That's so, Rich. The corn in the dish on the table don't taste half so
good as that you roast out doors, and down with it, all over smut and
ashes, and half raw; and the apples they carry round in the evening at
home don't begin with the ones you've hid in the haymow, and eat when
they are so full of frost it makes your teeth ache."

"We might have staid in the house through the summer. It is empty, and
like to be; but father and mother said they had rather go at once than
be dreading it. The neighbors were very kind, and helped us move (what
little we had to move), as everything of any value went to the
creditors, with the exception of my books and stock of tools; that
father didn't give up, because he said they were my tools, with which to
earn my bread. They had been given to me by him when he was solvent, and
the creditors could not touch them.

"During the labor and excitement of moving, and before the neighbors,
we strove to appear as cheerful as possible; but when all was over, and
we came out on to this platform where we are sitting, each bearing
something that had been forgotten,--I my violin and a pair of andirons,
mother her press-board and a coffee-pot, the girls knives, forks, and
spoons, father shovel and tongs,--I tell you, the sound of the bolt
going into its place when he locked the door gave me a heartache.

"After we got off the steps, and turned round to take a last look at the
old home, that never seemed half so lovely before, we couldn't any of us
keep the tears back. I don't know but you will think it weak, but it
made me feel real bad to see my dog, Fowler, wagging his tail, and
frisking as though it was a holiday, and I almost wished I was a dog."

"Weak, Rich? A boy that could leave a home like that, where all his
associations were formed, as he would leave an inn, or get out of a
stage-coach, and never look back, could not be a friend of mine."

"The old cat would not go. She came and rubbed up against my legs, then
went back, sat on the steps, looked after us, and mewed when we called
her, but would not come.

"'Give me your things, my son,' said father, 'and go and get her.'

"I took her up, and carried her with us, but she went back the next
day."

"I see a black and white cat now," said Morton, "sitting on the spur
root of yonder big white oak."

Rich called, "Puss, Puss." The cat came running, jumped into his lap,
and put her fore paws on the collar of his vest, opening and shutting
her claws, lifting her feet up, and putting them down in the same place,
as cats do when they feel happy, rubbing the side of her face against
his chin, and shoving her nose between his vest and shirt bosom, and
purring all the time.

"She loves me," said Rich, "but she can't bear to leave the old
place.--We must go, Mort. Our folks won't know what has become of us. I
do wish you could have come up here to thanksgiving, as you were going
to do when we were in college, and the place was ours. To see it now is
very much like looking at persons after they are dead--the house all
shut up, and nothing alive but a homesick, heart-broken cat."




CHAPTER XI.

A STRIKING CONTRAST.


They walked along some time, each busied with the reflections excited by
the previous conversation.

"Mort," said Rich at length, "I'm sorry, but you'll have to sleep in a
poor place to-night."

"We've slept together in David Johnson's barn, in Peleg Curtis's
fish-house, on a pile of wet menhaden nets, and in the woods on Great
French. Didn't we make a fire and warm the ledge on the north-west side
of Hope Island, sweep off the coals, and lie down--in November too?"

"Yes; but when folks go to visit their friends, they expect a little
better treatment than when camping out. Don't you remember when we used
to walk down to Maquoit of an afternoon in June, just before anything
had faded, and it was high water, how beautiful everything looked? the
sharp line of color, where the points fringed with the bright green of
the thatch parted the blue water, the bolder outlines of the gray
rocks, and the trees reflected in the calm water; and yet go down there
two or three days after, at low tide, and there would be only a hundred
acres of steaming flats, the shores and the grass on their edge strown
with kelp, dead clams, horse-shoe crabs, dead limbs of trees, dead fish,
chips, and rotten eel grass; no water to be seen nearer than a mile and
a half!"

"Indeed I do; and the contrast was so great that one must be possessed
of a most devout spirit not to arraign the order of nature, and wish it
was high water all the time."

"I'm sure I can't imagine what should put Maquoit Bay in my head
to-night, unless it was meeting with you, and thinking of old times; but
it seems to set forth my condition exactly. Six weeks ago it was high
water with us, a spring tide, up over everything, clear to the grass
ground, filling every cove and creek, the mouths of the brooks kissing
the birch roots on the edge of the cliffs, and lifting up the strawberry
leaves. Now it is dead low water, bare flats, angry sky, and to me the
voyage of life seems 'bound in shallows and in miseries.'"

"That's one side, old chum" (putting his arms around Rich's neck), "but
the tide only ebbs to flow again. The farther it runs off, and the more
it drains out at one time, the higher it flows the next."

It was the first manifestation of anything like depression that Morton
had noticed in his friend. Rich, however, shook it off, as the bird
shakes the dew from its plumage, saying, with a smile,--

"You are right, Mort; and that's the way I look at it generally; but I
can't yet visit the old home, and come away again, without stirring up
something that had better be kept down; especially when the cat puts her
head in my bosom, as she did to-night, and says, 'Do stay here with me,
I am so lonesome.'"

Morton, as they came in sight of the house now occupied by the
Richardsons, was most forcibly struck with the contrast between this
abode and the one they had just left. Their present habitation stood in
a tan-yard; indeed it had, in the days of his poverty, been the
residence of the owner of the tan-yard, who being pinched for room, had
crowded his house into the smallest possible limits.

It was placed very near the line of the street, leaving barely space for
a single doorstep, which was a pasture stone. The tan-pits at one side
approached within two feet of the cellar wall. On the other was a
currier's shop, leaving just space enough between the two buildings for
a narrow cart road. Beneath the back windows of this shop were old oil
barrels and heaps of curriers' shavings, stewing and simmering in the
sun.

Directly behind the house a garden spot twenty-five feet by thirty was
fenced out. It had not been ploughed for some years; the Richardsons did
not care to cultivate it, as their stay was but temporary, and it was
overgrown with weeds, and strewn with old boots and shoes, broken
pottery, pots and pans that had outlived their usefulness, heaps of
ashes, and the bleaching bones of cats that had come to an untimely end.

Abutting on this lot was a large shed, open on the side facing the
dwelling in which was the "beam" house, where the green and bloody hides
were received and "fleshed." Here were heaps of horns, and the pith or
marrow that comes out of them when they taint. The roof of this shed was
covered with glue skins, that is, the trimmings of the hides saved to
make glue, spread to dry, and which attracted swarms of green flies; add
to this a stagnant mill pond that supplied water for the pits, and to
propel a bark mill, fences, and walls hung with sides of leather spread
out to dry, and smeared, or, in technical language, dubbed, with tallow
and rancid fish oil, and you have a faithful description of the
surroundings of this delightful abode. But aside from actual experience,
imagination cannot conceive or tongue describe the combined odors
furnished by these various substances when operated upon by sun and
wind.

The house was in perfect keeping with the site upon which it stood. The
walls were covered with shingles, two courses of which had rotted away
near the foundations, in consequence of banking up the walls with earth;
part of the top of the chimney had fallen off, and lay on the roof that
in places was bare of shingles and covered with moss.

Upon entering the house, a door on the left opened into the kitchen, the
plastering of which was the color of milk and molasses, and appeared to
have been flung on, and then clawed in by cats, affording in the furrows
lodgments for smoke and secure harbors of refuge for flies. At the back
of this room was a small bedroom, finished in the same manner, with the
exception of being sealed to the height of a chair, and the wood work
painted with a color intended, probably, for red; it, however, looked
very much as though a hog had been killed on it. In this apartment the
parents slept. Another door, on the right, admitted to an unfinished
room, with a rough floor. Here were Rich's lathe and tool chest, a pair
of cart wheels finished, except smoothing up, and a wheelbarrow that
only required ironing.

"This is my workshop," said Rich. "My mechanical genius, that used to
expend itself on flower-pots and vases, in turning canes and cups, tops
and nine-pins, balls and drum-sticks, is now directed by stern
necessity, into a more useful channel; and, believe me, when I have made
a pair of wheels, got my money for them, and bought provisions for the
family, I feel a great deal better satisfied with myself than I used to
after spending two or three days making something that was a mere
plaything, or at best only served the purpose of ornament."

At each end of the garret was a window, and there two bedrooms were
made, with rough board partitions, one of which was occupied by the two
daughters, the other by Rich. Here was his library, that was quite
extensive, his father having indulged his fondness for books, among
which was a German edition of the classics.

The room was small, and the roof of a low pitch. The book-cases,
writing-desk, bureau, and chairs all occupied so much of the room that
the bedstead was necessarily pushed far under the eaves in order to
afford space enough in the middle to move around and stand upright.

"It is quite convenient," said Rich, as they entered, "for you can reach
everything without getting out of your chair."

"And then to consider," replied Morton, in the same vein, "that the most
celebrated philosophers and poets have meditated and sung in garrets."

"True," said Rich; "but I suspect it would be far more pleasant to
meditate about than it will to occupy it come next dog days. Now, Mort,
you must sleep on the front side, for the shingle nails come through the
boards of the roof, and if you should forget, and jump up on end, they'd
stick right into your skull."

"They are not long enough to go through."

"Probably not through a skull so thick as yours, but they would draw
blood, and might give you a headache."

When they awoke in the morning, Rich said, "Mort, I can spend the whole
forenoon with you, but in the afternoon they will need me at the shop.
In the evening we can be together again."

When breakfast was over, Morton said, "Rich, what are your plans for the
future? Have you decided in respect to a profession? for I don't suppose
you really intend to pass your life at the anvil, after spending so many
years and so much money getting an education."

"It would not be so much of a sacrifice as you may suppose, and if I had
not been through college, I would do so, for I love to work iron; it
comes as natural as water to a duck. Do you go up and look over my books
while I split up some oven wood, and then I'll tell you."

"I'll help you split the wood."

"Come on."

"Rich, who was that old lady at the breakfast table?"

"Aunt Blunt, mother's aunt. Didn't they introduce you? She came last
night, before we came home, and went to bed."

"I thought your mother's name was Lucy; but this morning the old lady
called her Mary."

"Mother's name is Mary L.; Mary Lucy. The Lucy is for my great aunt, and
she always calls her so, but we call her Lucy. One of my sisters is
named Mary B., after mother and the Blunts."




CHAPTER XII.

DID NOT COME TO SEE THE WRECK.


Returning to the garret, Rich said, "About a profession--is it?"
flinging himself on the bed, while Morton, seated in a chair, thrust his
feet out of the window. "Just have the goodness to open that volume on
the table."

It was Bell's Operative Surgery.

"Then you are going to study medicine?"

"It is registered on leaves of brass."

"When did you decide?"

"I've been trying to decide ever since I left college; but I did decide
before I left the breakfast table the morning father told me the boom
and mills had gone. I borrowed these books of our doctor, and at night,
when I'm not too tired, I read them once in the while; when work permits
I go with him to visit some patient. I went with him a week ago when he
amputated a man's hand at the wrist. He is very kind, has large
practice, and rides long distances, as he has the practice of this and
the next town."

"You won't accomplish much in this way."

"I don't expect to; but I can't leave father now, as I find that my
taking hold has been a great help and comfort to him and my uncle. They
have a good deal of work, and it is increasing every day; and I don't
mean to leave them till I see the family in more comfortable quarters.
The shop and house adjoining was my grandfather's, and when my father
failed, passed into the hands of a Mr. Montague. He gives my father the
use of the shop and tools, and in the fall, when the family now in it
moves out, will let him have the old house, which is an excellent one,
built by my grandfather after he acquired property. My father and uncle
are living in this old shell, working incessantly. When no other work
comes in, my uncle, who can work in wood as well as iron, makes wheels.
My father puts on the tires. They sell them. Mother takes in spinning,
and saves every cent. I do all I can in order to be able, at the end of
the summer, to buy back grandfather's tools, that we may have something
of our own. Besides, they are dear to father. He helped make most of
them when he was a boy, and says there's a history to every one of
them."

"How long is it going to take to do all that?"

"Not longer than September or the middle of October, if we are all well.
In the mean time I shall read what medicine I can, go round with Dr.
Jones occasionally, and when I see the family in the new house and
comfortable, take an academy somewhere or high school, and teach till I
can earn money enough to go on with my studies."

"You're a good boy, Rich."

"Why don't you tell me some news?"

"I'm going to. That _academy_ is all ready."

"What do you mean by that?"

"Did you think I would leave my studies and come way up here just to
look at the wreck? Put my arm round your neck, whimper, and say, What a
pity!"

"Explain, Mort, please, that's a good fellow."

"Who said I wasn't a good fellow? Well, Perk's got an academy for you in
the next town to his whenever you're ready to take it, salary two
hundred a year. He fitted for college there, knows all the trustees, and
everybody in town; and he's cracked you up sky high; told all the boys
what a nice fellow you are, the most lovable man ever God made, the
trustees what a splendid classical scholar you are, and all the young
ladies how handsome. So I advise you, as a sincere friend, to take unto
yourself nitre and much soap, and wash off that smut, which seems to me
to be under the skin."

"O, Mort, this is all _your_ work!"

"No,'tain't; it's all old Perk's. I only came to tell the news."

"But you were the _means_ of it."

"No; it was that good Being whom you, after so many years of
prosperity, couldn't afford to think about or thank till he sent the
river to put you in mind of him."

"How can I ever thank you enough?"

"Do you think a man ought to be thanked for helping himself?"

"No, of course not."

"Are not you and I one? Didn't you say only last night we were one, and
that there never was a shadow between us? What are you talking about?"

"I can't understand how they can wait my leisure. There must of course
be a definite time when the term begins."

"Certainly; Perk will send you a catalogue; but he will take the school
till you come. I told him I knew something about your affairs, and
thought it doubtful if you could come at the first part of the term."

"This is a kind of joyous time, Mort; makes this old attic seem real
pleasant."

"Yes; the architecture is simple in design; but the atmosphere is most
exhilarating."

"I suppose I can tell father and mother?"

"To be sure. A good story is no worse for being twice told."

"What is Perk doing?"

"Just what you were doing all last year."

After dinner Rich went to the shop, and Morton, first taking a long
walk, called there on his way back, and found Mr. Robert alone.

"Where is Rich?" he asked.

"Well, a man came here to get a 'clevis' pin made, and let them take his
horse and wagon to haul a load of coal, while I made the pin. You seem
to think a good deal of Rich, as you call him, Mr. Morton."

"I don't know how I could love him any more than I do."

"Well, he's a boy that deserves to be thought of. He never was brought
up to do the leastest individual thing, 'cept to study a book and make
some little gimcrank with tools; and yet to see how he took hold the
moment his father's misfortunes came--went right to the anvil, never
murmured or complained; and though he's my nephew, I _will_ say that
he's worth as much to-day in this shop as the general run of apprentices
that have worked two years; and as for working in wood, he always took
to that. 'Twas born in him."

"Don't you think, Mr. Richardson, that a boy whose grandfather and
father were blacksmiths is more likely to be handy in a shop?"

"I suppose these things are kind of handed down. I know there's a good
deal in the blood; I know it by our girls. They are all broken down, sit
and sigh, think what they used to have, and let their mother do all the
work."

"Are they not own sisters to Rich?"

"The same father and mother; but they take back after the Armstrongs;
they don't take after the Richardsons, who are a resolute, stirring
breed of folks. Their old grandmother Armstrong was a dreadful
slack-twisted, shiftless woman; had to be helped by the town; and when
the selectmen gave her a cord of wood, she'd put about two foot into the
great fireplace, declare she'd have one fire if she died for it, and
then sit, fold her hands in her lap, and enjoy it. Her children took
after her, 'cept my brother's wife, and she's smart as steel; took after
her mother's people, the Blunts. But that old woman that's been dead and
buried this twenty years has come out in the grandchildren. It is not
the way, Mr. Morton, to bring up children. This twenty years past I've
been saying to Clem and Lucy that they were doing wrong by their
children. Says I, 'Bring them up to work as we were. If they don't need
to, it's the easiest thing in the world to leave off; but it's hard to
learn.' Then Lucy would say, 'Uncle, I don't want them to have to work
as hard as I have.' Says I, 'Perhaps they may be obliged to. What then?'
Then Clem would laugh, and say that old maids' and old bachelors'
children were always brought up right."

"But I'm sure Rich has come out well."

"Indeed he has; but he is a remarkable boy, and is no rule to go by.
Besides, we must thank you, and do thank you, for a good part of that:
you did a parent's duty by him. Don't you think he is in better shape to
keep the 'cademy, for teaching school in college, and wasn't he in
better shape, and would he have had the pluck to go so willingly to the
anvil if he hadn't been broke in by you in college?"

"I suppose you are right, Mr. Richardson; but in respect to the young
ladies."

"Call 'em girls, Mr. Morton; and they are not very young at that."

"Well, girls, then. Would any training their parents could have given
taken the thin blood (the _Armstrong_, as you call it) out of them."

"I don't suppose it would; but it would have helped it amazingly. You
see if I get a bar of Swedish iron, first rate, stamped 'Hoop L,' I put
it into the fire, and work it without fear; but if I have a bar of
English iron, brash and coarse, can't get any better, and must work it
up, why, by taking great pains, heating it just right, and working it
just right, I can, by coaxing, make it answer--not so good a purpose as
the other iron, but can make it very useful. That's the way with
children; you've got 'em, and got to work 'em up, and must make the best
of 'em, as I do with 'brash' iron. These girls were partly on our side
the house, and if they had been put right to it, it would have helped
the better part, and kept the other back, just as the saw-makers put
the nature into a saw by hammering when it has been softened in
grinding. Now all they do is to put the dishes on the table, sweep up
the hearth and look In the glass, wring their hands, and tell about what
_used_ to be. They might teach school if they only had 'sprawl' enough."

Mr. Richardson then told Morton that his brother would take an
apprentice when they moved into the old homestead and had room, after
which Rich would be able to leave home.




CHAPTER XIII.

MORTON'S BUSINESS.


Morton set out for Portland the next morning, leaving Rich glad and
grateful, and in the best of spirits himself, arising from the
conviction that better days were in store both for Rich and his parents.
He took his seat on the box, and was still more confirmed in this
opinion by the conversation with the driver, of whom he had inquired the
way to Mr. Richardson's shop the afternoon of his arrival.

"Then you didn't have any trouble finding Richardson's shop t'other day:
git, git, git along there, you white horse."

"No, I found it without the least difficulty."

"Thought you would. Belong in these parts? What you 'bout there, old
Dick?" Crack, crack, crack!

"No, I belong up back of Portland."

"Buxton, praps."

"No."

"Maybe you're from Conway."

"Thereabouts."

"Fine men them ere two Richardsons."

"Yes, but they have met with a great misfortune."

"That's so; and it's made a great stir and talk, and a great feelin';
for they was two men that was master sot by in this place, and desarved
to be; folks are both glad and sorry."

"I shouldn't think people would be glad if they were generally liked."

"Well, that's what I call a kernondrum. Ha, ha!--Whey there, Tom; what
you foolin' for?--People ain't glad that they lost their property; no,
no; everybody's sorry for that, and they could hire any amount of money,
and go on again, if they would; but you see they're the greatest
blacksmiths; there never was anybody in these parts could temper any
kind of an edge tool like as Clement Richardson, 'cept his old dad afore
him; and he, they said, took it up in his own head. You take notice 'tis
born in 'em, same as a cat carries her navigation in her head. So people
say, 'Now Clem Richardson has gone to work agin, we shall have good
tools;' and so they feel kind of glad about that ere. They'll have a
master sight of work as soon as it's known round, and they'll rise agin.
Squire Walker says 'they're bound to.' I heard him tell Dr. Jones.
'Quainted with Dr. Jones?"

"I haven't that pleasure."

"First-rate man. I heard him say with my own ears (that is, the
squire), says he, 'Doctor, you can't kill one of them Richardsons, not
if you cut their head off;' and the doctor, he says, 'The young sprig,
that's been thought to be a sort of baby, is jest as good grit as the
old ones, and comes right up to the collar.' Them isn't jestly his
words, but that's the upshot on 'em. Then there's two of 'em, and they
can carry on both parts of the work. There's only one family to support,
'cause Bob's an old bach, and they're not only brothers in name, but in
natur, are well matched, and step alike, jest like them ere leaders of
mine; about as good going horses as a man need wish to drive. Reckon
you're some kin to the Richardsons."

"No, none at all."

"Maybe you're sparkin' one of the gals."

"No, I never had the courage."

"Reckon you're a college-larnt man, like young Richardson; praps you're
a doctor or lawyer, or some sich."

"No, I'm in a _business_."

"Du tell. What kind of a business?"

"One that pays the best the closer it's followed."

"I reckon that's so with most all business."

"I've invented something--something that will make my fortune."

"Maybe you'd be willing to tell a feller what it is."

"It is a hog-sty that will fat hogs without corn."

"Massy sakes! How does it do it?"

"That's the secret."

"On course you'll make a lot; that's the master. How many on 'em you
sold in this town?"

"I haven't got to work yet."

The next day the story was all over town that the stranger who was
visiting at Richardson's was worth a mint of money, that he had invented
a hog-sty to fat hogs without corn, and came to offer himself to Mary
Richardson, but his courage failed, and he went off without doing it.

What a pity! people said: it would have been such a nice thing for the
Richardsons, just as they were situated.

A good many thought Rich would write to the young man, and invite him to
come again.

At this period the country around the head waters of the rivers was one
unbroken forest. The lumbering operations, previous to this, had
extended but a short distance from the sea-coast; but now vast numbers
of men and teams were sent into the woods in all directions. The
character of Clement Richardson as a superior axe and edge-tool maker
was well known everywhere, and the news that he had resumed work soon
spread among the lumbermen who were laying their plans and arranging to
put teams into the woods the coming winter.

As early as the tenth of July orders for axes began to pour in upon the
Richardsons. The mills formerly belonging to them, shattered in the
freshet, were repaired, and new ones built upon the sites of those
entirely destroyed, occasioning a good deal of blacksmith work, as new
mill-chains, dogs, hooks, bands, bolts, and pintles were to be made.
Horse and ox-shoeing, and carriage work, also increased with the
increase of business.

The result of this was, that Andrew Montague enlarged the shop, built
two new chimneys and forges, and the Richardsons not only bought the old
tools, but also two pairs of bellows, anvils and other tools, for the
new forges. They now moved into their father's old house, vacated by
Coleman, hired journeymen and took two apprentices, Clement giving his
attention entirely to the manufacture of edge tools, and Robert to
horse-shoeing and carriage work, ox-shoeing and tiring of heavy wheels.
The Richardsons now found themselves in comfortable circumstances; they
had a good house rent free, as Montague absolutely refused to receive
any rent, either for the house or shop, until the expiration of a year
from the time of occupancy, saying that they would want one year to get
fairly started, and all their money to buy coal, iron, and tools.

In consequence of this increase of work, Rich was able to leave home
sooner than he had supposed possible at the period of Morton's visit,
and accordingly wrote to Perk that he would be with him in a week after
the commencement of the fall term.

He found Perk at the public house, waiting to welcome him, as the stage
drove up about sundown. It was the first time they had met since the
morning they left Radcliffe Hall. Our readers, who are apprised of the
relations existing between these two boys in college, and the
temperament of each, can imagine the nature of the greeting. It is
sufficient to say that it was not remarkably formal. This, however, was
not in the least objectionable to a band of academy boys (who, in
expectation of his arrival, had assembled to have a look at their new
teacher, and whom Perk now presented to Rich as a portion of his
scholars), if we may judge from the talk among themselves as they went
away, arm-in-arm, a boy every now and then breaking rank, and walking
backwards, those at the end of the file keeping about two steps in
advance, in order to face the rest, and impress their own sentiments
more forcibly upon their companions of less sanguine temperaments.

They were scarcely out of ear-shot, when Dan Clemens, breaking with a
jump from the midst, and walking backwards, with one hand on the
shoulder of Ned Baker, and the other on that of Frank Merrill, shouted
as though he was afraid some other would get the start of him,--

"Ned, Frank, all of you! I know I shall like that man; can't help
liking him. I'm _bound_ to like him."

"I'm the same way!" shouted Horace Williams from the extreme right.
"Didn't you see, boys, how he and Mr. Perkins caught hold of each other?
That's what took me down. There's some soul in that man, I tell you."

"O, he's a bully man!" roared Clinton Blanchard from the extreme left;
"a fellow can tell by the looks of him; he shows it right out in his
face."

"You might know he's a first-rate man," cried Phil Greely; "else Mr.
Perkins wouldn't love him so. I thought I never should like anybody else
as Master Perkins; but I guess this man is just like him, and I mean to
tell all the fellows I know."

By this time, as boy after boy kept stepping out, they had got into a
circle, and further progress was necessarily arrested: not so, however,
the expression of opinions.

"He has not a very scholarly look," said Edward Randolph, who was a very
proper boy; "not at all the air of a close student. His hands are rough
and hard; he hurt me when he shook my hand."

"You shut up,--will you?" retorted Dan. "You've got the dyspepsy."

"No, I haven't, neither."

"Well, you want to have it," said Frank Merrill.

It was evident that in respect to popularity among these boys, the star
of Rich was in the ascendant, and before nine o'clock the next morning
they had brought the rest of the school to the same opinion.

First impressions go a great way with all persons, especially with the
young. Had Rich gone deliberately to work to win the hearts of his
future scholars, he could have devised no method so effectual as this
unconscious manifestation of his true nature in their presence.

"The first thing for me to do, Perk," said Rich, "is to look up a
boarding-place; till that is done I shall stay here."

"No, you won't stay here; you are not going to stop here; you are going
home with me to stop, to-night, at my boarding-place, and I think you
will conclude to remain there."

When they reached the house, Perk introduced Rich to the mistress of it,
who he at the same time informed him was his aunt.

A few minutes after they sat down to supper, her son came, in whom Rich
recognized Dan Clemens, one of the boys Perk had introduced to him at
the _tavern_. Hotels were not in fashion in that section of Maine.

After the repast they went to Perk's room. The first thing that
attracted the attention of Rich was a large picture hung over the
mantle-piece.

"I should like to know, Perk, where you got that."

"Stole it out of Mort's desk. I was afraid if I didn't he'd give it to
you; but I told him of it, and he gave it to me afterwards. Isn't that
something to call up old friends and old associations?" It was the
original sketch of James Trafton as a negro, drawn at midnight by Morton
in Radcliffe.

"It is so, Perk. How that brings the whole thing back! It seems to me I
can see you scrubbing his face, that was as white as your own, with soap
and ashes, and hear him say, 'Does it come off, Perk?'"

"I tell you what tickled me most, Rich--to see Savage spreading ink on
that poultice, and Trafton thinking it came off his own face."

"Those were pleasant days, Perk; but they can come back only in
recollection; and I feel like applying to that production of Mort's the
language of Burns,--


     'Thou mind'st me of departed joys,
         Departed never to return.'"


"Rich, kick off your boots and put on these slippers." Rich obeyed. "Now
put on this study-gown."

Perk then pulled a lounge up to the fire, and they sat down to talk.

After reviewing the past, which old class-mates are as sure to do as is
an old sailor to overhaul his chest, and take everything out of it
(sometimes a very light job), as soon as he gets to sea, Perk said,--

"I didn't expect you so soon, Rich."

"I was able to leave sooner than I expected when I wrote you. Might,
indeed, have come before; but it took me a week to clean up. Look at
these." He spread out his hands, that were hard, the palms and the edges
of the forefingers and thumbs a rusty brown, and cracked.

"It is not dirt, but stains from iron and from coal dust; and that, too,
after using on them a quart of linseed oil, not to mention vinegar,
soap, and rye meal."

"How are you pleased with my aunt, Rich?"

"Very much indeed. The boy at table is one of those I met at the stage
tavern. Is he your cousin?"

"Yes, and a downright good boy he is, too, and a real comfort to my
aunt, who is a widow. He is dead in love with you."

"Perhaps he will change his mind; boys are not wont to cherish a very
fervent love for teachers."

"You'll find yourself mistaken in that respect. Dan, and a crony of his,
Horace Williams, will take to you, and cling to you, just as Ned Austin
and Will Montgomery did to you and Mort. You can stimulate them, and
they will leap under it as a high-spirited horse catches the excitement
of its rider, especially if he loves him."




CHAPTER XIV.

WINNING GOLDEN OPINIONS.


"In the morning, Perk, I want you to help me about finding a
boarding-place, or some room that I can hire cheap, and board myself. I
should prefer a garret, as that will be the cheapest. There"--laying a
two-dollar bill on the table--"is every cent of money I possess in the
world; and if I study medicine I must have books, that come very high,
instruments by and by, and instruction from an experienced physician. I
am, to be sure, well clothed. I have clothing sufficient, with economy,
to last for years, but money I have none."

"I know I am not capable of giving you advice, and cannot expect that
you will receive it from me as you would from Mort; but I beg of you,
whatever you do, don't go to starving yourself; it will be a losing game
in the end. If you are going to work hard all day in school, and then
study when out of it, you need, and must have, good, nourishing food,
and plenty of it. There was Eckford, of our class, lived on water gruel
and molasses, and roast potatoes, and made out to graduate. But what did
he ever amount to, more than sweetened water?"

"He never was more than half alive, to begin with. I am in good case,
and must economize the last cent."

"Economize, with a vengeance! Saving at the tap, and spilling at the
bung-hole. A precious doctor you'll make. Going to dry up the juices,
both of body and brain, by starvation. Now let me plan. My aunt has
considerable land and other property, and needs some one to aid her in
the care of it. Dan is a mere boy, and it brings a good deal of care
upon her. If you will see to her affairs, cut the wood, take care of the
garden in the summer (Dan milks, and takes care of the cow and horse),
keep her accounts, and just do what pertains to the house (if there is
anything beyond that, she will hire other help), you can stay in this
room, have your board, fuel, and a horse to ride occasionally, you can
borrow medical books of Dr. Ryan, practice on my aunt, who is in
delicate health, dearly loves to take medicine, wears a Burgundy pitch
plaster between her shoulders, reads Buchan's Domestic Medicine, and
Parson Meek will pray for you. I think this will be a great deal better
than your starvation plan, unless you think it would be derogatory to
your character, and injure your influence as principal of the academy,
if it should be known that you cut wood and did chores."

"Derogatory!" cried Rich, jumping up. "I don't value the opinion of any
who think honest labor derogatory _that_," snapping his fingers. "If
they don't like it, they may dislike it. I can earn as much at the anvil
as I can here, and all the reason I prefer it is, I can study when I
have done my day's work here; and after I have been at work in the shop
all day I am tired and sleepy. I will most gladly fall in with the offer
of your aunt, and do all or anything she wants done."

"Rich, you are no more like a fellow we used to call _Rich_ in
Radcliffe, than chalk's like cheese."

"I've been through a 'discipline,' as President Appleton would say.
Then, I used to dip my fingers in rose water of a morning, and dress my
hair with pomatum. Since that, I've had to wash in an iron-hooped
bucket, and wipe on a tow towel cousin german to a nutmeg grater. Sweat
and coal dust have taken the place of pomatum. It didn't last, however,
longer than the first term of the freshman year. I caught an expression
on Mort's face one day, when I was fixing up before the glass, that made
me, as soon as his back was turned, fling the rose water and pomatum
into the slop pail. I tell you, Perk, there's no tonic equal to iron. I
mean to give lots of it when I am a doctor."

"So I think; but I like to take it best in the shape of a gun barrel, a
fish-hook, or a pair of skates."

The number of pupils in the academy was quite large, and, as was
customary in those days, they consisted of both sexes, ranging in age
from ten to nineteen, and even twenty years. There were boys fitting for
college, and others pursuing English studies. Some of the older scholars
studied surveying, book-keeping, and navigation.

Rich gave himself wholly to his work, and speedily created among his
scholars not merely an attachment to himself, but enthusiasm in study,
and desire to excel. It was soon evident, both to the trustees and more
advanced scholars, that their present teacher was greatly superior in
every department, not only to Perk, but any instructor who had preceded
him.

The fact that he did chores, and attended to business matters, in order
to defray the expense of his board, so far from proving derogatory, as
Perk had hinted, operated in precisely the opposite manner. Had he
resorted to this method of reducing his expenses from penuriousness, and
an overweening desire to accumulate, such, doubtless, would have been
the result, and the proceeding would have excited both ridicule and
contempt.

The instincts of the boys, however, divined that this was not his
character. They felt themselves drawn towards him by that magnetic
influence that his college mates confessed, and were proud of his
scholarship and commanding ability, that even those who could not
appreciate felt. In addition to this they were not long in discovering
that, although he did chores, and even cleaned out the pig-sty, he was
the best dressed man in the town on the Sabbath, which was to them a
sore puzzle. But when it leaked out, probably through Perk, that he had
been reared in affluence, was now flung upon his own resources,
struggling to obtain a professional education, and that his style of
dress was merely the remnant of better days, and not occasioned by mere
love of display, the knowledge produced universal sympathy and respect,
the whole community vying with each other in the manifestation of it.

Although practising the most rigid economy, husbanding every moment of
time, and performing a great deal of labor, the noble nature of Rich
manifested itself in a thousand ways; and strange it is how this
unwritten, unspoken language of the heart is generally felt and
understood. He was patient with the dull, encouraged the industrious,
and stimulated to the utmost those scholars possessed of superior
ability, while the mere desire to merit his esteem and affection roused
indolent and wayward boys to persevering effort, and inspired them with
a love of study and spirit of emulation they had never felt before.

But when Granny Fluker (after he went into the blacksmith's shop, made
a new crank to her flax wheel, mended the cover of her Dutch oven, that
was broke in two, by drilling holes in it, and putting wrought iron
cleats across, fastened with rivets, and made a new bail to the oven)
exclaimed, "God bless the young gentleman for condescending to sich a
poor old worn-out critter as I am, that have to be helped by the town.
Well, it's allers the way, in this world; them what's got the biggest
hearts to do allers have the least to do _with_. But if the prayers of a
poor old lone body like me can do him any good, he'll sartain have 'em."

She expressed the universal sentiment of the whole community.

To increase still more the estimation in which Rich was held, it was
ascertained that he was an excellent singer. The parish choir was in a
most wretched condition. A maiden lady, who had long been distinguished
as a singer, began to show unmistakable signs of age, and her voice
cracked. She received from the younger members sundry hints to leave.
These she took in high dugeon, and left, together with a brother and two
sisters, who were fine singers, and who espoused her quarrel. Before the
new members who were introduced upon their leaving could be drilled, the
chorister, who had made a great part of the disturbance, left town,
taking his bass-viol with him.

In this condition of things, Rich was invited to take the lead of the
choir, and accepted, established choir meetings, and soon put matters to
rights; while the refractory brother and his two sisters, finding that
they were not necessary, got over their huff, and came back.

The younger portion of the choir, ascertaining from Dan Clemens that
Rich played the violin, persuaded him to bring it to church the next
Sunday. The moment Rich drew the bow across the strings, Deacon
Starkweather got up, slamming the pew door after him, left the church,
and going into the pasture, out of sight and sound of the ungodly thing,
sat down on a stump, in a snow-storm, till he judged it was time for the
sermon to begin, when he returned, as he had no quarrel with Parson
Meek, and merely wished to show his displeasure, and enter a protest
against the fiddle. Rich, however, smoothed all asperities, and
reconciled the worthy deacon, by persuading the members of the parish
most interested in music to purchase a bass-viol, upon which he
performed to the satisfaction of all; Deacon Starkweather inviting Rich,
and all the members of the choir, to tea, when he explained to them that
he had never cherished the least hardness against any member of the
choir, but that his action was in reference to the _instrument_, and the
associations connected with that exponent of folly, and concluded with a
most generous contribution toward the purchase of the bass-viol. Thus
was the affair that at one time threatened to break up the parish most
happily settled. Rich earned the reputation of a peacemaker, and young
man of excellent judgment, and the deacon, through his device delivered
from an uncomfortable position (as his conduct by no means met with
general approbation), became the staunch friend of Rich, declaring, upon
every proper occasion, that "he was a young man that had the root of the
matter in him."

The period at which Rich began the study of medicine was the
commencement of a great revolution in medical theory and practice, both
in relation to the treatment of disease and surgery; young and earnest
men were struggling in every direction for light; new discoveries were
made, reverence for the past was gradually wearing off, and the old
theories of practice were subjected to a most searching and often
irreverent scrutiny.

Dr. Ryan by no means belonged to that class of mind sometimes designated
by the term, "The sword frets out the scabbard." On the other hand, he
was hale and hearty, possessed of a noble frame, hair slightly tinged
with gray, but ruddy cheeks, a fine set of teeth of pearly whiteness,
and a frank, hearty manner, betokening real goodness of heart.

Though possessed of very moderate abilities, the doctor was a man of
sterling worth, great integrity, and kind and sympathizing nature. He
enjoyed a large practice, being the only physician in the place. The
poor loved him, because he was ever as ready to attend to their wants as
to those of his more wealthy patients, often put shoes on the feet of a
barefooted child, and did not hesitate to bestow flannels and fuel, when
he felt that they were more necessary than medicine. The utmost
confidence was reposed in him, as his more intelligent patients, if
disposed to doubt his skill in difficult cases, knew perfectly well that
he would not hesitate a moment in calling in more competent persons,
when he felt their aid was required.

At this period the spirit of inquiry was abroad. There were rumors in
the air, and forebodings of a radical reform in medical practice.
Practitioners of the doctor's age, who were either too indolent,
prejudiced, or too far advanced in life to receive and act upon new
ideas, were by no means to be envied, being somewhat in the position of
one upon a ledge in the sea, cut off by the tide, that, constantly
rising, rendered his passing into oblivion merely a question of time.

The old physicians stigmatized these disturbers of the peace of
antiquity and their own as quacks, new lights, upstarts, and utterly
unsafe as experimenters with human life. The advocates of the improved
practice, on the other hand, were by no means backward in denouncing
their seniors as fossils, petrifactions, enemies to all progress, and
only desirous of retailing drugs at ninety per cent. profit, and
fattening the graveyards; of promoting gangrene, and needless
amputations, through their ignorance of the first principles of surgery;
multiplying cripples by malpractice and ignorance of anatomy; that they
had one mode of treatment for all disorders; and the time-honored
allusion to "Procrustes' bed" was lavishly applied to their opponents.

The good doctor, firmly wedded to the ancient practice, felt all the
animosity his genial nature permitted him to indulge in respect to the
new lights; and when he heard that a young man thoroughly impregnated
(as he could not doubt) with radical notions, was about to take the
academy, and had already commenced the study of medicine, he felt very
much as an old crower, who has walked in state, and lorded it over his
dames, might be supposed to feel when he sees a young rooster suddenly
flung down in the barn-yard, and inwardly resolved that the young
upstart should receive neither aid, comfort, nor countenance from him.




CHAPTER XV.

HOW DAN TOOK HIS MEDICINE.


While in this irritable and pugnacious temper it chanced most
fortunately that the doctor did not happen to fall in with Rich; and
when he did, being in a different state of mind, matters wore quite
another aspect.

The doctor was remarkably fond of music, and no mean performer himself
upon the clarionet. Being at meeting for the first time since the
arrival of Rich on the Sabbath when Deacon Starkweather made his exit,
he was mightily tickled with the whole proceedings; said the deacon
ought to have his head shaved, and a blister drawn on it, and was
consequently inclined to feel more kindly disposed towards Rich. While
his prejudices were thus somewhat weakened, he was introduced to the
latter by Perk, and was so much charmed with the modest appearance,
intelligence, and address of Rich, that he received him with all the
cordiality of a parent.

"This young gentleman, Mr. Perkins," said the doctor to Perk the next
morning, "is a very different person from the great majority of those
who profess to study medicine, having some respect for age and
experience, and as amendable to counsel as he is intelligent and refined
in his manners."

The doctor was not dependent upon his practice for a living, having
inherited an ample property from his grandfather. His library was large,
consisting of all the medical works then esteemed, and a complete set of
the instruments then used in this country. It is safe to say that the
doctor consulted the length of his purse in the choice of books, rather
than his mental needs, as Rich, after looking over, found a great
portion of them with the leaves still uncut, although they had been ten,
and some of them twenty, years in the doctor's possession.

Most physicians at that period were provided with more or less bones for
the study of anatomy, generally of the limbs, as they were most liable
to be broken or dislocated: very few went beyond this. Dr. Ryan,
however, had not even all these--only the bones of the lower
extremities; but the deficiency was in some manner supplied by plates
contained in the anatomical works in his library; indeed, he felt very
little interest in surgery, dreading nothing so much as being called to
set a bone, amputate a limb, or reduce a dislocation, and frequently
advised his patients to send for Dr. Slaughter, who excelled as a
surgeon.

In the course of his long practice, he had rendered many cripples for
life by sheer carelessness in bandaging limbs that had been properly
set, and once made a blunder that would have proved fatal to one less
beloved.

He was called to a man who had recently moved into the place, who was
afflicted with a tumor in his ham; the doctor, after examining, shoved
his lancet into it. To his terror and astonishment, the blood spurted in
his face; he had cut an artery! The new lights represented that he was
so frightened the patient bled to death while he sent for his
instruments. It was not so; yet not much better. The doctor clapped his
thumb on the artery, and instructed the family to arrest the blood, in
the meanwhile sent for his instruments and took up the artery; but the
coats of the artery, where he applied the ligature, being diseased,
sloughed in the night; and in a short time the ligature came away, and
the man bled to death.

It was an old false aneurism, in which so many concentric layers of
coagulum had accumulated that no pulsation could be perceived. Had the
doctor inquired into the history of it, he would have found that it had
pulsated in the past; but neglecting to do this, and unable to perceive
the throb of the artery, he mistook it for an abscess. Notwithstanding
his lack of surgical skill, he was versed in the properties and
operation of medicines, a close observer, could detect the nature of
disease, and had acquired a great amount of experimental knowledge.

He made an agreement with Rich to superintend his studies, permit him
the use of his library, with opportunities to visit patients, for thirty
dollars a year.

It was now that Rich began to realize the deep-seated affection
cherished for him by his scholars. There were many young men, the sons
of farmers, from nineteen to twenty-one, who attended the academy in the
winter term; in March they came together, and cut up the whole year's
stock of wood for Mrs. Clemens, and put it under cover, thus relieving
Rich, and affording him time for study. Dan Clemens and his mates also
performed their part in smaller matters, so that Rich had really no more
to do than sufficed for exercise.

There could not be a greater contrast than existed between Rich,
earnest, ambitious, still farther stimulated by the pressure of poverty,
and the genial old doctor, who loved a good story and a good joke, had
an abundance of this world's goods, and cared very little whether his
practice increased or decreased, so that it was not intruded upon by the
new lights.

Yet they were great friends. Rich loved the doctor, though soon made
aware of his deficiencies, and treated him with the greatest deference;
while the latter obstinately shut his eyes to the fact, often brought
to view by his fellow-physician, Dr. Slaughter, that he was nourishing a
most thorough-going radical and new light in his own bosom, although
never obtruding his heresies; for if ever there was a boy bound to go to
the root of principles, that boy was Rich.

Mrs. Clemens was a lady after the doctor's own heart. She was
intelligent, refined, benevolent, and universally esteemed. Like most
persons in delicate health, she was fond of having a physician round
her, consulted the doctor in respect to every trifling indisposition,
and was very conservative in her notions. She had one weak point, as who
has not. This was a perfect passion for reading medical works and
practising upon herself and the members of her family--a sentiment
fostered by her delicate state of health.

This rendered it quite difficult for her to keep a hired girl, for
though they liked her, and received good wages, they were not fond of
the medicines she insisted upon their taking to keep them from being
sick. Next to the Holy Scriptures, she reverenced Buchan's Domestic
Medicine,--a copy of which, elegantly bound, lay on her table beside the
Bible,--abhorred innovations in medical practice, and would much rather
have died under the hands of a regular physician than been cured by a
quack.

"Doctor," she said, one day, "how mysterious it seems, that my dear
husband, who was a great, stout, healthy man, the very picture of
health, and used to take care of me just like a baby, should be in his
grave, and I still spared!"

"Invalids, ma'am, live the longest of any people in the world."

"How can that be, doctor?"

"Because they take care of themselves."

The good lady, indeed, took excellent care of herself; but she was sadly
tried in regard to taking care of her son Dan.

Dan was a robust, red-cheeked boy, sound to the core, of fearless,
sanguine temperament, and it was the hardest work in the world for Dan
to sit on a bench and apply himself to study. Nothing but their
attachment to Rich would have induced him and his sworn friends, Ned
Baker and Frank Merrill, to attempt and accomplish it. But much as Dan
loved his mother, he did abhor medicine, and to be coddled up.

Richardson was often placed between the two horns of a dilemma, as Mrs.
Clemens invariably appealed to him when Dan proved refractory.

One morning his mother insisted that he had taken cold, and Dan as
stoutly maintained the negative.

"Daniel, you must wear your great coat to school; your face is flushed,
and I think you are feverish."

"It's always flushed, mother. I haven't one mite of cold, and I can't
stand it to wear a coat this pleasant morning."

"Yes, you must, dear; your tongue is coated. I'll ask Mr. Richardson."

But Rich, who had overheard the conversation, made a bolt for the door,
and escaped that time. In the course of an hour, Betty Gookins, the
help, came in, bringing in her hand a garment.

"Only look here, ma'am. I went to pump a pail of water, and I couldn't,
cause Dan's coat was in the pump-nose."

"O, dear, how that boy does try me! Well, I shall soon be in my grave."

But as the good lady had said the same for the last thirty years, there
was evidently hope in the case. Dan, however, was not to escape so
easily the watchful care of his mother. That night, when he came in to
supper, he was regaled with the odor of salts and senna simmering in the
corner.

"O, dear!" he said to himself; "have I got to take that awful, sickish,
nasty stuff?"

The next morning, about half an hour before school-time, Rich wanted
Dan.

"The poor child is not well, Mr. Richardson, and has gone into the
unfinished room to take some medicine. He says he can take it better if
he is alone, and nobody looking at him. I wish he didn't dislike to take
medicine so much; if it was not such a trial to him, I should give him
'picra.'"

When Rich entered the room, Dan had got up a brick in the hearth, and
was administering the salts and senna to the cross-sill beneath. He
started like a guilty thing when the door opened, but, seeing who it
was, completed his purpose.

"What are you about, Daniel?"

"Taking salts and senna, sir."

"Is that the way you always take them?"

"I never took any so before; but this is the way I mean to take them for
the future. I expect to pour gallons into this hole."

"Are you well enough to get me a big log out of the wood-pile?"

"Certainly, Mr. Richardson. I never was weller in my life."

"But your mother said yesterday that your tongue was coated."

"So it was. I had been breaking a pan of cream. Mother don't like to
have her cream disturbed after it is set. I licked the cream off my
lips, but left it on my tongue."

"I think your mother'll have the best of it if she gives you salts and
senna. She thinks highly of assafoetida, and may give you that."

"I never will take that; I'll leave home first."

The next evening, as Rich was passing through the kitchen with an armful
of wood for his evening fire, he noticed Mrs. Clemens seated before the
fire, in her lap a pair of old-fashioned kitchen bellows, on a chair
beside her a skillet full of hot coals, a roll of sheep-skin, a junk of
Burgundy pitch, and a knife. After cutting from the skin a piece of the
right size for a plaster, she placed on it a piece of the pitch, put
both on the flat side of the bellows, made the knife hot in the coals,
and spread the plaster; while Dan, with no very joyous expression of
countenance, sat awaiting the result.

"I am going to put this plaster between Daniel's shoulders, Mr.
Richardson," said she; "it is a sovereign remedy for a cold; doesn't
open the pores like a sweat, and expose one to take more cold."

The next morning the good lady declared the plaster had worked wonders;
that Daniel's cold was very much better, and would soon be well.

"Perhaps I had better take it off, my son, wipe it, and wipe the
perspiration from your back. The plaster will draw better, and it will
prevent its itching and annoying you in school."

"O, no, mother; I shall be late. It don't itch one mite."

And he rushed from the house.

"It is very singular," replied his mother, looking after him, "_my_
plasters always itch, and are very troublesome. I think they don't do
much good except they itch."

Mrs. Clemens would have been less surprised had she known that the
plaster began to itch the moment Dan was warm in bed. After enduring it
awhile, he pulled it off and tucked it up chimney. So he told Frank
Merrill, with whom, on the way to school, he shared some guava jelly
given him by his mother, after taking the salts and senna, to take the
taste out of his mouth.




CHAPTER XVI.

PERIL OF BEING OUT EVENINGS.


Directly upon commencing the study of anatomy, Rich began to feel the
need of something more than the plates contained in the books.

It was some distance to go, for the study of bones, to the doctor's
house, and he wanted something that he could keep in his room, and have
at hand to refer to; besides, the doctor had none of the bones of the
trunk--only the skull and part of the limbs. He likewise wished to
dissect and study muscles, tendons, the structure of skin, bone, veins,
arteries, and internal organs, in their natural state, since for him to
procure a human subject was at that time out of the question, as he was
without means to purchase even a skeleton.

In these circumstances he conceived that much might be learned by a
careful study and dissection of the bodies of animals in connection with
the plates found in the books.

Mr. Clemens, the husband of Rich's landlady, owned and worked a large
breadth of land, which necessitated the keeping of many horses, as he
did all his farm work with horses; but after his decease the greater
part of the land, and all the horses except one, were sold. On the lower
floor of the stable was a small room, once devoted to storing and oiling
harnesses, in which was a fireplace, and at one corner, a large closet
without shelves, and very broad, where the more valuable riding
harnesses, not in constant use, were hung, to defend them from dust.
There were also some harness-maker's tools, old straps, thorough-braces,
and a large leather boot, that had survived the vehicle to which it was
once attached.

Fire-wood in those days was made but small account of, especially by
Mrs. Clemens, who could not consume half of the decaying and downwood on
her land.

"Mrs. Clemens," said Rich, "are you willing I should clear out the old
harness-room, and make a fire there occasionally?"

"What for, Mr. Richardson? If you want more room in the house you can
have it. It will certainly be more comfortable than the barn; besides, I
am afraid you will take cold."

"Indeed, Mrs. Clemens, I need not hesitate to tell a lady of your
respect for and appreciation of the medical profession, that as I
proceed in my studies, I shall want to dissect and experiment upon the
bodies of animals. You know that, although the courts and the community
are ever ready to prosecute a physician to the extent of the law for a
mistake in setting a bone, they throw every obstacle in the way of his
obtaining any accurate knowledge of the machine he is expected to
repair." The law in respect to this matter was more stringent then than
at present.

"But, Mr. Richardson, if you should lose a mother, sister, or dear
friend,--Mr. Perkins, for instance,--and had placed them in the earth,
with all the respect nature dictates, could you bear to feel that they
were taken from the grave, exposed upon a table, and cut to pieces by
students smoking cigars, and laughing, and jesting, as though to fit and
harden them for their profession by driving every spark of feeling and
humanity out of their bosoms?"

"No, I could not. I don't believe, however, that there is the least
necessity of this hardening process you have referred to; if I believed
that, by devoting myself to the study of medicine, I should lose one
particle of kindly feeling that I now possess, should harden my heart
and curtail my sympathies, or change in any respect, except in obtaining
self-command that I might discharge more efficiently my duty, I would
relinquish study and go back to the anvil to-morrow. If a doctor is
rough and unfeeling, it is to be attributed to his natural temper, and
want of culture, not to his profession."

"Then I suppose you are just the one who ought to be a doctor, though I
think it is strange that you should choose that profession. As I was
telling Mrs. Merrill the other day, I observed you was so sensitive you
never _could_ do some of those dreadful things doctors were obliged to
perform. But as for the harness-room, you may do whatever you like with
it; there's a padlock in the house belongs to the outside door, and a
key to the lock on the closet. If there is anything there worth saving,
put it in the loft, and any old rubbish you can burn up."

"But the wood, I will pay for that."

"By no means, there's wood enough."

After clearing out the place, and cleansing it thoroughly, Rich made a
table, and put iron rings into it, in order that he might fasten any
animal that he wished to operate upon. He then procured buckles and
waxed ends, and from the boot of the old chaise made straps of different
lengths for the same purpose, and put a lock on the door in lieu of the
padlock. As the stern, patient smith of the wilderness, amid the
melancholy moan of pine forests, and the roar of the stream, wrought out
by sheer pluck and perseverance, a mechanical trade, so his earnest
grandson, completely absorbed in his chosen pursuit, strove to verify,
by experiment upon the bodies of such animals as he could procure, the
theories he studied.

In short, under the intoxication of a dominant impulse, he did things
that, had they come to the knowledge of Mrs. Clemens, she would no
longer have doubted of his adaptedness to the medical profession on the
score of sensitiveness; so impervious to emotion in certain directions
will an absorbing idea render a person otherwise most impressible.

He dissected frogs to observe the muscles of the thigh, and irritated
the muscular tissue of animals, thus creating inflammation, in order to
watch its progress. Though there are striking differences between the
composition of man and the animal, still there is correspondence enough
to admit of much being learned; and in default of a human subject, he
resorted to this method, as his grandfather, unable to procure an anvil,
made a stone answer the purpose. The lungs of a hog are very similar to
those of a man, and he found no difficulty in procuring these. If a
stray dog came along, he was most kindly welcomed by Rich; but it was
observed that no stray dog, having once entered Mrs. Clemens's yard, was
ever seen to come out again.

Marvelous was the industry of Rich, only equalled by his ingenuity. He
soon had the large closet in the stable filled to overflowing with the
skeletons of various animals he had dissected and wired together with
great skill. He was much attached to Dan, who procured him animals to
operate upon, while he, in turn mounted birds and squirrels for Dan--a
matter in which Rich was very skilful.

He had been for a long time desirous of examining the structure of the
eye, but could not procure a suitable subject. Mrs. Clemens possessed a
cat of beautiful color and proportions, affectionate disposition,
intelligent, and perfectly trained. Between this member of the family
and Dan the affections of the good lady were about equally divided.
When, as occasionally happened, Gertrude was unwell, the good lady was
at her wits' end, as she would have nothing from Buchan, and eschewed
Burgundy pitch plasters, salts, and senna. Indeed, she had much rather
Dan would be sick, than Gertrude, for she knew what to do for Dan, while
Gertrude would have nothing but catnip. At every meal she sat beside
Mrs. Clemens in a high chair, and never offered to take anything from
the table, waiting the leisure of her mistress. Dan also loved Gertrude
dearly, and had taught her a great many tricks. Rich likewise conceived
a fondness for the cat, being naturally fond of pets.

Gertrude was exceedingly social in her disposition, rejoiced in a
numerous circle of friends, and was not in the least stuck up.

There was a large Thomas cat--an enormous creature--that often came to
call upon Gertrude, in a friendly way, and spend a sociable evening.
Silver-gray along the back, annular stripes on the tail, white feet,
snow-white breast, large, lustrous, prominent eyes, and a magnificent
pair of _whiskers_; in short, this Thomas cat was a splendid creature,
and, as Rich thought, would afford him, if in his possession, an
excellent opportunity to observe the structure of the eye. Dan, Frank
Merrill, and Horace Williams, did their best to take the creature, dead
or alive, but in vain.

A door opened from the wood-shed into the stable, and a passage was left
to this door in piling the wood that was tiered up on either side to the
height of five, and on one side seven, feet. Several times the boys had
got the Thomas cat in this passage; but the wily creature either went
over the top of the wood, or ran through a small hole beside the door,
that it would seem no cat _could_ get through. Rich nailed the mouth of
a meal-bag to this hole on the stable side, and placed a board on the
other, ready to put up to prevent the cat's return.

One Wednesday Horace Williams came over to spend the afternoon and take
tea with Dan. Just before the tea hour, Dan, coming in, whispered to
Rich, "The cat's in the passage. I can see his eyes shine just like
balls of fire." Armed with sticks of wood, they approached the end of
the passage, gave a fearful howl and let the wood fly; the globes of
fire vanished, and they knew by the sound the cat had not gone over the
wood-pile.

"He's in the bag, I know," said Dan. "I heard him squeeze through the
hole. O, crimini!" and he ran to put up the piece of board. Rich and
Horace lost no time in putting a string round the bag in which the cat
was struggling, tearing it from the hole, and immersing it in a tub of
water. Just as the struggling ceased the bell rang for supper, and
flinging the bag and its contents into a horse-stall to drip and dry,
they sat down to eat.

Dan sat on his mother's right hand, next to him Horace, and on her left
was Gertrude's high chair; but it was empty.

"Where can Gertrude be?" said Mrs. Clemens, after pouring out the tea;
"for seven years she has never before been absent from my side at meals
unless sick."

A fearful suspicion crossed the mind of Rich, and catching the eye of
Dan, he saw that he was similarly affected.

Hastening to the stable when the meal was over, with a light, they
turned out the contents of the bag, and lo! it was poor Gertrude, that
in the dark they had mistaken for the Thomas cat and drowned. Rich was
very much distressed; so was Dan, as, aside from his sorrow for his
mother, the cat was a favorite pet of his, and had grown up with him.

Placing the dead body of Gertrude upon the dissecting table, they locked
the door for consultation. At first they thought of owning up, but
finally concluded to keep the secret, and, as long as she was dead,
thought they might as well make the remains of some advantage to
science. Richardson possessed already one skeleton of a cat, and only
cared for the eyes. Dan therefore persuaded him to mount Gertrude for
him. This Rich did, making a small incision, turning the body through
it, and replacing the skull and leg bones, after removing the brains and
flesh, supplying the rest of the skeleton, so far as was needed, with
wire.

Having already mounted several birds for Dan, he made a tree, put the
birds in the branches, and having furnished Gertrude with eyes of
colored glass, placed her under the tree in a natural attitude, as
though watching a squirrel, the wire in the limbs enabling him to bend
them in any direction. A red squirrel was also placed half way up the
tree, as though alarmed by the cat. Dan was delighted, and thought he
had much rather have his pet dead than alive.

All these operations were performed with closed doors, and the birds and
animals placed under lock and key in the closet.

Mrs. Clemens mourned for her cat, and refused to be comforted.
Gertrude's empty chair was always placed beside her; at table she often
recounted the virtues of the departed, considered and spoke of the event
as one of those mysterious dispensations of Providence, to which,
though we cannot fathom, it is our duty to submit.

"I do wish my mother would bury that cat," said Dan. "I'm sick and tired
of hearing about her--should think she might pick up another kitten."

Month after month passed, and still Mrs. Clemens mourned the loss of her
pet. At the expiration of this period, Fred Evans, a cousin of Dan, came
to visit him. One afternoon Dan persuaded Rich to put all the things on
the table, make a grand show, and let Fred see them. To this Rich
consented; the door was locked, and Fred sworn to secrecy.

On the table was placed the tree set in a block, with birds in its
branches; half way up the trunk a red squirrel looking down and
chattering at the cat, crouched at the roots as in act to spring.

Disposed around the tree that occupied the centre were the skeletons of
various animals, wired together, and in an upright position, fastened to
blocks--rabbits, dogs, a cat, wood-chuck, rooster, and pig. The tree was
formed with great ingenuity, by placing a real branch in a thick block
of pine, carving the spur roots from the substance of the block, and
covering with moss, dried leaves, and twigs, confined with glue, while
Gertrude, seated on the moss, seemed actually alive.

Horace Williams was invited, being already in the secret, to help
entertain Fred, and as an intimate friend of Dan.

Rich wanted a shingle to put under one leg of the table, the floor being
uneven, and sent Horace after it, who forgot to lock the door at his
return.

Mrs. Clemens, having occasion for Dan, and not finding him in the house
or yard, sought him in the harness-room, where she knew he spent much of
his leisure time.

Opening the door upon the startled group, the first object that arrested
her attention was the long lost and bitterly lamented Gertrude, as she
verily thought, alive, and in the act of springing upon a squirrel.
Exclaiming, "Gertrude! _my_ Gertrude! where have you been?" she clasped
the effigy to her breast. Alas! there was no answering caress; there was
no "speculation" in those eyes of stained glass, and the dried skin
rattled in her fond embrace. It was a _stuffed_ cat. "What does this
mean?" she cried, permitting the imposture to drop on the floor,
thoroughly overcome and faint with this sudden blasting of new-born
hopes. She would have fallen to the floor; but Rich and Dan conveyed her
to the house, where, after seeing her safely placed in the easy-chair,
Rich took to flight, feeling that _Dan_ could settle the affair far
better than himself.

[Illustration: "GERTRUDE! MY GERTRUDE!" Page 190.]

It required all Dan's eloquence and power of argument to convince his
mother that Gertrude was killed by mistake.

"But why did you not tell me at once, Daniel, that I might have had her
properly interred, instead of making an exhibition of the remains?"

Dan at length convinced his mother that it was his affection for
Gertrude that led him to take this method of keeping her in remembrance.
But never after this did Mrs. Clemens deem Rich unfitted for his
profession by over-sensitiveness.




CHAPTER XVII.

THE YOUNG SAMARITANS.


Richardson, who had thus far performed his operations upon animals with
a common pocket-knife, a carpenter's fine saw, and some instruments he
made in the shop of the village blacksmith,--making sleight of hand and
mechanical skill supply the place of suitable tools,--was now able to
purchase a pocket case of surgical instruments, that economized time,
and greatly facilitated his labors. They were also of a better pattern
than those he at times borrowed of the doctor.

Instead of going home in the vacations, he devoted the leisure afforded
by the close of the academy to medical studies and experiments.

"Mr. Richardson," said the doctor, one day, after they had been enjoying
a sing together, "it seems strange to me that you are not more inclined
to go with me to visit patients. It is the very thing you need,
especially when bones are to be set, or dislocations reduced. It is only
occasionally that you go."

"Indeed, doctor, I hope you will not feel that I do not appreciate your
kindness in so often inviting me, or that I am not sensible of the
benefit to be thus obtained; but I look at it in this light, which
perhaps is not the right one. I am young enough, and do not intend to
commence practice till thoroughly fitted; and it seems to me there can
be no correct practice without a thorough knowledge of first principles,
and that the practice should be based upon, and grow out of, that
knowledge.

"I have therefore resolved that I would, while here, endeavor to attain
a knowledge of principles; operating, as I go along, on animals; going
with you occasionally; economizing my means; and by and by attend
lectures at Brunswick, or some place where I shall have ample
opportunity for dissection, or go somewhere for hospital practice."

"I think you are correct there; but still I feel that you might, without
neglecting your studies, obtain a great deal more practical knowledge as
you go along, and that it would be time excellently well spent; for the
human body, and not that of the animal, is the one you will have to deal
with, and all you can learn from the brute will be only an approach,
require to be modified a great deal, and much of it won't apply in
actual practice."

"I have not the least doubt, doctor, but the course you advise is the
best, but in my circumstances I cannot avail myself of it.

"Perhaps it would come with a better grace from some one else, but the
people in this town have expressed great attachment to me, and estimate
me far above my deserts. Now, if I should go much with you to visit
patients, bleed, and pull teeth, and reduce dislocations, as you would
have me, every academy scholar who wanted a tooth pulled, or a gum-boil
lanced, would be running to me, because they would think I should not
hurt them so much as you.

"People who wanted a sore opened, others, who are personally attached to
me, would come for slight complaints. Many persons who are ashamed to
send for you, because they owe you, would think, 'Perhaps Mr. Richardson
will do just as well; he's been studying a good while with the doctor.'
And thus all my time would be frittered away, and nothing to show for
it."

The doctor broke into a hearty laugh, and said, "I will yield the point,
Mr. Richardson. I must acknowledge you have made out a strong case."

"That is the way I look at it. I am wheeling two wheelbarrows
now,--studying medicine, and teaching,--and I don't mean to wheel
three."

At the close of a long, hot day, the latter part of May, Clement
Richardson and his brother, wearied with toil, were seated, one on the
anvil, the other on the forge.

Somewhat more than a year had passed since their misfortune. During
that period their condition had very much improved, owing to the
following circumstance. Cast steel had been introduced, but only a few
smiths in the country were able to use it.

More care and judgment were required in working it than the old
material, and the aid of borax was necessary to weld it with iron. The
old smiths around Richardson would have nothing to do with "the
new-fangled stuff," stuck to blistered steel and a sand weld.

But Clement Richardson belonged to a race ever open to new ideas, and
perceived at a glance the value of the new metal. He had seen his father
use borax to braze the threads of his vice, as also saw plates, and soon
learned to use the steel, and consequently monopolized all the work in
his vicinity. For there is no comparison between blistered and cast
steel for an edge tool.

Their business, however, received a still greater impulse about a month
before the period to which we refer. There had been little improvement
in farming tools in that vicinity; the old iron pitch and manure forks
were everywhere used. Clement Richardson went to Massachusetts to buy
steel and iron, and there saw a patent spring steel pitchfork. He came
home, and made forks with an improvement that did not infringe on the
patent, and the operation proved very profitable.

"Clem," said Robert, "our year during which we were to have this shop
free will soon be out. What say you for buying the old homestead back?
We can pay a few hundred down, give a mortgage back, and what we should
pay for rent will go towards shrinking the debt."

"The rent of the shop won't be much, Robert, and you know we were to
have the rent of the house free from the time of occupancy. Suppose we
wait till then."

"What if Montague should sell it over our heads?"

"I'll speak to him, and get the refusal of it."

When the brothers got home, they found a letter from Rich, containing a
portion of his hard earnings, that he had sent to aid his parents. His
father, however, sent the money back, informing Rich of the success of
the new forks, and telling him they were getting money much faster than
he was.

Waiting till his wages for the next term fell due, Rich expended the
whole in the purchase of books more modern than those found in the
collection of his patron, and containing principles the latter would by
no means have approved.

Rich was seated in his room, earnestly engaged in study, when he was
roused by a great rumpus on the stairs. In a moment the door was flung
violently open, and Dan and Frank Merrill rushed into the room.

Dan had evidently been crying, for the tears stood in his eyes then,
and Frank was not far from it.

"Excuse us, Mr. Richardson, for coming in so, but--"

"But you couldn't help it. What is the matter?"

"O, Mr. Richardson, don't you think! Frank, and Horace, and me were
going down to the river, to go in swimming, and there was Ned Baker,
Clinton Blanchard, and a whole lot of boys, had got his dog Rover, the
prettiest dog you ever did see, and they'd got a rope round his neck,
and were going to drown him."

"What were they going to drown him for?"

"Because they were at play with him, and pushed him under a cart; the
wheel went over his hind leg, and ground it all up."

"You don't know how pitiful he looked, Mr. Richardson," said Merrill;
"there they were, dragging him along on three legs, his broken leg
hanging down, and he whining enough to break your heart. I never will
like Clin Blanchard after this, to treat his dog so, that he pretended
to love so much! I think it's real mean."

"So we got 'em to give him to us," said Dan; "and we've brought him to
you, Mr. Richardson, for you to doctor him, and make him well. Will you,
Mr. Richardson? Don't kill him. O, don't, please don't. You won't kill
him; will you?"

And Dan, who was as noble-hearted a boy as the sun ever shone upon,
could hold in no longer, and burst into tears.

"I am not so bloodthirsty as you may suppose," said Rich, half offended
at the implied distrust.

"I didn't mean that, Mr. Richardson. We all love you, and know you are
just as kind and good as can be. But--"

"But you know I like to experiment upon animals. Well, I'll do all I can
for Rover, just as though he was my brother. So don't cry any more.
Where is he?"

"Horace has got him at the door."

Rover indeed presented a sorry sight. His tongue was hanging out of his
mouth, the broken leg hung dangling, covered with dust and blood. He
whined piteously when any one even looked at it, appeared frightened,
the water ran from his eyes, and he from time to time looked up
beseechingly in the face of Horace, who held him by the collar.

"Poor fellow! he's crying," said Frank; and with his handkerchief he
wiped the tears from his eyes. "I suppose his leg hurts him."

"Give him some water," said Rich.

The dog drank eagerly, and seemed revived.

"Now give him something to eat."

He ate but sparingly, and, evidently feeling assured, wagged his tail in
acknowledgment.

"See how grateful he is," said Horace.

"He knows he's among friends," replied Rich.

"Better kill him at once," said Mrs. Clemens, "and put him out of
misery. He will die."

"Kill him!" howled Dan; "kill him! O, mother, I shouldn't think you
would talk so. He's worth forty old cats. We're going to make him get
well. What's the use of studying so much to be a doctor, if you can't
help anybody?"

"Well spoken, Dan," said Rich. "Take him to the barn."

Rich cut off the leg of one of Dan's old boots, and drew it over Rover's
nose, to prevent him from biting them. They placed him on the table, and
strapped him down.

"Boys," he said, after examination, "this is a compound fracture. The
bones of the foot are all ground up, the skin broken, and the muscles
bruised, and filled with gravel. The limb can't be set; it will rot off,
this warm weather, before it will heal. The only way to save him is to
amputate below the hock, and save the hock joint. Which would you
prefer, kill him, let him alone to die himself, or amputate, and have a
dog with three legs?"

The boys were a unit in favor of amputation. He therefore, having
previously instructed his young assistants in what manner to hold the
arteries and the limb, took it off, and tied the blood-vessels, sponged
and bound up the wound.

Dan made him a bed by putting some straw in a corner, and covering it
with a horse blanket, and, cutting some wide leather straps from the old
chaise boot, they fastened him in such a manner that he could not move
to his own injury. Rover whined terribly during the operation, but when
it was finished, and the leg bound up in cold water, he became quiet,
licked Dan's fingers when he took off the muzzle, and wagged his tail,
no doubt sensible that he was handled gently, and that no harm was
intended.

Dan got his mother to make a pillow-case. He stuffed it with chaff, and
placed the wounded leg on it to keep it up (as it was shorter than the
other), and make Rover as comfortable as possible. They then patted him,
told him to lie still, and leaving the stable, got their lessons
together in Dan's house.

When Dan got up the next morning, he found, sitting on the door-step, a
little dog. His eyes were so bright they sparkled; and his back was
black, also his ears and head; there was a ring of white around his
neck, and his breast, legs, and feet were white. The black was jet
black, and the white as white as white could be; his tail was black, and
curled up so crisp over his back that it seemed as though it would lift
him up behind; looking, with his erect, sharp-pointed ears, and fine,
glossy coat, as though he came right out of a bandbox.

Dan recognized him in a moment, and running to Rich, told him "that
Carlo--Ned Baker's dog, who lived in the next house to Clinton
Blanchard, Rover's former master--was sitting on the door-step, and he
didn't believe but he had come to see Rover, for they had been great
friends, always playing together, and there were never two dogs agreed
as well as they."

When they went to the door, Carlo was scratching and whining at the
stable door, and Rover whining within. They let him into the
harness-room, when Carlo jumped on his friend's bed, licked his face,
licked the stump of his leg, and smelt him all over. Rover licked
Carlo's face in return, wagged his tail, and seemed delighted.

The new comer then rolled himself into a ball, and lay down at Rover's
nose, shutting first one eye, and then the other, as though he would
say, "I have come to spend the day, and I _mean_ to."

"That is capital," said Rich. "He has come on a visit of consolation.
The patient will recover a great deal faster for having him here."

The two dogs took their breakfast together, and great was the surprise
of Horace and Frank when they called, on their way to school, to know
how Rover did, and found Carlo nursing him.

Another boy afterwards told them, "that when he first got up in the
morning, he saw Carlo running along the road, with his nose to the
ground." It was evident that, missing his companion, he had scented the
track, and followed on till he found him.

About the middle of the afternoon Carlo went home; but at seven o'clock
the next morning he returned, accompanied by three more dogs; one a
great Newfoundland--Neptune. They all went up and smelt of Rover, sat
round a while, and then disappeared, one after another, Carlo remaining,
as before.

"I suppose," said Dan, "he went and saw all these dogs, told them what
had happened to Rover, and so they came to see him."

The patient recovered rapidly; the stump healed, the ligatures came
away, and it was evident the ends of the bones were well covered. Rich
permitted both the dogs to lick it, which hastened the process of
healing very much. Dr. Ryan came to see it, had a hearty laugh,
congratulated Rich upon his success in this maiden effort, the fine
appearance of the stump, and told him "He ought to give his patient a
wooden leg."

Rover was now permitted to get up. The boys washed him with soap suds,
rubbed him dry, and permitted him to walk out every day, and lie in the
sun, on the grass. He was a beautiful dog--a spaniel, with a fine silky
coat.

Carlo frisked around, barked, lay on his back, rolled over, and
expressed his joy in every imaginable way.

Rover soon began to run about the yard, and follow Dan round the
premises, going (till he became tired) as well on three legs as four.
One noon, Dan came home from school, and found neither of the dogs at
home. He was greatly disturbed, for Rover had now become very dear to
him.

"I expect," said Mrs. Clemens, "he has gone back to his old home and
master."

"Mother, I don't believe Rover is such a fool as that. Go back to the
fellow who was going to murder him! I know he loves me better than
that."

"I guess," said Rich, "he has gone to return some of the calls that have
been made on him." So it proved. For when Dan came home at night, both
dogs had returned, bringing two more with them.

Mrs. Clemens gradually became attached to Rover, till at length he
completely won her heart, and filled the void left by the loss of
Gertrude.

The boys were apprehensive that other dogs would pick upon Rover, now
that he was disabled, and no longer able to defend himself or make his
escape; but it was just the reverse. He found the warmest sympathy
everywhere. When, in company with other dogs, he became tired and fell
behind, they would stop and wait for him to come up; and if any strange
dog had imposed upon Rover, they would have torn him to pieces in a
moment.

Rich made him a wooden leg, carved to match one of his own. At first he
held it up altogether, but after a while would use it to stand upon,
and put it down when he became tired, and walk a little; then hold it
up and run. He soon found that by its aid he could jump up on Dan.

It improved his looks wonderfully, as it prevented his hip from
dropping, and Dan said "that he always wanted it on when they or he had
company." Rover was a water spaniel, and Dan had to take the leg off
when he went into the water, as it buoyed up his hinder parts, and
interfered with swimming.




CHAPTER XVIII.

DAN WANTS TO KNOW HIMSELF.


Dan Clemens had taken at the first very little interest in the peculiar
studies and experiments of his teacher; indeed, they were to him, a
kindly-affectionate boy, rather revolting; but after the successful
operation upon Rover, his feelings underwent a complete change; he was
enraptured with the skill, firmness, and tender feeling manifested by
Rich, spent a great deal of time at the dissecting table, and manifested
a strong desire to obtain, at least, some general knowledge in respect
to the mechanism of his own frame.

One evening he was seated in the harness-room, watching Rich, who was
examining the stump of Rover's leg, that had become sore from the
pressure of the wooden substitute, and devising some way to remedy it,
when he suddenly exclaimed,--

"Mr. Richardson, how do they cut off a man's leg?"

"Very much as I did that dog's; only they use a tourniquet to compress
the vessels and stop the circulation, then cut through the flesh, saw
off the bones, and put ligatures on the ends of the arteries."

"What is it makes the great difference between the arteries and the
veins, so that folks say, if you cut an artery, you'll bleed to death in
no time. But they never speak so about veins; it's always arteries."

"I can't explain it to you, without telling you something about the
heart, to start with."

"Well, tell me. O, do tell me, please."

"You saw the hog's heart I had the other day. Do you remember how it
looked?"

"It looked something like an egg little end up."

"Well, a hog's heart is very much like a man's, so that one will do to
represent the other. You noticed that it was smooth, and stood out about
its whole bigness clear from everything, except at the base, where it
joined the body?"

"Yes, sir."

"On each side of the base are two appendages, wrinkled, and shaped like
an ear, denoting cavities within called from them the auricles, and into
these cavities run several tubes that connect them to the parts
adjacent. They are called auricles because they look so much like an
ear."

"I know what they are. I saw the butcher cut them off, when he trimmed
our hog's harslet: he called them deaf ears, and said they were poison."

"The heart is a hollow muscle, that contracts and dilates with great
force. It is not dependent upon the will, but operates in virtue of a
natural law. Through the middle of the heart, from the base to the
summit, runs a partition, leaving a chamber on each side, between which
there is no direct communication: they are distinguished by the terms
right and left auricles. In addition to this, there is a cross parting
on each side, thus making four chambers, the two upper retaining the
name of auricles, the two lower denominated ventricles.

"I will now explain to you the use of all this. The right auricle opens
into the large trunk vein of the body, that, in connection with the
others, brings back the blood from the extremities, after the arteries
have distributed it. It has also another opening into the right
ventricle below it. The auricle on the other side of the partition (the
left) is pierced by four veins that enter the lungs, called pulmonary
veins, and also by another passage communicates with the ventricle
beneath it. Now let us talk about ventricles. The right ventricle is
entered by the great pulmonary artery that carries all the blood in the
body through the lungs. The left ventricle is penetrated by the great
artery, called the great aorta. In each of these cross partitions, there
are valves that will permit blood to pass from the auricles into the
ventricles, but not to return. There are also valves at the roots of the
arteries that permit the blood to go from the heart into the arteries,
but not to return. There are no valves at the roots of the veins that
enter the auricles, nothing to obstruct the flowing of the blood from
them into the auricles. Thus the roots of the veins arise from the
auricles, and the roots of the arteries from the ventricles. Do you
understand this description, because it is the foundation of all that
follows--understand what a valve is?"

"Yes, sir; the clapper in our pump-box is a valve; it lets the water
come up out of the well into the pump, but it won't let a drop go back."

"Well said; just so the valves in the partings of the heart permit the
blood to pass from the auricles into the ventricles, but not to go back;
thus, also, the valves placed at the roots of the arteries permit the
passage of the blood from the ventricles into the arteries, but not the
return of it to the heart. Do you understand this?"

"Yes, sir."

To make it more evident, Rich drew the heart, the veins, and the
arteries entering it, with chalk, and the main branches of both.

"Now let us, for the clearer perception of what you wish to know,
consider the march of the blood: and we might as well begin at the heart
as anywhere."

"I think I can understand it better to commence there."

"From the right ventricle of the heart, springs the pulmonary artery,
which, separating into several branches, some of them not larger than
hairs, carries the blood into all portions of the lungs, where they
communicate with the terminations of the pulmonary veins, which,
receiving the blood from the arteries, bring it back to the left
auricle, uniting, as they approach the heart, into four large veins,
called the pulmonary veins. From the left ventricle rises the main
artery (or great aorta), which, receiving all the blood of the body
poured into it by the pulmonary veins, distributes it over the trunk and
limbs, branching in every direction, the divisions gradually becoming
smaller and smaller as they approach the extremities: here they
communicate with the extremities of the veins which bring back the blood
to the right auricle. So much for the aqueducts; now we will look at the
action of the force-pump itself. The heart is a hollow muscle. All the
valves and division walls we have been talking about are muscular in
their texture, and moved by a network of muscles and minute tendons,
tough and elastic, like the gizzard of a fowl, and capable of
contraction and expansion. We will suppose the right auricle to be full
of blood that has been brought by the veins from the fingers, toes, the
substance of the heart itself, the lungs, and the liver, and poured into
it. This blood is dark-colored; called black blood. It has washed the
whole body. The instant it enters the auricle, that organ contracts and
forces it into the ventricle below it; the valve holds it there: then
the ventricle contracts and forces it into the pulmonary artery; the
valve of the artery holds it there: the auricle expands, fills, again
contracts, fills the ventricle, that, in its turn, forces the blood into
the artery, and thus, by successive leaps, it passes into and through
the lungs, enters the pulmonary veins, and is by them brought back to
the left auricle. It is now no longer black blood, but bright, red,
arterial blood: before it was venous."

"What makes it red?"

"I don't know. It is supposed by being brought in contact with the air
in the cells of the lungs. When the auricle receives this red blood, it
contracts, forces it into the left ventricle beneath, then the ventricle
in its turn contracts, forces it into the main artery, and by this and
its branches it is carried to the extremities, to come back in one
continual round, as long as life lasts. It _is_ life; for the moment the
heart ceases to contract and dilate, insensibility takes place, and
death instantly follows."

"It seems to me that the left side of the heart has a great deal more
work to do than the right, for the left has to force the blood into the
main artery, and all over the body, to the toes, the fingers, the brain:
but the right ventricle only has to force it through the lungs that are
close by, touch the heart, and it is a short route."

"True, and for this reason, the muscles of the left ventricle, which
force the red blood of the great circulation through the main artery,
are much more numerous and stronger than those of the right, which has
so much less work to perform. It is the powerful contraction of the
muscles of the left ventricle, causing the point of the heart to strike
the fifth or sixth rib, that creates the throb you can feel; they exert
power enough to send all the blood of the body through the heart
twenty-three times in an hour."

"I had no idea matters were going ahead inside of me at that rate."

"You must bear in mind that I have described these things separately,
but in the order of nature, it is quite another matter. The red blood
from the lungs arrives at the left, and the black blood from the veins
at the right auricle at the same instant; both auricles contract at
once, and force the blood into their respective ventricles; both
ventricles contract together and force the blood into the arteries; and
thus it goes on in a person of the feeblest pulse; these alternate
motions occupy, when in a state of health, but a second; the pulse at
your wrist is the throb of the artery, the stroke of the heart. What do
you suppose now is the force of that stroke, when the left ventricle
contracts?"

"I'm sure I don't know."

"Well, the blood has been known to spurt more than five feet from the
artery of the neck (carotid) when first cut. You see, now, why it is so
dangerous to wound a large artery: the blood spurts at every stroke of
the heart, while in the veins there is no such pressure or direct
connection; besides, as the veins are designed not to carry the blood
from the heart, but to bring it back, they are also furnished with
numerous valves that favor the flow of blood towards the heart, but not
from it."

"There is one thing I can't understand. When a man's leg is cut off, all
the arteries and veins cut, how does the blood get back to the heart
when the ends of the arteries are tied, and there is no communication
between them and the veins?"

"By a provision of nature, there are many minute twigs and branches
given off by the arteries all along their course, scarcely observable
when the circulation is in its normal state, that are connected with
veins equally small; those become enlarged by pressure, and renew the
connection."

"It seems to me, Mr. Richardson, that the heart is like two pumps in two
wells, side by side, only one throws a bigger stream than the other, and
with more force."

"Ay, Daniel; but your mother's pump bears no comparison to the heart.
During the time I have been with her, the spear has worn off, the boxes
have been new leathered, and the cracks in the pump that sucked air have
been covered with putty and lead; but _this_ pump runs eighty, and
sometimes a hundred years without the pause of a second."

"Why don't the muscles of the heart get tired, just as my legs do, and
want to rest?"

"They do rest, and just as long as they work; rest a second, and work a
second, day and night. The other muscles are in a state of tension all
day, and then rest at night."

"Well, I mean to know how I am made up, before I am much older."




CHAPTER XIX.

DAN TRAPS LARGE GAME.


The industry of Rich was something remarkable. He was well fed, his work
for Mrs. Clemens gave him abundant exercise, and kept him in vigorous
health, and the habit of thorough study he had performed in college
enabled him to make rapid progress.

In connection with the study of text-books he had performed a great
number of operations upon animals, obtained practice in the use of
instruments, and now felt disposed to comply, to a certain extent, with
the doctor's advice in respect to actual practice. It was not long
before an opportunity offered.

Dan Clemens had the toothache, and in spite of all the remedies his
mother applied,--and they were by no means few in number--laudanum,
gunpowder, pepper, cloves, the stem of a pumpkin smoked in a pipe, hot
salt, camphor, and new rum,--was half crazy with it.

"Mr. Richardson," said Dan, "will you please pull my tooth? I don't want
to go to Dr. Ryan. I know he'll hurt me awfully."

"Nobody can pull a tooth, Daniel, without inflicting pain. They are
designed to stay in--the second crop."

"But you won't hurt me as much as he will. He won't care if he does hurt
me. Besides, you haven't got such an awful-looking thing to pull 'em
with as his is." Rich had purchased, with his other instruments, forceps
of a modern pattern, while the doctor used the huge old corkscrew
instruments. "Do, please, Mr. Richardson. I won't tell anybody; so you
won't have your time taken up by boys running to you."

Rich put the instrument on the tooth Dan indicated, and took it out in a
moment. Dan gave a fearful yell, and ran to the fire-place.

"I told you it would hurt you."

"I don't care. Dr. Ryan would have hurt me more."

Notwithstanding Dan's promise of secrecy, it got wind somehow, and Rich
soon had considerable practice of that kind. But, as he had now made
good progress in study, and the money was very acceptable, he became
reconciled to it.

An opportunity was soon after this presented that Rich did not fail to
improve. The people of the neighborhood were engaged in hauling a barn,
and a young man, in attempting to fling a skid under the building while
in motion, received a compound fracture of the thigh. Dr. Ryan was
called. He sent for Dr. Slaughter, and took Rich with him, who required
no solicitation, as it was the first opportunity he had enjoyed of
witnessing an important operation.

The limb was taken off some distance above the knee, leaving that joint
entire, it having escaped injury by being pressed into the mud. Weary of
dissecting animals, Rich longed to obtain this limb. There it lay, a
well-developed leg and part of the thigh of a young man. He took it in
his hands after the operation was performed, and gloated over it as an
antiquarian over a rare coin. His fingers itched, and he felt an intense
desire to possess it.

"Dr. Ryan," he whispered, "won't you ask for this leg, and then give it
to me?"

"It would be of no use, Mr. Richardson; they would think the leg must be
buried, or the man would not do well. It would cost me my practice. They
are that superstitious. But if I were you, I would find out where they
bury it, and dig it up to-night."

The doctor took up the limb, and carrying it into the kitchen, said,
"This leg must be put in a box and buried."

"That it must," replied the father of the young man; "for I've heard
say, ever since I can remember, if a dog or any critter got hold of any
part of a person what had been cut off, that person would feel it just
as though the limb was still on."

"I'll make the box, and help bury it," said Rich.

"I should be much obliged if you would, Mr. Richardson. Neighbor
Pollard, here, will help you. Where ought it to be buried, doctor?"

"In the graveyard with his relatives, to be sure. It is part of a
Christian, and the rest of him will go to keep it company some time."

A daughter of the family had died some years before, and Pollard
proposed that the leg should be buried beside her grave, which was done.

The doctor had proposed that it should be put in a box, in order to keep
it clean, and in a good state for Rich to dissect, and be placed in the
cemetery, because that lot was in a retired spot.

That night Rich dug up the limb, and hid it in the haymow, meaning to
dissect it the next night, in order to escape the sharp eyes of Dan
Clemens, and then keep the bones in the doctor's study, where there was
a closet.

Rich was detained at school that afternoon by a boy who had failed to
get his lesson. When he reached the house he found a man in the barn
floor loading hay on a cart from the very mow in which he had concealed
the leg, while Dan was on the mow pitching down the hay.

"I am so glad you have come, Mr. Richardson! Mr. Bangs wants a ton of
hay, and I told Daniel he had better be doing what he could till you
came."

Rich was terribly frightened. His color went and came.

"Daniel," he cried, flinging off his coat, "run into the house quick,
and get me a drink; I am very thirsty."

Leaping upon the mow, he beheld one corner of the box already uncovered.
Another fork full would have done the business. Before Dan returned with
his water, he had put it in a safe place. There was but one window in
the harness-room, and while Dan was gone after the cow, Rich nailed the
horse-blanket over it, in order that no one passing might observe a
light, as he intended to dissect after the family--or at least Dan, of
whom he was the most apprehensive--were asleep.

Having accomplished his purpose, he was passing from the stable to the
house, when Dr. Ryan, who was riding by in his gig, called to him, and
said,--

"Mr. Richardson, Coolbroth is dead."

"Dead!"

"Yes; died about an hour ago. Very strange. Never was more surprised in
my life. Thought he was doing well. Sank all at once. Going to be buried
to-morrow forenoon. Hot weather--they can't keep him. Good night."

"Good night."

Rising from supper as soon as possible without attracting attention,
Rich made the best of his way to Coolbroth's. He met Pollard there, and
found the family in great affliction.

"We don't any of us know what's afore us, Mr. Richardson," said
Pollard; "'cause, if we had, we might have saved ourselves the trouble
o' buryin' that leg, for we've got to dig it up ag'in in the mornin'."

"What are you going to dig it up for?"

"'Cause they want to lay him in that spot, side o' his sister; and then
they want to put the leg in the coffin with the rest of him, as rights
they should, poor feller."

"What time to-morrow will the funeral take place?"

"Ten o'clock. I shall have to be stirring 'arly, and begin by sunrise to
dig the grave, 'cause they've nobody 'cept myself to call on, and I've
got a master sight to see to."

Rich inquired no further, but went home in no little perturbation. He
sat up in his room till twelve o'clock, then crept down stairs in his
stocking feet, with his shoes in his hand, and without a light. Since
the death of Gertrude, rats had multiplied on the premises. They had a
regular road from the stable, through the porch, which they entered from
beneath, through a hole in the floor. The night previous to the
occurrences now to be narrated, one of these vermin had gnawed his way
into the flour barrel. Dan had set a steel trap at the hole in the shed,
where the rats came up, and quite out of the track of any one going to
the stable. But Rich, fumbling along in the dark, put his foot in it.

The trap was one of the old-fashioned rat traps, made to _kill_ and
_hold_, with a smart spring, and the jaws on the inside armed with
teeth, like a saw.

The pain and surprise combined caused Rich to utter an involuntary
scream, that, breaking on the stillness of midnight, alarmed the
household.

Mrs. Clemens lay in bed, screaming alternately, "Murder," and "Thieves,"
at the top of her voice. Dan rushed down stairs in his night-gown, when
Rich called to him, and explained matters.

By the time Dan had procured a light, Rich had drawn his foot out of the
trap, and Mrs. Clemens and the hired girl made their appearance.

"Mr. Richardson," said Mrs. Clemens, "you have hurt your foot terribly.
The blood is oozing through your stocking. Let me make a slippery elm
poultice, and put on it."

"It is a mere scratch, Mrs. Clemens--only skin deep."

"There is some water in the tea-kettle that must be blood-warm now.
Betty, bring a small tub, for Mr. Richardson to bathe his foot, and a
sponge."

"There is no need of it, Mrs. Clemens. Cold water is better. I can wash
it in my chamber."

The night was fast spending. It would be daylight by the time he reached
the cemetery. Rich had no time to spare, and wished Mrs. Clemens was in
another hemisphere.

"At least, Mr. Richardson, let me get you some bandages, and some new
rum and wormwood, to bathe it in. Daniel will take the things up
stairs."

"Indeed, Mrs. Clemens, I thank you very much; but I have some
sticking-plaster in my chamber."

And Rich, hastily bidding them good night, went to his room.

When there, he found that the jaws of the trap had cut deeper than he
supposed, and the wound began to be stiff and painful. He bound it up,
and taking an old boot, cut out the vamp, and was by this means enabled
to wear it.

"What shall I do?" said Rich to himself. "I ought to be at the graveyard
_now_. It will be two hours before that old lady will go to sleep, and I
never can get out of the house without her knowledge."

Rich's room was in the second story of the L, and the water-spout ran
near the window. After waiting half an hour, and finding all was still,
Rich, raising the sash as gently as possible, descended by the conductor
to the ground, and taking the box from the barn, went limping along in
the bright moonlight, the box under one arm, and a shovel in the other
hand. The jaws of the trap had bruised the numerous tendons that run
along the top of the foot, and every step was a pang.

"I wish I had never seen this confounded leg," said Rich. "If I can only
get it where it came from, it's the last thing I'll ever dig up."




CHAPTER XX.

GOES FOR WOOL, AND GETS SHORN.


The graveyard to which Rich now directed his steps was the original
burying-place of the town; but another having been provided, in a more
central location, it had been little used for years, and was overgrown
with bushes and sweet fern, an occasional spruce or hemlock assuming
almost the dimensions of a tree.

Narrow, in proportion to its breadth, one end of the lot approached the
main road, the intervening space being level, and clear of obstructions,
except near the gate, where the wall was fringed with spruce, sumach,
and hazel bushes, a very dense clump of spruce and dwarf birch growing
just beside the main entrance.

Notwithstanding the lonely situation and neglected aspect of the place,
there were many very handsome monuments scattered over its surface. But
the hands that reared them were mouldering in the dust, and their
descendants, becoming interested in the new cemetery, the ancient
graveyard seemed likely to return to its original state of forest, and
that indeed at no distant period, being already enclosed on three sides
by a growth of majestic pines, whose roots, in several places, had flung
down the wall. A few rods beyond the main entrance, the road, making a
sharp turn, led up a hill.

Far removed from any habitation or sound of busy life, this
resting-place of the departed lay reposing in the clear moonlight that
seemed to embrace it, silvering with its wavy light the rough walls, the
monuments of the dead, and the foliage, bathed in dew. So deep was the
stillness, that the slow and painful tread of Rich on the hard-beaten
road was distinctly audible.

He was about half way from the road to the gate, when all at once rang
out with startling effect upon the still air,--

"Come here to me. What are you hangin' off there for, old Bright? Come
here to me, or I'll put the cold iron into your liver."

The next moment his ears were greeted with that peculiar slat and jingle
that ensues when the tongue cattle on the top of a hill throw up their
heads in order to hold back a heavy load.

"Good heavens!" thought Rich; "I am beset indeed. It is Sam Waterhouse,
with his four-ox team."

Regardless of his lame foot, he crept into the bunch of bushes near the
gate, with the box and shovel. In a few moments a large dog came up the
hill, followed by Sam, who stopped his cattle opposite the gate, to let
them breathe. The dog, in the mean time running along the road, came
upon Richardson's track, and following it up to the bushes, began to
bark furiously. Fearing discovery, Rich crept along through the
scattering bushes, into the thicker growth, still proceeding in a line
parallel with the main road, and not far from it. The dog, however,
continued to follow, barking so furiously, that Rich, afraid that
Waterhouse would come to see what the dog was barking at, stepped out
into the road without attracting the notice of Sam, till he was within a
few feet of him, who, supposing him to have come by the road from the
village, exclaimed,--

"Good evenin', Mr. Richardson; or, ruther, mornin'; for I reckon it's
mighty near daybreak. I was jest thinkin' of goin' ter see what the dog
was barkin' at; thought may be 'twas a coon; they're apt to be out these
moonlight nights; but I s'pose 'twas you he hearn. Didn't 'spect ter run
foul o' you, this time in the mornin'. S'pose you had a sudden call.
Doctors and teamsters, they must kalkerlate to be broke o' their rest,
and folks say you're gettin' ter be quite a doctor, and Dr. Ryan speaks
master well o' you."

"Sick and dying time, Mr. Waterhouse," said Rich, wishing to turn the
conversation from himself, and not heeding the question of the other; "I
wonder you should be going away with a team when young Coolbroth is to
be buried to-morrow."

"Wouldn't have gone for anything. 'Tain't to save money, nor 'arn money,
but I'd 'greed to deliver these ere shooks, and was 'bleeged ter. Seems
to me you limp. I can't see quite so well as I used ter, 'specially in
the night, but I thought you favored that left foot somewhat."

"Yes; I have a sore foot."

"Jammed it? Jammed the nail off? 'Cause, if ye have, there's nothin' so
good to take the soreness out as mullein leaves, steeped in new rum."

"I stepped into a rat trap in the dark."

"My songs! that's dreadful bad. Might give you the lockjaw. There's
nothin' 'll take that ere iron rust out o' the flesh like the marrer
(marrow) of a hog's jaw."

"I don't doubt it," said Rich, to whom this prosing was perfect agony;
"but I must go on."

"So must I. Back, Bright! Her, Buck, up! Stan' up there, old Star."

Rich made as though he would have gone on, and soon enjoyed the
satisfaction of hearing the sound of Sam's wheels die away in the
distance; but when he again recovered his box and shovel, the gray light
was streaking the eastern sky.

Flinging off both coat and vest, he strained every nerve to dig a hole
in which to deposit the box at the same depth, and in the same place as
before. In momentary expectation of seeing Pollard arrive, he exerted
himself till the sweat trickled down his cheeks, for, whenever he
stopped to take breath, the early birds were singing in the trees around
him.

He had scarcely time to deposit the last shovelful, and congratulate
himself upon his success, when the sound of wheels was heard rapidly
approaching, and Pollard, accompanied by another person, drove up to the
graveyard gate.

[Illustration: IN THE GRAVEYARD. Page 226.]

Crouching behind tombstones and bushes, he crept on his hands and knees
to the back wall, and not daring to clamber over for fear of being seen,
pushed out the stones, and made his way through the gap into the woods,
as Pollard and his assistant reached the spot he had just left.

Hiding his shovel in the woods, not daring to take it, lest he should
meet some early riser, Rich, in pain and perturbation, limped through
fields and pastures, till he at length, to his great delight and relief,
reached his boarding-place.

But his troubles were not ended. Every door was fastened. He could not,
with his lame foot, and entirely exhausted, clamber up the spout to his
room, and Rover began to bark in the porch, where he slept, with a
violence that Rich knew would soon awaken the whole family.

Mrs. Clemens was very particular--extremely so--in respect to fastening
the doors at night, and there was no outbuilding to which Rich could
obtain access except the pig-sty. That was merely buttoned on the
outside. But this was too far from the house to suit his purpose, and
moreover, exposed to the observation of Dan, while milking, who was
always the first one up in the house.

Dan was full of energy. His custom was to wake early, go directly to the
barn-yard, milk, bring the milk in, call the girl to strain it, and then
start off with the cows to pasture, returning by breakfast time. Rich
was familiar with the habits of Dan, and while deliberating with respect
to some place of concealment, was startled by hearing him shove back the
bolt of the end door. Close to the steps grew a large lilac bush, and
near that was a pile of apple-tree brush that had been hauled out of the
orchard. Rich ran behind the pile, and crouched to the ground, watching
Dan as he came out, rubbing his eyes, and the moment he saw him sit down
to a cow, crawled through the lilac bush, and stole quietly to his room.
Pulling off the boot, he washed the gravel and dust from his foot, flung
himself upon the bed, and sank into a slumber so profound that Dan,
unable to arouse his teacher, at breakfast time, by knocking on the
door, was compelled to enter, and shake him.

It seemed, indeed, as though the complications connected with this
fruitless undertaking were never to have an end. Scarcely were they
seated at the breakfast table, when Mrs. Clemens observed--

"Mr. Richardson, you look pale and worn out. I fear you passed a
sleepless night. Daniel said you were lying on the outside of the bed,
with your clothes on, when he went to call you. Will you not have an
alum curd on your foot this morning? It is so cleansing."

"I think there is no need, Mrs. Clemens. A bruise in that place must be
more or less painful for a time. I slept very soundly indeed this
morning."

"Well, I shall insist upon Daniel's taking you to school with the horse.
He is in the barn."

"You are very kind, and I shall esteem it a great favor; and if you
please I will take a luncheon, and Daniel can bring me back at night;
for I scarcely feel equal to the walk."

No sooner was this offer disposed of than Dan said,--

"Mother, did you hear anybody prowling round the house last night?"

"No, my dear: why do you ask?"

"Because the shovel is gone; somebody must have stole it."

"Perhaps it is mislaid."

"No, it ain't; I have looked everywhere. I wanted it to clean the barn."

"I heard Rover barking dreadfully this morning; it waked me up. Did you
hear anybody round the house, Mr. Richardson? Being kept awake by your
wound, you would be more likely to hear any strange noise."

"Well, Mrs. Clemens,--ahem!--indeed, I think there was some one went
out of the yard last night."

"That's it, mother; and that's who Rover was barking at."

"But how could they get into the barn?"

"They might have a key, and unlock the padlock. Most anything will
unlock a padlock. But you must get another shovel, mother."

"We will wait awhile. It may come to light,--might get into that load of
hay I sold,--be pitched up out of the floor with the hay. Mr.
Richardson, your face seems flushed; does your foot pain you?"

"No, ma'am; it is quite easy now."

The excessive soreness of Richardson's foot was occasioned by his use,
or rather abuse of it. But it recovered rapidly as soon as he began to
afford it rest, and make the proper applications. After enjoying a good
night's sleep, he told Mrs. Clemens he would like the loan of the horse,
to ride over to the next town after school at night, call on Perk, and
return in the evening. The next morning, when Dan went to feed the pigs,
the shovel was lying in the pig's bed, half covered in straw.

"I told you it would come to light, Daniel. You used it to clean the
pig-pen, and left it there. The pigs threw it down, and rooted the straw
over it."

"I didn't, mother. Haven't cleaned the pig-pen. Mr. Richardson does
that; I am afraid of the pigs. Somebody stole it, and brought it back."

"Borrowed it, you mean, my dear. You should never make such
accusations."

Dr. Ryan laughed till the tears ran down his cheeks when, some time
afterwards, Rich told him the result of his efforts to obtain the leg.

"It is the first time I ever attempted anything of the kind," said Rich;
"it shall be the last. I'll stick to dogs, cats, and rabbits till I have
money to procure what I need."




CHAPTER XXI.

PROGRESS AND PREJUDICE.


There was a mystery connected with Richardson's lameness that the
village gossips could never fathom. He was too important a personage to
escape comment. It was well known that he was so lame as to be compelled
to ride to school on three consecutive days; and yet Sam Waterhouse
declared he met him and talked with him at the old graveyard at three
o'clock on the morning he put his foot in the trap, and that he did not
appear to be much lame. Sam, however, was in the habit of drinking too
freely of New England rum, and always took a jug with him when on the
road; thus the majority, after a while, concluded Waterhouse had made
too free with the contents of his jug, and imagined it all.

Rich, after this, assisted in several important operations in which the
two doctors were engaged. He likewise, when he could do it and not
interfere with his school, opened sores, administered medicines, let
blood, and dressed wounds, at the request of Dr. Ryan, who lost no
opportunity of bringing him forward, and became more and more attached
to him every day.

When bones were to be set, Dr. Ryan, if the fracture was in any respect
a bad one, sent for Dr. Slaughter; but, as his own practice was large,
often relinquished the subsequent care of the fracture to Rich, and paid
him for it. In this manner, and by rigid economy, he was enabled to lay
by a considerable sum, besides purchasing some necessary instruments and
books.

The good doctor was well aware that whenever he left the care of a
patient to Rich, whether it was a case of disease, or a wound, or broken
bone, that he practised a treatment quite different from the established
method; but as the patients generally did well, he made no troublesome
inquiries, and even turned a deaf ear to the hints of Dr. Slaughter in
respect to innovations upon the good old substantial practice.

It was very hot weather, the middle of August, and a lad of seventeen
received a terrible cut in his thigh, by coming too near his father
while he was mowing oats. Dr. Ryan was away from home, attending the
funeral of a near relative in a distant town; the family instantly sent
for Rich. The wound, fortunately, was worse in appearance than reality,
as no artery was severed, though the gash presented a most formidable
appearance to inexperienced persons, and the parents were very much
alarmed.

Rich quieted their fears, stopped the bleeding, cleansed, bound up, and
dressed the wound. It was several days before the doctor returned. The
first time he rode out to visit his patients, he encountered on the road
an old acquaintance, but by no means a favorite of his, Miss Nelly
Buckminster. Miss Nelly was a spinster, lived by herself in a small
house left to her by her parents, and gained a livelihood by taking in
spinning, weaving, and plain sewing; occasionally kept house for anybody
who could endure her tongue, for she was an inveterate talker, and held
very decided opinions upon all subjects. In other respects she was an
excellent housekeeper, neat, industrious, economical, and an excellent
cook.

Miss Nelly was very religious, exceedingly so; but her piety was of the
vociferous, rather than of the introspective cast. She was the recipient
of many presents. Some gave her because they thought her a very good
though rather peculiar woman, some because they were afraid of her
tongue, others because they knew she would tell of it from Dan to
Beersheba. We think it must have been the reasons assigned that
influenced so many persons to make presents to Nelly, because there was
not the least satisfaction to be derived from the act itself, as Nelly,
in expressing her gratitude and sense of obligation--which she never
failed to do--always ignored second causes, and paid her respects to the
Most High.

This might have been--undoubtedly was--good theology, but it was of the
nutmeg-grater variety, and altogether corrosive in both quality and
operation; for when persons bestow gifts, influenced by the purest
motives, some manifestation of gratitude is pleasant, and generally
expected; but no person ever received any from Nelly; her gratitude was
ever directed over the heads of the _instrumentalities_ to the
_efficient_ cause, which was not merely sound doctrine and
_conservative_, but did away at once with all troublesome sense of
obligation or return in kind.

Squire Dresser once sent her by the hand of his son a bushel of Indian
meal. Henry knocked at the door, and gave her the bag of meal, saying,--

"Miss Buckminster, here is a bushel of flour my father sent you, and
he'll call some time when he's going by to mill, and get the bag."

"No thanks to Squire Dresser; thanks to the Lord; 'twas the Lord sent
it, and not the squire."

Henry had made the interview as brief as possible, in order to escape an
exhortation on the subject of personal piety, that Nelly was in the
habit of administering to him whenever he came to her house of an
errand, and which altogether failed of producing any good impression,
because he did not like her, and by reason of the snappish way in which
she flung it at him.

Finding he had in his haste made a mistake, he went back and said,--

"Miss Buckminster, I made a mistake. 'Tis Indian and not wheat meal
that father sent you."

"_Indian!_ I should like to know what he sent _Indian_ for!"

This curt reply made a good deal of sport among the neighbors.

"I don't believe the _Lord_ will send her anything again very soon,"
said Squire Dresser.

"The old proverb is, 'Never look a gift horse in the mouth;' but she
presumes to find fault with the gifts of the Lord, tells what _he_
should send and what not."

Dr. Ryan, who dearly loved good living, tempted by her unrivalled skill
as a cook, and confiding in his good temper and the soundness of his
nerves, once employed Nelly to keep house for him. She was possessed of
a very vivid imagination, and in the habit of cautioning people against
doing things they never entertained the thought of doing.

It was cold, sharp weather, and the doctor had a small dog that was very
fond of stretching out on the hearth before the andirons. One day the
doctor came in, chilled from a long ride and stood warming himself; the
dog lay stretched at full length between him and the fire.

"There! you'll kick that dog into the fire--I know you will!" screamed
Nelly.

"So I will, then," said the doctor, and kicked him under the forestick.

Nelly never cautioned the doctor any more.

In some respects it was difficult to reconcile her professions with her
practice: for instance, she always said in the prayer-meeting that it
was a great cross for her to rise and speak; whereas it was the settled
opinion of all who knew her that it would be a much greater cross for
her to hold her tongue, and Captain Motley said,--

"If you nailed her down to the bench with ten-penny nails, she'd rise
and take it up with her."

She always disliked people whom everybody else loved and respected,
called it _man-worship_, therefore didn't like Rich, couldn't bear him.
Dr. Ryan said, it was a good thing for Richardson; he ought to have one
ill-wisher, to take the curse off.

"Doctor, good mornin'."

"Good morning, Nelly."

"Doctor, you never should ought to step your two feet out of this
village. Dreadful works, dreadful, since you've been away. Doctor, what
do you think this wicked world is comin' to? Errors in doctrine, new
lights rampaging round, turnin' things upside down; errors in doctorin,'
as though folks couldn't die fast enough themselves. Destruction to soul
and body both."

"I expect it is coming to an end, Nelly."

"When, doctor? Any ways soon? 'Cause we ought to be on our watch guards,
a girdin' up our loins and preparin'."

"O, no; I guess 'twill outlast you and me, and a good many other
people. But what is the trouble now?"

"Trouble enough. Do you know, David Ryan, what a viper yer a nourishin'
in yer buzom? Do you know it, David Ryan? 'Cause if you don't, it's high
time you did. Do you know what that young snipper-snapper of a
Richardson is, that's allowed for to lead the singin' in the Lord's
house? The gals is all taken with his good looks, and the men with his
'ily tongue. But I tell you he's a--"

Here Nelly thrust her tongue into her cheek, and looked unutterable
things.

"I know he's a young man of true piety, most affectionate disposition,
and remarkable ability, and I won't hear a word said against him by you
or anybody else."

"Jist like Deacon Starkweather; he's deceived yer both, pulled the wool
over both yer eyes. I tell you he's a--"

"A what? Come, out with it. I don't like this stabbing in the dark.
Speak out."

"He's a _new light_, a pestilent, pizen, _new light_," shouted Nelly,
with an emphasis she expected would throw the doctor from his horse. But
he stood the shock unmoved, and merely laughed.

"It's no laughin' matter. There's John Tukey's boy cut hisself awful
with a scythe, and that snipper-snapper, don't you think, did it up in
_cold water_, nothin' else, instead of wrappin' it up in new rum, or rum
and wormwood, or salve, as you would have done, and keepin' it warm.
Enough to make him ketch his death a cold!"

"Is he not doing well enough?"

"Doin' well enough! The awfullest sight of _proud_ flesh; it was a sight
to behold. I was there when old Granma'am Tyler put on her specs and
looked at it. She exclaimed right out. Says she, 'That wound will never
heal in this varsal world, with all that ere _proud_ flesh in it,
Matilda,' says she (that's the boy's mother). 'Let me put on some burnt
alum, to eat out that proud flesh.' Matilda made answer, 'I should like
to have you, granma'am.' Then the boy up and says, 'No, she shan't.'
'Some red precipitate, then, dear, and hog's lard.' No, he wouldn't have
that. 'Some spruce gum, then.' No, he wouldn't have anything; nobody
should consarn with it or touch it but Mr. Richardson; he knew more than
Granny Tyler and all the old women in town."

"I rather think the boy was right."

"Right! That little _snipper-snapper_, that brought an ungodly _fiddle_
into the _sanctuary_ on the _Lord's_ day, know more'n _Granny Tyler_, an
experienced woman in sickness, and that's brought up a large family of
children! What do you s'pose he said when he came the next day, and
Matilda told him what Granny Tyler said? He jist laughed, and said all
the proud flesh there was wouldn't hinder it from healing. Much he
knows, to say proud flesh wouldn't hinder a cut from healing! Them's the
very identical words he used. I'll stan' to it till my _dyin' day_."

"I have not the least doubt he said so."

"Well, then, doctor, I hope you'll go right in there, and put things to
rights, 'cause the old folks'll hear to you, and the boy'll hear to you;
and if you don't, perhaps the proud flesh'll grow worser and mortify;
'cause granny said a sore never would heal as long's there was one mite
of proud flesh in it; and if the boy should die, you'll be 'countable,
sartainly."

"I can't go in; I've a long ride to another part of the town before me."

"Well, you'll see, mark my word for it, there'll be trouble grow out of
this."

The doctor had lost, in the course of his practice, several patients
from gangrene occasioned by the load of poultices, ointments, and
bandages it was then customary to apply, and he had some suspicions
whether there might not be some mistake in the old practice, and
resolved to permit Rich to manage matters as he thought best, having so
much confidence in his judgment and discretion that he felt sure he
would come to him for advice and consultation if the wound was
manifesting any unfavorable symptoms.

We have no doubt our young readers share to the full the confidence of
the doctor in both the ability and discretion of Rich; still it seems as
though it were well to say a few words in his behalf, and in
explanation.

Clean cuts, when the two sides of the wound can be brought together
directly, sometimes heal without any inflammation or suppuration; as it
were, stick right together. But when the parts cannot be brought
together at once, and are exposed to the external air, even if bandaged,
there will be inflammation, and then the wound heals by a natural
process, called by physicians "granulation."

It was thus in the present instance. The boy and his father had taken a
field of oats to mow and harvest, a long distance from home, and the
wound had been some time exposed to the air, and by reason of the part
of the body in which it was situated could not be brought together so
closely as to cause it thus to heal by what surgeons call the "first
intention," and adhesive inflammation occurred, as is always the case
when wounded surfaces are not brought in contact at once.

The process is this. In consequence of the inflammation which then takes
place, a yellow jelly-like substance is effused, covering the surfaces
of the wound, called fibrin; veins and arteries from the sound flesh
shoot into this, it becomes organized, another layer is thrown out,
which in its turn passes through the same process; but now begins
another step in the progress. From this organized fibrin spring
innumerable little pointed cones, similar to the kernels of rice corn,
at first of a pale red, becoming more florid as they increase in age,
into which arteries and veins thrust themselves. These are the
granulations. They have nerves and blood-vessels, are therefore alive,
and when healthy, sensitive; and they likewise possess a disposition to
unite, and when the two surfaces of a wound covered with granulations
come in contact, the blood-vessels of one penetrate the other, they
amalgamate and form flesh.

As they increase they contract, thus both filling the cavity and drawing
the lips of the wound together, till, when it heals, the scar occupies
much less space than the original cut. This process takes place when the
granulations are healthy, and almost, but not completely, fill the
wound, being a grain lower than the surface of the skin, and manifesting
a disposition to glaze over.

At other times they are coarse, of large size, the points blunt, are
spongy, pale, or blue, show no tendency to skin over, and puff up above
the surface of the sound flesh, which swells and is inflamed. Physicians
denominate these granulations fungus, it being found from experience
that whenever granulations rise higher than the level of the surrounding
surface they are not likely to form skin. This, among people in general,
from the appearance, probably, goes by the name of _proud_ flesh.

The old matrons cherished a mortal dread of proud flesh. They would put
on their spectacles, look carefully at the wound, hold up both hands,
and exclaim with alarm, "_Proud_ flesh!" often times when only the
proper amount of granulations was present, and they had numerous
specifics for its removal--spruce gum, burnt alum, the ashes of oak
bark, nutgalls, and red precipitate. But in their zeal to extirpate
proud flesh, and, as they termed it, _do_ something, they sometimes used
little discrimination, and made war upon healthy material.

The particular thing that seemed to lie with the greatest weight upon
the minds of the ancient dames and Miss Buckminster was, that, according
to them, Rich was _doing nothing_ for the poor lad. He was neither
bleeding him, physicking him, putting on salves and heavy bandages, nor
anything to kill the _proud_ flesh. They made such a fuss that at last
the boy, who had hitherto reposed the greatest confidence in his young
physician, became a little _nervous_, and told Rich what the matrons
said.

"My dear boy," said he, "there is very little _to_ be _done_. What these
good women call _proud_ flesh is a _healthy_ growth, the rudiments of
new flesh, and without it your wound would _never_ heal. It is no more
in my power, or that of any other person, to heal your flesh than to
make one hair white or black. Nature and time will do that. The
inflammation has passed off, and the wound is healing. All that can be
done is to keep the parts cool, defend them from the air, sustain your
strength by a proper diet, and keep you quiet. The less you move, the
faster your leg will heal; and as for bleeding, you have lost too much
blood already from the cut."

The lad, after this, dismissing his anxieties, concerned himself no more
about the proud flesh or the fears and prognostications of the matrons.

The patient in due time recovered, greatly to the satisfaction of Dr.
Ryan. It also increased the reputation of Rich, though Miss Buckminster
declared that "the boy should ought to have died of mortification or
lockjaw, but the _Lord_ overruled it and spared him for some good end,
spite of the new-fangled doctor."




CHAPTER XXII.

SUITING MEANS TO ENDS.


The early frosts had now commenced. The glory of summer was succeeded by
the maturity of autumn, and in the valleys here and there the white
maples and ash began to assume their yellow and crimson hues. The
diseases incident to the period of the year were prevalent, and Dr. Ryan
was riding night and day.

As Richardson was passing the doctor's house on his way from school in
the afternoon, the latter called to him, and said,--

"Mr. Richardson, I wish you would do me a favor. I am just about to step
into my gig to visit a person taken with the bilious colic, in great
distress, and a man has this moment gone from the door who wants me to
go to see Mr. Jonathan Davis, who has cut off the tendon Achillis
(heel-cord) with an adze; a clean cut. Can't you get on the back of the
other horse, and take care of Mr. Davis?"

"Yes, sir. I'll leave my books in your office, and be right off."

"But you'll want some supper."

"I'll eat there after I get through."

Davis kept a good stock of tools, made his wheels, harrows, yokes, and
other farming tools, and some for his neighbors. In working with an adze
between his feet, the instrument glanced, and the corner of it severed
the tendon of his left leg.

The Achillis tendon is large, and connected with a very strong muscle,
as it sustains a great strain when the foot is thrown forward, and the
weight of the body, perhaps with the addition of some burden on the
shoulder, raised by it; and when broken or cut, the strong muscles of
which it is a prolongation, cause it to contract very much.

Farmer Davis was a member of the choir, much attached to Rich; and,
though he was somewhat disappointed at not seeing Dr. Ryan, his old
physician, yet there was probably not a person in the town to whom Rich
could have been sent upon such an errand where he would have found less
of prejudice to contend with, either in respect to his youth, lack of
experience, or any new-fangled notions he might have the reputation of
entertaining.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Davis. I am sorry for your injury, and also that
Dr. Ryan could not come. I expect you will hardly care to see so poor a
substitute; but I feared there might be some artery cut, and knew you
needed prompt attention."

Farmer Davis was quite a different person from Miss Buckminster in many
other respects besides gender, being a most skilful mechanic, and an
intelligent, clear-headed man.

"Well, Mr. Richardson," he replied, "you know very well you're as
welcome to my house as flowers in May; and as for this business of the
leg, I don't believe that Dr. Ryan, who's doctored my family and my
father's afore me, would have sent you if he hadn't known you was
capable; and if he had, I don't believe, if you hadn't thought you knew
what was to be done and how to do it, you'd have come."

"I have come to do the best I can, which is very little, as this is a
case where art can do but little to assist nature; but if you feel any
hesitation, say so; the horse is at the door; I'll go get Dr.
Slaughter."

"Won't have him; he's no better than a _butcher_. Go ahead, Mr.
Richardson. There must be a first time with every man. I believe the
first pair of wheels I ever made were as good and well finished up as
any I've made since, 'cause I took more pains; and I've heern old
Captain Deering say that 'a green hand that's just learning to steer a
vessel will oftentimes steer better'n an old sailor, 'cause the old
fellow is careless; but t'other's scared to death all the time, and puts
his whole soul into it.'"

After examining the wound, Rich said,--

"There are two methods of treating this injury, the old method and the
new. I will explain both of them; you may then take your choice, and I
will follow your directions."

"That's fair. Let's hear."

"You see all the tendons play in a sheath, which is fixed, and the
tendons play back and forth in it."

"Just like a spyglass, one part shoves into the other."

"Yes. And they are all on the stretch, like a piece of rubber drawn out,
and when they are cut, the contraction of the muscles draws the two ends
apart. The muscles in the upper part of the leg have drawn one end of
this heel-cord up into its sheath, and the muscles on the forward part
of the leg, by bending the foot back, have drawn the other end down into
its sheath. Now, the old method, that which Dr. Slaughter and Dr. Ryan
both would pursue, is to search in the sheath, get hold of the ends of
the cord, and sew them together, which in your case would involve the
necessity of cutting to accomplish it."

"I understand that. Now what is the new fashion?"

"The old physicians thought a tendon could not unite unless the ends
touched, and so used to sew them together. But it has been since proved
by experiment that although it is well to bring the ends of the tendon
as near to each other as can well be done, they will unite even if they
are half an inch or an inch apart."

"How can they grow together if they don't touch?"

"A liquid substance exudes from the surrounding vessels, fills the
sheath, thickens into a jelly, then becomes a callous, grows to the two
ends, forms a bunch, and in time shrinks up and becomes just like the
rest of the tendon."

"How did they find that out?"

"Men have broken the tendon and wouldn't have their leg cut open to
stitch the ends together, but kept still, had splints put on, and the
ends brought as near as possible in that way, got well, and recovered
the use of the limb. If there's no need of cutting a hole in a sound leg
to sew a tendon together, there's no need of sewing one when a hole is
already cut, or of cutting it larger to get at it."

"That stands to reason. So go ahead. I don't see why there shouldn't be
improvements in doctoring as well as in everything else. My father
winnowed his grain in a half a bushel, and had to wait for the wind. I
winnow mine when I get ready, and raise my own wind with the machine."

Rich bent the leg on the thigh, so as to relax the muscles in the calf
of the leg as much as possible, then with his hands worked down the
calf, bringing the upper end of the tendon down, and put a bandage
around to confine the muscles and keep them from retracting; brought the
foot forward in order to bring the lower end of the tendon up, and
employed an assistant to keep it so.

In the mean time he went into Mr. Davis's shop, where he found tools,
selected a sweeping piece of wood, and in a very few moments made a
splint of sufficient length to extend from just below the knee to the
toes, and that by its elliptical form partially filled the angle made by
the foot and leg; he then padded the space between it and the flesh,
fastened it to the leg and toes in such a manner as to keep the foot
extended and prevent the patient from involuntarily moving the muscles.
He now could feel the ends of the tendon, and ascertained, much to his
satisfaction, that they were very nearly in contact. He now said,--

"Mr. Davis, the space between the extremities of this tendon is very
small, consequently there is so much less new matter to be formed. You
will not suffer much pain, but you will sustain a great trial of your
patience, more than though your leg was broken, for then you would feel
compelled to lie still. The rapidity and thoroughness of your cure will
be in proportion to the patience you exercise, and the degree of care
you take in respect to those motions absolutely necessary. It will be
six weeks or more before this new substance I have been speaking of will
form between the ends, and many months before you can place much strain
upon the tendon."

"Shall I have to lie in bed long?"

"No; but you must keep perfectly still for a while. You will not be able
to wear this splint long. It is only extemporized for the occasion. I'll
make something better to-morrow."

The second day, after school hours, Richardson visited his patient
again, and directed Mrs. Davis to make a shoe of carpeting,
slipper-fashion, leaving the toe a little open, to prevent galling, and
sewing a strap to the heel of it. This he fastened to a bandage around
the leg above the calf, which took the place of the splint, kept the
heel back, the foot forward, and the ends of the tendon in their place,
and was much more comfortable for the patient.

Farmer Davis in eight weeks was relieved from the slipper, strap, and
bandage during the night, putting them on in the daytime, and began to
walk with a cane. There was a bunch on the tendon the size of a robin's
egg, which gradually disappeared; and in four months the limb was as
serviceable as ever.

When, a fortnight after the event, Dr. Ryan ascertained that Rich had
merely brought the ends of the tendon within half an inch, and let it go
at that, he shook his head, looked anxious, but said nothing. Dr.
Slaughter was not so reticent, and declared the parts would never unite,
but grow to the sheath, and the man be lame for life.

Richardson now pursued the even tenor of his way, without the least
interruption till the middle of the winter, when he was called to old
Mr. Avery, a shingle weaver, who had cut himself with his draw-shave.
The wound bled a great deal before Richardson arrived, and the patient
being an old man, it healed very slowly. Avery became impatient, and
thought his physician was not doing enough. Rich, unable to convince
him, as he was a very ignorant and obstinate man, that the process of
healing must necessarily be slow, on account of his age, and that nature
must do the work, called in Dr. Ryan, who confirmed the judgment of Rich
and approved his method, but the patient not convinced, fussed and
fretted, said Rich "was _doing nothing_," and talked about "sending for
Dr. Slaughter." Rich, at his wits' end, and not relishing the idea of
having a patient taken out of his hands, cast about for some way of
keeping him quiet.

At length, in a wakeful hour of the night, he bethought himself of a
means of relief, suggested by something he had read in one of the old
romances while in college, and the next day proceeded to put it in
practice.

"Mr. Avery," he said, "I think I have discovered something that will be
just the thing you need, and answer the purpose completely."

"Do let me know it, then, right off. I ought to be at work in the shop
this minute."

"Do you think the draw-shave that you cut yourself with has been used
since? Because if it has, nothing can be done, and the charm will be
broken."

"No, I know it 'tain't; 'cause I laid it across the horse, and the
shop's been locked up ever sence. Then you can charm; that's something
like. There was a woman in this town could charm; but she died four year
ago; and she didn't give her power to anybody. They say they kin, if
they like, give it to anybody else, that is, if they're a seventh son or
darter, not without."

"You don't believe that nonsense, I hope."

"Sartain sure I do. I _know_ that woman could charm. But you doctors
never believe anything you don't do yourselves, or don't read in a book;
but that's nuther here nor there. What is it you've found out?"

"Well, Mr. Avery, the ancient wise folks, a great many hundred years
ago, had a custom of applying the rust of the weapon or tool that made
the wound to it; or, if there was no rust, of making the applications to
the instrument; and by some secret, mysterious influence, as they held,
the wound was healed."

"There, now, that stan's to reason. You've said somethin' to the p'int
now. I believe in them ere things what's handed down from the old
forefathers. I tell you they forgot more'n we ever knew. These things
what's handed down, they're sperience, they ain't guesswork. The
Indians can cure cancers, but the white doctors can't. Mercy Jane, you
git the key out of my westcoat pocket, and bring in that ere draw-shave;
it's laying across the horse."

When the draw-shave was brought; to the great satisfaction both of Rich
and his patient, considerable rust was found on the edge. Avery had
ground it the afternoon he cut himself, and only drawn a few strokes
before he inflicted the wound, and the water from the grinding, still on
the edge, caused it, after lying, to rust. Rich, carefully scraping the
rust from the tool (about enough to cover the point of a penknife),
applied it to the wound. He next produced several large plasters of
different colors, red, black, green, blue, and yellow.

"What are them plasters spread with?" said the patient.

"Indeed, Mr. Avery, that is an affair of my own."

"I'll warrant it. That's allers the way with doctors."

"Neither will I apply it, or go one step farther, unless you will
solemnly promise me that you will observe strictly my directions as to
diet, and stay in your bed or your chair, and keep the limb still."

"Well, I will, I sartainly will. I'll do jist zactly as you tell me to."

"See that you don't forget it the moment I am out of the room; if you
do, it will be the worse for you, that's all, for those are plasters of
tremendous power, and if you do not, you will have something horribilis,
aspectu horridus, detestabilis, abominandus."

Rich held up his hands in horror and made an awful face. They were
indeed of tremendous power, and had they been applied to his flesh
instead of to the draw-shave, would soon have put him beyond the cares
and trials of this stormy life. One, the green, was made of hog's lard,
beef tallow, and verdigris; the blue, of beeswax, linseed oil, and
Prussian blue; the black, of the same materials, colored with lampblack;
the red, with vermilion, a mercurial compound, quicksilver, and sulphur;
and the yellow with gamboge. Rich now produced several large rolls of
bandages, and, after strewing the plasters with brick dust, applied them
to the knife, and then enveloped the whole in fold over fold of the
bandage, till the knife was as large as a man's thigh.

"Now," he said to Mrs. Avery, "this must be put where no rat, mouse,
cat, or any other creature can get at it."

"I'm sure," said she, "I don't know of any safer place than the oven.
We've got two; and one I don't use often."

"Well, put it in the oven."

After Rich left, Avery said,--

"Wife, Mr. Richardson knows a lot; he'll make a great doctor."

"I expect he will. But, husband, you must keep still, and do jist as he
told you, and mustn't hanker after pork and beans. You know what he
said--'if you didn't, it would be worser for you.' And what them awful
outlandish words meant I don't know; but I expect they meant you'd die
right off if you didn't do everything jist as he said."

"Well, I mean to keep as still as a mouse. You must tell me when I
don't."

When Rich again visited his patient, he said,--

"Mr. Avery, there has been a very marked improvement in your leg, and it
will soon be well, if you continue to follow implicitly my directions."

"I knew that would do the business. It begun to feel better the minute
you put them ere plasters on to the draw-shave."

In a short time it was well; and, lest our young readers should
attribute the cure to the wrong means, we would say that, Mr. Avery
being in years, his flesh healed slowly, and, as he was of a nervous
temperament, kept irritating his wound all the time by motion, and
refused to govern his appetite. This conduct aggravated the difficulty.
Whereas his faith in the strange remedy appealing to the superstitious
sentiments of his nature, and fear of the terrible consequences couched
under the Latin of Rich, kept him quiet, and effected the cure by giving
nature time to operate.

Rich had now accumulated a little money, and resolved to visit his
patients, attend medical lectures at Brunswick, and see Morton on his
way. He accordingly employed Perk to finish out the term, as part of the
period of his absence would be during the vacation. As his funds were by
no means excessive, he made the journey on foot, with the exception of a
few miles of the first part of the way, over which he was carried by Dan
Clemens.

It was near night on the second day, and Rich, weary, hungry, and
foot-sore, had been for some time expecting to come in sight of a
village where was a tavern; but none appeared. At length his patience
was exhausted, and arriving at a substantial-looking farm-house, he
knocked, and inquired of the farmer, who came at the summons, how far it
was to the next tavern.

"Well, 'tis good three miles; yes, strong that." But noticing the
disappointed look of Rich, said, "Young man, you look tired. If you'll
stop with me, you shall be welcome to such as we have."

Rich gladly accepted the invitation, and was ushered into the kitchen,
where he found the farmer's family, consisting of his wife, two sons,
and two daughters. One of the daughters immediately rose, pulled the
table into the floor, put on the tea-kettle, and, as Rich thought (who
was very hungry, for he had eaten since morning only a luncheon),
provided a meal about as speedily as he had ever seen it done in his
life.

"My mother," thought he, "couldn't do better than that."

Rich was at first surprised that neither the mother nor elder sister
gave any assistance to this young woman in preparing an extra meal, but
continued their sewing. He afterwards, however, ascertained that the
thrifty mother brought up her daughters to take their week around in the
kitchen doing the cooking; and that it was this daughter's week. After
making ready for Rich, she began to iron at a table in the corner of the
room, and when he finished, cleared away the dishes, and resumed her
ironing. He was very much struck with the domestic accomplishments of
the young woman, and thought her extremely good-looking; but this might
be owing to the fact, that, being very hungry, he felt grateful for a
bountiful meal so speedily provided; his habits of thought as a
physician also led him to notice that she was well-formed and in fine
health.

His boots off, seated before a cheerful fire, and well fed, Rich forgot
his fatigue, and passed a most pleasant evening. He endeavored several
times to draw into conversation Miss Caroline; but she stuck to her
ironing, and merely replied to his questions politely.

At bed-time he said to the farmer,--

"Mr. Conant, I will settle with you before I go to bed, as I mean to
start by sunrise."

"But you will not start on a day's walk without breakfast."

"I will get my breakfast at the next village. That will divide the
forenoon about right; and after walking three miles I shall be 'sharp
set' for eating."

"Mr. Richardson, I can contrive better than that. I shan't take a cent
for your keeping, and William will put the horse in the sleigh and take
you to the village. He was going to start early to carry something to
market there. You will have your breakfast, and be well started on your
journey, and when you come back, make it in your way to call here. We
shall be right pleased to see you. I'll give you a lift on your way."

The next morning Rich was up by break of day, and found that William had
harnessed the horse, and Caroline had the breakfast ready. He now found
her rather less reserved, and went away with a most favorable impression
of her intelligence.

After a very delightful visit at home, where he found everything
pleasant and prosperous, his parents on the original homestead, with
every prospect of soon owning it, seeing Morton and enjoying a glorious
time with him, by some singular combination of circumstances he was
again overtaken by night at farmer Conant's door when it never looked
more like a storm, which indeed came that night, and Rich was obliged to
stay there two days, which, however, passed very pleasantly.




CHAPTER XXIII.

THE TURN OF THE TIDE.


When Rich returned, shortly after the commencement of the summer term,
he was joyfully welcomed by his pupils. In the course of ten days he
received a box by the stage, of quite modest proportions, that was
instantly transferred to the harness-room, and respecting the reception
of which Rich seemed very much interested, having been several times to
the stage tavern to inquire about it.

This box contained all the bones of the human frame; and no wonder that
Rich was concerned about their arrival, considering his intense interest
in the study of anatomy, and furthermore, the low state of his funds,
and that they cost him but five dollars.

It was customary for the lecturer to procure subjects for dissection (in
what way was best known to himself), for any students who wished this
opportunity of private study and dissection, at twenty dollars apiece.
Rich clubbed with three more and bought one. After they had dissected
and made a study of the different parts in which each felt most
specially interested, the bones remained. To secure and put these
together properly, so as to form an entire and perfect skeleton,
repairing the damages made by the dissecting saw on the skull, to get at
the brain, was a great deal of work, and required not only anatomical
knowledge, but great patience and no small degree of mechanical skill;
and the other students, who were able to purchase skeletons already
prepared, and possessed neither the patience nor mechanical ability to
perform the work, and, moreover, liked Rich, gave him their portion of
the bones.

To prepare, classify, and wire them together was a most congenial as
well as profitable occupation to Rich; it fixed the arrangement, names,
and shape of the bones and articulations in his mind, and also gratified
his mechanical tastes; and he in the course of the summer accomplished
the work, during the performance of which his practice in working iron
stood him in good stead, as he replaced the spinal marrow by an iron
rod, cut a thread on each end, and made thumb-nuts with which to confine
the vertebral column.

The fact of his having attended medical lectures at Brunswick, coupled
with his previous success in some cases of minor importance, increased
very much the confidence of people in general touching his ability as a
physician, and he had numerous calls, to all of which he turned a deaf
ear, devoting himself entirely to his scholars and studies.

At length circumstances concurred to place him in a position of great
perplexity, and one where he was, as it were, compelled to assume a
responsibility from which he would gladly have been excused. Dan
Clemens, Frank Merrill, and Horace Williams had natural history, in the
form of ornithology, "on the brain." If these youngsters didn't sit on
eggs, they dreamed of them. It would be difficult to mention anything
they would not do for Rich when the remuneration was a _rare bird_, shot
and stuffed.

To be soaked to the skin, and so tired they could scarcely put one foot
before the other, were pastimes when birds were ahead; and to obtain
eggs they would venture life and limb. The fatigue of soldiers on a
forced march was trifling in comparison with what they cheerfully
endured; and their mothers, during the spring and summer months, were in
a state of chronic anxiety, expecting nothing less than their being
brought home with broken bones.

One Saturday afternoon they were all in swimming with a crowd of boys
who took not the least interest in their favorite study; but one of
them, while undressing under a leafy elm, at whose roots the boys were
accustomed to put their clothes, espied the nest of a Baltimore oriole,
and told Dan, who was in the water with Frank and Horace. They
instantly dressed, and began to look with longing eyes at the nest that
was pendent from the extremity of a slender branch near the top of the
tree, and on its southern side.

"We can't get that nest," said Horace, "for we can't climb the tree,
it's so far to a limb. If we could climb it, the limbs won't bear a
fellow to reach the nest."

"Yes, we can," said Dan; "we must have those eggs. You give me a boost.
I'll bet I can climb it."

"If you do, you can't reach the nest."

"I can tell better after I get there."

Dan did his best, but had to give it up; so did Horace. Frank was the
best climber of the three, though of lighter weight than the others, and
less plump--an exceedingly agile and sinewy boy. He did not, however,
relinquish his efforts and slide reluctantly down the trunk till he was
within three feet of the lowest limb.

"If you could only boost me up that much I fell short, I could go it,"
said Frank, "after I rest and get breath."

"Let us," said Dan, "pile up a great heap of stones, one of us stand on
that, and the rest put Frank's feet on his shoulders."

"No; get some nails and a hammer, and nail some pieces of board on the
tree," said Horace.

"Zuckers! I know how you can git up," said a barefooted, red-headed boy
of twelve, whose hat-rim was nearly torn off thrashing bumblebees on
thistle blossoms, and who didn't go to the academy nor any other school,
save a few weeks in the winter, and who lived on a farm three miles from
the village, but had the presumption to come there and go in swimming
with the academy boys, because it was the best place on the river, and
who could swim like a fish.

"You shut up," said Frank. "How much do _you_ know about it? And what
business have _you_ there in _our_ swimming-place?"

"Tain't none of _your_ place, nuther; it's Mr. Seth Hardin's pastur.
I've good right here's you have. If you touch me, I'll heave a stone at
your head, and I'll tell our Sam, and he'll give you a lickin'."

"What is the way, bub?" said Dan, too anxious to get the eggs to fling
away any chance of success. "What do you know about it?"

"I know our Sam would git up that tree quick as a cat would lick her
ear, I swanny."

"How, bub?"

"Arter plantin', dad allers gives Sam half a day to go troutin' and git
elum rine (elm rind) to string our corn, and me and Abigail allers go
too. Sam takes the axe and starts a strip of bark at the butt of a tree,
till he can git his hands hold; then he gives it a twitch, and rips it
up clear to the limbs; then he starts another one till he gits enough.
Arter that he takes hold of one on 'em, and climbs up jist like
nothin', and cuts 'em all off but one rope that he saves to come down
on. They break off sometimes when there's a knot-hole; they won't run
over a knot-hole. Abigail and me has jolly times swingin' on the ropes
afore he cuts 'em off, and strippin' 'em into twine arter he takes the
outside bark off, and windin' 'em into big balls."

The inner bark of the elm, cedar, bass, and willow is very strong and
tough; when peeled from the outside layer and soaked in water it makes a
very good substitute for twine. Our ancestors were taught the value of
it by the Indians, and used it to string their corn and bind sheaves,
and some old-fashioned people have not yet abandoned the practice.
Getting elm rind and cutting withe rods were always popular with the
boys, as it gave them part of a holiday.

"That's it," said Dan; "I see it all now. Here, bub."

He gave him three cents, upon which little Red-head put his bare feet to
the ground and went off at a killing pace.

An axe was procured at Seth Harding's, and a strip of bark peeled from
the butt of the tree to one of the lower limbs.

"Let us all go up," said Horace. "We will stay in the tree and take the
nest from Frank. He's the lightest to go out on the limb."

Frank, taking hold of the piece of bark, put his legs around the tree,
and pulled himself up, ascending in this way quite easily. Too impatient
to wait, Dan and Horace followed suit, all three ascending at the same
time.

In their haste and anxiety to run the bark as far up as possible, in
order to reach one of the lower limbs easily, they ran it too far,
within a few inches of the place where the branch joined the tree. The
result of this was, that when they were pretty well up the trunk, Frank
incautiously pressing the bark from the tree with his knees, it started
the second time and ran out on the limb. Away swung the boys, far off
from the trunk, in mid-air. The bark kept running narrower and narrower,
as the limb grew smaller, till, its farther progress being suddenly
arrested by a number of small limbs, it divided up and broke, while the
boys came down into the water, amid the shouts and laughter of the rest,
who were either swimming or putting on their clothes.

[Illustration: A SLIPPERY ELM. Page 266.]

Frank escaped without hurt, but he gave Dan a bloody nose with the heels
of his shoes, while Horace, who was undermost, barked both shins on a
rock that just broke the surface of the water.

Learning wisdom from experience, they stripped the bark at the next
trial farther from the limb, ascending one at a time, and met with no
difficulty. The branch on which the nest hung bent over the river.
Frank, grasping the branch, put his feet on the one directly beneath it,
and thus gradually worked his way till he came very near the nest, and
the parent birds began to fly around his head.

But the branch now bent so much that Dan, who had been the most anxious
to obtain the nest and its contents, begged him to desist and give it
up; so did Horace; but Frank's blood was up and his pride roused, for
there was a crowd of boys looking at him.

"If I fall," he said, "I shall fall into the water, and I can swim
ashore."

At length he could touch the outside of the nest with the tips of his
fingers.

"O, if my arm was only two inches longer!"

"Don't, Frank," said Dan, "go any farther. It frightens me to see the
limb bend so."

Scarcely were the words uttered, when the limb upon which he stood broke
as he was holding to the branch above by only one hand. Reaching after
the nest with the other, he fell feet foremost into the river, catching
by the limbs as he went. There were boys still in the water, who,
instantly swam to him, while Dan and Horace, hurrying down the tree,
plunged in. Frank kept himself on top of the water, after rising, but
when the boys reached him, said,--

"I can't swim; I believe my leg is broke. I struck something under
water, and heard it snap."

It was on a Saturday afternoon that this accident occurred, and Rich had
embraced the opportunity to work upon his bones. He was busily engaged
in the harness-room, with the door fastened, when he was startled by a
rousing rap, and the voice of Dan clamoring for admittance. Opening the
door, he beheld Dan pale and excited, and the face of Mrs. Clemens over
his shoulder, who manifested no less alarm.

"O, Mr. Richardson!" cried Dan, "Frank's fell off a tree and broke his
leg. Horace and Mr. Harding have carried him home, and Dr. Ryan has gone
down there, and wants you to come right down. Mr. Harding said be
expected they'd cut his leg off. Mr. Richardson, don't let 'em cut poor
Frank's leg off--will you?"

"I hope it won't be necessary," said Rich, as he locked the door; "but
the doctors will do what they think is for the best."

"Just what I have been expecting all the spring, ever since this
egg-hunting began. I hope it will be a solemn warning to you, Daniel,"
said his mother.

It happened very opportunely that this was a day fixed upon by Dr. Ryan
and his friend, Dr. Slaughter, to remove a tumor, the person being one
of Dr. Ryan's patients. They had returned, having performed the
operation, and were at the house in a few moments after the boy was
brought home, and Richardson was not far behind them.

"You had better strip the limb, Mr. Richardson," said Dr. Ryan; "he is
more familiar with you."

Rich bared the leg by ripping the clothes at the seam, and the two
physicians commenced their examination. In his fall the boy had struck
on the end of a sunken log, the remaining portion being imbedded in the
bank, and both bones were broken. The tibia (or larger bone) was
fractured obliquely, the sharp point of the upper end protruding through
the skin; and the fibula (or smaller bone) probably with a pipe-stem
fracture (square across.)

The physicians now went into a room apart for consultation, and Rich,
whom they did not invite to accompany them, employed himself in
examining the leg, and endeavoring to soothe and encourage the boy.

Dr. Slaughter gave it as his opinion, that the limb must be amputated at
once.

Dr. Ryan shrank from this, referred to the age and firm constitution of
the patient, thought "it was a pity that the boy should be made a
cripple at his time of life; that, though one of the fractures was
oblique, the bone was not comminuted, and hoped it might be set, and the
patient do well."

His brother physician, on the other hand, was positive.

"It was a compound fracture, and it was a settled principle in anatomy
always to amputate in a compound fracture. Air had been admitted, the
muscles and integuments lacerated and bruised; mortification would take
place, the leg would have to be amputated higher up after all, with
scarcely a chance for life."

Dr. Ryan, accustomed for years to look to his companion for direction in
all surgical operations, was obliged to yield the point; and the parents
were informed it was the opinion of the physicians that amputation was
necessary. Mr. Merrill, who reposed the greatest confidence in Dr. Ryan,
and was not aware that he had hesitated in the matter, acquiesced at
once, though with tears, for Frank was their only child.

But it was very different with the mother, who was a woman of excellent
judgment, great penetration, and decision of character. She utterly
refused, divined that Dr. Ryan secretly cherished a different opinion
and did not act freely, and entreated the physicians to set the bones,
and bind up the wound. But this Dr. Slaughter refused to do. They then
informed their son of the doctors' decision.

"Mother," said Frank, "I had rather die than have my leg cut off, and be
a cripple for life."

They then asked the opinion of Rich, but he declined to advance any.

"Well, wife," said the husband, "we must say something; the doctors are
waiting. I'll do as you think best."

"I," replied she, firmly, "will not give my consent to amputation."

"Well, abide the consequences, then," said Dr. Slaughter; and he left
the house in a huff, followed reluctantly by his companion and
Richardson.

The parents looked at each other, after they had gone, in doubt and
dread. There lay the boy, nothing done as yet, and every moment of
delay, increasing the difficulty of cure and augmenting the danger.

"Shall I harness up, wife, and go to B. after Dr. Loring, or to M. after
Dr. Blake?"

"They will probably refuse to do anything but amputate. No, husband. Let
us send for Mr. Richardson."

"O, do, mother," said Frank; "he's better than all the other doctors in
this world, and he loves me."

"It is not likely he would do anything," replied the father. "We asked
his opinion, and he wouldn't give any."

"To be sure he wouldn't before them. I know that he didn't think the
limb ought to be taken off--saw it in his looks. I don't believe Dr.
Ryan did, either, only Dr. Slaughter has got him under his thumb."

Rich was eating his supper when Mr. Merrill came for him, and shoving
back his plate, went with him directly.

"Mr. Richardson," said the mother, "there is no one here but ourselves.
Please to speak freely. Do you think it is necessary or best to cut off
Frank's leg?"

"I do not. I think there is as great a chance for the boy to live with
the limb on as off--that the bones may be set, and the limb saved as
good as ever."

"Will you give me your reasons, and tell me what Dr. Slaughter meant by
a compound fracture, and why doctors always amputate in that case; and
do it in language that his father and I can understand?"

"A simple fracture is where the bones are broken, but there is no
external wound, and when the bones are set they heal for the most part
readily. But a compound fracture is one in which the bone pushes through
the skin, the muscles are lacerated, or, by the agent that breaks the
bone, an external wound made, and air admitted. The laceration of the
muscles and the admission of air, especially the presence of air, causes
inflammation, the wound suppurates, sloughs, instead of healing, and
ulceration is produced; it then becomes necessary to amputate, and the
patient, being reduced, often dies. The old physicians thought less of
saving the limb than the modern ones, and in case of compound fracture
always amputated."

"Is not this a compound fracture?"

"It must be defined as such technically. But the muscles are not
lacerated; and though the bone protrudes, I have not the least doubt
that it was done by the sharp point of the bone pricking through in
consequence of the foot's falling back when they took him up, and that
it was not forced through by the violence of the blow. It is therefore
so near to a simple fracture that it may be considered and treated as
one, with a fair chance of success, especially considering the patient's
age, health, and the time of year (for the weather is not hot as yet),
and that he is at home, where he will have the best of nursing."

"Mr. Richardson," said the father, "I know in these matters the state of
a patient's mind has much to do with the final results. The boy will not
submit to amputation except by compulsion. That we cannot think of. But
he loves you, and has the most perfect confidence in your ability. Will
you set the bones, and do as you think best?"

"Mr. Merrill, I am a young man, without experience to guide me. I have
no guide other than what I have gathered from books, a few weeks'
instruction, and practice of dissection at Brunswick, and my own
unmatured judgment; but I also know that before you can get a physician
here from another town, swelling will take place, and the chance of
recovery be greatly diminished. I will do it on condition that you take
upon yourselves all the responsibility. If a regular physician should
amputate the limb, and the result be unfavorable, it would be said he
took the regular steps; he would have the authority of precedent, and
the approval of other physicians; and the ill success would be
attributed to the providence of God; whereas in my case it would be
said, 'He is a rash, ignorant upstart and pretender, puffed up with
conceit to trifle with human life.' It would destroy confidence in me
for the future, and prove a poor introduction to practice."

"We will do that, and, moreover, make it public, let the event be what
it may."

Rich now manifested as much despatch as he had previously displayed
reluctance.

"Frank," he said, "I shall be obliged to give you some pain, but I will
not do it unnecessarily, nor to any great extent."

The bone completely filled the wound it had made, the point protruding
slightly, and a little blood trickled down the leg from a slight flesh
wound in the upper part of the thigh. Rich in the first place removed
the protruding point of ragged bone with the saw, and then, dipping a
bunch of lint in the blood that issued from the flesh wound, gave it to
Dan to hold. He then gently returned the bone, Dan applying the lint,
and lightly pressing it to the wound as the bone receded. Rich then
applied a sticking plaster, spread only at the edges, over the whole,
sponged, and bound up the flesh wound. Thus, no air having been admitted
to the wound, the fracture, in that respect, and on account of the
absence of laceration, might be considered as virtually a simple one.
Then, with the aid of assistants, he flexed the thigh on the abdomen and
the leg on the thigh, thus relaxing the muscles, by which he was enabled
to put the bones in place, and, retaining them with his hands, brought
the leg gently down and straightened it.

One assistant, now taking hold of the heel, extended the leg, while
another held the thigh, and Rich manipulated the ends of the bones. By
bringing the heels and toes of both feet in line, and sighting across,
they assured themselves that the legs were of equal length, and the foot
in the right position; that there was no twist, no turning of the foot
out or in. He then applied the splints, and, in order to preserve
extension, by reason of the contraction of the muscles, put a shoe on
the foot and attached half of a brick to it with a string. It requires a
good deal of force to counteract the contraction of a muscle, if exerted
at once, but much less when applied gradually and constantly.

Although progress was now the watchword among the younger portion of the
medical fraternity, and a decided improvement had been made in surgical
instruments, still very few of the appliances now in common use were
then known in this country (starch and plaster of Paris, and dextrine
bandages for broken bones, fracture-beds and boxes, cutting-forceps to
remove bone, &c.,) and Richardson could not have obtained them if they
had been, and, like his grandfather, under the stimulus of a determined
purpose, invented the appliances he felt to be needful.

"It's all over now, Frank," said Rich, sitting down by him and patting
his cheek; "the leg is set, and you have borne it like a hero. Remember
you are _my_ boy after this, and when your leg gets well I shall expect
you to run all my errands. This dressing is only temporary, because the
limb will swell, and the bandages perhaps, require to be loosened. It
will be five or six days before the bones will begin to knit, and then I
shall put on a permanent fixture. I am going to take care of you myself
to-night, as to-morrow is Sunday, no school, and I can sleep. After that
I must be in school."

Having requested the family to retire, he placed the light in the next
room, administered a sedative to the patient, and resumed his seat
beside him. Never had Rich such cause for anxiety before. In addition to
his affection for the lad, who was in truth a noble-minded, lovable boy,
he felt that he had ventured upon an innovation in surgical practice,
and taken a bold step, which success alone could justify. The confidence
reposed in him by the parents in thus placing their only child in his
hands touched him to the quick, and he felt that it was with him the
turning-point, the decisive step in professional life.

Kneeling down by the bedside, he offered a heartfelt petition to God
for direction and support.

"Mr. Richardson," said Frank.

"What is it, my boy?"

"I begin to feel drowsy, and my leg don't pain me much. I want to kiss
you before I go to sleep."

Rich bent over him, and the grateful boy, putting his arms around his
teacher's neck, kissed him, and dropped asleep.




CHAPTER XXIV.

THE YOUNG FLOOD.


Two or three times before midnight Frank started spasmodically, and once
would have risen up in bed if Rich had not held him down; as it was, he
clasped his physician convulsively around the neck with great force.

"What is the matter, Frank?"

"I thought I was falling out of the tree. I suppose I was dreaming."

In one respect Rich was favorably situated. He had but one patient, and
every moment he could spare from his school he either spent at the
bedside of the boy, or in studying his case by the aid of books; he
availed himself of the experience of Dr. Ryan, who knew the constitution
of the lad, sympathized with Rich, and, in the exercise of a noble
generosity, told him he was glad he had taken charge of the case, and
believed he would succeed.

The means resorted to by Rich to prevent inflammation were crowned with
success; the swelling of the muscles, never excessive, soon subsided,
and he found the wound was healing by the first intention, which far
exceeded his most sanguine hopes, as he feared some air might have
entered, or some splinter of bone be lying loose in the wound that would
cause suppuration.

It was time for new bone to begin to form, and consequently the shape
the limb now assumed it would retain through life. Rich knew several
persons in town whose limbs had been broken and set by Dr. Ryan, and he
could hardly recall a single instance in which the operation had been
entirely successful; nearly all walked with a hitch in their gait, many
used a staff, or wore a peculiarly-shaped shoe. He also noticed that
most of the persons thus partially crippled lived at a long distance
from Dr. Ryan, and concluded that it arose in a good degree either from
a mistaken economy on the part of the patient, anxious to save the cost
of a visit, or from careless bandaging on the part of the doctor.

Excited to the highest degree by the brilliant success thus far
attained, and knowledge that the boy's life was safe, he longed, O, how
ardently! to make a _perfect_ cure, and restore the leg to its original
form and efficiency.

He reflected that less discretion and regard to future consequences were
to be expected from a lad like Frank than from a grown person; didn't
feel satisfied with the old splints, was afraid that, unless he bandaged
the leg so tight as to impede the circulation, the restless boy would,
just at the critical period when the bone was forming, get the parts out
of place.

"I know," said Rich to himself, "that I am mechanic enough to _place_
those bones as they should be, and I'll see if I cannot contrive some
way to _keep_ them there in spite of this wide-awake youngster."

He went to bed in order to think about it, and in the morning at the
breakfast table said to Mrs. Clemens,--

"Where did you get that blue clay the girl was putting on the floor
yesterday to take out a grease-spot? It had no more grit than
tailors'-chalk."

"Daniel got it somewhere."

"I got it down in Milliken's Gully, Mr. Richardson. You might cut it
with a razor, and not dull the razor; there's not a stone or one mite of
grit in it. I got it to make marbles."

Richardson procured a quantity of the clay, dried, pounded, sifted, and
made it into a very thin mortar. He then took the splints from Frank's
leg, placed the bones precisely as he wanted them, put the leg in a box,
fastened the upper portion of his body to the bed that he could not
move, and poured the clay mortar into the box till it completely
enveloped the leg and foot. He then pulled the bed under the window,
where the sun shone full on the clay, took hold of Frank's foot, and sat
down.

"How long are you going to keep me lashed down so, Mr. Richardson?"

"Till this clay dries. And I shall hold your foot just where it is till
then."

"Why, Mr. Richardson," said Mrs. Merrill, "it will take all day for that
clay to dry."

"No, it won't, with the warmth of the leg on one side, and that of the
sun on the other, it won't take _half_ a day."

"But the academy bell will ring in about fifteen minutes."

"Parson Meek is going to take my place this forenoon; so you may prepare
to give me some dinner, for I shall sit here till the clay hardens, if
it is till to-morrow evening."

The clay was stiff, though not dry, before noon, and Frank's leg
immovably fixed in the position Rich had placed it.

"Now, Frank, you have behaved so well, I am going to put you in a
chair."

Rich and Mr. Merrill took Frank up, placed him in a chair, and put the
leg, box and all, on two others.

"Now, my boy, you may sit at the table and eat dinner with us, if you
will eat only what I prescribe; and you may thank the blue clay in
Milliken's Gully for that. Blue clay, forever, Frank. Were it not for
that you would have had to lie on your back twenty days or more."

After the meal was ended, Rich, with a saw, cut out a portion of the
clay, in order to be able to get at that part of the leg the bone had
penetrated. The box was also lined with paper, that the clay might not
stick to it, and put together with screws, in order that it might be
taken to pieces. This was Rich's fracture box, not very elegant, and for
which he never took out any patent; being made, the sides, of the cover
of an old herring box; but it answered the purpose completely, fastening
the limb as firmly in the box as though it grew there, and as
effectually preventing any motion of the ankle or toes, by which the
bones might be displaced.

When Rich went to the academy in the afternoon, he returned Frank to his
bed; and the next morning he was taken up again, and, as the cure
progressed, sat up more and more. He could now read, play checkers with
Dan and Horace, and the time passed less tediously. He now importuned
his physician to take his leg out of the box; but Rich peremptorily
refused, though he allowed him a more generous diet.

When a full month had elapsed, Rich took the box apart, sawed through
the coating of clay the whole length, and peeled it off, removed the
bandage, washed the leg, gave it a smart rubbing, and compared it with
the other. After examining the limb a long time very carefully, he
said,--

"If those two legs are not as well matched as they were before, I am
very much mistaken."

"Shall I be lame any, Mr. Richardson?" said Frank.

"If you are, it will be your own fault. If you are careless now, you
will rue it as long as you live, for the parts are not consolidated yet,
and the oblique fracture in the large bone requires a longer time to
heal than the square break in the other."

Rich put on the clay again, but without the box, and in less quantity,
confining it by a bandage, slung the patient's leg to his neck, and
permitted him to take exercise by walking about the house on crutches,
some one accompanying him; and when he permitted him to put his injured
leg to the floor, it was found to be of the same length as the other.

Mr. Merrill rewarded Rich most liberally, being abundantly able, and
with expressions of grateful feeling that were more gratifying to the
recipient than even the money. It was a proud and glad morning to him
when Frank Merrill came to school with his books under his arm, escorted
by Dan and Horace Williams, and with as firm a tread as his companions.

Scarcely had Frank's case been disposed of, when a younger sister of
Mrs. Merrill, a member of the choir, and a most lovely girl as far as
personal attractions, correct principles, and amiability of disposition
went, was taken down with a lung fever; and the patient, with her
parents and Mrs. Merrill, insisted that Rich should manage the case.
This was more practice than Rich either desired or felt himself
qualified to assume, and he told them so, and that he should pursue
quite a different method from the ordinary practice, which was, in that
disease, to bleed patients till they fainted, give them antimony to
reduce the action of the heart, till, in reducing the inflammation, they
often made an end of the patient. The young lady's relatives informed
him they were not at all concerned about that, and to adopt the course
his judgment dictated. In so doing, Rich drew no blood, and pursued a
course calculated to support the strength of the patient as much as
possible, and was successful in this case also.

At the conclusion of the summer term Rich resolved to make another visit
to his parents, but felt that in his present circumstances he could
afford to ride; and, what was very singular, he spent a night at farmer
Conant's, taking the stage from his door the next afternoon. It
certainly could not have been from fatigue, as on the former occasion.
It was probably to thank the hospitable farmer for his kindness then,
and it was a noble thing in Rich not to forget, in the moment of
success, those who had been his friends in adversity.

With the fall term commenced another year of the academical course, when
it was necessary for Rich to make a new arrangement with the trustees,
who were very anxious to retain him, and offered to increase his
salary. On the other hand, Dr. Ryan wanted him to give up the academy,
devote himself entirely to the study of medicine, obtain a medical
diploma, go into practice with him and finally take his place, as he did
not care to practise any more.

The doctor said he loved him as a son, and that if he did not improve
the opening, some other young man would certainly come who might be very
objectionable.

Rich replied that he would at the expiration of two years, and then
agreed to keep the academy one year longer; thus affording himself a
year of uninterrupted study, in addition to what he could accomplish
while teaching, and resolutely refused all invitations to take charge of
patients.

The fall term had been going on but a week when he received a visit from
Morton. The inhabitants of the village showed great attention to Morton,
as a compliment to Rich, and especially Mr. Merrill's family, and that
of Mr. George Litchfield, the father of the young lady Rich had attended
during a course of lung fever.

As the two friends were walking one evening, Morton said,--

"Rich, why don't you make up to that Miss Litchfield? She's a beautiful
girl, intelligent, accomplished, and of most amiable disposition, I
know, for she shows it in her very looks. You are about to jump into a
fat practice, that will give you a handsome living at once, and it is
time you were thinking of such matters. I know she likes you, and her
father is wealthy, which, though I know it would weigh little with you,
is not to be despised."

"Mort, why did not you take Miss T., whom you used to like to escort to
exhibitions and commencements, and walk with, and who was more beautiful
than Harriet Litchfield, and in preference engaged yourself to Eliza
Longley?"

"Because I wanted a wife, not a doll, a woman who would make for me a
happy home."

"Now you have answered your own question. Miss Litchfield is beautiful
and of a sweet temper, for I have seen her when sick, and sickness
developes character. She is well educated, sings finely, plays well, is
not vain, and is sincerely pious, but has neither industry, energy, nor
a single domestic trait. She cannot make or mend, get a meal's victuals,
or tell anybody else how to do it. Her counsel in the emergencies of
life, which you and I have known something about even at our age, would
not be worth the asking. Why, Mort, she is as hollow as the stalk of a
seed onion; no resources in herself, and for all the practical duties of
life utterly useless. How could I respect a woman who, if she has not a
piano to amuse, or some gossip to engage her attention, sits and folds
her hands, and resembles a wooden clock, the face the best part of it?
You saw how my mother stood up under the load, and took her share of
it, when father's property was swept into the Atlantic; and it will be a
long day before a boy who has such a mother marries a doll."

"I rather think, Rich, such a woman as you want is not easily found."

"Neither are diamonds. But you found such a one, and so have I."

"Indeed! I congratulate you. But who and where is she? Is she handsome?"

"She is not beautiful, but as handsome as good health, regular features,
and a perfect form can render a woman."

"Is she accomplished?"

"To the highest degree. She can spin and weave, wash and mend, make
butter, and make clothes; and when she's tired, or has a leisure hour,
can sit down and obtain both profit and pleasure from a thoughtful
book."

"It is little you would have thought of falling in love with such a
woman when we first knew each other. What has become of all the poetry
that was in you then, and, I had almost said, the froth on the top of
the liquor?"

"It went to sea when the boom broke."

"I long to see her."

"You shall Sunday, and eat a dinner of her cooking. We will ride over
there Saturday. She is a farmer's daughter. There is no _property_ in
the matter, of the kind you referred to just now. It is all in _her_."

"You know what I told you, Rich, so long ago, when we were sitting on
the steps of your old house, and the cat shoved her nose into your
bosom. It was dead _low water_ then; but now the tide has not only
turned, but it is young flood, and the tide will continue to flow till,
at high water it will lift the strawberry leaves on the edge of the
bank."

"True, Mort; but I do not regret the trial. I have gained more than I
lost by it. Have you heard anything from college lately, or from our old
class?"

"No. All our acquaintances are gone, and there is a new set in
Radcliffe. But they are only going to keep it during the fall term;
after that it is to be made into a dwelling-house. Charlie Longley wrote
me that the dam at the Glen had washed away in the fall rains, and the
pond had run out."

Their conversation was interrupted by meeting Dr. Ryan, who invited them
to go home with him, enjoy a sing, and take tea.

The next volume of the series is entitled, A STOUT HEART, OR, THE
STUDENT FROM OVER THE SEA.





End of Project Gutenberg's The Turning of the Tide, by Elijah Kellogg