Transcriber’s Note
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[Illustration: CLINTON’S HOME.]




[Illustration: The Aimwell Stories

BY

Walter Aimwell

CLINTON

TAKE HEED WILL SURELY SPEED

Gould & Lincoln]




  The Aimwell Stories.


  CLINTON:

  OR,

  BOY-LIFE IN THE COUNTRY.


  BY

  WALTER AIMWELL,

  AUTHOR OF ‘OSCAR,’ ‘BOY’S OWN GUIDE,’ ETC.


  With Illustrations.


  BOSTON:
  GOULD AND LINCOLN.
  59 WASHINGTON STREET.
  NEW YORK: SHELDON, LAMPORT & BLAKEMAN.
  115 NASSAU STREET.
  1855.




  Entered according to Act of Congress in the year 1853, by
  GOULD AND LINCOLN,
  In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the District of
  Massachusetts.


  ANDOVER: J. D. FLAGG.
  Stereotyper and Printer.




PREFACE.


The story of CLINTON is designed mainly to illustrate by example the
importance of early habits of obedience and industry; the danger of
mingling with unprincipled and vicious companions; and the necessity of
being able to say no, when tempted to do wrong. It is also designed to
awaken in boys a stronger taste for the quiet and innocent pursuits and
pleasures of home-life,—a taste which can hardly be overestimated, as
one of the Heaven-appointed safeguards of youthful virtue.

 _Winchester, Mass._




ADVERTISEMENT.

“PRECEPTS MAY LEAD, BUT EXAMPLES DRAW.”


“THE AIMWELL STORIES” are designed to portray some of the leading
phases of juvenile character, and to point out their tendencies to
future good and evil. This they undertake to do, by describing the
quiet, natural scenes and incidents of every-day life, in city and
country, at home and abroad, at school and upon the play-ground, rather
than by resorting to romantic adventures and startling effects. While
their main object is to persuade the young to lay well the foundations
of their characters, to win them to the ways of virtue, and to incite
them to good deeds and noble aims, the attempt is also made to mingle
amusing, curious and useful information with the moral lessons
conveyed. It is hoped that the volumes will thus be made attractive and
agreeable, as well as instructive, to the youthful reader.

Each volume of the “Aimwell Stories” will be complete and independent
of itself, although a connecting thread will run through the whole
series. The order of the volumes, so far as completed, is as follows:

 I. OSCAR; OR, THE BOY WHO HAD HIS OWN WAY.

 II. CLINTON; OR, BOY-LIFE IN THE COUNTRY.

 III. ELLA; OR, TURNING OVER A NEW LEAF. (_In preparation._)




CONTENTS.


  CHAPTER I.

  CLINTON AND HIS HOME.

                                                                   Page.

  Description of Brookdale—The house where Clinton
  lived—Specimens of his ingenuity—His habit of finding
  out how to do things—Annie—Clinton’s mother—Keeping
  ducks—Clinton’s poultry—Keeping accounts—His
  profits—Obstinate Specky—Ducks bad mothers—The
  duck-house—No school—Studying at home—Clinton
  at work—A mysterious “but,”                                         13


  CHAPTER II.

  JERRY AND OSCAR.

  Digging a duck-pond—Bantering—A talk about work—Going
  to the pond—Clinton’s hesitation—Afraid
  of being laughed at—Ridicule—He yields—Bathing—A
  merry time—Unpleasant thoughts—A sail proposed—Clinton’s
  remonstrance—His return home—His
  companions’ sport—Aground—Laughing at mischief—Character
  of Jerry and Oscar—Dangers ahead,                                   30


  CHAPTER III.

  TEMPTATION.

  The little ducks—Their house and pond—Their first
  ducking—An exciting scene—The beautiful and the
  ridiculous—Winter wheat—Hard work—A welcome
  proposal—The Cross-Roads—Clinton’s errand—Oscar
  and Jerry—Gunning—The closed store—Another
  successful temptation—The river—The Falls—The
  wood-road—The cigars—Temptation again—Why
  Clinton yielded—A new sensation—Starting for
  home—Another new sensation, not so pleasant—Arrival
  home—Sickness—Telling half the truth—Parental
  sympathy—What conscience said—Good-night,                           43


  CHAPTER IV.

  CRIME.

  The icicle—How evil habits are formed—Stealing pears—Discovery
  and flight—A call from Mr. Upham—A
  serious matter—A talk about punishment—The culprits
  discovered—The flogging of Oscar and Jerry—Its
  effects—Fire in the woods—Mr. Upham’s loss—His
  suspicions—The warrant—Arrest of Oscar and
  Jerry—Mr. Preston’s feelings—Arrival at Squire Walcott’s—A
  dreary hour,                                                        61


  CHAPTER V.

  THE EXAMINATION.

  The Justice of the Peace—Oscar’s arraignment—His
  feelings—The Squire’s advice—Reading of the complaint—Oscar’s
  plea—The witnesses—Mr. Preston’s
  opinion of the evidence—Decision reserved—Jerry’s
  examination—His confession—Oscar’s recall—His
  surprise—Bonds required, but not obtained—Oscar
  and the constable—A sad journey—The jail—The
  registry—Oscar’s cell—His supper—His father’s arrival
  at Brookdale—The case settled—Release from
  jail,                                                               73


  CHAPTER VI.

  JERRY AND CLINTON.

  Mr. Preston’s absence—Jerry’s conduct—The rabbits—Disobedience—Its
  results—Fate of the rabbits—Lonesomeness
  of Jerry—His secret intimacy with Clinton—A
  dull scholar—Playing truant—A bad predicament—A
  plan of escape—Clinton to be a party—His
  objections—The real one not given—Coaxing and
  entreaty—Indecision—Tampering with sin—The
  forged excuse—Its success,                                          87


  CHAPTER VII.

  DISCLOSURES.

  How to conquer a hard lesson—Can and can’t—An important
  lesson—Clinton’s great mistake—His miserable
  position—The social party—Master Eaton and
  Mrs. Preston—Inquiries about Jerry—Unpleasant discoveries—A
  mystery—Suspicions—Foreboding of
  evil—Clinton’s guilt betrayed—Shame and grief—A
  request—The confession—Master Eaton’s opinion of
  the case—His advice—Jerry’s perplexity,                            101


  CHAPTER VIII.

  CONFESSION.

  A peep at Clinton’s home—A talk about him—His return
  from school—Sober looks—Whittling—Story of
  a whittler—Clinton unburdens his mind—Parental
  admonitions—A father’s prayer—Clinton’s punishment—A
  lighter heart,                                                     115


  CHAPTER IX.

  THE RUNAWAY.

  A visit from Mrs. Preston—Jerry’s theft and departure—His
  mother’s grief—Mr. Davenport’s advice—He
  starts in pursuit—His return—Feelings towards Jerry—Temptation
  not to be courted,                                                 125


  CHAPTER X.

  THE JOURNEY.

  A long walk—The tavern—The bar-room—Jerry
  questioned—A good supper—Sleep—An early call—The
  stage ride—Waterville—The depot—A long
  ride by railroad—Thoughts of home—Portland—Travelling
  by night—Arrival at Boston—Baggage
  checks—Carriages—Bare ground—Haymarket
  Square by gas-light—Hunting up quarters—The Hotel
  clerk—Jerry booked—A lofty bed-room,                               132


  CHAPTER XI.

  BOSTON.

  A fine prospect—What next?—Oscar at sea—Breakfast—The
  waiters—Crowded streets—Novel sights—An
  omnibus incident—Shipping—The ferry-boat—People
  Jerry met—The wharf—No boys wanted—The
  outward-bound brig—An unexpected chance—Going
  to sea in a hurry—Jerry’s thoughtlessness,                         147


  CHAPTER XII.

  THE SAILOR-BOY.

  Going down the harbor—The ocean—Jerry’s first lesson
  in nautical duties—Four-footed passengers—Seasickness—Repentings—Bob’s
  trick—Jerry’s tormentors—Going
  to bed—The forecastle—First night
  at sea—A rough morning-call—Scrubbing decks—Breakfast—Destination
  of the brig—An “Irishman’s
  hurricane”—Mother Carey’s chickens—Routine of
  work at sea—Iron discipline—A nap at the watch—Insolence
  cured—Dangerous associates,                                        158


  CHAPTER XIII.

  MARY.

  Jerry missed at home—What Mary thought had become
  of him—A letter—Disappointment—Clinton’s visits—The
  snow-image—A painful contrast—Mary’s
  sickness—The doctor—Strange talk—Delirium—Recognition—Inquiries
  about Jerry—Mary’s vision—The
  last scene—The burial—Heaven,                                      174


  CHAPTER XIV.

  THE FORESTS.

  March—Clinton’s good conduct—An excursion proposed—Preparations—The
  outfit—An early start—Their
  destination—The forests—Plenty of wood—Its scarcity in Europe—Great
  stumps—A variety of trees—Their
  uses—Virtues of birch—Incident in Mr. Davenport’s
  school days—The oil of birch—Curious properties
  of the birch tree—Uncle Tim’s clearing,                            186


  CHAPTER XV.

  THE CLEARING.

  Uncle Tim’s premises—His log house and barn—Dinner—Uncle
  Tim’s account of his settlement in the
  woods—A table turned into an arm-chair—Splints—Holes
  in the floor—The river—A sagacious dog—Bill
  and Jim—The barn—The crops—A great fire-place—Supper—A
  visit to the river—A talk with
  the boys—The settle—“I’ll try”—Uncle Tim’s stories—The
  three brothers—An alarm—A bad, but
  laughable predicament—Good done by a bear—Going
  to bed,                                                            198


  CHAPTER XVI.

  THE LOGGERS.

  The journey resumed—Dreary scenes—Camping in the
  woods—Welcome sounds—The loggers’ quarters—Mr.
  Jones—Situation of the camp—Description of the
  cabins—Their interior—Return of the loggers from
  work—Supper—Exchange of provisions—Night in
  the camp—Going to work—The three gangs—Clinton’s
  rambles—Private marks on the logs—Evening
  stories—Log driving—Jams—How they are started—A
  fearful scene—Narrow escape—The great
  boom—How the logs are got out,                                     215


  CHAPTER XVII.

  A TALK IN THE WOODS.

  Starting for home—A logger’s life—Mr. Davenport’s
  opinion of it—Hard work and small pay—Mr.
  Jones’s history—The two boys—Contrast between
  their early habits—Henry Jones’s fatal error—Its
  consequences—A moose discovered—Its appearance—Fast
  travelling—Antlers of the moose—A moose-yard—Hunting
  moose—A moose at bay—Home
  again,                                                             232


  CHAPTER XVIII.

  WORK AND PLAY.

  Early spring—A dull season for boys—Clinton in the
  shop—He makes a settle—The motto—Winter
  over—Work on the farm—Taking care of the garden—A
  bargain—Contest with weeds and bugs—Secrets
  of Clinton’s success—Going to the post-office—A
  boyish dispute—Play-ground rhymes—Their
  antiquity—The two letters—Curiosity excited—A
  letter from Jerry—Unpleasant question—Consulting
  the map,                                                           245


  CHAPTER XIX.

  BITTER FRUITS.

  Letter from Clinton’s uncle—Willie’s disappointment—An
  interesting case—Oscar’s career, after his release
  from jail—Joins a band of juvenile thieves—His
  arrest—Imprisonment—Denial of guilt—A dark future—Friendly
  messages—A wag of Bouncer’s tail—A
  bad beginning seldom makes a good ending—Working
  and thinking—A newspaper—Oscar’s conviction
  and sentence—The Reform School—Its inmates—The
  four classes—Class of “Truth and Honor”—Daily
  order of business—Employment—The
  probability of Oscar’s reforming—Clinton’s character
  retrieved—Conclusion,                                              260




Illustrations.


                                                                   Page.

  CLINTON’S HOME                                           FRONTISPIECE.

  MAP OF BROOKDALE                                                    14

  THE BOAT AGROUND                                                    38

  THE FIRE IN THE WOODS                                               69

  OSCAR IN JAIL                                                       84

  CLINTON AT THE FIRE-SIDE                                           117

  HAYMARKET SQUARE                                                   143

  SEA-SICKNESS                                                       162

  THE SNOW IMAGE                                                     177

  THE LOG HOUSE                                                      199

  THE LOGGERS’ CAMP                                                  219

  THE SETTLE                                                         248

  BOUNCER’S TAIL                                                     264

  THE REFORM SCHOOL                                                  269




CLINTON.




CHAPTER I.

CLINTON, AND HIS HOME.


Most people on entering the little village of Brookdale for the first
time, are struck with the beauty of its location. Those who were born
there, and who have always lived in sight of its green hills, and
pleasant valleys, and frolicsome rivulets, probably do not think so
much of these things as does the stranger who happens to come among
them, and who has an eye for the beauty of nature. Beautiful objects
often lose their attractions when they become familiar to us. If a man
were permitted to behold the splendors of a clear evening firmament
but once in his life-time, he would be almost enraptured with the
sight; but give him the opportunity of gazing at the stars every
cloudless night in the year, and he will seldom notice them.

[Illustration: Map of Brookdale]

A range of high hills skirt the eastern side of Brookdale, and stretch
away to the north, as far as the eye can reach. Towards the west,
in a clear day, can be seen the shadowy form of a distant mountain,
looking like a dim cloud on the horizon. Near the centre of the village
is one of those beautiful little lakes, so common in the State of
Maine. Several rivulets, fed by springs in the hills, flow through
the village during the greater portion of the year, and empty their
sparkling waters into this lake, or pond as it is generally called. It
is from this circumstance that the town is called Brookdale.

It was near the foot of one of the hills in this pleasant little
village, in a snug farm-house a story and a half high, that Clinton
lived. Mr. Davenport, his father, had formerly been a carpenter in
another part of the State; but having a taste for farming, he gave up
his trade after he had accumulated a little property, and bought the
place of which we are speaking. He brought with him, however, a great
variety of carpenter’s tools, and had a room fitted up for a workshop,
where he often did little jobs for himself or some neighbor, when a
rainy day kept him indoors. This room was in the rear of the house,
adjoining the pantry, so that it was not necessary to go out of the
house to reach it. Clinton spent a great many happy hours in this
shop; for though he was only thirteen years old, he had considerable
mechanical skill, and could handle the plane, the saw, the bit, and
most of the other tools, in quite a workmanlike style. As he was
careful not to injure the tools, his father allowed him to use them
whenever he wished.

There were some very creditable specimens of Clinton’s skill at
carpentry about the house, which he took no little pride in showing to
visitors, as well he might. For instance, there was the martin-house,
on a tall pole in the garden, which was a complete miniature model of
the farm-house itself, including the long “kitchen-end” in the rear. To
make the resemblance as close as possible, Clinton gave this bird-house
two coats of white paint, and also painted imitation windows in black.
On the barn there was another tall, straight staff, with a vane
representing a prancing horse, all the work of Clinton’s own hands. The
trellises on each side of the front door of the house which supported
the climbing roses and honeysuckles, were likewise his handiwork.

Clinton did not like to have any one show him how to do a thing, if he
could possibly get along without it. I suppose it was for this reason
that he never wanted others to know what he was at work upon, until it
was completed. His father would sometimes laugh at him on this account,
and repeat to him the saying of Doctor Franklin, that the man who
depends on teaching himself will have a fool for his master. But this
did not move Clinton in his resolution. It is a good plan to profit as
much as we can by the experience and advice of others; but after all,
there are many things to which this rule will not apply. The boy who
works out a hard sum alone, and refuses to let any one show him how to
do it, will derive much more benefit from the exercise than though he
had been assisted by others. So, no doubt, Clinton owed no little of
his skill in carpentry to the fact that he did not run to his father
for advice and assistance every time he met with a little difficulty.

Clinton had one sister, but no brothers; her name was Annie; and she
was seven years younger than her brother. She was a beautiful child,
with large, blue eyes full of confidence and love, a fat, rosy face,
and hair that hung in golden curls about her white shoulders. She was
all gentleness and affection, and was the pet and favorite of the
household. No boy of his age ever loved a sister more than Clinton did
his. Though she was so much younger than himself, he spent much of his
time with her, joining in sports in which she could take a part, or
making playthings for her amusement. It was very rarely that he allowed
himself to use an unkind or impatient word toward her; and when he
did, he was sure to repent of it, for he could not bear the silent and
sorrowful reproach of those eyes. Annie, for her part, was proud of her
brother, and returned, with interest, all the affection he bestowed
upon her. She was sure that no other little girl in Brookdale had such
a brother; and when this subject was talked about after school one
day, she was not a little offended with Susan Lovering, because she
persisted in maintaining that her brother Herbert was just as good and
as ingenious a boy as Clinton Davenport. Annie thought the idea absurd,
and it was some time before she could forgive Susan for making such a
remark.

The only other inmate of the house I have described, was Clinton’s
mother. Mrs. Davenport was an excellent woman, gentle and lady-like in
her manners, and extremely fond of her children. Mr. Davenport employed
one or two hired men on his farm a portion of the year, but they did
not live with the family.

“Father,” said Clinton one day, on coming home from the mill, and
before he had alighted from the wagon, “Father, may I keep some ducks?”

“Ducks! what do you want of them, Clinty?” inquired his father.

“Why, I’ve just seen Jerry Preston, and he’s got some real handsome
ones, and he says I may have four of them for a dollar.”

“Yes, but that isn’t answering my question. No doubt Jerry would be
glad to sell his ducks, but what do you want of them, and what will
you do with them? We must always think of these things before we buy
anything. I am not so sure but that if you had the ducks you would be
almost as badly off as the man who came into possession of an elephant,
which he could not keep, sell, nor give away.”

“Why, father,” replied Clinton, “I can build a little house to keep
them in, down by the side of the brook, and Jerry says they will lay
more than eggs enough to pay for their keeping. They don’t need so much
grain as hens do. They look real handsome, too, sailing on the water.”

“Well, if you are willing to pay for them out of your own money, and
will provide a suitable place for them, I don’t know as I shall object
to your keeping a few. But it seems to me you might make a better
bargain than you propose. Won’t Jerry sell you some eggs?”

“I don’t know as he has any, yet, for he has just begun to keep ducks;
but I will ask him.”

“Do so,” said Mr. Davenport, “and if he will sell you a dozen, at a
reasonable price, you may buy them.”

“But of what use will the eggs be, father, without a duck to hatch
them?” inquired Clinton.

“Never mind about that now,” replied his father, “you get the eggs
first, and then we will see what we can do with them.”

Clinton was already somewhat largely interested in the poultry line.
When he was nine years old, his father gave him all the fowls belonging
to the farm, on condition that he should assume the whole charge of
them, and take good care of them. There were in all about twenty hens
and chickens, and half a dozen young turkeys. Mr. Davenport agreed to
pay Clinton for all the eggs and poultry they needed for the table,
but Clinton must purchase with his own money whatever was necessary
for the subsistence of the fowls. Clinton was much pleased with this
arrangement; and as he knew that when men engage in business they
usually keep account books, in which they record all the sums they
spend or receive, he procured a few sheets of paper, with which he made
a little blank book, for this purpose. His first entry was simply an
enumeration of his fowls, with an estimate of their value; or, as the
merchant would call it, a schedule of his stock in trade. It was as
follows:—

 Commenced this account July 18th, 1847, with the following fowls:—

  1 rooster and 8 hens, (old), worth 30 cts. each,      $2,70

  10 pullets,                    ”   40      ”           4,00

  6 turkeys,                     ”   75      ”           4,50
                                                       ——————
       Total value,                                    $11,20

Whenever he sold any eggs, he entered the date, the number sold,
and the price, on a page which he reserved for this purpose. On the
opposite page, he set down the sums which he paid his father for the
corn and meal consumed by his fowls. At the end of the first year, he
struck a balance, to use a mercantile expression; that is, he added up
the various sums he had received and spent, and ascertained how much he
had made by the year’s operations. His account stood thus:—

                            DR.

  Value of fowls on hand one year ago                 $11,20

  12 bushels corn, at 75 cts.                           9,00

  6    ”     meal, at 80 cts.                           4,80

  4    ”     barley, at 60 cts.                         2,40

  2    ”     potatoes, at 40 cts.                         80

  Meat                                                    92
                                                      ——————
      Total cost                                      $29,12


                            CR.

  Now on hand, 2 roosters and 32 hens and pullets,
  worth 36 cents each                                 $12,24

  9 turkeys, worth 75 cts. each                         6,75

  150 dozen eggs sold                                  22,50

  10 hens and chickens sold, 36 cts. each               3,60

  6 turkeys sold at 83⅓ cts. each                       5,00

  2 loads manure                                        2,50
                                                      ——————
      Total value                                     $52,59

  Expenses                                             29,12
                                                      ——————
      Profit                                          $23,47

Of this profit, $18,99 was in the shape of hens and turkeys, and $4,48
in ready cash, safely deposited in the old bureau drawer, in Clinton’s
bed-room.

The second year, Clinton made a much larger profit on his poultry, his
father having given him a patch of ground, where he raised with his own
hand a crop of corn sufficient to carry his fowls through the year. At
the end of this year, he had about $30,00 in money, which his fowls had
earned for him; and as he continued every year to raise his own grain,
when he was thirteen years old, he had about $75,00 in cash, which, at
his request, his father had deposited in a bank in Portland, where it
earned him interest. In addition to this, he had about $25,00 worth of
hens and turkeys; so that the $11,20 worth of fowls which his father
gave him, had, by his own industry and prudence, swelled into $100 in
four years.

The same afternoon on which the conversation upon ducks was held,
Clinton managed to run over to Jerry’s again, to see if he could
procure the eggs. Jerry told him he had not now got enough for a
litter, but would be able to supply him in a few days. Clinton
therefore engaged the first dozen he should have, for which he agreed
to pay 25 cents.

“Now, father,” said Clinton a few days after, as he uncovered the box
of eggs for which he had bargained, “now I am ready for you.”

“You don’t need any assistance,” replied Mr. Davenport; “all you have
got to do, now, is to give the eggs to Specky, and she will do the
rest.”

Specky was one of Clinton’s hens, and this name was given to her, on
account of her speckled feathers. She had recently taken it into her
head that she wanted to raise a family of little Speckies; but as
Clinton did not happen to coincide with her in this matter, she had
done nothing but make herself miserable for several days. Every chance
she could get, she would jump into the nest, and commence setting,
as though she were determined to bring a chicken out of the chalk
nest-egg. When Clinton approached to take her off the nest, she would
scream and cluck with all her might, which I suppose was her way of
scolding; and when he put her down, she would squat upon the ground,
and refuse to budge an inch. He was obliged to shut her up alone in a
little coop, to reform her bad manners; but she had not got over her
stubbornness, at the time Mr. Davenport told Clinton to let her take
charge of the ducks’ eggs.

“But,” said Clinton, on receiving this direction, “will she set on
those eggs?”

“Yes,” replied his father, “she will set on any thing that looks like
an egg, and be glad of the chance, too. And besides, she will make a
better mother to the little ducklings than their real mother would
prove. The duck is so fond of the water, that when she once gets into
it, she is apt to forget all about her eggs, until they get cold, and
are spoilt. And if she should not fall into this blunder, and hatches
her brood successfully, the first thing she does is to give the poor,
weak things a cold bath, no matter how chilly or stormy it is. They
can’t stand this rough treatment very well, and for this reason it is
better to let hens do the setting and hatching, when there are any
ducks to be raised.”

All this was new to Clinton, as he had never had any experience in the
management of the duck family. He followed his father’s directions,
however, and as madame Specky seemed delighted with the arrangement,
he was satisfied. The next day, he set about building a house for the
expected new comers, down in the meadow, by the side of the brook. This
was something of an undertaking, for a boy of his age, but he took hold
with a right good will, and by devoting to it all the time he could
spare from his other duties, he had it completed, and ready for the
ducks to move into, long before they had begun to show their heads.

At this time Clinton was not attending school, for the very good reason
that there was no school in the place. The law of the State only
required that every town should support a public school three months in
the year; and as Brookdale had but a small and scattered population,
the people did not think it advisable to continue their school any
longer than the winter term, which lasted from the first of December to
the first of March. During this season of the year, the lads and lasses
of all ages, from six or seven years up to eighteen or twenty, turned
out and attended the same school, and made the most of their brief
opportunities for acquiring knowledge.

But though there were nine months of every year that Clinton did
not attend school, he was not allowed to neglect his studies, during
these long vacations. Both of his parents had received good educations
in their youth, and they knew too well the value of the benefits
thus secured, to allow their children to grow up in ignorance. Mrs.
Davenport had once been a teacher herself, and it was now but a
pleasant task to give Clinton and Annie their daily lessons, and to
listen to their recitations. Mr. Davenport, too, had taught a school
for one or two terms, when a young man. The branches which Clinton was
now studying, were reading, writing, arithmetic, and grammar. He was
required to devote two hours to his studies, each day, no matter how
much work he had to do, or how much he wanted to play. In the evening
his mother heard him recite, and gave him such assistance as he needed.
In this way, he made considerable progress in his studies, though
perhaps he did not learn as fast as he could had he enjoyed school
privileges all the time. During the portion of the year he attended
school, he always ranked above other boys of his own age, and was
considered one of the best scholars in town.

Clinton also performed a good deal of work for his parents, when he
did not attend school. In the spring he used to drive the ploughing
team, while his father or the hired man guided the plough through the
soil. He likewise made himself very handy in planting season; and in
mid-summer he could rake the hay or hoe the corn and potatoes, almost
as well as a man. He knew how to build a stone-wall, or to make a
compost-heap, or to litter and feed the oxen, or to chop wood; for all
these things, and many others, he had been taught to do. He was not
required to labor too hard, or too long at one time; but his father
wished him to learn to work while young, believing he would be happier
if he had some useful employment for a portion of his leisure time.
And Clinton found this to be true. He not only learned a great many
useful things, from his daily labors, but he found that after working
a few hours, he could enjoy his sports with much more zest than if he
had idled away all his time in trying to amuse himself. Besides, it was
no little satisfaction to know that he could be of some service to his
parents, to whose care and affection he was so greatly indebted.

It was thus between work, study and play, that Clinton divided
his time. He was an intelligent, kind-hearted, good-natured, and
well-meaning boy, but——well, we will for the present drop the vail of
charity over the unpleasant truth which belongs to the other side of
that “but.”




CHAPTER II.

JERRY AND OSCAR.


After Clinton had finished his duck-house, he noticed that the water
was getting quite low in the brook. It was the month of August, and the
season had been very hot and dry, so that the springs in the hills,
which fed the brook, had almost given out. While he was thinking what
his ducks would do for water if the brook should dry entirely up, it
occurred to him that he might make a little pond, to be filled from the
brook, which would afford a good place for his ducks to swim, and might
also prolong the supply of water. Having obtained his father’s consent,
he set about the job at once. He was busily at work, digging out the
peat or mud for this pond, one warm afternoon, when he happened to look
up and saw two boys by the side of him. As their eyes met, one of them
exclaimed,—

“An’ faith, Patrick, what are ye after doin’ now? Is it for goold ye
are diggin’, sure? or are ye goin’ to make a river of the brook? Why
don’t ye spake, ye bogtrotter, hey?”

Clinton laughed at this rough salutation, but perhaps he felt that
there was a slight tinge of unkindness in the joke, as he turned his
eye from the neat dress of the speaker, to his own heavy boots loaded
with mud, and his coarse and well-worn pantaloons, the bottoms of which
were tucked into his boots.

“But you do look just like a Paddy, Clin, I’ll leave it to Jerry if you
don’t,” continued the speaker, who was a cousin of Jerry Preston’s, and
was named Oscar.

Jerry agreed that it was so. “But,” he continued, “what are you trying
to make, Clin? I should really like to know.”

“Wait a few days and you will see,” replied Clinton.

“The same old story,” said Oscar, “‘wait and you’ll see;’ you needn’t
think you can get anything more than that out of him, Jerry.”

“I guess he has taken a contract to dig a cellar for somebody,”
continued Jerry. “See him put in!” he added, as Clinton resumed his
work.

“And I guess,” said Oscar, “that he isn’t making anything in
particular, but is only digging for amusement. What capital fun it must
be to dig mud this warm day!”

Clinton made no reply to their bantering, but kept on digging. After a
minute’s pause, Jerry resumed the conversation by saying,—

“Clin, you are the queerest fellow I ever saw.”

“How so?” inquired Clinton.

“Why, I never come over here but I find you hard at work about
something or other. You must love to work better than I do.”

“Yes, and _such_ work, too,” chimed in Oscar; “you’re making a complete
clodhopper of yourself. You’ll be an old man before you are a young
one, if you don’t mind. Why doesn’t your father make his men do this
hard drudgery, instead of putting it upon you?”

“My father doesn’t make me do this work,” replied Clinton, with some
spirit; “I’m doing it for myself, and of my own accord.”

“I suppose your father doesn’t make you work at all,” said Oscar, with
a sneer in his look and voice, which Clinton could not fail to observe.

“Yes, he does require me to work,” replied Clinton, “but no more than I
ought to. I have plenty of time for play, besides having a little left
for study, too, which is more than some boys, that I know, can say.”

“Yes,” resumed Oscar, “when you aint hard at work, digging like an
Irishman, your father makes you sit down in the house, and mope over
your books. I’m glad I havn’t got such a father to stand over me; aint
you, Jerry?”

“I am so,” replied Jerry. “I don’t believe in making slaves of boys.
It is time enough to go to work when we get to be men. I mean to enjoy
myself while I am young, if I don’t any other time. But come, Oscar,
we’ve stopped here long enough,—let’s be going.”

“Well, I’m ready,” said Oscar, and they began to start. Clinton, seeing
that they were not directing their steps homeward, inquired where they
were going.

“Over to the pond,” replied Jerry, “to have a swim. Come, wont you go
too, Clinton?” he added.

“Yes, come with us, Clin,” said Oscar; “we shall have a first-rate
time; and as you say you can play as much as you please, there’s
nothing to prevent your going.”

Clinton did want to go with them, but his parents and Annie had gone
away that afternoon, leaving the house in his charge, and he thought
it would not be right to leave the premises. It was true, he was not
expressly told not to go off; but Clinton knew his father expected him
to remain about the house until their return, as he had left a message
to be delivered to Mr. Hardy, the blacksmith, who was to call at Mr.
Davenport’s that afternoon. So, after a moment’s hesitation, Clinton
answered,—

“I should like to go, but I don’t see how I can to-day.”

“Why not?” both Oscar and Jerry inquired, at the same instant.

Clinton did not like to tell them his reason, for fear they would laugh
him out of it. He could not bear to be ridiculed, and these boys knew
it; for whenever they wished to persuade him to do anything he was
not inclined to do, they generally resorted to this weapon to effect
their object. Accordingly, they began to try its virtues in the present
case. They asked him if he was afraid to go out of sight of the house
without his father’s leave, and how long he expected to be tied to his
mother’s apron-strings. They had proceeded in this strain but a few
moments, when Clinton’s’ resolution began to give out. He at first
warmly denied that he was afraid to go; and a moment after, as if to
convince them that it was not fear that kept him at home, he threw down
his shovel, and exclaimed,—

“I don’t care,—I believe I will go, too.”

So, exchanging his thick boots for a light pair of shoes, he started
for the pond with the other boys. It was not a very long walk,—taking
the shortest path through the fields,—and they were soon tumbling and
plunging about in the cool water, in high glee. Judging from their
shouts of laughter, and the merry splashing they made in the calm lake,
you would have supposed they were a happy set of boys. But Clinton, at
least, was not quite so happy as he seemed. Something in his breast
told him that he had done wrong in yielding to the solicitations of
his comrades. The louder he laughed, the more plainly did he hear
the voice within, saying, “Ah! Clinton, you have made a false step;
you have yielded to a foolish temptation; you have disobeyed your
father; you have betrayed his confidence,—and all for a few moments’
gratification.” He tried to drive these unpleasant thoughts from his
mind, but they would not leave him. He was careful, however, not to let
his companions see any traces of his uneasiness.

When they had been in the water nearly an hour, Clinton proposed
returning home; but neither Oscar nor Jerry seemed inclined to do so.
After waiting a little longer, Clinton concluded to go home alone, and
proceeded to dry and dress himself. The other boys were so absorbed in
their sport, that they scarcely noticed what he was doing.

Just as Clinton was about to start for home, Oscar took it into his
head to have a sail on the lake. There was a sail-boat anchored a
little way from the shore, near where they were bathing, which belonged
to Squire Walcott. Oscar proposed to take possession of this boat,
and Jerry readily fell in with his plan. The water where the boat lay
was so shallow they could wade out to it; so they proceeded to dress
themselves, preparatory to their excursion. Clinton knew that the
Squire was very obliging, and was always willing to lend his boat to
any one who knew how to manage it; and he was sorry that the boys were
going to take it without leave. Indeed, he even remonstrated with them
about it. But the only reply he got, was this from Oscar:—

“Who cares for old Walcott? Besides, he needn’t know anything about it,
unless you go and tell him. You may go home, if you choose, but I’m
bound to have a sail.”

Clinton got home before his parents returned; and, fortunately for him,
Mr. Hardy came along soon after, and the message was delivered, so that
this burden was removed from his conscience. He did not, however, feel
exactly right in his mind; for though no harm had resulted from his
absence, he had been guilty of something like a breach of trust, and
his conscience continued to reprove him.

[Illustration: The boat aground]

Jerry and Oscar amused themselves on the pond, for an hour longer; but
though both of them attempted to act the skipper, neither knew much
about managing a boat, and the result was, they run themselves aground,
at a place where the bottom was soft mud, and were unable to get
afloat again. It was half a mile from their starting place, and they
did not know how they should get the boat back to its anchoring ground.
They got into the water, and tried to push it off, but it refused to
go. At length, wearied with their exertions, and with their clothes wet
and dirty, they concluded to wade ashore, and leave the stolen boat to
take care of itself. In going home, they avoided the road, as much as
possible, and skulked through the woods, lest they should be seen; but
after they had reached their home, and considered themselves beyond
the danger of discovery, they began to treat the affair as a joke, and
laughed to think how mad “old Walcott” would be, when he found his
boat aground, half a mile from the place where it belonged. They did
not seem to realize that they had acted meanly and wickedly, in taking
possession without leave, of Squire Walcott’s boat, and in leaving it
aground, without informing him of its whereabouts. If they could escape
detection, it mattered little to them whether their conduct had been
right or wrong.

These two boys were unlike Clinton, in many respects. Jerry,—or,
to give, him his full name, Jeremiah Preston,—lived in the nearest
farm-house to Mr. Davenport’s.[1] There was more than half a mile’s
distance between the two families; but as there were no nearer
neighbors, they were on pretty intimate terms. Jerry was but a few
months older than Clinton, and the two boys had been playmates almost
from the cradle. Mr. Preston was engaged in the logging and lumbering
business, which required him to be away from home, in the forests,
a large portion of the year. As Jerry’s mother did not succeed very
well in governing her household, the long and frequent absences of Mr.
Preston from his family were unfortunate for the children, especially
for Jerry, who was the eldest child, and the only son. During the few
months of each year the father spent at home, he was more inclined to
humor his children, than to train them to obedience. Sometimes, it is
true, in a moment of passion, he would punish Jerry severely, for some
offence; but at another time, he would entirely overlook a much more
serious fault. Under the influence of this bad training, it is not
strange that Jerry was getting to be an ungovernable and mischievous
boy.

Oscar Preston was a cousin to Jerry, who had recently come from Boston,
to spend a few months in Brookdale. He was about a year older than
Jerry, in age, but was several years his senior in bad habits. He had
in fact become almost unmanageable at home, and it was on this account,
as well as to get him away from the evil influences of the city, that
his father sent him into the country. He had never been taught to
labor, and as he now had nothing to do, and there was no school to
attend, and no one to restrain him, he did not seem to grow much better
by his banishment from home. It is said that idleness is the mother of
mischief, and Oscar furnished daily proof of the truth of the saying.
His adventure with the boat is but a specimen of the way in which he
amused himself.

The influence of Oscar Preston upon the other boys in the village, and
especially upon Jerry, from whom he was seldom separated, soon became
very perceptible. He had seen more of the world than they, and never
wearied of telling of the wonders of the city, often exaggerating his
stories, to make them the more marvellous. In addition to this, he
was naturally bright and intelligent, and was more genteelly dressed
than the village boys; but the qualities that contributed most to
his influence over his associates, were his daring spirit, and his
imperious, commanding bearing, which seemed to mark him for a leader.
But he had been permitted to have his own way so long at home, that
he had become headstrong and unmanageable; and his evil passions were
daily growing stronger, while the voice of conscience within him was
as rapidly becoming weaker. It is sad, indeed, to see a youth growing
up in this manner, for he is like the sailor who should go to sea in
a frail boat, without anchor, rudder, or compass. He may be delivered
from early destruction, through the mercy of Providence, but he will
not escape many struggles and losses.


FOOTNOTES:

[1] See the map on page 14. Clinton’s home is numbered 1, and Jerry’s
2. The building numbered 3 is the school-house.




CHAPTER III.

TEMPTATION.


Clinton’s brood of ducks at length made their appearance, just one
month after he had put the eggs to the hen. There were eight of them,
four of the eggs having produced nothing. If madame Specky was a little
astonished at the singular appearance which her children presented, she
kept it all to herself, like a good, prudent mother, for she behaved
toward them just the same as though they were ordinary chickens. She
did not appear to think anything strange of their large bills, or their
clumsy, webbed feet, or their awkward, waddling gait. If a dog or cat
ventured near them, or a hawk happened to sail through the air, hen
never put on bolder front than did mistress Specky. And there was need
enough for all her courage, for her young family had so little control
over their big feet, that they never could have saved themselves by
their legs, had a foe invaded the premises.

For several days after the ducks were hatched, they continued about the
poultry-yard, ignorant as yet that there was such a thing as water,
except as they had made its acquaintance in the little tin pan from
which they were accustomed to drink. Clinton’s father had told him
that it was a good plan to keep them from water for the first three
or four days, as they were so tender as to be easily injured by cold
and dampness. On the fifth day, Clinton concluded to introduce them
to their new home; so, gathering up the ducklings into a basket, and
taking the hen under his arm, he carried them down to the brook, where
he had made the duck-house and pond before-mentioned. It was now about
the middle of September, and the brook was nearly dry; but the little
round pond contained plenty of water. This pond received all the water
that came down in the brook; and there was a dam, at the lower side of
it, so that the water could not pass on its way, until it had filled
the pond, and flowed over the dam. The pond was thus kept full, all the
time, but it could be easily emptied, when necessary, by opening a
gate which Clinton had made in the dam.

Clinton had no sooner deposited his basket of ducklings by the side
of the pond, than they all seemed possessed to get into the water.
Away they ran, pell mell, and before their cautious and anxious mother
could warn them of their danger, every one of them had launched away
into the new element. And now they were as graceful and beautiful as
they had been ungainly and ugly. They glided along over the water as
naturally and elegantly as does the new ship on its first entrance upon
its destined element. Annie, who had come to witness the scene, was
delighted with the sight, and clapped her hands in glee, exclaiming:—

“O, isn’t it beautiful, Clinty? Look! look! see that cunning little one
duck its head into the water!”

“Yes,” said Clinton, without turning to look at the sight which so
pleased Annie, “yes, and only see what a fuss the old hen is making
on the bank! Look quick! Ha, ha, ha!” and the boy, whose love of the
ludicrous was as strong as his sister’s love of the beautiful, burst
into a hearty laugh. Nor did he laugh without a reason. Madame Specky,
good, honest old hen that she was, had never seen such strange doings
before, and she was greatly alarmed for the safety of her brood. So she
stood by the side of the pond, clucking and calling with all her might,
and with her wings partially opened, as if to receive back her naughty
children. Her neck was stretched out yearningly towards them, and
she was so excited that she could not stand still a moment, but kept
dancing, like a boy whose legs are undergoing that peculiar tingling
sensation produced by a smart switching with a birch rod. There was
horror in her eye, and frenzy in her attitude. But the little ducks,
who were the innocent authors of all this alarm, were sailing about
as calmly as though nothing unusual had happened. Clinton and Annie
remained with them a long time, now admiring the graceful movements of
the ducks, and now laughing at the distraction of the old hen, as she
tried in vain to call them ashore. After a while, Clinton carried them
all to the duck-house, and shut them up for the remainder of the day,
that they might get used to their new home.

Mr. Davenport was at this time engaged in getting a piece of land
ready for a crop of winter wheat, and he required the assistance
of Clinton a considerable portion of each day. The field had to be
broken up and manured, and the soil finely pulverized, to prepare it
for the seed, which must be sown early in the fall, and not in the
spring, like most other seeds. Mr. Davenport always did thoroughly
whatever he undertook. His motto was, “If a thing is worth doing at
all, it is worth doing well;” and a very good motto it is. Clinton
sometimes thought his father was more particular about his work than
was necessary; he certainly took more pains than some of his neighbors
did. But somehow or other, he always seemed to get paid back liberally
for his extra care, by better and larger crops than those could show
who were less particular about their work. Mr. Davenport was especially
anxious to have the ground well prepared for this crop, because it
was an experiment; he never before having attempted to raise winter
wheat. Indeed, but very little of this grain had ever been raised in
the State, and it was yet uncertain whether the climate was favorable
to its production. He therefore determined to give it a fair trial,
not only to satisfy his own mind, but that others might be benefited
by the experiment; for if he and his neighbors could raise their own
flour, instead of sending several hundred miles for it, he thought it
was very important that they should know it. Were it not for such men
as he, who are willing to enter into patient and careful experiments,
for the common benefit, the world would make but slow progress in
improvement.

The land was at length about ready for the seed. Clinton had worked
pretty hard for several days, and as the family arose from their noon
meal, Mr. Davenport said:—

“Well, Clinty, I hope you wont get sick of raising wheat before we
have planted it. You have had a pretty hard time, and I think you
must be tired. You need not go into the field this afternoon, but you
may tackle up Fanny, and drive over to Mr. Fletcher’s, and get the
seed-wheat that I bought of him. Get back as early as you can, as I
want to have the seed cleaned to-night, and ready to put into the
ground to-morrow morning.”

Clinton was not sorry to hear this announcement of his afternoon’s
work; for though he was not a lazy boy, it really seemed to him, that
just then a ride to the Cross-Roads would be quite as pleasant as an
afternoon spent at work in the field. So Fanny was soon harnessed into
the wagon, and Clinton started on his errand.

Mr. Fletcher was a trader, who kept a store at the Cross-Roads,—a place
where two of the main highways of the county cross each other at right
angles, thus ✛.[2] Quite a thrifty little village had sprung up at
this point, boasting, among other things, a school-house, a church, a
post-office, and a “variety store.” It was, in fact, the centre of life
and business for the surrounding dozen miles. Though about five miles
from Mr. Davenport’s house, there was no other store or church within
twice the distance. His family, consequently, had almost come to regard
the Cross-Roads settlement as a part of their own village, though it
was actually situated in another township.

Clinton had not driven half way to his destination, when he discovered
two lads in advance of him, walking the same way he was going. On
coming up with them, he found that they were Oscar and Jerry, who were
out on a gunning excursion,—Oscar having borrowed a fowling-piece of a
young man who lived near Mr. Preston’s.

“Halloo, Clin, give us a ride,” exclaimed Oscar, as the wagon drew
up to them; and without further ceremony, both boys jumped into the
vehicle.

“Where are you going?” inquired Clinton, as he started the horse.

“O, wherever you please,—we are not at all particular,” replied Oscar.
“Jerry and I have been trying to pop off some birds, this afternoon,
but the little fools won’t stop long enough to let us shoot them.”

“I’m glad of it,” replied Clinton, dryly.

“Why are you glad?” asked Jerry.

“Because it’s too bad to shoot them,” replied Clinton. “I like to see
and hear them too well, to harm them. If I could have my way, there
shouldn’t be a bird shot, unless they were crows or hawks, or something
of that kind.”

“Pooh,” said Oscar; “I should like to know what birds were made for,
if it wasn’t to be shot. You don’t know what fine sport it is to shoot
them, or you would be as fond of gunning as I am.”

Oscar had probably shot half a dozen poor little birds in the course
of his life, and severely frightened as many more. But he had got the
idea that gunning was a fine, manly amusement, and he already fancied
himself to be quite an accomplished sportsman. And if the disposition
could have made him a successful hunter, he would have been one; for he
wanted to take the life of every bird and squirrel that he saw. He soon
found, however, that it was easier to fire than to hit; and in most
of his excursions, his powder-flask was emptied much faster than his
game-bag was filled.

The boys continued their conversation, and soon reached the
Cross-Roads. Driving the wagon up to Mr. Fletcher’s store, Clinton
alighted, but on trying the door, he found it locked. Mr. Fletcher
had evidently stepped out for a few minutes, and Clinton was about to
hitch the horse to the post, and await his return, when Oscar proposed
driving round to the “Falls,” instead of waiting there. Clinton at
first refused; but Jerry and Oscar both joined in the request so
earnestly, that he soon began to parley and hesitate, and finally ended
by reluctantly yielding to their proposition. He accordingly jumped
into the wagon, and turned the face of Fanny towards the Falls.

The lake, or pond, which has been before alluded to, has one outlet,—a
little stream which flows away in a south-westerly direction, finally
discharging into a larger river, which finds its way to the ocean.
This little stream, which goes by the simple name of “The River,” in
Brookdale, passes near by the Cross-Roads. About a mile beyond that
village, it comes to a wild, romantic, down-hill place, where the
waters tumble about, and frolic among the rocks, as though they really
enjoyed the sport. This place is called “The Falls,” the descent of the
river here being very marked. It is off from the common roads, the only
way of reaching it being by a “wood-road,”—a sort of path through the
forest, used by the teams in hauling wood. The very seclusion of the
spot, however, made it the more charming, and it was often resorted to
by pleasure parties in the summer.

The road through the woods being narrow and rough, Clinton could not
drive very swiftly; but he and his companions talked fast enough to
make up for their slow progress. They had not proceeded very far in
this road, when Oscar drew from his pocket a small package, enveloped
in a piece of paper, which he began to unroll slowly, and with a very
knowing and significant look. The contents proved to be three cigars.
Holding them out in his hand, he exclaimed:—

“How lucky! just one a-piece. Now, boys, for a good smoke. Take one,
Clin; and here, Jerry, is one for you.”

Jerry took the cigar offered, but Clinton shook his head, saying that
he did not smoke.

“You don’t know what you lose, then,” said Oscar. “I’ve smoked these
two or three years, and I couldn’t live without my cigar, now. You
can’t imagine how much pleasure there is in it. Come, just try this,
and see if it isn’t nice.”

“No,” replied Clinton, “I don’t wish to. Father hates tobacco, in every
shape, and he wouldn’t like it if he knew I smoked.”

“But this is all prejudice,” added Oscar. “Smoking never hurt me, yet,
and nobody can make me believe that there is any harm in it. I felt a
little sickish for a few minutes, the first time, but that was nothing.
Come, try it, Clin,” he added, as he drew a match from his pocket, and
lighted his own cigar; “try it—it can’t hurt you,—and besides, your
father needn’t know anything about it.”

“Here goes mine,” said Jerry, as he touched off a match, and applied
the fire to his cigar. “_My_ father wont object, I know, for he smokes
himself like everything; and if he did object, I guess it wouldn’t make
much difference. I don’t intend to be a boy all my life-time.”

The two young smokers were soon puffing away in good earnest. Oscar
was an old hand at the business, and Jerry had been practising pretty
diligently since his city cousin came to live with him. Between each
whiff, however, they renewed their assaults upon the good resolution of
their comrade; and so skilfully and perseveringly did they conduct the
attack, that Clinton, after a while, began to think it looked a little
unsocial and obstinate to refuse to participate in their enjoyment.
By the time they had reached the Falls, he had concluded to yield to
their wishes. He accordingly drove Fanny into the water, and unhitched
her bridle, that she might drink and cool herself. The three boys
then threw themselves down upon the grass, beneath a large tree, and
prepared to enjoy the scene, and at the same time repose their limbs.
Clinton lighted his cigar,—and now commenced his first experience in
tobacco. He was pleased with the new sensation; and as he lay upon his
back, watching the delicate wreaths of smoke ascending from his cigar,
and listening to Oscar,—who was spinning out one of his long yarns
about a military muster he once witnessed in Boston,—the time flew by
much faster than he was aware. His cigar had half disappeared, and
those of his companions were nearly used up, when he happened to notice
that the sun was fast declining, and would soon go down behind the tops
of the tall pines on the other side of the stream. Tossing his cigar
into the water, he jumped up, saying:—

“Come, boys, this wont do,—we must be on our way home.”

“What’s your hurry?” inquired Jerry; “it isn’t four o’clock yet.”

“Perhaps it isn’t,” replied Clinton, “but I ought to have been at home
by this time. Come, jump in, and I will turn the horse round.”

The boys got into the wagon, and were soon slowly threading their way
out of the woods. In about half an hour they reached Mr. Fletcher’s,
where Clinton stopped, and got the bags of seed. He had now a pretty
good load, and much of the way being up hill, he did not get along
very fast. Oscar and Jerry talked as fast as usual, but Clinton looked
sober, and did not seem inclined to say much. Indeed, he hardly spoke
to them, from the time they left the store until they reached the house
where Oscar and Jerry lived, when he bade them good afternoon, and
drove on.

The fact was, Clinton was suffering the penalty of his first cigar,
but he did not like to confess it, and this was the reason why he said
nothing. Soon after he started from the Falls, he began to experience a
sinking, nauseating feeling in his stomach, and every jolt and jerk of
the wagon seemed to increase it. He concealed his feelings from Oscar
and Jerry, as much as he could, and after they had alighted, he hurried
home as fast as possible.

It was past six o’clock when Clinton drove into the yard at home. His
father, who had begun to feel anxious at his long absence, had come in
from the field, and on seeing Clinton, he called out to him, somewhat
sharply,

“Where have you been all the afternoon, Clinton? I’ve been waiting for
you more than two hours.”

“Mr. Fletcher wasn’t there, and I had to wait for him,” replied
Clinton. “Besides, it was so warm I thought I wouldn’t drive very
fast.” Ah, Clinton, have you forgotten that it is a falsehood to tell
but half the truth?

Clinton had begun to unharness the horse, when he became so faint and
dizzy that he was obliged to stop; and before he could get into the
house, he began to vomit. His father, hearing the noise, ran to his
aid, and led him into the house. The pale, deathly look of Clinton, as
his father assisted him into the sitting-room, was the first notice
his mother received that he was ill. She was somewhat startled by the
suddenness of his entrance, and at first thought that he had got hurt.

“Mercy on us! what has happened?” was her first exclamation.

“Nothing alarming,” replied Clinton; “I am a little sick at my
stomach—that is all.”

“How long have you been so?” inquired his mother.

“Only a little while,” was the reply. “I haven’t felt very smart for
an hour or two, but just as I got home I began to grow worse, and have
been vomiting.”

“Have you eaten any thing this afternoon?” inquired Mr. Davenport.

“No, sir,” replied Clinton, “nothing since dinner.”

“I am afraid he has worked too hard lately,” remarked Mrs. Davenport to
her husband. “You have kept him at it pretty steadily for a week past,
and you know he isn’t so rugged as many boys are. I wouldn’t allow him
to work so hard again.”

“He _has_ been working pretty hard, I know,” observed Mr. Davenport;
“but he has never complained before, and I did not suppose he suffered
from it. I don’t think this is anything serious, wife—he needs a little
physic, perhaps, or something of that sort, to regulate his system.”

While this conversation was taking place, Clinton sat in the
rocking-chair, leaning his head upon his hand. Little Annie stood by
his side, silent and sad, her large, loving eyes looking up wonderingly
at her sick brother. But he did not notice her. He was thinking
very earnestly of something else. His conscience was busily at work,
reproaching him for his conduct during the afternoon. “You disobeyed
your father,” it plainly said, “by going over to the Falls, when he
told you to come right home. You deceived him, after you got home, by
not giving the true reason for your long absence. You made yourself
sick by smoking that cigar, and now you sit still and hear your
parents, in their sympathy and solicitude, attribute your illness to
hard work. O Clinton, you have not only done very wrong, but you have
done it very _meanly_, too! No wonder you cover up your face, and dare
not meet the eye of your parents.”

Thus was conscience talking. At first, Clinton almost resolved to
confess the whole story of his wrong-doings. “Do it,” said conscience;
but shame whispered, “no, don’t expose yourself—you will soon feel
better, and the whole affair will be forgotten in a day or two.” The
longer he hesitated, between these two advisers, the less inclined did
he feel to make the confession. His father soon went out, to put up the
horse, and his mother set about preparing him a bowl of thoroughwort
tea—her favorite medicine, in all common forms of sickness. Clinton
already began to feel much better, and on the whole he thought he would
say nothing about the adventures of the afternoon. When his mother
brought him the herb tea, he drank it down as fast as possible, but he
could not help making a wry face over it, for it was not very palatable
to his taste. His mother thought he had better go to bed early, and
without eating any supper, and he complied with her wishes. Just as he
was beginning to doze, a gentle, timid voice awakened him, saying,

“Clinty, you won’t be sick, will you?”

“No, sis,” he answered, and with a parting “good-night,” he fell
asleep—not the sweet, calm sleep to which he was accustomed, but
fitful, troubled dreams, in which the unpleasant events of the
afternoon flitted before him, in an exaggerated and grotesque, but
always sad and reproachful panorama.


FOOTNOTES:

[2] See the Map of Brookdale, p. 14.




CHAPTER IV.

CRIME.


An icicle is hanging over the window by which I write. A day or two
ago, it was hardly perceptible, but it has gone on, increasing in
size, until now it is as large round as my arm, and full as long. It
is nothing, however, but an innumerable collection of little drops of
water, frozen together. One by one they chased each other down the
roof above, but on coming to the cold icicle, they became chilled, and
were congealed into a part of itself, some of them running down to its
slender tip, and others fastening themselves upon its sides, or its
inverted base.

It is thus that evil habits are formed—drop by drop, and atom by atom.
One wrong act prepares the way for another. One bad habit invites and
attracts others. Thus the little one soon becomes a troop, and the
feeble enemy swells into a formidable giant.

Oscar and Jerry were fast descending the downward path of evil. Having
nothing else to employ themselves about, mischief-making became the
main business of their lives. They were away from home a large portion
of the time; and as Mr. Preston was glad to have them go off, for the
sake of quiet and peace at home, he seldom troubled himself to inquire
where they went, or what they did. Complaints, however, sometimes
reached him of their misconduct, which he passed over in silence, or
angrily rebuked or punished, as he happened to feel.

One day, as Oscar and Jerry were making one of their excursions about
the town, they noticed some fine-looking pears, growing on a small
dwarf tree in a garden. No person was in sight, and the blinds of that
portion of the house from which they could be seen were all closed.
There seemed to be nothing to prevent their helping themselves, and
after deliberating a moment, and turning their eyes in every direction,
with an assumed air of carelessness, they noiselessly entered the gate,
and commenced stripping the tree of its rich burden. The tree was not
much higher than Oscar’s head, and there were but half a dozen pears
upon it, all of which were quickly transferred to the pockets of the
boys.

The act was not committed so secretly as the young thieves imagined.
Mr. Upham, to whom the fruit belonged, was at work threshing, in the
barn, and from a back window observed Oscar and Jerry as they came
along the road. Knowing the mischievous propensities of the boys, he
kept an eye upon them, until he saw them reach forth to pluck the
fruit, when he seized a whip, and ran towards them. The last pear was
in their pockets before they saw him approaching, and all they had to
do, therefore, was to run with all speed, which they lost no time in
doing. Mr. Upham pursued them, several rods, but finding that their
young legs were more nimble and light-footed than his, he soon gave up
the unequal chase.

Towards noon, when Mr. Upham supposed the boys would be at home to
dinner, he tackled his horse and rode over to Mr. Preston’s. As he saw
Jerry’s father in the barn, he advanced towards him, calling out in his
rough way:—

“Hulloo, Preston, where are those boys of yours, Oscar and Jerry?”

“They are somewhere about here,—I heard them a minute ago,” replied Mr.
Preston; “why, what do you want of them?”

“I’ve come over here on purpose to give the young whelps a good
trimming, or to get you to do it,” said Mr. Upham, making a very
significant gesture with his whip, which he had brought with him from
the wagon. He then told Mr. Preston the story of the robbery, adding
that the fruit was a new and choice species, which he had cultivated
with much care, and this was the first crop. He said he would rather
have given five dollars than lost it, as he wished to ascertain what
the fruit was. “Now,” he added, “I am determined that these rogues
shall not go unpunished. If you’ll give them their deserts, well and
good; or if you will delegate me to do it, it’s all the same; but if
you won’t do either, I’ll lodge a complaint against them with Squire
Walcott, before sun-down. I’ve had fruit stolen before, but never could
catch the rascals; and I shan’t let this chance go of giving them
justice, now that I am sure who they are.”

“I don’t blame you in the least,” said Mr. Preston; “if there’s
anything that I’ll punish my children for, it’s for stealing. Jerry
shall be whipped for this; but I don’t know about whipping Oscar. He is
not a child of mine, but is only here on a visit, and I don’t exactly
feel as though I had authority to correct him.”

“Will you give me leave to do it, then?” said Mr. Upham.

“I can’t give you an authority I don’t myself possess,” replied
Mr. Preston. “No doubt he is the greatest rogue in this matter,
and deserves a good trouncing. You can punish him on your own
responsibility, if you choose, and I will not object; only let it be
reasonable.”

“That’s enough,” said Mr. Upham; “now let us find the rogues.”

“I think I heard them up in the hay-loft last,” remarked Mr. Preston,
and they accordingly directed their steps thither.

The boys, on coming home from their marauding excursion, had gone up
into the hay-loft, and were in the act of eating their plunder, when
they were startled by Mr. Upham’s well-known voice. Their first impulse
was to effect a hasty retreat; but this proved to be a difficult thing
to do. They could not go down below without being seen. There were two
windows, but they were too far from the ground to afford escape. There
was no place where they could conceal themselves, and they finally
concluded to keep still, and hear the result of the interview.

“Here they are,” said Mr. Preston, as he reached the top stair.

“So they are,” echoed Mr. Upham,—his eye lighting up with something
like joy. “You see, boys,” he added, “it didn’t do you much good to
run, did it?”

“I suppose you heard what we were talking about, below, Oscar?” said
Mr. Preston.

A sullen, almost inaudible “Yes,” was the response.

“Then you know our business,” added Mr. Preston; “and, as it is
dinner-time, we won’t waste any more words about it. Mr. Upham, there’s
your boy,” he continued, pointing to Oscar.

Oscar, though generally bold and daring, and little disposed to show
respect or fear for his superiors, seemed completely cowed down in the
presence of Mr. Upham. Whether it was the latter’s Herculean limbs, and
rough, blunt manners, or the threat of prosecution, that produced this
result, certain it is, that all thought of resistance had vanished.
He took off his jacket, at the command of Mr. Upham, and submitted
with almost lamb-like meekness to the heavy shower of blows that fell
upon his back. The same operation was then performed upon Jerry, by
his father, after which the boys, with red, swollen eyes, and backs
well-scored and sore, and hearts rankling with suppressed rage, betook
themselves to the house.

Such a punishment, inflicted in a spirit of revenge, and in the heat
of passion, and without any attempt to appeal to the reason and
consciences of the offenders, or to awaken contrition in their hearts,
could have but one effect, and that a most injurious one, upon Oscar
and Jerry. It hardened them in their sin, and awakened a feeling of
bitter hatred towards the man who had been the instigator of their
punishment. Instead of repenting of the evil they had done they were
already plotting still worse things against him. They appeased the
smartings of the rod with the thought that, some day or other, they
would have their revenge.

Week after week passed away, and Jerry and his cousin continued to
follow their accustomed manner of life. For a day or two after the
events just related, some distance and coolness were perceptible
between them and Mr. Preston; but nothing more was said about the
affair, and it was soon apparently forgotten.

One pleasant afternoon in October, a man on horseback rode in great
haste to Mr. Davenport’s, and informed him that the woods were on fire,
just beyond the hills, in the north or upper part of the town, and
requested him to go over and assist in putting it out. The messenger
carried the same news to most of the other houses in the village; and,
in the course of an hour, quite a number of men and boys had assembled
at the scene of the conflagration. Some thirty or forty cords of wood,
which had been cut and seasoned, ready for use, were found to be well
on fire. The mass of coals and flame sent out a fierce heat, so that
no one could approach very near. The fire had communicated to many of
the standing trees, and was roaring and crackling with great fury,
leaping from branch to branch, and from tree to tree, everything being
almost as dry as tinder. It had evidently been burning a considerable
time; but the hills, which separated the wood-lot from the principal
part of the village, had prevented the smoke being seen. The people
who had collected could do little or nothing to stay the progress of
the flames, now that they were under such headway, and it was not
until several acres were burnt over, that the fire began to go down.
It finally went out, only because there were no more trees to burn, it
having reached a space which had previously been cleared by the axe.

[Illustration: The fire in the woods]

The wood-lot and corded wood destroyed by this fire belonged to Mr.
Upham, and his loss was about a hundred dollars. It was the common
opinion among the town’s people that the fire must have originated in
the carelessness of some boys or men who happened to pass through the
wood-lot. Mr. Upham, however, had formed a different opinion from this,
but he said nothing about it that afternoon. The next day he started
off early after breakfast, with the determination of finding some clue
to the mystery, if it were a possible thing. In the course of the day
he visited many of the people in the village, and gathered several
items of information, which he thought might have a bearing on the
mystery he was striving to solve. Among others thus visited, were Mr.
Davenport and his son, and the latter put Mr. Upham in possession of a
certain fact which greatly confirmed his suspicions.

The result of these investigations was, that Mr. Merriam, the
constable, called at Mr. Preston’s house early the following morning,
with a warrant, empowering him to “seize the bodies” of Oscar and
Jerry, and bring them before Squire Walcott, to answer to the charge of
setting fire to Mr. Upham’s wood. The family were just finishing their
breakfast, when Mr. Merriam entered. Taking Mr. Preston alone into the
entry, he showed him the warrant, telling him there were suspicions
that Oscar and Jerry knew something about the fire, and it was thought
advisable to have the matter examined. “I hope it won’t amount to
anything,” he continued, “but if there are suspicions about, they ought
to be cleared up. It is unpleasant business, and I thought I would
manage it as quietly as possible. Perhaps you had better say nothing to
the family, now; but tell your boys you want them to go with me, of an
errand, and you can jump in too, and ride down with us. Wouldn’t that
be the best way to manage it?”

Mr. Preston seemed much affected by the intelligence which was thus
kindly broken to him. The mere fact that his son and nephew were
_suspected_ of a crime which might send them to a prison, went like an
arrow to his heart. The warrant, it should be observed, charged the
boys named with setting fire to the wood wilfully and maliciously, and
with intent to destroy the same. After a moment’s silence, he obtained
sufficient command over his feelings to say:—

“I don’t know, Mr. Merriam, what facts have come to light, but I have
no reason to suppose that my boys had anything more to do with the
fire than you or I. And if they did have a hand in it, it isn’t at
all likely that it was anything more serious than an accident. But
as you say, we had better keep quiet about it, until the subject is
investigated. I will call the boys, and we will go down to the Squire’s
immediately.”

The little party got into the carriage, and drove towards Squire
Walcott’s. Oscar and Jerry, who had suspected the nature of Mr.
Merriam’s errand from the first, had now no doubt that their suspicions
were correct. The silence of Mr. Merriam, and the sad and anxious
expression on the face of Mr. Preston, told them that something unusual
was about to transpire. They asked no questions, however, but all rode
on in silence. On reaching the Squire’s, the boys were conducted into
the sitting-room, where they seated themselves with the constable.
Mr. Preston went into the “front room,” or parlor, where there were
several other men. The time appointed for the examination not having
quite arrived, and several of the witnesses summoned being yet absent,
Oscar and Jerry remained in the sitting-room nearly an hour, before any
one spoke to them. It was a long and dreary hour. Their tongues were
silent, but their thoughts were busy, and their eyes glanced anxiously
at every footstep.




CHAPTER V.

THE EXAMINATION.


Squire Walcott, like most of the inhabitants of Brookdale, was a
farmer. He was somewhat advanced in years, and his son-in-law lived in
the same house with him, and assisted in carrying on the farm. He was
generally known as “The Squire,” in town,—a title which he acquired
from the circumstance of his holding a commission as Justice of the
Peace. This commission is conferred by the Governor of the State, and
empowers the holder to discharge certain judicial functions, such as
the issuing of writs and warrants, the examination of persons accused
of crime, etc. In cases where the offence is very small, the Justice of
the Peace may himself impose a fine, or other lawful penalty; but if
the offence is one of much magnitude, he must bind over the supposed
offender in a sum of money, or commit him to jail, to await a trial
before a higher court.

The examination on the present occasion, was to be held in the front
room of Squire Walcott’s house. When the time arrived to commence, one
of the men present conducted Oscar into the room. As he took the seat
pointed out to him, and cast his eye about the room, he recognized Mr.
Upham, Mr. Davenport, Mr. Preston, Clinton, and several others of the
town’s people. All eyes were turned towards himself, as if anxious to
detect from his appearance whether he were guilty or innocent. With
all his boldness, he felt his courage failing him, as he encountered
the searching glances of one and another; and although he tried to
look indifferent, alarm was written too plainly on his pale face to be
disguised.

The Squire sat in a chair, with a table before him, on which were
several books, with pen, ink and paper. In a pleasant tone of voice,
he informed Oscar of the charge brought against him, and expressed the
hope that he would be able to establish his innocence. “Before reading
the complaint,” he added, “I wish to say, that you are not obliged
to criminate yourself in this matter. You can plead guilty, or not
guilty, as you choose. But if you _did_ have any hand in the fire, I
would, as your friend, advise you to confess the whole at once. By so
doing, you will not add to your guilt by falsehood, and the law will
deal more leniently with you than it would if you should be proved
guilty contrary to your own assertions. Even if you set the wood on
fire, you may have done it accidentally, or in sport, without thinking
of the consequences. If you had any connection at all with the fire, I
would advise you to state the facts, exactly as they occurred.”

The Squire then read the complaint, charging Oscar Preston with setting
the wood on fire. When he had concluded, he added:—

“What do you say to this, Oscar,—are you guilty or not guilty?”

“Not guilty,” replied Oscar, faintly.

The Squire now requested the complainant to produce his evidence
against the accused. Mr. Upham commenced with an account of the
stealing of his pears by Oscar and Jerry, and the punishment which
followed that adventure. He said he had been threatened with vengeance
for causing the boys to be whipped, and he had reason to believe that
the burning of his wood was the result of this grudge against him.

The witnesses were now brought forward. The first was a boy, who
testified that he heard Oscar say, with an oath, that he would yet
come up with Mr. Upham for the flogging he gave him. A young man, who
worked on a farm, was then called up, and testified, that whenever the
pear-stealing scrape was mentioned to Oscar, he would get mad, and
threaten to be revenged on Mr. Upham. The third witness was Clinton,
who testified, that one afternoon, a short time before the fire, while
he was at work mending a stone-wall on his father’s land, near the
scene of the conflagration, Oscar and Jerry came along, and the former
asked several questions about the location of Mr. Upham’s wood-lot, and
particularly inquired if he owned a certain lot of corded wood, which
Oscar described, and which was the same lot that was afterwards burnt.
The fourth and last witness, was a man who testified that he was in the
upper part of the town on the afternoon of the fire, and, a short time
before the alarm was given, saw Oscar and Jerry, coming very fast from
the direction of Mr. Upham’s lot.

The Squire wrote down the testimony as it was given. When it was
concluded, he told Oscar he was at liberty to make any remarks or
produce any evidence that he saw fit. Oscar, somewhat perplexed, turned
to his uncle, and after some conversation between them, in a low tone,
Mr. Preston remarked to the Squire, that he thought the evidence
against Oscar was altogether too trivial to be worthy of serious
notice. There was not, he said, the least proof that Oscar set the wood
on fire. He thought Mr. Upham had magnified a foolish, boyish threat
into a matter of very grave importance; and he expressed his opinion,
very decidedly, that the prisoner ought to be released forthwith.

The Squire said he would defer his decision until the other prisoner
had been examined. Oscar was then conducted from the room and Jerry was
brought in. He appeared even more pale and excited than his cousin. The
Squire addressed him in pretty much the same strain of remark as he did
Oscar; but before he commenced reading the complaint, Jerry began to
sob, and with broken and choked utterance, said:—

“Yes, I was there, and saw him do it, but I didn’t have any hand in it
myself.”

“That is right, my son,” said the Squire, in an encouraging tone; “tell
us all you know about it, just as it happened, and it will be better
for you than though you attempted to deceive us. You say you ‘saw him
do it’—whom do you mean?”

“Oscar.”

“Well, go on with the story, and tell us all the particulars,” said the
Squire.

Jerry then related the history of the fire. Oscar, it seemed, had
formed the plan of burning the wood, several days previous, and he
regarded it as a sort of joint operation, in which Jerry and he were to
share the fun, the gratification, and the risk. It appeared, however,
from Jerry’s story, that though he had entered into the plan, he did
not actually apply the match, nor assist in the immediate preparations
for the fire. He was present rather as a spectator than an actor.

When Jerry had finished his confession, Mr. Upham, after a little
conversation with the Squire, concluded to withdraw his complaint
against Jerry. Oscar was then re-called. He entered the room with a
calmer and more confident air than on the first occasion; for since he
had discovered how weak the testimony against him was, he had little
fear for the result. When, however, Jerry was called to take the oath
of a witness, a deadly paleness came over the guilty boy, and he almost
fainted. This was quickly succeeded by an expression of rage in his
countenance, for Oscar was a boy of strong passions, and when they were
excited, he could not conceal them. It was necessary that Jerry should
relate under oath, and before Oscar, the account he had already given
of the fire, for every person charged with crime has a right to hear
the evidence against him. When he had done this, the Squire asked Oscar
if he had anything to say.

“No,” replied Oscar.

“Then,” added Squire Walcott, “I have only to say that the evidence
of your guilt looks very black, and unless you can break down the
testimony of Jerry, I fear your conviction will be certain. I must bind
you over for trial, and shall require you to give bonds in the sum of
two hundred dollars, to appear before the county court at the next
term. “Mr. Preston,” he continued, “will you be his bondsman?”

“No,” replied Mr. Preston, in a decided tone; “the boy has been trouble
enough to me, already, and now he may go to jail, for all I care.” A
moment after, noticing the distressed look of his nephew, he somewhat
relented, in his feelings, and, in a milder tone, assured Oscar that he
would write immediately to his father, who would doubtless hasten to
his relief, and settle the whole affair without any further trial.

The little court now broke up, and all returned to their homes, save
Oscar, who was still in the custody of Mr. Merriam, the constable,
in default of bail. After making a few hasty arrangements for the
journey, the officer and prisoner set out for the county jail, which
was about fifteen miles distant. Mr. Merriam had thought of putting a
pair of hand-cuffs upon Oscar, to prevent his escaping, during this
long ride; but the latter begged so hard to be spared this humiliation
that he relented, and allowed the boy to ride by his side in the open
wagon, free and untrammelled. He also tried to divert his mind from his
unpleasant situation, by conversation on other subjects, but Oscar
seemed little inclined to talk. His heart was full of hard and bitter
thoughts against every body, and especially against Mr. Upham, Jerry,
and his uncle. He scarcely thought of his own guilt, so absorbed was he
in nursing his wrath against those whom he supposed had injured him.

It was towards the middle of the afternoon, when they arrived at the
jail. A cold chill ran through Oscar’s veins, for a moment, when
he first caught sight of his prison-house. Before, he could hardly
realize that he was a prisoner—it all seemed like a dream; but here
was the jail before him, with its stone walls and grated windows, and
the dream was changed to a reality. Passing through a high gate, they
entered that part of the building occupied by the jailer’s family,
and were conducted to a room called “the office.” The keeper of the
jail soon made his appearance, and Mr. Merriam informed him that Oscar
was committed to his custody for trial, and showed him the order from
Squire Walcott to that effect. The jailer asked several questions about
the case, and then took down a large book, partly filled with writing,
and made the following entry within it:—

“_October 25th._—Oscar Preston, of Brookdale, aged 14½ years, charged
with setting fire to wood, in Brookdale. Examined by Justice Walcott,
and committed for trial by Constable Merriam. Bail $200. Of ordinary
height for his age, slender form, light complexion, brown hair, and
blue eyes. Dress,—gray pantaloons, dark blue jacket buttoned to chin,
blue cloth cap. Cell No. 19.”

The object of this brief description of the dress and personal
appearance of Oscar was, that he might be the more easily identified,
should he happen to escape from the jail. Mr. Merriam, bidding a kind
good-bye to the young prisoner, now departed, and the jailer proceeded
to examine Oscar’s pockets, to see if there was anything in them not
allowed in the prison. The only articles he took from them were two
cigars, which he tossed into the fire-place, telling Oscar he would
have no use for them there. He then conducted him through a long and
dark passage-way to cell No. 19, which he had entered against his name
in the registry-book, and which was to be Oscar’s home for the present.
It was a small, narrow room, with one window, near the top, which was
guarded by iron bars. The walls and floor were of brick (the former
had been recently white-washed) and the door was of iron. A sort of
bunk was fitted up in one corner of the cell, which was supplied with
bed-clothes. There were also a small red pine table and an old chair, a
basin, bucket, tin dipper, and several other articles of furniture.

Oscar did not seem to be much pleased with the appearance of his cell,
and he said to the jailer:—

“Can’t you let me have a better room than this? I shan’t stop here but
a few days, and my father will pay you for it, when he comes, if you
will let me have a good room.”

The jailer told him, in reply, that this was the most comfortable
vacant cell he had; that he did not wish to put so young a prisoner
in a cell with older offenders, and if he was to stay but a few days,
he could easily make himself contented. After informing Oscar of the
principal rules and regulations of the prison, the jailer locked the
heavy door upon him, and retired.

The first impulse of the young criminal, in his solitude, was to
cry; but he soon checked himself, and resolved to make the best of
his situation. In a short time his supper was brought to him, which
consisted of a few slices of bread, and a dipper of warm milk and
water. Before night had fully set in, Oscar threw himself upon the
bunk, and though it was not so commodious or so soft a bed as he was
accustomed to, he soon fell asleep, and dreamed over again the eventful
incidents of the day.

[Illustration: Oscar in Jail]

The result of Oscar’s trial created a great stir in Brookdale. It was
the principal topic of remark in every family, and in every little knot
of people that happened to collect, for several days. The first mail
that left Brookdale, after the trial, carried a letter from Mr. Preston
to Oscar’s father in Boston, informing him of the sad intelligence.
In three or four days, the father of the unhappy boy arrived in
Brookdale, to see what could be done in behalf of his son. He first
sought an interview with Mr. Upham, who, after a little persuasion,
agreed to withdraw the complaint, if his loss, $100, were made up
to him. But to carry out this arrangement, it was necessary to get
the consent of the prosecuting attorney of the county, who now had
charge of the case. The prosecuting attorney is an officer appointed
to represent the State at the trials of criminals. Oscar having been
bound over for trial, the State became a party in the suit, in place
of Mr. Upham. The complaint now pending against him, was endorsed,
“_Commonwealth versus Oscar Preston_.” The prosecuting attorney, as the
representative of the Commonwealth, can discontinue a suit, if he deems
the reasons sufficient. The agreement by which this is done, is called
a _nolle prosequi_, often abbreviated _nol. pros._

Mr. Preston had to go to a neighboring town, some dozen miles distant,
to see the prosecuting attorney. He laid before that officer the
facts in the case, who, after considering the matter, agreed to the
proposition, on condition that Oscar should leave the State forthwith.
To this Mr. Preston consented; and on his paying over to Mr. Upham,
(who had accompanied him on this visit,) the sum agreed upon, together
with all the other expenses of the suit, the prosecuting attorney
stayed further proceedings in the case, and gave Mr. Preston an order
for the release of his son from jail.

Just one week after Oscar’s committal to the jail, his father arrived,
with the order of release. The interview was not a very pleasant one.
The father was evidently deeply mortified and displeased; the son was
equally ashamed and embarrassed. But little was said, however, on
either side. Mr. Preston returned to Boston as soon as possible, taking
Oscar with him.




CHAPTER VI.

JERRY AND CLINTON.


Soon after Oscar left Brookdale, Jerry’s father, who was interested
in the logging business, started for the head-waters of the Penobscot
river, to be absent several months. Large parties or gangs of loggers,
as they are called, encamp every winter in the forests of Maine, for
the purpose of cutting timber. After the trees are chopped down, the
logs are hauled by oxen to the banks of some stream, where they remain
until the ice breaks up in the spring, when they are rolled into the
water, and floated down the swollen river, to the mills. Such was the
business which kept Mr. Preston away from his home nearly half the year.

Jerry’s conduct had never been very dutiful toward his mother, nor
very affectionate toward his little sisters, during his father’s long
absences from home; but now it was soon evident that he was going to
give the family much more trouble than ever before. He obeyed his
mother only when her commands happened to be perfectly agreeable to him.

One day, Jerry’s little sister, Mary, came running into, the house,
saying:—

“O, mother, Jerry has got two beautiful little rabbits, the cunningest
little things you ever saw; and he says they are his, and he’s going to
make a house for them out of the old grain-chest in the barn.”

“No, he wont,” said Mrs. Preston; “he shan’t keep rabbits,—his father
has forbidden it over and over again. Go and tell him to come here this
minute; I want to see him.”

Mary ran out to the barn and told Jerry all that his mother had said.
He took no notice, however, of her command, but kept at work upon the
old chest, which he was converting into a rabbit-house. Mrs. Preston
was busy about her work, and did not go out to the barn to see what her
son was about. In fact, she soon forgot about the rabbits, and did not
think of them again until Jerry came in to supper. She then asked him
if he had brought some rabbits home.

“Yes,” replied Jerry.

“Well,” said Mrs. Preston, “you had better carry them off again just as
quick as you can, or I shall get James to kill them.” James was a young
man who lived on Mr. Preston’s farm.

“I should like to see Jim kill my rabbits,” replied Jerry; “I guess it
wouldn’t be healthy for him to do it.”

“But you know,” replied his mother, “that your father has always
refused to let you keep rabbits. They may do a great deal of mischief,
and are of no use whatever. They’ll be a real trouble to you, too, and
you’ll soon get sick of them. Come, I wouldn’t keep them. Send them
off, and I will make it up to you in something else.”

“What else?” inquired Jerry, who was always ready to listen, when his
mother proposed to “buy him off” from doing anything she did not like.

“O, I don’t know now,” she replied; “you’ll want something or other
by-and-by, and if you send the rabbits off, I shall probably let you
have it.”

Jerry did not accept this rather indefinite offer, and pretty soon
the topic of conversation was changed. The next day he completed the
quarters for his rabbits, in spite of the threats of James, and the
feeble remonstrances and coaxings of his mother. He kept them shut up
several days, that they might learn to feel at home; after which, he
left their door open, giving them the run of the barn and garden.

The rabbits had enjoyed their liberty but three or four days, when one
morning James discovered, to his astonishment, that they had completely
stripped the bark, as high up as they could reach, from about thirty
young apple and pear trees, which Mr. Preston had set out two or three
years previous. The excitement which this discovery produced in the
family was so great as almost to make even Jerry tremble for a while.
The trees thus destroyed were choice varieties, and it would require
several years’ time, as well as much care and money, to make good the
loss. The blame was, of course, thrown entirely upon Jerry, to whom it
belonged; and it was many days before he heard the last of the scolding
and fretting in consequence of this mishap. As to the rabbits, he never
saw them again; and, as he made no inquiries, he never knew what fate
befel them. James, in the heat of his wrath, had despatched them both,
without jury or trial, on the morning when their depredations were
first discovered.

It was natural that Jerry should greatly miss Oscar, with whom he had
associated continually, day and night, for several months. Indeed,
he began to think seriously of running away from home, and going to
Boston, that he might be with his cousin again, and participate with
him in some of the marvellous scenes and adventures which Oscar had
so often described. In his lonesomeness, Jerry now began to seek the
company of Clinton more than ever. The district school soon commenced
for the season, and as both boys attended it, they were thrown together
much oftener than in the summer months. In going to and from school,
Clinton had to pass Jerry’s house, and they usually kept each other
company by the way. For some reason or other,—probably a suspicion that
Clinton’s parents did not like him very well,—Jerry seldom went to
Mr. Davenport’s house. Of course, Mr. Davenport did not know that any
particular intimacy existed between his son and Jerry. He occasionally
spoke of the latter as a boy whose end, he feared, would not be good;
and more than once he expressed a wish that Clinton would avoid him
as much as possible. But this, Clinton found it rather difficult to
do. Jerry sought his company, and he could not bear to say no. He knew
Jerry was a bad boy, and that he did wrong to put himself under his
influence; but he had not sufficient decision of character to terminate
an acquaintance which had been so long continued. So the intimacy was
kept up, to the great injury of Clinton.

At school, Jerry was not only a dull scholar, but a very troublesome
one. Having never been taught to obey at home, he was rude and
ungovernable in the school-room, and was more frequently punished for
disobedience and inattention to his duties than any other boy in the
school. After the novelty had worn off, Jerry began to grow tired of
attending, and occasionally played truant, always contriving, however,
to escape detection, by representing that he was detained at home by
his mother. But after a while these absences grew so frequent, that
the master began to suspect all might not be right; and one morning,
on calling Jerry to account for his absence the preceding afternoon,
he told him he should not excuse him unless he brought a note from his
mother in the afternoon, certifying that he was kept at home.

Jerry was put to his wit’s end, by this new and unexpected demand. He
had been off on a skating frolic the afternoon previous, while his
mother supposed him to be at school, and he could not, therefore,
ask her for a note of excuse. What could he do? If he did not
bring an excuse in the afternoon, he was afraid the matter would
be investigated, and lead to the discovery of his other frequent
truancies; and in this case, he knew he would not escape a severe
punishment. At first he thought of writing a note himself, and signing
his mother’s name to it; but then he wrote such an awkward hand, and
was such a poor speller, that he was afraid he could not deceive the
teacher. After thinking the matter over, all the forenoon, he at last
resolved to do one of two things,—either to persuade some one to write
the excuse for him, or else never to enter the school-room again.

When school was dismissed, Jerry walked home with Clinton, as usual.
After they had got beyond the hearing of the other scholars, Jerry
said:—

“Clinty, I’ve got into a bad scrape, and I don’t know how to get out of
it, unless you help me.”

“How can I?” inquired Clinton, who at once comprehended the situation
of affairs.

“I’ll tell you of a plan I’ve thought of,” continued Jerry; “and if
you’ll only say yes, I guess we can fix it easy enough. You see it
wont do for me to ask the old woman for a note,”—_the old woman_ was
the disrespectful title by which he usually spoke of his mother,—“and
if I go to school without one, I’m afraid that old Eaton will find out
that I’ve been playing truant all along, and he’ll give me a regular
trouncing. Now if _you_ will write the note, nobody will ever know the
difference, for you can write just like a woman. I would do it myself,
if I could write as well as you can.”

“What!” said Clinton, with some signs of astonishment; “you don’t mean
that you want me to write an excuse, and sign your mother’s name to it,
do you?”

“Yes, that’s it, exactly; unless you can tell me of a better way to get
out of my trouble.”

“I should like to help you out of it,” replied Clinton; “but I couldn’t
do that.”

“Then,” added Jerry, in a decided tone, “I shall never see the inside
of the old school-house again. I don’t know of anybody else that I can
get to write the note, and I am not going there without it, to have the
breath beat out of my body. I shall go to Boston, and take my chance,—I
wont stay about here any longer.”

“Don’t talk so,” said Clinton. “Why not tell your mother that you
didn’t go to school yesterday afternoon, and ask her to write an
excuse? She would do it, I guess, if you made the confession, rather
than have you punished.”

“She do it!” exclaimed Jerry, with some bitterness; “no, more likely
she would write a note requesting old Eaton to lick me like blazes.
But,” he continued, “why wont you write the excuse, Clinty?”

Clinton hesitated what reply to make to this question. If he had
honestly confessed his feelings, he would have said, “It would be
wrong, very wrong, to do such a thing;” for his conscience told him
this, and this alone was the objection that weighed in his mind. And
yet Clinton, though a well-trained and virtuous boy, had a foolish
dread of confessing that he was afraid to do a wrong act. This was
especially the case in his intercourse with Jerry, who, he knew,
seldom had scruples of this kind, and whose ridicule he dreaded more
than that of his other associates. So, after a brief pause, he said,

“Why, there would be a great risk in doing that. If Master Eaton should
discover that I wrote the excuse, it would be a bad piece of business
for both of us.”

“But _how_ can he find it out? He doesn’t know my mother’s
hand-writing, and if you write it neat and fine, he wont suspect
anything. Come, you write it when you get home, and bring it with you
this afternoon, and I’ll meet you on the road. If you don’t I shan’t go
to school, that’s all.”

By this time they had reached Mr. Preston’s house, and after a few more
words of coaxing and entreaty, Jerry left his friend, with a pretty
confident feeling that he would accede to his wishes. True, Clinton did
not actually promise to write the note; but Jerry knew how difficult it
was for him to say no, to any pressing suitor, and he felt almost sure
that his wicked plan would be successful.

When Clinton was left to his own thoughts, there came on a severe
struggle in his mind. He could not bear the idea of lending himself to
such a mean and wicked piece of deception, and yet he feared to meet
Jerry with a refusal. He thought, also, what the consequences would
be to himself, should the fraud be discovered. And then he thought of
Jerry’s threat to leave school and run away from home, if he did not
write the excuse. If he could prevent this great sin on the part of
Jerry, might it not atone in a measure for the lesser sin of writing
the note? This question arose in his mind, and many an older head has
been led astray by a similar suggestion. No, Clinton, you must not do
evil that good may come, or greater evil be prevented. You must not
commit a sin, even in kindness to a friend. But he did not hear the
voice, and when he reached his home, he was as undecided as ever what
to do.

Clinton’s long walk to and from school, left him little more than time
enough to eat his dinner. The noon meal not being quite ready, when he
entered the house, he went to his father’s desk, and began to scribble
something in the form of a note of excuse. After writing several,
to see how they would look, he was called to dinner; and hastily
selecting the best looking of the notes, he put it in his pocket, for
future consideration, and destroyed the others. Even now, he was no
nearer a decision than he was at first.

When Clinton arose from the dinner-table, it was time to start for
school. He had not proceeded far before he overtook Jerry, who was
loitering along, in expectation of his approach.

“I’ll take that note now,” said Jerry, stretching out his hand to
Clinton, as the latter came up with him.

“I don’t know about that,” said Clinton; “I’ve been thinking it all
over, and have about come to the conclusion that I can’t agree to your
proposal. But haven’t you thought of some other way to get out of the
scrape?”

“No,” replied Jerry, “there is no other way; but you have written the
note, haven’t you?” he added, with some appearance of alarm.

“I have written something,” replied Clinton, “just to see how it would
seem; but I rather guess I shan’t let you have it.”

“Let me look at it, then, wont you?”

“I guess so!” said Clinton, with a laugh.

“But I’m in earnest,” added Jerry, “just let me look at it, and I can
tell in a minute whether it will answer. Perhaps it wont do, and then I
shan’t want it, at any rate. Come, let me see it, and if you don’t want
me to keep it, I wont.”

Clinton took the excuse from his pocket, and allowed Jerry to look at
it. It read as follows;—

 “Mr. Eaton will please excuse Jerry for absence from school,
 yesterday, as he was needed at home.

  ELIZA PRESTON.

  _Jan. 5th._”

After reading the note, Jerry said it would do first rate; but instead
of returning it to Clinton, as he promised, he put it into his own
pocket. Clinton reminded him of his promise, and tried to get the paper
back again, but in vain; and Jerry carried on the contest in such a
good-natured, bantering spirit, that Clinton could not take offence.
Thus the deed was done, so far as Clinton was concerned, without his
coming to any decision about it. In such cases as this, no decision at
all, is often equivalent to a wrong decision.

As Jerry entered the school-room, that afternoon, he handed the forged
note to Master Eaton, who read it, and, without saying anything, tore
it up. The deception was successful.




CHAPTER VII.

DISCLOSURES.


My young friend, did you ever master a hard lesson, after a great
effort? And do you remember how you felt, after the achievement?
Perhaps it was a difficult sum; and when you began, you did not see
how you could possibly work your way through it. But you persevered,
and covered your slate with long columns of figures, until at length
you arrived at the correct answer, and you felt something like the
philosopher of old, who exclaimed, after solving a difficulty,
_Eureka_,—I have found it! And now, having conquered this sum, you felt
just like attacking a still harder one, the next day. You _knew_ you
could do it, because you did the other; and you took hold of it, with a
determination to work it out—and you _did_ work it out, did you not?

Perhaps there was another boy in your class, who attempted to do the
same thing. But before he had put forth half the effort required, he
got tired of the sum, and gave up the attempt. The next day the teacher
tried to encourage him to make another attempt, but the boy _knew_ he
could not do the sum,—he had tried once, and it was of no use to try
again. So the teacher was obliged to turn him back into simple addition
and multiplication, and he will probably never get much beyond those
departments of arithmetic.

It is precisely the same with everything else that we attempt to do.
Suppose, instead of a difficult sum, it was a fault, or temptation,
that these two lads tried to master. One of them persevered until he
conquered the difficulty, and the result was, his virtuous principles
were strengthened, and he was prepared to resist still greater
temptations, or to subdue greater faults. His motto is, “_I can_.” The
other boy would not make the necessary effort, and gave up the attempt
after a poor, feeble trial. The consequence was, he not only fell into
bad habits, but lost his self-reliance, by degrees, until the notion
got into his head that it was of no use for him to try to do right. “_I
can’t_” is his motto.

The lesson to be drawn from this is a very important one, as you will
see from the history of Clinton. That you may have a clear idea of it,
let me state it thus:—

EVERY TEMPTATION RESISTED, WILL GIVE YOU GREATER CONFIDENCE IN YOUR
ABILITY TO OVERCOME NEW TEMPTATIONS. EVERY TEMPTATION YIELDED TO, WILL
IMPAIR YOUR SELF-RELIANCE, AND PREPARE THE WAY FOR YET GREATER FAULTS.

Clinton soon found that he had made a great mistake, in aiding Jerry
to escape the consequences of his truancy. True, the deception was not
discovered; but the very success of the plan encouraged Jerry to repeat
the experiment, and Clinton now found it less easy to refuse to write
an excuse than at first. His sin was, therefore, repeated again and
again, until Jerry felt at perfect liberty to absent himself as often
as he pleased, knowing that Clinton would furnish him with the written
excuse, which the teacher now required in all cases of absence. To be
sure, Clinton objected, and scolded, and threatened; but Jerry cared
little for this, so long as he was sure to yield to his desires in the
end. If ever a more convincing argument than usual was needed, the
hard-hearted boy would secure his end by hinting at an exposure of
Clinton’s-share in his past truancies. Thus did Clinton find himself
fast in the net of this bad associate; and thus, through the influence
of one false step, did he continue to do wrong, against his conscience,
and even against his own wishes.

The people of Brookdale frequently held social parties, at their
houses, in the long winter evenings, which were usually attended by
all the neighborhood. They were not favorably situated for maintaining
the lectures and other entertainments which are common in large towns,
and these social gatherings were a substitute for them. At one of
these parties, Mrs. Preston happened to meet Master Eaton, and after
a few words on unimportant matters, she inquired how Jerry got along
at school. Mr. Eaton could not give a very favorable report either of
Jerry’s behavior or scholarship. He did not wish to pain Mrs. Preston,
at such a time, by telling her exactly how things stood; and so he
thought he would evade a direct reply to her question, by turning her
attention to a point where he supposed she herself was at fault.

“Why,” he remarked, “he is absent so often that it is hard to tell
whether he really does make any progress. I find that scholars never
get along very well unless they are pretty regular in their attendance.”

“But what do you mean?” inquired Mrs. Preston; “I thought he attended
school regularly.”

“O,” replied Mr. Eaton, “parents are hardly ever conscious of the
bad effects of absences upon the scholar. They think it of little
consequence if their children are kept at home two or three times a
week, but it is just this little irregularity in attendance that often
prevents their learning anything.”

“But you are mistaken, Mr. Eaton,” said Mrs. Preston; “I have not kept
Jerry at home half a day this winter.”

“He always brings an excuse from you, when absent,” added Mr. Eaton.

“An excuse from me!” said Mrs. Preston, with an air of astonishment;
“why, I have not written an excuse for him this term, and I did not
know that he had ever been absent.”

Master Eaton was now as much astonished as was Mrs. Preston. Both had
made an unpleasant discovery. It was evident that Jerry was a worse boy
than either of them had supposed. He had played the rogue with a high
hand. After some further conversation, it was agreed that Mrs. Preston
should say nothing at present respecting Jerry’s misconduct, but leave
the teacher to investigate the affair.

The next morning, on searching his desk, Master Eaton found several
of Jerry’s old notes of excuse, which had been accepted, and thrown
aside. His first object was to find out who wrote them, for he knew
that Jerry could not have done it. At first, he thought the writing was
the work of a female hand; but among the girls who attended school,
there was not one whom he could suspect of such conduct. Besides, he
knew that Jerry was not very popular, with the girls, who regarded him
as a rude, rough boy, and shunned his company as much as possible. He
then took the writing-books of the male scholars, and examined each one
carefully, by itself, comparing the penmanship with that of the notes.
The conclusion to which he came was, that there were only three male
scholars who could possibly have written the notes. Two of these were
young men, nearly grown up, who apparently held very little intercourse
with Jerry; the other was Clinton, an intimate acquaintance of Jerry,
but a boy whose conduct at school had always been unexceptionable.
Surely, none of these could have had a hand in the mischief. At least,
so thought Master Eaton.

Several days elapsed, and the teacher made no progress in his
investigations. At last, Jerry’s seat was vacant, for one entire day,
for he now seldom took less than a day at a time, when he played
truant. The next morning, he appeared with a note, as usual, which
the master read, and put in his desk, without making any remark. Mr.
Eaton had noticed that Clinton and Jerry came to school together,
that morning, and as he glanced at Clinton, after reading the note,
he observed that the latter turned his eye quickly away, and dropped
his head, as if afraid to meet the gaze of his teacher. This led Mr.
Eaton to watch him more closely, and it was with the deepest pain that
he detected an uneasy, anxious appearance in his manners, which he had
never before observed. In the course of the forenoon, he stopped a few
moments at Clinton’s seat, and conversed familiarly with him about his
lessons; but there was a constraint and want of frankness in the boy’s
appearance that only served to deepen the master’s painful suspicion.

The truth was, Clinton went to school, that morning, with a vague
foreboding that his guilt was about to be brought to light. By some
mysterious process, which I cannot explain, a secret impression of
approaching evil sometimes weighs heavily upon the mind, without any
known cause. This was the case with Clinton, that morning, and the
glance which his teacher cast toward him, after reading Jerry’s excuse,
sent the conviction to his heart that he was discovered. How easily
does guilt betray itself!

School was dismissed as usual, at noon, and again assembled in the
afternoon. The master had intended to detain Clinton after school in
the forenoon; but the intermission was so short, that he concluded to
defer the investigation until afternoon. Just before dismissing the
scholars, at night, he went to Clinton’s seat, and in a low tone of
voice which no one else heard, requested him to remain after school.
Clinton turned red, and then pale, at this unusual request, made in so
unusual a manner. After the scholars had all passed out, and the doors
were shut, Mr. Eaton called Clinton up to his desk, and taking Jerry’s
excuse from the drawer, held it up, and asked him if he knew anything
about it.

It was a terrible moment for the unhappy boy. He felt that his guilt
had already betrayed itself, and exposure, shame, and punishment
were now inevitable. His tongue refused to speak, and after vainly
struggling with his emotions a few moments, his pent-up feelings found
an outlet in an outburst of tears. His legs trembled beneath him; and
throwing himself upon a bench near by, he buried his face in his hands
and sobbed bitterly.

Mr. Eaton did not repeat his question—it was already answered. He saw,
however, that there was penitence as well as guilt, in the youth before
him, and when he spoke to him, it was in a kind and soothing tone.
“Clinton,” he said, “I have kept school here three winters, and this
is the first time I have ever had to call you to account for a fault.
You have always behaved well; if you have done wrong now, I think you
must have been led astray by some great temptation. I accidentally
discovered, a few days ago, that these notes did not come from Jerry’s
mother, and I determined to trace them to their source. I judge from
your conduct that you wrote them. If so, I want you to make a clean
confession of the affair. If you have really had a hand in this matter,
you should consider yourself fortunate that you have been detected,
before it went any farther. I have long known Jerry Preston to be a
very bad boy, but you are so unlike him that I did not suspect he was
leading you on to ruin. Come, wipe your eyes, and tell me the whole
history of this matter.”

“Will you promise me one thing?” said Clinton, speaking with
considerable difficulty amid his sobs and tears.

“I cannot promise you anything until I know what it is,” replied Mr.
Eaton. “What is the promise you refer to?”

“I am willing to tell _you_ the whole story,” added Clinton, “but I
don’t want any body else to hear of it.”

“I cannot promise you that,” remarked Mr. Eaton, “for there may be
good reasons why the affair should not be kept secret. I will agree,
however, to keep it private, provided I think I can properly do so.”

Clinton now proceeded to relate all the circumstances connected with
the forged excuses, just as they occurred. He described his fears, his
struggles with conscience, the threats of Jerry to run away, and the
artifice by which the latter obtained possession of the first note.
Nothing was kept back, and as Mr. Eaton listened to the disclosures
thus frankly made, and read the sorrow and repentance of Clinton in his
looks and tones, he was satisfied that a true account had been given.
Clinton himself felt as though a terrible burden had been rolled from
his heart, after he had concluded his confession. He breathed freer
than he had for several days previous.

After Clinton had concluded his confession, Master Eaton sat in silence
several moments, apparently engaged in deep thought. At length he
spoke:—

“This is sad business, Clinton,—sad business. You have been guilty of a
series of forgeries, in repeatedly signing another person’s name. You
have also aided and encouraged a bad boy in his evil ways, and are to
some extent responsible for his wickedness.”

Clinton commenced crying afresh.

“But,” continued the teacher, “there are some extenuating
circumstances in the case, which I shall take into consideration. I
cannot see as a public exposure of your wrong-doing before the school
would be of any benefit to yourself or to others, and I shall spare you
that mortification, provided your general conduct continues good. And
as to the punishment that the case demands, I will consult with your
father before concluding upon it.”

“O no,” exclaimed Clinton, “don’t tell _him_ about it. Punish me in any
way you please, and I’ll promise never to offend again, if you wont let
father know anything about it.”

Mr. Eaton’s reply was decided, but kindly expressed. “Clinton,” he
said, “I have always considered you a youth of good habits, but the
disclosures you have just made show that your character has a weak
side. You are too easily influenced by others. You can’t say _no_, when
a great temptation presents itself. In my opinion, you have just had a
narrow escape from ruin; for who can tell into what evil Jerry would
have soon led you, if the spell had not been accidentally broken? Now
your father is ignorant of all this. He has no idea, probably, of the
dangers to which you are exposed; but he ought to know the facts in
the case, and I should not feel as though I had been faithful to my
trust, were I to hush up a matter of so great importance to his and
your welfare. No, I cannot think of doing it. The better way would be
for you to go to him and confess the whole truth, yourself. If you are
really sorry for what you have done, as I suppose you are, you ought to
be willing to do this. What do you say to the proposal?”

“If you think I ought to, I will do it,” replied Clinton, somewhat
reluctantly; “but I would rather he would not know it.”

“My advice is,” said Mr. Eaton, “that you go home and confess the whole
affair to your father to night. If you do so, I shall consider that my
duty has been discharged, so far as you are concerned; and shall leave
the matter of punishment entirely with your father.”

With these words Mr. Eaton bade his pupil good-night, and both departed
for their homes. On his way home, Clinton encountered Jerry, who,
suspecting the cause of his detention, had loitered on the road,
waiting to learn the truth. Clinton told him they were discovered,
but declined giving him any information, or entering into any farther
conversation on the subject; and he hurried home, leaving Jerry not a
little perplexed at his unusual conduct.




CHAPTER VIII.

CONFESSION.


While Clinton is on his way home from school, after the discovery of
his offence, let us look in a moment upon his parents.

“After six o’clock, and Clinton has not made his appearance yet,” said
Mrs. Davenport, who had the smoking tea and toasted bread upon the
table, in readiness for the evening meal. “Really, husband, I begin
to feel uneasy about Clinton. He is away from home a great deal more
than he used to be, and when he is here, he seems like a different boy
from what he was a year or two ago. You say you don’t notice anything
unusual about him, but that only shows that a mother’s eye is more
quick to read the heart than a man’s. _I_ see a change in his conduct.
He is more reserved than he used to be; is less affectionate in his
manners, takes less interest in his work and books, and often seems
absent-minded, as though he was thinking of something that he meant to
conceal from us. I don’t like that Jerry Preston, and I’m afraid he is
doing Clinton no good.”

“You are only borrowing trouble when there is no need of it,” replied
Mr. Davenport. “I don’t see but that Clinton behaves as well now as
he ever did. At any rate, I’ve no fault to find with his conduct, and
nobody else has yet made any complaint against him. You must not expect
that he will always be precisely the same little boy he used to be. As
he grows older, he will naturally change, like all the rest of us.”

[Illustration: Clinton at the fire-side]

Before Mrs. Davenport could reply, Clinton entered the room, and
silently took his seat with the family at the supper-table. The
conversation that had just passed, naturally led both his parents to
observe him more closely than usual. Mr. Davenport thought he looked
unusually sober. But the mother, with her penetrating eye, saw more
than this; she saw traces of weeping, and a peculiar expression of
trouble, on the face of Clinton. She noticed, also, that she could not
catch his eye, which was restless and uneasy. He took no part in the
conversation at the table, and ate but little. After tea, he took the
lantern, and brought in from the barn the usual supply of wood and
kindling stuff for the morrow, which was a part of his regular work.
This duty over, he seated himself on a cricket by the fire-side, and
commenced whittling a piece of pine which he had brought in. Annie
had been put to bed, and his father and mother were seated at the
light-stand, which was drawn up in front of the blazing wood-fire. The
same troubled look which Mrs. Davenport had noticed at the tea-table,
was still very plainly visible on Clinton’s face. Indeed, he had
seated himself with the determination not to rise until he had made
his confession to both his parents; and he was thinking how he should
introduce the unpleasant topic, when his father broke the silence by
asking:—

“Clinton, what are you making?”

“I am only whittling,” he replied.

“I see you are whittling,” remarked Mr. Davenport; “I inquired what you
was making.”

“I aint making anything,” replied Clinton.

“That’s a bad sign, Clinty,” continued his father. “I know whittling
is a Yankee accomplishment, but he is a poor Yankee, who whittles away
his stick to nothing. Did you never hear of the fellow who lost his
sweet-heart by doing that very thing?”

Clinton shook his head, in the negative.

“Well,” continued Mr. Davenport, “after the young man had come to an
understanding with the pretty lass whom he intended to make his wife,
he had to go to her father to get his consent to the arrangement. The
father was a shrewd old farmer, and he noticed that his daughter’s
suitor, during the awkward interview, whittled away very industriously
at a stick, just as you were doing a moment ago. The old man watched
the movement of the knife, and at the same time continued to talk
on the prospects of his would-be son-in-law, until the stick had
dwindled down to nothing. Then he said to the young man: ‘Sir, you have
property, and steady habits, and are good-looking; but you can’t have
my daughter. Had you made something,—no matter what,—of the stick you
have whittled away, you could have had her; as it is,—you cannot. Your
property will go as the stick did, little by little, until all is gone,
and your family reduced to want. I have read your true character; you
have my answer.’

“So,” continued Mr. Davenport, “you see what a man lost by whittling
his stick away to nothing. Perhaps he only did it because he had
something on his mind, which he did not know how to get off; but
he took a very foolish way to get over the difficulty, as he soon
discovered.”

This last remark, whether intended so by his father or not, Clinton
took as having a special meaning for him. He thought it an evidence
that his father had noticed his troubled look, and was awaiting
an explanation. So throwing his piece of pine into the fire, and
summoning all his resolution, he said, as his eyes filled with tears:—

“Father, I _have_ got something on my mind that has made me very
unhappy for a good while, and now I want to tell you all about it.”

At these words his mother, who was sewing, dropped her work and
fixed her eyes earnestly upon Clinton. His father, forgetting his
conversation an hour or two previous with Mrs. Davenport, said:—

“I thought something ailed you, Clinton, and I am glad you have
concluded to tell us about it. You have no better friends than your
father and mother, and you ought never to conceal your troubles from
them. Go on with your story.”

Clinton then made a full and frank confession of his misdoing, as
it has been already related. He also gave an account of the manner
in which he had been detected, so far as he had been able to learn,
and narrated the conversation he had held with Master Eaton, that
afternoon. When he concluded his confession, his parents, as well as
himself, were in tears. For some moments there was a silence, unbroken
save by sobs. Mr. Davenport then arose, and pressing Clinton to his
heart, said:—

“My son, I bless God that he has given you courage to make this
confession. You have done very wrong; you have had a narrow escape from
shipwreck,—and all the while _we_ were not dreaming of your danger! O,
how could you deceive us so? But I won’t chide you now. You have done
well to disclose it all, even at this late day,—and I hope you have
learned a lesson from this affair which you will never forget!”

His father and mother continued the conversation for some
time,—pointing out to Clinton, very plainly but kindly, the principal
faults of his character, by which he had been led astray; and warning
him earnestly against associating any more with Jerry, or any other
boys of his stamp. At length, Mr. Davenport inquired what punishment
the teacher had inflicted.

“None,” replied Clinton; “he said, if I would confess the whole affair
to you, he would leave the punishment to you.”

“Well,” said his father, “I will think about it. I could cheerfully
forgive all the past, if you would promise to do better hereafter,—but
I am not sure that this would be the best thing for you.”

“I mean to behave better hereafter,” said Clinton; “but I do not ask
to be pardoned without punishment. I know I deserve to suffer for my
conduct, and I shan’t think hard of it if I do.”

Mr. Davenport said he would consider the matter, and announce his
decision the next day. The family then knelt in prayer; and the erring,
but repentant, son was most affectionately commended to the Divine
forgiveness, and the Good Spirit implored to guide his future steps.

The next morning Clinton attended school, as usual, but Jerry was
absent. Mr. Eaton inquired of Clinton if he had kept his promise,
and seemed much pleased when he answered in the affirmative. He gave
him some good advice, and expressed the hope that he would avoid all
similar errors hereafter. It being Saturday, no school was held in the
afternoon, and Clinton returned home without having seen Jerry.

In the evening, when Clinton was alone with his parents, the subject
which had engrossed the thoughts of all, so earnestly, for the last
twenty-four hours, was again introduced.

“Your mother and I,” said Mr. Davenport, “have talked over your affair,
Clinton, and we have come to the conclusion that the series of offences
was so long, and so aggravated, that the pain of exposure which you
have suffered is hardly sufficient punishment. You did well in making
a confession, it is true; but, you did not do that, until you found
you could no longer conceal your guilt. We have therefore decided that
you must forego your promised trip to Boston next March, by way of
punishment.”

This was, indeed, a severe deprivation to Clinton. For more than six
months he had been anticipating, with delight, the arrival of spring,
when, the winter-school over, he was to spend several weeks with his
uncle and cousins in Boston. But he felt that the disappointment was
deserved, and he made no complaint. His father afterwards added, for
his encouragement, that if his conduct continued unexceptionable, the
suspended visit should come off in the following autumn, after the fall
work was over.

Notwithstanding his disappointment, Clinton went to bed that night
with a lighter heart than he had known before for many weeks. He felt
that he had escaped from a frightful snare, and that he could once
more look his parents and teacher honestly in the face. He determined
to retrieve, by his good conduct, whatever he had lost, in their
estimation; and he felt almost impatient to be tempted again, that he
might show them how firmly he could now resist every evil influence.




CHAPTER IX.

THE RUNAWAY.


Early on the Monday morning after the events related in the preceding
chapter, Mrs. Preston was seen approaching the house of Mr. Davenport.
She was evidently much excited and troubled, and as soon as she entered
the room, she proceeded to disclose her errand. It was simply this,
Jerry had run away from home!

It will be remembered that Jerry learned from Clinton on Friday
evening, that his truancies were discovered. He had already made up his
mind what to do in case of such an emergency; and the following day he
thought the matter over, and determined how to proceed. The next day
all the family went to church but himself, he having desired permission
to stay at home and take care of the house. After he was left alone, he
hastily dressed himself in his best suit, and proceeded to tie up in a
bundle a few articles of clothing, such as shirts, stockings, etc. He
then went to his mother’s bureau, and, knowing where she kept the key,
unlocked a drawer, and took therefrom a purse containing all the money
she then had on hand, amounting to about thirty dollars. Seeing some
letter paper by the side of the purse, he wrote the following message
on the sheet, and left it in the drawer:—

 “i am tyred of staing in this misrable plaice—i am Goeing to see, and
 you wont se me again verry soon. you se i took a feu dollars, to help
 me allong—you musnt think you can ketch me, so Goodbie.”

Having thus fitted himself out for the journey, Jerry turned his back
upon his home, without one reluctant thought, and hastened on his way
toward Boston. As the family did not return from church until the
afternoon service was over, no one knew of the disappearance of Jerry
till late in the day. At first, nothing strange was thought of his
absence; but when night set in, and he did not appear, his mother began
to grow uneasy. On examining the chest in his bed-room, she found that
some of his clean clothes had gone, and a suspicion flashed upon her
mind that he had forsaken his home. Still later in the evening, she
happened to go to her drawer, and discovered Jerry’s farewell note,
and—the robbery. Yes, her son was a thief, as well as a runaway. I
will not attempt to describe the anguish which pierced her soul, when
she read his heartless message, confirming her worst suspicions.
Bad and unruly though he was, he was her own, her only son, and she
still loved him with the affection which only a mother can know. And
now to be separated from her boy under such painful and mortifying
circumstances—to lose all influence over him, and all knowledge, even,
of his whereabouts, with the prospect of never seeing him again—ah, it
cost her a pang such as she never before experienced.

Mrs. Preston destroyed Jerry’s letter, before any one else could have a
chance to see it; for she determined that no one, even in the family,
should know of the theft he committed. Of course, she said nothing to
Mr. Davenport about this. She called upon him to ask his advice and
aid in the matter. Mr. Davenport was not much surprised to hear that
Jerry had run away. From what he knew of the boy, it was only what
might have been expected. Nor, on the whole, was he very sorry that he
had gone; for he was a bad boy, and was corrupting the youth of the
village, and his leaving the place would be a public blessing. Still,
Mr. Davenport could not help pitying Jerry’s mother, and in spite of
his feelings, he thought it his duty to assist her to recover her son,
or at least to ascertain where he had gone. He therefore advised her
to write immediately to Jerry’s uncle in Boston, and request him to
put the police officers on the look-out for the runaway, should he
show himself in that city. He also decided to go himself in pursuit of
Jerry, in a sleigh, with the hope of overtaking him. But before Mrs.
Preston took her leave, he said to her:—

“I have one more word of advice, Mrs. Preston; and that is, if Jerry is
bent on going to sea, I think you had better let him go a short voyage.
If we succeed in bringing him back, it is not likely that he will stay
here long; and if he is determined to go away, he had better go with
your knowledge and consent, than without them. His uncle can probably
secure a chance for him on board some vessel where he will be well
treated, and then you will know where he is, and be likely to hear from
him occasionally.”

Mrs. Preston said that, for her part, she would agree to such an
arrangement, though she did not know as Jerry’s father would consent to
it.

Mr. Davenport kept his promise, and, as soon as he could get ready,
started off in pursuit of the runaway, taking the road that led toward
Portland. He stopped occasionally at some house, on the road, to
inquire if a boy had been seen travelling that way the day before.
For a while, he could find no trace of Jerry; but at last he found
one house, the inmates of which remembered that a lad, answering to
the appearance of Jerry, had passed along the road on foot, the day
previous. Mr. Davenport now pressed forward, subsequent inquiries
confirming him that he was on the right track. Toward noon, he reached
a village from which a line of coaches ran to Waterville, connecting
with the railroad to Portland. On making inquiries at the tavern, he
learned that Jerry arrived there the evening previous, and took the
stage early in the morning, saying that he was bound for Boston. It
was, of course, useless for Mr. Davenport to follow him any farther,
and he accordingly returned home, and reported the result of his
inquiries.

“Father,” said Clinton, as the family sat around the fire-side in the
evening, “I shouldn’t think you would be sorry Jerry has run away—and
yet you’ve tried pretty hard to catch him.”

“On some accounts,” replied Mr. Davenport, “I am not sorry; but I pity
his poor mother, and for her sake I would like to save the boy from
the foolish course he has taken. But I have little faith that he would
remain here a great while, if brought back. He has been permitted to
have his own way so long, that there is little probability of his
submitting now to the authority of his mother.”

“Well, I am almost sorry that he has gone, too,” said Clinton.

“You ought not to be,” replied his father.

“Why, as to that,” said Clinton, “I had made up my mind just how I
would treat him, hereafter, and I wanted you to see that I have got
some firmness left; but now I shan’t have any opportunity to show you
what I can do.”

“You need not feel any regret on that score,” replied Mr. Davenport.
“It is easy enough to form good resolutions, but perhaps it will be
fortunate for you if yours are never put to a severe test. But even
if Jerry does not return, I suspect you will meet with temptations
sufficient to prove your strength of resistance. A wise man never
courts temptation.”




CHAPTER X.

THE JOURNEY.


Jerry had planned his flight with considerable care and skill, for a
boy of his age; and before the time came for him to take the first
step, he had laid out the course he intended to pursue. Dressed in his
best suit, with his bundle of clean clothes under his arm, and with
the ill-gotten thirty dollars stowed away in the lower corner of his
vest pocket, he started on his journey into the great unknown world.
He walked for many a weary mile, over a road covered with snow that
had recently fallen; but the sun shone pleasantly, and the weather was
not so cold but that he sweat very freely from his exercise. It was
not until after sunset that he reached the tavern where he proposed
to spend the night. This tavern was a large wooden building, somewhat
dingy with age, and bore upon its front a faded, weather-beaten sign,
on which was inscribed the name of its proprietor. Some time before
Jerry reached the building, he could see the bright, cheerful light of
the fire shining through the windows, and flickering and flashing over
the wide, level field of snow which separated him from its comfortable
shelter. Quickening his steps, he was soon at the door, and without
stopping to knock, he entered the room from which he had seen the light.

It was a large room, with sanded floor, and the walls were covered
with dingy maps, pictures, stage and railroad bills, advertisements
of public houses in other places, and various other things. There was
a large, open fire-place on one side, and a heap of glowing coals and
blazing logs gave the room a very comfortable and attractive aspect.
Several men were seated around the fire, in chairs, which supported
themselves on their back legs, at an angle of forty-five degrees. Two
or three of the company were smoking cigars, the fumes of which filled
the room almost to suffocation. As Jerry entered, the men all seemed to
look at him pretty sharply, and as he laid down his bundle, and drew a
chair up to the fire, one of them said,

“Well, young man, what can we do for you?”

“I want to stay here to-night,” replied Jerry, “and I should like some
supper too, if it isn’t too late.”

“How far have you come to-day?” inquired the man.

“I don’t know,” answered Jerry; “I should think it was about eighteen
miles.”

“Running away from home, eh?” continued the inquirer.

“No, I’m not running away, but my mother has sent me to Boston, to get
work.” And Jerry could utter this falsehood with so honest a look and
so smooth a tongue, as to deceive all who heard him!

“What is your name?” continued his inquisitive host—for it was the
keeper of the tavern that put these questions.

“Jeremiah Preston.”

“And where did you say you belong?”

“In Brookdale.”

“And are you going to take the stage to-morrow morning for Boston?”

“Yes, sir.”

The tavern-keeper made several other inquiries, which were answered to
his satisfaction. He then left the room, and presently returned and
told Jerry that his supper was ready. Following his host, Jerry entered
a long room, in the middle of which stood a table, running nearly the
whole length. At one end of this table were spread the dishes and
victuals for Jerry’s supper, the rest of the household having been to
tea. There were warm biscuits and butter, rich milk, and smoking tea,
nice-looking cheese, and red, juicy applesauce,—besides a plate of
tempting cakes, and pies of two kinds. A lady poured out a cup of tea,
and then left him to help himself to the eatables. His long walk had
given him a sharp appetite, and he availed himself of this privilege
very freely. It seemed to him that he never sat down to so good a
supper before. He ate until he began to feel ashamed of himself, and
then left off, not because he had had enough, but because he was afraid
to eat more.

The demands of hunger satisfied, Jerry began to realize how tired he
was. He accordingly asked the landlord to show him the way to his
bed-room, which the latter did. Before leaving him for the night, the
landlord told Jerry that the stage started at five o’clock in the
morning, and that he would call him in season for it. Jerry then went
to bed, and was soon lost in sound sleep, from which he did not awake
till a loud and long-continued rapping on his door, and the repeated
cry of “stage ready!” at length elicited from him the response, “I
hear.” Scarcely knowing where he was, or what all the disturbance
was about, he leaped out of bed, and was soon dressed, and ready to
resume his journey. His tavern bill was fifty cents, which he paid,
and without stopping for breakfast, he took his seat in the stage
that stood waiting at the door. It was quite dark, and the snow was
falling fast, a driving wind piling it up in drifts. The stage, as it
was called, was a large covered sleigh, with three long seats inside.
Having fastened down the woollen curtains to keep out the snow, the
driver mounted his seat, gave the word to the horses, and away they
started.

For a large portion of the way, Jerry was the only passenger. Now and
then he could hear the crack of the whip above the noise of the storm,
and the sound of the horses’ bells, deadened by the snow and wet, was
just audible. He could see nothing, for it was not yet daylight, and
besides, he was a close prisoner. He could not even tell which way the
vehicle was going. Sometimes he thought it went sideways, and then
again it would seem to be going backwards. Sometimes, with a jerk and a
bounce he would be almost thrown from his seat,—and at other times, it
would seem as if it were impossible to escape upsetting. For a while,
he was much amused with his situation, but at length he began to grow
tired of the continual thumping and jolting, and longed to see the end
of the journey. Several more passengers were picked up, as they passed
through other villages, which, with the appearance of daylight, served
to enliven somewhat the remainder of the way. But Jerry was not sorry
when the driver reined up the horses in front of one of the hotels in
Waterville. Hungry and benumbed with cold, he entered the public house,
and spoke for breakfast, which was furnished very soon, as passengers
were expected by the stage. For this he paid twenty-five cents. It was
a very good breakfast, and well worth the money; but he could not help
thinking how many meals, quite as good as this, he had eaten at home,
without paying anything for them. He began to feel the difference
between living at home and living abroad.

After breakfast, Jerry ascertained that he had about two hours to
spare, before the cars started, which he thought he would spend in
looking about. Waterville seemed to him to be quite a large and
bustling place. The houses were numerous, and many of them were very
elegant. There were also plenty of stores and work-shops, and quite a
number of churches. The Kennebec river, on one bank of which the town
is built, was frozen over, and the saw-mills were not in operation.
He went on to the covered bridge, which crosses the Kennebec, where
he obtained a good view of the river, the mills, and a portion of the
town. On a hill, a short distance from the centre of the town, he saw
three large brick buildings, one of which had a cupola. On inquiring of
a boy what they were, he was told they were “the colleges.”

Jerry now directed his steps to the railroad depot, where he found
preparations making for the train of which he was to be a passenger.
After examining the locomotive, cars, depot, switches, turn-tables,
signals, etc., all of which possessed the charm of novelty to him, he
seated himself in the train. Soon the signal was given for starting;
the engine commenced its at first slow but gradually quickening puffs;
the bell rang to warn people of the approach of the train, and in a few
minutes they were under full headway. Jerry had travelled by railroad
once or twice before, but the novelty of the thing had not worn off,
and he watched the movements of the train, and the snow-covered country
through which they passed, with a good-deal of interest. On they flew,
over hills and valleys, through forests and villages, over rivers and
under roads. The storm had ceased, and the snow on the track was not
sufficient to impede their progress. Occasionally they stopped to take
up or drop a passenger, or to replenish the engine with water and fuel.
The ride, however was a long one,—eighty-two miles,—and it was three
hours and a half before they reached Portland. After a while Jerry grew
tired of looking at strange scenes, and then his thoughts wandered back
to the home he had left. How he wished he could look in unperceived,
for a moment, and see what his mother was doing! Was she sorry or
angry, that he had run away? Would she try to get him back again? What
would the neighbors say about his disappearance? And then he wondered
how his sisters felt about losing their brother. Little Mary, the
youngest, he thought would be sad, for she seemed to love him better
than the others did,—perhaps, because her affectionate disposition and
tender age did not allow him to treat her so rudely as he did Emily and
Harriet. He wished that he had bidden her good-by, for really, he was
just learning that he felt something like affection towards her. Such
were the thoughts that were passing through his mind, when the train
stopped at the depot in Portland.

Jerry had bought a through-ticket for Boston, and was obliged to
continue his journey without stopping in Portland. He did not have
time even to eat dinner, but bought some cakes and a glass of milk at
a refreshment room in the depot, and then seated himself in another
train bound for Boston. Nothing occurred, worthy of notice, during
the trip. It grew dark before the train had proceeded a third of its
distance, and the lamps in the cars were lighted. Of course nothing
could be seen, outside, save the lights in the villages through which
they passed. It was nearly eight o’clock in the evening when the train
entered a large building, lighted by gas lanterns, and the passengers
made a general movement towards the car-doors. Jerry followed the
others, and soon found, as he had already suspected, that he was in
Boston. The locomotive was not to be seen, having been switched off
upon another track before the cars entered the depot; and the baggage
car, which followed immediately after the engine and tender, was now
unhitched from the cars, and some men were pushing it forward to the
farther end of the depot. Here there was a raised platform, where the
baggage could be delivered, and which was fenced round, so that no
person could get at the car to help themselves. The passengers soon
began to crowd around in search of their baggage, which was passed out
as fast as possible by men in the car. Each trunk, valise, box, etc.,
had a number affixed to it, on a little brass tag, or check; and as
each passenger had received a check with a number corresponding to
that on his trunk, the baggage-master had no difficulty in telling to
whom each article belonged. These checks were given to the passengers
when their baggage was received at the depot in Portland, and on
surrendering them in the Boston depot, they were sure of receiving
back their own baggage. As Jerry’s bundle was small, he did not have it
put among the baggage, but took it with him into the cars.

A large number of men, with silver numbers on their hats, were moving
about among the passengers, accosting almost everybody that they met
with the words, “Cab, sir?” “Hack, madam?” “Ride up, sir?” etc. On
going to the door, Jerry saw that there were a great many coaches and
cabs arranged along the side-walk, waiting for the passengers. He was
surprised to find that all these vehicles were on wheels, and that
the streets were quite destitute of snow. He had not seen bare ground
before for several months; for in Brookdale the snow often falls in the
latter part of November, and does not disappear till late in March.
Boston being farther south and nearer the sea-coast, the snow does not
accumulate in such quantities, nor remain so long upon the ground, as
it does in that part of Maine where Jerry belonged.

[Illustration: Haymarket Square]

Jerry now thought it was time to hunt up quarters for the night. He
was wholly unacquainted with the streets, but he knew there were a
great many public houses in the city; and he supposed he should not
have to go far, in any direction, to find one. On leaving the depot,
he found himself in a large, open square, surrounded on all sides by
tall buildings. In the centre of the square, was a circular enclosure,
surrounded by an iron fence and a brick side-walk; and in the centre of
that was a tall, iron post supporting a gas-lamp. This was Haymarket
Square. Eight different streets lead out of it, in various directions,
and it was some time before Jerry could decide which to take. He, at
length, chose one and started on his way, not knowing whither it
would lead him. He had not gone far before he saw a building, which he
thought might be a hotel, and on inquiring of the driver of a carriage
which was standing before the door, he was told that it was a public
house. He accordingly ascended the steps, and entered the room which
had the word, “Office,” painted over the door. Several men were seated
around a very large stove, reading; and another was sitting at a desk,
behind a counter that extended across one end of the room. Going up to
the latter, Jerry said:—

“Can I stay here to-night, sir?”

The man addressed,—who was the clerk of the hotel,—eyed the stranger
somewhat sharply for a moment, and then inquired:—

“Where are you from?”

“Brookdale,” replied Jerry.

“Brookdale,—I never heard of that place; where is it?”

“It is in Maine,” answered Jerry, who was rather surprised that the man
should ask such a question.

“Come from there to-day?” continued the clerk.

“Yes, sir.”

“And what are you going to do in Boston?”

“I’m going to sea.”

“Have you got any baggage?”

“Nothing but this,” replied Jerry, holding up his bundle.

“We don’t like to take strangers, who haven’t any baggage,” continued
the man; “they sometimes step out very suddenly, without settling their
bills.”

“If you are afraid to trust me, I can pay you in advance,” replied
Jerry, who began to fear he should have to seek further for lodgings.

“O, never mind that,” said the clerk; “you look honest enough; and as
you’re fresh from the country, I aint afraid to trust you. Put your
name in that book,” he continued, handing Jerry a pen, and placing a
large book on the counter.

This book was the register of the house, and each guest who stopped
there recorded in it his name and place of residence. Jerry wrote his
name as well as he could,—which is not saying a great deal,—and then
inquired if he could not have something to eat. The clerk replied
in the affirmative; and, in a little while, Jerry was summoned into
another room, where he found a good supper provided, of which he ate
with a keen relish after his long fast. Having finished his meal, he
told the clerk he was tired, and should like to go to bed. The latter
gave a pull at a cord and tassel, which rang a bell in another part of
the house. A servant quickly answered the summons, and was directed
to show Jerry to No. 69. Following the servant, Jerry passed through
several narrow entries, and ascended four long flights of stairs, and
turned more corners than he could remember, before he reached his
sleeping-room. It was a small room, and had but a few plain articles
of furniture. Jerry was too tired, however, to give much attention to
these things. He was soon in bed, and sleeping as soundly as though
under his father’s roof.




CHAPTER XI.

BOSTON.


The sun, streaming in from the window, awoke Jerry from his slumbers,
after his first night in Boston. On getting up he found that his room
was higher than the surrounding buildings, affording an extensive
prospect. One of the first objects that met his eye he concluded must
be Bunker Hill Monument, as it resembled the engravings he had seen of
that structure. There were a great many church-steeples in sight, and
the houses seemed to be crowded together almost as close as they could
be packed. He could also see a strip of water, with numerous vessels,
one or two of which were very large, noble-looking ships. These last
were men-of-war, belonging to the American Government, and were
anchored off the Navy-Yard at Charlestown.

But Jerry did not stop to gaze long at the novel scene spread before
him. Other matters claimed his attention. As he dressed himself he
began to consider what he should do next. He was acquainted with but
one family in the place,—that of his uncle,—and he did not dare to go
to them, lest they should send him back to his home. If Oscar had only
been at home, he would have lost no time in seeing him; but he knew,
from letters received by his parents, that his wayward cousin had gone
to sea, several months before. A stranger, in a great city, with no
one to advise or assist, and cast entirely upon his own resources, it
must be confessed that Jerry felt rather dull, that morning. And yet he
did not wish to return to his home, and his greatest fear was that his
friends would discover where he was. He thought it would not be safe
to stay long in Boston, and so he determined to try at once to get a
chance to go to sea—a design on which he had set his heart, before he
started from home.

Jerry’s reflections were interrupted by the ringing of a large bell, in
the entry below, and thinking it might be the summons to breakfast, he
went down. Following the current of men and women, he found himself
in a large hall, in which a long table was spread. The man with whom
he had the conversation the night before, was there, and beckoned him
to a chair at the table. There were thirty or forty persons at the
table, and the rattling of dishes, the clatter of knives and forks, and
the low hum of conversation, soon commenced in good earnest. Some six
or eight young men, in slippers and jackets, and wearing small white
aprons, were continually flying back and forth, behind the boarders,
bringing cups of tea and coffee, and passing dishes to those who could
not reach them. Sometimes half a dozen persons would order as many
different things, of the same waiter, almost at the same moment, and
Jerry thought the man must be puzzled to know which to get first;
but in a minute he would return, and hand to each the article which
he ordered. The skill which these men acquire in their business, by
practice, is often quite remarkable to one unaccustomed to the sight.

The company did not all leave the table at once, but one or two at a
time, just as they happened to finish their meal. Jerry having eaten
all he desired, arose and went to the office. The clerk of the hotel
entered, soon after, and Jerry took the opportunity to pay his bill,
which amounted to seventy-five cents. With his bundle in hand, he now
started off, with the design of shipping for a voyage, or, if he could
not do this, of procuring a cheap boarding place, where he might remain
until he could find a chance to go to sea.

The streets were full of people, who all seemed intent on going
somewhere, as fast as possible. Jerry, as he slowly passed along toward
the point where he had seen the ships from his chamber window, was
jostled first on one side and then on the other, and it required no
little effort to dodge the current which was sweeping by him. This was
partly because he did not keep to the right side of the walk, as is the
usual custom in cities, but turned sometimes to the left, and sometimes
to the right, and sometimes took the centre. Few of the persons he met
seemed to take any notice of him. Two boys, however, whose dress was
better than their manners, stopped almost directly in front of him, and
stared at him until he passed by, with a comical expression on their
faces. A loud laugh, and the expression, “Aint he green, Sam!” which
reached the ears of Jerry, immediately after, explained their conduct.

The horses and carriages in the street were quite as novel a sight to
Jerry, as the strange faces he met on the side walk. A continuous line
of vehicles, of all descriptions, was passing back and forth. There
were long trucks, with two or three noble horses harnessed “tandem,”
and short cabs, which looked as though they had been curtailed of
their original proportions; ponderous carts, with broad wheels, and
light, gaily-painted express wagons; omnibuses and coaches, chaises
and buggies, wheel-barrows and hand carts, all passing in an endless
procession. Jerry observed one little incident that highly amused
him. A small boy, intent on having a free ride, got upon the steps at
the end of a passing omnibus; but he had hardly settled himself into
a comfortable position, when a passenger inside, who had watched his
proceedings, reached his hand through the open window, and seizing his
cap, threw it high into the air. The lad’s face was in an instant red
with passion, and giving the man a look which said as plain as looks
could speak, “I’d pay you for that—if I could,” away he ran to recover
his cap, which had fallen into the street; and so the poor boy lost
both his ride, and his temper.

Jerry continued his walk, and soon found himself in the neighborhood of
the shipping. Most of the wharves, in this locality, are covered with
coal, wood, lumber, lime, and other products of the coasting trade.
Nearly all of the vessels lying at these wharves were small, and Jerry
noticed that many of them came from ports in the State of Maine, the
names of the towns where they belonged being painted upon their sterns.
There was nothing very inviting to Jerry, about these wharves, and
he passed on. Presently, the wharves began to grow longer, and the
vessels larger. At one place he encountered quite a crowd of people,
and several teams and carriages, which were coming up from one of
these wharves. This was the slip of the Chelsea ferry-boats. Seeing a
steamboat at the end of the wharf, Jerry turned in, to look at it; but
just before reaching the boat, he was stopped by a man in a loll-house,
who told him that he could not pass without paying the fare. Not
wishing to go to Chelsea, at that time, Jerry turned back, and resumed
his walk along Commercial street.

As Jerry kept on, the shipping began to grow more numerous, and almost
everything he saw had something to do with the sea. The most common
signs on the street were “Naval Stores,” “Ship Chandlery,” “Sail Loft,”
“Commission Merchant,” etc.; and on most of the wharves were long
blocks of warehouses and stores, some of which were built of granite,
and made a very imposing and substantial appearance. Sailors were
plenty, too. Some of them were “old salts” with great brown hands,
and grizzled locks, and little gold rings in their ears, and leather
belts around their waists, in which they carried their sheath-knives.
Some were young men, whose sun-burnt faces were half buried in huge,
dark whiskers, and whose pea-jackets and pantaloons bore witness that
they were not unacquainted with grease and tar. Occasionally, Jerry
would meet a lad about his own size, whose dark blue pants, fitting
snugly around the waist and worn without suspenders,—and neat blue
jacket, with a turned down shirt collar of the same color, edged with
white,—and shining tarpaulin hat, stuck upon the back of his head,—at
once excited his admiration and envy.

Jerry now thought it time to look around among the vessels, and see if
he could accomplish the object of his journey. He accordingly turned
down a wharf at which some twenty or thirty craft of various kinds were
lying, with the determination of applying to each one of them for a
situation, in regular order, until he should be successful. The first
two or three vessels which he approached were apparently deserted. No
person was to be seen about them, and of course they afforded no chance
for Jerry. The next vessel he came to was a large ship, which towered
so high out of the water that he could see nothing of the deck from
where he stood. There were some steps leading from the wharf to the
deck, which Jerry ascended. The only person on board he could see was
a negro, who was in a little house built upon the deck, from the top
of which smoke was issuing through a stove-pipe. This place was the
caboose, or kitchen of the ship, and its inmate was the cook. To the
inquiry whether a boy was wanted on board, a gruff “No” was the only
response. Jerry descended to the wharf, and continued his walk, though
with little success. On board some of the vessels, the men were so busy
at their labors that he could get no answer to his inquiries; and
those who did notice him so much as to reply, were sure to say “No.”

Jerry’s hopes began to fall very fast, and he felt his courage giving
way, in consequence of these continued rebuffs. Still he thought he
would not give up his purpose yet, and so he passed along. He received
the usual reply, from the next vessel he approached, and had just
turned away, when he heard somebody cry out:—

“Hallo, there, what youngster is that?”

On looking round, Jerry saw that the voice came from a brig which was
slowly moving past the vessel on whose deck he stood.

“He’s a chap that wants to ship,” replied the sailor to whom Jerry had
spoken.

“You aint the boy that shipped with us yesterday, are you?” continued
the man on board the brig, as Jerry turned towards him.

“No, sir,” replied Jerry, “but I should like to ship with you.”

“Well, come along then—we’re off this minute, and can’t wait for the
other fellow. You may take his place—only be spry about it.”

Here the man, who was captain of the brig, gave some orders in a loud
tone to the crew, which were unintelligible to Jerry. In a moment the
brig was hauled to along side the vessel in which Jerry was waiting,
and, in his confusion scarcely knowing what he did, he quickly jumped
over the railing, into the brig. The sailors then re-commenced hauling
her out from the dock into the stream. Jerry threw his bundle down upon
the deck, and stood watching the movements of those around him. He
could scarcely realize that he was going to sea, in this unceremonious
manner, and began to suspect that the sailors were playing a joke upon
him. But all seemed in earnest, and as busy as they could be, and on
the whole he concluded they were not sporting with him. No one spoke
to him, however, or set him to work, and as he was as yet totally
unacquainted with the duties of a sailor-boy, he did not venture to
volunteer his services. But his long-cherished hopes were realized, and
his heart beat fast at the prospect before him. Strange boy! He had
shipped with no outfit for the voyage, and he did not know where he
was bound, nor even the name of the vessel, or of the captain. He did
not know what wages he was to receive, what duties he was expected to
perform, or how long he was to be absent. And yet he thought of none of
these things, so delighted was he to find himself actually afloat. One
by one the white sails of the brig were spread to the wind, and she was
soon in full headway towards the broad ocean.




CHAPTER XII.

THE SAILOR-BOY.


For the first few hours at sea, Jerry was little better than a piece of
lumber, in everybody’s way. Nobody told him what to do, and, indeed,
he was pretty diligently employed in watching the quick movements of
the sailors, for the purpose of dodging out of their path. But, with
all his alertness, he was not quick enough to avoid being sometimes
rudely shoved one side, with a muttered imprecation on his head for
getting in the way. The city now began to recede rapidly from view.
The State House dome, the church spires, and the forest of ship-masts
along the water-side, were all that could be distinguished in the city
proper. East Boston, with clouds of smoke ascending from its numerous
foundries, was in full view in the distance; while nearer at hand, on
the right, was South Boston, with its highlands, its large public
buildings, and its many work-shops with tall chimneys. The last sound
that came from shore, was the striking of the church clocks. There
was a brisk north-west wind, before which the brig dashed along at a
rapid rate. Soon they were sailing between two fortresses, situated
on islands about a mile apart, and commanding the only channel by
which large vessels can enter or leave the port. Several other islands
were in sight, on some of which there were large buildings. They
also passed near two light-houses—tall towers built on islands, with
dwelling-houses near by for their keepers. Towards noon, the pilot,
whose business it is to guide vessels in and out of the harbor, took
leave of the brig, and returned to port in a small sail-boat. But
little land was now in sight, and the broad ocean, dotted with white
sails, was spread out before them.

The sun shone pleasantly upon the waters, but the wind was raw and
cold, and Jerry began to realize that he must stir about to keep warm.
He was slowly sauntering along, to see for the fiftieth time if he
could find anything to do, when he was accosted in a rough voice by one
of the men, who said:—

“Here, you land-lubber, did you ship for a gentleman, or a figure-head,
or what do you mean to do with yourself?”

“I mean to do my duty, if anybody will tell me what it is,” replied
Jerry, who did not like the tone in which he was addressed, and
answered accordingly. The surly manner in which this was said, was more
objectionable than the language itself. In an instant, the man to whom
it was addressed (who was the chief-mate), gave Jerry a blow with his
hard fist, which sent the boy reeling across the deck.

“There, you young snapping-turtle,” said he, “that’s your first lesson;
and hereafter look out when you’re spoken to, and give a civil answer,
or I’ll crack your tow-head for you. Now bear a hand here, and clean
out that pig-pen,” he continued, pointing to a shovel and scrubbing
brush standing in one corner.

Pigs and poultry are frequently carried to sea, to furnish a supply of
fresh meat for passengers and sailors; but these particular pigs, to
whose acquaintance Jerry was so summarily introduced, were themselves
passengers, on their way to a foreign land. A small pen had been fitted
up for them on deck, and as cleanliness is one of the cardinal virtues
on ship-board, it was necessary that they should be continually looked
after. And cleaning out a hog-sty was to be Jerry’s first experience
of “a life on the ocean wave!” Had any one at home ordered him to do
such a job, it is very doubtful whether he would have obeyed; but here,
after the lesson he had just received, he dare not refuse or even
hesitate, and so he leaped into the pen, scraped up the filth, and
threw it overboard.

[Illustration: Sea-sickness]

Shortly after Jerry had completed this useful but most unromantic
task, he began to grow ill. His stomach rolled and pitched with the
brig, and his head was light and dizzy. When he walked he reeled like
a drunken man, and the deck seemed about to fly up into his face.
Every moment, his sensations became more distressing. He laid himself
down in a sheltered part of the deck, but found no relief. His pale,
wo-be-gone countenance bore the impress of his misery. O, how he wished
he was once more on shore! How he cursed in his heart the hour that he
turned his wayward steps from Brookdale! As the motion of the vessel
rolled him about like a log, he almost wished that it might pitch him
overboard, and thus put an end to his misery. Should such an accident
happen, it seemed to him he would not lift a finger to escape a watery
grave. Such thoughts as these were passing through the brain of the
sea-sick boy, when some one stole slyly up behind him, and dropped a
large piece of greasy salt pork almost directly into his mouth. Any
fatty substance is very disagreeable to a sea-sick person; and this
mischievous prank, with the laughter and jibes of the sailors which
followed it, put the climax upon the misery of Jerry. He got upon his
feet, and, clinging to the rail, began to vomit, or “throw up Jonah,”
as the sailors term it. The more he retched, and gagged, and groaned,
the more his tormentors ridiculed him. The most conspicuous among them
was a raw, freckle-faced lad, apparently a little older than himself,
who was now on his second voyage, and was retaliating upon Jerry the
treatment he had himself suffered but six or eight months before. He
it was that dropped the pork into Jerry’s face. The sailors called him
Bob, for they seldom use any but nick-names, and those of the shortest
kind.

Jerry remained upon the deck nearly all the afternoon; and no one,
from Bob to the Captain, took any notice of him, except to laugh at
his condition. Sea-sick people generally get but little sympathy from
old salts. Towards sunset, feeling no better, Jerry asked one of the
sailors if he would please to show him to his bed-room,—for, in his
simplicity, it had never occurred to him that a bed-room, and even a
bed, were luxuries that did not belong to the sea. The old tar, with
the utmost gravity, called out:—

“Come here, Bob,—this ’ere young gentleman wants you to show him the
way up to his bed-room.”

Bob came, and conducted Jerry to the ratlin, or ladder, leading up
the mast,—and told him to “go up two pair of stairs, and knock at the
left-hand door.” If there was anything funny in this, Jerry was too
sick to apprehend it. His good-nature had long since given out; but
now he was getting positively angry, and retorted upon his tormentors
with some spirit. But this only increased their sport and aggravated
his misery. At length, however, they became weary of their bantering,
and one of the sailors, whom they called Tom, led Jerry down into the
forecastle, as that part of the vessel, where the sailors sleep, is
called. This apartment was in the forward part of the brig, immediately
under the deck. It was a small place, barely high enough to stand erect
in, and with no light except what entered at the door-way. Great chests
were strewed around the floor, so that it was difficult to walk without
running into them. The sides of the forecastle were fitted up with
three tiers of what looked like large shelves, with raised edges. These
were the bunks in which the sailors slept. Each man had his own bunk,
which was just large enough to lie down in. Two or three of these bunks
were unclaimed, and Tom told Jerry he could take his choice of them.
But Jerry had come on board without the slightest preparation for sea,
and of course had neither mattress nor blankets, which each sailor is
expected to provide for himself. What was he to do in this emergency?
Luckily for him, Tom happened to have some spare bed-clothing in his
chest; and as he rather pitied Jerry, he offered to let him use it
until he should have an opportunity to furnish himself with an outfit.
Jerry gladly accepted the offer, and taking off a portion of his
clothing, crawled into this narrow, box-like resting-place.

Our young sailor did not enjoy a very sound sleep, on his first
night at sea. The motion of the vessel, the creaking and straining
of the rigging, the noise of the water dashing against the bows, the
dolorous sighing of the wind through the blocks and ropes, the loud,
sharp-spoken orders on deck, and the frequent passing of the seamen
to and from the forecastle, together with his sea-sickness, allowed
him but little repose. Nor did he quite fancy the atmosphere of the
forecastle, which became close and stifled before morning, and was
flavored with various odors, the most prominent of which seemed to
be tar, bilge-water, and tobacco. However, he made out to catch a few
short naps, from one of which, about daylight, he was aroused by a
hearty shake, and ordered on deck. It at first seemed to him that he
had not strength sufficient to arise, but he managed to get upon his
feet, and staggered up on deck, where the mate at once set him to work,
washing down the decks. Weak and sick as he was, he worked at the pump
awhile, the cold water in the meantime running in streams about his
feet, his shoes offering but little resistance to the flood. Then he
was obliged to kneel down and scrub the deck with small stones, called
by the sailors, “holy-stones,” and used at sea for cleaning the decks
of vessels. This laborious employment continued for more than an hour,
and whenever Jerry attempted to relax his efforts in the slightest
degree, he would hear the stern voice of the mate:—

“Bear a hand there, sir,—no skulking here!”

On one occasion, this admonition was enforced by a smart stroke of a
rope’s-end laid over his shoulders. Jerry began to regard the mate as a
monster; and, indeed, he looked upon the officers and men, generally,
as little better than the pirates of whom he had read in some of
his juvenile books. But these men were not so bad as he imagined. It
is stern, rough discipline that makes the hardy sailor; and Jerry’s
initiation was no more severe than that of most boys who go to sea
“before the mast.”

After the deck had been holy-stoned, Jerry made his first meal at
sea,—he having been too sick hitherto to eat anything. His breakfast
consisted of hard ship-bread, cold salt junk, or beef, and rye coffee,
without milk. He ate but little, for the fare was not very tempting,
and his stomach had not yet got accustomed to the ups and downs, the
pitchings, and tossings, and reelings, of a life at sea. He was kept
busily employed, most of the day, in doing various little chores
about the vessel; for being the youngest, he was obliged to run at
everybody’s call. He learned from one of the sailors, during the day,
that the brig was bound for Valparaiso; but this did not give him a
very definite idea of his destination,—for so sadly had he neglected
his geography at school, that he could not tell in what quarter of the
globe Valparaiso was situated, or whether it was a week’s, or month’s,
or six months’ sail from Boston. He also discovered that the name of
the brig was “The Susan.”

Towards the evening of the second day out, the weather grew milder
and the sea more calm. The brig, which had dashed through the water
as if on a race, from the moment they got under headway, now began to
slacken her speed,—and one of the old sailors predicted an “Irishman’s
hurricane,” as a calm is sometimes humorously called. The motion of
the vessel was much less perceptible, and Jerry began to get over his
sea-sickness. He now took some interest in the strange scenes spread
out before him: the level ocean stretching away in every direction,
until it apparently touched the sky; no hill bounding the horizon, and
not a speck of land to be seen. But one other vessel was in sight,
and that was so far off that only the white sails could be discerned,
the hull being hidden from sight by the roundness of the earth.
Dolphins and porpoises were sporting round the brig in a very amusing
manner,—now darting entirely out of water, and now plunging to the
bottom, or scudding along very swiftly near the surface. Occasionally,
a small bird was seen flitting past the vessel, or skimming along upon
the water, in its wake. At first, Jerry took them to be swallows, but
he soon learned from Tom, that they were stormy petrels, or, as the
sailors call them, Mother Carey’s Chickens. The sailors regard these
birds with much superstitious fear, because they appear in greatest
numbers just before a storm, and are besides very singular in their
habits; but the petrels are really very inoffensive birds, and have no
more to do with getting up a tempest than our ducks, geese, swallows,
snow-birds, and other land birds, which are uncommonly noisy and busy
just before a storm. Tom, however, like most sailors, believed the
traditions concerning the petrel, and when he told Jerry they were
messengers of the evil one, they lost none of their interest in the
eyes of the young sailor. At night, while stowed away in his little
bunk, sound asleep, they appeared to him in countless flocks, and he
dreamed that they settled around him in such vast numbers, that he had
to struggle desperately to avoid being suffocated by them.

Thus passed Jerry’s first two days at sea. You would hardly have
patience to follow him through all the long voyage; nor is it
necessary that you should, for the experience of one day was much like
that of another. He found going to sea a very different thing from what
he expected. To be sure, there were at first some pleasant novelties
about it, but these wore away after a while. This was not the case,
however, with the toils and hardships,—which only grew more distasteful
the longer they were continued. The romantic, free-and-easy life of the
sailor, which he had pictured in imagination, he found to be in reality
a life of severe labor, drudgery, exposure, and deprivation. There
were few idle moments for him, even in the most delightful weather. At
daylight, each morning, rain or shine, he must scrub the decks; and
clean out the pig-pen. Next, perhaps, he would be ordered to assist
in shifting sails, and would be obliged to haul rough ropes until his
hands were sore, and his back felt ready to break; then, for an hour or
two, he would be kept hard at work scraping and oiling the masts and
yards,—or be sent aloft with a bucket of tar and grease, called slush,
and, hanging in mid-air, be compelled to dip his hand into the nasty
mixture, and rub down some portion of the rigging or mast. He also had
his own washing and mending to do; and when there was nothing else
to employ his time, he must pick oakum, or make spun-yarn and sennit.
Even at night, he could not claim exemption from toil,—but was liable
at any hour to be turned out by the shrill cry of “All hands, ahoy!” to
face rain or snow, or to feel his way aloft in a gale of wind, and in
pitch-darkness!

There was one thing, however, that Jerry, at first, felt more than
even the hard work and poor fare of his new calling; this was, the
iron discipline to which he found himself subjected. He had never been
accustomed to obey any one, at home; but here, it was prompt, instant
obedience, or a blow. This deep-rooted habit of disobedience, together
with his settled habit of laziness, made his “breaking in” at sea much
more painful than it would otherwise have been. One morning he did not
instantly obey the summons when called up, and, without intending it,
dropped asleep again; a moment afterwards he found himself sprawling
among the chests in the forecastle, every bone in his body aching as
though it had been twitched out of its place. The captain, with one
jerk, had brought him from his bunk to the floor, and accompanied
the act with an imprecation on his eyes, for not turning out when
called. Jerry had to take his turn in watching on deck, at night. One
night he was greatly fatigued, and sitting down on the boom he fell
asleep with his head in his lap. The second mate happened to be on
deck, and seeing the situation of Jerry, he seized the rope’s-end, and
approaching him stealthily, brought it down with all his strength upon
the back and shoulders of the boy. Jerry, in his fright, came near
leaping overboard, and it was a long time before he again took a nap at
the watch. At work, too, a kick, or cuff, or a bit of rope was always
handy, if there was any inclination to skulk. “Hurrah, there! bear a
hand! heave along! heave along!” was constantly sounding in his ears,—a
system of driving which he found anything but agreeable.

Jerry also added unnecessarily to the bitterness of his lot, during
the first few weeks of the voyage, by his surly, insolent manners
towards the sailors. Being treated as inferiors themselves by their
officers, sailors have no opportunity to play the superior except
towards the boys on ship-board, and they are very apt to make the
most of this opportunity. It is best for the boy to submit patiently
and good-naturedly to this petty tyranny; for, if he is saucy or
surly, they show him no mercy. Jerry soon learned this, from his own
experience. He at first bore the treatment of the crew with much
ill-grace; but he was soon cured of this fault, and learned to be civil
and obliging towards them.

In addition to all these troubles and hardships, Jerry found himself
thrown into intimate companionship with men, some of whom were not
only shockingly profane and disgustingly indecent, in their language,
but even boasted of the immorality of their lives. But these evil
influences, though they startled Jerry a little, at first, were not
the things that troubled him;—and yet, with his unformed habits and
principles, they were a thousand times worse for him than all the stern
hardships of the sea.




CHAPTER XIII.

MARY.


Jerry was missed at home;—to be sure, his departure was not felt so
sensibly as it would have been, had he acted the part of a dutiful
son and an affectionate brother. Still, all mourned his sudden
disappearance; especially, as they knew not what had become of him.
For a while, Mrs. Preston looked up the road, many times every day, to
see if she could discern anything of the runaway, for she had strong
expectations that he would return. But he did not come, nor were any
tidings received from him. In her distress and anxiety on his account,
she forgot all his bad conduct, and only remembered that he was her
son,—her only son. Little Mary, too, was much troubled at the loss of
her brother. She did not fully comprehend the occasion of his absence,
and as little was said in her presence about it, she somehow got the
notion into her head that Jerry had been seized and carried off by
certain wicked people whom she called “bugaboos.” “Mother,” she would
say, “when Jerry gets to be a great-big man, wont he get away from the
bugaboos; and come back again?” And then her mother would look sad, and
reply, “I hope so, my dear.”

About a fortnight after Jerry’s departure, Mrs. Preston received a
letter from her husband’s brother in Boston. She opened it with mingled
hope and trembling, for it was in reply to one she had addressed him,
the day after Jerry left home. But it gave her no information in regard
to his whereabouts. Jerry’s uncle simply stated that he had been absent
from home, and did not get her letter till a few days previous; that he
had made inquiries, but could learn nothing of Jerry; and that he would
be on the look-out for him, and give her immediate information should
he hear anything concerning the runaway. She laid the letter down with
a sigh; and that evening she wrote to her husband, informing him of the
situation of affairs,—for she had delayed doing so until now, in hope
of hearing what had become of Jerry. Being at work in the woods, far
away from any post-office, Mr. Preston did not receive this letter
until it had got to be quite an old affair, and so he did not think it
worth while to return home, to look after his son.

Clinton continued to be a frequent visiter at Mrs. Preston’s, and was
regarded as one of the family, rather than a stranger. When riding
down to the Cross Roads, he always stopped to inquire if they had any
errands to be done at the store; and often, when going back and forth,
he would drop in a few moments, to chat with the children, or join
in their sports. There was in the yard a great image of snow, twice
as large as a man, which Clinton had made to amuse little Mary. The
frequent thawings and freezings to which this snow giant was subjected,
gave him a smooth, thick coating of ice, so that a snow ball made
no impression upon him. This, Clinton said, was his coat of mail.
By causing water to drop down its chin, when it was freezing cold,
Clinton made a beard of icicles for the image, which gave it a very
grotesque look. One morning, after a thaw, Mary was highly delighted
with a discovery she made of a long icicle hanging from the nose of
the “old man,” as she called him. A few days after there was a heavy
fall of moist snow, which swelled the image to gigantic proportions,
the outline of the figure being still preserved; but soon it tumbled
to pieces of its own weight, and only a heap of hardened snow and ice
remained to tell its story.

[Illustration: The snow image]

Clinton was a favorite with the family, and his visits gave them much
pleasure; yet Mrs. Preston could not look upon him without a feeling
of sadness, for his presence always reminded her of her own son—the
playmate from infancy of Clinton. Nor could she help contrasting their
characters and prospects. She thought what a difference a few years had
made, in the two boys; and then she wondered whether this difference
was to go on, ever widening, to the end of their lives.

Thus week after week passed away, and the family were beginning to
recover from the melancholy occasioned by Jerry’s flight from home,
when a new and unwelcome guest entered the house. This guest was
sickness, and Mary was its victim. She grew ill so alarmingly fast,
from the hour of her attack, that James was soon despatched for the
doctor. When this functionary arrived, he felt of Mary’s pulse and
temples, looked at her tongue, and made some inquiries of her mother in
relation to her symptoms. He then pronounced her to be in a fever, but
expressed some hope of being able to throw it off. Opening the little
leathern trunk, which he always carried with him in his professional
visits, he took from it several kinds of medicines, and gave them
to Mary’s mother, with directions how to administer them. But Mary
continued to grow worse and worse, in spite of the good doctor’s
medicine. She tossed about on her little bed, moaning piteously, and
complaining continually of the dreadful pain in her head. Night came,
and she could not sleep, although the lamp in the room was shaded, and
her mother moved noiselessly about in her gentle ministries to the sick
one. Every little while she would call for drink, for she said she was
burning up with the heat; but she ate nothing.

The doctor called the next day, and after the usual examination, he
left some more medicine, and departed. But his little patient grew no
better. And so daily he repeated his visits, and each time remained
longer, and looked more anxious; but his skill seemed to be of little
avail. At length one morning, as Emily and Harriet were sitting at the
bed-side of the sufferer, while their mother was necessarily absent,
Mary awoke from a short, troubled sleep, and, with a wild, unnatural
look, began to talk very fast and very singularly about a great many
different things.

“There’s my old snow man,” she said, pointing to a bed-post on which
some light-colored clothing was hanging; “old man, old man, old man,
do you know who made you? I know who it was—’twas Clinty. O mother,
see that! see that! isn’t it beautiful! Now it’s gone, and I shan’t
see it again. Yes I will too. There it goes—buz-z-z-z-z—do n’t you
sting me, you naughty bee—I’ll tell my mother if you do. See! see! see!
there he comes—that’s Jerry—no it aint—yes it _is_ too—I tell you it
_is_ Jerry—don’t you see him? O, how glad I am he’s got away from the
bugaboos! Look! look quick! that’s him—there it goes—up there—don’t
you see it way up there, going round and round? By-low baby,—by-low
baby,” she continued, twisting the bed-clothes into something that
seemed to her a doll; and then she repeated a verse of one of her
little songs:—

    “Dance, little baby, dance up high;
     Never mind, baby, mother is by;
     Crow and caper, caper and crow,
     There, little baby, there you go.”

Thus she continued to talk, her mind flying from one thing to another
in a most singular manner. Her sisters spoke to her, but she took no
notice of them; and Harriet ran down to her mother, and bursting into
tears, cried:—

“O, mother, do come up stairs—Mary’s gone crazy, and is talking about
everything!”

The poor little sufferer continued in a delirious state most of the
day, though occasionally, for a few moments at a time, reason would
seem to resume its sway. The doctor looked more grave than ever, and
when Mrs. Preston followed him into the entry, and entreated him to
tell her exactly what he thought of the case, he replied:—

“I think she is a very sick child, but as the fever has not reached the
turning-point, it is impossible to tell how it will result. I do not
despair of saving her, however, for I have seen more than one patient
live through as violent an attack as this appears to be.”

Clinton called daily at the house, to inquire after Mary, but as it
was important to keep her as quiet as possible, he did not go into the
sick chamber. His mother, however, came over every day, and sometimes
remained all night, greatly assisting Mrs. Preston in taking care
of the sick one. Mary’s delirium continued with little interruption
for two or three days. When she came out of this state, she cast a
recognizing look at her mother and sisters, who were seated in the
room, and then, in a low voice, inquired:—

“Mother, where is Jerry?”

“Jerry is not here, dear,” replied Mrs. Preston; “he has not yet got
back.”

“Where has he gone?”

“I don’t know where he is—he went away before you was taken sick, but
we hope he will be back soon.”

“But I saw him here yesterday, mother,” continued Mary, who had a
confused remembrance of some of the impressions of her delirium.

“No, darling, you are mistaken, you dreamed that you saw him—that was
all.”

Mary looked disappointed; and as her recollection of Jerry’s
disappearance returned, she added mournfully:—

“Then I shan’t see Jerry again before I die—nor father either.”

“O, yes you will,” quickly replied her mother, startled at these words;
“you will soon get well, I hope, and father will be home, before many
weeks, and Jerry, too, perhaps.”

Mary sadly shook her head, but made no reply. That night she slept
a few hours, but in the morning it was evident that she was rapidly
failing. Calling her mother to the bed-side, she said, with a beautiful
smile upon her face:—

“Dear mother, I am going to-day—I have seen the angel that is to carry
me over the river. O, I wish I could tell you all about it, but I can’t
talk much now. I saw a beautiful country—there was no snow there, but
the grass was all green, and there were flowers of every kind. There
was a great temple, too, as high as the clouds, and it dazzled my eyes
to look at it, it glittered so in the sun. And I saw thousands of
little children, dressed in white, and the Saviour gathered them around
him, and kissed them, and then they all sang, and looked so happy,
and _he_ looked so kind. But there was a dark, ugly river between me
and them, and while I was thinking how I should like to get across, a
tall, beautiful angel came up to me, and asked me if I would not like
to become one of the Saviour’s little lambs. I told him I should, but I
was afraid of the terrible river. Then he kissed me, and told me not to
be afraid, for he would come for me in a few hours, and carry me over;
and he said I never should be sick any more, nor go astray. And I asked
if he, would not take you too, and father, and Jerry, and Emily, and
Harriet, but he said:—‘Not yet.’ And while the angel was talking to me,
the Saviour looked towards us, and stretched out his arms; and so I am
sure that I shall go to heaven to-day.”

Mrs. Preston listened to this recital in tears, and was too much
overpowered with her emotions to make any reply. It was but too
evident that Mary’s presentiment of her approaching death was not
unlikely to prove true. She continued to sink through the day. The
doctor came once more, but he told the weeping mother he could do
nothing more for the sufferer. In the afternoon, Mary desired that
all the members of the family should be gathered around her. In a
few simple, childish words, she bade each a farewell, and looked the
affection which she could not express. And then, remembering the absent
ones, she left messages of love for her father and Jerry. She soon
after sank into a stupor, and apparently did not recognize her mother
and sisters, who sat silently and tearfully watching her breathing,
as each minute it became shorter and more labored. Just as the last
spark of life was expiring, a heavenly smile beamed upon her pure young
face, and the exclamation, “There he is!—the angel is coming!” faintly
trembled upon her lips. A moment after, little Mary was gathered into
the fold of the Good Shepherd, in heaven.

A little grave was dug in the frozen earth, in one corner of
the garden, and there the dust of Mary now sleeps, in hope of a
resurrection. But it is only the body that lies there. _She_ went with
the good angel, we trust, to become one of the lambs in the Saviour’s
flock.

    “There past are death and all its woes,
     There beauty’s stream for ever flows,
     And pleasure’s day no sunset knows.”




CHAPTER XIV.

THE FORESTS.


March had come—the month which is usually considered the beginning
of spring, though in the part of the country where Clinton resided
it seemed more like the last month of winter. The winter school had
closed, and as it was too early to commence labors on the farm, the
scholars were enjoying a long holiday. There was little for Clinton
to do, at home, and even his father was at leisure much of the time,
having chopped and hauled his year’s supply of wood, cleaned and
repaired his tools, and done such other jobs as are usually deferred
to the winter season. The deportment of Clinton, since his frank
confession of the errors into which Jerry had led him, had been
unexceptionable, both at home and at school. He seemed like himself
again. His parents began to feel sorry that they had deprived him of
his promised journey to Boston, although he had never once spoken of
the matter from the day they announced their intention. In talking
over the subject one evening after the children had gone to bed, they
concluded to make up for Clinton’s disappointment, in part at least, by
treating him to an excursion of another kind. The next morning, at the
breakfast table, Mr. Davenport introduced the matter by saying:—

“Clinton, you’ve behaved pretty well, for some time past, and as I
believe in rewards as well as punishments, I am going to propose to
treat you to a little excursion, next week. Where should you prefer
to go—to Portland, or to Bangor, or back into the forests, among the
loggers? As the sleighing is now excellent, and bids fair to remain so
for a week or two longer, we will take Fanny—or rather she shall take
us; and you shall decide to which of these points we shall steer.”

“I should like to go to either of the places, first-rate,” said
Clinton, “but I don’t know as I have any choice about them. I’ll leave
it with you to say which shall be the trip.”

“No,” resumed his father, “you think the matter over to-day, and
perhaps you will find that you have some preference.”

Clinton did so, and after weighing in his mind the attractions of the
several places, he came to the conclusion that he had rather visit
a logging camp, of which he had heard so much, than to go to either
Portland or Bangor. He had already once visited the former city, and
the other had no special interest for him, beyond any other large
place. So he informed his father of his decision, and the logging camp
was determined upon as the object of their journey.

The rest of the week was spent in preparing for and talking about
their approaching excursion. Clinton watched the weather very closely,
and was constantly on the look out for a storm; but no storm came,
though there were at times indications of foul weather, which somewhat
dampened his ardor. His mother cooked a large amount of dough-nuts,
ginger cakes, fried apple pies, and other eatables convenient for a
journey; for they were going through a section of the country which was
little settled, and might have to depend upon themselves, in part at
least, for their provisions. The sleigh was cleaned, and even Fanny
received extra care, and an extra allowance of fodder, in consideration
of the long jaunt before her.

Monday morning, at length, came. The weather was just what they
desired. The sun shone pleasantly, the air was mild, and the
sleighing,—which had not been interrupted for a day, since the first
considerable fall of snow in December,—was smooth and easy. Mrs.
Davenport stowed away in the sleigh-box, under the seat, an ample
supply of provisions for the journey; and, also, a quantity of extra
clothing, to be used in case they should need a change. Nor did Mr.
Davenport forget to provide something for Fanny’s comfort on the way.
He lashed a bag of grain between the dasher and the front of the
sleigh, and inside he put as much hay as he could conveniently carry,
tied up in wisps of a convenient size for bating the horse. Some
friction matches, an umbrella, a rifle, a hatchet, and two good buffalo
skins, completed their outfit.

The sun was hardly half an hour up, when Clinton and his father bade
good-bye to Mrs. Davenport and Annie, and started on their journey. The
logging business is carried on most extensively around the head waters
of the great rivers in the northern part of Maine. These, however,
were too far distant, and the roads to them too little travelled, to
be visited with much pleasure or even safety, at this season of the
year. The camp which Mr. Davenport intended to visit was situated on
one of the tributaries of the Kennebec river, about forty miles from
Brookdale. Here they could obtain quite as correct an idea of the
loggers’ life as they could by going farther north, though the business
was carried on upon a smaller scale at this place.

Fanny trotted off at a brisk pace, and soon the travellers found
themselves upon a road where no houses nor cultivated land could be
seen,—but tall forest trees rose on each side, and spread away in the
distance as far as the eye could see.

“What lots of woods,” said Clinton; “I don’t see why they go so far
after logs, when they are so plenty around here.”

“I suppose one reason is,” said his father, “that these forests are
not very convenient to a stream, so that the logs could not be easily
floated down to the saw-mills. Perhaps, too, the land belongs to
somebody who thinks the lumber will be more valuable by and by than it
is now. There are many large tracts of wood scattered over the State,
even in parts which have been settled for years.”

“I should think it would take a great many ages to use up all the wood
there is in this State,” continued Clinton.

“I hope it will be a great while,” remarked Mr. Davenport, “before we
are as badly off for wood as they are in some parts of the old world.
What would you think of buying fire-wood by the pound? Yet this is
the way it is sold in Paris and many other European cities. A man who
had travelled a great deal, once told me that he had known wood to
sell at the rate of eighty-five dollars a cord, in Naples. In France,
and Spain, too, wood is very scarce, and as but little coal is used,
the people learn to be very economical in the use of fuel. He says it
would cost a fortune for a man to keep up such fires in his house, in
Paris, as we do here. The trimmings of fruit trees and grape vines, and
everything that will burn, is carefully saved. Lumber, for building
purposes, is also much dearer than it is here, and is much less used
than with us. But some people think the time will come when wood and
lumber will be as dear here as they are now in Europe.”

Patches of fenced lands, some of which had evidently been cultivated,
now began to appear, and in a few minutes a little settlement of
farm-houses became visible; but the travellers did not stop, and were
soon again in the forests, with no signs of civilization around them
but the road upon which they travelled. Most of the pine trees had been
cut down, in this tract, but a few lofty and noble specimens remained,
as if to show what had been there. The stumps of these departed giants
of the forest were scattered in every direction, and some of them were
of great size. They had no measuring tape, but Mr. Davenport, after
carefully examining one of these stumps, calculated that it measured
fully seventeen feet in circumference, at the “cut.” There was a pine
still standing, near by, which he thought would measure almost as much
as this. Its height he estimated at one hundred and thirty feet.

But though there were few white pines left, there was no lack of
trees. Among those which Clinton recognized, was a small, scraggy
species of pine; the stiff, cone-shaped cedar; the mountain ash, with
its clusters of bright red berries; the noble and cleanly beech;
the thrifty, broad-headed butternut; the graceful birch, with its
silvery trunk; the maple, the larch, the spruce, etc. There was also
a dense growth of smaller trees or bushes, among which he found the
hazel, filbert, moose-wood, alder, bear-berry, winter-green, and other
familiar shrubs. The conversation turned upon the properties and
uses of these several trees,—for Mr. Davenport always improved such
occasions for giving Clinton useful information concerning the objects
around him. He told him what an excellent substitute beech leaves were
for straw, for filling beds; and how valuable the sugar-maples will one
day be considered, when the people get in the way of making sugar as an
article of export; and how the Shakers use the wood of the butternut
for making bowls, and sell the bark to the apothecaries for medicinal
purposes; and how fond the partridge is of the little red bear-berries.

“As to the birches, which are so plenty along here, I suppose you
already know something of their peculiar virtues,” continued Mr.
Davenport.

“I guess a few of the boys at school discovered what they are good for,
this winter,” replied Clinton, with a laugh.

“Well, I made the same discovery myself, when I went to school,” added
Mr. Davenport. “The master got out of birch rods, one day, and sent me
off to cut some. The tree which we usually patronized for this purpose
was near by a pond where there happened to be excellent skating; and
as my skates were handy, I having hid them under a log before going
into school, I thought I would take a turn or two round the pond, after
cutting the twigs. I did so; and then returned to school, with half a
dozen long, stout rods. As the master took them, he said, with a smile,
‘Ah, these look nice, but the proof of the pudding is in the eating,
so I will just test them a little.’ I laughed at his pleasantry, and
turned to go to my seat, when he said, ‘Here, sir, come back, I’m in
earnest—I want to test these a little before you take your seat.’ And
sure enough, he did test one of the longest of them, so that I carried
proofs of its virtues upon my legs for several days after. ‘There,’
said he, after he had satisfied himself, ‘these rods will do very well;
now you may go to your seat, and when I send you after the next lot,
_don’t you stop to skate on the pond_!’ I afterwards learned that he
grew suspicious of my long absence, and sent out a boy to see what had
become of me, who reported to him that I was skating. Ever since that
day, I have had a very lively recollection of the virtues of the birch
tree.”

“Master Eaton often says boys are subject to some complaints that have
to be doctored on the botanical system—he says there is nothing but oil
of birch that will save them,” remarked Clinton.

“Speaking of the oil of birch,” said Mr. Davenport, “did you know that
it is valuable for tanning leather, as well as boys’ hides?”

“No, sir, I didn’t know there was really such a thing as the oil of
birch,” replied Clinton. “I thought people used the words only in fun.”

“There is such a substance, and it is said to be used in tanning hides,
and currying leather, in Russia. They distil it from the outside bark
of the tree. Did you never notice that the birch-bark often remains
entire, after the tree to which it belonged has gone to decay?”

“Yes, sir, I know some trees back of our house that have been dead ever
since I can remember, and are all rotten inside, and yet the bark
looks as though it was alive.”

“That is because this oil in the bark preserves it from decay. And
there is another curious thing about this tree—it is generally the
first to spring up after a forest has been cut down, or burned over.
I suppose most of these birches that we see around us, have grown up
since the pines were cut down. They are not at all particular about
their location, but will manage to flourish wherever they can find a
standing place. They seem to take it for granted that a birch tree is
better than no tree, and so they squeeze in and fill up the spaces in
the forests, and settle down upon all unappropriated tracts. And in
fact they are not to be despised; for they grow rapidly, are rather
pretty, and are not only useful to tanners and school-masters, but
their branches make strong withes, when green, and their wood makes
good fuel, when seasoned.”

“Quite a catalogue of virtues,” remarked Clinton.

“Yes—and here we are, almost at Uncle Tim’s, nearly half through our
journey,” added Mr. Davenport.

Mr. Lewis, or “Uncle Tim,” as he was always called, was an old pioneer,
who settled down in this wilderness years ago, his “clearing” being
many miles distant from any neighbor. This was the last house they
would meet, on the road to the camp, and as Uncle Tim’s dwelling was a
sort of tavern, at which all travellers over the road were accustomed
to stop, Mr. Davenport had determined to rest Fanny there until the
next morning.




CHAPTER XV.

THE CLEARING.


Uncle Tim was very glad to see Mr. Davenport and Clinton, as he always
was to see travellers. He called Bill, one of his boys, to go and put
up the horse, while he led the strangers into the house, where his wife
had already set about preparing something for them to eat, for it was
past noon, and the family had just finished their dinner.

Clinton soon slipped outside, to take a look at the premises, for his
curiosity was much excited by the novel appearance of things. The
clearing was very large, and not a native tree had been left upon
it; but it was completely surrounded by a straight, unbroken line of
forest, which looked like a perpendicular wall. The land consisted of
gentle slopes and valleys, and was divided into separate fields, by
fences made of stumps and logs. Nearly in the centre of the clearing
stood the house and barn. They were both built of spruce logs, placed
one upon another, cob-house fashion, the chinks between them being
filled up with clay and moss. From the centre of the house rose a huge
stone chimney. The windows were glazed in the common manner. As Clinton
was looking around, Uncle Tim came out and spoke to him:—

[Illustration: The log house]

“What do you think of it, young man?” he said; “do you suppose you
could build as good a house as this, with nothing but an axe?”

“I guess not,” replied Clinton; “but you didn’t build it with an axe,
did you?”

“I didn’t have much of anything else to work with, I assure you,” said
Uncle Tim. “There’s no knowing what you can do with an axe, until you
set out and try. But come in—I guess your dinner’s about ready.”

Uncle Tim guessed right. The table was covered with tempting food, in
great profusion, and Clinton and his father sat down to it with a good
appetite.

“You don’t starve yourselves, up here in the woods,” said Mr.
Davenport, glancing at the heaping dishes.

“No,” said Uncle Tim, “we can generally find something to eat; but it’s
a pity you didn’t come along a little sooner, so as to have had some of
our dinner.”

But the travellers did not pity themselves, if Uncle Tim did; for with
the fried ham and eggs, the nice wheaten bread, the delicious milk,
the sweet cakes and mountain cranberry sauce, the rich cheese, and tea
sweetened with molasses, they were in no danger of starving.

After their meal, Clinton renewed his examination of the house; and
Uncle Tim seeing he was interested in it, began to tell him how he
built it. He pitched upon the spot about twenty years before; and
after securing his title, he took his axe and went to work cutting
down trees. The first trees he felled, he used in building a “camp,” a
hut made of logs and covered with bark. After he had cleared about an
acre, and lopped off the limbs of the fallen trees, he set them on fire
in the fall. The logs, which remained unconsumed, were afterwards cut
into lengths of ten or twelve feet, piled together in heaps, and again
set on fire. Thus he had burned hundreds of cords of wood, to get rid
of it, which would have sold for six or seven dollars a cord, could he
have sent it to Portland or Boston. In the spring he planted his corn
and potatoes, and then went to work again with his axe and cleared
another piece. By-and-by he began to feel lonesome, for thus far he had
been entirely alone, with the exception of a couple of trusty dogs; so
he went back to the town from which he came, married a wife, and then
returned to his home in the forest. After a while their family began
to increase, and so they built a larger and better house,—the one in
which they were now sitting.

This was the substance of Uncle Tim’s story, although he made a much
longer one of it than I have done; for it was not very often that he
saw a stranger, and when he did, his tongue was pretty sure to enjoy a
holiday,—not of rest, but of action.

By this time, Mrs. Lewis had cleared off the table, and Clinton was
not a little astonished to see it suddenly converted into a rude but
capacious arm-chair! The round top of the table was turned up against
the wall, thus forming the back of the chair; and the frame which
supported it, became the arms. The object of this was to economize
space as well as furniture,—for in log houses there is seldom any room
to waste upon useless articles.

There were five rooms, but the partitions, instead of being of
plastering, were made of wood. Clinton, noticing this, said:—

“I thought you said you built this house with an axe; but how did you
make your boards for the doors, and partitions, and floors?”

“Boards? Why, bless you, there isn’t a board in the house. These things
are splints, not boards. I made them by splitting spruce logs. The roof
is covered with them, too, and I’m going to clapboard the house with
the same things afore next winter.”

Clinton’s mistake was very natural, for the floor and partitions were
almost as smooth and straight as though made of sawed and planed
boards. Clinton noticed in the floor, however, a great number of
small holes, which Uncle Tim told him were made by the spikes that
the drivers fix upon their boots to prevent their slipping off the
logs. This led Clinton to another discovery. The river, to whose head
waters they were going, passed through Uncle Tim’s clearing; but as it
was frozen over, and the ice partially covered with snow, Clinton had
not noticed it before. It was down this river that the logs and their
iron-shod drivers came, and the latter were in the habit of stopping at
uncle Tim’s for supplies.

Seeing a noble looking dog asleep in the chimney-corner, Clinton
inquired if that was one of the two that came with him when he first
settled in the woods.

“No,” said Uncle Tim, “but he’s a son of theirs, and a worthy
successor he is, too,—aint you, Hunter?” Hunter, at the mention of his
name, started from his doze, and wagged his bushy tail, which said
“Yes,” as plain as tail could speak. “He considers the poultry under
his charge,” continued Uncle Tim, “just as his father and mother did
afore him, and he wont suffer a hawk or any big bird to come within
twenty rods of the chickens. He’s great on Ingins, too,—he smells ’em a
mile off, and barks long afore they’re in sight.”

“Do you have many Indians about here?” inquired Clinton.

“Not many; a few stragglers come along once in a while. Red-skins
aint so plenty as they were when I first came here, nor half so saucy
either. They know it’s their fate to give way to their betters, and it
makes them sort of humble like.”

Clinton now went out to the barn, where he found two stout, hearty
lads, larger than himself, giving the cattle their suppers. These
were Uncle Tim’s sons. “Bill” and “Jim” were the only names by which
he heard them called. Their faces were brown, their hands large and
rough, and their clothing was of the coarsest description; but their
bodies were finely developed, and, like their father, they were shrewd
and intelligent, though they had never enjoyed a day’s schooling.
Clinton took hold and helped them about their work, and soon he felt
very well acquainted with them. They asked him a great many questions
about Brookdale, and he, in return, was quite as inquisitive about
their home. He was astonished to learn, as he did, in the course of the
conversation, that Bill, the eldest of these great, broad-shouldered,
wide-chested, and long-legged boys, was only about a year older than
himself, while Jim was actually his junior by three months. Hard work,
constant exposure to the air, and hearty food, had hastened their
growth to a remarkable degree.

The barn was larger than the house, and was built in much the same way,
though there were only wooden shutters to the windows instead of glass,
and the wood generally was not so smoothly finished as it was in the
house. The stock consisted of horses, cows, oxen, pigs and hens. The
ground served as a floor, in the lower story; but overhead there was
a loft, in which hay, straw, and other articles were stored. Clinton
learned from the boys, that their father raised all the hay and
grain necessary for the stock. Potatoes, grass, and oats, were their
principal crops, but they generally had small patches of wheat and
Indian corn. There were a few apple trees, which Uncle Tim had raised
from the seed, but the boys said the fruit was sour and crabbed, fit
only for “sarse,” or the pigs.

When Clinton returned to the house, he found preparations making for
supper. The fire-place,—the only one the house could boast,—was almost
large enough to admit of roasting an ox whole; and the heap of burning
logs, four feet long and unsplit, looked as if Mrs. Lewis was intending
to accomplish some such feat. But it was only her ordinary fire, such
as she always had to boil the tea-kettle, and bake a pan of cakes.
The fire-place was built of stone, and there was a hearth of the same
material before it. An iron crane swung over the fire, from which the
tea-kettle and baking kettle were suspended, by hooks shaped like the
letter S. Near the ceiling, over the hearth, a string was stretched
across the room, on which a few stockings were drying.

The arm-chair was now converted into a table, and supper was soon
ready. It was very similar to the meal of which Mr. Davenport and
Clinton had already partaken. Uncle Tim’s two boys did not come to the
table until the others had risen, as there was not room enough for
all. After the boys had finished their supper, Clinton asked them if
they would not go down with him to the river. They complied with his
request, and as they were on their way, they passed some logs, by the
side of which there was an axe, with a remarkably long helve or handle.

“Hullo,” said Clinton, “I guess that axe was made for a giant.”

“No,” said Bill, “the helve has to be long so that the chopper can
stand on the log when he cuts, so fashion,” and he jumped upon the log,
and gave it two or three blows that made it crack to the centre.

Clinton found the river narrower than he expected, and as the snow
had drifted in, there was not much ice to be seen. The boys told him,
however, that in the spring the stream was two or three times as wide
and deep as it was now, and they described to him its lively appearance
in a freshet, when thousands of logs were swept down its swift current,
every day, and the jolly drivers were continually passing, to start off
those timbers that happened to lodge against the rocks or shores.

“I’m going to be a logger,” said Bill; “they have first-rate times up
in the woods, in the winter, and it’s real fun to see them go down the
river in the spring.”

“Poh,” said Jim, “I’ll bet you’ll get enough of it in one season.
Father says it’s the hardest life a fellow can choose.”

“And what do you mean to be, Jim?” inquired Clinton.

“I want to be a carpenter,” replied Jim, “but father wont get me any
tools, nor let me go away to learn the trade. Do you have any tools
where you live, Clinton?”

“Yes, lots of them. My father used to be a carpenter, and has got a
whole set of tools, and lets me use them as much as I please.”

“O, how I wish I had some tools,” continued Jim. “I mean to ask father
to let me go over and see yours some time.”

“I wish he would let you go,” said Clinton. “I’d show you all our
tools, and how to use them, too.”

Night was fast drawing on, and the boys had now reached the house,
where they found Uncle Tim and Mr. Davenport talking about the
elections. There was in the room an article of furniture called a
settle, a bench large enough for three or four to sit upon, with a high
back, and arms to lean upon at each end. Clinton did not notice this
particularly as it stood in the back part of the room; but when the
boys moved it up to the fire, and all three seated themselves upon it,
he was much pleased with it.

“Father,” he said, during a pause in the conversation, “I wish we had
one of these seats—don’t you suppose I could make one?”

“I think very likely you could,” replied Mr. Davenport.

“I mean to try, when I get home,” added Clinton, and he examined it
still more carefully, to see how it was constructed.

“That settle was my grand-father’s, Master Clinton,” said Uncle Tim,
“and you must see if you can’t make one that will last as long as that
has—then your grand-children will have something to remember you by.”

“I’ll try,” said Clinton, with a laugh.

“‘I’ll try’—those are good words, my boy,” said Uncle Tim. “That’s
what Col. Miller said, when Gen. Brown asked him if he could carry
Queenstown Heights. ‘I’ll try,’ said he, and sure enough he did try,
and gained a splendid victory, and Congress gave him a gold medal, with
‘I’ll try’ engraved on it. So you stick to that motto, Master Clinton,
and I guess your grand-children will have a settle to remember you
by—don’t you think so?”

Clinton laughed, and seeing Uncle Tim was in so pleasant a mood, he
asked him if he wouldn’t let Jim go over to see him, some time. Jim,
finding the ground was broken, lost no time in putting in a word for
himself; and as Mr. Davenport said he should like to have the boys
visit Clinton, Uncle Tim gave a sort of half promise that Jim should
go, some time when he could spare him.

The rest of the evening was spent in listening to Uncle Tim’s stories
of his early life in the woods. He related many interesting accounts of
his adventures with bears and wolves, and other savage animals, which
were then more numerous than now. One of his anecdotes, which greatly
amused Clinton, was as follows:—

“Now I’m going to tell you a story,” said Uncle Tim, “that happened a
good many years ago, up in Vermont. I guess it was afore I was born,
but never mind, it may be just as new to you, for all that. There were
three brothers that went from Massachusetts and settled close together
in the wilderness, up there. They all lived in one log hut, and ate out
of the same porringer, but each fellow had his own patch of land, and
as it was pleasanter being together than alone, they agreed to take
turns in working upon each other’s farms. One day, all hands worked on
Jake’s farm, the next day on Sam’s, and the next on Bill’s—perhaps I
haven’t got the names right, but never mind that. But by-and-by one of
them got sort of jealous, or dissatisfied, or something of that kind,
and said he would not work that way any longer, no how. So the other
two stuck together, and let the odd sheep do as he pleased. Well, one
day, while the two that agreed were working in the field, they heard a
tremendous outcry from the other brother’s lot. So they up and seized
their rifles, which they always kept right under their noses, and ran
to see what the matter was. They expected to see some horrible sight,
you know, but what do you suppose they found? Why, there was their
brother up in a little sapling, rocking to and fro, and bellowing with
all his might, and below was a great bear, looking up dreadful earnest
at him. It seems the bear came suddenly at him, and as he hadn’t time
to go after his rifle, he sprung to the nearest sapling, which he knew
the bear couldn’t climb. But the sapling was so slender it bent over
like a bow, bringing him in such a position that he had to hold on
with both his feet and hands, and the bent part of his body, which was
covered with his buckskin breeches, hung down almost within reach of
the bear. Old Bruin soon discovered this, and so stood up on his hind
legs, to see if he couldn’t reach him that way; but all he could do
was to give the fellow a push with his fore paw, which set him and his
sapling to swinging back and forth. His claws did not go through the
buckskin breeches, but the man thought he was a gone case, and roared
dreadfully. The bear then squatted on his haunches to enjoy the sport,
and when the force of the blow was spent, and the man began to get
steady, he up and gave him another start. When the other two fellows
saw the state of the case, they laughed about as loud as their brother
hollered, and it was some time afore they could steady their hands so
as to put a bullet into the bear. After that scrape all three of them
hitched horses together again and went to work on the old plan. The old
bear paid dear for his sport, but you can’t say he didn’t do some good
in the world, can you? If it hadn’t been for him, just as likely as not
the fuss among those brothers would have grown bigger and bigger, until
they quarrelled just like cats and dogs.”

At nine o’clock, Uncle Tim wound up his yarns, and soon after all
retired to bed. They ascended to the second floor by means of a ladder.
There were two bed-rooms, with a space between them, which served both
as an entry and a store room. The great chimney came up through this
entry. Each bed-room had one window, in the gable end of the house, but
the space between the rooms was dark, except when the chamber doors
were open. The roof came down nearly to the floor, on each side, and
in the centre of the rooms, a tall man could hardly stand erect. Mr.
Davenport and Clinton slept in one of these rooms, and Bill and Jim in
the other. Uncle Tim and his wife had a bed-room down stairs. A straw
bed made up upon the floor, without a bedstead, a large chest, and
one chair, were the only furniture in the room where Clinton slept.
There were several long wooden pegs driven into the logs which served
as rafters, upon which they hung their clothing; and soon both were
sleeping as sweetly as though they had been quartered in the best room
of a “first-class hotel.”




CHAPTER XVI.

THE LOGGERS.


The sun rose clear, the next morning, and after an early and bountiful
breakfast, Mr. Davenport and Clinton bid good-bye to Uncle Tim and
his family, and resumed their journey. The country through which they
rode was much the same as that they had already passed over, with the
exception that it was if possible even more stern and wild, not a
single house or cultivated spot meeting their eyes during the whole
forenoon’s ride. After the first hour, Clinton was not quite as lively
as usual. In fact, he felt a trifle less cheerful than ordinary—he
could not tell whether it sprang from a touch of home-sickness, or
from a sense of lonesomeness. But his unpleasant feelings arose more
from the influence of the dreary winter scenery upon his mind, than
from either of these causes. His father, noticing this, chatted away
in a more lively strain than usual, and after awhile succeeded in
dispelling the tinge of gloom from his mind.

The road being travelled but very little, the sleighing was poor, and
there was no prospect of their reaching their destination before the
middle of the afternoon. Accordingly, about noon, they reined up, for
the purpose of resting the horse, and eating their dinner. Having given
Fanny a wisp of hay, to take up her mind, they collected together a
heap of dead wood, the remnants of fallen trees, etc., which they found
near the road, and set it on fire. It burned finely, and sent out a
cheerful warmth, in which they seated themselves, and partook with
a keen relish of the various good things which Clinton’s mother had
stowed away in the sleigh-box.

After halting about an hour at this place, they resumed their journey,
and a ride of about three hours brought them within hearing of the
loggers. The first indication they had that they were near the camp,
was the loud “Gee, haw-buck, whoa!” of a man who was driving oxen.
These sounds had a very enlivening effect upon Clinton, who could
scarcely refrain from jumping from his seat, and running ahead,
so impatient was he to see some signs of humanity in the dreary
wilderness. But in a few moments, they came in sight of the camp,
and soon they noticed two or three men, with long hair and immense
whiskers, approaching them from different directions. Mr. Davenport
recognized an old acquaintance in one of them, and received a most
hearty welcome from him.

“Mr. Jones,” said Mr. Davenport, “my boy has long wanted to see how
the loggers live; and as I had a little leisure and the weather and
sleighing were promising, I thought I would gratify his wishes.”

“I am right glad to see you, and him, too,” said Mr. Jones; and he
seized Clinton by the hand, and gave it a gripe and a shake which he
felt for ten minutes afterward;—“why, I haven’t laid eyes on a child
or a youngster, for four months, and it’s a real treat to see you, I
can tell you. I’ve got a boy of my own, at home, about your size, and
a fine little fellow he is, too. I’m afraid you’ll find rather poor
quarters here in the camp, but you are welcome to such accommodations
as we have, just so long as you’ll stay.”

The horse was taken from the sleigh and led to the cattle hut, and Mr.
Jones conducted Mr. Davenport and Clinton to one of the camps, where
he told them to make themselves at home. He offered them food, which
they declined until the usual supper-hour. He had many questions to ask
concerning what was going on in the world, from which the loggers are
almost shut out; and as he and Mr. Davenport were absorbed in their
conversation, Clinton slipped out to reconnoitre the premises.

The camp, he found, was situated in the midst of the woods; and not, as
he expected to find it, in a clearing. There was no scenery at all; the
tall trees shut out the prospect on every side, and the only opening
for the eye was towards the clear, blue heavens above. Only a few trees
had been cut down, to serve as material for the houses, or as fuel.
This spot was chosen for the sake of the shelter it afforded in severe
weather, and also, because there was an excellent spring of water
convenient to it.

Clinton now turned his attention to the camps. These were built of
logs, but in a style much inferior to Uncle Tim’s house, in the
clearing. As they are but temporary affairs, the loggers only aim at
making them habitable for one or two winters. There were three of
these buildings, one of which was used by the oxen. They were each
about twenty feet long by fifteen wide and were built of logs placed
one on the top of another, and the whole sides and roof covered with
bark. Each camp had one door, but no windows. A hole in the middle of
the roof, three or four feet square, served both for a chimney and a
window.

[Illustration: The loggers’ camp]

Clinton now returned to the camp, where his father and Mr. Jones
were sitting, and began to inspect the interior. He found there were
no partitions,—for the loggers have no occasion for more than one
room. The principal feature of the interior was the fire-place. This
was directly under the hole in the roof, and was about six feet in
diameter. The ground had been dug out nearly two feet deep, to make a
bed for the fire and ashes, and the space was surrounded by stones.
Benches, made of split logs, were arranged around the fire, which
served both as seats and tables. He noticed that the door had a wooden
latch, which was very ingeniously whittled to resemble an iron one.
The only other articles in the room were a pork barrel, water bucket,
basin, dipper, towel, a few cooking and eating utensils, and a dozen
greasy and well-worn books and newspapers. The floor was thickly strewn
with leaves of arbor vitæ, especially under the eaves, which came down
to within three feet of the ground. These formed the loggers’ beds.

Such was the rude house in which Clinton was to spend two or three
nights. He afterwards found that it differed from the cattle hut
only in having a fire-place, and an outlet through the roof. But
that fire-place, with the “rousing fire” which it afforded at all
hours of the day and night, made the hovel comparatively cheerful
and comfortable. So far from feeling disappointed with his quarters,
Clinton longed for bed-time to come, that he might enjoy the new
sensation of sleeping in such a romantic place.

At sunset, the men began to return from their work. They all wore
coarse but warm and durable clothing, and one article seemed universal
among them, namely, red flannel shirts. Their beards and hair had not
been trimmed since they left home. As they arrived at their quarters,
they flocked around Mr. Davenport and Clinton, as if a strange face was
a very unusual sight among them, as, indeed, it was. When they had all
returned from their work, Clinton counted twenty men and six yoke of
oxen.

Having washed their faces and hands, the men now commenced preparations
for supper, in both camps. It was fast growing dark, but they had no
lamps, the blazing fire lighting up their houses very brilliantly.
Kettles of water were boiled, and tea was made. Presently, one of the
men began to poke round in the ashes and coals, and soon drew forth a
large baking-kettle, which had been buried there two hours before. On
taking off the cover, a huge loaf of bread presented itself, which
even an accomplished housewife might have been proud to own, so far
as appearance was concerned. This, with a few slices of boiled salt
pork, and tea sweetened with molasses and without milk, constituted
their supper. They had no butter, but spread molasses on their bread,
instead. Clinton ate heartily of the homely fare. The bread proved
quite as nice as it looked, and even the tea tasted pleasantly to him.
Mr. Davenport emptied what remained of the contents of the baskets
which his wife had stowed away in the sleigh-box, saying that he would
exchange his cakes and pies for a little of their bread, when he
started for home. He and Clinton had consumed but a small part of their
provisions, and this disposal of the surplus appeared to gratify the
loggers very much, as they had not tasted of any luxuries of this kind
for many a day.

After supper, the men gathered around the fire, on the benches, and
talked, and told stories, until nearly ten o’clock, when one after
another began to creep away to his bed of leaves, and stretch himself
out, with his feet towards the fire. Clinton and his father soon
followed their example, and extended themselves upon the soft leaves,
without removing their clothing. The novelty of their position, the
crackling and glare of the fire, and the breathing and snoring of a
dozen strong men, did not permit either of them to sleep much during
the first part of the night. Clinton lay for more than two hours,
at times watching the stars through the opening in the roof, and
then gazing steadfastly at the flickering fire and the curling smoke
spangled with sparks. But at last he fell asleep, though he awoke
again, several times, before morning. Occasionally, one of the men,
who happened to awake, would get up and put a fresh log upon the fire,
which is kept burning by night as well as by day.

By sunrise, the next morning, the men in both camps had despatched
their breakfasts, and turned out the oxen, and were ready to commence
the day’s work. Mr. Davenport and Clinton determined to accompany them
to the scene of their operations, which was a short distance from
the camp, and spread over a considerable extent of ground. The men
did not all work together, but after proceeding a little way, they
separated into three different gangs. The choppers, or those who cut
down the trees, formed one party, and proceeded by themselves to
their particular spot. Another gang were called swampers. It was their
business to clear roads from the felled trees to the landing place on
the banks of the river, where the logs remain until the breaking up of
the ice in the spring, when they are rolled into the water. The third
party were teamsters, whose business it was to haul the logs from the
forest to the stream. These last had the assistance of the oxen, which
were attached to little “bobsleds,” as they were called, upon which the
heavy end of the log was placed, while the other dragged upon the snow.

Clinton had abundant time to witness the operations of all these
gangs, during the day. He found there was not much of either novelty
or variety, in their labors, which in fact differed but little from
the routine of the wood-chopper, which he had often witnessed at home.
The sturdy strokes of the choppers, followed by the falling of the
noble tree,—the stripping of the prostrate trunk of its branches,—the
clearing of a passage way for the oxen through the small growth, and
the hauling of the log to the river’s bank, were by no means novel
sights to him. At the landing-place he found hundreds of logs piled
up, awaiting the opening of the river. Each log had a peculiar and
uniform mark cut in the sap-wood, by an axe, somewhat resembling a
crow’s foot, by which the owner would be enabled to know it when it
should reach the great boom far away down the river, and become mixed
up with thousands of other logs, belonging to many different persons.
Each owner has his own private mark or device, which is bored or cut
into all his logs, and thus he is always able to distinguish them from
those of other lumber-men.

Clinton kept with the loggers all day, witnessing their operations,
and asking questions about their business. Indeed, he did not dare to
go far from them, for fear of getting lost in the woods. At sunset,
he returned with them from their labors, and after the homely evening
meal, he sat and listened to the stories of the loggers, until
bed-time. These stories were mostly of encounters with bears and
wolves in the wilderness, of hunting excursions, and of adventures and
exploits in the logging-camp and upon the river. One of the oldest
and most intelligent of the men related the following adventure, in
answering some inquiries of Clinton concerning the manner of driving
logs to mill:—

“Six years ago,” said he, “I was logging upon the head waters of the
Penobscot. “We cut eight thousand logs; and about the last of April we
started them downstream. It took two or three days to roll them all in,
and by that time, some of those we started first were perhaps more than
fifty miles down stream, while others had lodged within a hundred rods
of us. So we divided into three gangs, one to descend by boats, and the
others by land each side of the stream. Each man was provided with a
pole, having a stout hook in the end, and with these we pushed off the
logs, where ever we found they had lodged on the banks or rocks. The
first few days, we made pretty good progress, having little to do but
to roll in the logs, and set them afloat merrily down the river.”

“Did you camp at nights, as you do here?” inquired Clinton.

“Yes, we camped out, but we had nothing but little huts made of spruce
boughs, where we ate and slept;—as I was saying,—all went on pretty
easy at first, and some days we got over fifteen or twenty miles of
ground. But by-and-by we came to a jam. Do you know what a jam is?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, when the river gets choked up with logs which have met with
some obstruction, we call it a jam. Sometimes, a thousand logs will
accumulate in this way, forming a sort of dam across the river, and
interrupting the flow of the water. And, oftentimes, all this is
occasioned by a single log catching upon a projecting rock; and if that
single log could be started, the whole mass would go down stream with a
tremendous rush.”

“I should think that would be fine sport,” said Clinton.

“It’s all very fine to look at,” continued the logger; “but you
wouldn’t think there was much sport about it, if you had to go out upon
this immense raft, and loosen the logs, at the risk of being ground to
atoms by them when they start.”

“Are people ever killed in that way?” inquired Clinton.

“Not very often; for none but the most experienced drivers are allowed
to undertake such a delicate job; and they are always very cautious
how they proceed. But let me go on with my story: the jam I was telling
you about, happened to be in a rapid, rocky place, where the river
passed through a narrow gorge. On each side were steep cliffs, more
than sixty feet high, which almost hung over the water. The only way
to reach the jam was to descend by a rope from one of these cliffs.
This was so hazardous an undertaking, that we concluded to wait a
day or two, to see if the choked up mass wouldn’t clear itself, by
its own pressure, and thus save us all trouble and danger. But after
waiting nearly two days, there were no signs of the jam’s breaking.
We can generally tell when this is going to happen, by the swaying of
the logs; but the mass was as firm and compact as ever; and it was
evident that we must do something to start it. There was an old and
very expert driver in our gang, who offered to descend to the jam, and
see what could be done. So we rigged a sort of crane, and lowered him
down from the cliff by means of a rope fastened around his body, under
his arms. After he had looked around a little, he sung out to us that
he had discovered the cause of the trouble. A few strokes of the axe
in a certain place, he said, would start the jam; and he cautioned us
to pull him up, gently, as soon as he should cry, ‘Pull!’ and also to
be careful, and not jerk him against the precipice. He then began to
hew into the log which was the cause of the jam. After he had worked
a few minutes, the mass began to heave and sway, and he cried out,
‘Pull!’ As the spot where he had been chopping was near the centre of
the stream, he started instantly towards the cliff, so that his rope
should be perpendicular. But before he could put himself in the right
position for being drawn up, the huge mass of logs rose up in a body,
and then, with a crash, rolled away in every direction from under his
feet. The scene was awful. Some of the logs plunged headlong down the
rapids, with tremendous force; others leaped entirely out of the water,
turning complete somersets, end over end; others were hurled crosswise
upon each other, or dashed madly together by hundreds, or were twisted
and twirled about, in a most fearful manner. At the first movement of
the jam, our man was plunged into the water. For a moment, we were
horror-struck, but we pulled away at the rope, expecting to draw up
only a mangled and lifeless body. And we should have done so, had we
been half a second later; for we had just raised the man out of the
water, when a mass of seventy-foot logs swept by, directly under him,
with force enough to have broken every bone in his body, had he been
in their way. He suffered no harm but his ducking and fright. But I
don’t believe he will ever forget that day’s adventure. So, my boy, you
see it isn’t all sport, driving logs,—though some think this is the
pleasantest part of a logger’s life.”

“How do you stop the logs, when they have gone as far as you want them
to go?” inquired Clinton.

“They are stopped by great booms, built of logs, and bolted and chained
together very strong. These booms are rigged across the river, so that
the floating logs cannot pass them. The great boom at Old Town, near
Bangor, where our drive brought up, that year, had over a million of
logs in it, when we got down there, seven weeks after we started from
the forests. The logs lay upon one another about ten feet deep, and
extended back for miles. They belonged to hundreds of different men
and companies, but as each had its own mark, there was no difficulty
in sorting them out. The boom is opened at set times, to let out a
portion of the logs, and then the river below is all alive with men
and boys, in small boats, who grapple the logs as they float down, and
form them into rafts, or tow them to the various mills on the river.
Very few of the logs escape, unless too many are let out from the boom
at once, or the river is swollen by a freshet, in which case they
sometimes float off to sea and are lost. But all hands seem to be going
to bed, and I guess we had better follow their example.”

Upon this, the old logger stretched himself upon the bed of faded
leaves; and Clinton, who for some time had been his only listener, was
soon in the same position.




CHAPTER XVII.

A TALK IN THE WOODS.


Early the next morning, Mr. Davenport and Clinton decided to start
for home, as there were indications of an approaching change in the
weather, which might render the roads very uncomfortable, if it did
not compel them to prolong their stay at the loggers’ camp longer
than would be agreeable. After a breakfast of hot bread and molasses,
fried pork, and tea, Fanny was harnessed, and bidding farewell to
their forest friends, they jumped into the sleigh, and set their faces
towards Brookdale. As they were riding along the solitary road, Mr.
Davenport asked Clinton if he thought he should like to be a logger.

“I don’t know but I should,” he replied; “there are a good many things
about the business I should like. It makes them strong and healthy,
and I guess they have good times in the camps, and on the rivers. It
is quite a romantic life, too, and they seem to meet with a good many
curious adventures.”

“The novelty and romance of it soon wear off,” replied Mr. Davenport.
“These gone, do you think you should like the business well enough to
follow it up year after year?”

“Why, no, I suppose I should get tired of it, being away from home so
much of the time,” said Clinton.

“The work is very hard, too,” suggested his father.

“Yes, sir.”

“And the pay is not very great, in proportion.”

“Isn’t it?”

“It is, however, a very useful employment,” continued Mr. Davenport,
“and there must be men to engage in it. It is an honorable employment,
too, for all useful labor is honorable. But I should not call it a very
desirable employment. The logger not only has to labor very hard, but
he must go far away from his home, and deprive himself of nearly every
comfort of civilized life, and expose himself to many dangers. And for
all this hardship and toil, he does not receive so much pay as many a
mechanic earns in his shop, with half the effort.”

“Does not Mr. Preston make a great deal of money at logging?” inquired
Clinton.

“I suppose he makes a fair business of it,” replied his father; “but he
is a contractor, and employs a good many hands. I was speaking of the
hired men, not of those who manage the business.”

“Is Mr. Jones a contractor?”

“No, he works by the month, and hard work he finds it, too, I fear.”

“Then why does he follow it?”

“Because he is obliged to. He has a family to support, and this is the
only way by which he can provide for them. Should you like to know
how it happened that he cannot make money by an easier and pleasanter
method?”

“Yes, sir,” replied Clinton.

“When he and I were boys together,” continued Mr. Davenport, “his
father was rich, but mine was poor. When I was nine years old, I
was taken from school, and put out to work; but Henry Jones was not
only kept at school, for many years after, but was not required to
do any work, even in his leisure hours. He was well dressed, and had
everything he wanted, and I can remember to this day how I used to
envy him. I could not go to school even in winter, but had to work
constantly, and earn my own living. When I was about fourteen years
old, I engaged myself as an apprentice to a carpenter. I liked the
work, and soon made pretty good progress. As I had the long winter
evenings to myself, it occurred to me that I might make up for my
lack of school privileges, by an improvement of those leisure hours.
So I got some school books, and set myself to studying. Soon after
I reached my sixteenth year, I offered myself as a candidate for
schoolmaster in our town, and was accepted, for the winter term, my
master having agreed to release me for three months, as he usually
had little business during that portion of the year. And I, the poor
self-taught boy, was not only a school teacher, but Henry Jones, whose
privileges I had so often envied, was one of my scholars! A very dull
scholar he was, too, for he did not take the slightest interest in his
studies. Before I had finished my term, he left school, against the
wishes of his parents, having been fairly shamed out of it. He remained
about home several months, doing nothing, until his father secured
a situation for him in a merchant’s store in Portland; but when he
made his appearance in the counting-room, the merchant found him so
deficient in penmanship and arithmetic, that, after a week’s trial,
he sent Henry back to his father, with the message that he would not
answer. His failure discouraged him from attempting to do anything
more. Instead of remedying the defects in his education, he refused to
go to school any more, but spent his time principally in lounging about
his father’s place of business, and in sauntering around the town. He
was a perfect idler, and as his father continued to support and clothe
him, he took no more thought for the morrow, than the pigs in our sty
do, and I doubt whether he was half so valuable to the world as they
are.

“But this state of things could not last for ever. His father had
embarked very largely in the famous eastern land speculations, and
when the crash came, he found himself ruined. And yet even then, Henry
managed to hang upon him like a dead-weight for two or three years,
sponging his living out of his father’s shattered fortunes. But after
a while, his father died, and then Mr. Jones had to shift for himself.
But what was he fit for? It took him a great while to find out. He
tried several lighter kinds of employment, but did not succeed. At
length a man came along who was making up a gang of loggers, and
despairing of any better employment, he engaged in that, and has
continued at it ever since. He is with his family only four or five
months in the year, and during that time he works hard, at farming, not
for himself, but as a hired man.”

“I should think he would feel bad, when he thinks how he wasted his
youth,” said Clinton.

“He does,” said Mr. Davenport. “He is a worthy and industrious man
now, but he cannot repair the errors of his boyhood. Had he worked
half as hard when a youth as he has had to since, he would probably be
under no necessity of laboring now. But then his parents were rich and
indulgent, and he thought he should never be obliged to work. Whenever
we meet, he always says, ‘O dear, what a fool I have been! If my father
had only kicked me into the street when I was twelve years old, and
left me to shirk for myself, I might have been something now.’ And I
never see him, without thanking God that I was brought up to depend
upon myself, from my boyhood.”

Fanny had now come to a long and steep hill, and Mr. Davenport and
Clinton got out and walked up, to lighten her load. When they reached
the top, the prospect was very extensive, and they stopped a few
minutes, to enjoy the scene, and to rest the horse. While they were
gazing around, Clinton discovered something moving on a distant hill,
and cried out:—

“A deer! a deer! don’t you see it, father?—right over that great pine
that stands all alone, there.”

Mr. Davenport soon discovered the object pointed out by Clinton, and
said:—

“No, that can’t be a deer, Clinty,—it is too large. It is a moose, and
a noble great one, too. I should like to have a shot at him, but he is
too far off.”

“I didn’t know there were moose around in this part of the State,” said
Clinton. “One of the loggers told me they hadn’t seen one this winter.”

“They are pretty scarce now in this section of the country,” said his
father; “but now and then one is seen. That fellow has probably been
pursued, and has strayed away from his yard.”

The moose continued in sight for several minutes. Its gait was a swift,
regular trot, which no obstacle seemed to break. There was something
noble in its bearing, and Clinton stood watching and admiring it,
until it disappeared in the woods. He and his father then got into the
sleigh, and drove on.

“The moose is a handsomer animal than I supposed,” said Clinton. “That
one Mr. Preston brought home, two or three years ago, was a coarse,
clumsy-looking fellow.”

“They always look so, seen at rest, and close to,” replied Mr.
Davenport. “But when they are in motion, and at a distance, there is
something quite majestic about them. They travel very fast, and they
always go upon the trot. It makes no difference if they come to a fence
or other obstruction five or six feet high,—they go right over it,
without seeming to break their trot. I have been told that they will
travel twenty miles an hour, which is almost as fast as our railroad
trains average.”

“I have heard of their being harnessed into sleds—did you ever see it
done?”

“No, but they are sometimes trained in this way, and they make very
fleet teams. The reindeer, which are used to draw sleds in some parts
of Europe, are not so strong or so fleet as our moose.”

“It is curious that their great antlers should come off every year,”
said Clinton.

“Yes, and it is even more curious that such an enormous mass should
grow out again in three or four months’ time. This is about the time
of the year that their new antlers begin to sprout. I saw a pair,
once, that weighed seventy pounds, and expanded over five feet to the
outside of the tips. The moose must have a very strong neck, to carry
this burden about upon his head. When the antlers are growing, they
are quite soft and sensitive, and the moose is very careful not to
injure them. This is one reason, I suppose, why they frequent the lakes
and rivers in the summer and autumn, instead of roaming through the
forests. At these seasons of the year, the hunter has only to conceal
himself on the shore of some pond or lake, and he is pretty sure to
fall in with them. But the best time to hunt them is in the winter or
spring, when they are in their ‘yards,’ as they are called.”

“Did you ever see a moose-yard, father?”

“Yes, I saw one a good many years ago. A party of us went back into
the forests on a hunting excursion, one spring, and as near as I can
remember, it was in this very part of the country that we came across
the yard. That was before the loggers came this way, and frightened
away the moose. There were no roads, then, in this section, and we
travelled on foot, on snow shoes, with our guns in our hands, and our
provisions on our backs. Some hours before we discovered the yard,
we knew we were near one, by the trees which had been barked by them
in the fall. Having got upon the right track, we followed it up, as
silently as possible, until we came to the yard. But the moose had
heard or smelt us, and vacated their quarters before we reached them.
The yard we found to be an open space of several acres, with paths
running in every direction, all trodden hard; for the moose does not
break fresh snow, when he can help it. Nearly all the trees in the
vicinity were stripped of their bark, to the height of eight or ten
feet, and the young and tender twigs were clipped off as smoothly as
if it had been done by a knife. We could not tell how many moose had
yarded here, but from the size and appearance of their quarters, we
judged there must have been five or six. Sometimes they yard alone, but
generally a male, female and two fawns are found together. But we did
not stop many moments to examine their quarters. We soon found their
track from the yard, but we could not tell from this how many there
were, for they generally travel single file, the male going first, and
the others stepping exactly into his tracks. We kept up the pursuit
until night, without catching a sight of our game. We then built a camp
of hemlock boughs, made up a good fire in front of it, ate our supper,
and went to bed.

“We started again early the next morning, and had not gone much more
than half a mile, before we found the place where the moose had spent
the night. Some how or other, they can tell when their pursuers stop,
and if tired, they improve the opportunity to rest. Having gone a
little farther, the track divided into two, and our party concluded to
do the same. After several hours’ pursuit, the gang with which I went
came in sight of a moose. He was evidently pretty stiff, and we gained
on him fast, as the thick crust on the snow, while it aided us, was a
great inconvenience to him. Finding at last that he could not get away
from us, he suddenly turned about, and stood prepared to meet us. But
we had no disposition to form a very close acquaintance with him. One
blow with his fore feet, or one kick with his hind legs, would have
killed the first man that approached him. But he would not leave his
place to attack us, and so we had nothing to do but to lodge a bullet
or two in his head, which quickly decided the contest. We took his
hide, and as much of the meat as we could carry, and went back to meet
our companions, who, we found, had followed up their trail all day
without getting sight of any game. At night they gave up the chase, and
returned to the place at which they had separated from us. That was
my first and last moose hunt. On the whole, we were as successful as
most hunting parties are, for the moose is a very shy animal, and it is
difficult to approach within sight of it, without its taking alarm.”

Mr. Davenport had scarcely finished his moose story when Uncle Tim’s
clearing appeared in sight. As a storm seemed to be gathering, which
might last several days, he concluded to stop here only long enough
for dinner, and then to push his way homeward. Uncle Tim and his wife
and boys were glad to see him and Clinton, and they seemed quite
disappointed when they found their guests were not going to stop over
night. After an hour’s visit, the travellers resumed their journey, and
arrived home early in the evening, without any remarkable adventure.
The storm which Mr. Davenport anticipated, set in about dark, in the
form of rain and sleet, and continued for two or three days. This kept
Clinton in the house, much of the time, and gave him an opportunity to
relate to his mother and Annie the various incidents of his excursion,
which he did with great minuteness and fidelity.




CHAPTER XVIII.

WORK AND PLAY.


The days were now perceptibly longer, and the sun had begun to make
quite an impression on the huge snow-banks in which Brookdale had been
nearly buried up all winter. “Bare ground,” that looks so pleasant to
the boy in a northern climate, after a long winter, began to appear in
little brown patches, in particularly sunny and sheltered spots. The
ice upon the pond was still quite thick, but it was too soft and rough
for skating. The sled runners cut in so deeply, that there was little
fun in sliding down hill. Besides, skating and coasting had got to
be old stories, and the boys were heartily tired of all their winter
sports. The sleighing was about spoiled, the roads were sloppy, the
fields and meadows impassable, and the woods uncomfortable. In fact,
while all the outdoor amusements of winter were at an end, it was
too early for the various summer games and sports that supply their
places. This brief season, which usually attends the breaking up of
winter in northern latitudes, is generally the dullest of all the year
to boys in the country, unless they are so fortunate as to be able to
amuse themselves indoors, a part of the time at least.

Clinton’s favorite place of resort, at such seasons, was the shop in
the rear of the house. Here, surrounded with tools, and patterns, and
plans, and specimens of his own work, and perhaps absorbed by some
object upon which he was engaged, he was never at a loss for amusement.
A day or two after his return from the logging camp, he went to work
on the “settle,” which he had determined to make, in imitation of the
one he had seen at Uncle Tim’s. This was a job that would require some
little thinking and planning, as well as skill at handling tools,—for
his mother had promised to give it a place in the kitchen, if it was
well made,—and he felt anxious to do his best on this occasion. He
first sawed out from a plank the two end pieces, rounding off one
corner of each, in a sort of long scroll pattern. Having planed these
smooth, he next made the seat, which was also of stiff plank, and
fastened it firmly in its place. Nothing remained to be done but to
make the back, which was of boards, planed and matched, and screwed
into the end pieces. In the course of a week the settle was finished;
and it was not only neat and well-finished, but really substantial.
It looked as though it might do service full as long as Uncle Tim’s.
Clinton was quite satisfied with his success, and his mother was so
well pleased with the settle, that she not only decided to place it in
the kitchen, but promised to make a handsome cushion for it.

As Clinton was looking admiringly upon his piece of work, soon after
it was finished, and thinking whether he could improve it in any
respect, the conversation at Uncle Tim’s recurred to his mind, and a
happy thought suggested itself, by which he might associate his settle
with that interview, and thus have constantly before him a memorial of
his trip to the loggers. The next time he had occasion to go to the
store, he bought a small package of brass-headed tacks, and with these
he carried out his new design, which was to inscribe his initials “C.
D.” upon one end of the settle, and the motto, “I’LL TRY,” upon the
other. He had seen nails arranged in the form of letters upon trunks,
and he found no difficulty in making his inscriptions look very well.
He surrounded each of them by a single line of tacks, placed in the
form of an oval, which gave the whole quite a finished look. This
improvement elicited from his parents many additional compliments for
the new article of furniture.

[Illustration: The settle]

The snow was rapidly disappearing, and the sunny sides of the hills
were quite bare. The welcome song of the robin was heard around the
house, proclaiming the arrival of spring. The brook which flowed
through Mr. Davenport’s land was swelled to a miniature torrent, and
Clinton’s ducks,—whose water privileges had been restricted through
the winter to a small space kept clear of ice by an axe,—now sailed
about in all their glory. The frost soon left the ground,—for it
penetrates but slightly, when the earth is covered with snow all
winter,—the moisture rapidly dried up, and the fields were ready for
the plough. For a few weeks Clinton was employed, much of the time, in
the various labors of the farm. He usually drove the ploughing team,
but he sometimes turned the furrow, by way of change, while his father
guided the oxen. Then came harrowing, manuring, planting, setting out
trees, making beds in the kitchen-garden, and the various other farm
operations of spring, in all of which Clinton assisted his father. He
also attended to his own patch of ground, of which he had the sole care
every year. As they were at work in the kitchen-garden one day, Mr.
Davenport asked Clinton how he should like to take the whole charge of
it for the season.

“Why, I should think I might take care of it, just as well as you,
after it’s all planted,” replied Clinton.

“And should you be willing to assume all the trouble and
responsibility?” inquired his father.

“Yes, sir, I’ll take it and do the best I can,—only, I may want your
advice sometimes.”

“Well, Clinty,” resumed his father, “I’ll make you an offer, and you
may accept it or not, just as you please. After the garden is planted,
I will surrender it entirely into your hands, and you shall do the
best you can with it. You shall keep account of everything that is
raised in it, and at the end of the season we will calculate the value
of the various crops, and I will give you one-fourth of the whole sum,
as your share of the profits. For instance, if the vegetables you
raise come to twenty-five dollars, you shall have six dollars and a
quarter for your services. If, by your good management and the aid of a
favorable season, you raise forty dollars’ worth, you will receive ten
dollars,—and so on in proportion.”

“I’ll do it, I’ll do it,”—said Clinton, eagerly.

“Wait a moment,” continued Mr. Davenport,—“there are one or two
conditions that must be plainly understood, before we close the
bargain; one is, that you are not to neglect _my_ work, for the sake
of your own. I shall call on you, when I want your assistance in the
field, just as I did last year, and you mustn’t think that what you do
in your garden is to exempt you from all further labor. And you must
understand, too, that if I find you are neglecting the garden at any
time, I shall take it back into my own hands, and you will receive
nothing for your labor. Do you agree to this?”

“Yes, sir; but you’ll allow me time enough to take care of the garden,
wont you?”

“Certainly, you shall have time enough for that, besides some hours
every day, to devote to study and play.”

“Well,” said Clinton, “I’ll agree to all that, and if the garden
doesn’t do well, it shan’t be my fault.”

In a few days the garden was all planted. It was nearly an acre in
extent, and was thickly sowed with vegetables, such as peas, beans,
lettuce, radishes, turnips, cabbages, onions, early potatoes, sweet
corn, cucumbers, squashes, melons, etc. Having done all that he was
to do with it, Mr. Davenport now surrendered it into the keeping of
Clinton. For a few weeks the garden required little care; but by-and-by
the weeds began to spring up, and the various insect tribes commenced
their operations among the tender plants. Clinton now found plenty to
do. He was wise enough, however, not let his work get behind hand; for
had he suffered the bugs and weeds to get a few days’ start of him,
I doubt whether he would have overtaken them. This was one secret of
his success; another was, his perseverance,—for he generally carried
through whatever he undertook, simply because he was determined to do
so. Mr. Davenport was very well satisfied with the way he managed the
garden; and to encourage him, he was careful not to call him away to
other parts of the farm any more than was necessary.

Clinton generally rode over to the post-office, at the Cross-Roads,
every Saturday afternoon, to get the weekly newspapers to which his
father was a subscriber. One pleasant afternoon, in May, he drove over
as usual, and as the mail had not arrived, he hitched Fanny to a post,
and went away, a short distance, to where a group of small boys of his
acquaintance were collected. They were earnestly and loudly discussing
some point, and when they saw Clinton, one of them said:—

“There’s Clinton Davenport coming, let’s leave it to him.”

“Yes,” cried one and another,—and the proposition appeared to be
unanimously accepted.

“Well, what is the trouble?” inquired Clinton.

Half a dozen different voices began to answer at once, when Clinton cut
them all short, and told Frank, one of the oldest boys, to explain the
difficulty.

“Why,” said Frank, “you know when we play ‘I spy,’ we tell off the
boy, that’s to lead in the game, in this way:—

    ‘One-ary, youery, ickery C,
     Hackaback, crackaback, titobolee,
     Hon-pon, muscadon,
     Twiddledum, twaddledum, twenty-one.’”

“‘Tweedledum, twaddledum!’ you goose!” exclaimed one of the boys; “who
ever heard such lingo as that? This is the right way, isn’t it, Clinton?

    ‘One-ary, youery, ickery, Ann,
     Phillacy, follacy, ticular John;
     Queeby, quaby, Irish Mary,
     Stinklam, stanklam, buck.’

There, now, isn’t that right?”

“That’s the way we have it here,” replied Clinton,—“but I suppose they
say it different where Frank came from. When Oscar Preston was here, he
used to rattle it off different from both of these; I believe this is
the way he said he learned it:—

    ‘One-ary, youery, ickery and,
     Phillacy, follacy, Nicholas Jones;
     Queeby, quaby, Irish Mary,
     Huldee, guldee, loo.’”

“Ho! I never heard of that way before,” said one of the boys; “I guess
that’s the latest Boston edition.”

“If you can’t agree on any of these,” said Clinton, “I’ll tell you what
you can do,—you can ‘tell off’ with:—

    ‘One-zall, zu-zall, zicker-all zan,
     Bobtail, vinegar, titter-all, tan,
     Harum, scarum, back-out.’

Or, if that doesn’t suit, then take:—

    ‘Eeny, meeny, mony mite;
     Peskalana, bona, strike;
          Parago, walk.’”

“Pooh!” said Frank; “that aint right, nor anywhere near it. This is the
way I learned that one:—

    ‘Eeny, meeny, mony, my;
     Pistolanee, bony, sly;
          Argy, dargy, walk.’”

The other boys all objected to this version of the saying, but Frank
insisted that if it was not the right one, it was certainly the best.

“I wonder who first made up all these poetries,” said one of the
smaller boys.

“‘These poetries!’ what grammar do you study, Ned?” said Frank, with a
laugh.

“Well, you know what I mean,” replied Ned; “I knew ’t wasn’t right,—I
only said it just in fun.”

“I don’t know when these rhymes were made,” said Clinton, “but my
father says they used to have them when he was young, and I suppose the
boys have always had something of the kind. Shouldn’t you like to see
all the different kinds printed in a book, Ned?”

“I guess I should,” replied Ned; “what a funny book it would make!”

The mail-stage had now arrived, and Clinton went over to the
post-office. In addition to the usual newspapers, the post-master
handed him two letters. One of them was for Mrs. Preston, for Clinton
often took her letters and papers from the post-office, and delivered
them on his way home. The other letter was addressed to himself. It
was stamped at Boston, and was in the hand-writing of his uncle. The
letter for Mrs. Preston had two or three different post-marks upon it,
and was somewhat dingy, as though it had travelled a great distance.
This, together with the fact that the address was written in a cramped
and awkward hand, led Clinton to suspect, or at least hope, it was from
Jerry. He hurried back as fast as possible, and when he reached Mrs.
Preston’s, his curiosity was so much excited that he determined to stop
and hear who the letter was from. He watched Mrs. Preston as she first
glanced at the address, and then hastily broke the seal, and before
she had read half its contents, he felt so certain that he had guessed
right, that he inquired:—

“Isn’t it from Jerry, Mrs. Preston?”

But Mrs. Preston was too eagerly engaged, to heed his question, and she
continued reading until she had finished the letter, when she replied:—

“Yes, it is from Jerry, and I’m very much obliged to you for bringing
it. Poor boy! he’s having a hard time of it, but it’s a great
satisfaction to know where he is.”

“Where is he?” inquired Clinton, whose curiosity was now thoroughly
awakened.

“You may read the letter, if you wish,” said Mrs. Preston, handing it
to Clinton. “Read it aloud, if you please, so that Emily and Harriet
may hear.”

Clinton complied with her request. Correcting the grammar, spelling,
and punctuation, the letter read as follows:—

  “RIO JANEIRO, MARCH 30.

  “DEAR MOTHER,

 I write these few lines to let you know I am alive and well, and
 I hope this will find you so. You will see from the date I am a
 good ways from home. I came here in the brig Susan, which sailed
 from Boston in February. We have had a very rough time. Last week
 we encountered a terrible gale, and I thought it was a gone case
 with us. We had to put in here to repair damages, and as there is a
 chance to send letters home I thought I would write. We are bound for
 Valparaiso, and have got to go round Cape Horn. It is a long voyage,
 and I guess I shall go to California before I come home. I don’t like
 going to sea so well as I expected, and I don’t mean to go another
 voyage. It’s a hard life, I can tell you. I am sorry I took that
 money, but I had to have some. I didn’t spend but little of it, but
 somebody has stolen the rest—some of the sailors, I suppose, but
 I don’t know who. I mean to pay you back again, out of my wages. I
 suppose father hasn’t got through logging yet. I should like to see
 you all, but I must wait a spell. Tell Mary I am going to fetch her
 home a pretty present, and I shall bring something for the others,
 too. I can’t see to write any longer, so good-bye to you all.

  JEREMIAH PRESTON.”

“Mother,” said Harriet, as soon as Clinton had finished reading the
letter, “what does Jerry mean about taking money?”

“Don’t ask me any questions now,” replied Mrs. Preston, in a tone that
cut off all further inquiries. Jerry’s theft had been a secret in her
own breast, until now; but as he had alluded to it in his letter, and
as his letter must be read by all the family, she knew it could no
longer be concealed. Still, she was provoked that Harriet should be so
thoughtless as to allude to the subject in the presence of Clinton.

“Emily,” continued Mrs. Preston, “you run and get your atlas, and let
Clinton show us where Jerry is, before he goes.”

The atlas was soon produced, and Clinton, turning to the map of South
America, pointed out to the family the location of Rio Janeiro, in
Brazil, on the Atlantic coast, and Valparaiso, the chief sea-port of
Chili, on the Pacific side of the continent. Then, remembering his own
unopened letter, he bade them good-night, and started for home.




CHAPTER XIX.

BITTER FRUITS.


“Mother, I’ve got lots of news,” said Clinton, as he entered the house;
“Mrs. Preston’s had a letter from Jerry, and I’ve got one from Uncle
Clinton. Jerry’s gone to sea, and wrote home from Rio Janeiro. He came
near being shipwrecked, and he says he’s got enough of going to sea.
He’s got to go clear round Cape Horn, though, to Valparaiso, before he
can come home.”

“And what does your Uncle Clinton write?”

“O, I haven’t read that yet, but I’m going to now,” said Clinton; and
he sat down and opened his letter. “See what a long one it is,” he
added, holding it open; “I wonder what it can all be about.” It was as
follows:—

  “BOSTON, MAY 12, 185-.

  “MY DEAR NEPHEW AND NAMESAKE,

 It’s a long while since you have had a letter from me, and I suppose
 you will wonder what is going to happen when you see this; but don’t
 be frightened—there’s nothing alarming in the wind. We all felt
 very sorry, when your father wrote us that your anticipated visit
 to Boston this spring must be postponed. Willie, in particular, was
 sadly disappointed. He had set his heart on having a nice time with
 you—piloting you around the city, showing you the ‘elephants,’ and
 making himself generally useful and agreeable. And will you believe
 it, the silly fellow actually ‘boo-hooed right out’ when your father’s
 letter came, and put a wet blanket on his anticipations. Well, never
 mind, you’ll come this summer or fall, wont you? I’ve promised Willie
 you shall, and as I always keep my promises, you see there is no
 backing out of that. Tell your father that he _must_ let you come, as
 soon as he can spare you; and if he doesn’t, I shall send a writ after
 you.

 “I have a case on the docket, as we lawyers say, that I guess will
 interest you a little. Willie insists upon my writing a history of it
 for your benefit; and as he is full four feet high, now, and keeps
 a terrible great dog, I suppose I must comply with his wishes. The
 parties in this case are, on the one side, our venerable and dignified
 Commonwealth, and on the other, that young harum-scarum crony of
 yours, (if you will own him as such), Oscar Preston. You knew, I
 suppose, that Oscar went to sea after he left Brookdale so suddenly,
 last fall. He got back again in the winter, perfectly cured of his
 life-on-the-ocean-wave fever, and has done nothing but loaf about and
 cut up shines ever since. He wouldn’t go to school, and he wouldn’t go
 to work, and he wouldn’t do anything that his father wished him to do.

 “But his bad habits were not all negative ones, I can assure you; for
 a few weeks ago it happened to be discovered, some how or other, that
 he and two or three other boys had formed a band of thieves, and had
 stolen several articles from different persons and houses. The affair
 went before the Grand Jury, and one of the young scamps confessed the
 whole story. So an officer arrested Oscar, and carried him to jail;
 and his father, on learning the facts in the case, was so enraged that
 he would not bail him out. He came to me, however, to see what could
 be done for Oscar, and engaged me to act as his counsel. I inquired
 into all the facts, and when I found how conclusive the evidence was
 against him, I told his father the best thing Oscar could do would
 be to plead guilty, and trust to the mercy of the judge, who, I had
 little doubt, would take into consideration his youth, and sentence
 him to the Reform School. His father objected to this at first, but at
 last he was convinced that this would be the best course. So we both
 went over to the jail, in Cambridge Street, last week, to talk with
 Oscar about it.

 “We found him in a little cell, about twelve feet by eight, engaged
 in reading a newspaper, which some one had distributed among the
 prisoners. He did not appear very glad to see his father, and spoke
 in a surly manner to him. I really pitied the poor man, for he felt
 so badly that he could hardly keep from crying, when he saw the
 situation of his son. Oscar did not know me, I suppose. I believe I
 never saw him before, although I had often heard Willie speak of him.
 Mr. Preston told him that I was a lawyer whom he had engaged to manage
 his case, and he then proceeded to tell him the conclusion we had
 arrived at. ‘I shan’t do it,’ he instantly replied; ‘I aint guilty,
 and I wont say I am.’ ‘But,’ said I, ‘this is very foolish in you, for
 here are the clearest proofs of your guilt, and you can’t rub them
 out.’ ‘I don’t care,’ he said, ‘I wont cave in now, any how. I mean
 to stick it out to the last.’ I then told him we were afraid he would
 be sentenced to the House of Correction, whereas, if he confessed
 his guilt, we could probably get the judge to send him to the Reform
 School. ‘I don’t want to go to the Reform School,’ he replied; ‘of the
 two, I’d rather go to the House of Correction. That would be all over
 with, in two or three months; but if I’m sent to the Reform School,
 I shall have to stay three or four years, and I wont do it—I’ll run
 away first.’ So he continued to talk, and we continued to reason with
 him, but all in vain; and finally we left him, in no pleasant mood.
 This forenoon, I called on him again, thinking he might have altered
 his mind, by this time; but he was as obstinate as ever, and so I must
 defend him to the best of my ability, when the trial comes on, next
 month. Poor boy! I’m afraid he will find the way of the transgressor
 is hard, before he is many months older. He appears to be pretty
 intelligent, and does not look like a bad boy, but he seems bent on
 his vicious courses. I tried to appeal to his feelings, to-day, but
 could not produce any effect upon him. I’ll try to let you know how
 his case turns out, when it comes to trial.

 “Your Aunt Lizzy sends her love to you and to your father, and mother,
 and dear little Annie. Willie says, ‘Tell Clinton I’m going down to
 see him this summer’—but as this is the first _I_ have heard of it, I
 guess it will pass only for a rumor. Sissy sends ’a bushel of love,’
 and Bouncer, Willie’s big bouncing dog that I mentioned before, sends
 a wag of his tail. Here it is:—

 [Illustration: Bouncer’s tail]

 There, now, I forgot to put in the wag—but no matter, you can imagine
 that. Well, I’ve got to the end of my sheet, and have only room to
 subscribe myself,

  Your affectionate
  UNCLE CLINTON.”

After running over the letter, Clinton read it aloud to his father
and mother. The intelligence it gave concerning Oscar, did not much
surprise any of them, though they felt sorry for him and his parents.

“I have seldom known a bad beginning to make a good ending,” remarked
Mr. Davenport. “Oscar seems to have made a very poor start in life,
and I’m afraid he will not turn out any too well. It’s too bad, for I
always thought he was a bright, capable sort of a boy, if he would only
keep out of mischief. But I suspect his parents never had much control
over him, and if that’s the case, they are as much to be blamed as
pitied.”

After conversing a while longer on Oscar’s case, Mr. Davenport told
Clinton he had better not mention the subject out of the family, as it
might reach the ears of Jerry’s mother, and make her feel unpleasantly.
He also told Clinton he had concluded to let him go to Boston in
October, and that he might write to either his Uncle Clinton or to
his Cousin Willie, and inform them of the fact. He also directed him
to invite Willie to come and spend his summer vacation with him, and
to extend the same invitation to the rest of the family. Clinton
accordingly wrote, a few days after, directing the letter to his uncle,
whose long epistle, he thought, was entitled to an answer.

Clinton continued his daily labors in the garden, which now began to
give tokens of a fair harvest. He set apart a portion of each day to
this business, and was always to be found engaged at his work, when
the set hour arrived. While weeding the beds, and hoeing the corn and
potatoes, and training the pea and bean vines, his thoughts often
wandered far away,—sometimes to Jerry, now probably near the end of
his voyage; and sometimes to the little stone cell in which Oscar was
awaiting his trial.

June came, and as this was the month in which Oscar’s case was to be
decided, Clinton began to look rather impatiently for a letter. He
went to the post-office two or three times a week, but still no letter
made its appearance. At length, however, his frequent visits were
rewarded by the reception of a newspaper, directed to himself, in the
well-known hand of his uncle. Tearing off the wrapper, and opening the
paper,—for he could not wait till he got home,—a heavy black mark,
drawn with a pen around a particular item, at once met his eye. The
article was headed, “_Municipal Court_;” and after brief notices of
several trials, sentences, etc., came the marked paragraph, which was
as follows:—

“Oscar Preston, a minor, tried on two indictments for larceny. Verdict
guilty, and sentenced to the State Reform School during his minority.”

This was all, and it told the whole story. Clinton was disappointed
that the information was not conveyed by letter, which would have given
him more particulars; but he concluded his uncle was too busy to write,
and he felt glad he had not entirely forgotten him, in the hurry of
business. He hastened home, and showed the short, sad record to his
parents.

“Well,” said Mr. Davenport, on reading it, “that is the best place for
him. They may make something of him yet.”

“What sort of a place is the Reform School?” inquired Clinton; “is it
anything like a jail, or house of correction?”

“Not much, I suppose,” replied his father; “boys are sent there to be
reformed and instructed, rather than punished. I have never visited an
institution of this kind, myself, but I read quite a full description
of the one in Massachusetts, not long ago, and perhaps I can find the
paper that contained it. I will look over the files, some day when I
have leisure.”

One rainy afternoon, not long after this, Mr. Davenport overhauled
the papers referred to, and succeeded in finding the description of
the Massachusetts Reform School. He gave it to Clinton, who was much
interested in it. The following is the substance of the description:—

[Illustration: THE STATE REFORM SCHOOL, WESTBORO’.]

This institution is located in Westboro’, thirty-two miles from Boston,
and is designed to accommodate five or six hundred boys. Any boy under
sixteen years of age, who has been convicted of an offence, punishable
by imprisonment, can be sentenced to the Reform School instead of the
prison, unless his crime is a very aggravated one, such as the laws
require to be punished by imprisonment for life. When a boy arrives
at the School, he is first placed in the hands of the steward, who
strips, washes, and dresses him in a suit of good clothes; he is then
assigned to the field or workshop, and is not allowed to converse with
his companions for two or three days, or until the superintendent
understands his character and disposition. The boys are divided into
four principal classes. The new comers enter the first class, and by
dint of good conduct work their way up. Beyond the fourth is a still
higher class, reached only by a few, and known as the class of “_Truth
and Honor_.” To become a member of this class, a boy must pass a
certain number of weeks without a demerit mark,—for a daily account
of the merits and demerits of each boy is kept, and at the end of
the week he is promoted or degraded, according to his deserts. It is
so difficult to get into the class of “Truth and Honor,” that there
are seldom more than eight or ten members. They enjoy extraordinary
privileges,—are invited to the parlor of the superintendent,—have extra
hours to play and read, and receive numerous special favors, greatly
prized by them, and desired by others.

The daily order of business is as follows: The boys rise at five
o’clock in summer, make their beds, march to the general wash-room,
where they bathe their hands and face; attend prayers at a quarter
before six; from six to seven for breakfast and play; work from seven
to ten, A. M., and from three to six, P. M.; study from ten A. M., to
three P. M., in two sessions of two hours each, with an hour for dinner
and play, at noon; from six to seven, P. M., for supper and play;
from seven to eight for the hearing and examination of all reports
respecting the good or bad conduct of the boys, and the settlement of
cases needing discipline which have occurred during the day. On Sunday
they have a Sabbath-school, and religious worship in their chapel.

Many of the boys are employed in making shoes. They not only make and
mend all their own shoes, but manufacture for dealers, who contract for
their labor. About eighty boys are employed in the tailor’s shop, where
all the clothing, bedding, etc., used in the institution, are made and
repaired. In the shops, no noise or confusion is allowed during working
hours. The boys are arranged in divisions, to each of which there is a
monitor, who has a slate on his bench, with the names of the boys, in
his division, written upon it, and when one of them commits a fault,
the disciplinarian gives notice of the fact to the monitor,—who makes a
demerit mark opposite to the delinquent’s name.

A portion of the boys are employed upon the farm, which embraces nearly
three hundred acres. Then, there is the laundry, in which some twenty
boys do the washing and ironing, under the direction of a matron; and
the kitchen, in which several boys do the cooking and baking, etc.

Boys, committed to the Reform School, are kept till they are reformed
and discharged, or bound out as apprentices to mechanics and farmers,
or sent to prison if they are found to be incorrigible. They cannot be
committed to the institution for less than one year, or for a longer
term than during their minority.

“Well,” said Mr. Davenport, after Clinton had finished reading the
account, “now you can imagine in what sort of a place Oscar is living,
and what he is about,—for I suppose he has been sent to the Reform
School before this.”

“Yes, sir,” replied Clinton, “and I guess it will come rather hard to
him, at first, to go to work, don’t you?”

“No doubt it will,—but I suppose, if he can be made to form habits of
industry and obedience, it will be comparatively easy to save him, even
now.”

“I hope he will get into the class of ‘Truth and Honor,’” added Clinton.

“Ah,” said his father, “what a pity it is that boys ever get _out_ of
that class! It is much easier to stay in it, than it is to get back
again after a person has been once expelled from it. When you think of
Oscar’s unhappy career, Clinton, I want you to remember what it was
that led to it; and, beware, how you swerve a single hair from the line
of TRUTH AND HONOR.”

Perhaps Mr. Davenport was thinking of Clinton’s entanglement in Jerry’s
artful snares, the previous winter, when he uttered this warning; but
he never directly alluded to that affair, since his son had given such
unequivocal evidence of sorrow for his offence. Clinton, indeed, had
already more than made up, by his exemplary conduct, what he lost in
the good opinion of his parents by his unhappy connection with Jerry.
He had the wisdom to profit by his experience, and the lesson which he
learned from his temptation and fall, he will probably never forget.
For the present, however, we must bid him good-by. Should the readers
of this volume wish to know something further of his history, it is
possible that I may be able to gratify their curiosity, some time or
other.




VALUABLE WORKS FOR THE YOUNG.


 YOUNG AMERICANS ABROAD; or, Vacation in Europe: the Results of a
 Tour through Great Britain, France, Holland, Belgium, Germany, and
 Switzerland. By JOHN OVERTON CHOULES, D. D., and his PUPILS. With
 Elegant Illustrations. 16mo, cloth, 75 cts.

A highly entertaining work, embracing more real information, such as
every one wishes to know about Europe, than any other book of travels
ever published.

Three intelligent lads, who knew how to use their eyes, accompanied
their tutor on a European tour; and, from a carefully-kept journal,
they wrote out, in a series of letters to a favorite companion in
study, at home, their impressions of the most remarkable places _en
route_. The pencillings are genuine and unaffected, and in all respects
form an interesting and instructive record of travel.—_Sartain’s
Magazine._

One of the most instructive and delightful books of the age.—_Southern
Lit. Gaz._

Boys, here is a book that will suit you exactly. It is a series of
letters from certain boys travelling in Europe to their classmates in
this country. It will improve your knowledge and amuse you during long
winter nights.—_Methodist Prot._

It is worth much more than many a larger and more pretentious volume,
for giving a daguerreotype of things abroad.—_Congregationalist._

A beautiful book for young people, unlike any thing we have ever
seen.—_Ch. Ob._

Most interesting book that can be put into the hands of the
young.—_Olive Branch._

The best book of foreign travel for youth to be found in the whole
range of American literature.—_Buffalo Morning Express._


 THE ISLAND HOME; or, the Young Castaways. By CHRISTOPHER ROMAUNT, ESQ.
 With Elegant Illustrations. 75 cts.

The best and prettiest book for boys that we have lately seen.—_Boston
Post._

A stirring and unique work. It will interest the _juvenile men_
vastly.—_Olive Br._

Delightful narrative of the adventures of six boys who put to sea in an
open boat, and were drifted to a desert island, where they lived in the
manner of Robinson Crusoe.—_N. Y. Com._

A book of great interest, and one which will be a treat to any
boy.—_Home Circle._

The young will pore over its pages with almost enchanted
interest.—_Transcript._

A modern Robinson Crusoe story, without the dreary solitude of that
famous hero. It will amuse and instruct the young in no ordinary
degree.—_Southern Lit. Gazette._

A story that bids fair to rival the far-famed Robinson Crusoe. We
become as much interested in the Max, Johnny, Arthur, and the rest
of the goodly company, as in the Swiss Family Robinson.—_Sartain’s
Magazine._


 THE AMERICAN STATESMAN; or, Illustrations of the Life and Character
 of DANIEL WEBSTER, for the Entertainment and Instruction of American
 Youth. By the REV. JOSEPH BANVARD, author of “Plymouth and the
 Pilgrims,” “Novelties of the New World,” “Romance of American
 History,” etc. With elegant Illustrations. 75c.

☞ A work of great interest, presenting a sketch of the most striking
and important events which occurred in the history of the distinguished
statesman, Daniel Webster, avoiding entirely all points of a
_political_ character; holding up to view, for the admiration and
emulation of American youth, only his commendable traits of character.
It is just such a work as every American patriot would wish his
children to read and reflect upon.




VALUABLE WORKS FOR THE YOUNG.

BY REV. HARVEY NEWCOMB.


 HOW TO BE A MAN; a Book for Boys, containing Useful Hints on the
 Formation of Character. Cloth, gilt, 50 cts.

“My design in writing has been to contribute something towards forming
the character of those who are to be our future electors, legislators,
governors, judges, ministers, lawyers, and physicians,—after the
best model. It is intended for boys—or, if you please, for _young_
gentlemen, in early youth.”—_Preface._

“How to be a Man” is an inimitable little volume. We desire that it be
widely circulated. It should be put into the hands of every youth in
the land.—_Tenn. Bap._


 HOW TO BE A LADY; a Book for Girls, containing Useful Hints on the
 Formation of Character. Cloth, gilt, 50 cts.

“Having daughters of his own, and having been many years employed
in writing for the young, he hopes to offer some good advice, in an
entertaining way, for girls or misses, between the ages of eight and
fifteen. His object is, to assist them in forming their characters
upon the best model; that they may become well-bred, intelligent,
refined, and good; and then they will be real _ladies_, in the highest
sense.”—_Preface._

Parents will consult the interests of their daughters, for time and
eternity, in making them acquainted with this attractive and most
useful volume.—_N. Y. Evangelist._


_The following Notices apply to both the above Volumes._

It would be better for the next generation if every youth would “read,
learn, and inwardly digest” the contents of these volumes.—_N. Y.
Commercial._

These volumes contain much matter which is truly valuable.—_Mer.
Journal._

They contain wise and important counsels and cautions, adapted to the
young, and made entertaining by the interesting style and illustrations
of the author. They are fine mirrors, in which are reflected the
prominent lineaments of the _Christian young gentleman and young lady_.
Elegant presents for the young.—_American Pulpit._

Newcomb’s books are excellent. We are pleased to commend them.—_N. Y.
Obs._

They are books well calculated to do good.—_Phil. Ch. Chronicle._

Common-sense, practical hints on the formation of character and habits,
and are adapted to the improvement of youth.—_Mothers’ Journal._


 ANECDOTES FOR BOYS; Entertaining Anecdotes and Narratives,
 illustrative of Principles and Character. 18mo, gilt, 42 cts.

 ANECDOTES FOR GIRLS; Entertaining Anecdotes and Narratives,
 illustrative of Principles and Character. 18mo, gilt, 42 cts.

Interesting and instructive, without being fictitious. The anecdotes
are many, short, and spirited, with a moral drawn from each, adapted to
every age, condition, and duty of life. We commend them to families and
schools.—_Albany Spectator._

Works of great value, for a truth or principle is sooner instilled into
the youthful heart by an anecdote, than in any other way. They are well
selected.—_Ev’g Gaz._

Nothing has a greater interest for a youthful mind than a well-told
story, and no medium of conveying moral instructions so attractive or
so successful. The influence is far more powerful when the child is
assured that they are _true_. We cannot too strongly recommended them
to parents.—_Western Continent, Baltimore._




NATIONAL SERIES OF AMERICAN HISTORIES.

BY REV. JOSEPH BANVARD.

☞ _The attention of the public is invited to the following notices of_
BANVARD’S HISTORIES. _They contain a vast fund of just that kind of
information, presented in a style possessing all the attractiveness and
charm of romance, which every American, whether old or young, should
possess._


PLYMOUTH AND THE PILGRIMS;

 Or, Incidents of Adventures in the History of the First Settlers. With
 Illustrations. 16mo, cloth, 60 cts.

MR. BANVARD has wrought a good work in collecting, arranging, and
presenting in so graphic and agreeable a manner the leading incidents
of an event which will ever wake to quicken while the “Pilgrim Rock”
tells its story, or a drop of pilgrim blood warms the veins of a
descendant—_Bangor Mercury._

The book, when once taken up, will not be laid down until
finished.—_Boston Cour._

An interesting volume. The incidents are well chosen, and are described
in that direct, simple, and sprightly manner, for which Mr. Banvard is
so justly esteemed, and which eminently qualifies him to be a writer
for the young.—_Am. Traveller._

It is written in a terse and vigorous style, and is well adapted
for popular reading, and particularly to entertain and instruct the
youthful mind.—_Mercantile Journal._

Every New Englander should own this book.—_Scientific American._

This is a beautifully executed and extremely interesting volume. It is
written in a plain, but vigorous style, particularly adapted to the
young, though it may be read with interest by the older ones.—_Ch.
Freeman._

Highly attractive in style and instructive in matter, and well
calculated to engage the attention of young persons.—_N. Y. Com. Adv._

MR. BANVARD has here produced a work that will be read with pleasure
and instruction by every one. The style is clear and forcible, and
his manner of weaving incidents and character, and giving position to
historical events, felicitous.—_Bee._

This book we predict will be, ere long, at the fire-side of every
descendant of the Pilgrims in New England.—_Commonwealth._

It is written in a pleasing style, abounding in incident, anecdote,
and fact. The author has shelled the grain from the dry husks, and so
spread a feast better adapted to the tastes and requirements of the
young.—_Rambler._

This book will be read with peculiar interest by all who would learn
the causes which gave to our country its peculiar religious and
political character.—_Cabinet._

There is no work on American history of the same size which affords an
equal amount of information.—_Carpet Bag._

It reminds us much of that admirable historical series for the young,
Sir Walter Scott’s Tales of a Grandfather.—_Ch. Register._

Treated with the talent and skill for which Mr. Banvard has become
noted, as a descriptive and popular writer.—_Watchman and Reflector._

Few works will have a greater run, especially with youth. Many
thrilling facts are either brought to light for the first time
from musty records, or from tomes inaccessible to the public
generally.—_Journal and Messenger._

It is full of interest, abounding with vivid illustrations of fearless
courage, enduring fortitude, ingenious strategy, and romantic
adventure. It will find its way into every family.—_Willis’s Home
Journal._


NOVELTIES OF THE NEW WORLD;

 AN ACCOUNT OF THE ADVENTURES AND DISCOVERIES of the First Explorers
 of North America. By REV. JOSEPH BANVARD, author of “Plymouth and
 the Pilgrims,” etc. Being the second volume of BANVARD’S SERIES OF
 AMERICAN HISTORIES. With numerous Illustrations. 16mo, cloth, 60 cts.

If MR. BANVARD completes the series as he has begun, he will supply an
important desideratum for the young—a series of books which will serve
as valuable introductions and enticements to more extended historical
reading. The plan of the author is to seize on the prominent and
interesting points in the history of our country, and present them in a
continuous and sprightly narrative.—_Am. Traveller._

We have seen the boys bend over these pages, unwilling to leave them,
either for play or sleep; and when finished, inquiring anxiously when
the next would come.—_Watchman and Reflector._

It has all the interest of a romance.—_Portland Transcript._

Written in a felicitous style, which is neither too childish for
adults, nor yet too difficult of comprehension for children, they will
delight and instruct.—_Journal._

Some of the most interesting scenes and events in the New World are
here brought together and invested with a charm that is irresistible by
old or young.—_Ch. Intel._

The subject is handled in a masterly manner.—_Olive Branch._

This is a lively and entertaining history of some of the most romantic
and important events in the early times of European explorations of
America.—_Commonwealth._

MR. BANVARD has much of that talent, so rare and valuable, which
enables its possessor to interest and instruct the young. We are glad
to see the romantic stories of our colonial times disinterred and
reproduced from the ponderous volumes in which they have been buried,
and brought forward in a form adapted to the taste and capacity of the
youthful reader.—N. Y. RECORDER.

It contains strange adventures filled with romance. The volume has also
some fourteen good illustrations.—_Express._

The extraordinary hardships and thrilling incidents connected with
the history of the early explorers, together with the charm which Mr.
Banvard has thrown around it by his popular style of writing, renders
it exceedingly interesting.—_Ch. Sec._

A very pleasant, instructive, and interesting book is this. The
historical incidents, sketches of character, national customs, and
amusing anecdotes told in it, give it a charm which even the grave
scholar will acknowledge and approve.—_Patriot._

The style is very agreeable, and his selection of the most remarkable
incidents very happy and judicious, and well calculated to improve the
mind.—_Sci. American._

Much that is fresh for the reader, imparted with tact and spirit.—_Home
Journal._

How “novel” was the “New World” when examined by the first explorers,
and Mr. Banvard has gone over the ground in so charming a manner that
he seems to have brought the scenes down to our own experience. _Every
page is absorbingly interesting._—_East Boston Gazette._

The book only needs to be known to command readers.—_Watchman of
Prairies._

The popularity of the author, and the admirable productions of his
pen, already so widely circulated, are a sufficient pledge that
any thing from him will be found to possess sterling merit and
worth.—_Transcript._

MR. BANVARD has hit upon a happy idea in this series of publications,
and will no doubt find a full sanction in the public patronage.—_Zion’s
Herald._

The author possesses the art of making simple truth far more
interesting than the wonders of fable.—_Evergreen._


ROMANCE OF AMERICAN HISTORY;

 OR, AN ACCOUNT OF THE EARLY SETTLEMENT of North Carolina and Virginia,
 embracing a Narrative of the tragic Incidents connected with the
 Spanish Settlement at St. Augustine, the French Colonies at Roanoke,
 and the English Plantation at Jamestown; the Captivity of Captain John
 Smith, and the interesting Adventures of the youthful Pocahontas. By
 REV. JOSEPH BANVARD. Being the third volume of BANVARD’S SERIES OF
 AMERICAN HISTORIES. With numerous Illustrations. 16mo, cloth, 60 cts.

This is the third volume of Mr. Banvard’s attractive series of books
founded on the early history of our country; and it will make a most
valuable addition to all family and school libraries.—_Arthur’s
Gazette._

It has all the interest of romance and the additional interest of
history.—_Pur. Rec._

It is a volume just such as we like to see in the hands of intelligent
youth, and just such as intelligent youth like to have given them. It
shows that there were times that tried men’s souls “long before the
day of the Revolution.” It unfolds the dangers that were passed, the
trials endured, the labors undergone in order to wrest from savage
men and a savage wilderness this fair and wide domain which we now
enjoy.—_Willis’s Home Journal._

As interesting as a novel, and a thousand times more profitable.—_Lit.
Messenger._

Every library should contain this National Series of Histories.—_N. E.
Farmer._

Admirably fitted for fire-side, family reading. Its style is clear and
simple; its succession of events happily chosen.—_Am. Traveller._

No man has a better taste than Mr. Banvard for such a work. If any
person can read his books without rising from the perusal of them with
stronger love for the history of his country, he must be different from
ordinary men.—_Watch. of Prairies._

No more instructive reading can be put into the hands of the
young.—_Port. Tran._

It is difficult to say whether the entertaining or instructive
predominates.—_Argus._

It is just the book to interest young persons. It combines the interest
of romance with the value of truth.—_Zion’s Herald._

MR. BANVARD has chosen a most entertaining theme for the labors of his
graceful and facile pen. The earlier history of the peopling of the
American continent by the Europeans is full of romantic and thrilling
incident. It is a book for the aged, the middle aged, and the young;
a book for our youths and maidens; a book to render us thankful for
the virtues and heroism of our fathers, and for the blessings their
sufferings and labors have entailed upon us.—_Democratic Press._

MR. BANVARD’S series of books upon the early history of America are
full of fascinating interest.—_Republican._

The incidents are curious and deeply interesting. It is truly the
romance of history.—_Religious Herald._

A book of deep and thrilling interest, containing many interesting
historical sketches of scenes that are not familiar to the young
reader.—_Ch. Secretary._

This is a very interesting work. The personal incidents it records will
be gratifying to the curious.—_Ch. Observer._

☞ Other volumes of this popular series are in course of preparation.
The series will embrace the most interesting and important events which
have occurred in the United States since the settlement of the country.
They will be adapted to the popular mind, and especially to the youth
of our country, and will contain numerous fine engravings. There will
be twelve or more 16mo volumes, of about 300 pages. Each volume to
be _complete in itself_; and yet, when all are published, they will
together form a regular SERIES OF AMERICAN HISTORIES.


 PLEASANT PAGES FOR YOUNG PEOPLE; OR, A BOOK OF HOME EDUCATION AND
 ENTERTAINMENT.

By S. PROUT NEWCOMBE. With numerous Illustrations. 75c.

☞ This work is designed for the pleasure and profit of young people;
and, as the title indicates, intended as an aid to Home Education.
The great variety of subjects presented, consisting of Moral Lessons,
Natural History, History, Travels, Physical Geography, Object Lessons,
Drawing and Perspective, Music, Poetry, etc., and withal, so skilfully
treated as to make truth simple and attractive, renders it an admirable
family book for winter evenings and summer days.

A very excellent book. History, philosophy, science, stories, and
descriptions of games are all mingled together, and he who does not
like the compound must be hard to please.—_Post._

Pleasant pages, containing information on a great variety of subjects.
Here we have science and art made plain and captivating. The lessons in
drawing and perspective alone are worth the price of the volume. And
then a thousand questions which the intelligent young mind raises are
here answered.—_Parlor Magazine._

This is indeed a home book of endless amusement.—_Boston Atlas._

An admirable book of home education. We commend it to families.—_Alb.
Spec._

A work admirably adapted to the instruction and amusement of the
young.—_Reg._

A pleasant book, full of all sorts of information upon all sorts of
subjects.—_Jour._

One of the most delightful works for young people we have ever met
with. Few persons, young or old, could examine its pages without
gaining knowledge of a useful kind. It is one of the most successful
combinations of the pleasant with the useful to be found.—_Daily
Advertiser._

A book of not only “pleasant pages,” but of singularly _instructive_
pages. Even people not so very young might be profited by its
perusal.—_South Boston Gazette._

It presents much solid information, and opens before the young new
fields of observation. The youngsters will clap their hands with
joy.—_Scientific American._

There is a great deal of valuable information communicated in a
very simple and easy way. While it is full of useful instruction to
children, it is also suggestive to those who are called to conduct
their education.—_Puritan Recorder._

We like this book: it is well fitted for the family library. The young
like facts; when these are set forth in a pleasant way, the interest is
greater than fiction ever awakens, unless the fiction is made to appear
like truth.—_Godey’s Ladies’ Book._

 THE GUIDING STAR; or, The Bible God’s Message. By LOUISA PAYSON
 HOPKINS. With Frontispiece. 16mo, cloth, 50 cts.

An excellent work to put into the hands of youth. It is written in
conversational style, and opens up most beautifully, and with great
simplicity, the great leading evidences that the Bible contains God’s
message to man. Those seeking after truth will find it worthy of
frequent perusal.—DR. SPRAGUE, _in Albany Spectator_.

We cordially commend the work to parents, children, and Sabbath
schools.—_Cong._

This volume should be in the hands of every youthful reader, and adult
persons would find it not only interesting, but instructive.—_Ch.
Chron._

The popular author of this book has conferred a favor on the public,
for which she deserves something more than _thanks_.—_Ch. Secretary._

One of the most valuable books for youth that we have seen.—_Cong.
Journal._

A book of more than common excellence. How often have we wished that
all the youth of our land might become familiar with its contents.—_Ch.
Mirror._




CHAMBERS’S WORKS.


 CHAMBERS’S HOME BOOK AND POCKET MISCELLANY. Containing a Choice
 Selection of Interesting and Instructive Reading for the Old and the
 Young. Six vols. 16mo, cloth, 3,00.

This work is considered fully equal, if not superior, to either of
the Chambers’s other works in interest, and, like them, contains a
vast fund of valuable information. Following somewhat the plan of the
“Miscellany,” it is admirably adapted to the school or the family
library, furnishing ample variety for every class of readers, both old
and young.

We do not know how it is possible to publish so much good reading
matter at such a low price. We speak a good word for the literary
excellence of the stories in this work; we hope our people will
introduce it into all their families, in order to drive away the
miserable flashy-trashy stuff so often found in the hands of our young
people of both sexes.—_Scientific American._

Both an entertaining and instructive work, as it is a very cheap
one.—_Puritan Rec._

It cannot but have an extensive circulation.—_Albany Express._

Of all the series of cheap books, this promises to be the best.—_Bangor
Mercury._

If any person wishes to read for amusement or profit, to kill time or
improve it, get “Chambers’s Home Book.”—_Chicago Times._

The Chambers are confessedly the best caterers for popular and useful
reading in the world.—_Willis’s Home Journal._

A very entertaining, instructive, and popular work.—_N. Y. Commercial._

The articles are of that attractive sort which suits us in moods of
indolence when we would linger half way between wakefulness and sleep.
They require just thought and activity enough to keep our feet from the
land of Nod, without forcing us to run, walk, or even stand.—_Eclectic,
Portland._

It is just the thing to amuse a leisure hour, and at the same time
combines _instruction_ with amusement.—_Dover Inquirer._

Messrs. Chambers, of Edinburgh, have become famous wherever the English
language is spoken and read, for their interesting and instructive
publications. They combine _instruction_ with _amusement_, and
throughout they breathe a spirit of the purest morality.—_Chicago
Tribune._


 CHAMBERS’S REPOSITORY OF INSTRUCTIVE AND AMUSING PAPERS. With
 Illustrations. An entirely New Series, containing Original Articles.
 p. 260, 16mo, cloth, per vol. 50 cents.

The Messrs. Chambers have recently commenced the publication of this
work, under the title of “CHAMBERS’S REPOSITORY OF INSTRUCTIVE AND
AMUSING TRACTS,” similar in style, etc., to the “Miscellany,” which has
maintained an enormous circulation of more than _eighty thousand copies
in England_, and has already reached nearly the same in this country.
Arrangements have been made by the American publishers, to issue the
work simultaneously with the English edition, a volume every two
months, to continue until the whole series is completed. Each volume
complete in itself, and will be sold in sets or single volumes.

☞ Commendatory Letters, Reviews, Notices, &c., of _each_ of Chambers’s
works, sufficient to make a good sized duodecimo volume, have been
received by the publishers, but room here will only allow giving a
specimen of the vast multitude at hand. They are all popular, and
contain valuable instructive and entertaining reading—such as should be
found in every family, school, and college library.


THE CAPTIVE IN PATAGONIA; OR LIFE AMONG THE GIANTS.

By BENJAMIN F. BOURNE. With Illustrations. 12mo, cloth, 85 cts.

This work, by Captain Bourne,—who was taken captive and retained three
months by the Patagonians,—gives an account of his capture and final
escape; a description of this strange people; their manners, customs,
habits, pursuits; the country, its soil productions, etc., of which
little or nothing has heretofore been known. ☞ A work of thrilling
interest, and of instruction to every class of readers.

Any book, descriptive of a country which is almost like fable land
to the civilized world, must possess great interest; but this work,
besides having _this_ attraction, is written with much vigor and
spirit, and is replete with a variety of interesting facts, descriptive
of the manners, customs, character, etc., of the Patagonians.—_Sav.
Jour._

A work of thrilling interest, and bids fair to be another Uncle Tom’s
Cabin. Captain Bourne is well known and highly respected in this
community; and the narrative of his strange adventures, startling
and romantic as they may seem, can be relied upon as strictly
true.—_Nantucket Eagle._

We have seldom read a work of such intense interest—_N. H. Sentinel._

This is a narrative of great interest.—_Phil. Ch. Observer._

We question whether the scenes, trials, hardships, adventures, etc.,
could have been more vividly drawn had they emanated from the pen of an
IRVING or a COOPER.—_Rutland (Vt.) Herald._

The author is known as a respectable man, and one of high integrity;
and from his own experience has given particulars of the manners,
customs, habits, and pursuits of the natives. It is a thrilling
narrative, and as exciting as Typee.—_Newport Merc._

No work of romance can exceed to enchain the mind and awaken
interest.—_Cong._

Seldom, if ever, have we perused a work with so intense an interest.
No work of romance can excel it in power to enchant the mind, and
awaken a nervous desire to possess the valuable information which it
communicates.—_Amherst Express._

Having begun it one evening, we would not quit until the book had been
finished.—_Montpelier Journal._

Uncle Tom may stand aside for the present. Mrs. Stowe may herself,
as well as her readers, listen to the tale of a New Bedford sailor.
His narrative is one that cannot fail to move both to smiles and
tears,—containing touches of the broadest and most genial humor,
as well as passages of simple pathos, which dissolve the soul in
sympathy.—_B. H. Aurora._

Possessing all the interest of real adventure, with all the
attractiveness of romance, we do not wonder at its popularity.—_Boston
Atlas._

We have never before perused any personal narrative that has interested
us as this one.—_Fountain and Journal, Me._

We have scarcely been able to leave its attractive pages. If the reader
wishes to be amused, instructed, delighted, and benefited, he cannot do
better than to procure a copy.—_Gardiner Evening Transcript._


 THE HISTORY OF BANKING; with a Comprehensive Account of the Origin,
 Rise, and Progress of the Banks of England, Ireland, and Scotland. By
 WILLIAM JOHN LAWSON. First American Edition. Revised, with numerous
 additions. By J. SMITH HOMANS, Editor of Bankers’ Magazine. 1 vol.
 octavo, 2,00.

☞ A novel book, yet interesting and instructive; containing anecdotes
of men who have figured largely in the business, cases of forgeries,
counterfeits, detections, trials, etc.

 CHAMBERS’S CYCLOPEDIA OF ENGLISH LITERATURE. A Selection of the
 choicest productions of English Authors, from the earliest to the
 present time. Connected by a Critical and Biographical History.
 Forming two large imperial octavo volumes of 1400 pages, double column
 letter-press; with upwards of 300 elegant Illustrations. Edited by
 ROBERT CHAMBERS, embossed cloth, 5,00.

This work embraces about _one thousand authors_, chronologically
arranged and classed as Poets, Historians, Dramatists, Philosophers,
Metaphysicians, Divines, etc., with choice selections from their
writings, connected by a Biographical, Historical, and Critical
Narrative; thus presenting a complete view of English literature from
the earliest to the present time. Open where you will, you cannot fail
to find matter for profit and delight. The selections are gems—infinite
riches in a little room; “A WHOLE ENGLISH LIBRARY FUSED DOWN INTO ONE
CHEAP BOOK!”

From W. H. PRESCOTT, AUTHOR OF “FERDINAND AND ISABELLA.” The plan of
the work is very judicious.... Readers cannot fail to profit largely by
the labors of the critic who has the talent and taste to separate what
is really beautiful and worthy of their study from what is superfluous.

I concur in the foregoing opinion of Mr. Prescott.—EDWARD EVERETT.

A work indispensable to the library of a student of English
literature.—WAYLAND.

We hail with peculiar pleasure the appearance of this work.—_North Am.
Review._

It has been fitly described as “_a whole English library fused down
into one cheap book_.” The Boston edition combines neatness with
cheapness.—_N. Y. Com. Adv._

☞ The American edition contains additional likenesses of SHAKESPEARE,
ADDISON, BYRON; a full length portrait of DR. JOHNSON, and a beautiful
scenic representation of OLIVER GOLDSMITH and DR. JOHNSON. These
important additions, together with superior paper and binding, render
the American far superior to the English edition. The circulation
of this work has been immense, and its sale in this country still
continues unabated.


 CHAMBERS’S MISCELLANY OF USEFUL AND ENTERTAINING KNOWLEDGE. Edited by
 WILLIAM CHAMBERS. With Elegant Illustrative Engravings. Ten volumes,
 16mo, cloth, 7,00.

This work has been highly recommended by distinguished individuals, as
admirably adapted to Family, Sabbath, and District School Libraries.

It would be difficult to find any miscellany superior or even equal
to it; it richly deserves the epithets “useful and entertaining,” and
I would recommend it very strongly as extremely well adapted to form
parts of a library for the young, or of a social or circulating library
in town or country.—GEORGE B. EMERSON, ESQ., CHAIRMAN BOSTON SCHOOL
BOOK COMMITTEE.

I am gratified to have an opportunity to be instrumental in
circulating “Chambers’s Miscellany” among the schools for which I am
superintendent.—J. J. CLUTE, _Town. Sup. of Castleton, N. Y._

I am not acquainted with any similar collection in the English language
that can compare with it for purposes of instruction or amusement.
I should rejoice to see that set of books in every house in our
country.—REV. JOHN O. CHOULES, D. D.

The information contained in this work is surprisingly great; and for
the fire-side, and the young, particularly, it cannot fail to prove a
most valuable and entertaining companion.—_N. Y. Evangelist._

An admirable compilation. It unites the useful and entertaining.—_N. Y.
Com._


MY FIRST IMPRESSIONS OF ENGLAND AND ITS PEOPLE.

 By HUGH MILLER, author of “Old Red Sandstone,” “Footprints of the
 Creator,” etc., with a fine likeness of the author. 12mo, 1,00.

Let not the careless reader imagine, from the title of this book,
that it is a common book of travels, on the contrary, it is a very
remarkable one, both in design, spirit, and execution. The facts
recorded, and the views advanced in this book, are so fresh, vivid,
and natural, that we cannot but commend it as a treasure, both of
information and entertainment.—_Willis’s Home Journal._

This is a noble book, worthy of the author of the Footprints of the
Creator and the Old Red Sandstone, because it is seasoned with the same
power of vivid description, the same minuteness of observation, and
soundness of criticism, and the same genial piety. We have read it with
deep interest, and with ardent admiration of the author’s temper and
genius. It is almost impossible to lay the book down, even to attend to
more pressing matters. It is, without compliment or hyperbole, a most
delightful volume.—_N. Y. Commercial._

This is a most amusing and instructive book, by a master hand.—_Dem.
Rev._

The author of this work proved himself, in the Footprints of the
Creator, one of the most original thinkers and powerful writers of the
age. In the volume before us he adds new laurels to his reputation.
Whoever wishes to understand the character of the present race of
Englishmen, as contradistinguished from past generations; to comprehend
the workings of political, social, and religious agitation in the
minds, not of the nobility or gentry, but of the _people_, will
discover that, in this volume, he has found a treasure.—_Peterson’s
Magazine._

His eyes were open to see, and his ears to hear, every thing; and,
as the result of what he saw and heard in “merrie” England, he has
made one of the most spirited and attractive volumes of travels and
observations that we have met with.—_Trav._

Hugh Miller is one of the most agreeable, entertaining, and
instructive writers of the age. We know of no work in England so full
of adaptedness to the age as this. It opens up clearly to view the
condition of its various classes, sheds new light into its social,
moral, and religious history, its geological peculiarities, and draws
conclusions of great value.—_Albany Spectator._

The author, one of the most remarkable men of the age, arranged for
this journey into England, expecting to “lodge in humble cottages,
and wear a humble dress, and see what was to be seen by humble men
only,—society without its mask.” Such an observer might be expected to
bring to view a thousand things unknown, or partially known before;
and abundantly does he fulfil this expectation. It is one of the most
absorbing books of the time.—_Portland Ch. Mirror._


NEW WORK.

MY SCHOOLS AND SCHOOLMASTERS;

OR THE STORY OF MY EDUCATION.

 BY HUGH MILLER, author of “Footprints of the Creator,” “Old Red
 Sandstone,” “First Impressions of England,” etc. 12mo, cl.

This is a personal narrative of a deeply interesting and instructive
character, concerning one of the most remarkable men of the age. No one
who purchases this book will have occasion to regret it, our word for
it!


THE CRUISE OF THE NORTH STAR:

 A NARRATIVE OF THE EXCURSION MADE BY MR. VANDERBILT’S PARTY, IN THE
 STEAM YACHT, in her Voyage to England, Russia, Denmark, France, Spain,
 Italy, Malta, Turkey, Madeira, etc. By Rev. JOHN OVERTON CHOULES,
 D. D. With elegant Illustrations, and fine Likenesses of Commodore
 Vanderbilt and Capt. Eldridge. 12mo, cloth, gilt backs and sides.
 $1.50.

The cruise of the North Star was an event of almost national concern,
and was watched with universal interest. This volume is as different
from ordinary books of travel as the cruise of the North Star was
different from an ordinary trip to Europe. We need not bespeak for it
many readers.—_Providence Jour._

The American people ought to be proud of, and grateful to, Cornelius
Vanderbilt. This man has done more than a dozen presidents to give
America a respected name in Europe. In the person of Cornelius
Vanderbilt, American enterprise told the people of Europe what it could
do. The desire to get this curious narrative was so great that the
whole of the first edition went off in two days!—_Star of the West._

Those who remember to have met with a very interesting work, published
some two years ago, entitled “Young Americans Abroad,” will be glad to
learn that here is another book of travels from the same source. Do you
say your shelves are all full of books of travel?—we reply, with Leigh
Hunt,—then put in another shelf, and place this one on it.—_Methodist
Protestant._

The work is one of the most entertaining, and, in its way, vivid,
portraitures of scenes in the Old World, that we have ever
seen.—_Boston Transcript._

The book is in many respects as novel as the occasion which produced
it was unique and memorable. Both the accomplished author and the
publishers deserve the best thanks for so tasteful a record of a
performance which has reflected so much credit abroad upon American
enterprise.—_N. Y. Courier & Enquirer._

This work is interesting, not only as a memorial of the North Star,
and her trip to Europe, but also as a record of European travel,
narrated in a lively manner, by a gentleman whose taste and attainments
eminently qualify him for the task.—_New York Times._

Never before did a private individual make so magnificent an excursion
as Mr. Vanderbilt. Dr. Choules, who was one of his guests, has given to
the world a charming account of this unique voyage, in a beautifully
printed and illustrated volume. We commend it to our readers as a very
entertaining, well-written book.—_Zion’s Herald._

The book will be eagerly perused, as a record of one of the unique
occurrences of the age; is written with a kind of drawing-room,
etiquette-like style, is mellow in sentiment, and is wholly
destitute of that straining after the sublime, and stranding in
the “high-falutin,” that characterize the effusions of the tourist
generally.—_Chicago Advertiser._

This beautiful volume describes, in a chaste and readable manner,
the fortunes of the widely-known excursion of the princely New York
merchant and his family and guests. From the eclat of the voyage
itself, and the pleasant way of Dr. Choules’ account of it, we
think the book is destined to have—what it deserves—a very large
sale.—_Congregationalist._




New and Popular Series for Youth.


THE AIMWELL STORIES;

A SERIES OF VOLUMES, ILLUSTRATIVE OF YOUTHFUL CHARACTER, AND COMBINING
INSTRUCTION WITH AMUSEMENT.

BY WALTER AIMWELL,

Author of “The Boy’s Own Guide,” “Boy’s Book of Morals and Manners,” &c.

With Numerous Illustrations.


The volumes will contain about 300 pages, 16mo, each, bound in cloth,
with gilt backs. Price 63 cents.

☞ Each volume will be complete and independent of itself, but the
series will be connected together by a partial identity of characters,
localities, &c.

The first two volumes of this series are now ready. They are entitled—


OSCAR; OR, THE BOY WHO HAD HIS OWN WAY,

AND

CLINTON; OR, BOY-LIFE IN THE COUNTRY.


Notices of Clinton.

Well, the boys have read it, and pronounce it “_first-rate_.”
We confirm their judgment. It enters into the heart of the boy;
comprehends his thoughts, his wishes, and his temptations; mingles
in his sports; stimulates him in his studies, and implants right
principles and noble views. It is a safe book, an entertaining book,
and a useful book.—_The Independent, N. Y._

We attempted to read this book, but the boys got hold of it, and,
morning, noon, and night, they kept hold of it, until one, and another,
and another still, had read it through. If their judgment is worth
anything, the book is capital, one of the very best of its kind.—_N. Y.
Evangelist._

We like “Clinton” for its naturalness. It is a narrative about real
life, pleasantly described in just the way to attract young readers,
resembling, and quite equal to, the “Rollo” series.—_Christian
Register._

A better book, as a mere book of combined amusement and instruction for
boys, could scarcely be found.—_Saturday Evening Mail._

“_A prime book_,” as we heard a little boy say who had just got through
with it.—_Youth’s Companion, Boston._

A better book a boy can hardly read.—_Forrester’s Boys’ and Girls’
Magazine._

The boy who begins it is sure to peruse it from title-page to finis;
and he who does so can hardly fail of wishing to be a better and wiser
boy.—_Zion’s Herald._

One of the best books for boys we have ever seen. Its descriptions are
exact, and all its details are those of actual life. Its moral and
religious influence is excellent.—_Congregationalist._




  Transcriber’s Notes

  pg 135 Changed: There were warm buscuits and butter
              to: There were warm biscuits and butter

  pg 145 Changed: who havn’t any baggage
              to: who haven’t any baggage

  pg 151 Changed: express wagons; omnibusses and coaches
              to: express wagons; omnibuses and coaches