CHAPTER VII.

CHAPTER VII.LITTLE NED AND HIS MOTHER.WHEN Walter Griffin flung down the yard-stick, and jumped over Fred Williams’s counter for the last time, he went directly on board the Casco, and made several voyages to Cadiz with Isaac Murch, who valued his services highly, and offered him promotion to remain with him; but arriving from a voyage while the “Arthur Brown” was building, the temptation to go in her on shares, and engage in all the perils and excitements attendant upon running the gauntlet of the enemy’s cruisers, proved perfectly irresistible to a boy of Walter’s sanguine, fearless nature; and, as the vessel would be launched and away before he could make another voyage and return, he resolved to wait for her.In order to make the most of his time, he went over to Elm Island to study navigation with LionBen, and then, by Captain Rhines’s advice, to Salem, where was a French family, who, having fled from their native country, during the revolution, in poverty, leaving their property behind, supported themselves by teaching French, giving music lessons, and employing themselves in any way which would bring the means of subsistence. They also found no lack of sympathy among the inhabitants, who, being a seafaring community, not only shared in the universal good will at that time felt towards the French, but also were naturally touched by the miseries of those who, having seen better days, and accustomed to every comfort, found themselves, in old age, poor and in a strange land.Fred Williams had an uncle in Salem, a tanner. Walter boarded with him, doing work enough in the tan-yard to defray the expense of his board. Thus, under the instruction of persons of culture, and in daily contact with them, he not only obtained a knowledge of the language, but learned to speak it properly, and in a manner quite different from the patois of Peterson, which, picked up from the lower class of people, was, however, fluent, coarse, and vulgar.Salem, as our readers will recollect, was the home of Ned Gates, who, ready to like anybody who came from the neighborhood of Pleasant Cove, received Walter with open arms, insisted upon having him at his house to tea, and to stay all night, about half the time, and spent every spare moment he could get with him.Ned would go down to the yard and help Walter break bark, pull hides out of the pits, take out the spent tan, and hang up the sides of leather to dry, in order that his friend might have more time to study French, and stuck to him like his skin. Were they not going to be shipmates together, and share in perils?Ned’s parents never wanted him to go to sea, and did all in their power to prevent it; but finding his heart set upon it to such an extent that he was utterly indifferent to everything else, and unhappy, they yielded with the best grace possible. But when he was shipwrecked, and came so near perishing with hunger on the raft, they were greatly encouraged, thinking it would incline him to comply with their wishes and abandon the sea. Ned’s mother was not only a most affectionate parent, but a warm-hearted Christianwoman. Like all Christian mothers, she had been accustomed to hear her little boy say his prayers, and continued the practice after he came to be a large boy. Ned would leave the light burning, and his mother would come up, sit by his bedside, hear him repeat the Lord’s Prayer, then kneel down beside the bed and pray herself. Ned was a good boy, and loved his mother dearly, but was full of life, and sometimes would do something out of the way, so much so, that his mother, after hearing him say his prayer, would get up, take the candle in her hand as though about to leave the room, observing, “Edward, you have been a bad boy, to-day; I don’t know as I ought to pray with you to-night.” This never failed to bring Ned to terms. He would own up, if it was any concealed mischief, confess, and promise amendment, for he could not bear to go to sleep till his mother had prayed with him; yet he was nearly sixteen years old, as smart a boy as ever went aloft to furl a royal or reeve signal halyards. When the crew abandoned the sinking ship, Ned, as we have before stated, preferred to stick by the captain.Who says vulgarity, coarseness, and profanity are necessary concomitants of courage?“Edward,” said his mother, as he took the candle to go to bed, the first night after getting home from Pleasant Cove, “leave the light; I’ll come and get it.”“Mother,” said he, after saying his prayers, “how nice it seems to be once more in the old bed, and say my prayers to you, as I used to do!”“I hope, Edward, you didn’t forget them while you were away from me.”“I never turned in a night without it; but I didn’t have any mother to come and get the light and kiss me when I got through.”“I hope, my child, you did more than that. I hope, when you were undergoing such misery on that dreadful raft, you prayed to God in your own words, and out of your own heart.”“No, I didn’t, mother.”“Not pray, when there seemed nothing but death before you—a child instructed as you have been?”“No, mother. I suppose you want me to tell you just as it was.”“Certainly, my child; but didn’t the captain, James Watts, or Arthur Brown?”“The captain was swearing part of the time, and crying the rest. One minute he’d say he knew some vessel would come along and take us off, and seem quite cheerful; the next minute he would wring his hands, and swear, and cry, and say we should all starve to death on that raft. After the little water and provision the men left us was gone, he took to drinking salt water. It made him crazy, just as Mr. Brown told him it would, for he said he had heard his father say so. Then he ran off on the idea that we were going to kill and eat him. If he saw us talking together, he would say we were plotting to kill him and drink his blood. Mr. Brown said the second mate told him that he passed a crew of men once on a wreck, and wouldn’t take any notice of their signals, though they hoisted a signal of distress, and now he was getting his pay for it. I suppose it was the idea he took in his head, that we would kill and eat him, that made him jump overboard in the night, when we were all asleep.”“That was awful; but didn’t Arthur Brown or James Watts ever call upon God?”“Not as I know of; what they did inside I don’t know, but I never heard them.”“It seems very strange to me that a boy brought up to know and respect all good things taught in the Catechism, and who never went to bed a night in his life, till he went from home, without saying his prayers, and having his mother pray with him, should be on a raft in the ocean, starving, death staring him in the face, and not call upon God. I can’t understand it; I should think that would be just the time, if ever in the world.”“Well, it ain’t, mother, though it may seem strange to you. It seems strange to myself now; but I suppose, if I was in the same place, I should do just so again. I did think of my prayers, and said them, as I told you; but whenever I thought of doing anything more, it seemed to me so mean to pray to God because I was in a hard place, when I never did it when I wasn’t, that I couldn’t—I didn’t dare to. Then I was thinking, most of the time, about being taken off, watching for some vessel, or dreaming and thinking about eating and drinking.”“Dreaming about eating?”“O, yes, mother, that was the worst of it; when my tongue was so swelled, as big as two tongues,and I was so weak from hunger that I could hardly move, I’d fall into a doze, and dream that there was a great table set full of everything that I loved, and then wake up, and find it all a dream. One time I dreamed I was travelling on a road in a real hot day, and saw a little wood on the side of a hill. I went to it, and right between two great maple trees was a barrel sunk down in the ground, and full of clear, cold water. It was a boiling spring, and a flat stone right beside it. I thought I knelt down on the stone, and looked way down into the clear, beautiful water, saw grains of sand rolling over and over in it, and tried to drink; but whenever I got my parched lips close to the water, it went away, and in my struggles to reach it I woke; and there right before me was poor James Watts’s dead face, and Mr Brown looking so pale and ghostly I thought he was dead, and I all alone on the wide ocean. When I saw it was all a dream, I burst into tears; after that, began to grow stupid and wandering, and didn’t sense anything more till I found myself in a bed, and somebody putting water in my mouth; and don’t you think, mother, I went right back where I left off in my dream, and thought Iwas drinking out of that spring? but it was Charlie Bell’s wife putting water in my mouth. I tell you what it is, mother; people may think so who don’t know; but if they were in such a place, they would find it wasn’t a very nice time to be good.”“My dear boy,” replied his mother, affected to tears by the narration, “now that God has restored you to us, you have suffered so much, and seen what the life of a sailor is, and what they are exposed to, I hope you will never leave us again. You are all the son I have got—do stay with us and your sisters. You have had a good education; your father will take you right into the store with him, or he will set you up in business, when you are old enough. There is Henry Bradshaw, that you used to sit with in school; your old playmate; you used to love him, and was just like a brother with him. He is going into business soon. You can go with him, or you can learn a trade. Your father will send you to college—he will do anything for you to keep you at home. If you could only know what we underwent, after we heard the vessel was lost, and thought you were lost in her, and what a thanksgiving there was inthe house after we got Captain Rhines’s letter, you certainly never would leave us again.”Ned was not taken by surprise, for he knew his mother’s heart, and loved her. It was no easy task to deny the plea of such a mother, under such circumstances, and the very first night of getting home, too. He lay a long time silent, with eyes shut fast. His mother saw the tears come out from under the closed lids, and, as she wiped them away, began to hope her desires were to be realized.“Mother,” at length he said, “you will think I am the worst, most hard-hearted boy that ever was in the world.”The mother trembled, but made no reply.“Mother, I must go to sea. I can’t, indeed, I can’t stay at home.”“But only think what you suffered, and how near you were to death.”“But I didn’t die, mother. I’m all right now, and heavier than I ever was in my life. I was weighed in Mr. Williams’s store the day before I left, and weighed ten pounds more than I ever did before, without my coat or waistcoat. Only think of that.”“But only think what you suffered!”“Don’t people suffer at home, mother? Just see what Will Webb has suffered, all tied up in knots with rheumatism; and Tom Savage, with the spine complaint. I do believe, if I knew I should go through all I have been through the next voyage, I should have to go. Ain’t I a fool, mother?”“I think you are very foolish to leave a good home and kind parents without any necessity for such hardships. Only think of your cousin, poor James Ross, who fell from the main-mast and was killed, the very first day out.”“Well, mother, perhaps he would have died if he had been at home. Captain Rhines says, when God wants a man, he’ll call him; and anybody is just as safe on the royal yard as on deck, or at home in his bed. Isn’t that so, mother?”“I don’t know, my dear; I think I should a great deal rather have you at home in this bed. Suppose you are sick at sea. There is no one to take care of you.”“Yes, mother, Captain Brown and Walter will.”Mrs. Gates knelt down beside the bed, and prayed for submission to bear what she felt to bea bitter trial—resigning a beloved, affectionate boy to the hardships and chances of a life at sea.“Mother,” said Ned, as she took the light in her hand to go down stairs, “isn’t Walter Griffin a splendid boy?”“Yes; too good a boy to go to sea.”CHAPTER VIII.MOONLIGHT CONVERSATION BY THE BROOK.WALTER well deserved the praise lavished upon him by Ned. He had little resemblance to his brother Joe, or indeed any other member of the family, except in size. He was of large frame; Joe had great square jaws, high cheek bones, his hair coarse and bristling, and his joints large,—he was what is termed, in common parlance, double-jointed,—and, though exceeding agile, was loose-limbed, and somewhat awkward in his movements.Walter, on the other hand, was compactly built, graceful in all his movements; fair complexion, regular features, fine hair, that curled upon the least exertion, and something in the expression of his face that inspired confidence and attracted at once; though full of humor, he possessed not a particle of Joe’s fondnessfor practical jokes. Every whit as resolute and fond of rough sports as any of his race, he had what none of the rest possessed—imagination and sentiment; he was thoughtful, reflective, and a vein of almost feminine delicacy ran through his whole nature.All that Joe thought of, when he looked upon a noble maple, was, how much potash it would make, whether a keel-piece could be got out of it; or upon a majestic pine, how many boards it would scale.But Walter looked upon them with other eyes; the murmur of the streams and the glance of the river through the green foliage appealed to susceptibilities that did not exist in the breast of the other. In all other respects he was Griffin to the backbone. He was a universal favorite; all the boys loved Walter Griffin, and he loved them in return. He loved John Rhines, Fred Williams, and Uncle Isaac, but Charlie Bell was his ideal of perfection, and, though so much his senior, seemed nearer than all the rest. The thoughtful tenderness of Charlie’s nature touched an answering chord in that of Walter; he found something there, he could not find among his mates.Charlie, trading with Fred, and owning a portion of the goods, was often in the store, and brought a good deal in contact with Walter; they naturally grew together.When he found Charlie was going to be married, he told John he was real sorry, because he knew he shouldn’t see so much of him, and he was afraid he wouldn’t love him so much. But he soon found, to his great gratification, that “the more angels in the heart, the more room.”No sooner was Charlie married than he bought a pew in the meeting-house, and asked Walter to sit with him (as Mr. Griffin had a large family, and their pew was always crowded), and frequently invited him to tea; he soon began to feel at home there, and found that he saw a great deal more of Charlie than when he was obliged to go on to Elm Island to see him, or met him occasionally at the store.Charlie’s religion was not something put upon him like lacker upon metal, but it was a part of him, as much so as the very blood in the chambers of his heart, or the pulse in his veins; it made him happy, and it was an instinct with him to communicate that which so blessed himselfto those he loved. It was not a task; he could not help it. ‘Twas just as much a part of his nature, as to press the hand or kiss the lips of those he loved.The period occupied by our narrative was long before the era of Sabbath schools, notwithstanding young people by no means grew up, in the days of our fathers, without religious instruction, and that of the most substantial kind; sinceparents thendischarged, in respect to their children, the duties which are now but too often surrendered to Sabbath school teachers, and the material for mission schools, now so abundant, did not then exist.Parson Goodhue was accustomed, once a month, to assemble all the children, as also the older boys and girls, in the school-house on Saturday afternoon, and to put them the questions contained in the Westminster Catechism, previously committed to memory.Walter Griffin had made all his preparations for going to sea, as a green hand, in the Casco, with Isaac Murch; the ship was ready to sail Monday, for Cadiz. Walter having attended the catechising for the last time, when he saw all his schoolmates, and received a parting blessing from thegood minister, started up to Pleasant Cove, to take leave of Charlie, whom he met coming from the barn, where he had been tying up his oxen.“Good evening, Mr. Bell.”“Good evening, Walter. I was afraid you would go away without coming to see me.”“I couldn’t think of that, sir; I came up to the school-house, and then kept on.”“Then you are all dressed for Sabbath, and I shan’t let you go from here to-night; stop right here, and go to meeting with us in the morning.”“I fear I shall hinder you, sir.”“Not a whit. Uncle Isaac has been helping me break up, and has just gone from here; we’ve done work enough for one day. I’m going to clean up and rest; come, go in; supper is about ready.”Walter assisted Charlie to milk, and do his chores, and as the twilight came on, they sat down together beneath a tree near the edge of a bank, where the brook met the waters of the bay.It was a most picturesque, lovely spot, one that Charlie dearly loved, and to which he never took any one who he knew was incapable of appreciating it; he didn’t like to have his chosen spots like an unfenced common, for everybody and everything to trample on.It was a warm evening, the first of September; the season had been moist and shady; not a leaf gave token of decay. Just above them they saw the white foam of the water, as it fell in broken wreaths of foam over the precipice, and caught again the gleam of it through the leaves, as with tranquil current it met the waters of the bay, rolling with a low ripple upon the white sand of the beach.They sat with their backs against a large oak that grew double, forking just above their heads, and thus, being rather flat than round, offered a convenient rest.“Walter,” said Charlie, putting his arm around the boy, and drawing his head on to his breast, “how do you like this spot?”“I think it is most beautiful. I could sit here all night and listen to that waterfall, and watch the moonbeams glancing on the water.”“The first time I ever saw this place, I came here alone, on very much such a night as this. I loved it then, and have loved it more and more ever since. I shall miss you very much, Walter; only think how many Sabbath days we’ve sat side by side in meeting; I hope there’s some good come of it all. Walter, do you ever pray?”There was no reply, but a tear fell on Charlie’s hand; at length he said, “No, sir; I never did.”“But you say the Lord’s Prayer?”“No, sir.”“Didn’t your mother learn you to say it when a child?”“No, sir; there ain’t any goodness in our folks; we are a hard, rough set; ain’t like other people; only think about wrestling, shooting, and falling timber. When Joe became religious, he wanted to have prayers Sabbath night; but father wouldn’t hear to it. Now he’s got a house of his own, he can do as he likes.”“But you are not a rough, thoughtless boy, Walter; you are a gentle, loving boy, and you think; all the Griffin there is in you, is on the outside; you love the woods, flowers, the waters, and this beautiful spot touches you, just as it does me.”Walter made no reply, but pressed Charlie’s hand.“And you love me?”“I do, Mr. Bell, with all my heart and soul.”“Then how can you help loving God, who made everything and everybody that you love and admire?”“I know I ought.”“Perhaps you don’t like to have me talk to you in this way.”“Yes, sir, I do; I could hear you talk forever.”“Walter, I don’t believe there was ever a boy in the world had more friends than you have.”“That is just what I was thinking myself, this very afternoon, when all the boys and girls came round me at the catechising, and seemed sorry to have me go away.”“Don’t you think you owe a good deal to your Maker? and ought you not to tell him so?”“Yes, sir, I know I ought to; but I can’t.”“You could ask me to speak to the captain, and get you a chance to go in the Casco.”“O, sir, you, Mr. Rhines, and Uncle Isaac are so good, I don’t feel afraid to ask you anything.”“God is better.”“But he seems a great way off.”“He would seem near if you would go to him, and try to get acquainted. Besides, he has spoken first, and asked you to come.”“I’m afraid you will think I am a very rude boy.”“You are like all boys, and all the rest of us,before we begin to think of better things. Now, Walter, there’s just one thing I want you to do.”“What is that, sir?”“You know I have been on the ocean somewhat, and know what it is to be there, and how sailor men feel, although you will soon know much more about the matter than I do. There is no time, as you will soon learn, when a sailor man spends his time so well as in the middle watch of a pleasant night, when it is fair weather and moderate—everything going along smooth. It is then, if a man has any conscience, it wakes up; if he has had good bringing up, and good instructions, they come to his mind; it is then his thoughts are homeward bound, and he thinks of parents, brothers, sisters, and all he loves best on earth. Then he travels over the whole ground, from childhood clear along. You’ll find it so.”“I expect I shall spend many an hour in that way, and then I shall think of you and all your kindness to me.”“It isn’t kindness, Walter; it is more than that. I have enjoyed it as much as you. There are some beautiful nights at sea, as well as dark and dismal ones. There will be nights just like this,when the moon will glance on the long swell just as it now does on the little ripple on that beach, and the stars will seem like so many eyes looking down upon you, and the royal will look in the shadow as if it reached the sky.”“I know I shall enjoy such nights, and wish them longer.”“They make up for a good many rough ones, and you can live them over many times. Well, when such a night comes, I want you, as you look on the moon and stars, to remember that as the same moon is shining on me, looking down on this little brook, and into the cove, so the same good heavenly Father is over us both; that then I shall look at that moon, and think of you; this little nook, the trees, and all we’ve said to one another here will travel out on the ocean to meet you; then perhaps you may think, I wonder if some good friend is not thinking of and praying for me; ought I not to do something for myself?”“I thank you for all these pleasant thoughts. I never thought of such things before. It is not the way Parson Goodhue talks to us about religion.”“Well, he is a wise man. I can only talk in asimple way, as it comes to me, and out of my heart.”“But you don’t talk to me like as anybody else does. Captain Rhines often gives me good advice, and so does Uncle Isaac, about not drinking, and getting into bad company, or being profane, and about saving my money. But you don’t, somehow, seem to give me advice, or ever mention those things. I like to have them take notice of me, and always thank them; but when you talkwithme,—for you don’t seem to talkatme,—I want to put my arms right round your neck.”“Don’t spoil a good mind, Walter.” And the boy actually embraced him. “People have different ways of looking at the same thing,” continued Charlie; “you wouldn’t want all your friends to be just alike—would you?”“No, indeed, sir, any more than I would want all the flowers to be of one form and color, or all the birds to look alike and sing the same song.”“Well, if you only love Him who made and gave you everything half as well as you love me, who have done, and can do, very little for you, all these other matters will take care of themselves.”“Please talk some more, sir.”“It is time to go. We’ve been here a great while. They will all be a-bed.”“O, sir, we haven’t been here but a little while.”“How long do you think?”“Half an hour.”“We’ve been here an hour and a half; I know by the tide. It was high water when we sat down here. You see that white rock just breaking the water?”“Yes, sir.”“Well, when that rock is fairly out, it is two hours ebb. Walter, what makes you so bent upon going to sea? You might do well on a farm. Fred would, in the course of another year, take you in as partner. If you want money, I will lend it to you. Then you can be at home among your friends. Is it because you think you can make money faster?”“No, sir; I don’t think money is everything. There’s Isaac Murch, as straightforward, kind-hearted a fellow as ever lived,—as smart a man as was ever wrapped up in skin; but he thinks money is everything. He’ll give, too, especially to a good cause; but it comes hard. He’ll gothrough a deal to get a dollar. I mean to have a good living,—I think that’s for every one who strives for it,—and earn my wages, wherever I am. I don’t believe in wasting, or any of your low stuff, but I had rather have friends who love me for my own sake, good health, enjoy myself, and have others enjoy themselves with me, than all the money in the world.”“Money won’t buy happiness, Walter.”“You know, sir, you were saying just now that you hoped you shouldn’t have to grind your broad-axe again for six years; you did so long to turn over some of this wild land, plant an orchard, have grain, fruit and flowers, and cattle in the pastures.”“Yes, and I felt more than I said.”“But haven’t you made pretty much all the property you have out of the sea?”“Yes.”“Yet you want to work on the land.”“Because I love to. I love to work with tools, but I want some time to plant and sow, and see things grow, whether I make anything or not; it’s my nature.”“So it’s my nature to go to sea. I wish youcould see all the boats Flour (I mean Peterson) has made and rigged for me. I wouldn’t care if there was only land enough to build wharves to tie vessels up, to clean and grave their bottoms, and all the rest was water.”“But it is a hard life, and rude company. You are a quiet, thoughtful boy, and as affectionate as a woman.”“There’s a hard streak in all us Griffins; so I suppose there must be in me.”This was the boy Ned Gates was so much attached to, and helped do his work at the tan-yard, and respecting whom Mrs. Gates said he was too good to go to sea (this good lady seeming to think it best to have only bad men at sea).Naturally adapted to sea life, he was already (but little more than a boy) acting as second mate, and, by his keenness of perception, was the first to discern the whereabouts of the enemy.To say that Walter and Ned were intimate, and enjoyed themselves together, would be superfluous. They were fortunately in the same watch, slept in the same berth, and became more attached to each other every day. Ned was smart and ambitious, but light. He always aspired to furl theroyal, which he could do well enough, when it was dry, at any rate, by furling the yard-arms first; but when it was wet, and a gale of wind, it was rather more than a match for him. At such times, Walter, who knew the ambition and grit of his little shipmate, and was unwilling to mortify him before the crew, would wait till he saw the sail blow away from him once or twice, and then run up and help him.Ned was very desirous of raising a cue, and even had dim visions of a beard. He sported a concern about three inches in length, and which very much resembled the appendage of a Suffolk pig. It was so short that Walter, who combed and dressed it for him when the rest of the watch were asleep, found it very difficult to make the eel-skin stay on, even with a clove hitch, and, to Ned’s great indignation, suggested that he should put some tar on it, in order to make the string stick. Walter, on the other hand, boasted a cue nearly a foot in length, and the rudiments of a beard.Whenever he shaved (which luxury he sometimes indulged in, by the solicitations of Ned, onSunday morning in port, when the rest were ashore, to avoid disparaging remarks), Ned sat looking at him with the greatest reverence, and indulging in visions of the future, although, as yet, his lip was guiltless even of down.CHAPTER IX.THE GRIFFINS.THOSE of our readers who are familiar with the Elm Island stories have already known a good deal of the Griffin family in the persons of Joe and Henry, with a slight introduction to Walter and Will.Suppose, now, for the better understanding of Walter’s declaration, “there’s a hard streak in all of us Griffins,” we accompany Parson Goodhue (who is a great friend of the Griffins, and for whom Walter is named) in one of his parochial visits to the homestead.The good man, like most of the ministers of that day, had a farm of eighty acres, kept a horse, sheep, three cows, and a yoke of oxen, and did considerable work himself, always feeding his own cattle. He had, in addition, a wood lot of fifty acres. The parishioners were in thehabit of getting together in the fall, cutting his year’s stock of wood, and piling it up in the woods; when snow came they put their teams together and hauled it to the door, when the boys and young men assembled and cut it for the fire; on such occasions they came about noon, and had supper and a grand time at the parsonage in the evening, the girls coming about two o’clock, bringing with them abundant supplies and preparing the repast.The Griffin family consisted of eight persons—the parents and six children, all boys, Joseph, Henry, Walter, William, Edmund, and Winthrop. One hot forenoon, about eleven o’clock, and just after haying, Parson Goodhue, in all the glory of the snow-white wig, silk stockings, and polished silver shoe-buckles (which Lion Ben of Elm Island had presented to him after his adventure with the wild gander), was wending his way by a road that skirted the bank of the river, to Edmund Griffin’s. He was mounted on a very finely proportioned, snug built, calico-colored mare, a pacer. A large blue saddle-cloth protected his garments from the hairs (as he was quite fastidious about his dress), and he was providedwith a capacious pair of saddle-bags, long experience having convinced the good man that it was a most proper precaution, when visiting the Griffins, to be well provided with saddle-bags.It is said, we know not with how much truth, that dappled horses are of superior intelligence, and can more easily be taught all kinds of tricks; and for this reason they are often found in the circus. However this may be, one thing is sure—that Parson Goodhue’s mare was intelligent enough, and vexed his soul to that extent he sometimes feared she received diabolical aid. But Dapple, as he called her, was such a capital roadster, carried him so easily, and was sound in wind and limb, that the parson, who dearly loved a good animal, bore it patiently.In those days the doors of all out-buildings were universally fastened with wooden latches, or buttons, as also a great proportion of the doors of the dwellings.There was not a door or gate upon the premises of her master, or any of his neighbors, but Dapple could and would open, a fence she could not get over, or a pair of bars she could not take down (unless they were pinned), provideda sufficient motive presented itself. Notwithstanding she had been reared from a colt in the family of a clergyman, under the very droppings of the sanctuary, received the best of instruction, and the best examples had been proposed for her imitation, she would appropriate without the least scruple; in short, though we grieve to say it, she was a downright, incorrigible, sneaking thief; she was no respecter of persons or character, but would steal from saint or sinner, rich or poor; she would even take from the widow Hadlock and Aunt Molly Bradish (that good old soul, when she was alive), walk right into poor Mrs. Yelf’s cornfield right before her eyes, because she knew that Robert was at sea, and the old lady could not get at her for rheumatism.Parson Goodhue lived so near to the meeting-house that he and his family always walked to meeting, thus Sabbath was a leisure day to her; and even on that day, when all other horses and good people were at meeting, and her good master was inculcating morality, she would (if she could get loose) take the opportunity to commit trespass; in short, she was the grief of hermaster and the pest of the parish, was covered with scars she had received for her misdeeds, and would have been killed had she belonged to any other person than Parson Goodhue, whom everybody loved. She would back up against a door and turn the buttons, would lift the latch or pull the string of one with her teeth, and break or get off any yoke or clogs that were put on her. The most singular part of the whole matter was, that she would sometimes go for a month peaceably, in the pasture, and the good parson would feel quite encouraged, hoping it was a radical reformation; when just as he began to solace himself with this idea, and accord her larger liberty, she would abuse it to act worse than ever. At one time Dapple had gone quietly in the pasture for nearly six weeks, and the hopes of her master were raised to the highest pitch. Adjoining the pasture was a most excellent piece of wheat, just full in the milk, belonging to Jotham Lancaster. Dapple had not been permitted for a long time to go out of a Sabbath day; but her conduct had been so unexceptionable, that her master determined to trust her, especially as there was a highstone wall in good repair around the pasture. So, before going to meeting, he turned her out; when he returned at noon, he found her quietly feeding, and told Captain Rhines he verily believed Dapple had got over her tricks.“Hang her,” was his reply, “I wouldn’t trust her.”When the parson came home at night, there she was, in that beautiful field of wheat. If she had merely eaten what she wanted in one place, it might have been borne; but she had gone all over it, trampling down here and there, then lain down, and rolled in half a dozen places; and when found, was quietly feeding out in the grass. She had, with her teeth, flung off the top pole, pushed over the top rocks with her breast, and then jumped over.The next week John Rhines made a pair of iron fetters, to fasten one of her hind legs to one of her fore ones, permitting her to scuffle along and feed, but not to jump, and made a present of them to Mr. Goodhue, saying, “She can’t jump with these, I know.”Dapple now went quietly for some time. Captain Rhines said to her master, “I guess you’ve got her this time.”Vain delusion! she was probably meditating, in the “recesses of a mind capacious of such things,” upon the means and methods of evading this new device; that her meditations bore fruit was soon manifest. Parson Goodhue, returning from meeting in the afternoon, found her in the midst of his own corn. There was not a length of fence down; the bars were all up, and pinned, so that she could not remove them with her teeth. There was not a stone displaced in the wall, and the fetters were fast to her feet. As her master took down the bars to lead her out, he gazed upon her almost with fear; he was not superior to the superstitions of his day, and was almost apprehensive of some satanic agency.The story got abroad; John and Fred determined to watch her. They shut her up in the barn with nothing to eat, till she was very hungry, then turned her into the pasture just at night, and concealing themselves, kept watch. Dapple went to feeding, stopping every once in a while to look around and listen; at length, seeing or hearing no one, she made directly for the bars, and attempted to take them down with her teeth; but they were pinned at each end. She then tried topush them over by backing up against them; but they were braced by stakes nailed to the posts, and set in the ground; she then put her head between the lower bar and the one next to it above, sprung the two sufficiently to insert her shoulders, then her whole body, and shoved herself through, coming down whack on her side, while the bars sprung together as before; then getting up and shaking herself, with a look of profound satisfaction, was making for the corn, when she was accosted in not very flattering terms by her observers. John said he never saw anybody look more silly, or more worked, than she did.It was a matter of great surprise to the neighbors, and the town talk, that the mare never paid her respects to Joe Griffin, as in the fields of all others (except Captain Rhines’s, where Tige kept watch and ward) she ran riot; while Joe’s (whose land was new, just taken from the forest, and raised splendid crops of corn and grain) were unmolested by the common enemy; they were passed by to commit depredations on the fields of Charlie Bell, that adjoined.We will let our readers into the mystery. The second year after Joe worked his place, he got upvery early one morning, just as the day broke, to go out gunning; there was Dapple in the corn for the first time. As Joe had recently moved into the neighborhood, she probably, as an old resident, felt it would be polite to call. Joe well knew the character of his visitor, and what he might expect in future. He, however, manifested not the least sign of anger; didn’t even throw a stone, or hit her with a stake; but turned her out, put up the fence, and went off gunning; not even mentioning the matter to his wife, who had not yet risen.Dapple, who had made up her mind to receive a pounding, thought Mr. Griffin was one of the best of men, and resolved to cultivate his acquaintance.Three nights after, she paid him another visit, and going along the fence, found the old gap but very indifferently mended; taking off some small poles with her teeth, she cleared the great bottom log at a jump; but the instant she touched the ground on the other side, it gave way beneath her feet, and she found herself in a pit. Bitter were her reflections; she accused herself of imbecility for not interpreting aright such forbearance in a Griffin; and awaited, with fear and trembling, theapproach of morning. Just as the day broke, she heard footsteps, and Joe made his appearance. A smile of satisfaction passed over his face, as he gave one look, and disappeared, returning soon with a shovel in one hand, and a bundle of long, tough beech withes in the other. Then, standing on the edge of the pit, he began most unmercifully to apply them, with all the strength and endurance of an arm that had scarcely its rival in the community. On head, rump, and ribs the horrible tempest fell. In vain poor Dapple kicked, and reared, and ran round the pit, which was not large enough for her to get out of reach of the blows. For an hour, without intermission, this terrible scourging continued, when, reeking with perspiration, Joe threw down the rod, and took up the shovel.Dapple expected nothing less than to be buried alive, and with death staring her in the face, remembered with compunction the manner in which she had abused the kindness of the good old man, and despised all his wise counsels. But her quick discernment soon discovered that Joe was about to dig the earth at one end to an inclined plane to let her out, and instantly all herremorse and resolutions for a better life were at an end.When he had graded the pit, as he thought, sufficiently, he administered a few blows with the flat of the shovel, and an energy that sent Dapple flying from the pit like a hen from a hawk, observing, as he went leisurely to work to fill up the hole, “Much obliged to you, neighbor, for this visit; call again the first opportunity.”When Joe had filled up the pit, he flung some brush over, took the pail, and went to milking, never mentioning the matter, even to his wife, till years afterwards.The mare never found opportunity to comply with Joe’s kind invitation. He might have left his crops out of doors for all her.Dapple mended her pace as she approached the rising ground on which the Griffin homestead was located, for she had often proved the hospitality of its stable and pastures. The buildings were situated on the summit of a hill, which rose quite abruptly from the river. The blazing sun poured down upon a house of enormous size, the lower rooms finished, the rest a shell. Not a tree or a bush, save one old stub, stood near it. There wasnot the least attempt at a garden, but, far out in the field, in the midst of the corn, cabbage, beets, carrots, and onions were growing, and peas now ripe in the pod.On one side of the front door was a goose-pen; on the other a molasses hogshead, into which an upright board conducted the rain water from the eaves. The only approach to anything in the shape of plants was some house leek (then considered a sovereign remedy forcorns), in an old skillet.At a short distance from the end door was a small enclosure, made by driving stakes into the ground, in which were roots of wormwood, tansy, comfrey, lovage, and sweet agrimony, while an enormous hop-vine covered a great part of the front of the house. All about the door-yard were shingle bolts, bunches of shingles, old yokes, logs, sticks of hewn timber, drags, sleds, with the stakes in, broken and whole, and a brush-harrow was tipped up against the house, right under one of the front windows, while between them the skin of a bear, recently killed, was stretched and nailed to the clapboards.Beside the end door stood a leech, that hadbeen set up in the spring, to make soap, and suffered to stand through the summer, as Mrs. Griffin liked to have weak lye to scour with. Within a gun-shot of the western end of the house stood the stub of a massive pine, which had been broken off about twenty-five feet from the ground, and was hollow, having the opening on the north-west side. In the cavity were augers, planes, saws, chisels, shovels, axes, and canting dogs, thrown together in most admirable confusion. The tools were of English make, and evidently of excellent temper, but covered with rust. From the dead limbs on the outside hung rusty scythes and a grain cradle. This was the Griffin tool-chest. An eighth of a mile from the house, down under the hill, was the well.In the rough climate of New England, the inhabitants were solicitous to place their buildings in a lee, either under the side of a hill, the protection of a wood, or to dispose the buildings themselves in such a manner as to give them a sheltered and sunny door and barn-yard. But here the barn was a great distance from the house, the buildings disposed without the least reference to shelter, as though the occupants were insensibleto wind or weather. Yet in other respects everything betokened plenty and thrift; the walls were well built of rocks of great size, and handsomely laid up; the barns were large, and through the open doors the hay could be seen, brought so far over the floors that the mows nearly touched each other, leaving barely room to swing a flail.An immense log crib, the top covered with boards and shingles, where the long yellow ears of corn showed through the chinks, attested that the thrifty owner kept a year’s stock of bread on hand. On a scaffold of poles, laid over the high beams, bundles of last year’s flax were visible, while the number of milking-stools, hanging on the barn-yard fence, gave token of a large dairy.To complete the picture, four great hogs were rooting in the chips after thistle roots, and a white mare, with a sucking colt and two half-grown ones, was standing in the shade, on the north side of the house. As Parson Goodhue gained the summit of the hill, and was not far from the old stub, he saw approaching some one whose form was nearly concealed by a huge back-load of spruce poles, from twenty to twenty-five feet in length, and bearing in one hand an axe. As he flungthe poles from his shoulder, and stood erect, he caught sight of the minister.“Halloo, parson! Good morning. Glad to see you.Hot—ain’t it?”“Good morning, Edmund,” replied his visitor, apparently not the least disconcerted by the rudeness of the reception, and extending his hand, which the other enclosed in his great palm, and shook with a heartiness that caused the good man to reel in his saddle.“How are you, Elizabeth, and all the children?”“Well, so’s to be crawling. Lizzy always keeps herself worked down. ‘Tain’t so much the work,—though we milk seven cows, for Lizzy’s a master hand to turn off work, and real rugged,—but she’s forever scrubbing and scouring. I tell her ‘tain’t a bit of use, but she will do it. Then father’s a good deal of care.”“How is the old gentleman?”“He’s real strong at the stomach; eats and sleeps as well as ever he did; but he sometimes has the rheumatics.”

CHAPTER VII.LITTLE NED AND HIS MOTHER.WHEN Walter Griffin flung down the yard-stick, and jumped over Fred Williams’s counter for the last time, he went directly on board the Casco, and made several voyages to Cadiz with Isaac Murch, who valued his services highly, and offered him promotion to remain with him; but arriving from a voyage while the “Arthur Brown” was building, the temptation to go in her on shares, and engage in all the perils and excitements attendant upon running the gauntlet of the enemy’s cruisers, proved perfectly irresistible to a boy of Walter’s sanguine, fearless nature; and, as the vessel would be launched and away before he could make another voyage and return, he resolved to wait for her.In order to make the most of his time, he went over to Elm Island to study navigation with LionBen, and then, by Captain Rhines’s advice, to Salem, where was a French family, who, having fled from their native country, during the revolution, in poverty, leaving their property behind, supported themselves by teaching French, giving music lessons, and employing themselves in any way which would bring the means of subsistence. They also found no lack of sympathy among the inhabitants, who, being a seafaring community, not only shared in the universal good will at that time felt towards the French, but also were naturally touched by the miseries of those who, having seen better days, and accustomed to every comfort, found themselves, in old age, poor and in a strange land.Fred Williams had an uncle in Salem, a tanner. Walter boarded with him, doing work enough in the tan-yard to defray the expense of his board. Thus, under the instruction of persons of culture, and in daily contact with them, he not only obtained a knowledge of the language, but learned to speak it properly, and in a manner quite different from the patois of Peterson, which, picked up from the lower class of people, was, however, fluent, coarse, and vulgar.Salem, as our readers will recollect, was the home of Ned Gates, who, ready to like anybody who came from the neighborhood of Pleasant Cove, received Walter with open arms, insisted upon having him at his house to tea, and to stay all night, about half the time, and spent every spare moment he could get with him.Ned would go down to the yard and help Walter break bark, pull hides out of the pits, take out the spent tan, and hang up the sides of leather to dry, in order that his friend might have more time to study French, and stuck to him like his skin. Were they not going to be shipmates together, and share in perils?Ned’s parents never wanted him to go to sea, and did all in their power to prevent it; but finding his heart set upon it to such an extent that he was utterly indifferent to everything else, and unhappy, they yielded with the best grace possible. But when he was shipwrecked, and came so near perishing with hunger on the raft, they were greatly encouraged, thinking it would incline him to comply with their wishes and abandon the sea. Ned’s mother was not only a most affectionate parent, but a warm-hearted Christianwoman. Like all Christian mothers, she had been accustomed to hear her little boy say his prayers, and continued the practice after he came to be a large boy. Ned would leave the light burning, and his mother would come up, sit by his bedside, hear him repeat the Lord’s Prayer, then kneel down beside the bed and pray herself. Ned was a good boy, and loved his mother dearly, but was full of life, and sometimes would do something out of the way, so much so, that his mother, after hearing him say his prayer, would get up, take the candle in her hand as though about to leave the room, observing, “Edward, you have been a bad boy, to-day; I don’t know as I ought to pray with you to-night.” This never failed to bring Ned to terms. He would own up, if it was any concealed mischief, confess, and promise amendment, for he could not bear to go to sleep till his mother had prayed with him; yet he was nearly sixteen years old, as smart a boy as ever went aloft to furl a royal or reeve signal halyards. When the crew abandoned the sinking ship, Ned, as we have before stated, preferred to stick by the captain.Who says vulgarity, coarseness, and profanity are necessary concomitants of courage?“Edward,” said his mother, as he took the candle to go to bed, the first night after getting home from Pleasant Cove, “leave the light; I’ll come and get it.”“Mother,” said he, after saying his prayers, “how nice it seems to be once more in the old bed, and say my prayers to you, as I used to do!”“I hope, Edward, you didn’t forget them while you were away from me.”“I never turned in a night without it; but I didn’t have any mother to come and get the light and kiss me when I got through.”“I hope, my child, you did more than that. I hope, when you were undergoing such misery on that dreadful raft, you prayed to God in your own words, and out of your own heart.”“No, I didn’t, mother.”“Not pray, when there seemed nothing but death before you—a child instructed as you have been?”“No, mother. I suppose you want me to tell you just as it was.”“Certainly, my child; but didn’t the captain, James Watts, or Arthur Brown?”“The captain was swearing part of the time, and crying the rest. One minute he’d say he knew some vessel would come along and take us off, and seem quite cheerful; the next minute he would wring his hands, and swear, and cry, and say we should all starve to death on that raft. After the little water and provision the men left us was gone, he took to drinking salt water. It made him crazy, just as Mr. Brown told him it would, for he said he had heard his father say so. Then he ran off on the idea that we were going to kill and eat him. If he saw us talking together, he would say we were plotting to kill him and drink his blood. Mr. Brown said the second mate told him that he passed a crew of men once on a wreck, and wouldn’t take any notice of their signals, though they hoisted a signal of distress, and now he was getting his pay for it. I suppose it was the idea he took in his head, that we would kill and eat him, that made him jump overboard in the night, when we were all asleep.”“That was awful; but didn’t Arthur Brown or James Watts ever call upon God?”“Not as I know of; what they did inside I don’t know, but I never heard them.”“It seems very strange to me that a boy brought up to know and respect all good things taught in the Catechism, and who never went to bed a night in his life, till he went from home, without saying his prayers, and having his mother pray with him, should be on a raft in the ocean, starving, death staring him in the face, and not call upon God. I can’t understand it; I should think that would be just the time, if ever in the world.”“Well, it ain’t, mother, though it may seem strange to you. It seems strange to myself now; but I suppose, if I was in the same place, I should do just so again. I did think of my prayers, and said them, as I told you; but whenever I thought of doing anything more, it seemed to me so mean to pray to God because I was in a hard place, when I never did it when I wasn’t, that I couldn’t—I didn’t dare to. Then I was thinking, most of the time, about being taken off, watching for some vessel, or dreaming and thinking about eating and drinking.”“Dreaming about eating?”“O, yes, mother, that was the worst of it; when my tongue was so swelled, as big as two tongues,and I was so weak from hunger that I could hardly move, I’d fall into a doze, and dream that there was a great table set full of everything that I loved, and then wake up, and find it all a dream. One time I dreamed I was travelling on a road in a real hot day, and saw a little wood on the side of a hill. I went to it, and right between two great maple trees was a barrel sunk down in the ground, and full of clear, cold water. It was a boiling spring, and a flat stone right beside it. I thought I knelt down on the stone, and looked way down into the clear, beautiful water, saw grains of sand rolling over and over in it, and tried to drink; but whenever I got my parched lips close to the water, it went away, and in my struggles to reach it I woke; and there right before me was poor James Watts’s dead face, and Mr Brown looking so pale and ghostly I thought he was dead, and I all alone on the wide ocean. When I saw it was all a dream, I burst into tears; after that, began to grow stupid and wandering, and didn’t sense anything more till I found myself in a bed, and somebody putting water in my mouth; and don’t you think, mother, I went right back where I left off in my dream, and thought Iwas drinking out of that spring? but it was Charlie Bell’s wife putting water in my mouth. I tell you what it is, mother; people may think so who don’t know; but if they were in such a place, they would find it wasn’t a very nice time to be good.”“My dear boy,” replied his mother, affected to tears by the narration, “now that God has restored you to us, you have suffered so much, and seen what the life of a sailor is, and what they are exposed to, I hope you will never leave us again. You are all the son I have got—do stay with us and your sisters. You have had a good education; your father will take you right into the store with him, or he will set you up in business, when you are old enough. There is Henry Bradshaw, that you used to sit with in school; your old playmate; you used to love him, and was just like a brother with him. He is going into business soon. You can go with him, or you can learn a trade. Your father will send you to college—he will do anything for you to keep you at home. If you could only know what we underwent, after we heard the vessel was lost, and thought you were lost in her, and what a thanksgiving there was inthe house after we got Captain Rhines’s letter, you certainly never would leave us again.”Ned was not taken by surprise, for he knew his mother’s heart, and loved her. It was no easy task to deny the plea of such a mother, under such circumstances, and the very first night of getting home, too. He lay a long time silent, with eyes shut fast. His mother saw the tears come out from under the closed lids, and, as she wiped them away, began to hope her desires were to be realized.“Mother,” at length he said, “you will think I am the worst, most hard-hearted boy that ever was in the world.”The mother trembled, but made no reply.“Mother, I must go to sea. I can’t, indeed, I can’t stay at home.”“But only think what you suffered, and how near you were to death.”“But I didn’t die, mother. I’m all right now, and heavier than I ever was in my life. I was weighed in Mr. Williams’s store the day before I left, and weighed ten pounds more than I ever did before, without my coat or waistcoat. Only think of that.”“But only think what you suffered!”“Don’t people suffer at home, mother? Just see what Will Webb has suffered, all tied up in knots with rheumatism; and Tom Savage, with the spine complaint. I do believe, if I knew I should go through all I have been through the next voyage, I should have to go. Ain’t I a fool, mother?”“I think you are very foolish to leave a good home and kind parents without any necessity for such hardships. Only think of your cousin, poor James Ross, who fell from the main-mast and was killed, the very first day out.”“Well, mother, perhaps he would have died if he had been at home. Captain Rhines says, when God wants a man, he’ll call him; and anybody is just as safe on the royal yard as on deck, or at home in his bed. Isn’t that so, mother?”“I don’t know, my dear; I think I should a great deal rather have you at home in this bed. Suppose you are sick at sea. There is no one to take care of you.”“Yes, mother, Captain Brown and Walter will.”Mrs. Gates knelt down beside the bed, and prayed for submission to bear what she felt to bea bitter trial—resigning a beloved, affectionate boy to the hardships and chances of a life at sea.“Mother,” said Ned, as she took the light in her hand to go down stairs, “isn’t Walter Griffin a splendid boy?”“Yes; too good a boy to go to sea.”

LITTLE NED AND HIS MOTHER.

WHEN Walter Griffin flung down the yard-stick, and jumped over Fred Williams’s counter for the last time, he went directly on board the Casco, and made several voyages to Cadiz with Isaac Murch, who valued his services highly, and offered him promotion to remain with him; but arriving from a voyage while the “Arthur Brown” was building, the temptation to go in her on shares, and engage in all the perils and excitements attendant upon running the gauntlet of the enemy’s cruisers, proved perfectly irresistible to a boy of Walter’s sanguine, fearless nature; and, as the vessel would be launched and away before he could make another voyage and return, he resolved to wait for her.

In order to make the most of his time, he went over to Elm Island to study navigation with LionBen, and then, by Captain Rhines’s advice, to Salem, where was a French family, who, having fled from their native country, during the revolution, in poverty, leaving their property behind, supported themselves by teaching French, giving music lessons, and employing themselves in any way which would bring the means of subsistence. They also found no lack of sympathy among the inhabitants, who, being a seafaring community, not only shared in the universal good will at that time felt towards the French, but also were naturally touched by the miseries of those who, having seen better days, and accustomed to every comfort, found themselves, in old age, poor and in a strange land.

Fred Williams had an uncle in Salem, a tanner. Walter boarded with him, doing work enough in the tan-yard to defray the expense of his board. Thus, under the instruction of persons of culture, and in daily contact with them, he not only obtained a knowledge of the language, but learned to speak it properly, and in a manner quite different from the patois of Peterson, which, picked up from the lower class of people, was, however, fluent, coarse, and vulgar.

Salem, as our readers will recollect, was the home of Ned Gates, who, ready to like anybody who came from the neighborhood of Pleasant Cove, received Walter with open arms, insisted upon having him at his house to tea, and to stay all night, about half the time, and spent every spare moment he could get with him.

Ned would go down to the yard and help Walter break bark, pull hides out of the pits, take out the spent tan, and hang up the sides of leather to dry, in order that his friend might have more time to study French, and stuck to him like his skin. Were they not going to be shipmates together, and share in perils?

Ned’s parents never wanted him to go to sea, and did all in their power to prevent it; but finding his heart set upon it to such an extent that he was utterly indifferent to everything else, and unhappy, they yielded with the best grace possible. But when he was shipwrecked, and came so near perishing with hunger on the raft, they were greatly encouraged, thinking it would incline him to comply with their wishes and abandon the sea. Ned’s mother was not only a most affectionate parent, but a warm-hearted Christianwoman. Like all Christian mothers, she had been accustomed to hear her little boy say his prayers, and continued the practice after he came to be a large boy. Ned would leave the light burning, and his mother would come up, sit by his bedside, hear him repeat the Lord’s Prayer, then kneel down beside the bed and pray herself. Ned was a good boy, and loved his mother dearly, but was full of life, and sometimes would do something out of the way, so much so, that his mother, after hearing him say his prayer, would get up, take the candle in her hand as though about to leave the room, observing, “Edward, you have been a bad boy, to-day; I don’t know as I ought to pray with you to-night.” This never failed to bring Ned to terms. He would own up, if it was any concealed mischief, confess, and promise amendment, for he could not bear to go to sleep till his mother had prayed with him; yet he was nearly sixteen years old, as smart a boy as ever went aloft to furl a royal or reeve signal halyards. When the crew abandoned the sinking ship, Ned, as we have before stated, preferred to stick by the captain.

Who says vulgarity, coarseness, and profanity are necessary concomitants of courage?

“Edward,” said his mother, as he took the candle to go to bed, the first night after getting home from Pleasant Cove, “leave the light; I’ll come and get it.”

“Mother,” said he, after saying his prayers, “how nice it seems to be once more in the old bed, and say my prayers to you, as I used to do!”

“I hope, Edward, you didn’t forget them while you were away from me.”

“I never turned in a night without it; but I didn’t have any mother to come and get the light and kiss me when I got through.”

“I hope, my child, you did more than that. I hope, when you were undergoing such misery on that dreadful raft, you prayed to God in your own words, and out of your own heart.”

“No, I didn’t, mother.”

“Not pray, when there seemed nothing but death before you—a child instructed as you have been?”

“No, mother. I suppose you want me to tell you just as it was.”

“Certainly, my child; but didn’t the captain, James Watts, or Arthur Brown?”

“The captain was swearing part of the time, and crying the rest. One minute he’d say he knew some vessel would come along and take us off, and seem quite cheerful; the next minute he would wring his hands, and swear, and cry, and say we should all starve to death on that raft. After the little water and provision the men left us was gone, he took to drinking salt water. It made him crazy, just as Mr. Brown told him it would, for he said he had heard his father say so. Then he ran off on the idea that we were going to kill and eat him. If he saw us talking together, he would say we were plotting to kill him and drink his blood. Mr. Brown said the second mate told him that he passed a crew of men once on a wreck, and wouldn’t take any notice of their signals, though they hoisted a signal of distress, and now he was getting his pay for it. I suppose it was the idea he took in his head, that we would kill and eat him, that made him jump overboard in the night, when we were all asleep.”

“That was awful; but didn’t Arthur Brown or James Watts ever call upon God?”

“Not as I know of; what they did inside I don’t know, but I never heard them.”

“It seems very strange to me that a boy brought up to know and respect all good things taught in the Catechism, and who never went to bed a night in his life, till he went from home, without saying his prayers, and having his mother pray with him, should be on a raft in the ocean, starving, death staring him in the face, and not call upon God. I can’t understand it; I should think that would be just the time, if ever in the world.”

“Well, it ain’t, mother, though it may seem strange to you. It seems strange to myself now; but I suppose, if I was in the same place, I should do just so again. I did think of my prayers, and said them, as I told you; but whenever I thought of doing anything more, it seemed to me so mean to pray to God because I was in a hard place, when I never did it when I wasn’t, that I couldn’t—I didn’t dare to. Then I was thinking, most of the time, about being taken off, watching for some vessel, or dreaming and thinking about eating and drinking.”

“Dreaming about eating?”

“O, yes, mother, that was the worst of it; when my tongue was so swelled, as big as two tongues,and I was so weak from hunger that I could hardly move, I’d fall into a doze, and dream that there was a great table set full of everything that I loved, and then wake up, and find it all a dream. One time I dreamed I was travelling on a road in a real hot day, and saw a little wood on the side of a hill. I went to it, and right between two great maple trees was a barrel sunk down in the ground, and full of clear, cold water. It was a boiling spring, and a flat stone right beside it. I thought I knelt down on the stone, and looked way down into the clear, beautiful water, saw grains of sand rolling over and over in it, and tried to drink; but whenever I got my parched lips close to the water, it went away, and in my struggles to reach it I woke; and there right before me was poor James Watts’s dead face, and Mr Brown looking so pale and ghostly I thought he was dead, and I all alone on the wide ocean. When I saw it was all a dream, I burst into tears; after that, began to grow stupid and wandering, and didn’t sense anything more till I found myself in a bed, and somebody putting water in my mouth; and don’t you think, mother, I went right back where I left off in my dream, and thought Iwas drinking out of that spring? but it was Charlie Bell’s wife putting water in my mouth. I tell you what it is, mother; people may think so who don’t know; but if they were in such a place, they would find it wasn’t a very nice time to be good.”

“My dear boy,” replied his mother, affected to tears by the narration, “now that God has restored you to us, you have suffered so much, and seen what the life of a sailor is, and what they are exposed to, I hope you will never leave us again. You are all the son I have got—do stay with us and your sisters. You have had a good education; your father will take you right into the store with him, or he will set you up in business, when you are old enough. There is Henry Bradshaw, that you used to sit with in school; your old playmate; you used to love him, and was just like a brother with him. He is going into business soon. You can go with him, or you can learn a trade. Your father will send you to college—he will do anything for you to keep you at home. If you could only know what we underwent, after we heard the vessel was lost, and thought you were lost in her, and what a thanksgiving there was inthe house after we got Captain Rhines’s letter, you certainly never would leave us again.”

Ned was not taken by surprise, for he knew his mother’s heart, and loved her. It was no easy task to deny the plea of such a mother, under such circumstances, and the very first night of getting home, too. He lay a long time silent, with eyes shut fast. His mother saw the tears come out from under the closed lids, and, as she wiped them away, began to hope her desires were to be realized.

“Mother,” at length he said, “you will think I am the worst, most hard-hearted boy that ever was in the world.”

The mother trembled, but made no reply.

“Mother, I must go to sea. I can’t, indeed, I can’t stay at home.”

“But only think what you suffered, and how near you were to death.”

“But I didn’t die, mother. I’m all right now, and heavier than I ever was in my life. I was weighed in Mr. Williams’s store the day before I left, and weighed ten pounds more than I ever did before, without my coat or waistcoat. Only think of that.”

“But only think what you suffered!”

“Don’t people suffer at home, mother? Just see what Will Webb has suffered, all tied up in knots with rheumatism; and Tom Savage, with the spine complaint. I do believe, if I knew I should go through all I have been through the next voyage, I should have to go. Ain’t I a fool, mother?”

“I think you are very foolish to leave a good home and kind parents without any necessity for such hardships. Only think of your cousin, poor James Ross, who fell from the main-mast and was killed, the very first day out.”

“Well, mother, perhaps he would have died if he had been at home. Captain Rhines says, when God wants a man, he’ll call him; and anybody is just as safe on the royal yard as on deck, or at home in his bed. Isn’t that so, mother?”

“I don’t know, my dear; I think I should a great deal rather have you at home in this bed. Suppose you are sick at sea. There is no one to take care of you.”

“Yes, mother, Captain Brown and Walter will.”

Mrs. Gates knelt down beside the bed, and prayed for submission to bear what she felt to bea bitter trial—resigning a beloved, affectionate boy to the hardships and chances of a life at sea.

“Mother,” said Ned, as she took the light in her hand to go down stairs, “isn’t Walter Griffin a splendid boy?”

“Yes; too good a boy to go to sea.”

CHAPTER VIII.MOONLIGHT CONVERSATION BY THE BROOK.WALTER well deserved the praise lavished upon him by Ned. He had little resemblance to his brother Joe, or indeed any other member of the family, except in size. He was of large frame; Joe had great square jaws, high cheek bones, his hair coarse and bristling, and his joints large,—he was what is termed, in common parlance, double-jointed,—and, though exceeding agile, was loose-limbed, and somewhat awkward in his movements.Walter, on the other hand, was compactly built, graceful in all his movements; fair complexion, regular features, fine hair, that curled upon the least exertion, and something in the expression of his face that inspired confidence and attracted at once; though full of humor, he possessed not a particle of Joe’s fondnessfor practical jokes. Every whit as resolute and fond of rough sports as any of his race, he had what none of the rest possessed—imagination and sentiment; he was thoughtful, reflective, and a vein of almost feminine delicacy ran through his whole nature.All that Joe thought of, when he looked upon a noble maple, was, how much potash it would make, whether a keel-piece could be got out of it; or upon a majestic pine, how many boards it would scale.But Walter looked upon them with other eyes; the murmur of the streams and the glance of the river through the green foliage appealed to susceptibilities that did not exist in the breast of the other. In all other respects he was Griffin to the backbone. He was a universal favorite; all the boys loved Walter Griffin, and he loved them in return. He loved John Rhines, Fred Williams, and Uncle Isaac, but Charlie Bell was his ideal of perfection, and, though so much his senior, seemed nearer than all the rest. The thoughtful tenderness of Charlie’s nature touched an answering chord in that of Walter; he found something there, he could not find among his mates.Charlie, trading with Fred, and owning a portion of the goods, was often in the store, and brought a good deal in contact with Walter; they naturally grew together.When he found Charlie was going to be married, he told John he was real sorry, because he knew he shouldn’t see so much of him, and he was afraid he wouldn’t love him so much. But he soon found, to his great gratification, that “the more angels in the heart, the more room.”No sooner was Charlie married than he bought a pew in the meeting-house, and asked Walter to sit with him (as Mr. Griffin had a large family, and their pew was always crowded), and frequently invited him to tea; he soon began to feel at home there, and found that he saw a great deal more of Charlie than when he was obliged to go on to Elm Island to see him, or met him occasionally at the store.Charlie’s religion was not something put upon him like lacker upon metal, but it was a part of him, as much so as the very blood in the chambers of his heart, or the pulse in his veins; it made him happy, and it was an instinct with him to communicate that which so blessed himselfto those he loved. It was not a task; he could not help it. ‘Twas just as much a part of his nature, as to press the hand or kiss the lips of those he loved.The period occupied by our narrative was long before the era of Sabbath schools, notwithstanding young people by no means grew up, in the days of our fathers, without religious instruction, and that of the most substantial kind; sinceparents thendischarged, in respect to their children, the duties which are now but too often surrendered to Sabbath school teachers, and the material for mission schools, now so abundant, did not then exist.Parson Goodhue was accustomed, once a month, to assemble all the children, as also the older boys and girls, in the school-house on Saturday afternoon, and to put them the questions contained in the Westminster Catechism, previously committed to memory.Walter Griffin had made all his preparations for going to sea, as a green hand, in the Casco, with Isaac Murch; the ship was ready to sail Monday, for Cadiz. Walter having attended the catechising for the last time, when he saw all his schoolmates, and received a parting blessing from thegood minister, started up to Pleasant Cove, to take leave of Charlie, whom he met coming from the barn, where he had been tying up his oxen.“Good evening, Mr. Bell.”“Good evening, Walter. I was afraid you would go away without coming to see me.”“I couldn’t think of that, sir; I came up to the school-house, and then kept on.”“Then you are all dressed for Sabbath, and I shan’t let you go from here to-night; stop right here, and go to meeting with us in the morning.”“I fear I shall hinder you, sir.”“Not a whit. Uncle Isaac has been helping me break up, and has just gone from here; we’ve done work enough for one day. I’m going to clean up and rest; come, go in; supper is about ready.”Walter assisted Charlie to milk, and do his chores, and as the twilight came on, they sat down together beneath a tree near the edge of a bank, where the brook met the waters of the bay.It was a most picturesque, lovely spot, one that Charlie dearly loved, and to which he never took any one who he knew was incapable of appreciating it; he didn’t like to have his chosen spots like an unfenced common, for everybody and everything to trample on.It was a warm evening, the first of September; the season had been moist and shady; not a leaf gave token of decay. Just above them they saw the white foam of the water, as it fell in broken wreaths of foam over the precipice, and caught again the gleam of it through the leaves, as with tranquil current it met the waters of the bay, rolling with a low ripple upon the white sand of the beach.They sat with their backs against a large oak that grew double, forking just above their heads, and thus, being rather flat than round, offered a convenient rest.“Walter,” said Charlie, putting his arm around the boy, and drawing his head on to his breast, “how do you like this spot?”“I think it is most beautiful. I could sit here all night and listen to that waterfall, and watch the moonbeams glancing on the water.”“The first time I ever saw this place, I came here alone, on very much such a night as this. I loved it then, and have loved it more and more ever since. I shall miss you very much, Walter; only think how many Sabbath days we’ve sat side by side in meeting; I hope there’s some good come of it all. Walter, do you ever pray?”There was no reply, but a tear fell on Charlie’s hand; at length he said, “No, sir; I never did.”“But you say the Lord’s Prayer?”“No, sir.”“Didn’t your mother learn you to say it when a child?”“No, sir; there ain’t any goodness in our folks; we are a hard, rough set; ain’t like other people; only think about wrestling, shooting, and falling timber. When Joe became religious, he wanted to have prayers Sabbath night; but father wouldn’t hear to it. Now he’s got a house of his own, he can do as he likes.”“But you are not a rough, thoughtless boy, Walter; you are a gentle, loving boy, and you think; all the Griffin there is in you, is on the outside; you love the woods, flowers, the waters, and this beautiful spot touches you, just as it does me.”Walter made no reply, but pressed Charlie’s hand.“And you love me?”“I do, Mr. Bell, with all my heart and soul.”“Then how can you help loving God, who made everything and everybody that you love and admire?”“I know I ought.”“Perhaps you don’t like to have me talk to you in this way.”“Yes, sir, I do; I could hear you talk forever.”“Walter, I don’t believe there was ever a boy in the world had more friends than you have.”“That is just what I was thinking myself, this very afternoon, when all the boys and girls came round me at the catechising, and seemed sorry to have me go away.”“Don’t you think you owe a good deal to your Maker? and ought you not to tell him so?”“Yes, sir, I know I ought to; but I can’t.”“You could ask me to speak to the captain, and get you a chance to go in the Casco.”“O, sir, you, Mr. Rhines, and Uncle Isaac are so good, I don’t feel afraid to ask you anything.”“God is better.”“But he seems a great way off.”“He would seem near if you would go to him, and try to get acquainted. Besides, he has spoken first, and asked you to come.”“I’m afraid you will think I am a very rude boy.”“You are like all boys, and all the rest of us,before we begin to think of better things. Now, Walter, there’s just one thing I want you to do.”“What is that, sir?”“You know I have been on the ocean somewhat, and know what it is to be there, and how sailor men feel, although you will soon know much more about the matter than I do. There is no time, as you will soon learn, when a sailor man spends his time so well as in the middle watch of a pleasant night, when it is fair weather and moderate—everything going along smooth. It is then, if a man has any conscience, it wakes up; if he has had good bringing up, and good instructions, they come to his mind; it is then his thoughts are homeward bound, and he thinks of parents, brothers, sisters, and all he loves best on earth. Then he travels over the whole ground, from childhood clear along. You’ll find it so.”“I expect I shall spend many an hour in that way, and then I shall think of you and all your kindness to me.”“It isn’t kindness, Walter; it is more than that. I have enjoyed it as much as you. There are some beautiful nights at sea, as well as dark and dismal ones. There will be nights just like this,when the moon will glance on the long swell just as it now does on the little ripple on that beach, and the stars will seem like so many eyes looking down upon you, and the royal will look in the shadow as if it reached the sky.”“I know I shall enjoy such nights, and wish them longer.”“They make up for a good many rough ones, and you can live them over many times. Well, when such a night comes, I want you, as you look on the moon and stars, to remember that as the same moon is shining on me, looking down on this little brook, and into the cove, so the same good heavenly Father is over us both; that then I shall look at that moon, and think of you; this little nook, the trees, and all we’ve said to one another here will travel out on the ocean to meet you; then perhaps you may think, I wonder if some good friend is not thinking of and praying for me; ought I not to do something for myself?”“I thank you for all these pleasant thoughts. I never thought of such things before. It is not the way Parson Goodhue talks to us about religion.”“Well, he is a wise man. I can only talk in asimple way, as it comes to me, and out of my heart.”“But you don’t talk to me like as anybody else does. Captain Rhines often gives me good advice, and so does Uncle Isaac, about not drinking, and getting into bad company, or being profane, and about saving my money. But you don’t, somehow, seem to give me advice, or ever mention those things. I like to have them take notice of me, and always thank them; but when you talkwithme,—for you don’t seem to talkatme,—I want to put my arms right round your neck.”“Don’t spoil a good mind, Walter.” And the boy actually embraced him. “People have different ways of looking at the same thing,” continued Charlie; “you wouldn’t want all your friends to be just alike—would you?”“No, indeed, sir, any more than I would want all the flowers to be of one form and color, or all the birds to look alike and sing the same song.”“Well, if you only love Him who made and gave you everything half as well as you love me, who have done, and can do, very little for you, all these other matters will take care of themselves.”“Please talk some more, sir.”“It is time to go. We’ve been here a great while. They will all be a-bed.”“O, sir, we haven’t been here but a little while.”“How long do you think?”“Half an hour.”“We’ve been here an hour and a half; I know by the tide. It was high water when we sat down here. You see that white rock just breaking the water?”“Yes, sir.”“Well, when that rock is fairly out, it is two hours ebb. Walter, what makes you so bent upon going to sea? You might do well on a farm. Fred would, in the course of another year, take you in as partner. If you want money, I will lend it to you. Then you can be at home among your friends. Is it because you think you can make money faster?”“No, sir; I don’t think money is everything. There’s Isaac Murch, as straightforward, kind-hearted a fellow as ever lived,—as smart a man as was ever wrapped up in skin; but he thinks money is everything. He’ll give, too, especially to a good cause; but it comes hard. He’ll gothrough a deal to get a dollar. I mean to have a good living,—I think that’s for every one who strives for it,—and earn my wages, wherever I am. I don’t believe in wasting, or any of your low stuff, but I had rather have friends who love me for my own sake, good health, enjoy myself, and have others enjoy themselves with me, than all the money in the world.”“Money won’t buy happiness, Walter.”“You know, sir, you were saying just now that you hoped you shouldn’t have to grind your broad-axe again for six years; you did so long to turn over some of this wild land, plant an orchard, have grain, fruit and flowers, and cattle in the pastures.”“Yes, and I felt more than I said.”“But haven’t you made pretty much all the property you have out of the sea?”“Yes.”“Yet you want to work on the land.”“Because I love to. I love to work with tools, but I want some time to plant and sow, and see things grow, whether I make anything or not; it’s my nature.”“So it’s my nature to go to sea. I wish youcould see all the boats Flour (I mean Peterson) has made and rigged for me. I wouldn’t care if there was only land enough to build wharves to tie vessels up, to clean and grave their bottoms, and all the rest was water.”“But it is a hard life, and rude company. You are a quiet, thoughtful boy, and as affectionate as a woman.”“There’s a hard streak in all us Griffins; so I suppose there must be in me.”This was the boy Ned Gates was so much attached to, and helped do his work at the tan-yard, and respecting whom Mrs. Gates said he was too good to go to sea (this good lady seeming to think it best to have only bad men at sea).Naturally adapted to sea life, he was already (but little more than a boy) acting as second mate, and, by his keenness of perception, was the first to discern the whereabouts of the enemy.To say that Walter and Ned were intimate, and enjoyed themselves together, would be superfluous. They were fortunately in the same watch, slept in the same berth, and became more attached to each other every day. Ned was smart and ambitious, but light. He always aspired to furl theroyal, which he could do well enough, when it was dry, at any rate, by furling the yard-arms first; but when it was wet, and a gale of wind, it was rather more than a match for him. At such times, Walter, who knew the ambition and grit of his little shipmate, and was unwilling to mortify him before the crew, would wait till he saw the sail blow away from him once or twice, and then run up and help him.Ned was very desirous of raising a cue, and even had dim visions of a beard. He sported a concern about three inches in length, and which very much resembled the appendage of a Suffolk pig. It was so short that Walter, who combed and dressed it for him when the rest of the watch were asleep, found it very difficult to make the eel-skin stay on, even with a clove hitch, and, to Ned’s great indignation, suggested that he should put some tar on it, in order to make the string stick. Walter, on the other hand, boasted a cue nearly a foot in length, and the rudiments of a beard.Whenever he shaved (which luxury he sometimes indulged in, by the solicitations of Ned, onSunday morning in port, when the rest were ashore, to avoid disparaging remarks), Ned sat looking at him with the greatest reverence, and indulging in visions of the future, although, as yet, his lip was guiltless even of down.

MOONLIGHT CONVERSATION BY THE BROOK.

WALTER well deserved the praise lavished upon him by Ned. He had little resemblance to his brother Joe, or indeed any other member of the family, except in size. He was of large frame; Joe had great square jaws, high cheek bones, his hair coarse and bristling, and his joints large,—he was what is termed, in common parlance, double-jointed,—and, though exceeding agile, was loose-limbed, and somewhat awkward in his movements.

Walter, on the other hand, was compactly built, graceful in all his movements; fair complexion, regular features, fine hair, that curled upon the least exertion, and something in the expression of his face that inspired confidence and attracted at once; though full of humor, he possessed not a particle of Joe’s fondnessfor practical jokes. Every whit as resolute and fond of rough sports as any of his race, he had what none of the rest possessed—imagination and sentiment; he was thoughtful, reflective, and a vein of almost feminine delicacy ran through his whole nature.

All that Joe thought of, when he looked upon a noble maple, was, how much potash it would make, whether a keel-piece could be got out of it; or upon a majestic pine, how many boards it would scale.

But Walter looked upon them with other eyes; the murmur of the streams and the glance of the river through the green foliage appealed to susceptibilities that did not exist in the breast of the other. In all other respects he was Griffin to the backbone. He was a universal favorite; all the boys loved Walter Griffin, and he loved them in return. He loved John Rhines, Fred Williams, and Uncle Isaac, but Charlie Bell was his ideal of perfection, and, though so much his senior, seemed nearer than all the rest. The thoughtful tenderness of Charlie’s nature touched an answering chord in that of Walter; he found something there, he could not find among his mates.

Charlie, trading with Fred, and owning a portion of the goods, was often in the store, and brought a good deal in contact with Walter; they naturally grew together.

When he found Charlie was going to be married, he told John he was real sorry, because he knew he shouldn’t see so much of him, and he was afraid he wouldn’t love him so much. But he soon found, to his great gratification, that “the more angels in the heart, the more room.”

No sooner was Charlie married than he bought a pew in the meeting-house, and asked Walter to sit with him (as Mr. Griffin had a large family, and their pew was always crowded), and frequently invited him to tea; he soon began to feel at home there, and found that he saw a great deal more of Charlie than when he was obliged to go on to Elm Island to see him, or met him occasionally at the store.

Charlie’s religion was not something put upon him like lacker upon metal, but it was a part of him, as much so as the very blood in the chambers of his heart, or the pulse in his veins; it made him happy, and it was an instinct with him to communicate that which so blessed himselfto those he loved. It was not a task; he could not help it. ‘Twas just as much a part of his nature, as to press the hand or kiss the lips of those he loved.

The period occupied by our narrative was long before the era of Sabbath schools, notwithstanding young people by no means grew up, in the days of our fathers, without religious instruction, and that of the most substantial kind; sinceparents thendischarged, in respect to their children, the duties which are now but too often surrendered to Sabbath school teachers, and the material for mission schools, now so abundant, did not then exist.

Parson Goodhue was accustomed, once a month, to assemble all the children, as also the older boys and girls, in the school-house on Saturday afternoon, and to put them the questions contained in the Westminster Catechism, previously committed to memory.

Walter Griffin had made all his preparations for going to sea, as a green hand, in the Casco, with Isaac Murch; the ship was ready to sail Monday, for Cadiz. Walter having attended the catechising for the last time, when he saw all his schoolmates, and received a parting blessing from thegood minister, started up to Pleasant Cove, to take leave of Charlie, whom he met coming from the barn, where he had been tying up his oxen.

“Good evening, Mr. Bell.”

“Good evening, Walter. I was afraid you would go away without coming to see me.”

“I couldn’t think of that, sir; I came up to the school-house, and then kept on.”

“Then you are all dressed for Sabbath, and I shan’t let you go from here to-night; stop right here, and go to meeting with us in the morning.”

“I fear I shall hinder you, sir.”

“Not a whit. Uncle Isaac has been helping me break up, and has just gone from here; we’ve done work enough for one day. I’m going to clean up and rest; come, go in; supper is about ready.”

Walter assisted Charlie to milk, and do his chores, and as the twilight came on, they sat down together beneath a tree near the edge of a bank, where the brook met the waters of the bay.

It was a most picturesque, lovely spot, one that Charlie dearly loved, and to which he never took any one who he knew was incapable of appreciating it; he didn’t like to have his chosen spots like an unfenced common, for everybody and everything to trample on.

It was a warm evening, the first of September; the season had been moist and shady; not a leaf gave token of decay. Just above them they saw the white foam of the water, as it fell in broken wreaths of foam over the precipice, and caught again the gleam of it through the leaves, as with tranquil current it met the waters of the bay, rolling with a low ripple upon the white sand of the beach.

They sat with their backs against a large oak that grew double, forking just above their heads, and thus, being rather flat than round, offered a convenient rest.

“Walter,” said Charlie, putting his arm around the boy, and drawing his head on to his breast, “how do you like this spot?”

“I think it is most beautiful. I could sit here all night and listen to that waterfall, and watch the moonbeams glancing on the water.”

“The first time I ever saw this place, I came here alone, on very much such a night as this. I loved it then, and have loved it more and more ever since. I shall miss you very much, Walter; only think how many Sabbath days we’ve sat side by side in meeting; I hope there’s some good come of it all. Walter, do you ever pray?”

There was no reply, but a tear fell on Charlie’s hand; at length he said, “No, sir; I never did.”

“But you say the Lord’s Prayer?”

“No, sir.”

“Didn’t your mother learn you to say it when a child?”

“No, sir; there ain’t any goodness in our folks; we are a hard, rough set; ain’t like other people; only think about wrestling, shooting, and falling timber. When Joe became religious, he wanted to have prayers Sabbath night; but father wouldn’t hear to it. Now he’s got a house of his own, he can do as he likes.”

“But you are not a rough, thoughtless boy, Walter; you are a gentle, loving boy, and you think; all the Griffin there is in you, is on the outside; you love the woods, flowers, the waters, and this beautiful spot touches you, just as it does me.”

Walter made no reply, but pressed Charlie’s hand.

“And you love me?”

“I do, Mr. Bell, with all my heart and soul.”

“Then how can you help loving God, who made everything and everybody that you love and admire?”

“I know I ought.”

“Perhaps you don’t like to have me talk to you in this way.”

“Yes, sir, I do; I could hear you talk forever.”

“Walter, I don’t believe there was ever a boy in the world had more friends than you have.”

“That is just what I was thinking myself, this very afternoon, when all the boys and girls came round me at the catechising, and seemed sorry to have me go away.”

“Don’t you think you owe a good deal to your Maker? and ought you not to tell him so?”

“Yes, sir, I know I ought to; but I can’t.”

“You could ask me to speak to the captain, and get you a chance to go in the Casco.”

“O, sir, you, Mr. Rhines, and Uncle Isaac are so good, I don’t feel afraid to ask you anything.”

“God is better.”

“But he seems a great way off.”

“He would seem near if you would go to him, and try to get acquainted. Besides, he has spoken first, and asked you to come.”

“I’m afraid you will think I am a very rude boy.”

“You are like all boys, and all the rest of us,before we begin to think of better things. Now, Walter, there’s just one thing I want you to do.”

“What is that, sir?”

“You know I have been on the ocean somewhat, and know what it is to be there, and how sailor men feel, although you will soon know much more about the matter than I do. There is no time, as you will soon learn, when a sailor man spends his time so well as in the middle watch of a pleasant night, when it is fair weather and moderate—everything going along smooth. It is then, if a man has any conscience, it wakes up; if he has had good bringing up, and good instructions, they come to his mind; it is then his thoughts are homeward bound, and he thinks of parents, brothers, sisters, and all he loves best on earth. Then he travels over the whole ground, from childhood clear along. You’ll find it so.”

“I expect I shall spend many an hour in that way, and then I shall think of you and all your kindness to me.”

“It isn’t kindness, Walter; it is more than that. I have enjoyed it as much as you. There are some beautiful nights at sea, as well as dark and dismal ones. There will be nights just like this,when the moon will glance on the long swell just as it now does on the little ripple on that beach, and the stars will seem like so many eyes looking down upon you, and the royal will look in the shadow as if it reached the sky.”

“I know I shall enjoy such nights, and wish them longer.”

“They make up for a good many rough ones, and you can live them over many times. Well, when such a night comes, I want you, as you look on the moon and stars, to remember that as the same moon is shining on me, looking down on this little brook, and into the cove, so the same good heavenly Father is over us both; that then I shall look at that moon, and think of you; this little nook, the trees, and all we’ve said to one another here will travel out on the ocean to meet you; then perhaps you may think, I wonder if some good friend is not thinking of and praying for me; ought I not to do something for myself?”

“I thank you for all these pleasant thoughts. I never thought of such things before. It is not the way Parson Goodhue talks to us about religion.”

“Well, he is a wise man. I can only talk in asimple way, as it comes to me, and out of my heart.”

“But you don’t talk to me like as anybody else does. Captain Rhines often gives me good advice, and so does Uncle Isaac, about not drinking, and getting into bad company, or being profane, and about saving my money. But you don’t, somehow, seem to give me advice, or ever mention those things. I like to have them take notice of me, and always thank them; but when you talkwithme,—for you don’t seem to talkatme,—I want to put my arms right round your neck.”

“Don’t spoil a good mind, Walter.” And the boy actually embraced him. “People have different ways of looking at the same thing,” continued Charlie; “you wouldn’t want all your friends to be just alike—would you?”

“No, indeed, sir, any more than I would want all the flowers to be of one form and color, or all the birds to look alike and sing the same song.”

“Well, if you only love Him who made and gave you everything half as well as you love me, who have done, and can do, very little for you, all these other matters will take care of themselves.”

“Please talk some more, sir.”

“It is time to go. We’ve been here a great while. They will all be a-bed.”

“O, sir, we haven’t been here but a little while.”

“How long do you think?”

“Half an hour.”

“We’ve been here an hour and a half; I know by the tide. It was high water when we sat down here. You see that white rock just breaking the water?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, when that rock is fairly out, it is two hours ebb. Walter, what makes you so bent upon going to sea? You might do well on a farm. Fred would, in the course of another year, take you in as partner. If you want money, I will lend it to you. Then you can be at home among your friends. Is it because you think you can make money faster?”

“No, sir; I don’t think money is everything. There’s Isaac Murch, as straightforward, kind-hearted a fellow as ever lived,—as smart a man as was ever wrapped up in skin; but he thinks money is everything. He’ll give, too, especially to a good cause; but it comes hard. He’ll gothrough a deal to get a dollar. I mean to have a good living,—I think that’s for every one who strives for it,—and earn my wages, wherever I am. I don’t believe in wasting, or any of your low stuff, but I had rather have friends who love me for my own sake, good health, enjoy myself, and have others enjoy themselves with me, than all the money in the world.”

“Money won’t buy happiness, Walter.”

“You know, sir, you were saying just now that you hoped you shouldn’t have to grind your broad-axe again for six years; you did so long to turn over some of this wild land, plant an orchard, have grain, fruit and flowers, and cattle in the pastures.”

“Yes, and I felt more than I said.”

“But haven’t you made pretty much all the property you have out of the sea?”

“Yes.”

“Yet you want to work on the land.”

“Because I love to. I love to work with tools, but I want some time to plant and sow, and see things grow, whether I make anything or not; it’s my nature.”

“So it’s my nature to go to sea. I wish youcould see all the boats Flour (I mean Peterson) has made and rigged for me. I wouldn’t care if there was only land enough to build wharves to tie vessels up, to clean and grave their bottoms, and all the rest was water.”

“But it is a hard life, and rude company. You are a quiet, thoughtful boy, and as affectionate as a woman.”

“There’s a hard streak in all us Griffins; so I suppose there must be in me.”

This was the boy Ned Gates was so much attached to, and helped do his work at the tan-yard, and respecting whom Mrs. Gates said he was too good to go to sea (this good lady seeming to think it best to have only bad men at sea).

Naturally adapted to sea life, he was already (but little more than a boy) acting as second mate, and, by his keenness of perception, was the first to discern the whereabouts of the enemy.

To say that Walter and Ned were intimate, and enjoyed themselves together, would be superfluous. They were fortunately in the same watch, slept in the same berth, and became more attached to each other every day. Ned was smart and ambitious, but light. He always aspired to furl theroyal, which he could do well enough, when it was dry, at any rate, by furling the yard-arms first; but when it was wet, and a gale of wind, it was rather more than a match for him. At such times, Walter, who knew the ambition and grit of his little shipmate, and was unwilling to mortify him before the crew, would wait till he saw the sail blow away from him once or twice, and then run up and help him.

Ned was very desirous of raising a cue, and even had dim visions of a beard. He sported a concern about three inches in length, and which very much resembled the appendage of a Suffolk pig. It was so short that Walter, who combed and dressed it for him when the rest of the watch were asleep, found it very difficult to make the eel-skin stay on, even with a clove hitch, and, to Ned’s great indignation, suggested that he should put some tar on it, in order to make the string stick. Walter, on the other hand, boasted a cue nearly a foot in length, and the rudiments of a beard.

Whenever he shaved (which luxury he sometimes indulged in, by the solicitations of Ned, onSunday morning in port, when the rest were ashore, to avoid disparaging remarks), Ned sat looking at him with the greatest reverence, and indulging in visions of the future, although, as yet, his lip was guiltless even of down.

CHAPTER IX.THE GRIFFINS.THOSE of our readers who are familiar with the Elm Island stories have already known a good deal of the Griffin family in the persons of Joe and Henry, with a slight introduction to Walter and Will.Suppose, now, for the better understanding of Walter’s declaration, “there’s a hard streak in all of us Griffins,” we accompany Parson Goodhue (who is a great friend of the Griffins, and for whom Walter is named) in one of his parochial visits to the homestead.The good man, like most of the ministers of that day, had a farm of eighty acres, kept a horse, sheep, three cows, and a yoke of oxen, and did considerable work himself, always feeding his own cattle. He had, in addition, a wood lot of fifty acres. The parishioners were in thehabit of getting together in the fall, cutting his year’s stock of wood, and piling it up in the woods; when snow came they put their teams together and hauled it to the door, when the boys and young men assembled and cut it for the fire; on such occasions they came about noon, and had supper and a grand time at the parsonage in the evening, the girls coming about two o’clock, bringing with them abundant supplies and preparing the repast.The Griffin family consisted of eight persons—the parents and six children, all boys, Joseph, Henry, Walter, William, Edmund, and Winthrop. One hot forenoon, about eleven o’clock, and just after haying, Parson Goodhue, in all the glory of the snow-white wig, silk stockings, and polished silver shoe-buckles (which Lion Ben of Elm Island had presented to him after his adventure with the wild gander), was wending his way by a road that skirted the bank of the river, to Edmund Griffin’s. He was mounted on a very finely proportioned, snug built, calico-colored mare, a pacer. A large blue saddle-cloth protected his garments from the hairs (as he was quite fastidious about his dress), and he was providedwith a capacious pair of saddle-bags, long experience having convinced the good man that it was a most proper precaution, when visiting the Griffins, to be well provided with saddle-bags.It is said, we know not with how much truth, that dappled horses are of superior intelligence, and can more easily be taught all kinds of tricks; and for this reason they are often found in the circus. However this may be, one thing is sure—that Parson Goodhue’s mare was intelligent enough, and vexed his soul to that extent he sometimes feared she received diabolical aid. But Dapple, as he called her, was such a capital roadster, carried him so easily, and was sound in wind and limb, that the parson, who dearly loved a good animal, bore it patiently.In those days the doors of all out-buildings were universally fastened with wooden latches, or buttons, as also a great proportion of the doors of the dwellings.There was not a door or gate upon the premises of her master, or any of his neighbors, but Dapple could and would open, a fence she could not get over, or a pair of bars she could not take down (unless they were pinned), provideda sufficient motive presented itself. Notwithstanding she had been reared from a colt in the family of a clergyman, under the very droppings of the sanctuary, received the best of instruction, and the best examples had been proposed for her imitation, she would appropriate without the least scruple; in short, though we grieve to say it, she was a downright, incorrigible, sneaking thief; she was no respecter of persons or character, but would steal from saint or sinner, rich or poor; she would even take from the widow Hadlock and Aunt Molly Bradish (that good old soul, when she was alive), walk right into poor Mrs. Yelf’s cornfield right before her eyes, because she knew that Robert was at sea, and the old lady could not get at her for rheumatism.Parson Goodhue lived so near to the meeting-house that he and his family always walked to meeting, thus Sabbath was a leisure day to her; and even on that day, when all other horses and good people were at meeting, and her good master was inculcating morality, she would (if she could get loose) take the opportunity to commit trespass; in short, she was the grief of hermaster and the pest of the parish, was covered with scars she had received for her misdeeds, and would have been killed had she belonged to any other person than Parson Goodhue, whom everybody loved. She would back up against a door and turn the buttons, would lift the latch or pull the string of one with her teeth, and break or get off any yoke or clogs that were put on her. The most singular part of the whole matter was, that she would sometimes go for a month peaceably, in the pasture, and the good parson would feel quite encouraged, hoping it was a radical reformation; when just as he began to solace himself with this idea, and accord her larger liberty, she would abuse it to act worse than ever. At one time Dapple had gone quietly in the pasture for nearly six weeks, and the hopes of her master were raised to the highest pitch. Adjoining the pasture was a most excellent piece of wheat, just full in the milk, belonging to Jotham Lancaster. Dapple had not been permitted for a long time to go out of a Sabbath day; but her conduct had been so unexceptionable, that her master determined to trust her, especially as there was a highstone wall in good repair around the pasture. So, before going to meeting, he turned her out; when he returned at noon, he found her quietly feeding, and told Captain Rhines he verily believed Dapple had got over her tricks.“Hang her,” was his reply, “I wouldn’t trust her.”When the parson came home at night, there she was, in that beautiful field of wheat. If she had merely eaten what she wanted in one place, it might have been borne; but she had gone all over it, trampling down here and there, then lain down, and rolled in half a dozen places; and when found, was quietly feeding out in the grass. She had, with her teeth, flung off the top pole, pushed over the top rocks with her breast, and then jumped over.The next week John Rhines made a pair of iron fetters, to fasten one of her hind legs to one of her fore ones, permitting her to scuffle along and feed, but not to jump, and made a present of them to Mr. Goodhue, saying, “She can’t jump with these, I know.”Dapple now went quietly for some time. Captain Rhines said to her master, “I guess you’ve got her this time.”Vain delusion! she was probably meditating, in the “recesses of a mind capacious of such things,” upon the means and methods of evading this new device; that her meditations bore fruit was soon manifest. Parson Goodhue, returning from meeting in the afternoon, found her in the midst of his own corn. There was not a length of fence down; the bars were all up, and pinned, so that she could not remove them with her teeth. There was not a stone displaced in the wall, and the fetters were fast to her feet. As her master took down the bars to lead her out, he gazed upon her almost with fear; he was not superior to the superstitions of his day, and was almost apprehensive of some satanic agency.The story got abroad; John and Fred determined to watch her. They shut her up in the barn with nothing to eat, till she was very hungry, then turned her into the pasture just at night, and concealing themselves, kept watch. Dapple went to feeding, stopping every once in a while to look around and listen; at length, seeing or hearing no one, she made directly for the bars, and attempted to take them down with her teeth; but they were pinned at each end. She then tried topush them over by backing up against them; but they were braced by stakes nailed to the posts, and set in the ground; she then put her head between the lower bar and the one next to it above, sprung the two sufficiently to insert her shoulders, then her whole body, and shoved herself through, coming down whack on her side, while the bars sprung together as before; then getting up and shaking herself, with a look of profound satisfaction, was making for the corn, when she was accosted in not very flattering terms by her observers. John said he never saw anybody look more silly, or more worked, than she did.It was a matter of great surprise to the neighbors, and the town talk, that the mare never paid her respects to Joe Griffin, as in the fields of all others (except Captain Rhines’s, where Tige kept watch and ward) she ran riot; while Joe’s (whose land was new, just taken from the forest, and raised splendid crops of corn and grain) were unmolested by the common enemy; they were passed by to commit depredations on the fields of Charlie Bell, that adjoined.We will let our readers into the mystery. The second year after Joe worked his place, he got upvery early one morning, just as the day broke, to go out gunning; there was Dapple in the corn for the first time. As Joe had recently moved into the neighborhood, she probably, as an old resident, felt it would be polite to call. Joe well knew the character of his visitor, and what he might expect in future. He, however, manifested not the least sign of anger; didn’t even throw a stone, or hit her with a stake; but turned her out, put up the fence, and went off gunning; not even mentioning the matter to his wife, who had not yet risen.Dapple, who had made up her mind to receive a pounding, thought Mr. Griffin was one of the best of men, and resolved to cultivate his acquaintance.Three nights after, she paid him another visit, and going along the fence, found the old gap but very indifferently mended; taking off some small poles with her teeth, she cleared the great bottom log at a jump; but the instant she touched the ground on the other side, it gave way beneath her feet, and she found herself in a pit. Bitter were her reflections; she accused herself of imbecility for not interpreting aright such forbearance in a Griffin; and awaited, with fear and trembling, theapproach of morning. Just as the day broke, she heard footsteps, and Joe made his appearance. A smile of satisfaction passed over his face, as he gave one look, and disappeared, returning soon with a shovel in one hand, and a bundle of long, tough beech withes in the other. Then, standing on the edge of the pit, he began most unmercifully to apply them, with all the strength and endurance of an arm that had scarcely its rival in the community. On head, rump, and ribs the horrible tempest fell. In vain poor Dapple kicked, and reared, and ran round the pit, which was not large enough for her to get out of reach of the blows. For an hour, without intermission, this terrible scourging continued, when, reeking with perspiration, Joe threw down the rod, and took up the shovel.Dapple expected nothing less than to be buried alive, and with death staring her in the face, remembered with compunction the manner in which she had abused the kindness of the good old man, and despised all his wise counsels. But her quick discernment soon discovered that Joe was about to dig the earth at one end to an inclined plane to let her out, and instantly all herremorse and resolutions for a better life were at an end.When he had graded the pit, as he thought, sufficiently, he administered a few blows with the flat of the shovel, and an energy that sent Dapple flying from the pit like a hen from a hawk, observing, as he went leisurely to work to fill up the hole, “Much obliged to you, neighbor, for this visit; call again the first opportunity.”When Joe had filled up the pit, he flung some brush over, took the pail, and went to milking, never mentioning the matter, even to his wife, till years afterwards.The mare never found opportunity to comply with Joe’s kind invitation. He might have left his crops out of doors for all her.Dapple mended her pace as she approached the rising ground on which the Griffin homestead was located, for she had often proved the hospitality of its stable and pastures. The buildings were situated on the summit of a hill, which rose quite abruptly from the river. The blazing sun poured down upon a house of enormous size, the lower rooms finished, the rest a shell. Not a tree or a bush, save one old stub, stood near it. There wasnot the least attempt at a garden, but, far out in the field, in the midst of the corn, cabbage, beets, carrots, and onions were growing, and peas now ripe in the pod.On one side of the front door was a goose-pen; on the other a molasses hogshead, into which an upright board conducted the rain water from the eaves. The only approach to anything in the shape of plants was some house leek (then considered a sovereign remedy forcorns), in an old skillet.At a short distance from the end door was a small enclosure, made by driving stakes into the ground, in which were roots of wormwood, tansy, comfrey, lovage, and sweet agrimony, while an enormous hop-vine covered a great part of the front of the house. All about the door-yard were shingle bolts, bunches of shingles, old yokes, logs, sticks of hewn timber, drags, sleds, with the stakes in, broken and whole, and a brush-harrow was tipped up against the house, right under one of the front windows, while between them the skin of a bear, recently killed, was stretched and nailed to the clapboards.Beside the end door stood a leech, that hadbeen set up in the spring, to make soap, and suffered to stand through the summer, as Mrs. Griffin liked to have weak lye to scour with. Within a gun-shot of the western end of the house stood the stub of a massive pine, which had been broken off about twenty-five feet from the ground, and was hollow, having the opening on the north-west side. In the cavity were augers, planes, saws, chisels, shovels, axes, and canting dogs, thrown together in most admirable confusion. The tools were of English make, and evidently of excellent temper, but covered with rust. From the dead limbs on the outside hung rusty scythes and a grain cradle. This was the Griffin tool-chest. An eighth of a mile from the house, down under the hill, was the well.In the rough climate of New England, the inhabitants were solicitous to place their buildings in a lee, either under the side of a hill, the protection of a wood, or to dispose the buildings themselves in such a manner as to give them a sheltered and sunny door and barn-yard. But here the barn was a great distance from the house, the buildings disposed without the least reference to shelter, as though the occupants were insensibleto wind or weather. Yet in other respects everything betokened plenty and thrift; the walls were well built of rocks of great size, and handsomely laid up; the barns were large, and through the open doors the hay could be seen, brought so far over the floors that the mows nearly touched each other, leaving barely room to swing a flail.An immense log crib, the top covered with boards and shingles, where the long yellow ears of corn showed through the chinks, attested that the thrifty owner kept a year’s stock of bread on hand. On a scaffold of poles, laid over the high beams, bundles of last year’s flax were visible, while the number of milking-stools, hanging on the barn-yard fence, gave token of a large dairy.To complete the picture, four great hogs were rooting in the chips after thistle roots, and a white mare, with a sucking colt and two half-grown ones, was standing in the shade, on the north side of the house. As Parson Goodhue gained the summit of the hill, and was not far from the old stub, he saw approaching some one whose form was nearly concealed by a huge back-load of spruce poles, from twenty to twenty-five feet in length, and bearing in one hand an axe. As he flungthe poles from his shoulder, and stood erect, he caught sight of the minister.“Halloo, parson! Good morning. Glad to see you.Hot—ain’t it?”“Good morning, Edmund,” replied his visitor, apparently not the least disconcerted by the rudeness of the reception, and extending his hand, which the other enclosed in his great palm, and shook with a heartiness that caused the good man to reel in his saddle.“How are you, Elizabeth, and all the children?”“Well, so’s to be crawling. Lizzy always keeps herself worked down. ‘Tain’t so much the work,—though we milk seven cows, for Lizzy’s a master hand to turn off work, and real rugged,—but she’s forever scrubbing and scouring. I tell her ‘tain’t a bit of use, but she will do it. Then father’s a good deal of care.”“How is the old gentleman?”“He’s real strong at the stomach; eats and sleeps as well as ever he did; but he sometimes has the rheumatics.”

THE GRIFFINS.

THOSE of our readers who are familiar with the Elm Island stories have already known a good deal of the Griffin family in the persons of Joe and Henry, with a slight introduction to Walter and Will.

Suppose, now, for the better understanding of Walter’s declaration, “there’s a hard streak in all of us Griffins,” we accompany Parson Goodhue (who is a great friend of the Griffins, and for whom Walter is named) in one of his parochial visits to the homestead.

The good man, like most of the ministers of that day, had a farm of eighty acres, kept a horse, sheep, three cows, and a yoke of oxen, and did considerable work himself, always feeding his own cattle. He had, in addition, a wood lot of fifty acres. The parishioners were in thehabit of getting together in the fall, cutting his year’s stock of wood, and piling it up in the woods; when snow came they put their teams together and hauled it to the door, when the boys and young men assembled and cut it for the fire; on such occasions they came about noon, and had supper and a grand time at the parsonage in the evening, the girls coming about two o’clock, bringing with them abundant supplies and preparing the repast.

The Griffin family consisted of eight persons—the parents and six children, all boys, Joseph, Henry, Walter, William, Edmund, and Winthrop. One hot forenoon, about eleven o’clock, and just after haying, Parson Goodhue, in all the glory of the snow-white wig, silk stockings, and polished silver shoe-buckles (which Lion Ben of Elm Island had presented to him after his adventure with the wild gander), was wending his way by a road that skirted the bank of the river, to Edmund Griffin’s. He was mounted on a very finely proportioned, snug built, calico-colored mare, a pacer. A large blue saddle-cloth protected his garments from the hairs (as he was quite fastidious about his dress), and he was providedwith a capacious pair of saddle-bags, long experience having convinced the good man that it was a most proper precaution, when visiting the Griffins, to be well provided with saddle-bags.

It is said, we know not with how much truth, that dappled horses are of superior intelligence, and can more easily be taught all kinds of tricks; and for this reason they are often found in the circus. However this may be, one thing is sure—that Parson Goodhue’s mare was intelligent enough, and vexed his soul to that extent he sometimes feared she received diabolical aid. But Dapple, as he called her, was such a capital roadster, carried him so easily, and was sound in wind and limb, that the parson, who dearly loved a good animal, bore it patiently.

In those days the doors of all out-buildings were universally fastened with wooden latches, or buttons, as also a great proportion of the doors of the dwellings.

There was not a door or gate upon the premises of her master, or any of his neighbors, but Dapple could and would open, a fence she could not get over, or a pair of bars she could not take down (unless they were pinned), provideda sufficient motive presented itself. Notwithstanding she had been reared from a colt in the family of a clergyman, under the very droppings of the sanctuary, received the best of instruction, and the best examples had been proposed for her imitation, she would appropriate without the least scruple; in short, though we grieve to say it, she was a downright, incorrigible, sneaking thief; she was no respecter of persons or character, but would steal from saint or sinner, rich or poor; she would even take from the widow Hadlock and Aunt Molly Bradish (that good old soul, when she was alive), walk right into poor Mrs. Yelf’s cornfield right before her eyes, because she knew that Robert was at sea, and the old lady could not get at her for rheumatism.

Parson Goodhue lived so near to the meeting-house that he and his family always walked to meeting, thus Sabbath was a leisure day to her; and even on that day, when all other horses and good people were at meeting, and her good master was inculcating morality, she would (if she could get loose) take the opportunity to commit trespass; in short, she was the grief of hermaster and the pest of the parish, was covered with scars she had received for her misdeeds, and would have been killed had she belonged to any other person than Parson Goodhue, whom everybody loved. She would back up against a door and turn the buttons, would lift the latch or pull the string of one with her teeth, and break or get off any yoke or clogs that were put on her. The most singular part of the whole matter was, that she would sometimes go for a month peaceably, in the pasture, and the good parson would feel quite encouraged, hoping it was a radical reformation; when just as he began to solace himself with this idea, and accord her larger liberty, she would abuse it to act worse than ever. At one time Dapple had gone quietly in the pasture for nearly six weeks, and the hopes of her master were raised to the highest pitch. Adjoining the pasture was a most excellent piece of wheat, just full in the milk, belonging to Jotham Lancaster. Dapple had not been permitted for a long time to go out of a Sabbath day; but her conduct had been so unexceptionable, that her master determined to trust her, especially as there was a highstone wall in good repair around the pasture. So, before going to meeting, he turned her out; when he returned at noon, he found her quietly feeding, and told Captain Rhines he verily believed Dapple had got over her tricks.

“Hang her,” was his reply, “I wouldn’t trust her.”

When the parson came home at night, there she was, in that beautiful field of wheat. If she had merely eaten what she wanted in one place, it might have been borne; but she had gone all over it, trampling down here and there, then lain down, and rolled in half a dozen places; and when found, was quietly feeding out in the grass. She had, with her teeth, flung off the top pole, pushed over the top rocks with her breast, and then jumped over.

The next week John Rhines made a pair of iron fetters, to fasten one of her hind legs to one of her fore ones, permitting her to scuffle along and feed, but not to jump, and made a present of them to Mr. Goodhue, saying, “She can’t jump with these, I know.”

Dapple now went quietly for some time. Captain Rhines said to her master, “I guess you’ve got her this time.”

Vain delusion! she was probably meditating, in the “recesses of a mind capacious of such things,” upon the means and methods of evading this new device; that her meditations bore fruit was soon manifest. Parson Goodhue, returning from meeting in the afternoon, found her in the midst of his own corn. There was not a length of fence down; the bars were all up, and pinned, so that she could not remove them with her teeth. There was not a stone displaced in the wall, and the fetters were fast to her feet. As her master took down the bars to lead her out, he gazed upon her almost with fear; he was not superior to the superstitions of his day, and was almost apprehensive of some satanic agency.

The story got abroad; John and Fred determined to watch her. They shut her up in the barn with nothing to eat, till she was very hungry, then turned her into the pasture just at night, and concealing themselves, kept watch. Dapple went to feeding, stopping every once in a while to look around and listen; at length, seeing or hearing no one, she made directly for the bars, and attempted to take them down with her teeth; but they were pinned at each end. She then tried topush them over by backing up against them; but they were braced by stakes nailed to the posts, and set in the ground; she then put her head between the lower bar and the one next to it above, sprung the two sufficiently to insert her shoulders, then her whole body, and shoved herself through, coming down whack on her side, while the bars sprung together as before; then getting up and shaking herself, with a look of profound satisfaction, was making for the corn, when she was accosted in not very flattering terms by her observers. John said he never saw anybody look more silly, or more worked, than she did.

It was a matter of great surprise to the neighbors, and the town talk, that the mare never paid her respects to Joe Griffin, as in the fields of all others (except Captain Rhines’s, where Tige kept watch and ward) she ran riot; while Joe’s (whose land was new, just taken from the forest, and raised splendid crops of corn and grain) were unmolested by the common enemy; they were passed by to commit depredations on the fields of Charlie Bell, that adjoined.

We will let our readers into the mystery. The second year after Joe worked his place, he got upvery early one morning, just as the day broke, to go out gunning; there was Dapple in the corn for the first time. As Joe had recently moved into the neighborhood, she probably, as an old resident, felt it would be polite to call. Joe well knew the character of his visitor, and what he might expect in future. He, however, manifested not the least sign of anger; didn’t even throw a stone, or hit her with a stake; but turned her out, put up the fence, and went off gunning; not even mentioning the matter to his wife, who had not yet risen.

Dapple, who had made up her mind to receive a pounding, thought Mr. Griffin was one of the best of men, and resolved to cultivate his acquaintance.

Three nights after, she paid him another visit, and going along the fence, found the old gap but very indifferently mended; taking off some small poles with her teeth, she cleared the great bottom log at a jump; but the instant she touched the ground on the other side, it gave way beneath her feet, and she found herself in a pit. Bitter were her reflections; she accused herself of imbecility for not interpreting aright such forbearance in a Griffin; and awaited, with fear and trembling, theapproach of morning. Just as the day broke, she heard footsteps, and Joe made his appearance. A smile of satisfaction passed over his face, as he gave one look, and disappeared, returning soon with a shovel in one hand, and a bundle of long, tough beech withes in the other. Then, standing on the edge of the pit, he began most unmercifully to apply them, with all the strength and endurance of an arm that had scarcely its rival in the community. On head, rump, and ribs the horrible tempest fell. In vain poor Dapple kicked, and reared, and ran round the pit, which was not large enough for her to get out of reach of the blows. For an hour, without intermission, this terrible scourging continued, when, reeking with perspiration, Joe threw down the rod, and took up the shovel.

Dapple expected nothing less than to be buried alive, and with death staring her in the face, remembered with compunction the manner in which she had abused the kindness of the good old man, and despised all his wise counsels. But her quick discernment soon discovered that Joe was about to dig the earth at one end to an inclined plane to let her out, and instantly all herremorse and resolutions for a better life were at an end.

When he had graded the pit, as he thought, sufficiently, he administered a few blows with the flat of the shovel, and an energy that sent Dapple flying from the pit like a hen from a hawk, observing, as he went leisurely to work to fill up the hole, “Much obliged to you, neighbor, for this visit; call again the first opportunity.”

When Joe had filled up the pit, he flung some brush over, took the pail, and went to milking, never mentioning the matter, even to his wife, till years afterwards.

The mare never found opportunity to comply with Joe’s kind invitation. He might have left his crops out of doors for all her.

Dapple mended her pace as she approached the rising ground on which the Griffin homestead was located, for she had often proved the hospitality of its stable and pastures. The buildings were situated on the summit of a hill, which rose quite abruptly from the river. The blazing sun poured down upon a house of enormous size, the lower rooms finished, the rest a shell. Not a tree or a bush, save one old stub, stood near it. There wasnot the least attempt at a garden, but, far out in the field, in the midst of the corn, cabbage, beets, carrots, and onions were growing, and peas now ripe in the pod.

On one side of the front door was a goose-pen; on the other a molasses hogshead, into which an upright board conducted the rain water from the eaves. The only approach to anything in the shape of plants was some house leek (then considered a sovereign remedy forcorns), in an old skillet.

At a short distance from the end door was a small enclosure, made by driving stakes into the ground, in which were roots of wormwood, tansy, comfrey, lovage, and sweet agrimony, while an enormous hop-vine covered a great part of the front of the house. All about the door-yard were shingle bolts, bunches of shingles, old yokes, logs, sticks of hewn timber, drags, sleds, with the stakes in, broken and whole, and a brush-harrow was tipped up against the house, right under one of the front windows, while between them the skin of a bear, recently killed, was stretched and nailed to the clapboards.

Beside the end door stood a leech, that hadbeen set up in the spring, to make soap, and suffered to stand through the summer, as Mrs. Griffin liked to have weak lye to scour with. Within a gun-shot of the western end of the house stood the stub of a massive pine, which had been broken off about twenty-five feet from the ground, and was hollow, having the opening on the north-west side. In the cavity were augers, planes, saws, chisels, shovels, axes, and canting dogs, thrown together in most admirable confusion. The tools were of English make, and evidently of excellent temper, but covered with rust. From the dead limbs on the outside hung rusty scythes and a grain cradle. This was the Griffin tool-chest. An eighth of a mile from the house, down under the hill, was the well.

In the rough climate of New England, the inhabitants were solicitous to place their buildings in a lee, either under the side of a hill, the protection of a wood, or to dispose the buildings themselves in such a manner as to give them a sheltered and sunny door and barn-yard. But here the barn was a great distance from the house, the buildings disposed without the least reference to shelter, as though the occupants were insensibleto wind or weather. Yet in other respects everything betokened plenty and thrift; the walls were well built of rocks of great size, and handsomely laid up; the barns were large, and through the open doors the hay could be seen, brought so far over the floors that the mows nearly touched each other, leaving barely room to swing a flail.

An immense log crib, the top covered with boards and shingles, where the long yellow ears of corn showed through the chinks, attested that the thrifty owner kept a year’s stock of bread on hand. On a scaffold of poles, laid over the high beams, bundles of last year’s flax were visible, while the number of milking-stools, hanging on the barn-yard fence, gave token of a large dairy.

To complete the picture, four great hogs were rooting in the chips after thistle roots, and a white mare, with a sucking colt and two half-grown ones, was standing in the shade, on the north side of the house. As Parson Goodhue gained the summit of the hill, and was not far from the old stub, he saw approaching some one whose form was nearly concealed by a huge back-load of spruce poles, from twenty to twenty-five feet in length, and bearing in one hand an axe. As he flungthe poles from his shoulder, and stood erect, he caught sight of the minister.

“Halloo, parson! Good morning. Glad to see you.Hot—ain’t it?”

“Good morning, Edmund,” replied his visitor, apparently not the least disconcerted by the rudeness of the reception, and extending his hand, which the other enclosed in his great palm, and shook with a heartiness that caused the good man to reel in his saddle.

“How are you, Elizabeth, and all the children?”

“Well, so’s to be crawling. Lizzy always keeps herself worked down. ‘Tain’t so much the work,—though we milk seven cows, for Lizzy’s a master hand to turn off work, and real rugged,—but she’s forever scrubbing and scouring. I tell her ‘tain’t a bit of use, but she will do it. Then father’s a good deal of care.”

“How is the old gentleman?”

“He’s real strong at the stomach; eats and sleeps as well as ever he did; but he sometimes has the rheumatics.”

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