CHAPTER III.TEMPTATION.
Clinton’sbrood of ducks at length made their appearance, just one month after he had put the eggs to the hen. There were eight of them, four of the eggs having produced nothing. If madame Specky was a little astonished at the singular appearance which her children presented, she kept it all to herself, like a good, prudent mother, for she behaved toward them just the same as though they were ordinary chickens. She did not appear to think anything strange of their large bills, or their clumsy, webbed feet, or their awkward, waddling gait. If a dog or cat ventured near them, or a hawk happened to sail through the air, hen never put on bolder front than did mistress Specky. And there was need enough for all her courage, for her young family had so littlecontrol over their big feet, that they never could have saved themselves by their legs, had a foe invaded the premises.
For several days after the ducks were hatched, they continued about the poultry-yard, ignorant as yet that there was such a thing as water, except as they had made its acquaintance in the little tin pan from which they were accustomed to drink. Clinton’s father had told him that it was a good plan to keep them from water for the first three or four days, as they were so tender as to be easily injured by cold and dampness. On the fifth day, Clinton concluded to introduce them to their new home; so, gathering up the ducklings into a basket, and taking the hen under his arm, he carried them down to the brook, where he had made the duck-house and pond before-mentioned. It was now about the middle of September, and the brook was nearly dry; but the little round pond contained plenty of water. This pond received all the water that came down in the brook; and there was a dam, at the lower side of it, so that the water could not pass on its way, until it had filled the pond, and flowed over the dam. The pond was thus kept full, all the time, but it couldbe easily emptied, when necessary, by opening a gate which Clinton had made in the dam.
Clinton had no sooner deposited his basket of ducklings by the side of the pond, than they all seemed possessed to get into the water. Away they ran, pell mell, and before their cautious and anxious mother could warn them of their danger, every one of them had launched away into the new element. And now they were as graceful and beautiful as they had been ungainly and ugly. They glided along over the water as naturally and elegantly as does the new ship on its first entrance upon its destined element. Annie, who had come to witness the scene, was delighted with the sight, and clapped her hands in glee, exclaiming:—
“O, isn’t it beautiful, Clinty? Look! look! see that cunning little one duck its head into the water!”
“Yes,” said Clinton, without turning to look at the sight which so pleased Annie, “yes, and only see what a fuss the old hen is making on the bank! Look quick! Ha, ha, ha!” and the boy, whose love of the ludicrous was as strong as his sister’s love of the beautiful, burst into a hearty laugh. Nor did he laugh without a reason. Madame Specky, good, honest oldhen that she was, had never seen such strange doings before, and she was greatly alarmed for the safety of her brood. So she stood by the side of the pond, clucking and calling with all her might, and with her wings partially opened, as if to receive back her naughty children. Her neck was stretched out yearningly towards them, and she was so excited that she could not stand still a moment, but kept dancing, like a boy whose legs are undergoing that peculiar tingling sensation produced by a smart switching with a birch rod. There was horror in her eye, and frenzy in her attitude. But the little ducks, who were the innocent authors of all this alarm, were sailing about as calmly as though nothing unusual had happened. Clinton and Annie remained with them a long time, now admiring the graceful movements of the ducks, and now laughing at the distraction of the old hen, as she tried in vain to call them ashore. After a while, Clinton carried them all to the duck-house, and shut them up for the remainder of the day, that they might get used to their new home.
Mr. Davenport was at this time engaged in getting a piece of land ready for a crop of winter wheat, andhe required the assistance of Clinton a considerable portion of each day. The field had to be broken up and manured, and the soil finely pulverized, to prepare it for the seed, which must be sown early in the fall, and not in the spring, like most other seeds. Mr. Davenport always did thoroughly whatever he undertook. His motto was, “If a thing is worth doing at all, it is worth doing well;” and a very good motto it is. Clinton sometimes thought his father was more particular about his work than was necessary; he certainly took more pains than some of his neighbors did. But somehow or other, he always seemed to get paid back liberally for his extra care, by better and larger crops than those could show who were less particular about their work. Mr. Davenport was especially anxious to have the ground well prepared for this crop, because it was an experiment; he never before having attempted to raise winter wheat. Indeed, but very little of this grain had ever been raised in the State, and it was yet uncertain whether the climate was favorable to its production. He therefore determined to give it a fair trial, not only to satisfy his own mind, but that others might be benefited by theexperiment; for if he and his neighbors could raise their own flour, instead of sending several hundred miles for it, he thought it was very important that they should know it. Were it not for such men as he, who are willing to enter into patient and careful experiments, for the common benefit, the world would make but slow progress in improvement.
The land was at length about ready for the seed. Clinton had worked pretty hard for several days, and as the family arose from their noon meal, Mr. Davenport said:—
“Well, Clinty, I hope you wont get sick of raising wheat before we have planted it. You have had a pretty hard time, and I think you must be tired. You need not go into the field this afternoon, but you may tackle up Fanny, and drive over to Mr. Fletcher’s, and get the seed-wheat that I bought of him. Get back as early as you can, as I want to have the seed cleaned to-night, and ready to put into the ground to-morrow morning.”
Clinton was not sorry to hear this announcement of his afternoon’s work; for though he was not a lazy boy, it really seemed to him, that just then a ride to theCross-Roads would be quite as pleasant as an afternoon spent at work in the field. So Fanny was soon harnessed into the wagon, and Clinton started on his errand.
Mr. Fletcher was a trader, who kept a store at the Cross-Roads,—a place where two of the main highways of the county cross each other at right angles, thus ✛.[2]Quite a thrifty little village had sprung up at this point, boasting, among other things, a school-house, a church, a post-office, and a “variety store.” It was, in fact, the centre of life and business for the surrounding dozen miles. Though about five miles from Mr. Davenport’s house, there was no other store or church within twice the distance. His family, consequently, had almost come to regard the Cross-Roads settlement as a part of their own village, though it was actually situated in another township.
Clinton had not driven half way to his destination, when he discovered two lads in advance of him, walking the same way he was going. On coming up with them, he found that they were Oscar and Jerry, whowere out on a gunning excursion,—Oscar having borrowed a fowling-piece of a young man who lived near Mr. Preston’s.
“Halloo, Clin, give us a ride,” exclaimed Oscar, as the wagon drew up to them; and without further ceremony, both boys jumped into the vehicle.
“Where are you going?” inquired Clinton, as he started the horse.
“O, wherever you please,—we are not at all particular,” replied Oscar. “Jerry and I have been trying to pop off some birds, this afternoon, but the little fools won’t stop long enough to let us shoot them.”
“I’m glad of it,” replied Clinton, dryly.
“Why are you glad?” asked Jerry.
“Because it’s too bad to shoot them,” replied Clinton. “I like to see and hear them too well, to harm them. If I could have my way, there shouldn’t be a bird shot, unless they were crows or hawks, or something of that kind.”
“Pooh,” said Oscar; “I should like to know what birds were made for, if it wasn’t to be shot. You don’t know what fine sport it is to shoot them, or you would be as fond of gunning as I am.”
Oscar had probably shot half a dozen poor little birds in the course of his life, and severely frightened as many more. But he had got the idea that gunning was a fine, manly amusement, and he already fancied himself to be quite an accomplished sportsman. And if the disposition could have made him a successful hunter, he would have been one; for he wanted to take the life of every bird and squirrel that he saw. He soon found, however, that it was easier to fire than to hit; and in most of his excursions, his powder-flask was emptied much faster than his game-bag was filled.
The boys continued their conversation, and soon reached the Cross-Roads. Driving the wagon up to Mr. Fletcher’s store, Clinton alighted, but on trying the door, he found it locked. Mr. Fletcher had evidently stepped out for a few minutes, and Clinton was about to hitch the horse to the post, and await his return, when Oscar proposed driving round to the “Falls,” instead of waiting there. Clinton at first refused; but Jerry and Oscar both joined in the request so earnestly, that he soon began to parley and hesitate, and finally ended by reluctantly yielding to theirproposition. He accordingly jumped into the wagon, and turned the face of Fanny towards the Falls.
The lake, or pond, which has been before alluded to, has one outlet,—a little stream which flows away in a south-westerly direction, finally discharging into a larger river, which finds its way to the ocean. This little stream, which goes by the simple name of “The River,” in Brookdale, passes near by the Cross-Roads. About a mile beyond that village, it comes to a wild, romantic, down-hill place, where the waters tumble about, and frolic among the rocks, as though they really enjoyed the sport. This place is called “The Falls,” the descent of the river here being very marked. It is off from the common roads, the only way of reaching it being by a “wood-road,”—a sort of path through the forest, used by the teams in hauling wood. The very seclusion of the spot, however, made it the more charming, and it was often resorted to by pleasure parties in the summer.
The road through the woods being narrow and rough, Clinton could not drive very swiftly; but he and his companions talked fast enough to make up for their slow progress. They had not proceeded veryfar in this road, when Oscar drew from his pocket a small package, enveloped in a piece of paper, which he began to unroll slowly, and with a very knowing and significant look. The contents proved to be three cigars. Holding them out in his hand, he exclaimed:—
“How lucky! just one a-piece. Now, boys, for a good smoke. Take one, Clin; and here, Jerry, is one for you.”
Jerry took the cigar offered, but Clinton shook his head, saying that he did not smoke.
“You don’t know what you lose, then,” said Oscar. “I’ve smoked these two or three years, and I couldn’t live without my cigar, now. You can’t imagine how much pleasure there is in it. Come, just try this, and see if it isn’t nice.”
“No,” replied Clinton, “I don’t wish to. Father hates tobacco, in every shape, and he wouldn’t like it if he knew I smoked.”
“But this is all prejudice,” added Oscar. “Smoking never hurt me, yet, and nobody can make me believe that there is any harm in it. I felt a little sickish for a few minutes, the first time, but that was nothing. Come, try it, Clin,” he added, as he drew a match fromhis pocket, and lighted his own cigar; “try it—it can’t hurt you,—and besides, your father needn’t know anything about it.”
“Here goes mine,” said Jerry, as he touched off a match, and applied the fire to his cigar. “Myfather wont object, I know, for he smokes himself like everything; and if he did object, I guess it wouldn’t make much difference. I don’t intend to be a boy all my life-time.”
The two young smokers were soon puffing away in good earnest. Oscar was an old hand at the business, and Jerry had been practising pretty diligently since his city cousin came to live with him. Between each whiff, however, they renewed their assaults upon the good resolution of their comrade; and so skilfully and perseveringly did they conduct the attack, that Clinton, after a while, began to think it looked a little unsocial and obstinate to refuse to participate in their enjoyment. By the time they had reached the Falls, he had concluded to yield to their wishes. He accordingly drove Fanny into the water, and unhitched her bridle, that she might drink and cool herself. The three boys then threw themselvesdown upon the grass, beneath a large tree, and prepared to enjoy the scene, and at the same time repose their limbs. Clinton lighted his cigar,—and now commenced his first experience in tobacco. He was pleased with the new sensation; and as he lay upon his back, watching the delicate wreaths of smoke ascending from his cigar, and listening to Oscar,—who was spinning out one of his long yarns about a military muster he once witnessed in Boston,—the time flew by much faster than he was aware. His cigar had half disappeared, and those of his companions were nearly used up, when he happened to notice that the sun was fast declining, and would soon go down behind the tops of the tall pines on the other side of the stream. Tossing his cigar into the water, he jumped up, saying:—
“Come, boys, this wont do,—we must be on our way home.”
“What’s your hurry?” inquired Jerry; “it isn’t four o’clock yet.”
“Perhaps it isn’t,” replied Clinton, “but I ought to have been at home by this time. Come, jump in, and I will turn the horse round.”
The boys got into the wagon, and were soon slowly threading their way out of the woods. In about half an hour they reached Mr. Fletcher’s, where Clinton stopped, and got the bags of seed. He had now a pretty good load, and much of the way being up hill, he did not get along very fast. Oscar and Jerry talked as fast as usual, but Clinton looked sober, and did not seem inclined to say much. Indeed, he hardly spoke to them, from the time they left the store until they reached the house where Oscar and Jerry lived, when he bade them good afternoon, and drove on.
The fact was, Clinton was suffering the penalty of his first cigar, but he did not like to confess it, and this was the reason why he said nothing. Soon after he started from the Falls, he began to experience a sinking, nauseating feeling in his stomach, and every jolt and jerk of the wagon seemed to increase it. He concealed his feelings from Oscar and Jerry, as much as he could, and after they had alighted, he hurried home as fast as possible.
It was past six o’clock when Clinton drove into the yard at home. His father, who had begun to feel anxious at his long absence, had come in from the field, andon seeing Clinton, he called out to him, somewhat sharply,
“Where have you been all the afternoon, Clinton? I’ve been waiting for you more than two hours.”
“Mr. Fletcher wasn’t there, and I had to wait for him,” replied Clinton. “Besides, it was so warm I thought I wouldn’t drive very fast.” Ah, Clinton, have you forgotten that it is a falsehood to tell but half the truth?
Clinton had begun to unharness the horse, when he became so faint and dizzy that he was obliged to stop; and before he could get into the house, he began to vomit. His father, hearing the noise, ran to his aid, and led him into the house. The pale, deathly look of Clinton, as his father assisted him into the sitting-room, was the first notice his mother received that he was ill. She was somewhat startled by the suddenness of his entrance, and at first thought that he had got hurt.
“Mercy on us! what has happened?” was her first exclamation.
“Nothing alarming,” replied Clinton; “I am a little sick at my stomach—that is all.”
“How long have you been so?” inquired his mother.
“Only a little while,” was the reply. “I haven’t felt very smart for an hour or two, but just as I got home I began to grow worse, and have been vomiting.”
“Have you eaten any thing this afternoon?” inquired Mr. Davenport.
“No, sir,” replied Clinton, “nothing since dinner.”
“I am afraid he has worked too hard lately,” remarked Mrs. Davenport to her husband. “You have kept him at it pretty steadily for a week past, and you know he isn’t so rugged as many boys are. I wouldn’t allow him to work so hard again.”
“Hehasbeen working pretty hard, I know,” observed Mr. Davenport; “but he has never complained before, and I did not suppose he suffered from it. I don’t think this is anything serious, wife—he needs a little physic, perhaps, or something of that sort, to regulate his system.”
While this conversation was taking place, Clinton sat in the rocking-chair, leaning his head upon his hand. Little Annie stood by his side, silent and sad, her large, loving eyes looking up wonderingly at hersick brother. But he did not notice her. He was thinking very earnestly of something else. His conscience was busily at work, reproaching him for his conduct during the afternoon. “You disobeyed your father,” it plainly said, “by going over to the Falls, when he told you to come right home. You deceived him, after you got home, by not giving the true reason for your long absence. You made yourself sick by smoking that cigar, and now you sit still and hear your parents, in their sympathy and solicitude, attribute your illness to hard work. O Clinton, you have not only done very wrong, but you have done it verymeanly, too! No wonder you cover up your face, and dare not meet the eye of your parents.”
Thus was conscience talking. At first, Clinton almost resolved to confess the whole story of his wrong-doings. “Do it,” said conscience; but shame whispered, “no, don’t expose yourself—you will soon feel better, and the whole affair will be forgotten in a day or two.” The longer he hesitated, between these two advisers, the less inclined did he feel to make the confession. His father soon went out, to put up the horse, and his mother set about preparing him a bowl ofthoroughwort tea—her favorite medicine, in all common forms of sickness. Clinton already began to feel much better, and on the whole he thought he would say nothing about the adventures of the afternoon. When his mother brought him the herb tea, he drank it down as fast as possible, but he could not help making a wry face over it, for it was not very palatable to his taste. His mother thought he had better go to bed early, and without eating any supper, and he complied with her wishes. Just as he was beginning to doze, a gentle, timid voice awakened him, saying,
“Clinty, you won’t be sick, will you?”
“No, sis,” he answered, and with a parting “good-night,” he fell asleep—not the sweet, calm sleep to which he was accustomed, but fitful, troubled dreams, in which the unpleasant events of the afternoon flitted before him, in an exaggerated and grotesque, but always sad and reproachful panorama.
FOOTNOTES:[2]See the Map of Brookdale, p.14.
[2]See the Map of Brookdale, p.14.
[2]See the Map of Brookdale, p.14.