"Come on, Billy Button."
"O, Gid Noonin, I can't."
"Why not? Got the cramp?"
"Look here, Gid."
"Well, I'm looking."
"Now, Gid Noonin!"
"Yes; that's my name!"
"I shan't go a step!"
"So I wouldn't," returned Gid, coolly. "I only asked you for fun."
"O—h! H'm! Are you going to swim in the brook or the river?"
"Brook, you goosie. Prime place downthere by the old willow tree. Don't you wish I'd let you go?"
"No; for my mother says—"
"O,doesshe, though?"
"My mother says—"
"Lor, now, Billy Button!"
"Hush, Gid; my mother says—"
"A pretty talking woman your mother is!" struck in Gid, squinting his eyes.
What a witty creature Gid was! Willy could hardly keep from laughing.
"Can't you let me speak, Gid Noonin? My mother says she won't—"
"Says shewon't? That's real wicked kind of talk! I'm ashamed of your mother!"
Willy laughed. Gid did havesucha way of making up faces!
"Come on, you little girl-baby! Guess Iwilltake you, if you won't cry."
Willy laughed again. It was not at all painful, but extremely funny, to hear Gid call names, for he never did it in a provoking way at all.
"Come along, you little tip end of a top o' my thumb."
"No,sir. Shan't go a step!"
Willy was a boy that meant to mind his mother.
"But I s'pose you'll have to go if I take you."
Willy caught himself by the left ear. He felt the need of holding on by something; still he was somehow afraid he should have to go in spite of his ears. Was there ever such a boy as Gid for teasing?
"Why, Gid Noonin, I told you my mother said—"
"No, you didn't! You haven't told me a thing! You stutter so I can't understand a word."
At the idea of his stuttering, Willy laughed outright; and during that moment of weakness was picked up and set astride of Gid's shoulders.
"You put me down! My mother says I shan't play with you; so there!" cried Willy, struggling manfully, yet a little pleased, I must confess, to think he couldn't possibly help himself.
"Ride away, ride away. Billy shall ride," sang Gid, bouncing his burden up and down.
Willy felt like a dry leaf in an eddy, which is whirled round and round, yet is all the while making faster and faster for the hungry dimple in the middle, where there is no getting out again.
"O, dear, Gid's such a great big boy, and I'monlyjust eight," thought he, jolting up and down like a bag of meal on horseback. Well, it would be good fun, after all, to go in swimming,—splendid fun, when there was somebody to hold you up, and keep you from drowning. If you could forget that your mother had told you not to play with Gid Noonin!
"If you get the string of that medal wet you'll catch it," said Gid. "Better take it off and put it in your pocket."
"Just a-going to," said Willy. "D'you think I's a fool?"
Well, wasn't it nice! The water feeling so ticklish all over you, and—
Why, no, it wasn't nice at all; it was just frightful! After two or three dives, Gid had snapped his fingers in his face,and gone off and left him. Willy couldn't swim any more than a fish-hook. WherewasGid?
"The water's up to my chin. Come, Gid, quick!"
What would Seth and Stephen say if they knew how he was abused? No—his mother? No—Love, and Caleb, and Liddy? How they would feel! There wasn't any bottom to this brook, or if there ever had been it had dropped out.
"O, Gid, I can't stand up."
Gid was in plain sight now, on the bank, pretending to skip stones. Gid was like a Chinese juggler; he could make believe do one thing, while he was really doing another.
"Quick! Quick! Quick! I shall dro—ow—own!"
Gid took his own time; but as he swam slowly back to his trembling little playmate, he was "rolling a sweet morsel under his tongue," which tasted very much like a silver medal—with the string taken out.
"What d'you go off for?" gasped Willy.
"For fun, you outrageous little ninny!" mumbled Gid, tickling Willy under the arms. "I'm going to get you out, now, and dress you, and send you home to your mother."
"Dress me, I guess!"
"Well, you'd better scamper!" said Gid, hurriedly, as they got into their clothes. "Your mother'll have a fit about you."
"My mother? No, she won't. She don't spect the codfish and mackerel till most supper-time. She said I might play, but she wasn't willing I should play with you,though, Gid Noonin," said little Willy, squeezing the water out of his hair.
"But you did, you little scamp! Now run along home. I can't stop to talk. Got to saw wood."
"Then what made you creep so awful slow when I called to you?" asked Willy, indignantly.
"O, because I've got such a sore throat," wheezed Gideon. "Off with you! Scamper!"
Upon that Gid took to his heels, and left Master Willy staring at him, and wondering what a sore throat had to do with swimming, and what made Gid in such a hurry all in a minute.
"He's a queer fellow—Gid is! Can't spell worth a cent. Should think he'd be ashamed to see a little boy like me wearthe medal. Glad I didn't wet it, for the color would have washed out of the string."
With that Willy put his hand in his pocket.
"Out here and show yourself, sir."
This to the medal.
"What! Why, what's this?"
He felt in the other pocket.
"Why! Why!"
He drew out junks of blue clay, wads of twine, a piece of chalk, a fish-hook, and various other articles more or less wound up in a wad; but no medal.
"Guess there's a hole in my pocket, and the medal fell through."
And without stopping to examine the pocket, he ran back all the way to the brook. Nowhere to be found. Not in the grass on either side of the road; not on the bank.
Then he remembered to look at his pockets; turned them all three inside out four times. No hole there.
"Well, I never!—Look here, you Oze Wiggins; did you pick up anything in the grass?"
"Noffin' but a toadstool," replied little Ozem, innocently; and Willy wondered if he wasn't a half-fool to make such an answer as that.
"Where can that medal be?" said he, with a dry sob.
He did not once suspect that Gideon Noonin had taken it.
"I'll go home and tell my mother. O, dear! O, dear!"
He was still at the tender age when little boys believe their mammas can help them out of any kind of trouble. True, he hadbeen naughty and disobedient; but if he said he was sorry, wouldn't her arms open to take him in? He was sorry now,—no doubt of that,—and was running home with all speed, when the sight of his father in the distance reminded him of his errand, and he rushed back to the store for the codfish and mackerel.
"What makes your hair so wet, bubby?" asked Daddy Wiggins, rolling the fish in brown paper. "Haven't been in swimming—have you?"
"Don' know," stammered Willy, darting out of the store.
If his hair was wet it wouldn't do to go home till it was dry; for his father would find out that he had been in the brook, and the next thing in order would be a whipping. It was hard enough to losethe medal; Willy thought a whipping would be more than he could bear, for it was always given with a horsewhip out in the barn; and the unlucky boy could never help envying the cows, as they looked on, chewing their cuds with such an air of content and unconcern. Cows never were punished, nor sheep either. Good times they had—that's a fact.Sheepwouldn't mind a real heavy horse-whipping, they were done up so in wool; but when a little boy had to take off his jacket, why, there wasn't much over his skin to keep off the smart. Ugh! how it did hurt!
There was another advantage in being a sheep, or a cow, or a hen; animals of that sort never lost anything—didn't have medals to lose.
"And this wasn't mine," groaned Willy."What'll the mistress do to me? Don' know; blister both hands, I s'pose!"
Willy had intended to play ball with the little boys, but it was not to be thought of now. Putting his fish behind a tree, he ran to the brook again and poked with a stick as far as he could reach; then waded in up to his knees, for the medal might have rolled out of his pocket.
"No, it couldn't; for my breeches were tucked in up there between two rocks."
Suddenly he recollected Gideon's going back to the bank.
"That wicked, mean boy!" almost screamed Willy. "He stole my medal! I'll go right off and tell mother!"
Mrs. Parlin had on her afternoon cap, and was sitting alone in the well-sanded "fore-room," doing the mending, and singing,—
"While shepherds watched their flocks by night,All seated on the ground,"—
"While shepherds watched their flocks by night,All seated on the ground,"—
when Willy, with his pantaloons tucked up to his knees, and his head dripping with water, rushed wildly into the room.
"My medal's gone! Gid Noonin stole it!"
"My son! What do you mean?"
"Yes, ma'am; Gid Noonin stole it! Made me go in swimming, and then he stole it!"
"Gideon Noonin?" said Mrs. Parlin, with a meaning glance. "That boy?Madeyou go swimming, my son?"
Willy hung his head.
"Yes, ma'am! Marched me off down to the brook pickaback,—he did!"
"Poor, little baby!" said Mrs. Parlin, in the soft, pitiful tone she would have used to an infant. "Poor little baby!"
Willy's head sank lower yet, and the blush of shame crept into his cheeks.
"Why, mother, he's as strong's a moose; he could most liftyou!"
"'My son, if sinners entice thee, consent thou not.'"
"Well, but I—"
"You consented in your heart, Willy, or Gideon could not have made you go swimming."
What a very bright woman! Willy was amazed. How could she guess that while riding on Gid's back he had been alittleglad to think he could not help it? He had hardly known himself that he was glad, it was such a wee speck of a feeling, and so covered up with other feelings.
"But I tried not to go, mother. I tell you I squirmed awf'ly!"
"Well, you didn't try hard enough in the first place, Willy. Come here, and sit in my lap, and let us talk it over.—Do you know, my son, if youhadtried hard enough, the Lord would have helped you?"
Willy raised his eyes wonderingly. Had God been looking on all the while, just ready to be spoken to? He had not thought of that.
"O, mamma," said he solemnly, "I will mind, next time, see 'f I don't. But there's that medal; why, what'll I do?"
"If Gideon will not return it, you must pay Miss Judkins a quarter of a dollar."
"With a hole in," sighed Willy. "Why, I've only got two cents in this world."
"O, well," said Mrs. Parlin, hopefully, "perhaps you can hire out to papa, and earn the rest."
"O, if he'llonlylet me! Won't you please ask him, mamma?" cried Willy, filled with a new hope. "Ask him, and get Love to ask him, too.Ishouldn't dare do it, you know."
The next Monday Seth happened to go into the shed-chamber for a piece of leather to mend an old harness, and met Willy coming down the stairs with a basket full of old iron.
"Stop a minute, Willy. What have you got there?"
Willy would have obeyed at once, if it had not been for that lordly tone and air of Seth's, which always made him feel contrary.
"Stop, I say!" repeated Seth. "What have you got there?"
"Old iron."
"Old iron? Did mother send you after it?"
"No."
"Well, then, go carry it right back."
Willy did not stir.
"Old iron is worth money, little boy."
"Yes; I know that."
"And what business have you with it?"
"Going to sell it."
"What? Without asking mother, you naughty boy?"
Willy set the heavy basket on the next lower stair.
"So you went up stairs for that iron without leave? What a wicked boy!"
Willy set the basket on another stair.
"Bellows' nose, old tea-kettle, rusty nails," said Seth, examining the basket.
"Willy Parlin, do you know this is stealing."
"'Tisn't, neither!"
"But I tell you it is! Just as much stealing as if you took money out of father's wallet."
"I don't steal," said Willy, setting the basket on another stair.
Seth was growing exasperated.
"If you don't intend to mind me, Willy Parlin, and carry back that iron, I shall have to go and tell father."
"Then you'll be a tell-tale, Mr. Seth."
"Do you think I'll have my little brother grow up a thief?"
"I wasn't a thief; but you're a tell-tale. You said, yesterday, little boys mustn't tattle, and I guess big boys mustn't tattle, neither," chuckled the aggravating Willy, dragging his basket of iron into the kitchen.
"Mother," said Seth, as Mrs. Parlin passed through the shed with a pan of sour milk, "there's got to be something done with Willy; he has taken to stealing."
Mrs. Parlin set the pan upon a bench, and sank down on the meat-block, too weak to stand.
"I caught him just now, mother, lugging off a great basket full of old iron; and if you don't go right in and stop him, he'll take it up to the store to sell."
"Is that all?" exclaimed Mrs. Parlin, drawing a deep breath. "Why, how you frightened me! His father gave him leave to collect what old iron he could find, and sell it to make up for the medal he lost the other day."
"Well there, mother, I'm glad to hear it—that's a fact! But why didn't the littlerogue tell me? I declare, he deserves a good whipping for imposing upon me so."
"He ought to have told you; but perhaps you spoke harshly to him, my son. You know Willy can't bear that."
"I don't think I was very harsh, mother. You wouldn't have me see the child doing wrong, and not correct him—would you?"
"His father and I are the ones to correct him," replied Mrs. Parlin. "Willy has too many masters and mistresses. Next time you see him doing what you think is wrong, let me know it, but don't scold him!"
Mrs. Parlin had said this before, but it was something Seth never could remember.
Willy sold the iron, returned a bright new quarter to Miss Judkins, and felt happyagain, especially as there were ten cents left, which his father kindly allowed him to keep.
Gideon Noonin never confessed his crime, and after this Willy was very careful to keep away from him. But there was another boy, nearer his own age, who had quite as bad an influence over him—Fred Chase. He afterwards became a worthless young man, and made his mother so wretched that Siller Noonin said, "Poor Mrs. Chase, she has everything heart can wish, except a bottle to put her tears in."
Fred was a well-mannered, pretty little fellow, and no one thought ill of him, because he was so sly with his mischief. He did harm to Willy by making him think he had a very hard time. His work was to bring in a bushel basket of chipsevery morning, and fill the "fore-room" wood-box. Of course the "back-log" and "back-stick," and "fore-stick" were all too heavy for his little arms, and Caleb attended to those. Freddy had nothing whatever to do, and pretended to pity Willy.
"They 'pose upon you," said he. "I never'd stand it."
Until Freddy told him he was imposed upon, Willy had never suspected it; but, after that, he saw he had nearly all the work to do, and that Seth and Stephen did not help as much as they might. The more he reflected upon the subject, the more unhappy he grew, and the more he lingered over his wood and chips.
"Did you ever hear of the little boy and the two pails of water?" said his mother.
"O, what about him, mamma? Do tell me."
"Why, the boy was told to draw two pails of water from the well; but instead of drawing them he sat down and dreaded it, till he pined away, and pined away, and finally died."
Willy ran out with his basket, and never asked again to hear the story of the boy and the two pails. But the wood-pile seemed to be lying on top of his heart, crushing him, till he was relieved by a bright idea.
Why not stand some sticks upright in the bottom of the box, and then lay the rest of the wood on top of them? It would look just the same as usual; butwhata help!
The box was in the entry, and the "fore-room"door shut; he could cheat as well as not.
"Now I'll have lots of time to play!"
"What, you here yet, Willy?" said his mother, opening the door. She thought he had been an unusually long while filling the box; and so he had. It was new business, doing it in this way, and it took time.
"I supposed you had gone, darling, for I didn't hear you whistle."
Willy whistled faintly, as he laid on the last stick. How lucky his mother hadn't opened the door sooner!
"That's a nice big box full, my son. You please your mother this morning. Come here and kiss me."
Willy went, and then Mrs. Parlin, who was a fine singer, and knew a great many ballads, sang, smiling,—
"Ho! why dost thou shiver and shake,Gaffer Gray?And why doth thy nose look so blue?"
"Ho! why dost thou shiver and shake,Gaffer Gray?And why doth thy nose look so blue?"
She often sang that when he came into the house cold, and then he would sing in reply, with a voice almost as sweet as her own,—
"'Tis the weather that's cold,'Tis I'm grown very old,And my doublet is not very new,Well-a-day!"
"'Tis the weather that's cold,'Tis I'm grown very old,And my doublet is not very new,Well-a-day!"
But he was not in a musical mood this morning: he felt in a hurry to be off; and giving his mother a hasty kiss, he bounded away without his shingle-covered spelling-book, and had to come back after it.
Foolish Willy! Did he think his mamma would not find out the deep-laid plot, which had cost him so much labor? Children have no idea how bright their parentsare! It was a very cold day in December, and as Mrs. Parlin kept up a roaring fire, she came before noon to the upright sticks standing in the wood-box, as straight as soldiers on a march. She sighed a little, and smiled a little, but said not a word, for she was a wise woman, was Mrs. Parlin.
"Well, Willy boy," said she, when he came home from school, and had had his supper of brown bread, baked apples, and milk, "come, let us have a sing."
There was nothing Willy and his mother enjoyed better than a "sing," she holding him in her lap and rocking him the while. He put his whole soul into the music, miscalling the Scotch words sometimes so charmingly that it was a real delight to hear him. People often stopped at thethreshold, I am told, or at the open window in summer, to listen to the clear childish voice in such ballads as,—
"Fy! let us a' to the wedding,For they will be lilting there;For Jock's to be married to Maggie,The lass wi' the gowden hair."
"Fy! let us a' to the wedding,For they will be lilting there;For Jock's to be married to Maggie,The lass wi' the gowden hair."
To-night it was "Colin's Come to Town;" and Willy's tones rang sweet and high,—
"His very step has music in't,As he comes up the stair."
"His very step has music in't,As he comes up the stair."
"Did you ever hear the beat of that little chap for singing?" said Caleb, in the bar-room, to Dr. Hilton and Mr. Griggs.
Since that sad affair of the ox-money Caleb had loved Willy better than ever, though it would be hard to tell why; perhaps because the child had been so glad to see him come back again.
"Bless him!" said Love, bringing the brass warming-pan into the "fore-room," to fill it with coals at the fireplace. "Why, mother, I never hear the name 'Willy,' but it makes me think of music. It sounds as sweet as if you said 'nightingale.'"
Mrs. Parlin answered by folding the singing-bird closer to her heart.
"And do you know what the word 'Mother' makes me think of?—Of a great large woman, always just ready to hug somebody."
Mrs. Parlin laughed.
"Yes, indeed it does. And it doesn't seem as if a small woman is really fit to be called mother. There's Dorcas Lyman: when she says 'Mother' to that little woman, it sounds so queer to me; for Mrs. Lyman isn't big enough, you know."
"Courseshe isn't; not half big enough," said Willy. "I could 'most lift her with my little finger. But, then, that baby—she's got a real nice baby; wish she'd give Patty to me."
Love smiled, and walked off, with her long-handled warming-pan, to heat a traveller's bed in the icy north chamber.
Willy's heart was full of tenderness for his mother, whom he kept kissing fondly. Now was a good time to speak of the upright, deceitful sticks of wood, perhaps; but Mrs. Parlin did not do it. She began the Evening Hymn, and Willy sang with her:—
"Glory to Thee, my God, this night,For all the blessings of the light;Keep me, O keep me, King of kings,Beneath thine own almighty wings."Forgive me, Lord, for thy dear Son,The ills which I this day have done,That with the world, myself, and Thee,I, ere I sleep, at peace may be."
"Glory to Thee, my God, this night,For all the blessings of the light;Keep me, O keep me, King of kings,Beneath thine own almighty wings.
"Forgive me, Lord, for thy dear Son,The ills which I this day have done,That with the world, myself, and Thee,I, ere I sleep, at peace may be."
"Now, Willy," said Mrs. Parlin, pausing, "let us think a while, and try to remember what we have done to-day that is wrong. You think, and I will think, too."
He looked up, and she knew by the cloud in his eyes that his conscience was troubled.
"Well, I'll think. Butyouhaven't done anything wrong, mamma?"
"O, yes, dear; many things."
"Well, so've I, too. Want me to tell what?"
"Not unless you choose, my child. Only be sure you tell God."
They were silent a few moments.
"There, that's thelasttime I'll ever stand the sticks up on end in the wood-box," burst forth Willy.
"I thought so," said his mother, kissing him.
So she had known about it all the while!
But not another word did she say; and they went on with the hymn:—
"Teach me to live, that I may dreadThe grave as little as my bed.Teach me to die, that so I mayTriumphing rise at the last day."
"Teach me to live, that I may dreadThe grave as little as my bed.Teach me to die, that so I mayTriumphing rise at the last day."
"Now Christmas is come,Let us beat up the drum,And call our neighbors together;And when they appear,Let us make them good cheer,As will keep out the wind and the weather."
"Now Christmas is come,Let us beat up the drum,And call our neighbors together;And when they appear,Let us make them good cheer,As will keep out the wind and the weather."
This is what the old song says; but it is not the way the people of the new colonies celebrated Christmas. Indeed, they thought it wrong to observe it at all,—because their forefathers had come away from England almost on purpose to get rid of the forms and ceremonies which hindered their worship in the church over there.
The Parlins, however, saw no harm in celebrating the day of our Saviour's birth, and Mrs. Parlin, who was an Episcopalian, always instructed Love and the boys to trim the house with evergreens, and put cedar crosses in the windows.
Willy was glad whenever his grandfather Cheever happened to be visiting them at "Christmas-tide," for then he was sure of a present. Mr. Cheever was an Englishman of the old school, and prayed for King George. He wore what were called "small clothes,"—that is, short breeches, which came only to the knee, and were fastened there with a buckle,—silk stockings, and a fine ruffled shirt. His hair was braided into a long queue behind, which served Willy for a pair of reins, when he went riding on the dear old gentleman's back.
I am not sure that Mr. Parlin was always glad to see grandpa Cheever, for they differed entirely in politics, and that was a worse thing then than it is now, if you can believe it. Mr. Parlin loved George Washington, and grandpa said he was "only an upstart." Grandpa loved King George, and Mr. Parlin said he was "only a crazy man."
But Willy adored his grandfather, especially at holiday times; for besides presents, they were sure to have games in the big dining-room, such as blindfold, or "Wood-man blind," bob-apple, and snap-dragon.
Then they always had a log brought in with great ceremony, called the Yule log, the largest one that could be found in the shed; and when Seth and Stephen came staggering in with it, grandpa Cheever,and Mrs. Parlin, and Love, and Willy all struck up,—
"Come, bring with a noise,My merry, merry boys,The Christmas log to the firing,While my good dame, sheBids ye all be free,And drink to your hearts' desiring."
"Come, bring with a noise,My merry, merry boys,The Christmas log to the firing,While my good dame, sheBids ye all be free,And drink to your hearts' desiring."
The "good dame," I suppose, was Mrs. Parlin; and she gave them to drink, it is true, but nothing stronger than metheglin, or egg nog, or flip. It seems to me I can almost see her standing by the table, pouring it out with a gracious smile. She was a handsome, queenly-looking woman, they say, though rather too large round the waist you might think.
Her father was a famous singer, as well as herself; and for my part I should have enjoyed hearing some of their old songs,while the wind went whistling round the house:—
"Without the door let Sorrow lie,And if for cold it hap to die,We'll bury it in a Christmas pie,And evermore be merry."
"Without the door let Sorrow lie,And if for cold it hap to die,We'll bury it in a Christmas pie,And evermore be merry."
Or this one:—
"Rejoice, our Saviour, he was bornOn Christmas day in the morning."
"Rejoice, our Saviour, he was bornOn Christmas day in the morning."
But these were family affairs, these Christmas meetings. No one else in Perseverance had anything to do with them, not even Caleb or Lydia.
But the little boys in those days did not live without amusements, you may be sure. Perhaps their choicest and most bewitching sport was training. There had been one great war,—the war of the Revolution,—andas people were looking for another,—which actually came in 1812,—it was thought safe for men to be drilled in the practice of marching and carrying fire-arms.
In Perseverance, and many other towns, companies were formed, such as the Light Infantry, or "String Bean Company," the Artillery, and the "Troop." These met pretty often, and marched about the streets to the sound of martial music.
Of course the little boys could not see and hear of all this without a swelling of the heart and a prancing of the feet; for they were rather different from boys of these days! Hard indeed, thought they, if they couldn't form a company too! As for music, what was to hinder them from pounding it out of tin pans and pewter porringers? There is music in everything,if you can only get it out. Chickens' wind-pipes, when well dried, are very melodious, and so are whistles made of willow; and if you are fond of variety, there are always bones to be had, and dinner-horns, and jews-harps.
Full of zeal for their country, the little boys on both sides of the river met together and formed quite a large company. They had two trials to begin with; firstly, they could not think of a name fine enough for themselves; and secondly, they could not get any sort of uniform to wear. Their mothers could not see the necessity of their having new suits just to play in; and it seemed for some time as if the little patriots would have to march forever in their old every-day clothes.
"But they'll give us some new ones byand by, boys," said Willy. "My mother laughed last night, when I asked again, and that's a certain sure sign."
"O, I thought we'd given that up," said Fred Chase.
"Look here, boys," exclaimed Willy; "I've thought of a name; it's the 'Never-Give-Ups.' All in favor say 'Ay'!"
"Ay! ay!" piped all the lads; and it was a vote. Perhaps it was a year before the Never-Give-Ups got their uniforms; but at last their mammas saw the subject in a proper light, and stopped their work long enough to dye some homespun suits dark blue, and trim them gorgeously with red.
Willy's regimentals were not home-made; they were cut down from his father's old ones; and he might have been too well pleased with them, only Fred Chase's werebetter yet, being new, with the first gloss on, just as they had come from a store in the city of Boston.
Fred was captain of the company. The boys had felt obliged in the very beginning to have it so, on account of a beautiful instrument, given him by his father, called a flageolet. True, Fred could not play on it at all, and had to give it up to Willy; but it belonged to him all the same.
"Something's the matter with my lungs," said Fred, coughing; "and that's why those little holes plague me so; it's too hard work to blow 'em."
The boys looked at one another with wise nods and smiles. They did not like Fred very well; but he was always pushing himself forward: and when a boy has a great deal of self-esteem, and a brave suitof clothes right from Boston, how are you going to help yourselves, pray? So Fred was captain, and Willy only a fifer.
There was one boy in the ranks who caused some trouble—Jock Winter. Not that Jock quarrelled, or did anything you could find fault with; but he was simple-minded and a hunchback, and some of the boys made fun of him. When Fred became captain he fairly hooted him out of the company. "No fair! no fair!" cried Willy, Joshua Potter, the Lyman twins, and two thirds of the other boys; but the captain had his way in spite of the underground muttering.
Saturday afternoon was the time for training. The Never-Give-Ups met at the old red store kept by Daddy Wiggins, and paraded down the village street, and acrossthe bridge, as far sometimes as the Dug Way, a beautiful spot three or four miles from home. They were a goodly sight to see,—the bright, healthy boys, straight as the "Quaker guns" they carried, and marching off with a firm and manly tread.
Mothers take a secret pride in their sons, and many loving eyes watched this procession out of town; but the procession didn't know it, for the mothers were very much afraid of flattering the boys. I think myself it would have done the little soldiers no harm to be praised once in a while. Indeed, I wish they might have heard the ladies of the village talking about them, as they met to drink tea at Mrs. Parlin's. She never went out herself, but often invited company to what they called little "tea-junketings."
"Well," said Mrs. Potter, the doctor's wife, "isn't it enough to do your eyes good to see such a noble set of boys?"
"Yes, it is," said Mrs. Griggs; "and I am not afraid for our country, if they grow up as good men as they now bid fair to be."
Mrs. Chase could not respond to this, for her boy Fred was a great trial; his father indulged him too much, and she had had strong fears that he might take to bad habits. But he was as handsome as any of the boys, and she spoke up quickly:—
"Yes, Mrs. Potter; as you say, theyarea noble-looking set of boys; and don't they march well?"
"They waste a great deal of time; but then they might be doing worse, and I liketo see boys enjoy themselves," said Mrs. Lyman, the greatest worker in town.
Her twins, George and Silas, ought to have heard that, for they thought their mother did not care to see them do anything but delve.
"Ah, bless their little hearts, we are all as proud of them as we can be," said ruddy, fleshy Mrs. Parlin, brushing back her purple cap-strings as she poured the tea. "My Willy, now, is the very apple of my eye, and the little rogue knows it too."
Yes, Willy did know it, for his mother was not afraid to tell him so. The other boys had love doled out to them like wedding cake, as if it were too rich and precious for common use; but Mrs. Parlin's love was free and plenteous, and Willy lived on it like daily bread.
Kissing and petting were sure to spoil boys, so Elder Lovejoy's wife thought; and she longed to say so to Mrs. Parlin; but somehow she couldn't; for her little Isaac was not half as good as Willy, though he hadn't been kissed much since he was big enough to go to school.
"Willy's grandpa Cheever has sent him a splendid present," said Mrs. Parlin; "it is a drum. His birthday will come next Wednesday; but when I saw him marching off with Freddy's flageolet under his arm, I really longed to give him the drum to-day."
"I dare say you did," said Mrs. Lyman, warmly. "We mothers enjoy our children's presents more than they enjoy them themselves."
Then she and Mrs. Parlin exchanged apleasant smile, for they two understood each other remarkably well.
Willy received his drum on the fifteenth of September, his tenth birthday, and was prouder than General Washington at the surrender of Lord Cornwallis. No more borrowed flageolets for him. He put so much soul into the drumsticks that the noise was perfectly deafening. He called the family to breakfast, dinner, and supper, to the tune of "Hail Columbia," or "Fy! let us a' to the wedding!" and nearly distracted Quaker Liddy by making her roll out her pie-crust to the exact time of "Yankee Doodle."
"I don't see the sense of such a con-tin-oo-al thumping, you little dear," said she.
"That's 'cause you're a Quaker," criedWilly. "But I tell you while my name's Willy Parlin this drumshallbe heard."
Poor Liddy stopped her ears.
"What you smiling for, mother?" said Willy. "Are you pleased to think you've got a little boy that can pound music so nice?"
"Not exactly that, my son. I was wondering whether there is room enough out of doors for that drum."
"Why, mother!" exclaimed the little soldier much chagrined. "Why, mother!"
Everybody else had complained of the din; but he thought she, with her fine musical taste, must be delighted. After this pointed slight he did not pound so much in the house, and the animals got more benefit of the noise. Towler enjoyed it hugely; and the cows might have keptstep to the pasture every morning, and the hens every night to the roost, if they had had the least ear for music. Siller Noonin, who believed in witches, began to think the boy was "possessed." Love laughed, and said she did not believe that; but she was afraid Willy spoke the truth every day when he said so stoutly,—
"While my name is Willy Parlin, this drumshallbe heard."
She wondered if parchment would ever wear out.
He drummed with so much spirit that it had a strong effect on the little training company. They had always liked him much better than Fred, and were glad of an excuse now to make him their captain. A boy who could fife so well, and drum sowell, ought to be promoted, they thought—"All in favor say Ay!"
Poor Fred was dismayed. He had always known he was unpopular; still he had not expected this.
"But how canIbe captain?" replied Willy, ready to shout with delight. "If I'm captain, who'll beat my drum?"
"Isaac Lovejoy," was the quick reply.
That settled it, and Willy said no more. He was now leader of the company, and Fred Chase was obliged to walk behind him as first lieutenant.
But the moment Willy was promoted, and before they began to march, he "took the stump," and made a stirring speech in favor of Jock Winter.
"Now see here, boys," said he, leaning on his wooden gun, and looking aroundhim persuasively. "'All men are born free and equal.' I s'pose you know that? It's put down so in the Declaration of Independence!"
"O, yes! Ay! Ay!"
"Well, Jock Winter was born as free and equal as any of us; he wasn't born a hunchback. But see here: wouldn't you be a hunchback yourself, s'posing your father had let you fall down stairs when you was a baby? I put it to you—now wouldn't you?"
"Ay, ay," responded the boys.
"Well; and s'pose folks made fun of you just for that; how would you like it?"
"Shouldn't like it at all."
"But then Jock's just about half witted," put in Fred, faintly. He knew his power was gone, but he wanted to say something.
"Well, what if he is half-witted? He thinks more of his country than you do; twice more, and risk it."
"That's so," cried Joshua Potter. "Fred says if there's another war,hewon't go; he never'll stand up for a mark to be shot at, at eleven dollars a month!"
"O, for shame!" exclaimed the captain.
"Now you hush up," said Fred, reddening. "I was only in fun—of course I was! You needn't say anything, Will Parlin; a boy that has aTory drum!"
"It's a good Whig drum as ever lived!" returned Willy. "But come, now, boys; will we have Jock Winter?"
It was a vote; and the Never-Give-Ups went over the river in a body to invite him. He lived in a log-house with his grandfather, and a negro servant knownas Joe Whitehead. Old Mr. Winter was aroused from his afternoon nap by the terrific beating of the drum, and thought the British were coming down upon him.
"Joe! Joe!" cried he. "Get your scythe, Joe, and mow 'em down as fast as they come!"
When the little boys heard of this, it amused them greatly. Mistaken for the British army, indeed! Well, now, that was something worth while!
A happier soul than little, simple, round-shouldered Jock you never saw, unless it was his poor old grandfather. He could keep step with the best of them; but unfortunately he had no decent clothes. This was a great drawback, but Mrs. Parlin and Mrs. Lyman took pity on the boy, and made him a nice suit.
Willy proved to have fine powers as a leader. Like the famous John Gilpin,