CHAPTER VI.LETTER-WRITING.
SEVERAL weeks had elapsed, since Oscar’s regular daily tasks were set, and he continued to discharge his duties in a satisfactory manner. The wood-pile grew a little, weekly, under his management, and the kitchen was always kept well supplied with fuel. He had become quite expert in cutting hay and feeding the cows and horses, and the latter he cleaned, harnessed and drove, with the air of a veteran horseman. The hogs, of whom he had the principal care, seemed quite contented under their new master, and rewarded his attentions with many grunts of satisfaction, if not gratitude. He had assisted cheerfully in gathering the late crops of the farm, and had even acknowledged that milking the cows was not so disagreeablework as he had imagined. His lessons, also, were for the most part well learned. To be sure they were not very hard, being mostly reviews of studies he had previously gone over. But his natural abilities as a scholar were good, and he learned easily, when he set about it in earnest. The only exercise that gave him serious trouble was the dreaded Saturday’s “composition,” which, indeed, was more terrible in anticipation than in reality.
“Isn’t it almost time to answer some of your letters, Oscar?” inquired Marcus one morning, as the former was about sitting down to his lessons.
“I suppose it is,” replied Oscar.
“Let me see,” continued Marcus, “you have had letters from your mother, and from Alice, and from Clinton—these have all got to be answered. And then you promised to write to Willie, or ‘Whistler,’ as you call him, did you not?”
“Yes,” replied Oscar.
“I’m afraid you are a rather negligent correspondent,” added Marcus. “I wouldn’t get into that habit, if I were you. While you are away from home, you will want to hear from your friendsoccasionally; but if you neglect them, they will be apt to neglect you.”
“But I hate to write letters,” replied Oscar.
“Do you consider that a sufficient reason for neglecting to answer the letters of your friends?” inquired Marcus.
“No,” replied Oscar.
“Neither do I,” continued Marcus. “So I think you had better sit right down and attend to your correspondence, to-day, instead of getting any lessons. You will have time enough to write all four of the letters. You had better go to your chamber, where you will be out of the way of interruption. You have paper and ink, I believe?”
“Yes,” responded Oscar.
“That reminds me of something else, that I want to say to you,” added Marcus. “I have noticed within a few days that you are getting in the habit of saying ‘yes,’ ‘no,’ ‘what?’ etc., when speaking to your elders. I noticed it yesterday, when you were talking with Mr. Burr, and I have heard you speak to mother and Aunt Fanny in the same way. It is a little thing, I know, but it always sounds unpleasantly to my ears. It is disrespectful,and shows ill breeding. Somehow, I am very apt to form a bad opinion of a boy or girl who speaks in that way. It is my opinion that many a boy has missed a good situation, by just saying ‘yes,’ ‘no,’ or ‘what?’ when he applied for a place, instead of ‘yes, sir,’ ‘no, sir,’ or ‘what, sir?’ That is worth thinking of, if there were no other motive; don’t you see it is?”
“Yes—sir,” replied Oscar, nearly forgetting the very word they were talking about.
“So far as I am concerned, personally,” continued Marcus, “I have no claim to besirredby you, as there is a difference of only a few years in our ages. Still, as your example will have much influence over Ronald, I thought I had better mention the subject to you. Besides, I may become your teacher in a few weeks, and you know ‘Master Page’ will have to stand upon his dignity a little, in the schoolroom, whether ‘Cousin Marcus’ chooses to or not. At any rate, I hope you will try to speak respectfully to older people, if you do not to me. There, I wont detain you any longer—you can go to work on your letters as soon as you please.”
Oscar went to his room, and, having arranged hispaper, ink and pen, sat down by the open window, for it was a mild Indian-summer day. He first read over the letters he was to answer, and then began to think what he should write in reply. But, failing to keep his mind upon the subject before him, his thoughts gradually wandered off, until he quite forgot the business in hand. As he sat in a dreamy mood, gazing upon the hills, prominent among which was Prescott’s Peak, with its signal still erect, he descried a large bird sailing majestically through the air, nearly overhead. It was at a great height, but as it approached the hills it descended, and disappeared in the woods near their base. A few minutes afterward it again soared aloft, and, wheeling around the Peak, as if taking an observation of the monument which the boys had erected, it appeared to descend near the summit, where Oscar finally lost sight of it.
Oscar was satisfied that the strange bird was an eagle, and as he sat patiently watching for its reappearance, he thought what a fine shot it offered, and imagined himself on the mountain, gun in hand, stealthily pursuing the noble game. Now it alights upon a tall tree, within rifle-shot. Cautiouslythe boy-hunter takes aim; “crack!” goes the fowling-piece; and down tumbles the monarch of the air, crashing through the branches of the tree. His feathers are stained with blood; but his fierce eye flashes defiance at his murderer, as he approaches, and with his powerful wing he well-nigh breaks the arm that is stretched out to secure him. After a desperate struggle, he is despatched by a blow from the butt of the weapon, and is borne home in triumph—a heavy task—to the wonder and admiration of the whole neighborhood.
But Oscar’s kindling imagination is not satisfied with this feat. It must try again. The bird eludes his gun, but he follows it, and discovers its haunt, on a steep and rocky precipice, near one of the mountain summits. Throwing aside his gun, and grasping such scanty and stunted trees as are at hand, he boldly lowers himself down the frightful chasm. One misstep, the giving way of a single slender twig, would plunge him headlong to destruction; but what cares he for that? There is a prize below, and he is determined to have it. Now he catches a glimpse of the nest, on a narrow, shelving rock, and for the first time discovers that there aretwo old birds, which, with outspread wings, are guarding their young brood. Undaunted, he descends the steep and slippery rocks, till he is almost within reach of the nest. Now the eagles, roused to fury, fly at him, and with wing, beak and talon commence the assault. Supporting himself by one hand, he uses the other and one foot to ward off the assailants. Long the battle rages, and again and again the adventurous hunter seems almost overcome; but when about to sink down, faint and gasping, the birds, battered and exhausted, give up the contest in despair. The boy seizes the prize,scrambles up the fearful precipice, and hurries home, to raise a brood of eagles.
“But this isn’t writing my letters,” exclaimed Oscar to himself, suddenly awaking from his day dream. “A whole hour gone, and not a line written yet. Well, I’ll go about it, now. I think I’ll write to mother first. Let me think—what day of the month is it? I am sure I can’t tell—I must run down stairs and find out.”
Oscar went down to the sitting-room, and, by referring to a newspaper, ascertained the date. But, before he laid the paper aside, his eye was attracted by the heading of a story, and, on reading a few lines, he became so much interested in it, that he took the journal up to his room, and thought of nothing else until he had finished reading the piece. Then, remembering his neglected task, he hurriedly arranged his paper, and wrote the date and complimentary address. But the ink did not flow freely from his pen, and, taking a sheet of waste paper, he commenced scribbling upon it, to see if he could remedy the trouble. How long he continued this diversion, he was scarcely aware, but at length it was interrupted by a step on thestairs, and a knock at his door. Quickly concealing the well scribbled evidence of his idleness, he bade the visitor walk in, and Marcus entered.
“Well, how do you get along?” inquired Marcus.
“Not very well,” replied Oscar. “I have been hindered by one thing and another, ever since I began. To begin with, just after I came up here, I saw an eagle flying over. Didn’t you see it?”
“No—but are you sure it was an eagle?” inquired Marcus.
“Why, yes, it must have been an eagle,” replied Oscar. “It was the largest bird I ever saw, and I should think he was all of a mile high when he flew over. He lit on the Peak, and that was the last I saw of him.”
“Yes, I remember, now,—I did see a hawk over in that neighborhood, and that must have been your eagle,” quietly observed Marcus.
Oscar did not relish such a summary disposal of his eagle story, and was about to protest against it, when Marcus inquired how many letters he had finished.
“None,” replied Oscar.
“Not one!” exclaimed Marcus; “and is that the beginning of the first letter?” glancing at the sheet which contained the date and address.
“Yes, sir,” said Oscar.
“Ah, you have been reading the newspaper, as well as watching hawks,” continued Marcus, as his eye fell upon the printed sheet.
“I got that to see about the date,” replied Oscar, forgetting that sometimes there is little difference between half of a truth and a lie.
“Whathaveyou been doing all the forenoon, then?” inquired Marcus.
“The ink is so thick that I couldn’t write,” added Oscar.
“Let me try it,” said Marcus; and he seated himself in Oscar’s chair, and, looking for some waste paper, drew out the sheet which his cousin had covered with all sorts of flourishes, figures, puzzles, etc. “I think the ink must flow pretty freely, if it is thick,” he quietly added.
Having satisfied himself that the ink was not to blame, Marcus said he was sorry the letters were not finished, as he was expecting to drive over to an adjoining town, in the afternoon, and intendedto let Oscar accompany him, if his task was completed. Oscar said he thought he could finish the letters after he got back; but his cousin was far from agreeing with him in this opinion.
“No,” said Marcus, “you will hardly get through this afternoon, supposing you work diligently. I think you had better not stop even for dinner, but I will bring you up something to eat, so that you need lose no time. I want you to finish the four letters before you leave the room, if possible.”
Oscar hardly knew whether to consider himself a prisoner, or not, so pleasantly had Marcus addressed him. He concluded, however, that it was time to go to work, and was soon deeply engaged in the letter to his mother. Now that his mind was aroused, and his attention fixed, he found no difficulty in writing, and the letter was about completed, when Marcus appeared, with a light repast, instead of the accustomed substantial noonday meal.
“I never feel like writing, after a hearty meal,—so I have brought you a light dinner,” said Marcus, setting the tray upon the table.
“What time shall you start?” inquired Oscar.
“In about an hour,” was the reply.
“I have got one letter about done,” said Oscar, “and I can finish another before you go. Don’t you suppose I could finish the other two after we get back?”
“I am afraid not,” replied Marcus. “You will have but little time, then, and besides, you wont feel like writing. I think you had better finish your letters before you do anything else. Perhaps you can get them done in season to mail them to-day.”
Marcus now withdrew, and in the course of an hour drove off upon his errand. When he returned, he found the family at tea, and Oscar with them.
“Well, Oscar, have you written all your letters?” inquired Marcus.
“Yes, sir, and carried them to the post office, too,” replied Oscar.
“Ah, you have been pretty smart—that is, if you didn’t make them too short,” observed Marcus.
“They are about as long as my letters generally are,” replied Oscar
“You found no great difficulty in writing, when you bent your mind down to it, did you?” inquired Marcus.
“No, sir, not much.”
“I supposed you wouldn’t,” continued Marcus. “Mother, I’ve been thinking of a plan, this afternoon, for making letter-writing pleasant, and I want your opinion of it.”
“I think highly of letter-writing as an exercise,” said Mrs. Page, “and if you can devise a way to make the children like it, I shall be very glad.”
“I can’t see what makes boys hate to write letters so—for my part I like to do it,” said Kate.
“Yes, I should think you liked it—you write half a dozen billets every day, in school,” interposed Otis.
“Why, Otis Sedgwick, what a story! I don’t believe I have averaged more than one note a day, this whole term,” replied Kate.
“Well, that speaks pretty well for your epistolary taste, if you have done nothing more,” said Marcus. “But let me explain my plan. I propose that we have a letter-box put up in some part of the house, and that every one in the family engage to write one letter a week to some other member, and drop it into the box, which we might call our post office. The greatest liberty might be allowed,in the choice of subjects and style, and the letters might be anonymous, or written in an assumed character, if preferred. If any one wanted to ask a favor, or make a complaint, or offer a suggestion, or correct an error, or drop a word of caution or reproof, or indulge a fancy, or make sport, this would afford a good opportunity to do it. What do you think of the plan, mother?”
“I think it is a good idea, and I shall vote for giving it a fair trial,” said Mrs. Page.
“And how does it strike you, Aunt Fanny?” continued Marcus.
“Very favorably,” replied Miss Lee. “If you can interest the young folks in it, I have no doubt it will work well.”
“O, I think it is a capital idea—I shall vote for it with both hands,” exclaimed Kate.
“And what say you, Oscar?” inquired Marcus.
“I suppose I must come into the arrangement, if all the others do,” replied Oscar, smiling.
“Not much enthusiasm there,” observed Marcus; “but we’ll excuse him, as he has been writing letters all day. Well, Otis, what do you say to the plan?”
“I hate to write letters,” replied Otis.
“Very likely,” said Marcus; “and that is precisely the reason why you ought to come into our arrangement, for we are going to try to make letter-writing easy and pleasant.”
“Well, I’ll agree to it,” said Otis.
“Of course you wont hang back, Ronald?” added Marcus.
“I don’t know about that,” replied Ronald. “Couldn’t I be mail-boy, or post-master, or something of that sort, and so be excused from writing?”
“We probably shall not need your services in that line—we can help ourselves to our letters,” replied Marcus.
“Well, I’ll join your society on one condition,” said Ronald, with an air of grave importance.
“What is that?” inquired Marcus.
“That you shan’t make us write long letters,” was the reply.
“Your letters may be as long or as short as you choose to make them,” replied Marcus. “We have all agreed to the plan—now I think it would be well to have a few written rules, to govern us.Perhaps we can arrange that after we get through our work this evening.”
The proposal was approved, and in the evening the subject was again brought up. All were invited to offer such suggestions as occurred to them.
“Would it not be well enough for us to resolve ourselves into a society, and adopt a name?” inquired Aunt Fanny.
“I think it would,—what shall we call it?” inquired Marcus.
“The Post Office Society,” suggested Otis.
“The Literary Fraternity,” proposed Kate.
“The Letter-writing Society,” said Mrs. Page.
The latter name was finally adopted, as being more expressive than the others. Aunt Fanny then suggested that the title needed the addition of some qualifying word, to make it more definite and distinctive.
“Call it the Highburg Letter-writing Society,” said Kate.
“There are only seven of us, and I doubt whether it would be exactly modest to appropriate the name of the town to our association,” remarked Mrs. Page.
“The Page Letter-writing Society,” suggested Ronald.
“The Excelsior Letter-writing Society,” proposed Kate.
“That is better,” said Marcus. “Does anybody object to it? No; so we will call that point settled. Now please to suggest rules for our government.”
“Every member must write at least one letter weekly to some other member,” said Mrs. Page.
“And if any one fails to contribute his share to the stock of letters, what shall be done to him?” inquired Miss Lee.
“Turn him out,” said Otis.
“Debar him from taking any letters from the office, until he has made good all deficiencies,” suggested Mrs. Page.
This latter proposal was adopted, and further suggestions called for.
“All letters must be sealed,” suggested Kate.
“And pre-paid,” added Ronald.
“I hardly think it necessary to seal the letters,” said Marcus. “Perhaps we had better leave that optional with the writer.”
“But I think the one that receives the letter ought to have something to say about that, as well as the writer,” said Kate.
“Well, I have no objection to your rule, if no one else has,” said Marcus.
Several other rules were agreed to, and noted down by Marcus. When completed, the list of regulations stood as follows:
“REGULATIONS OF THE EXCELSIOR LETTER-WRITING SOCIETY.
“REGULATIONS OF THE EXCELSIOR LETTER-WRITING SOCIETY.
“REGULATIONS OF THE EXCELSIOR LETTER-WRITING SOCIETY.
“Each member shall write at least one letter per week to some other member.
“Any member who fails to comply with this rule, without a reasonable excuse, shall forfeit his right to take letters from the post office until his delinquency is made good.
“Each member shall divide his epistolary favors as equally among the others as possible.
“The utmost freedom as to matter and style will be allowed, but nothing must be written calculated to wound the feelings of another.
“Fictitious signatures, and a disguised hand, are allowable, when preferred.
“All letters to be sealed.
“The post office to be accessible to any member, at all times.”