Old Ironsides and the ChildrenOLD IRONSIDES AND THE CHILDREN.ToList
OLD IRONSIDES AND THE CHILDREN.ToList
Old Ironsides took no notice of the dog. Indeed, he rather appeared half asleep. He often shut his eyes, by the way, as he was standing at a post, and dosed, and nodded, much after the fashion of some men, when they set out to listen to a sermon onSunday. All the time, however, Mike had a crotchet in his head.
"Halloo, old fellow!" he shouted, "what are you about there?"
In an instant Old Ironsides was wide awake, and, seeing at a glance what was going on behind, he pricked up his ears, uttered one brief snort, and away went his heels like lightning. Poor Cæsar! When he touched this planet again—for Old Ironsides had sent him up towards the moon, much farther than I should want to go, in that style—he was a lost dog. Old Ironsides, who proved to be as greata hero, in his way, as Cæsar was, had killed him. The great enemy of sheepdom had ceased to breathe.
girl reading book
Jacob Grumley, who was sometimes nicknamedGrumble, on account of a habit he had of finding fault with every thing and every body, went to the same school with Mike Marble. Now Mike was as remarkable for his cheerful and amiable disposition, as Jacob was for his ill nature. In halfof the cases where the latter would get angry, and storm, and rage, and fret, and foam, like a hyena, or a Bengal tiger, the other would remain as cool as a cucumber, or, perhaps, burst out into a hearty laugh.
One day, when several of the schoolboys, including Michael and Jacob, were playing ball on the fine lawn in front of the school house, a dispute occurred between the young grumbler and another boy, and Mike ventured to suggest to Jacob, as kindly as he could, that he was in the wrong.
"You little meddlesome dunce!"said Jacob, all in a blaze of anger, "I'll teach you to mind your own business, and let other people's quarrels alone." And, suiting his action to his words, he struck Mike in the face so hard that the blood ran from his nose in a stream.
Well, what do you think Mike did, then? I know what some boys would have done, if they had been in his place. They would have struck Jacob, at any cost. That is the way they would have taken their revenge. That is the way, indeed, that Mike's school-fellows advised him to take hisrevenge. Half a dozen of them, at least, surrounded him, and urged him to flog Jacob.
"I'd pay him off for it," said one.
"The rascal!" said another. "I'd make him smart for it."
"And we'll all stand by you," said one, "if you'll flog him."
"Mike wasn't a bit to blame, either," added another. "If I were in his place, if I wouldn't make Jake see stars, then—"
The remainder of the speech was lost to every body but the speaker, as all the boys, by this time, weretalking at once. It is a wonder to me that they did not take the matter altogether into their own hands, and give Jake the flogging which they thought he so richly deserved; for Michael was a great favorite among them, and they could not bear to see him abused. But I believe they contented themselves with letting off ever so many vials of wrath, in the shape of words; and Jake Grumble, finding how matters stood, walked sulkily away.
"Now, Mike, what are you going to do?" asked one of the boys.
"Do about what?" asked the injured boy.
"About the bloody nose that Jake gave you," was the reply.
"I'm going to see if I can't stop its bleeding," said Mike.
"No, I don't mean that," said the other. "I mean what are you going to do to Jake?"
"Oh," said Mike, "I guess I'll pay him off, one of these days."
"And why not now?" the boy asked.
"I've got as much on my hands as I can attend to, just now," said Mike.
How do you suppose Jake felt, that day, after his cruel treatment of one of his playmates? What do you suppose were his feelings, when he found out what all the boys thought of his conduct; and when he had time to reflect upon the folly and wickedness of what he had done? Perhaps you can guess pretty well how he felt. Possibly you have yourself wronged some one of your playmates, and recollect how you felt about it, when you had a chance to get away somewhere, alone, to think over your conduct. If so, you can give a pretty rational guessas to the kind of feelings that were at work in Jake's bosom, on his way home from school that day.
He did not go home in company with the rest of the boys and girls who went in the same direction. He was in the habit of doing so. But he felt so much ashamed on account of what he had done, that he could not bear to see the faces of any of the children.
Instead of taking the public road that led directly to his father's house, he went through the gate that led into Deacon Stark's pasture, andfollowed the cart-path through the woods. It was a great deal farther that way. But he went through the woods so as to get clear of his playmates. One of the deacon's hired men saw the boy, leaning against the fence, just at the edge of the woods. Poor fellow! he was crying, as if his heart would break. So the man said. Jake got the worst of it, in that affair. Don't you think he did?
But I have not got through with the story yet, and I must go on with it.
A Crying SpellA CRYING SPELL.ToList
A CRYING SPELL.ToList
Time passed on—days, weeks, andeven months, came and went—but Mike did not "pay off" the boy who had so unjustly abused him. His companions urged him to do it, until they got out of patience, and concluded to give the matter up.
As for Jake, it was as much as he could do to look Mike in the face. He avoided him, as much as possible, and seemed to be unhappy whenever he came near him. But Mike, on his part, treated the boy who had injured him just as if nothing had happened.
I have often noticed, that where there has been any difficulty betweentwo persons, the one who was at fault is more apt to cherish unkind feelings than the one who was innocent. It was so in this case. Jacob treated Michael as if it were Michael rather than himself, who had been in the wrong. He never spoke to him, when he could help it; and when he did say any thing to him, he spoke peevishly, and pressed the words between his teeth, as if he had the lockjaw.
One day, during that interesting season of the year when the farmers are busy making hay, Jake hadoccasion to pass through Mr. Marble's meadow, with his fishing rod, on his way to the "deep hole," where, as every body in the neighborhood knew, multitudes of sun fish and perch were always to be found, ready for a nice bit of an angle-worm.
Jake, being a little thirsty—for it was a very warm day—went up to the tree under which Mr. Marble kept the refreshments for his hired men, and took up the wooden bottle to drink. There was nothing wrong, perhaps, in the liberty he took, though I think it would have been quite aswell, if he had asked Mr. Marble's consent in the first place. But we will let that pass. Jake had a different way of doing things.
As I said, he took up the bottle to drink. But the moment he did so, Ranter, Mr. Marble's old dog, who lay under the tree, where he had been stationed to keep watch, thinking his master's property was in danger, flew at the boy, and caught him by the arm. Poor Jake! he yelled lustily, you may be sure. But it did no good. Ranter held him in his jaws, as tight as if he were awoodchuck or a rabbit, instead of a school-boy.
Mike was spreading hay, at the time, some twenty yards off, or more and hearing the boy crying for help, and looking in the direction from which the voice came, he saw Jake fast in the clutches of the dog. In an instant he shouted, as loud as he could scream, "Here, Ranter! here, Ranter!" and in another instant, Ranter let go of the poor boy, and bounded away towards his young master.
Jake, as you may suppose, and as Mike found, when he went to him,was very badly bitten. The blood ran from his arm quite as freely as it did from Mike's nose, some time before that.
"Did Ranter hurt you much?" asked Mike, kindly.
"Very badly, I'm afraid," said Jake, almost frantic with pain and fright.
Mike said he was sorry, and expressed his wonder that Ranter could be so cruel. Then he ran and called his father, who was busy in another part of the meadow, when the accident happened, and who did not hear Jake's call for help. Mr. Marble hadthe boy taken to his house, where his wound was nicely dressed, and where the utmost care was taken of him by the whole family, among whom Mike was the foremost. It was two or three days before it was thought prudent to remove the sufferer to his father's house; and during that time there was no one, not even Jacob's own mother, who was more kind and attentive to him than Mike Marble.
The time came when the wounded boy was able to go home. An hour or two before the wagon was to come for him, he was sitting in an easychair, with the wounded arm lying on a pillow, and Mike, as usual, was at his side. There happened to be no one else in the chamber besides the two boys.
"Mike," said the other, "I want to say something to you."
"What is it?" asked Mike.
"I don't know how to say it," was the answer.
And there was a pause. Jacob had undertaken a task which was entirely new to him, and he did not know how to begin it. At length he tried again:
"Mike," said he, "I struck youonce—it was a good while ago—do you remember it?"
"Yes," Mike said.
"Well, I am sorry I struck you," said Jacob, and burst into tears.
"I knew you were sorry," said Mike, "and I have forgiven you, long ago."
"Doyou forgive me?" asked Jacob, earnestly.
"I do, from my heart," said Mike.
Then followed another flood of tears. This time it was a good while before Jacob could speak, so as to be understood, and when he did speak, it was only to say,
"Oh, Mike, you aresokind! You seem like a brother to me."
Jacob's father came into the room just at this moment, and nothing more was said by either of the boys on the subject which so deeply affected Jacob. But Mike saw, plainly enough, that the heart of the boy who had injured him was melted, and he was satisfied.
How warmly Jacob pressed Mike's hand, when he bade him "good bye," and started for home.
Not long after that, Mike met one of the boys who had urged him sostrongly to return the blow that Jacob gave him.
"Well," said Mike, "I've done it."
"Done what?" asked the other boy.
"Paid him off," said Mike.
"What, Jake Grumble?"
"Yes."
"Good. Tell me all about it."
And Mike did tell him all about it.
"Well, I do say for it, Mike," said the other boy, after listening to the whole story, "you are just the queerest fellow that I ever saw or heard of."
"But don't you think that wasabout the best way to pay him off, after all?" asked Mike.
"Well," said the other boy, after a moment's pause, "I declare I don't know but it was, when I come to think of it."
And don'tyouthink it was the best way to pay him off, reader? I do, and I should be glad if every body would learn to pay such debts in very much the same way. It may be a very queer mode of taking revenge. But it seems to me quite a sensible one; and I am sure it is a thousand times better than the mode thatpeople so often choose. If I am not greatly mistaken, indeed, it is just the mode that is recommended in the word of God, which says, "If thine enemy hunger, feed him; if he thirst, give him to drink; for, in so doing, thou shalt heap coals of fire on his head."
You have heard a great deal about the Revolutionary War. You have heard what hardships our forefathers went through, while they were fighting the battles of liberty. But I doubt if you can form, in your own mind, any thing like a true picture of what those brave men suffered. Why, many of them had to go barefoot, for wholeweeks at a time, right in the heart of winter. They could hardly get food to eat; and many and many a time, if it had not been for the thought that they were engaged in a good cause, and that God was on their side, they must have been discouraged, and given up all as lost. But they did not give up. They stood firm at their post, until they either fell before their enemies, or perished by fatigue and exposure.
When the tidings came to the neighborhood where Mike Marble lived, that Washington's noble band weresuffering every thing but death at Valley Forge, every man and woman, that could boast of any thing in the shape of a heart, were moved with pity. And they were not the people to let their kind feelings go off in fog and smoke. They were not blustering people. They believed inacting, as well as intalking. When they had heard the sad news, the next question was, "Can wedoany thing?" That question was soon answered. The next was, "Whatcan we do?" Well, it was pretty soon found out that all could do something—that some could do one thing,and some another; but that every family in the parish could do something.
So they went to work. The mothers and daughters went to knitting stockings, and making under garments for the soldiers. Every chest of drawers, and wardrobe, and closet in the house was ransacked, to find bed-quilts and blankets for the army. And the fathers and sons, they went to work, with a right good will, to get shoes, and hats, and coats, and other articles of wearing apparel, so as to have them ready at the time the agent fromthe commander-in-chief should pass through the place.
The younger branches of the families in that neighborhood, too, caught the spirit of their fathers and mothers. I must tell you a story about the agency of the little folks in furnishing supplies for the army.
Mike Marble asked his father, one day, if he might call a meeting of the boys and girls at his house, to talk over war matters. The old man laughed, and said he might, if he chose. "But what do you children expect to do for the army, Mike?" headded. "What can you do, I should like to know?"
"I don't know, father," was the reply, "but I guess we can all do something; I'm pretty sure I can, for one."
Well, the meeting was called. The schoolmaster gave out notice, one afternoon, that all the boys and girls were invited to Mr. Marcus Marble's house, the next Wednesday, at "early candlelight," and, to quote the precise language of Mike's invitation—for he had it all written out, and the schoolmaster read it word for word—that business of importance would be brought beforethe meeting, which would be made known at that time.
When the hour of "early candlelight" arrived, and, indeed, before the hour of late daylight had closed, there was a crowd of boys and girls assembled in Mr. Marble's kitchen, to talk over matters and things about the war. They appointed a chairman, (if chairman he could be called, who had numbered less than a dozen summers,) the object of the meeting was stated, and they went as orderly to work in their deliberations, as if they had been playing statesmen for half acentury. Only one grown person—Mr. Marble—was admitted into the kitchen, and he was there only as a listener. He did not take any part in the proceedings.
My grandfather was the chairman of the evening, and the principal orator was Mike Marble. His speech at the time was not reported, nor have I any notes of it at hand. But my grandfather used to say it was one of the most eloquent addresses he ever heard in his life. I can easily believe it. One half of what is necessary in an orator isto feelwhat hesays. If he feels, it is not so much, matter in what shape the words come from his mouth. I am a firm believer in a good style. People who speak in public ought to use chaste and elegant language. But a good style, and ever so good a delivery, are worth but little, unless the speaker has a soul, and unless he can make his hearers feel because he feels.
Mike was in earnest. It looked a little like boy's play, to be sure, to see that group of children there, talking about great principles. But it was something more than play. Mike wasin earnest, and his words, as he was describing the sufferings of the army at Valley Forge, came warm and flowing from his heart. If the character of a speech can be judged of from the effect it has, certainly the one from Mike Marble deserves a high rank; for he carried all the boys and girls along with him. Other speeches were made; but Mike was the Webster of the evening.
Well, what do you think that little band of patriots resolved to do? I doubt whether you can guess. The first thing they did was to find outhow much cash each one had laid aside, to be used for spending money on such occasions as Thanksgiving, and Christmas, and Training day.
"For my part," said Mike, "I would rather never spend another cent for sugar plums in my life, than to have the soldiers go barefoot on the snow. I tell you what it is, fellow-countrymen—(Mr. Marble was observed by the chairman to bite his lips, to keep in a good round laugh, when those words,fellow-countrymen, came out)—I tell you what it is, the things that are wanted now are boots, and shoes,and stockings, and jackets—and not gingerbread, and sugar plums, and spruce beer, and gimcracks of that kind."
When the little patriots came to count up their money, they found it amounted to more than ten dollars. And it was none of your paltry continental stuff. It was all made up of good hard silver and copper.
The next thing they did was to appoint a treasurer, to take charge of the money, and to see that it was paid over to Washington's agent, who was to be instructed to pay it all out in shoes.And that was not all these young statesmen did. They resolved that they would give to the army every cent of all the spending money they might get, as long as the war lasted. Didn't they do their work pretty well, my little lad? I think they did. They did what they could. La Fayette and Washington did no more. You will smile when I tell you one thing which was proposed that evening. One of the boys thought it would be a good plan to turn over to the poor soldiers all the stockings and shoes belonging to the assembly. He thought theycould get along better walking on the snow with their bare feet, than the troops could. But some one, with a little more forethought than this generous-hearted speaker, suggested that the soldiers at Valley Forge would find it difficult to get on such stockings and shoes as the Blue Hill boys had to bestow. So that scheme failed. But it shows what stuff those lads were made of. It shows what kind, generous, noble, self-denying hearts beat in their bosoms.
I declare to you I am more than ever proud of my native land, whenI think what our ancestors did, in old times, to obtain our freedom for us. God grant that we may know how to value our blessings, that we may ever be thankful for them, and that we may not abuse the liberty that has been given to us. I do not want my young readers to grow up, with their hearts full of the spirit of war. I love peace more than war. War I know to be a terrible thing. Seldom, very seldom would I go to war—never, unless for some great principle, such as that for which our forefathers contended. No, I do notwish to have you get your heads and hearts full of the war spirit. But I do want you to be patriots. I want you to love your country; to be willing to make sacrifices for it; to look upon it as the brightest and dearest spot on earth. Our liberty cost a great deal—a great deal of money, of hardship, of suffering, and, what is more valuable than all, a great deal of blood. It cost too much to be lightly valued—too much to be trifled with. Take care that you never get into the habit which some, who are much older than you, have fallen into, of lookingupon the union of these states as a matter, after all has been said and done, of not much consequence. I tell you the bonds which bind us together is a sacred one; and, next to the tie which binds us together in families, ought to be, to you and to me, the dearest tie on earth.
All the boys and girls who live in the country, and probably a large share of those who live in the city, know the bumble-bee. We had a little different name for him in our neighborhood.Bumble-beewas, however, the only name the family was known by, in Willow Lane, and I think it quite possible that such acorruption, (if it is a corruption, and the wise ones tell us it is, though I should like to see them beat the notion into the head of any one of the hundred children who went to our school,) is very common in New England.
The nests of these insects, you may not be aware, are made in the ground. These nests are frequently found in meadows, about the time the grass is mowed; and it not unfrequently happens that the mower disturbs one of these nests with his scythe, in which case, the first information the poor manobtains of the existence of the nest is from a score or two of the bumble-bees themselves—(we'll call thembumble-bees, for the sake of peace, though I must confess I feel a great partiality for the name by which I knew the rogues when I used to be familiar with their nests)—the bumble-bees themselves, who fly into his face, before he has time to retreat, and sting him until they get tired of the sport.
In these nests, there is usually more or less honey. Sometimes there is half a pint, or more. This honey is very palatable; and it is not an uncommonthing for children to brave the danger of being stung by the bees, for the sake of capturing a nest and getting possession of its treasures. For myself, I never was ambitious of getting renown by such means as besieging a bumble-bee's nest.
I'll tell you what I did perform, though, once on a time, which was closely connected with the race of insects I am speaking of. It is a common tradition among country boys, that white-faced bumble-bees never sting, and that you can take them in your hands with perfect safety. Thistradition may have truth at the bottom of it, or it may not. I cannot tell, and I shall not stop to debate the question now. It is certain that there is an insect, very much resembling the bumble-bee, and of about the same size, who, nevertheless, is a very different fellow. This is the chap that bores holes into dry wood, as nicely as you can bore with a gimlet, on which account he is sometimes called the borer. This insect does not sting. No thanks to him, though, for not stinging. He has no instrument to sting with. For aught I know, hemay have ever so good awillto sting; but he has nopowerto do so, any more than a grasshopper or a butterfly.
Well, I wanted to show some of the boys, one day, how smart I was. I had an idea that I could teach them something, and at the same time get the credit for a little bit of bravery.
"Do you see that saucy chap there," I asked, "on that clover blossom?"
"Yes," said one of the boys, "it is a bumble-bee." This time I must be permitted to say the spelling of the word, because the boys in pronouncingit, give the sound of theb, and I, as a historian, must report their conversation faithfully.
"Well." I said, "what will you give me, if I'll take this fellow in my hand."
It was intimated that nothing could be expected from the boys, but that the bumble-bee would be likely to give me something which I would remember, until "the cows came home." I don't know what period in the future that intended to point to, but I know that was a common expression among us all—one which we used, I suppose,without stopping to think what it meant, or how it got into use.
"I dare do it," I said. I was as bold as a lion.
"You had better not," said the boys.
I did it, though. I caught the bumble-bee, and held him fast in my hand. But if ever a poor fellow got handsomely and foolishly stung, I was that unfortunate youth; and the worst of it was, that while I was dancing about, and wringing my hand, and crying, on account of the pain, my companions were doing quite another thing:they were holding a laughing concert, at my expense.
It is hardly necessary to add, that my white-faced bumble-bee turned out to be an enemy in disguise. After that event, I made a closer examination of the faces of this class of insects, and became satisfied that there was one tribe of bumble-bees who wore a face of a pale yellow color, resembling somewhat the genuine borer, but who, for all that, could sting as well as any of their race with black faces.
This feat was as near as I ever gottoward the glory of capturing a nest of bumble-bees. I have tasted the honey which came from their nests, though, many a time, and I have seen other boys capture the nests.
Billy Bolton was a great fellow at that kind of sport. Billy lived with Uncle Mike. He didchores—to use a word common enough in New England, though, possibly, not an elegant one—on Mr. Marble's farm; that is, he went for the cows and drove them to pasture, fed the pigs and poultry, brought water and chips for the "women folks," and ran of errands.
It was a favorite sport with Billy, in the summer time, to hunt for bumble-bees' nests, and to "take them up," as the process of capturing them was called. Uncle Mike did not like to indulge the boy in this kind of sport. Perhaps he thought it a cruel and unfeeling kind of fun; and I know he had too kind a heart, to see a boy growing up in his family with a taste for cruelty to animals of any kind. At any rate, the danger connected with the sport was enough to condemn it in the mind of Mr. Marble.
He had forbidden Billy and his ownchildren having any thing to do with the sport. Still, it seemed Billy found means to amuse himself, now and then, in a sly way, by taking up a bumble-bees' nest.
One day, Mr. Marble and his men were engaged in the meadow, raking hay and carting it into the barn. Billy was in the meadow, too, at work among the hay, raking after the cart, I presume, as that used to be the task always allotted to me when I was of his age. In a corner of the lot, at some distance from the place where Mr. Marble and his men were at work,there was a large bottle containing water—nothing but water, reader; there was no rum drank on Mr. Marble's farm. Billy was sent after the bottle. He was gone a good while—longer, Mr. Marble thought, than was necessary. The matter was examined, when it turned out that Billy had got into trouble with a nest of bumble-bees. He had discovered a nest of these wretches, it appears; and, the temptation to wage war against them being very strong, he had stopped a moment, just to take up the nest.
Poor fellow! It proved to be ataking in, instead of ataking up, and the taking in was on the other side. When he saw that the bumble-bees had outwitted him, he snatched up the bottle, which he had thrown down, and which was lying near, and ran, as fast as his legs would let him, towards the place where the men were at work. But the bees flew faster than he could run. It was a comic scene enough to see the fellow running at the top of his speed, and some fifty bumble-bees after him, once in a while giving expression to their feelings, by saluting him, in their peculiar way, in the face and on the neck. Didn't the poor fellow scream?
Paying For MischiefPAYING FOR MISCHIEF.ToList
PAYING FOR MISCHIEF.ToList
But this was not the whole of the joke. Indeed, it was hardly the richest part of it. Mr. Marble, who saw what was going on, stood ready with his cart whip; and when Billy made his appearance, with a regiment of bumble-bees about his ears, he commenced beating him with the whip. Away ran the boy, and Mr. Marble chased him some half a dozen rods, and gave him about as many blows with the cart whip.
"There, you young rogue!" saidMr. Marble, as he turned to go back to his work again, "between me and the bumble-bees, I guess you have learned one good lesson thoroughly this afternoon. You will be a wiser boy, I think, after this. You will be asmarterone, I'm sure; at least, for a while."
Mike Marble, as I think I have said before, was a kind-hearted man. But he had his own way of doing every thing, and that way was very generally quite unlike most other people's way. No man ever liked better to do any body a good turn. But he had his crotchets about an act of charity, as well as about every thing else.
A neighbor went to him once, to ask him for some money to aid him in building a barn. The old one had burned down, and it was a great loss to him, he said. He hardly knew how he should get along, unless his neighbor loaned him a little money.
But Uncle Mike refused the neighbor's petition. "Money was scarce, very scarce." That was all the answer the unfortunate man could get from Mike Marble.
"This is strange enough," he mused in his own mind, as he walked away from Mr. Marble's door. "Strangeenough! so kind-hearted and generous as he always has been, when any body was in distress."
The next day, however, bright and early, Uncle Mike yoked up his oxen, (some three pairs, I believe, including thesteers, which needed something more thanmoral suasionto keep them straight,) fastened them to the cart, and posted off, with two or three men, to the saw mill. There he and his men loaded the cart with boards and planks. Then he drove straight to the house of the unfortunate neighbor, opened the great gate, withoutsaying a word to any member of the family, went into the door yard with his load, and threw it off within a few yards of the spot where the old barn stood.
"What on earth does all that mean?" thought the female portion of the family. The farmer and his boys were not at home at the time. Nothing was said, however.
Again Uncle Mike drove over to the mill; again he put on a load of timber; again he threw it off near the site of the old barn. Three loads were discharged there, and then he directedhis men to go home with the team. He himself went to one of his neighbors, and asked him if he had any timber of any kind already sawed at Squire Murdock's mill.
"Yes," was the answer, "a little; why?"
"Well, I want some of it, if it's the right kind. What is it?"
"I don't recollect exactly—some white oak joists, I guess, and some inch boards."
"Good. Just what I want."
Suffice it to say, that Mike Marble did not leave his neighbor before hegot a promise from him that he would contribute a load or two of his timber to rebuild that barn. Then he went to another neighbor, and another, and did something like the same errand, with very much the same sort of success. He called on abosscarpenter, too, and secured his services in framing the barn; and, on his way home, he stopped at Slocum's blacksmith's shop, and got the promise of some nails.
Well, it was not long before the neighbors were all called together to raise Deacon Metcalf's barn, and itwas not long after that before the building was ready for use. And how much do you think it cost him? Not a cent—not a single cent, the neighbors managed the thing so well. Even the good things on the supper table, when they had their "raising bee," were sent in by the neighbors.
And the whole scheme, you see, came from the crotchety brain of our friend, Mike Marble. That was his way of building a neighbor's barn, when any help was needed for that purpose.
This story about the building of the deacon's barn brings to my mind another, pretty closely related to it. Will you hear that, too?
One morning, as Uncle Mike was walking out, he saw a boy sitting down on the door steps of one of his neighbors. Upon a closer inspection of the lad it appeared that he was a poor boy, without any parents, who was wandering about, doing odd jobs, here and there, and getting what people had a mind to pay him for his services.
Mike Marble and the BeggarMIKE MARBLE AND THE BEGGAR.ToList
MIKE MARBLE AND THE BEGGAR.ToList
He was not a common vagrant, exactly, and yet he came very near being one. It was not supposed that he was a vicious boy; still it could not be denied that the life he led was tolerably well calculated to make him vicious, and most of the neighbors were afraid to have him about their houses, without keeping a sharp look out on his movements.
Mr. Marble had heard of the lad, though it so happened that he had never met him until this time.
"Hallo, there, my boy!" said Uncle Mike, "what are you so busy about?"
"Eating a cold johnny-cake, sir," was the laconic answer.
"And how do you like it?"
"Pretty well, though I guess a little butter wouldn't hurt it."
"Look here, my lad," said Uncle Mike, "what do you do generally for a living?"
"A little of every thing."
"Are you willing to work?"
"Yes, sir, if I can get any thing for it."
"Will you work for me?"
"I wouldn't mind trying it."
"I am a hard-working man. Will you work like a dog, if I'll let you try?"
"Please, sir, I'd rather work like a boy."
"Good. You shall go home with me."
And he took the boy home with him. The first thing he set him about was weeding the onion bed. It was hard work, as I know from experience. Oh,how it makes a poor fellow's back ache, to stoop down and weed onions for half a day. You must know that you can't use the hoe more than about a quarter of the time. If you could, the work would be comparatively easy and pleasant. But you can't do that. You must bend right down to the task, as if you really loved the onions, and were nursing them, as a fond mother nurses a pet child.
"Well, Fred," said the old gentleman, when the dinner horn blew its blast of invitation for the workmen to come in and pay their respectsto Mrs. Marble's boiled pork and cabbage, "well, Fred, how do you like weeding onion beds?"
"Very well, sir," said the boy.
"And would you like to keep at it all the afternoon?"
"I would like to please you, sir. That's what I came here for."
The old man was so much delighted with this answer, that he not only laughed at it all the time he was at dinner, but he told it all over the neighborhood in less than a week.
"Well, Fred," said he, "I guess you've done enough of that sort ofwork for one day. I want you to do two or three errands after you have done your dinner."
And he sent the lad to I don't know how many different places, to do all sorts of errands. Among other things he directed him to do, was to go to the store with money, to purchase some little articles for his wife. You see the old man wanted to try the new comer, and see if he was faithful.
Well, every thing was done properly, and Uncle Mike was satisfied.
The next day, Fred had other tasksgiven to him. His employer selected those which were hardest and most unpleasant, as he said, "to break the little fellow in." I'll tell you one thing he did. He sent him out to catch the old mare. Now the old mare had a knack of kicking those who came to catch her, when she was not perfectly satisfied with their mode of doing the business; and she did not at all like the sly and timid way in which Fred came up to her, with the bridle concealed behind his back. She was a great lover of fair and open dealing; though, like some others of her race,that I am acquainted with, as well as some who belong to quite a different race, and who have the name of being a good deal wiser, she did not always practice herself the virtues she so highly commended in others.
She waited until the lad had got within a few feet of her, and then she whirled round, before the poor fellow, who was half frightened out of his wits, could have time to get out of her way, and let her heels fly into the air over his head. It was well for the boy that she took her aim so high. If it had been a foot or twolower, thebreaking inwould have been an expensive one to Fred—a very expensive one, indeed.
In such ways as those I have named, and in a great many other ways, which I need not name, Uncle Mike tried the boy, to see what he was made of. He found out, before long, what he was made of. He found out that there was just such stuff in him as he liked. The more he tried him—the more he "broke him in"—the better he was pleased with him.
Well, I'll tell you how that affair with the beggar turned—for Imust not make too long a story of it—Uncle Mike brought up the lad. He taught him all the mysteries of farming, and treated him as if he were a member of his own family—one of his own children—until he was twenty-one. Then he told him he was free to go where he chose. He gave him a hundred dollars in money, a yoke of oxen, a fine colt, and, what was of more value than all, his blessing.