Clinton said he found these lines in a newspaper about the time he began to drive alone, and he stuck them up upon the stall that he might not forget them.
"Hallo, who is this?" inquired Oscar, as a little curly-haired girl of six years came tripping into the barn.
The little girl to whom the inquiry was addressed turned a shy and roguish look towards the strange boy, and then edged along to Clinton, and nestled her little hand in his.
"Can't you tell him who you are?" inquired Clinton. "He came all the way from Boston, where cousin Ettie and cousin Willie live. He 's Jerry's cousin, and little Mary Preston's cousin. Now you'll tell him what your name is, won't you?"
"Annie Davenport—that's my name," she replied, in her artless, winning way.
"Then you're Clinton's sister, are you?" inquired Oscar.
"Yes, and he 's my brother," she quickly added, with a proud look that greatly amused the boys.
"Did you say you have a cousin Willie in Boston, Clinton?" continued Oscar.
"Yes, Willie Davenport," replied Clinton.
"I know him—he's about your size, is n't he? and his father is a lawyer?"
"Yes, that's him—why, I want to know if you know him?"
"O yes; he goes to our school. The boys have nicknamed him Whistler, because he whistles so much; but he 's a real clever fellow, for all that. My brother Ralph is quite intimate with him. It's strange that I never knew before that he had relations down here," added Oscar.
"Do you know his sister, Ettie?" inquired Clinton.
"No, I never saw her," replied Oscar.
"Come into the house with me,—I must tell mother we 've heard from Boston," said Clinton.
They all entered the house, and Mrs. Davenport was soon informed of the pleasant discovery they had made, and had many questions to ask concerning her Boston friends. Oscar seemed to become at once an old acquaintance. The fact that he was a schoolmate of Willie gave him a direct passport to the good graces of all the family. When Oscar called to mind his peculiar relations towards Willie, this unlooked-for friendship was not particularly agreeable to him; for he was not, and never had been, on very friendly terms with Clinton's cousin. This, however, was more than he dared say to Clinton, and so he concealed his dislike of Willie as well as he could.
After sitting in the house a little while, Clinton invited Oscar and Jerry into the "shop," which was a room back of the kitchen, where Mr. Davenport kept a variety of carpenter's tools. Here, in cold and stormy weather, Clinton's father mended his broken tools and implements, and performed such other jobs as were required. Clinton, too, spent many odd moments at the work-bench, and patient practice had made him quite a neat and skilful workman. He showed the boys several boxes, a pine table, and a cricket, made entirely by his own hands, which would have done no discredit to a regular carpenter.
After remaining an hour or two with Clinton, Oscar and Jerry started for home, well pleased with their visit.
"Oscar, you have n't written home since you came down here, have you?" inquired Mr. Preston one morning at the breakfast table.
"No, sir," replied Oscar.
"Well, you ought to write," added Mr. Preston; "your mother told you to, and I suppose she has been looking for a letter every day for a week or more. It's over a fortnight since you left home, and your folks will feel anxious about you, if they don't hear from you soon. You 'd better write a letter to them this morning, before you do anything else, and then it will be out of the way. I shall either go or send over to the post-office to-day, and the letter will start for Boston to-morrow morning, and get there the next day."
"O dear, I hate to write," said Oscar. "Why can't you write to mother, aunt, and tell her how I am?"
"No, no," said Mr. Preston, "that won't do. You promised your mother that you would write yourself, and she 'll expect to hear from you, and not from somebody else. Your aunt can write, if she chooses, but you must write too. I 'll give you a pen and some paper and ink after breakfast, and you can write just a much as you please."
"I guess it won't be much—I don't know how to write a letter," replied Oscar.
"A boy of your age not know how to write a letter—and been all your lifetime to such grand schools as they have in Boston, too! I don't believe that," said Mr. Preston, shaking his head.
"I shall have to go and see the Shanghae Rooster," said Oscar, looking at Jerry very knowingly.
Jerry laughed at this allusion, but the others did not appear to understand its meaning. It was evident that they were innocent of all knowledge of the mysterious letter; and as Jerry wished them to remain so, he adroitly turned the remark by replying:
"No you won't—father has got plenty of steel pens."
After breakfast, Mr. Preston told Oscar to follow him. They went up stairs, and Mr. P. took a key from his pocket, and unlocked the door of what was known by the name of "the private room." It was a very small apartment, and was originally designed for a closet or store-room; but Mr. Preston now used it as a sort of office. Here he kept his business papers, and here he did what little writing he had to do. There was one window in the room, which looked out upon the garden in the rear of the house. The furniture consisted of a chair, a small portable desk, placed upon a table, an old map of the State of Maine, a dictionary, almanac, and several other odd volumes and pamphlets.
"There," said Mr. Preston, "you may sit right down to my desk, and write as long as you please, if you won't disturb my papers. There are paper, ink, pens, and wafers—you can use what you want. When you get done, lock the door, and give the key to your aunt."
Oscar found there was no backing out from a letter this time; so he sat down, and tried to make up his mind to face the dreaded duty. He heard his uncle tell the children not to interrupt him, till he had finished his letter; and when Mr. Preston and his man James went off to work, Jerry accompanied them. Oscar was thus left to himself. After thinking about the matter a few moments, he dipped his pen in the ink-stand, and, having consulted the almanac, wrote the proper date for the letter, together with the address, "Dear Mother." Here he came suddenly to a stand. He was at a loss how to commence. He sat uneasily in his chair, now nibbling the end of the pen-holder, and now running his fingers slowly through his hair, as if to coax out the thoughts he wished to express.
At length he got started, and wrote several lines without stopping. Now he thought he should go ahead without further trouble; but he soon found himself again brought to a dead halt. He began to scribble and draw rude figures upon a piece of waste paper, hoping the next sentence, in continuance of his letter, would soon pop into his head; but instead of anything popping in, his ideas began to pop out, so that he almost forgot the letter, amid the unmeaning flourishes his pen was making. Then, suddenly thinking of the scarcely-commenced task before him, he read and re-read the few lines he had written, but could not determine what to say next. Lifting up the lid of the desk, he found a variety of bills, receipts, accounts and letters scattered about. Disregarding the injunction of his uncle, and in violation of one of the plainest rules of good breeding, he concluded to open one of the letters, and see if he could not gain some hint from it, to aid him in completing his own. The letter he opened proved to be a short business message, and it was written in such a difficult hand, that he could not read half the words. He then looked into several other letters, but none of them afforded him any aid.
After idling away half an hour in this manner, he resumed his letter, and began to make some progress upon it, when the lively chirping and twittering of a party of birds in an apple-tree near the window, attracted his attention. He laid down his pen, and watched their movements awhile. They were swallows; and from their actions, Oscar soon discovered that the old birds were teaching their little ones how to fly. There were several nests of these swallows, under the rafters of Mr. Preston's barn; and as they had recently had accessions to their families, Oscar concluded this must be the first appearance of the new-comers in public. The old birds fluttered back and forth, twittering and talking to the young ones all the while, and trying to entice them to commit themselves again to their wings. The little fearful things looked doubtingly, first one way and then another, as though they would gladly launch away upon their destined element, if they were only sure they should not tumble ingloriously to the ground. The clamor of the old ones increased every moment. They called and coaxed more earnestly, and fluttered more impatiently, until at length the young birds worked up their courage to the requisite point, and away the whole flock darted, towards the barn.
Now that the swallows were out of his way, Oscar returned to his letter once more. Had he learned a lesson of self-confidence from the example of the little swallows, the few minutes he spent in watching their movements would have been well employed. But instead of his confidence increasing, he was now almost sick of the sight of the letter, and began to doubt whether he should ever finish it. While he was hesitating whether he had better tear it up, or try once more to go on with it, a sweet childish voice from the garden engaged his attention. He looked from the window, and saw little Mary sitting down upon the grass, in a shady spot, with a large book open before her. She was looking at the engravings in the volume, and was talking very earnestly to herself, and to the figures in the pictures.
"There is Emily," she was saying, "and there is father with a shovel; and this one is me, and that is Jerry, and that's Oscar, carrying a basket. I guess they 're going to dig potatoes. O, what lots of houses over the other side of the pond; and there 's one, two, three, five, ten, eight meeting-houses, too. It must be Boston, I guess, there are so many houses there. And there's a great boat coming—O what a smoke it makes!—and it's got wheels, too. Now we'll get right into it, and go and see Uncle Henry and all the folks. Stop, stop, you boat! Now that's too bad—it goes by, and we can't go to Boston."
Mary and the Picture-Book.[Illustration: Mary and the Picture-Book.]
Mary and the Picture-Book.[Illustration: Mary and the Picture-Book.]
Thus little Mary continued to talk to the pictures and to herself, unconscious that any one was listening to her. She was a pretty child, and, all unknown to herself, she made almost as attractive a picture as any in her book, with her fair face, her flowing hair, and her clean dress, set off by the green grass and climbing vines around her. Oscar sat listening to her childish prattle for some time, when the striking of the kitchen clock reminded him that he had been seated at the desk an hour, and had not yet written a dozen lines. He was about to tear up the sheet of paper over which he had sat (but not labored) so long, and give up the attempt. Then he thought of his promise to write, and how ashamed he should feel to have his uncle's folks know that he had tried a whole hour, and could not write a letter to his own mother. He finally determined to make one more attempt.
Finding that the sound of Mary's voice disturbed him, Oscar now shut down the window, and thus cut off all communication with the outer world, except by the eye. He soon got under way again with his letter, and, to his own surprise, he went along quite easily and with considerable rapidity. The reason of this was, he was now really in earnest, and had given his mind wholly to the letter. Before, his thoughts were flitting from one trifle to another; now they were directed to the object he wished to accomplish. Before the clock struck the next hour, the letter was finished, sealed, and directed. It was quite a respectable sort of a letter, too. When he had got through, Oscar was himself surprised to find that he could write so good an epistle. The spelling, punctuation, and penmanship might have been improved, but in other respects the letter was creditable to him. I will print it as he intended it should read, and not precisely as he wrote it:
"BROOKDALE, June 15, 185—.
"DEAR MOTHER:
"I suppose you are looking for a letter from me, and I meant to have written before this, but somehow I have neglected it. I got here safe the next day after I left home. We stopped one night in Portland, and put up at the —— Hotel. The next day we rode in the cars all the forenoon, and in the stage all the afternoon. The stage does not go within five miles of uncle's, but Jerry went over with a horse and wagon to get us. I like Brookdale first-rate. It is a real countryfied place, but I like it all the better for that. The nearest house to uncle's is half a mile off; and, by the way, tell Ralph that a cousin of Whistler's lives there. His name is Clinton Davenport. I have got acquainted with him, and like him very much. I like Jerry, too. We have capital times together. All the boys here are rather 'green,' as we say in Boston; and you would laugh at the ideas they have of city things; but I suppose they think I am green about country things, and so we are square. I have lots of rides, and good long walks, too. A few days ago, Jerry and I walked four or five miles through the woods and pastures, to an old hut where a hermit used to live. They say he was a miser, and buried his money there, and people have dug for it, but nobody has found it. We carried our provisions, and made a fire, and ate dinner there. There is a fine pond close by, where we got our water to drink.
"There are lots of birds here. We are going to set some snares in the woods, and catch some. There are some swallows' nests in uncle's barn, just over the door. You can look right up into them, and see the birds. They are quite tame. They are just making their young ones learn how to fly. It is real amusing to see them.
"Uncle has quite a large farm. I forget how many acres he told me there was, but it is a good many. They have cows, and pigs, and hens, and live in real country style. I have learned how to make butter, but I have not learned to like buttermilk yet. I can't bear it, but all the other folks think it is a great treat. The schools don't keep here but three months in the winter, so Jerry and I are together about all the time. We sleep together, too. I almost forgot to tell you that I have got quite strong and hearty again. My cough is gone, and aunt says I look a good deal better than I did when I came here. I want to hear from home, but I hope you won't send for me to go back just yet. But I am tired of writing, and must close up my letter. Excuse errors and bad writing. Give my love to all the family, including Tiger.
"Your affectionate son,
"OSCAR."
Oscar felt quite relieved when his letter was ready for the post-office. Having locked up the little room, he carried the key to his aunt.
"Have you written your letter?" inquired Mrs. Preston.
"Yes, ma'am," replied Oscar.
"Where is it? You 're going to let me read it, aint you?" inquired Emily.
"There it is," said Oscar, taking the letter from his jacket pocket; "but I guess you won't read it, miss."
"Yes, do let me read it," persisted Emily, who really had an undue proportion of inquisitiveness in her nature.
"No, I can't; it's sealed up," replied Oscar.
"Then tell me what you wrote, won't you?" continued Emily.
"Why, you silly child, what business is it to you what he wrote?" said her mother. "Don't ask any more such foolish questions; Oscar will think you have n't got common sense if you do."
"Did you write anything about me?" continued Emily, in a lower tone.
"Did you hear me, Emily?" inquired Mrs. Preston, in a sharper tone.
"O no, I did n't write much," said Oscar, in reply to Emily; "there's nothing in the letter that you would care about seeing."
"I did n't know you were going to seal up the letter so soon. I wanted to send a message to Alice and Ella," continued Emily.
"You are too late now," replied Oscar; "but I 'll give you a chance next time. What message do you want to send?"
"You must n't be so inquisitive," said Emily, with a laugh; "just as though I were going to tell you, when you would n't let me read the letter!"
"Well, I can tell you one thing,—I don't want to know," replied Oscar. "Aunt Eliza, do you know where Jerry is?"
"He has gone with his father down to the meadow lot," replied Mrs. Preston. "I guess they will be back before a great while."
Oscar set out for the "meadow lot," which was a quarter of a mile from the house, on the other side of the river. He had not gone far, however, when he met Mr. Preston and Jerry returning.
"I 've written my letter, uncle, and it's all ready to go to the post-office," said Oscar; "can't Jerry and I carry it over?"
"I 'll see about that this afternoon," said Mr. Preston; "I 've got something else for Jerry to do now."
"I 'm going over to the old wood-lot to get a load of mulching," said Jerry to Oscar; "and you can go too, if you want to."
"Mulching—what is that?" inquired Oscar.
"It's stuff that they put around young trees, to keep the roots from drying up in summer," replied Jerry. "You know all those small apple and pear trees back of the barn? well, it's to put around them."
Having reached the house, the boys ate some luncheon, and then proceeded to tackle Billy into the hay-cart. After Mr. Preston had given Jerry sundry cautions and directions, which the latter seemed to think quite unnecessary, the boys hopped into the cart, and drove off towards the woods. Mr. Preston owned several tracts of woodland in Brookdale. The lot to which the boys were going, was called the "old" one, because the wood had all been cut off once, and it was now covered with a young growth, not large enough for firewood. It was but a short distance from the house, and the boys soon reached the spot, and commenced operations. They were each provided with large jack-knives, and with these they proceeded to lop off the young and tender ends of the birches, which trees were quite abundant in that spot; for birches are very apt to spring up after a pine forest has been cleared away. Many of the trees were yet so small, that the boys did not have to climb up to reach the branches.
Though all this was really work, it seemed so much like play to Jerry and Oscar, that they actuallyforgot to be lazy. The consequence was, the job was done before they thought of it. Gathering up the heaps of small twigs scattered around them, they threw them into the cart, and found they had quite a respectable load; respectable in bulk at least, though not a very heavy burden for Billy. Taking their seats upon the top of the mulching, which was almost as soft as a load of hay, they drove back to the barn, and alighted. Mr. Preston now appeared, and led the horse into the orchard, where, with the aid of the boys, he scattered the birch twigs around the young trees, so as to protect their roots from the fierce heat of the sun. There was not enough for all the trees, but he told them they need not get any more at that time.
After dinner, Mr. Preston said he should have to go over to the Cross-Roads himself, as he wanted to see a man who lived there; but he told Oscar he might go with him, if he wished. Oscar accepted the invitation, and they were soon on their way, leaving Jerry not a little disappointed that he could not go with them. Oscar handed his letter to the postmaster, who marked it with the stamp of the office, and deposited it in the mail-bag, Mr. Preston stopped to purchase a few articles in the shop where the post-office was kept. When he was ready to start, he inquired:
"Have you mailed your letter, and paid your postage, Oscar?"
"I 've mailed it, but I did n't pay the postage," replied Oscar.
"That was n't right," said his uncle; "when you mail a letter to a friend, you should always pay the postage. If you pay it now, in advance, it will be only three cents; but if the postage is not paid till the letter is delivered, it will be five cents."
"I did n't think of that," said Oscar; "I wonder if it is too late to pay it now? I 'll go and see."
On making known his request, the postmaster drew forth the letter from the bag, and imprinted another stamp upon it. Oscar paid the three cents, and departed, with his uncle.
Oscar was bent upon going a-gunning. He had allowed his mind to dwell upon the idea, until it seemed to him as though he could no longer resist the impulse to play the sportsman, without a sacrifice of his happiness. His uncle, it is true, had tried to dissuade him from it, and had positively refused to lend him his gun. But there were other guns in Brookdale, and everybody was not so particular as Mr. Preston about trusting boys with fire-arms. Why could n't he borrow a gun of somebody else? So he asked himself; and by-and-bye he put the same question to Jerry. Jerry heartily entered into the proposal. He thought Jim Oakley would lend him a gun. At any rate, he was not afraid to ask him. Jim was a famous gunner, in that region. He had several fowling-pieces; and if he would not lend them his best rifle, it was not likely that he would refuse them one of his old guns. So Jerry reasoned, and Oscar fully agreed with him. They went to see Jim, that very afternoon, and by dint of teasing, they got the gun, together with a small quantity of powder and shot. Thus armed, they set out for the woods, in quest of game.
They had been in the woods but a short time, and had not yet shot anything, though they had fired several charges, when a dispute arose between them about the gun. Jerry claimed a right to it half the time, on the ground that he had borrowed it. Oscar was willing that he should use the gun occasionally, but he resisted his claim to it half the time. He contended that the gun was loaned to him, and besides, he had agreed to pay the owner for all the ammunition they used. The dispute waxed warmer and warmer. Oscar was obstinate, and Jerry grew sulky. It was the first serious difficulty that had arisen between them. Neither of them, as yet, knew the other's temper, but now they were in a fair way of finding each other out. It was the clashing of two strong wills. Oscar soon saw that their sport was at an end for that day, and throwing down the gun and powder flask upon the grass, he said, in an angry tone:
"There, take the old thing, and do what you please with it; and when you carry it back, see that you pay for the powder, for I won't."
So saying, he turned upon his heel and walked off. He had not gone far when Jerry, who had picked up the gun, called out:
"Here! you 've broken the trigger, throwing it down so. You may carry it back yourself now, I won't."
"I shan't carry it back," replied Oscar; "you say he lent it to you, and you may take care of it now."
Oscar went back to his uncle's, leaving Jerry and the gun to keep each other company. Not feeling in a very pleasant mood, Oscar did not go into the house, but loitered around the barn, avoiding the family as much as he could. Pretty soon he saw Clinton driving up, and he stepped inside of the barn, as he did not care about speaking with him. Clinton stopped however, when opposite to the barn, and called to him.
"What would you give for a letter from home?" said Clinton, when Oscar made his appearance.
"I don't know—why, have you got one for me?" inquired Oscar, with remarkable coolness.
"That's for you, I guess," said Clinton, handing him a letter. "I 've been over to the post-office, and as I happened to see a letter directed to you, I thought I would take it along with me."
"That's right, I'm glad you did," said Oscar, taking the letter. "Much obliged to you for your trouble," he added, as Clinton drove off.
Oscar now went into the barn, and, seating himself upon a stool, opened and read his letter. It was from his mother. She acknowledged the receipt of his letter, and expressed much gratification at hearing that he was well and enjoying himself. His father, she wrote, thought he had better return home, and resume his place at school, from which he had been absent nearly three months. The term would close in about a month, and he wanted Oscar to be prepared to enter the High School at that time. Then followed various little messages from the children, directions about his journey home, &c. In closing, she requested him to return that week, that he might be ready to go to school the following Monday.
Oscar was not very much pleased with the contents of the letter. He did not expect to be recalled so suddenly. He had hoped that, at any rate, he should not be sent to school again that term. But, his plans and hopes were all overturned by this letter. He went into the house, and told the news to his aunt, who expressed regret that he was to leave so soon.
By-and-bye Jerry came home, but he brought the same scowl upon his face that Oscar left with him up in the woods. Oscar, too, was as "stuffy" as ever. No words passed between the two, and each seemed bent upon giving the other a wide berth. At the supper table, something was said about Oscar's letter, and his going home; but Jerry was too obstinate to ask any questions, and so he remained in tormenting uncertainty in regard to the matter. Oscar, too, had some curiosity about the gun, but he did not intend to "speak first," if he never spoke again to his cousin.
During the whole evening, Oscar and Jerry were at the opposite poles of the little family circle. When Oscar retired for the night, he found Jerry not only abed, but asleep, or pretending to be. It was a wonder that both did not tumble out of bed that night; for each slept upon the extreme edge of the mattress, as far as possible from the other.
When Oscar awoke in the morning, he found himself alone, Jerry having quietly arisen and slipped out of the room, without disturbing him. They did not see each other until they met at the breakfast table. Here, their sober and quiet demeanor, so unusual with them, soon attracted notice.
"See how down in the mouth Jerry is!" said Emily. "He looks as though he had lost all his friends. And Oscar does n't look much better either, poor fellow!"
Both boys changed color, and looked queerly, but they said nothing.
"Never mind, boys," said Mrs. Preston, "you 've got one day more to enjoy yourselves together. You 'd better make the most of that, while it lasts, and not worry about the separation till the time comes."
"That's good doctrine," said Mr. Preston; "never borrow trouble, for it comes fast enough any way. Come, cheer up, Oscar, you have n't gone yet."
"It's too bad to make me go home so soon—I thought I was going to stay here a month or two," said Oscar, who was very willing that his unusual demeanor should be attributed entirely to his summons home.
"You must ask your father to let you come down and spend your vacation," said Mr. Preston. "I expect to go up to Boston about that time, and I guess he will let me bring you home with me."
"I should like to come," said Oscar, "but I don't believe father will let me, it's so far."
"O yes, he will, when he knows what good friends you and Jerry are," replied Mr. Preston.
"Jerry 's crying, as true as I 'm alive!" exclaimed Emily, who had been watching the workings of her brother's face for several moments, and thought she saw moisture gathering in his eye.
"No I aint, either!" replied Jerry, in such a prompt and spiteful tone, and with such a scowl upon his face, that all the others, including even Oscar, joined in a hearty laugh.
"I hope you feel good-natured," said his mother; "Oscar's going off seems to have had a queer effect upon you."
"I don't care, you 're all picking upon me—it's enough to make anybody cross," said Jerry, in a surly tone.
"You're mistaken—nobody has picked upon you," replied his mother.
"Yes, you have, too," responded Jerry.
"Jerry! don't let me hear any more of that—not another word," said Mr. Preston, sternly.
"Then you 'd better make Emily hold her tongue," said Jerry.
"Hush! do you hear me?" said Mr. Preston, with considerable excitement.
Jerry undertook to mutter something more, when his father jumped up, and, taking him by the collar, led him to the cellar-door, and told him to go down and stay until he was sent for. Then, shutting the door, and turning the button, he resumed his seat at the table, and the family finished their meal in silence.
Jerry was released from his confinement soon after breakfast; but the unfortunate affair at the table continued to weigh heavily upon his mind. Throughout the rest of the day, he kept out of everybody's way, and said nothing, but looked sour, cross, and wretched. Oscar, too, felt very unpleasantly. He found it hard work to amuse himself alone. He was a boy of strong social feelings, and abhorred solitary rambles and sports. It was a long and dull day, and when he retired to bed at night, he almost felt glad that it was his last day in Brookdale.
Soon after he had got into bed, Jerry, who had retired before him, called out:
"Oscar!"
"What?" inquired the other.
There was a long pause, during which Jerry hitched and twisted about, as if hesitating how to proceed. He at length inquired:
"Are you mad with me?"
"No," replied Oscar, somewhat reluctantly, and in a tone that was almost equivalent to "yes."
"I don't want you to go off without making up with me," added Jerry; and as he spoke, his voice trembled, and had it been light enough, Oscar might have detected something like moisture in those very eyes that had flashed in anger at Emily in the morning, for reporting the same thing of them.
"I 'm ready to make up with you," replied Oscar, turning over toward Jerry.
Having thus broken the ice, the constraint and reserve that had existed between them since the previous day, gradually melted away, and they were once more on sociable terms, although their intercourse was not quite so free and unembarrassed as it was before their quarrel. In fact, they did not properly heal up the difficulty between them, inasmuch as neither made any confession or apology—a duty that both should have performed, as they were about equally guilty. Oscar's first inquiries were concerning the gun. Jerry told him that he carried it home, and that the owner was quite angry, when he saw the damage it had sustained, but said nothing about making the boys pay for it.
The next morning the family arose at an earlier hour than usual, as Oscar had got to be on his way soon after sunrise. It was decided that Jerry should drive him over to the Cross-Roads. Accordingly, after a hasty breakfast, he bade them all good-bye, one by one, and taking a seat in the wagon with Jerry, started for home. It was delightful, riding while the birds were yet singing their morning songs, and the grass was spangled with dew, and the cool air had not felt the hot breath of the sun; but the separation that was about to take place, and the unpleasant recollection of their recent quarrel, lessened their enjoyment of the ride very much. They reached the Cross-Roads nearly half an hour before the stage-coach came along. At length it drove up to the post-office, and Oscar, mounting to the top, took a seat behind the driver. The mail-bag was handed to the driver, and the coach started again on its way, Oscar bowing his farewell to Jerry, as they drove off.
The Stage Coach.[Illustration: The Stage Coach.]
The Stage Coach.[Illustration: The Stage Coach.]
Nothing of special interest occurred the forenoon's ride. The coach reached its destination about eleven o'clock and Oscar had barely time enough to brush the dust from his clothing, and to obtain a drink of cold water, when the signal was given for the cars to start, and he took his seat in the train. His thoughtful aunt had placed a liberal supply of eatables in the top of his valise, and to that he now had recourse, for his long ride had given him a sharp appetite. There were but few passengers in the train when it started, but at almost every station it received accessions.
On reaching Portland, Oscar found that he had nearly half an hour to spare, before taking the Boston train; for it was his intention to "go through" in one day, which his early start enabled him to do. After treating himself to a few cakes, which he purchased at a refreshment stand in the depôt, he walked about until it was time to take his seat in the cars.
The clock struck three, and the train started. One hundred and eleven miles seemed to Oscar a long distance to travel, at one stretch, especially after riding all the forenoon; and, indeed, he did begin to feel quite tired, long before he reached the end of the journey. To add to his uneasiness, a particle of cinder from the locomotive flew into his eye, and lodged there so firmly that all his efforts to remove it were in vain. In a little while, the eye became quite painful, and he was obliged to keep it closed. A kind-looking gentleman, who sat near him, noticed his trouble, and offered to assist him in removing the mote; but it was so small that he could not find it. He advised Oscar not to rub the inflamed organ, and told him he thought the moisture of the eye would soon wash out the intruder, if left to itself. Oscar tried to follow this advice, but the pain and irritation did not subside, and he closed his eyes, and resigned himself to darkness.
The nine o'clock bells of Boston were ringing, as Oscar left the depôt and turned his steps homeward. He hurried along through the familiar streets, and had just turned the corner from which his home was in sight, when somebody jumped suddenly from a dark passage-way, and seized him by the hand. It was Ralph, who had been on the watch for his brother half an hour, and, concealed himself just as he saw him approaching. Each gave the other a cordial greeting, and then they hastened into the house, where Oscar found the rest of the family waiting to receive him. The general commotion that followed his arrival, aroused Tiger from the comfortable nap he was taking on a mat, and on hearing the well-remembered tones of his master's voice, he sprang toward Oscar, and nearly knocked him over with his demonstrations of welcome.
So Oscar was at home again; and from the welcome he received, he learned that there is pleasure in getting back from a journey as well as in setting out upon one. His inflamed eye soon attracted the notice of his mother, and she examined it to see if she could detect the cause of the irritation; but the troublesome atom was invisible. She then said she would try the eye-stone, and, going to the drawer, she got a small, smooth, and flat stone, and told Ella to go down into the kitchen and bring up a little vinegar in a saucer. On putting the stone into the vinegar, it soon began to move about, as though it were possessed of life. When it had become sufficiently lively, Mrs. Preston wiped it dry, and put it between the lid and ball of Oscar's inflamed eye. After it had remained there a few minutes, he allowed it to drop into his hand, and on a close-examination, he found that it had brought with it the offending substance that had caused him so much pain. It was a little black speck, so small that it was barely perceptible to the unaided eye. It now being quite late, Mrs. Preston thought that further inquiries and answers concerning Oscar's visit had better be deferred till morning, and the family soon retired to their beds.
The next day was Saturday. Oscar was off most of the day with his comrades, among whom he was quite a lion for the time. During one of the brief intervals that he was in the house, his mother said some thing about his going to school on Monday.
"O dear, I don't want to go to school again this term," said Oscar. "What's the use? Why, it 's only four or five weeks before the term will be through."
"I know that," replied his mother, "but your father is very anxious that you should get into the High School, and he thinks you can do it if you finish up this term."
"I can't do it—I 've got all behindhand with my studies," said Oscar.
"O yes, you can if you try," replied his mother. "You might have got into the High School last year if you had studied a little harder. You were almost qualified then, and I'm sure you ought to be now. If you find you are behind your class in your lessons, you must study so much the harder, and you 'll get up with them by-and-bye."
"But I don't believe it will do me any good to be confined in the school-room," continued Oscar. "I don't think I'm so strong as I was before I was sick."
"Well," said Mrs. Preston, "when you 're sick you need not go to school; but I guess there 's no danger of your staying at home for that reason, at present. You never looked better in your life than you do now."
Oscar tried his pleas again in the evening with his father, but with quite as poor success. He saw that it was fully determined that he should resume his seat at school, and he reluctantly submitted to this decision. When Monday morning came, he proceeded to school, but found that his old desk was in possession of another boy. The head teacher in Oscar's department soon appeared, and seemed quite glad to see him once more. He appointed Oscar a new seat, and told him he hoped he would study so diligently as to make up for lost time.
The hopes of Oscar's teacher and parents were doomed to disappointment. It was soon evident that he cared less about his lessons than ever. He was behind his class, and instead of redoubling his efforts to get up with them, he became discouraged and indifferent. His recitations were seldom perfect, and often they were utter failures. His teachers coaxed, and encouraged, and ridiculed, and frowned, and punished, all in vain. One day, after Oscar had blundered worse than usual, the teacher who was hearing the recitation said to him, in a despairing tone:
"You remind me, Oscar, of what one of the old Roman emperors said to an archer who shot his arrows a whole day, and never once hit the mark. He told him he had a most wonderful talent for missing. So I must say of you—you 've got the greatest talent for missing of any boy I know."
Seeing a smile on the faces of Oscar's classmates, he added:
"But this is too sober a matter to make light of. If you could not get your lessons, it would be a different matter; but I know, and you know, that this is not the trouble. You are quick enough to learn and to understand, when you have a mind to be. If you would only try to get your lessons as hard as the other boys do, you would n't be at the foot of the class a great while. If you keep on in this way, you will see your folly as plainly as I see it now, before you are many years older."
This admonition had little effect upon Oscar. When school was dismissed, a few minutes after, he rushed out with as light a step as any of his comrades, and his gay laugh was heard as soon as he reached the entry. In the general scramble for caps, one had fallen from its peg, and instead of replacing it, two or three of the boys were making a football of it. Oscar joined the sport, and gave the cap a kick that sent it part of the way down stairs. A moment after, he met Willie Davenport returning with it.
"Halloo, Whistler, that is n't your cap, is it?" inquired Oscar.
"No, but it'ssomebody's," said the good-hearted boy, as he brushed off the dust, and put the lining back into its place. He was about hanging it up, when Benny Wright appeared, and claimed it as his property.
Had Oscar known that the cap was Benny's, he would not have made a foot-ball of it. He remembered the kind epistle he received, when sick, and the amusement it afforded him, when amusements were scarce. Since his recovery, he had treated Benny with much more consideration than before, and quite a kindly feeling had sprung up between them.
Oscar's inattention to his studies was not his only fault at school. His general behavior was worse than it had ever been before. Vexed that he was compelled to return to school so near the expiration of the term, it seemed as though he was determined to make as little improvement in his studies, and as much trouble for his teachers, as he could. He not only idled away his own time, but he disturbed other boys who were disposed to study. He was repeatedly reproved and punished, but reproof and punishment did no good; on the contrary, they seemed rather to make him worse. The teachers at length gave him up as incorrigible, and consoled themselves with the thought that his connection with the school would cease in two or three weeks, at which time his class would graduate. They still aimed to keep him in check, during school hours, but they ceased spending their time and breath in trying to bring about a reformation in his conduct.
One day as the scholars were engaged in writing, the master, while passing along among the boys, and inspecting their writing-books, noticed that somebody had been spitting what appeared to be tobacco juice, near Oscar's seat. This was a violation of the rules of the school, and the teacher concluded not to let it pass unnoticed. Having no doubt, from several circumstances, that Oscar was the offender, he said to him:
"Oscar, what are you chewing tobacco in school for, and spitting the juice on the floor?"
"I have n't chewed any tobacco this afternoon," replied Oscar.
"What is it, then, that you have been spitting upon the floor?" inquired the teacher.
"I have n't spit upon the floor," replied Oscar.
"Who did that?" continued the teacher, pointing to the puddle upon the floor.
"I don't know," said Oscar; "it was there when I took my seat."
It was possible that Oscar told the truth, but the teacher had his doubts. He might perhaps, have settled the matter at once by putting a question to one or two of the boys who sat near the supposed offender but as he always avoided the system of making one boy inform against another, when he could properly do so, he took another course. He told Oscar, if he had any tobacco in his mouth, or anywhere about his person, to give it up to him. Oscar declared that he had none.
"Let me look into your mouth," said the teacher.
Oscar had a small piece of the weed in his mouth, which he tucked behind his upper lip with his tongue, and then opened his mouth. The teacher of course saw nothing but what belonged there. Hesmeltsomething, however, that left him no longer in doubt that Oscar had told a falsehood.
"I can't see your cud, but I can smell it plain enough," said the master; "and I 'll examine your pockets, if you please."
Oscar was far from pleased with this proposition, and tried to prevent its being carried into effect. The master, however, easily overcame the difficulties he put in the way, and running his hand into the pocket which he seemed most anxious to defend, brought forth a piece of tobacco large enough to kill a horse!
"What is that?" he inquired, holding the contraband article before Oscar.
Oscar neither looked at it nor made any reply.
"And you are the boy who said a moment ago that you had no tobacco about you," continued the master "I declare I don't know what to do with you. I have said and done all that I can to make a better boy of you, and now I shall report this matter to your father, and let him settle it with you. But I want you to remember one thing. When you tell me a lie, you break God's law, and not mine; and you can't settle the matter in full with me, or any other human being."
The teacher then threw the piece of tobacco out of the open window, and taking Oscar's writing-book, told him he would set a new copy for him. He soon returned, with the following line written upon the top of a clean page:
"Lying lips are abomination to the Lord."
As Oscar wrote this fearful sentence over and over again, he could not fully escape the force of its meaning. It reminded him of his feelings during his recent illness, when at times the terrible thought that his sickness might possibly be unto death intruded upon his mind. But thoughts of God, and death, and a future world, were alike unpleasant to him, and he banished them as speedily as possible.
During the afternoon, the principal of the school wrote a letter to Mr. Preston, informing him of Oscar's indolence and bad conduct, and referring particularly to the incident that had just occurred. By way of offset to the complaint, he spoke in very high terms of Ralph, who attended the same school, but was in another department and another room. He sent the letter by Ralph, but told him not to let Oscar know anything about it. Ralph had some suspicions of the nature of the letter, but he did his errand faithfully, going directly from school to his father's store.
Mr. Preston was at first very much irritated by the teacher's complaints of Oscar's misconduct; and could he have taken the culprit in hand at the time, he would probably have handled him rather roughly. But several days elapsed before he found it convenient to talk with Oscar about the matter, and by this time his passion had subsided into anxiety and sorrow. He showed Oscar the letter, in which he, the eldest son, was severely censured, and his little brother was so highly commended. With tears in his eyes, he warned him of the dangers before him, and entreated him to change his course.
Oscar had never seen his father exhibit so much emotion before. Usually, on such occasions, he was stern, if not passionate; more ready to threaten and punish than to appeal to the heart and conscience. Now, all this was changed, and sorrow seemed to have taken the place of anger. Oscar was somewhat affected by this unusual manifestation of parental anxiety. He was pretty well hardened against scoldings and threatenings, but he did not know how to meet this new form of rebuke. He tried to conceal his feelings, however, and preserved a sullen silence throughout the interview.
This affair made no abiding impression upon Oscar. In a day or two it was forgotten, and the slight compunctions he felt had entirely disappeared. But the schoolmaster's complaint was soon followed by another that was quite as unpleasant. As Mrs. Preston was sitting at her sewing, one day, the door suddenly opened, and in came Bridget, the servant girl, with a face as red as rage and a hot fire could make it.
"I'll be goin' off this night, ma'am—I'll pack me chist, and not stop here any longer at all," said Bridget, in a tone that betokened her anger.
"Going off—what do you mean? You don't say you 're going to leave us so suddenly, Biddy?" inquired Mrs. Preston, with surprise.
"Yes, that I be," replied Bridget, very decidedly; "I 'll not be after staying in the same house with that big, ugly b'y, another day."
"Who, Oscar? What has he done now?" inquired Mrs. Preston.
"He's did nothing but bother the life out o' me ivery day since he coom back, that's jist all he 's did," replied Biddy. "Jist now, ma'am, he slopped over a hull basin o' dirty whater right on to the clane floor, and thin laffed at me, and sassed me, and called me, all sorts o' bad names—the little sass-box! It's not the like o' Bridget Mullikin that 'll put up with his dirty impidence another day. I 'd like to live with ye, ma'am, and Mister Pristen, good, nice man that he is but I can't stop to be trated like a dog by that sassy b'y."
"I 'll go and see what he has been about," said Mrs. Preston, laying down her work.
When they reached the kitchen, Oscar was not to be found. There was the puddle of dirty water upon the floor, however, and so far Bridget's story was corroborated. As she proceeded to wipe it up, she continued to speak in not very complimentary terms of the "ugly b'y," as she delighted to call Oscar. It was in vain that Mrs. Preston attempted to soothe her ruffled spirits. She refused to be comforted, and insisted upon taking her departure from the house that night.
Oscar did not make his appearance again until late in the afternoon. When his mother called him to account for his treatment of Bridget, he denied the greater part of her story. He said that the basin of water was standing upon the floor, and that he accidentally hit it with his foot, and upset it. He denied that he called her bad names or was impudent, but he admitted that he laughed, to see her so angry. He also complained that she was as "cross as Bedlam" to him, and "jawed" him whenever he entered the kitchen.
Mrs. Preston, puzzled by these contradictory stories, brought the two contending parties face to face, in hope of either eliciting the truth or effecting a treaty of peace between them. She failed in both objects, however. Bridget not only adhered to her first statement, but boldly accused Oscar of sundry other misdeeds that had come up in recollection since the first outbreak; while Oscar, on the other hand, stoutly denied most of her charges, and insisted that she was ill-natured, and irritated him in every possible way. The contest finally waxed so warm between them that Mrs. Preston was obliged to interpose, and to withdraw with Oscar.
Mrs. Preston never ascertained the real facts in the case. Candor compels me to say that Bridget's complaints were essentially true. Knowing the poor Irish girl's weak side (her quick temper), Oscar had for some time taxed his ingenuity to torment her, for the sake of hearing her "sputter," as he termed it. He was not only impudent, and applied offensive names to her, but sometimes he purposely put her to extra labor and trouble by misplacing articles, making dirt about the house, &c. These things were a sad annoyance to Bridget, and she soon came to regard Oscar as "the plague of her life," and treated him accordingly. He did very wrong to annoy her in this way; and she was foolish to take so much notice of his hectoring. The ill-will thus established between them grew day by day, until it resulted in the open rupture just described. But Mrs. Preston did not give full credit to Bridget's story. She believed the difficulty was owing quite as much to Biddy's irritable temper and ignorance as to Oscar's impudence, and consequently the latter escaped with a slight reprimand. She also prevailed upon Bridget to remain with them the week out, thinking she would by that time get over her anger. But, to the surprise of all, when Saturday night came, Bridget took her departure. She had got another "place," where she would be out of the reach of the provoking Oscar.
The week for the annual examination of the public schools soon arrived. Oscar begged hard, but in vain, for permission to absent himself, on the eventful day that the grave committee and other distinguished visitors were to sit in judgment upon the condition of the school to which he belonged. But though he was present, he did not appear to much advantage among the "bright particular stars" of the day; and as one and another of the flower of his class were called out, to receive the "Franklin medals," his name was not heard, and no silken ribbon, with silver medal attached, was hung around his neck.
The same day, in obedience to the orders of his father, but very much against his own inclination, Oscar applied to the head master for the certificate required of boys who present themselves for admission to the High School. The teacher seemed a little puzzled what reply to make. At length he said:
"Do you know what kind of a certificate is required?"
"Yes, sir," replied Oscar, who had read the advertisement in the paper that morning.
"The certificate must say that you are a boy of good character, and that your teacher believes you are qualified for admission to the High School," continued the master. "Now I want to ask you if you think I can honestly say that of you?"
Oscar hung his head in shame, but made no reply. It had turned out just as he feared it would.
"It is very hard to refuse such a request," continued the teacher; "but, really, if I should give you the certificate, I am afraid it would do you no good, while it might do me some harm, for I don't like to have my scholars rejected. I cannot honestly say that I think you are qualified for the High School; and besides your conduct has been such of late, that I do not see how I could give you a very high recommendation. I would advise you to give up the idea of applying for admission. I am very sorry it is so, but that will not help the matter."
What could Oscar say to this? He said nothing, but his looks betrayed the deep mortification he felt, and moved his teacher to pity, while he denied his request. Nor was this the end of Oscar's troubles. He had got to face his father, and to confess to him that he was found unworthy even to be a candidate for the school for which he had so long been preparing. In doing this, he smoothed over the matter as well as he could; but at best it was a bitter thing to him, and thus he began to experience some of the sad but natural effects of his own misconduct.