THE BARLOW KNIFE.

BY ROBERT JONATHAN.

There was one event of my boyish days which is the cause of such amusing reminiscence in my later years, that I cannot refrain, dear reader, from making you acquainted with it. It happened upon a time, after I had worn out my first frock coat, and got tired of trundling hoops and wagons, and drawing sleds, that I felt, as many boys do, an inordinate desire to experience the comforts ofwhittling; but I had no knife—always excepting an oldcase-knifewhich mother used to lend me. But then, this was notthe thing; for, besides being inconvenient, I could notshut it up, and put it in my pocket, and walk about with the proud consciousness that it wasmy own—notborrowedfrom any one, butMINE—sacred tomyindividual use and behoof. However, believing that my youthful happiness depended upon the gratification of this desire, I treated with mother to negotiate with father upon the subject of procuring mea knife. This was on a Saturday afternoon in the month of July. Mother told me that, if I would be a good boy, andkeepthat night and the next day (Sunday) as I ought, and go to school every day, and study hard, and mind the schoolmistress, and divers other conditions—to all of which I eagerly consented without considering the possibility of fulfilling them—on these conditions, I say, she, on her part, promised to ask father to give me aknife. Accordingly, in pursuance of our stipulations, I kept Saturday night very well—went to bed early—went to sleep, and straightway to dreaming of the glorious fruition of all my hopes. I dreamed that I had a new knife—that I “sharpened it up” until it wouldcut a hair—that I had a soft piece of seasoned white pine—that, in fact, I waswhittling! And how inexpressible was the delight which I experienced! Surely moral philosophers should give mankind—at least theboypart of it—credit for a new and additional sense, which they should termWhittleation, and upon which they should base a new science and denominate itWhittleology. For what natural sensation is there which can be compared with that which is experienced while drawing the keen-edged blade through the delicatefibres of some soft, well-seasoned wood? So far as my boyish experience extends, there is no enjoyment so deep, so soothing, and so satisfactory as that derived fromwhittling; whether it be upon a shingle or a school-bench—upon the squire’s picket-fence or the village sign-post. But to my dream. All things went on charmingly until an unfortunate turn of my shingle brought my knife-blade in contact with one of my fingers, and the pain of the wound thus inflicted, dispelled the delightful vision which had enthralled me. And so impatient was I to have Monday morning come round, that I could sleep no more that night, and, although it was but an hour before daybreak, still it appeared to me that weeks were crowded into that short period, while I was waiting and watching for the blessed dawn of the Sabbath. Finally, daylight appeared; and with its earliest dawn I arose and began to whistle “Heigh Betty Martin,” in great glee; but on recollection of my treaty with mother, I ceased whistling and walked down into the sitting-room with all the assumed gravity of a Friar Tuck, and with a face long as a grape-vine, and sombre as a dying cypress. I attended church all day, and did not take my eyes off the minister, except during prayers; but satup in the pew straight as a new pin, the big drops, (notteardrops, however,) following each other down my cheeks and neck at stated intervals, much as though a frozen squash wasthawingon my head. After returning from church I took up my catechism, and when I thought mother’s eyes were on me, my own were on the book; but when she was out of the room I amused my little brother Dick, by telling him in a whisper sufficiently loud to be heard over all the room, that

“In Adam’s fallWe made stone-wall,But eversenseWe’ve made brush-fence.”

“In Adam’s fall

We made stone-wall,

But eversense

We’ve made brush-fence.”

And

“By WashingtonGreat deeds were doneWhen he did runWith his big gun’Gainst the Hesshun,” etc. etc.

“By Washington

Great deeds were done

When he did run

With his big gun

’Gainst the Hesshun,” etc. etc.

But as mother did not hear me, my youthful conscience was perfectly at ease—considering, of course, that there was no wrong done when there was no knowledge, on her part, of any transgression.

At length, after many weary hours,sun-downwas proclaimed through the house by my little sister Mary, who had been watching its approach, for an hour or more, from one of the garret windows. I then made noise enough to remunerate me for keeping half a score of Sabbaths. I mounted my Eclipse broomstick with a determination to run him on the course for the last time, previous to giving up the pleasures of the chase for the quiet comforts ofwhittling. And, indeed, itwasthe last time; for, in the last quarter of the third heat, in the exuberance of my spirits I reared up, and, my foot slipping, I came with such force on to my wayworn charger that I broke him down, and into two pieces besides; and, in addition, I got a severe thump on my cranium, which sent me weeping to bed, where I slept quietly until Monday morning. On that morning I was, of course, in very good spirits, and did not fail to give mother a gentle hint touching her part of the contract, by takingparticular painsto have heraccidentallydiscover that the handle to the clothes-pounder had come out, and bycarelesslyobserving, in a veryemphaticmanner, thatifI had a penknife, I would make a wedge and fasten in the pounder handle, etc.However, that day and the following night were doomed to be hours of anxious suspense to me—hope and fear holding alternate sway in my excited breast. But words have not power to express the fulness of my joy when, after breakfast on Tuesday morning, father called me to him, and, taking a new knife from his pocket, placed me on his knee, after which he gave me several sections of good advice and kind admonitions, to which I listened with all the attention bestowed by a barn upon a whirlwind, so deeply was I engaged in scrutinizing the new object of my desire.

When father had finished his lecture, it wasschool-time; so, aftergreasingthe spring of my new knife, grasping it firmly in my right hand, and thrusting said hand into my pantaloons pocket, I started for school, anticipating a “glorious triumph” in exhibiting my newly-acquired property to my less fortunate playmates. But, just as I stepped on to the school-house green, the schoolmistressrattled the windowand called the children in; and thus my thrilling hopes were prematurely blighted. Still firmly holding my knife in my pocket as I entered the school-house, I took my seat on the “big bench” where I usually sat, andafter the school operations had fairly commenced, I turned round to the desk with my back to the mistress and my book before me. I then took out my new knife for the purpose of examining it more particularly than I had hitherto done. It was of that kind commonly calledBarlowknives, one half of the handle being of polished iron and the other half of bone; the blade about four inches long, half an inch wide near the handle, and tapering to a point. Bill Williams, who sat next to me, soon got a glimpse at it, and we soon gotwhisperingabout it; and the consequence was, we both got shut up in thedungeon, and were kept there until noon. Great was my joy during thenoon-spellin exhibiting my new treasure; and many were the congratulations which I received upon the pleasure of possessing it. In the afternoon, not profiting at all by my morning’s experience, I took it out in school-time and tried its shaving powers by cutting the bench; which the schoolmistress happening to discover, she took it away from me, gave me a feruling, kept me half an hour after school was out; then, after giving me a long lecture, and at the end of it my knife, she sent me home. There I had a fine opportunity to indulge my whittling propensitiesduring the whole evening; but finding my knife rather dull, I stole into the dining-room and stole out of a drawer in the sideboard my father’s razor-hone, which I took out under the wood-house and there gave my knife a grand rubbing. Unfortunately for me, however, the more I sharpened it the duller it grew, and the more it spoiled my father’s hone; for, on bringing this latter to the light, I found it was a good deal worn and very much scratched. Here was a new difficulty; a good scolding, and perhaps a “dressing,” for spoiling a nice razor-hone. However, I put it slyly back into the drawer and determined to say nothing about it, knowing that father would discover it the next time he shaved himself; at which time I should endeavor—accidentally, of course—to beabsent.

I next tried to sharpen my knife upon a scythe-stone; but, as Dan O’Rourke would say, “the more I tried to give it an edge, the more it would ‘not take one,’” until, finally, from desperate necessity, I came to the grievous conclusion that my knife was good for nothing. Consequent upon this conclusion, was a determination to get rid of it as soon as possible. But, alas! here was only the beginning of my sorrows, as the sequel will show.

My first attempt was toswopit away; but as none of the boys had such a knife as I wanted, this could not be done. I next called my younger brother Dick to me, and asked him if he did not want apresent? He, of course, answered in the affirmative. Thereupon, after showing him my knife, how well it wassharpened up, etc., and making him promise to carry my books to and from the school-house during the remainder of the summer, I made him apresentof the knife. He was exceedingly delighted with this acquisition to his personal property, and immediately ran into the yard to find something to whittle. I looked through the window to watch his success. He first picked up a decayed mullen stalk, and attempted to cut off the end; but, instead ofcuttingit off, the pressure of his knifebrokeit off close by his hand. He next picked up the end of an ox-goad, and tugged away at it, turning his head sidewise, and twisting his tongue and mouth into all manner of shapes, butnot a shaving could he raise! He then found a piece of pine shingle, which he succeeded in splitting lengthwise, but could neithersharpennorroundit. Just then, two of his playmates coming along with a ball, Dick put his knife into his pocket, and went to join themin a game of “one-old-cat.” I thought to myself, as I was almost bursting with laughter, “I wasveryfortunate in getting rid ofthatknife at any rate.” On the following morning, father went to get his shaving apparatus, and, of course, discovered his ruined hone. However, as soon as I saw him start for the sideboard drawer, I started for the wood-house chamber, where I lay concealed until school-time. I went to school with the determination not to go home at noon, and supposed that by night the hone business would all be got along with. But my hopes were again doomed to disappointment; for when father came home in the evening, he asked me if I had “been using his hone?” Now, as I had been taught that, let consequences be what they might, I must never tell alie; true tosuchinstructions, I promptly answered—“Yes, sir.” “For what purpose?” he inquired. “To sharpen my knife,” I answered. “Well,” said he, “as you are so fond of sharpening knives, go get the case-knife your mother lends you, and sharpen that.” Accordingly, I got the case-knife, and he got the hone, and I went tohoning, and he went to reading the newspapers. Now, the case-knife was a good deal like my Barlow knife; the more yousharpenedit, thedullerit grew. After rubbing it about half an hour, being somewhat tired, I took it to father, and told him “it would not come sharp.” “Oh, well,” said he, “you have not honed it long enough; it is a knife, and, of course, can be sharpened. Try it again.” So at it I went once more; and, after rubbing it until my mouth was dry as a cotton-bag, and my arm almost exhausted, I took it again to father, and, with tears in my eyes, told him “it wouldnot be sharpened.” “Well, my son,” said he, “when I questioned you about the hone, you promptly told me the truth; for this I commend you, and I have made you hone the case-knife as a punishment for spoiling my hone. Now the next time you want a razor-hone to sharpen a Barlow knife upon, you must ask for it.” I made divers promises on the subject, and fully resolved, in my own mind, that I never would use his hone again without permission.

On the following Sunday morning I put on my best suit to attend church; and, after I had got down into the parlor, I unconsciously thrust my hand into my coat pocket, and great was my surprise when I drew from it myBarlow knife. “Dick,” said I, “did you putyourknife into mypocket?” “That’s notmyknife,” said Dick. “Don’t you want it?” I asked. “No!” he answered. “Why not?” I inquired. “Because it will notcut any,” rejoined Dick; “and I shall not carry your books this summer forsucha knife as that,” and thereupon he hopped out of the room. The next day, while up in the orchard, back of the school-house, I contrived to have it slip out of my pocket, and satisfied my conscience by telling myself that I had lost it. More than a week had I passed in the enjoyment of this quiet, pleasing consciousness of having lost my knife, when, one morning as I was going to school, Bill Williams ran up to me, saying, “Bob, here’s your knife: I found it under the big sweet apple-tree.” “Botheration take the knife,” I thought, as I put it into my pocket. After school was out at night, I went up the road some distance from the school-house, to asand-pit, from which the neighbors occasionally got a load ofscrubbing-sand. Here I dug a hole as deep as I could, threw in my knife, buried it up, and went away, rejoicing in the belief that I should never see it again.

About two weeks after this, Peleg Bunce, my father’s hired man, was sent, by mother, to get a load of scrubbing-sand; and when I came homefrom school Peleg said to me, “Robert, here’s your knife,” at the same time reaching it to me. “My knife!” I exclaimed, in a manner and with feelings compounded of sanity and insanity. “Divilburn the knife,” I whispered to myself, not wishing to speak a bad word distinctly. Peleg found it in the sand-pit; and he knew it was mine, for he once borrowed it of me to make abow-pinfor oldBrin—but returned it, of course, without accomplishing his object. Once more I put it in my pocket, and began to reflect how I should ever get entirely rid of it. At last, a plan occurred to me, which I conceived to be faultless. There was apondnear my father’s house, at the outlet of which stood a large blast furnace. I determined todrownmy knife. Accordingly, lest its own weight should not be sufficient to keep it at the bottom, and to make “assurance doubly sure,” I got from the barn a piece of halter with which I tied a pretty good sized stone to my knife, and threw it into the furnace-pond. And great was my joy to see it turn and turn around until it sank out of my sight. Soon as it had fairly disappeared, I fetched a heavy sigh of mingled joy and suspense—then turned home with a light and happy heart. Sweet was my rest thatnight, and pleasant were my dreams. Week after week passed away, and my old knife likewise passed into oblivion.

One bright and beautiful morning in October, old Russell Case and his two sons came down from the mountain on which they lived, to fish in the pond; and as they were notorious fishermen, they generally had quite a company of boys to watch their operations. As it was not yet school-time, Bill Williams and myself went to see them draw their seine. They took a good sweep into the pond with their boat, then came on shore and commenced hauling in. We were all anxiously watching for the fish, and nearly the whole of them had been emptied on the beach, when Bill Williams exclaimed, “Why, Bob,there’s your knife!” And sure enough, on hauling in the last joint of the seine, what should be hanging to it but my knife with the string and stone attached to it! Perfectly astounded at this discovery, I could almost have prayed that the waters might rise and overwhelm seine, fishermen and all! However, the thing was easily explained; for the piece of halter which I used happened to have been made ofhemp, and theknifenot being as heavy as the string, while the stone lay on thebottom,thatwas elevated some inches from it, and so the fishermen caught it.

Once more, with a heavy heart, I put that old knife in my pocket. A deep feeling of disappointment and melancholy took possession of my mind, and long and seriously did I ponder upon the best means of ridding myself of this tantalizing treasure. In vain had I endeavored togive it away—in vain, to lose it—in vain, to drown it. Light, at last, seemed to dawn through the gloom that had gathered upon me, and my resolution was soon taken. I repaired one evening to the furnace—went into the top-house, and there waited until they began to put in their hourly supply of coal and ore. I then thrust my knife into the box of ore which I thought thefillerwould put in first. I did not wish to throw it directly into the top myself, for this would seem like doing an evil deed, and such a one I did not wish to do. Strongly and quickly did my heart beat as I watched the baskets of coal disappear; and, finally, my whole frame shook with agitation when I saw the filler take the box of ore which contained my knife, and toss its contents into the furnace! A long-drawn sigh gave vent to the conflicting emotions which had agitatedmy mind, and I turned homeward with a feeling of deep, almost overwhelming satisfaction and delight, that my eyes had certainly beheld, for the last time, my oldBARLOW KNIFE!

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