CLINTON’S HOME.

The Aimwell Stories

By

Walter Aimwell

CLINTON

TAKE HEED WILL SURELY SPEED

Gould & Lincoln

The Aimwell Stories.

CLINTON:
OR,
BOY-LIFE IN THE COUNTRY.

BY
WALTER AIMWELL,
AUTHOR OF ‘OSCAR,’ ‘BOY’S OWN GUIDE,’ ETC.
With Illustrations.
BOSTON:
GOULD AND LINCOLN.
59 WASHINGTON STREET.
NEW YORK: SHELDON, LAMPORT & BLAKEMAN.
115 NASSAU STREET.
1855.

Entered according to Act of Congress in the year 1853, by
Gould and Lincoln,
In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the District of
Massachusetts.
ANDOVER: J. D. FLAGG.
Stereotyper and Printer.

PREFACE.

The story of Clinton is designed mainly to illustrate by example the importance of early habits of obedience and industry; the danger of mingling with unprincipled and vicious companions; and the necessity of being able to say no, when tempted to do wrong. It is also designed to awaken in boys a stronger taste for the quiet and innocent pursuits and pleasures of home-life,—a taste which can hardly be overestimated, as one of the Heaven-appointed safeguards of youthful virtue.

Winchester, Mass.

ADVERTISEMENT.

“PRECEPTS MAY LEAD, BUT EXAMPLES DRAW.”

“The Aimwell Stories” are designed to portray some of the leading phases of juvenile character, and to point out their tendencies to future good and evil. This they undertake to do, by describing the quiet, natural scenes and incidents of every-day life, in city and country, at home and abroad, at school and upon the play-ground, rather than by resorting to romantic adventures and startling effects. While their main object is to persuade the young to lay well the foundations of their characters, to win them to the ways of virtue, and to incite them to good deeds and noble aims, the attempt is also made to mingle amusing, curious and useful information with the moral lessons conveyed. It is hoped that the volumes will thus be made attractive and agreeable, as well as instructive, to the youthful reader.

Each volume of the “Aimwell Stories” will be complete and independent of itself, although a connecting thread will run through the whole series. The order of the volumes, so far as completed, is as follows:

I. Oscar; or, the Boy who had his Own Way.

II. Clinton; or, Boy-Life in the Country.

III. Ella; or, Turning over a New Leaf. (In preparation.)

CONTENTS.

Illustrations.

CLINTON.

CHAPTER I.
CLINTON, AND HIS HOME.

Most people on entering the little village of Brookdale for the first time, are struck with the beauty of its location. Those who were born there, and who have always lived in sight of its green hills, and pleasant valleys, and frolicsome rivulets, probably do not think so much of these things as does the stranger who happens to come among them, and who has an eye for the beauty of nature. Beautiful objects often lose their attractions when they become familiar to us. If a man were permitted to behold the splendors of a clear evening firmament but once in his life-time, he would be almost enraptured with the sight; but give him the opportunity of gazing at the stars every cloudless night in the year, and he will seldom notice them.

A range of high hills skirt the eastern side of Brookdale, and stretch away to the north, as far as the eye can reach. Towards the west, in a clear day, can be seen the shadowy form of a distant mountain, looking like a dim cloud on the horizon. Near the centre of the village is one of those beautiful little lakes, so common in the State of Maine. Several rivulets, fed by springs in the hills, flow through the village during the greater portion of the year, and empty their sparkling waters into this lake, or pond as it is generally called. It is from this circumstance that the town is called Brookdale.

It was near the foot of one of the hills in this pleasant little village, in a snug farm-house a story and a half high, that Clinton lived. Mr. Davenport, his father, had formerly been a carpenter in another part of the State; but having a taste for farming, he gave up his trade after he had accumulated a little property, and bought the place of which we are speaking. He brought with him, however, a great variety of carpenter’s tools, and had a room fitted up for a workshop, where he often did little jobs for himself or some neighbor, when a rainy day kept him indoors. This room was in the rear of the house, adjoining the pantry, so that it was not necessary to go out of the house to reach it. Clinton spent a great many happy hours in this shop; for though he was only thirteen years old, he had considerable mechanical skill, and could handle the plane, the saw, the bit, and most of the other tools, in quite a workmanlike style. As he was careful not to injure the tools, his father allowed him to use them whenever he wished.

There were some very creditable specimens of Clinton’s skill at carpentry about the house, which he took no little pride in showing to visitors, as well he might. For instance, there was the martin-house, on a tall pole in the garden, which was a complete miniature model of the farm-house itself, including the long “kitchen-end” in the rear. To make the resemblance as close as possible, Clinton gave this bird-house two coats of white paint, and also painted imitation windows in black. On the barn there was another tall, straight staff, with a vane representing a prancing horse, all the work of Clinton’s own hands. The trellises on each side of the front door of the house which supported the climbing roses and honeysuckles, were likewise his handiwork.

Clinton did not like to have any one show him how to do a thing, if he could possibly get along without it. I suppose it was for this reason that he never wanted others to know what he was at work upon, until it was completed. His father would sometimes laugh at him on this account, and repeat to him the saying of Doctor Franklin, that the man who depends on teaching himself will have a fool for his master. But this did not move Clinton in his resolution. It is a good plan to profit as much as we can by the experience and advice of others; but after all, there are many things to which this rule will not apply. The boy who works out a hard sum alone, and refuses to let any one show him how to do it, will derive much more benefit from the exercise than though he had been assisted by others. So, no doubt, Clinton owed no little of his skill in carpentry to the fact that he did not run to his father for advice and assistance every time he met with a little difficulty.

Clinton had one sister, but no brothers; her name was Annie; and she was seven years younger than her brother. She was a beautiful child, with large, blue eyes full of confidence and love, a fat, rosy face, and hair that hung in golden curls about her white shoulders. She was all gentleness and affection, and was the pet and favorite of the household. No boy of his age ever loved a sister more than Clinton did his. Though she was so much younger than himself, he spent much of his time with her, joining in sports in which she could take a part, or making playthings for her amusement. It was very rarely that he allowed himself to use an unkind or impatient word toward her; and when he did, he was sure to repent of it, for he could not bear the silent and sorrowful reproach of those eyes. Annie, for her part, was proud of her brother, and returned, with interest, all the affection he bestowed upon her. She was sure that no other little girl in Brookdale had such a brother; and when this subject was talked about after school one day, she was not a little offended with Susan Lovering, because she persisted in maintaining that her brother Herbert was just as good and as ingenious a boy as Clinton Davenport. Annie thought the idea absurd, and it was some time before she could forgive Susan for making such a remark.

The only other inmate of the house I have described, was Clinton’s mother. Mrs. Davenport was an excellent woman, gentle and lady-like in her manners, and extremely fond of her children. Mr. Davenport employed one or two hired men on his farm a portion of the year, but they did not live with the family.

“Father,” said Clinton one day, on coming home from the mill, and before he had alighted from the wagon, “Father, may I keep some ducks?”

“Ducks! what do you want of them, Clinty?” inquired his father.

“Why, I’ve just seen Jerry Preston, and he’s got some real handsome ones, and he says I may have four of them for a dollar.”

“Yes, but that isn’t answering my question. No doubt Jerry would be glad to sell his ducks, but what do you want of them, and what will you do with them? We must always think of these things before we buy anything. I am not so sure but that if you had the ducks you would be almost as badly off as the man who came into possession of an elephant, which he could not keep, sell, nor give away.”

“Why, father,” replied Clinton, “I can build a little house to keep them in, down by the side of the brook, and Jerry says they will lay more than eggs enough to pay for their keeping. They don’t need so much grain as hens do. They look real handsome, too, sailing on the water.”

“Well, if you are willing to pay for them out of your own money, and will provide a suitable place for them, I don’t know as I shall object to your keeping a few. But it seems to me you might make a better bargain than you propose. Won’t Jerry sell you some eggs?”

“I don’t know as he has any, yet, for he has just begun to keep ducks; but I will ask him.”

“Do so,” said Mr. Davenport, “and if he will sell you a dozen, at a reasonable price, you may buy them.”

“But of what use will the eggs be, father, without a duck to hatch them?” inquired Clinton.

“Never mind about that now,” replied his father, “you get the eggs first, and then we will see what we can do with them.”

Clinton was already somewhat largely interested in the poultry line. When he was nine years old, his father gave him all the fowls belonging to the farm, on condition that he should assume the whole charge of them, and take good care of them. There were in all about twenty hens and chickens, and half a dozen young turkeys. Mr. Davenport agreed to pay Clinton for all the eggs and poultry they needed for the table, but Clinton must purchase with his own money whatever was necessary for the subsistence of the fowls. Clinton was much pleased with this arrangement; and as he knew that when men engage in business they usually keep account books, in which they record all the sums they spend or receive, he procured a few sheets of paper, with which he made a little blank book, for this purpose. His first entry was simply an enumeration of his fowls, with an estimate of their value; or, as the merchant would call it, a schedule of his stock in trade. It was as follows:—

Commenced this account July 18th, 1847, with the following fowls:—

Whenever he sold any eggs, he entered the date, the number sold, and the price, on a page which he reserved for this purpose. On the opposite page, he set down the sums which he paid his father for the corn and meal consumed by his fowls. At the end of the first year, he struck a balance, to use a mercantile expression; that is, he added up the various sums he had received and spent, and ascertained how much he had made by the year’s operations. His account stood thus:—

Of this profit, $18,99 was in the shape of hens and turkeys, and $4,48 in ready cash, safely deposited in the old bureau drawer, in Clinton’s bed-room.

The second year, Clinton made a much larger profit on his poultry, his father having given him a patch of ground, where he raised with his own hand a crop of corn sufficient to carry his fowls through the year. At the end of this year, he had about $30,00 in money, which his fowls had earned for him; and as he continued every year to raise his own grain, when he was thirteen years old, he had about $75,00 in cash, which, at his request, his father had deposited in a bank in Portland, where it earned him interest. In addition to this, he had about $25,00 worth of hens and turkeys; so that the $11,20 worth of fowls which his father gave him, had, by his own industry and prudence, swelled into $100 in four years.

The same afternoon on which the conversation upon ducks was held, Clinton managed to run over to Jerry’s again, to see if he could procure the eggs. Jerry told him he had not now got enough for a litter, but would be able to supply him in a few days. Clinton therefore engaged the first dozen he should have, for which he agreed to pay 25 cents.

“Now, father,” said Clinton a few days after, as he uncovered the box of eggs for which he had bargained, “now I am ready for you.”

“You don’t need any assistance,” replied Mr. Davenport; “all you have got to do, now, is to give the eggs to Specky, and she will do the rest.”

Specky was one of Clinton’s hens, and this name was given to her, on account of her speckled feathers. She had recently taken it into her head that she wanted to raise a family of little Speckies; but as Clinton did not happen to coincide with her in this matter, she had done nothing but make herself miserable for several days. Every chance she could get, she would jump into the nest, and commence setting, as though she were determined to bring a chicken out of the chalk nest-egg. When Clinton approached to take her off the nest, she would scream and cluck with all her might, which I suppose was her way of scolding; and when he put her down, she would squat upon the ground, and refuse to budge an inch. He was obliged to shut her up alone in a little coop, to reform her bad manners; but she had not got over her stubbornness, at the time Mr. Davenport told Clinton to let her take charge of the ducks’ eggs.

“But,” said Clinton, on receiving this direction, “will she set on those eggs?”

“Yes,” replied his father, “she will set on any thing that looks like an egg, and be glad of the chance, too. And besides, she will make a better mother to the little ducklings than their real mother would prove. The duck is so fond of the water, that when she once gets into it, she is apt to forget all about her eggs, until they get cold, and are spoilt. And if she should not fall into this blunder, and hatches her brood successfully, the first thing she does is to give the poor, weak things a cold bath, no matter how chilly or stormy it is. They can’t stand this rough treatment very well, and for this reason it is better to let hens do the setting and hatching, when there are any ducks to be raised.”

All this was new to Clinton, as he had never had any experience in the management of the duck family. He followed his father’s directions, however, and as madame Specky seemed delighted with the arrangement, he was satisfied. The next day, he set about building a house for the expected new comers, down in the meadow, by the side of the brook. This was something of an undertaking, for a boy of his age, but he took hold with a right good will, and by devoting to it all the time he could spare from his other duties, he had it completed, and ready for the ducks to move into, long before they had begun to show their heads.

At this time Clinton was not attending school, for the very good reason that there was no school in the place. The law of the State only required that every town should support a public school three months in the year; and as Brookdale had but a small and scattered population, the people did not think it advisable to continue their school any longer than the winter term, which lasted from the first of December to the first of March. During this season of the year, the lads and lasses of all ages, from six or seven years up to eighteen or twenty, turned out and attended the same school, and made the most of their brief opportunities for acquiring knowledge.

But though there were nine months of every year that Clinton did not attend school, he was not allowed to neglect his studies, during these long vacations. Both of his parents had received good educations in their youth, and they knew too well the value of the benefits thus secured, to allow their children to grow up in ignorance. Mrs. Davenport had once been a teacher herself, and it was now but a pleasant task to give Clinton and Annie their daily lessons, and to listen to their recitations. Mr. Davenport, too, had taught a school for one or two terms, when a young man. The branches which Clinton was now studying, were reading, writing, arithmetic, and grammar. He was required to devote two hours to his studies, each day, no matter how much work he had to do, or how much he wanted to play. In the evening his mother heard him recite, and gave him such assistance as he needed. In this way, he made considerable progress in his studies, though perhaps he did not learn as fast as he could had he enjoyed school privileges all the time. During the portion of the year he attended school, he always ranked above other boys of his own age, and was considered one of the best scholars in town.

Clinton also performed a good deal of work for his parents, when he did not attend school. In the spring he used to drive the ploughing team, while his father or the hired man guided the plough through the soil. He likewise made himself very handy in planting season; and in mid-summer he could rake the hay or hoe the corn and potatoes, almost as well as a man. He knew how to build a stone-wall, or to make a compost-heap, or to litter and feed the oxen, or to chop wood; for all these things, and many others, he had been taught to do. He was not required to labor too hard, or too long at one time; but his father wished him to learn to work while young, believing he would be happier if he had some useful employment for a portion of his leisure time. And Clinton found this to be true. He not only learned a great many useful things, from his daily labors, but he found that after working a few hours, he could enjoy his sports with much more zest than if he had idled away all his time in trying to amuse himself. Besides, it was no little satisfaction to know that he could be of some service to his parents, to whose care and affection he was so greatly indebted.

It was thus between work, study and play, that Clinton divided his time. He was an intelligent, kind-hearted, good-natured, and well-meaning boy, but——well, we will for the present drop the vail of charity over the unpleasant truth which belongs to the other side of that “but.”

CHAPTER II.
JERRY AND OSCAR.

After Clinton had finished his duck-house, he noticed that the water was getting quite low in the brook. It was the month of August, and the season had been very hot and dry, so that the springs in the hills, which fed the brook, had almost given out. While he was thinking what his ducks would do for water if the brook should dry entirely up, it occurred to him that he might make a little pond, to be filled from the brook, which would afford a good place for his ducks to swim, and might also prolong the supply of water. Having obtained his father’s consent, he set about the job at once. He was busily at work, digging out the peat or mud for this pond, one warm afternoon, when he happened to look up and saw two boys by the side of him. As their eyes met, one of them exclaimed,—

“An’ faith, Patrick, what are ye after doin’ now? Is it for goold ye are diggin’, sure? or are ye goin’ to make a river of the brook? Why don’t ye spake, ye bogtrotter, hey?”

Clinton laughed at this rough salutation, but perhaps he felt that there was a slight tinge of unkindness in the joke, as he turned his eye from the neat dress of the speaker, to his own heavy boots loaded with mud, and his coarse and well-worn pantaloons, the bottoms of which were tucked into his boots.

“But you do look just like a Paddy, Clin, I’ll leave it to Jerry if you don’t,” continued the speaker, who was a cousin of Jerry Preston’s, and was named Oscar.

Jerry agreed that it was so. “But,” he continued, “what are you trying to make, Clin? I should really like to know.”

“Wait a few days and you will see,” replied Clinton.

“The same old story,” said Oscar, “‘wait and you’ll see;’ you needn’t think you can get anything more than that out of him, Jerry.”

“I guess he has taken a contract to dig a cellar for somebody,” continued Jerry. “See him put in!” he added, as Clinton resumed his work.

“And I guess,” said Oscar, “that he isn’t making anything in particular, but is only digging for amusement. What capital fun it must be to dig mud this warm day!”

Clinton made no reply to their bantering, but kept on digging. After a minute’s pause, Jerry resumed the conversation by saying,—

“Clin, you are the queerest fellow I ever saw.”

“How so?” inquired Clinton.

“Why, I never come over here but I find you hard at work about something or other. You must love to work better than I do.”

“Yes, and such work, too,” chimed in Oscar; “you’re making a complete clodhopper of yourself. You’ll be an old man before you are a young one, if you don’t mind. Why doesn’t your father make his men do this hard drudgery, instead of putting it upon you?”

“My father doesn’t make me do this work,” replied Clinton, with some spirit; “I’m doing it for myself, and of my own accord.”

“I suppose your father doesn’t make you work at all,” said Oscar, with a sneer in his look and voice, which Clinton could not fail to observe.

“Yes, he does require me to work,” replied Clinton, “but no more than I ought to. I have plenty of time for play, besides having a little left for study, too, which is more than some boys, that I know, can say.”

“Yes,” resumed Oscar, “when you aint hard at work, digging like an Irishman, your father makes you sit down in the house, and mope over your books. I’m glad I havn’t got such a father to stand over me; aint you, Jerry?”

“I am so,” replied Jerry. “I don’t believe in making slaves of boys. It is time enough to go to work when we get to be men. I mean to enjoy myself while I am young, if I don’t any other time. But come, Oscar, we’ve stopped here long enough,—let’s be going.”

“Well, I’m ready,” said Oscar, and they began to start. Clinton, seeing that they were not directing their steps homeward, inquired where they were going.

“Over to the pond,” replied Jerry, “to have a swim. Come, wont you go too, Clinton?” he added.

“Yes, come with us, Clin,” said Oscar; “we shall have a first-rate time; and as you say you can play as much as you please, there’s nothing to prevent your going.”

Clinton did want to go with them, but his parents and Annie had gone away that afternoon, leaving the house in his charge, and he thought it would not be right to leave the premises. It was true, he was not expressly told not to go off; but Clinton knew his father expected him to remain about the house until their return, as he had left a message to be delivered to Mr. Hardy, the blacksmith, who was to call at Mr. Davenport’s that afternoon. So, after a moment’s hesitation, Clinton answered,—

“I should like to go, but I don’t see how I can to-day.”

“Why not?” both Oscar and Jerry inquired, at the same instant.

Clinton did not like to tell them his reason, for fear they would laugh him out of it. He could not bear to be ridiculed, and these boys knew it; for whenever they wished to persuade him to do anything he was not inclined to do, they generally resorted to this weapon to effect their object. Accordingly, they began to try its virtues in the present case. They asked him if he was afraid to go out of sight of the house without his father’s leave, and how long he expected to be tied to his mother’s apron-strings. They had proceeded in this strain but a few moments, when Clinton’s’ resolution began to give out. He at first warmly denied that he was afraid to go; and a moment after, as if to convince them that it was not fear that kept him at home, he threw down his shovel, and exclaimed,—

“I don’t care,—I believe I will go, too.”

So, exchanging his thick boots for a light pair of shoes, he started for the pond with the other boys. It was not a very long walk,—taking the shortest path through the fields,—and they were soon tumbling and plunging about in the cool water, in high glee. Judging from their shouts of laughter, and the merry splashing they made in the calm lake, you would have supposed they were a happy set of boys. But Clinton, at least, was not quite so happy as he seemed. Something in his breast told him that he had done wrong in yielding to the solicitations of his comrades. The louder he laughed, the more plainly did he hear the voice within, saying, “Ah! Clinton, you have made a false step; you have yielded to a foolish temptation; you have disobeyed your father; you have betrayed his confidence,—and all for a few moments’ gratification.” He tried to drive these unpleasant thoughts from his mind, but they would not leave him. He was careful, however, not to let his companions see any traces of his uneasiness.

When they had been in the water nearly an hour, Clinton proposed returning home; but neither Oscar nor Jerry seemed inclined to do so. After waiting a little longer, Clinton concluded to go home alone, and proceeded to dry and dress himself. The other boys were so absorbed in their sport, that they scarcely noticed what he was doing.

Just as Clinton was about to start for home, Oscar took it into his head to have a sail on the lake. There was a sail-boat anchored a little way from the shore, near where they were bathing, which belonged to Squire Walcott. Oscar proposed to take possession of this boat, and Jerry readily fell in with his plan. The water where the boat lay was so shallow they could wade out to it; so they proceeded to dress themselves, preparatory to their excursion. Clinton knew that the Squire was very obliging, and was always willing to lend his boat to any one who knew how to manage it; and he was sorry that the boys were going to take it without leave. Indeed, he even remonstrated with them about it. But the only reply he got, was this from Oscar:—

“Who cares for old Walcott? Besides, he needn’t know anything about it, unless you go and tell him. You may go home, if you choose, but I’m bound to have a sail.”

Clinton got home before his parents returned; and, fortunately for him, Mr. Hardy came along soon after, and the message was delivered, so that this burden was removed from his conscience. He did not, however, feel exactly right in his mind; for though no harm had resulted from his absence, he had been guilty of something like a breach of trust, and his conscience continued to reprove him.

Jerry and Oscar amused themselves on the pond, for an hour longer; but though both of them attempted to act the skipper, neither knew much about managing a boat, and the result was, they run themselves aground, at a place where the bottom was soft mud, and were unable to get afloat again. It was half a mile from their starting place, and they did not know how they should get the boat back to its anchoring ground. They got into the water, and tried to push it off, but it refused to go. At length, wearied with their exertions, and with their clothes wet and dirty, they concluded to wade ashore, and leave the stolen boat to take care of itself. In going home, they avoided the road, as much as possible, and skulked through the woods, lest they should be seen; but after they had reached their home, and considered themselves beyond the danger of discovery, they began to treat the affair as a joke, and laughed to think how mad “old Walcott” would be, when he found his boat aground, half a mile from the place where it belonged. They did not seem to realize that they had acted meanly and wickedly, in taking possession without leave, of Squire Walcott’s boat, and in leaving it aground, without informing him of its whereabouts. If they could escape detection, it mattered little to them whether their conduct had been right or wrong.

These two boys were unlike Clinton, in many respects. Jerry,—or, to give, him his full name, Jeremiah Preston,—lived in the nearest farm-house to Mr. Davenport’s.[1] There was more than half a mile’s distance between the two families; but as there were no nearer neighbors, they were on pretty intimate terms. Jerry was but a few months older than Clinton, and the two boys had been playmates almost from the cradle. Mr. Preston was engaged in the logging and lumbering business, which required him to be away from home, in the forests, a large portion of the year. As Jerry’s mother did not succeed very well in governing her household, the long and frequent absences of Mr. Preston from his family were unfortunate for the children, especially for Jerry, who was the eldest child, and the only son. During the few months of each year the father spent at home, he was more inclined to humor his children, than to train them to obedience. Sometimes, it is true, in a moment of passion, he would punish Jerry severely, for some offence; but at another time, he would entirely overlook a much more serious fault. Under the influence of this bad training, it is not strange that Jerry was getting to be an ungovernable and mischievous boy.

Oscar Preston was a cousin to Jerry, who had recently come from Boston, to spend a few months in Brookdale. He was about a year older than Jerry, in age, but was several years his senior in bad habits. He had in fact become almost unmanageable at home, and it was on this account, as well as to get him away from the evil influences of the city, that his father sent him into the country. He had never been taught to labor, and as he now had nothing to do, and there was no school to attend, and no one to restrain him, he did not seem to grow much better by his banishment from home. It is said that idleness is the mother of mischief, and Oscar furnished daily proof of the truth of the saying. His adventure with the boat is but a specimen of the way in which he amused himself.

The influence of Oscar Preston upon the other boys in the village, and especially upon Jerry, from whom he was seldom separated, soon became very perceptible. He had seen more of the world than they, and never wearied of telling of the wonders of the city, often exaggerating his stories, to make them the more marvellous. In addition to this, he was naturally bright and intelligent, and was more genteelly dressed than the village boys; but the qualities that contributed most to his influence over his associates, were his daring spirit, and his imperious, commanding bearing, which seemed to mark him for a leader. But he had been permitted to have his own way so long at home, that he had become headstrong and unmanageable; and his evil passions were daily growing stronger, while the voice of conscience within him was as rapidly becoming weaker. It is sad, indeed, to see a youth growing up in this manner, for he is like the sailor who should go to sea in a frail boat, without anchor, rudder, or compass. He may be delivered from early destruction, through the mercy of Providence, but he will not escape many struggles and losses.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] See the map on page [14]. Clinton’s home is numbered 1, and Jerry’s 2. The building numbered 3 is the school-house.

CHAPTER III.
TEMPTATION.

Clinton’s brood of ducks at length made their appearance, just one month after he had put the eggs to the hen. There were eight of them, four of the eggs having produced nothing. If madame Specky was a little astonished at the singular appearance which her children presented, she kept it all to herself, like a good, prudent mother, for she behaved toward them just the same as though they were ordinary chickens. She did not appear to think anything strange of their large bills, or their clumsy, webbed feet, or their awkward, waddling gait. If a dog or cat ventured near them, or a hawk happened to sail through the air, hen never put on bolder front than did mistress Specky. And there was need enough for all her courage, for her young family had so little control over their big feet, that they never could have saved themselves by their legs, had a foe invaded the premises.

For several days after the ducks were hatched, they continued about the poultry-yard, ignorant as yet that there was such a thing as water, except as they had made its acquaintance in the little tin pan from which they were accustomed to drink. Clinton’s father had told him that it was a good plan to keep them from water for the first three or four days, as they were so tender as to be easily injured by cold and dampness. On the fifth day, Clinton concluded to introduce them to their new home; so, gathering up the ducklings into a basket, and taking the hen under his arm, he carried them down to the brook, where he had made the duck-house and pond before-mentioned. It was now about the middle of September, and the brook was nearly dry; but the little round pond contained plenty of water. This pond received all the water that came down in the brook; and there was a dam, at the lower side of it, so that the water could not pass on its way, until it had filled the pond, and flowed over the dam. The pond was thus kept full, all the time, but it could be easily emptied, when necessary, by opening a gate which Clinton had made in the dam.

Clinton had no sooner deposited his basket of ducklings by the side of the pond, than they all seemed possessed to get into the water. Away they ran, pell mell, and before their cautious and anxious mother could warn them of their danger, every one of them had launched away into the new element. And now they were as graceful and beautiful as they had been ungainly and ugly. They glided along over the water as naturally and elegantly as does the new ship on its first entrance upon its destined element. Annie, who had come to witness the scene, was delighted with the sight, and clapped her hands in glee, exclaiming:—

“O, isn’t it beautiful, Clinty? Look! look! see that cunning little one duck its head into the water!”

“Yes,” said Clinton, without turning to look at the sight which so pleased Annie, “yes, and only see what a fuss the old hen is making on the bank! Look quick! Ha, ha, ha!” and the boy, whose love of the ludicrous was as strong as his sister’s love of the beautiful, burst into a hearty laugh. Nor did he laugh without a reason. Madame Specky, good, honest old hen that she was, had never seen such strange doings before, and she was greatly alarmed for the safety of her brood. So she stood by the side of the pond, clucking and calling with all her might, and with her wings partially opened, as if to receive back her naughty children. Her neck was stretched out yearningly towards them, and she was so excited that she could not stand still a moment, but kept dancing, like a boy whose legs are undergoing that peculiar tingling sensation produced by a smart switching with a birch rod. There was horror in her eye, and frenzy in her attitude. But the little ducks, who were the innocent authors of all this alarm, were sailing about as calmly as though nothing unusual had happened. Clinton and Annie remained with them a long time, now admiring the graceful movements of the ducks, and now laughing at the distraction of the old hen, as she tried in vain to call them ashore. After a while, Clinton carried them all to the duck-house, and shut them up for the remainder of the day, that they might get used to their new home.

Mr. Davenport was at this time engaged in getting a piece of land ready for a crop of winter wheat, and he required the assistance of Clinton a considerable portion of each day. The field had to be broken up and manured, and the soil finely pulverized, to prepare it for the seed, which must be sown early in the fall, and not in the spring, like most other seeds. Mr. Davenport always did thoroughly whatever he undertook. His motto was, “If a thing is worth doing at all, it is worth doing well;” and a very good motto it is. Clinton sometimes thought his father was more particular about his work than was necessary; he certainly took more pains than some of his neighbors did. But somehow or other, he always seemed to get paid back liberally for his extra care, by better and larger crops than those could show who were less particular about their work. Mr. Davenport was especially anxious to have the ground well prepared for this crop, because it was an experiment; he never before having attempted to raise winter wheat. Indeed, but very little of this grain had ever been raised in the State, and it was yet uncertain whether the climate was favorable to its production. He therefore determined to give it a fair trial, not only to satisfy his own mind, but that others might be benefited by the experiment; for if he and his neighbors could raise their own flour, instead of sending several hundred miles for it, he thought it was very important that they should know it. Were it not for such men as he, who are willing to enter into patient and careful experiments, for the common benefit, the world would make but slow progress in improvement.

The land was at length about ready for the seed. Clinton had worked pretty hard for several days, and as the family arose from their noon meal, Mr. Davenport said:—

“Well, Clinty, I hope you wont get sick of raising wheat before we have planted it. You have had a pretty hard time, and I think you must be tired. You need not go into the field this afternoon, but you may tackle up Fanny, and drive over to Mr. Fletcher’s, and get the seed-wheat that I bought of him. Get back as early as you can, as I want to have the seed cleaned to-night, and ready to put into the ground to-morrow morning.”

Clinton was not sorry to hear this announcement of his afternoon’s work; for though he was not a lazy boy, it really seemed to him, that just then a ride to the Cross-Roads would be quite as pleasant as an afternoon spent at work in the field. So Fanny was soon harnessed into the wagon, and Clinton started on his errand.

Mr. Fletcher was a trader, who kept a store at the Cross-Roads,—a place where two of the main highways of the county cross each other at right angles, thus ✛.[2] Quite a thrifty little village had sprung up at this point, boasting, among other things, a school-house, a church, a post-office, and a “variety store.” It was, in fact, the centre of life and business for the surrounding dozen miles. Though about five miles from Mr. Davenport’s house, there was no other store or church within twice the distance. His family, consequently, had almost come to regard the Cross-Roads settlement as a part of their own village, though it was actually situated in another township.

Clinton had not driven half way to his destination, when he discovered two lads in advance of him, walking the same way he was going. On coming up with them, he found that they were Oscar and Jerry, who were out on a gunning excursion,—Oscar having borrowed a fowling-piece of a young man who lived near Mr. Preston’s.

“Halloo, Clin, give us a ride,” exclaimed Oscar, as the wagon drew up to them; and without further ceremony, both boys jumped into the vehicle.

“Where are you going?” inquired Clinton, as he started the horse.

“O, wherever you please,—we are not at all particular,” replied Oscar. “Jerry and I have been trying to pop off some birds, this afternoon, but the little fools won’t stop long enough to let us shoot them.”

“I’m glad of it,” replied Clinton, dryly.

“Why are you glad?” asked Jerry.

“Because it’s too bad to shoot them,” replied Clinton. “I like to see and hear them too well, to harm them. If I could have my way, there shouldn’t be a bird shot, unless they were crows or hawks, or something of that kind.”

“Pooh,” said Oscar; “I should like to know what birds were made for, if it wasn’t to be shot. You don’t know what fine sport it is to shoot them, or you would be as fond of gunning as I am.”

Oscar had probably shot half a dozen poor little birds in the course of his life, and severely frightened as many more. But he had got the idea that gunning was a fine, manly amusement, and he already fancied himself to be quite an accomplished sportsman. And if the disposition could have made him a successful hunter, he would have been one; for he wanted to take the life of every bird and squirrel that he saw. He soon found, however, that it was easier to fire than to hit; and in most of his excursions, his powder-flask was emptied much faster than his game-bag was filled.

The boys continued their conversation, and soon reached the Cross-Roads. Driving the wagon up to Mr. Fletcher’s store, Clinton alighted, but on trying the door, he found it locked. Mr. Fletcher had evidently stepped out for a few minutes, and Clinton was about to hitch the horse to the post, and await his return, when Oscar proposed driving round to the “Falls,” instead of waiting there. Clinton at first refused; but Jerry and Oscar both joined in the request so earnestly, that he soon began to parley and hesitate, and finally ended by reluctantly yielding to their proposition. He accordingly jumped into the wagon, and turned the face of Fanny towards the Falls.

The lake, or pond, which has been before alluded to, has one outlet,—a little stream which flows away in a south-westerly direction, finally discharging into a larger river, which finds its way to the ocean. This little stream, which goes by the simple name of “The River,” in Brookdale, passes near by the Cross-Roads. About a mile beyond that village, it comes to a wild, romantic, down-hill place, where the waters tumble about, and frolic among the rocks, as though they really enjoyed the sport. This place is called “The Falls,” the descent of the river here being very marked. It is off from the common roads, the only way of reaching it being by a “wood-road,”—a sort of path through the forest, used by the teams in hauling wood. The very seclusion of the spot, however, made it the more charming, and it was often resorted to by pleasure parties in the summer.

The road through the woods being narrow and rough, Clinton could not drive very swiftly; but he and his companions talked fast enough to make up for their slow progress. They had not proceeded very far in this road, when Oscar drew from his pocket a small package, enveloped in a piece of paper, which he began to unroll slowly, and with a very knowing and significant look. The contents proved to be three cigars. Holding them out in his hand, he exclaimed:—

“How lucky! just one a-piece. Now, boys, for a good smoke. Take one, Clin; and here, Jerry, is one for you.”

Jerry took the cigar offered, but Clinton shook his head, saying that he did not smoke.

“You don’t know what you lose, then,” said Oscar. “I’ve smoked these two or three years, and I couldn’t live without my cigar, now. You can’t imagine how much pleasure there is in it. Come, just try this, and see if it isn’t nice.”

“No,” replied Clinton, “I don’t wish to. Father hates tobacco, in every shape, and he wouldn’t like it if he knew I smoked.”

“But this is all prejudice,” added Oscar. “Smoking never hurt me, yet, and nobody can make me believe that there is any harm in it. I felt a little sickish for a few minutes, the first time, but that was nothing. Come, try it, Clin,” he added, as he drew a match from his pocket, and lighted his own cigar; “try it—it can’t hurt you,—and besides, your father needn’t know anything about it.”

“Here goes mine,” said Jerry, as he touched off a match, and applied the fire to his cigar. “My father wont object, I know, for he smokes himself like everything; and if he did object, I guess it wouldn’t make much difference. I don’t intend to be a boy all my life-time.”

The two young smokers were soon puffing away in good earnest. Oscar was an old hand at the business, and Jerry had been practising pretty diligently since his city cousin came to live with him. Between each whiff, however, they renewed their assaults upon the good resolution of their comrade; and so skilfully and perseveringly did they conduct the attack, that Clinton, after a while, began to think it looked a little unsocial and obstinate to refuse to participate in their enjoyment. By the time they had reached the Falls, he had concluded to yield to their wishes. He accordingly drove Fanny into the water, and unhitched her bridle, that she might drink and cool herself. The three boys then threw themselves down upon the grass, beneath a large tree, and prepared to enjoy the scene, and at the same time repose their limbs. Clinton lighted his cigar,—and now commenced his first experience in tobacco. He was pleased with the new sensation; and as he lay upon his back, watching the delicate wreaths of smoke ascending from his cigar, and listening to Oscar,—who was spinning out one of his long yarns about a military muster he once witnessed in Boston,—the time flew by much faster than he was aware. His cigar had half disappeared, and those of his companions were nearly used up, when he happened to notice that the sun was fast declining, and would soon go down behind the tops of the tall pines on the other side of the stream. Tossing his cigar into the water, he jumped up, saying:—

“Come, boys, this wont do,—we must be on our way home.”

“What’s your hurry?” inquired Jerry; “it isn’t four o’clock yet.”

“Perhaps it isn’t,” replied Clinton, “but I ought to have been at home by this time. Come, jump in, and I will turn the horse round.”

The boys got into the wagon, and were soon slowly threading their way out of the woods. In about half an hour they reached Mr. Fletcher’s, where Clinton stopped, and got the bags of seed. He had now a pretty good load, and much of the way being up hill, he did not get along very fast. Oscar and Jerry talked as fast as usual, but Clinton looked sober, and did not seem inclined to say much. Indeed, he hardly spoke to them, from the time they left the store until they reached the house where Oscar and Jerry lived, when he bade them good afternoon, and drove on.

The fact was, Clinton was suffering the penalty of his first cigar, but he did not like to confess it, and this was the reason why he said nothing. Soon after he started from the Falls, he began to experience a sinking, nauseating feeling in his stomach, and every jolt and jerk of the wagon seemed to increase it. He concealed his feelings from Oscar and Jerry, as much as he could, and after they had alighted, he hurried home as fast as possible.

It was past six o’clock when Clinton drove into the yard at home. His father, who had begun to feel anxious at his long absence, had come in from the field, and on seeing Clinton, he called out to him, somewhat sharply,

“Where have you been all the afternoon, Clinton? I’ve been waiting for you more than two hours.”

“Mr. Fletcher wasn’t there, and I had to wait for him,” replied Clinton. “Besides, it was so warm I thought I wouldn’t drive very fast.” Ah, Clinton, have you forgotten that it is a falsehood to tell but half the truth?

Clinton had begun to unharness the horse, when he became so faint and dizzy that he was obliged to stop; and before he could get into the house, he began to vomit. His father, hearing the noise, ran to his aid, and led him into the house. The pale, deathly look of Clinton, as his father assisted him into the sitting-room, was the first notice his mother received that he was ill. She was somewhat startled by the suddenness of his entrance, and at first thought that he had got hurt.

“Mercy on us! what has happened?” was her first exclamation.

“Nothing alarming,” replied Clinton; “I am a little sick at my stomach—that is all.”

“How long have you been so?” inquired his mother.

“Only a little while,” was the reply. “I haven’t felt very smart for an hour or two, but just as I got home I began to grow worse, and have been vomiting.”

“Have you eaten any thing this afternoon?” inquired Mr. Davenport.

“No, sir,” replied Clinton, “nothing since dinner.”

“I am afraid he has worked too hard lately,” remarked Mrs. Davenport to her husband. “You have kept him at it pretty steadily for a week past, and you know he isn’t so rugged as many boys are. I wouldn’t allow him to work so hard again.”

“He has been working pretty hard, I know,” observed Mr. Davenport; “but he has never complained before, and I did not suppose he suffered from it. I don’t think this is anything serious, wife—he needs a little physic, perhaps, or something of that sort, to regulate his system.”

While this conversation was taking place, Clinton sat in the rocking-chair, leaning his head upon his hand. Little Annie stood by his side, silent and sad, her large, loving eyes looking up wonderingly at her sick brother. But he did not notice her. He was thinking very earnestly of something else. His conscience was busily at work, reproaching him for his conduct during the afternoon. “You disobeyed your father,” it plainly said, “by going over to the Falls, when he told you to come right home. You deceived him, after you got home, by not giving the true reason for your long absence. You made yourself sick by smoking that cigar, and now you sit still and hear your parents, in their sympathy and solicitude, attribute your illness to hard work. O Clinton, you have not only done very wrong, but you have done it very meanly, too! No wonder you cover up your face, and dare not meet the eye of your parents.”

Thus was conscience talking. At first, Clinton almost resolved to confess the whole story of his wrong-doings. “Do it,” said conscience; but shame whispered, “no, don’t expose yourself—you will soon feel better, and the whole affair will be forgotten in a day or two.” The longer he hesitated, between these two advisers, the less inclined did he feel to make the confession. His father soon went out, to put up the horse, and his mother set about preparing him a bowl of thoroughwort tea—her favorite medicine, in all common forms of sickness. Clinton already began to feel much better, and on the whole he thought he would say nothing about the adventures of the afternoon. When his mother brought him the herb tea, he drank it down as fast as possible, but he could not help making a wry face over it, for it was not very palatable to his taste. His mother thought he had better go to bed early, and without eating any supper, and he complied with her wishes. Just as he was beginning to doze, a gentle, timid voice awakened him, saying,

“Clinty, you won’t be sick, will you?”

“No, sis,” he answered, and with a parting “good-night,” he fell asleep—not the sweet, calm sleep to which he was accustomed, but fitful, troubled dreams, in which the unpleasant events of the afternoon flitted before him, in an exaggerated and grotesque, but always sad and reproachful panorama.

FOOTNOTES:

[2] See the Map of Brookdale, p. [14].

CHAPTER IV.
CRIME.

An icicle is hanging over the window by which I write. A day or two ago, it was hardly perceptible, but it has gone on, increasing in size, until now it is as large round as my arm, and full as long. It is nothing, however, but an innumerable collection of little drops of water, frozen together. One by one they chased each other down the roof above, but on coming to the cold icicle, they became chilled, and were congealed into a part of itself, some of them running down to its slender tip, and others fastening themselves upon its sides, or its inverted base.

It is thus that evil habits are formed—drop by drop, and atom by atom. One wrong act prepares the way for another. One bad habit invites and attracts others. Thus the little one soon becomes a troop, and the feeble enemy swells into a formidable giant.

Oscar and Jerry were fast descending the downward path of evil. Having nothing else to employ themselves about, mischief-making became the main business of their lives. They were away from home a large portion of the time; and as Mr. Preston was glad to have them go off, for the sake of quiet and peace at home, he seldom troubled himself to inquire where they went, or what they did. Complaints, however, sometimes reached him of their misconduct, which he passed over in silence, or angrily rebuked or punished, as he happened to feel.

One day, as Oscar and Jerry were making one of their excursions about the town, they noticed some fine-looking pears, growing on a small dwarf tree in a garden. No person was in sight, and the blinds of that portion of the house from which they could be seen were all closed. There seemed to be nothing to prevent their helping themselves, and after deliberating a moment, and turning their eyes in every direction, with an assumed air of carelessness, they noiselessly entered the gate, and commenced stripping the tree of its rich burden. The tree was not much higher than Oscar’s head, and there were but half a dozen pears upon it, all of which were quickly transferred to the pockets of the boys.

The act was not committed so secretly as the young thieves imagined. Mr. Upham, to whom the fruit belonged, was at work threshing, in the barn, and from a back window observed Oscar and Jerry as they came along the road. Knowing the mischievous propensities of the boys, he kept an eye upon them, until he saw them reach forth to pluck the fruit, when he seized a whip, and ran towards them. The last pear was in their pockets before they saw him approaching, and all they had to do, therefore, was to run with all speed, which they lost no time in doing. Mr. Upham pursued them, several rods, but finding that their young legs were more nimble and light-footed than his, he soon gave up the unequal chase.

Towards noon, when Mr. Upham supposed the boys would be at home to dinner, he tackled his horse and rode over to Mr. Preston’s. As he saw Jerry’s father in the barn, he advanced towards him, calling out in his rough way:—

“Hulloo, Preston, where are those boys of yours, Oscar and Jerry?”

“They are somewhere about here,—I heard them a minute ago,” replied Mr. Preston; “why, what do you want of them?”

“I’ve come over here on purpose to give the young whelps a good trimming, or to get you to do it,” said Mr. Upham, making a very significant gesture with his whip, which he had brought with him from the wagon. He then told Mr. Preston the story of the robbery, adding that the fruit was a new and choice species, which he had cultivated with much care, and this was the first crop. He said he would rather have given five dollars than lost it, as he wished to ascertain what the fruit was. “Now,” he added, “I am determined that these rogues shall not go unpunished. If you’ll give them their deserts, well and good; or if you will delegate me to do it, it’s all the same; but if you won’t do either, I’ll lodge a complaint against them with Squire Walcott, before sun-down. I’ve had fruit stolen before, but never could catch the rascals; and I shan’t let this chance go of giving them justice, now that I am sure who they are.”

“I don’t blame you in the least,” said Mr. Preston; “if there’s anything that I’ll punish my children for, it’s for stealing. Jerry shall be whipped for this; but I don’t know about whipping Oscar. He is not a child of mine, but is only here on a visit, and I don’t exactly feel as though I had authority to correct him.”

“Will you give me leave to do it, then?” said Mr. Upham.

“I can’t give you an authority I don’t myself possess,” replied Mr. Preston. “No doubt he is the greatest rogue in this matter, and deserves a good trouncing. You can punish him on your own responsibility, if you choose, and I will not object; only let it be reasonable.”

“That’s enough,” said Mr. Upham; “now let us find the rogues.”

“I think I heard them up in the hay-loft last,” remarked Mr. Preston, and they accordingly directed their steps thither.

The boys, on coming home from their marauding excursion, had gone up into the hay-loft, and were in the act of eating their plunder, when they were startled by Mr. Upham’s well-known voice. Their first impulse was to effect a hasty retreat; but this proved to be a difficult thing to do. They could not go down below without being seen. There were two windows, but they were too far from the ground to afford escape. There was no place where they could conceal themselves, and they finally concluded to keep still, and hear the result of the interview.

“Here they are,” said Mr. Preston, as he reached the top stair.

“So they are,” echoed Mr. Upham,—his eye lighting up with something like joy. “You see, boys,” he added, “it didn’t do you much good to run, did it?”

“I suppose you heard what we were talking about, below, Oscar?” said Mr. Preston.

A sullen, almost inaudible “Yes,” was the response.

“Then you know our business,” added Mr. Preston; “and, as it is dinner-time, we won’t waste any more words about it. Mr. Upham, there’s your boy,” he continued, pointing to Oscar.

Oscar, though generally bold and daring, and little disposed to show respect or fear for his superiors, seemed completely cowed down in the presence of Mr. Upham. Whether it was the latter’s Herculean limbs, and rough, blunt manners, or the threat of prosecution, that produced this result, certain it is, that all thought of resistance had vanished. He took off his jacket, at the command of Mr. Upham, and submitted with almost lamb-like meekness to the heavy shower of blows that fell upon his back. The same operation was then performed upon Jerry, by his father, after which the boys, with red, swollen eyes, and backs well-scored and sore, and hearts rankling with suppressed rage, betook themselves to the house.

Such a punishment, inflicted in a spirit of revenge, and in the heat of passion, and without any attempt to appeal to the reason and consciences of the offenders, or to awaken contrition in their hearts, could have but one effect, and that a most injurious one, upon Oscar and Jerry. It hardened them in their sin, and awakened a feeling of bitter hatred towards the man who had been the instigator of their punishment. Instead of repenting of the evil they had done they were already plotting still worse things against him. They appeased the smartings of the rod with the thought that, some day or other, they would have their revenge.

Week after week passed away, and Jerry and his cousin continued to follow their accustomed manner of life. For a day or two after the events just related, some distance and coolness were perceptible between them and Mr. Preston; but nothing more was said about the affair, and it was soon apparently forgotten.

One pleasant afternoon in October, a man on horseback rode in great haste to Mr. Davenport’s, and informed him that the woods were on fire, just beyond the hills, in the north or upper part of the town, and requested him to go over and assist in putting it out. The messenger carried the same news to most of the other houses in the village; and, in the course of an hour, quite a number of men and boys had assembled at the scene of the conflagration. Some thirty or forty cords of wood, which had been cut and seasoned, ready for use, were found to be well on fire. The mass of coals and flame sent out a fierce heat, so that no one could approach very near. The fire had communicated to many of the standing trees, and was roaring and crackling with great fury, leaping from branch to branch, and from tree to tree, everything being almost as dry as tinder. It had evidently been burning a considerable time; but the hills, which separated the wood-lot from the principal part of the village, had prevented the smoke being seen. The people who had collected could do little or nothing to stay the progress of the flames, now that they were under such headway, and it was not until several acres were burnt over, that the fire began to go down. It finally went out, only because there were no more trees to burn, it having reached a space which had previously been cleared by the axe.

The wood-lot and corded wood destroyed by this fire belonged to Mr. Upham, and his loss was about a hundred dollars. It was the common opinion among the town’s people that the fire must have originated in the carelessness of some boys or men who happened to pass through the wood-lot. Mr. Upham, however, had formed a different opinion from this, but he said nothing about it that afternoon. The next day he started off early after breakfast, with the determination of finding some clue to the mystery, if it were a possible thing. In the course of the day he visited many of the people in the village, and gathered several items of information, which he thought might have a bearing on the mystery he was striving to solve. Among others thus visited, were Mr. Davenport and his son, and the latter put Mr. Upham in possession of a certain fact which greatly confirmed his suspicions.

The result of these investigations was, that Mr. Merriam, the constable, called at Mr. Preston’s house early the following morning, with a warrant, empowering him to “seize the bodies” of Oscar and Jerry, and bring them before Squire Walcott, to answer to the charge of setting fire to Mr. Upham’s wood. The family were just finishing their breakfast, when Mr. Merriam entered. Taking Mr. Preston alone into the entry, he showed him the warrant, telling him there were suspicions that Oscar and Jerry knew something about the fire, and it was thought advisable to have the matter examined. “I hope it won’t amount to anything,” he continued, “but if there are suspicions about, they ought to be cleared up. It is unpleasant business, and I thought I would manage it as quietly as possible. Perhaps you had better say nothing to the family, now; but tell your boys you want them to go with me, of an errand, and you can jump in too, and ride down with us. Wouldn’t that be the best way to manage it?”

Mr. Preston seemed much affected by the intelligence which was thus kindly broken to him. The mere fact that his son and nephew were suspected of a crime which might send them to a prison, went like an arrow to his heart. The warrant, it should be observed, charged the boys named with setting fire to the wood wilfully and maliciously, and with intent to destroy the same. After a moment’s silence, he obtained sufficient command over his feelings to say:—

“I don’t know, Mr. Merriam, what facts have come to light, but I have no reason to suppose that my boys had anything more to do with the fire than you or I. And if they did have a hand in it, it isn’t at all likely that it was anything more serious than an accident. But as you say, we had better keep quiet about it, until the subject is investigated. I will call the boys, and we will go down to the Squire’s immediately.”

The little party got into the carriage, and drove towards Squire Walcott’s. Oscar and Jerry, who had suspected the nature of Mr. Merriam’s errand from the first, had now no doubt that their suspicions were correct. The silence of Mr. Merriam, and the sad and anxious expression on the face of Mr. Preston, told them that something unusual was about to transpire. They asked no questions, however, but all rode on in silence. On reaching the Squire’s, the boys were conducted into the sitting-room, where they seated themselves with the constable. Mr. Preston went into the “front room,” or parlor, where there were several other men. The time appointed for the examination not having quite arrived, and several of the witnesses summoned being yet absent, Oscar and Jerry remained in the sitting-room nearly an hour, before any one spoke to them. It was a long and dreary hour. Their tongues were silent, but their thoughts were busy, and their eyes glanced anxiously at every footstep.

CHAPTER V.
THE EXAMINATION.

Squire Walcott, like most of the inhabitants of Brookdale, was a farmer. He was somewhat advanced in years, and his son-in-law lived in the same house with him, and assisted in carrying on the farm. He was generally known as “The Squire,” in town,—a title which he acquired from the circumstance of his holding a commission as Justice of the Peace. This commission is conferred by the Governor of the State, and empowers the holder to discharge certain judicial functions, such as the issuing of writs and warrants, the examination of persons accused of crime, etc. In cases where the offence is very small, the Justice of the Peace may himself impose a fine, or other lawful penalty; but if the offence is one of much magnitude, he must bind over the supposed offender in a sum of money, or commit him to jail, to await a trial before a higher court.

The examination on the present occasion, was to be held in the front room of Squire Walcott’s house. When the time arrived to commence, one of the men present conducted Oscar into the room. As he took the seat pointed out to him, and cast his eye about the room, he recognized Mr. Upham, Mr. Davenport, Mr. Preston, Clinton, and several others of the town’s people. All eyes were turned towards himself, as if anxious to detect from his appearance whether he were guilty or innocent. With all his boldness, he felt his courage failing him, as he encountered the searching glances of one and another; and although he tried to look indifferent, alarm was written too plainly on his pale face to be disguised.

The Squire sat in a chair, with a table before him, on which were several books, with pen, ink and paper. In a pleasant tone of voice, he informed Oscar of the charge brought against him, and expressed the hope that he would be able to establish his innocence. “Before reading the complaint,” he added, “I wish to say, that you are not obliged to criminate yourself in this matter. You can plead guilty, or not guilty, as you choose. But if you did have any hand in the fire, I would, as your friend, advise you to confess the whole at once. By so doing, you will not add to your guilt by falsehood, and the law will deal more leniently with you than it would if you should be proved guilty contrary to your own assertions. Even if you set the wood on fire, you may have done it accidentally, or in sport, without thinking of the consequences. If you had any connection at all with the fire, I would advise you to state the facts, exactly as they occurred.”

The Squire then read the complaint, charging Oscar Preston with setting the wood on fire. When he had concluded, he added:—

“What do you say to this, Oscar,—are you guilty or not guilty?”

“Not guilty,” replied Oscar, faintly.

The Squire now requested the complainant to produce his evidence against the accused. Mr. Upham commenced with an account of the stealing of his pears by Oscar and Jerry, and the punishment which followed that adventure. He said he had been threatened with vengeance for causing the boys to be whipped, and he had reason to believe that the burning of his wood was the result of this grudge against him.

The witnesses were now brought forward. The first was a boy, who testified that he heard Oscar say, with an oath, that he would yet come up with Mr. Upham for the flogging he gave him. A young man, who worked on a farm, was then called up, and testified, that whenever the pear-stealing scrape was mentioned to Oscar, he would get mad, and threaten to be revenged on Mr. Upham. The third witness was Clinton, who testified, that one afternoon, a short time before the fire, while he was at work mending a stone-wall on his father’s land, near the scene of the conflagration, Oscar and Jerry came along, and the former asked several questions about the location of Mr. Upham’s wood-lot, and particularly inquired if he owned a certain lot of corded wood, which Oscar described, and which was the same lot that was afterwards burnt. The fourth and last witness, was a man who testified that he was in the upper part of the town on the afternoon of the fire, and, a short time before the alarm was given, saw Oscar and Jerry, coming very fast from the direction of Mr. Upham’s lot.

The Squire wrote down the testimony as it was given. When it was concluded, he told Oscar he was at liberty to make any remarks or produce any evidence that he saw fit. Oscar, somewhat perplexed, turned to his uncle, and after some conversation between them, in a low tone, Mr. Preston remarked to the Squire, that he thought the evidence against Oscar was altogether too trivial to be worthy of serious notice. There was not, he said, the least proof that Oscar set the wood on fire. He thought Mr. Upham had magnified a foolish, boyish threat into a matter of very grave importance; and he expressed his opinion, very decidedly, that the prisoner ought to be released forthwith.

The Squire said he would defer his decision until the other prisoner had been examined. Oscar was then conducted from the room and Jerry was brought in. He appeared even more pale and excited than his cousin. The Squire addressed him in pretty much the same strain of remark as he did Oscar; but before he commenced reading the complaint, Jerry began to sob, and with broken and choked utterance, said:—

“Yes, I was there, and saw him do it, but I didn’t have any hand in it myself.”

“That is right, my son,” said the Squire, in an encouraging tone; “tell us all you know about it, just as it happened, and it will be better for you than though you attempted to deceive us. You say you ‘saw him do it’—whom do you mean?”

“Oscar.”

“Well, go on with the story, and tell us all the particulars,” said the Squire.

Jerry then related the history of the fire. Oscar, it seemed, had formed the plan of burning the wood, several days previous, and he regarded it as a sort of joint operation, in which Jerry and he were to share the fun, the gratification, and the risk. It appeared, however, from Jerry’s story, that though he had entered into the plan, he did not actually apply the match, nor assist in the immediate preparations for the fire. He was present rather as a spectator than an actor.

When Jerry had finished his confession, Mr. Upham, after a little conversation with the Squire, concluded to withdraw his complaint against Jerry. Oscar was then re-called. He entered the room with a calmer and more confident air than on the first occasion; for since he had discovered how weak the testimony against him was, he had little fear for the result. When, however, Jerry was called to take the oath of a witness, a deadly paleness came over the guilty boy, and he almost fainted. This was quickly succeeded by an expression of rage in his countenance, for Oscar was a boy of strong passions, and when they were excited, he could not conceal them. It was necessary that Jerry should relate under oath, and before Oscar, the account he had already given of the fire, for every person charged with crime has a right to hear the evidence against him. When he had done this, the Squire asked Oscar if he had anything to say.

“No,” replied Oscar.

“Then,” added Squire Walcott, “I have only to say that the evidence of your guilt looks very black, and unless you can break down the testimony of Jerry, I fear your conviction will be certain. I must bind you over for trial, and shall require you to give bonds in the sum of two hundred dollars, to appear before the county court at the next term. “Mr. Preston,” he continued, “will you be his bondsman?”

“No,” replied Mr. Preston, in a decided tone; “the boy has been trouble enough to me, already, and now he may go to jail, for all I care.” A moment after, noticing the distressed look of his nephew, he somewhat relented, in his feelings, and, in a milder tone, assured Oscar that he would write immediately to his father, who would doubtless hasten to his relief, and settle the whole affair without any further trial.

The little court now broke up, and all returned to their homes, save Oscar, who was still in the custody of Mr. Merriam, the constable, in default of bail. After making a few hasty arrangements for the journey, the officer and prisoner set out for the county jail, which was about fifteen miles distant. Mr. Merriam had thought of putting a pair of hand-cuffs upon Oscar, to prevent his escaping, during this long ride; but the latter begged so hard to be spared this humiliation that he relented, and allowed the boy to ride by his side in the open wagon, free and untrammelled. He also tried to divert his mind from his unpleasant situation, by conversation on other subjects, but Oscar seemed little inclined to talk. His heart was full of hard and bitter thoughts against every body, and especially against Mr. Upham, Jerry, and his uncle. He scarcely thought of his own guilt, so absorbed was he in nursing his wrath against those whom he supposed had injured him.

It was towards the middle of the afternoon, when they arrived at the jail. A cold chill ran through Oscar’s veins, for a moment, when he first caught sight of his prison-house. Before, he could hardly realize that he was a prisoner—it all seemed like a dream; but here was the jail before him, with its stone walls and grated windows, and the dream was changed to a reality. Passing through a high gate, they entered that part of the building occupied by the jailer’s family, and were conducted to a room called “the office.” The keeper of the jail soon made his appearance, and Mr. Merriam informed him that Oscar was committed to his custody for trial, and showed him the order from Squire Walcott to that effect. The jailer asked several questions about the case, and then took down a large book, partly filled with writing, and made the following entry within it:—

“October 25th.—Oscar Preston, of Brookdale, aged 14½ years, charged with setting fire to wood, in Brookdale. Examined by Justice Walcott, and committed for trial by Constable Merriam. Bail $200. Of ordinary height for his age, slender form, light complexion, brown hair, and blue eyes. Dress,—gray pantaloons, dark blue jacket buttoned to chin, blue cloth cap. Cell No. 19.”

The object of this brief description of the dress and personal appearance of Oscar was, that he might be the more easily identified, should he happen to escape from the jail. Mr. Merriam, bidding a kind good-bye to the young prisoner, now departed, and the jailer proceeded to examine Oscar’s pockets, to see if there was anything in them not allowed in the prison. The only articles he took from them were two cigars, which he tossed into the fire-place, telling Oscar he would have no use for them there. He then conducted him through a long and dark passage-way to cell No. 19, which he had entered against his name in the registry-book, and which was to be Oscar’s home for the present. It was a small, narrow room, with one window, near the top, which was guarded by iron bars. The walls and floor were of brick (the former had been recently white-washed) and the door was of iron. A sort of bunk was fitted up in one corner of the cell, which was supplied with bed-clothes. There were also a small red pine table and an old chair, a basin, bucket, tin dipper, and several other articles of furniture.

Oscar did not seem to be much pleased with the appearance of his cell, and he said to the jailer:—

“Can’t you let me have a better room than this? I shan’t stop here but a few days, and my father will pay you for it, when he comes, if you will let me have a good room.”

The jailer told him, in reply, that this was the most comfortable vacant cell he had; that he did not wish to put so young a prisoner in a cell with older offenders, and if he was to stay but a few days, he could easily make himself contented. After informing Oscar of the principal rules and regulations of the prison, the jailer locked the heavy door upon him, and retired.

The first impulse of the young criminal, in his solitude, was to cry; but he soon checked himself, and resolved to make the best of his situation. In a short time his supper was brought to him, which consisted of a few slices of bread, and a dipper of warm milk and water. Before night had fully set in, Oscar threw himself upon the bunk, and though it was not so commodious or so soft a bed as he was accustomed to, he soon fell asleep, and dreamed over again the eventful incidents of the day.

The result of Oscar’s trial created a great stir in Brookdale. It was the principal topic of remark in every family, and in every little knot of people that happened to collect, for several days. The first mail that left Brookdale, after the trial, carried a letter from Mr. Preston to Oscar’s father in Boston, informing him of the sad intelligence. In three or four days, the father of the unhappy boy arrived in Brookdale, to see what could be done in behalf of his son. He first sought an interview with Mr. Upham, who, after a little persuasion, agreed to withdraw the complaint, if his loss, $100, were made up to him. But to carry out this arrangement, it was necessary to get the consent of the prosecuting attorney of the county, who now had charge of the case. The prosecuting attorney is an officer appointed to represent the State at the trials of criminals. Oscar having been bound over for trial, the State became a party in the suit, in place of Mr. Upham. The complaint now pending against him, was endorsed, “Commonwealth versus Oscar Preston.” The prosecuting attorney, as the representative of the Commonwealth, can discontinue a suit, if he deems the reasons sufficient. The agreement by which this is done, is called a nolle prosequi, often abbreviated nol. pros.

Mr. Preston had to go to a neighboring town, some dozen miles distant, to see the prosecuting attorney. He laid before that officer the facts in the case, who, after considering the matter, agreed to the proposition, on condition that Oscar should leave the State forthwith. To this Mr. Preston consented; and on his paying over to Mr. Upham, (who had accompanied him on this visit,) the sum agreed upon, together with all the other expenses of the suit, the prosecuting attorney stayed further proceedings in the case, and gave Mr. Preston an order for the release of his son from jail.

Just one week after Oscar’s committal to the jail, his father arrived, with the order of release. The interview was not a very pleasant one. The father was evidently deeply mortified and displeased; the son was equally ashamed and embarrassed. But little was said, however, on either side. Mr. Preston returned to Boston as soon as possible, taking Oscar with him.

CHAPTER VI.
JERRY AND CLINTON.

Soon after Oscar left Brookdale, Jerry’s father, who was interested in the logging business, started for the head-waters of the Penobscot river, to be absent several months. Large parties or gangs of loggers, as they are called, encamp every winter in the forests of Maine, for the purpose of cutting timber. After the trees are chopped down, the logs are hauled by oxen to the banks of some stream, where they remain until the ice breaks up in the spring, when they are rolled into the water, and floated down the swollen river, to the mills. Such was the business which kept Mr. Preston away from his home nearly half the year.

Jerry’s conduct had never been very dutiful toward his mother, nor very affectionate toward his little sisters, during his father’s long absences from home; but now it was soon evident that he was going to give the family much more trouble than ever before. He obeyed his mother only when her commands happened to be perfectly agreeable to him.

One day, Jerry’s little sister, Mary, came running into, the house, saying:—

“O, mother, Jerry has got two beautiful little rabbits, the cunningest little things you ever saw; and he says they are his, and he’s going to make a house for them out of the old grain-chest in the barn.”

“No, he wont,” said Mrs. Preston; “he shan’t keep rabbits,—his father has forbidden it over and over again. Go and tell him to come here this minute; I want to see him.”

Mary ran out to the barn and told Jerry all that his mother had said. He took no notice, however, of her command, but kept at work upon the old chest, which he was converting into a rabbit-house. Mrs. Preston was busy about her work, and did not go out to the barn to see what her son was about. In fact, she soon forgot about the rabbits, and did not think of them again until Jerry came in to supper. She then asked him if he had brought some rabbits home.

“Yes,” replied Jerry.

“Well,” said Mrs. Preston, “you had better carry them off again just as quick as you can, or I shall get James to kill them.” James was a young man who lived on Mr. Preston’s farm.

“I should like to see Jim kill my rabbits,” replied Jerry; “I guess it wouldn’t be healthy for him to do it.”

“But you know,” replied his mother, “that your father has always refused to let you keep rabbits. They may do a great deal of mischief, and are of no use whatever. They’ll be a real trouble to you, too, and you’ll soon get sick of them. Come, I wouldn’t keep them. Send them off, and I will make it up to you in something else.”

“What else?” inquired Jerry, who was always ready to listen, when his mother proposed to “buy him off” from doing anything she did not like.

“O, I don’t know now,” she replied; “you’ll want something or other by-and-by, and if you send the rabbits off, I shall probably let you have it.”

Jerry did not accept this rather indefinite offer, and pretty soon the topic of conversation was changed. The next day he completed the quarters for his rabbits, in spite of the threats of James, and the feeble remonstrances and coaxings of his mother. He kept them shut up several days, that they might learn to feel at home; after which, he left their door open, giving them the run of the barn and garden.

The rabbits had enjoyed their liberty but three or four days, when one morning James discovered, to his astonishment, that they had completely stripped the bark, as high up as they could reach, from about thirty young apple and pear trees, which Mr. Preston had set out two or three years previous. The excitement which this discovery produced in the family was so great as almost to make even Jerry tremble for a while. The trees thus destroyed were choice varieties, and it would require several years’ time, as well as much care and money, to make good the loss. The blame was, of course, thrown entirely upon Jerry, to whom it belonged; and it was many days before he heard the last of the scolding and fretting in consequence of this mishap. As to the rabbits, he never saw them again; and, as he made no inquiries, he never knew what fate befel them. James, in the heat of his wrath, had despatched them both, without jury or trial, on the morning when their depredations were first discovered.

It was natural that Jerry should greatly miss Oscar, with whom he had associated continually, day and night, for several months. Indeed, he began to think seriously of running away from home, and going to Boston, that he might be with his cousin again, and participate with him in some of the marvellous scenes and adventures which Oscar had so often described. In his lonesomeness, Jerry now began to seek the company of Clinton more than ever. The district school soon commenced for the season, and as both boys attended it, they were thrown together much oftener than in the summer months. In going to and from school, Clinton had to pass Jerry’s house, and they usually kept each other company by the way. For some reason or other,—probably a suspicion that Clinton’s parents did not like him very well,—Jerry seldom went to Mr. Davenport’s house. Of course, Mr. Davenport did not know that any particular intimacy existed between his son and Jerry. He occasionally spoke of the latter as a boy whose end, he feared, would not be good; and more than once he expressed a wish that Clinton would avoid him as much as possible. But this, Clinton found it rather difficult to do. Jerry sought his company, and he could not bear to say no. He knew Jerry was a bad boy, and that he did wrong to put himself under his influence; but he had not sufficient decision of character to terminate an acquaintance which had been so long continued. So the intimacy was kept up, to the great injury of Clinton.

At school, Jerry was not only a dull scholar, but a very troublesome one. Having never been taught to obey at home, he was rude and ungovernable in the school-room, and was more frequently punished for disobedience and inattention to his duties than any other boy in the school. After the novelty had worn off, Jerry began to grow tired of attending, and occasionally played truant, always contriving, however, to escape detection, by representing that he was detained at home by his mother. But after a while these absences grew so frequent, that the master began to suspect all might not be right; and one morning, on calling Jerry to account for his absence the preceding afternoon, he told him he should not excuse him unless he brought a note from his mother in the afternoon, certifying that he was kept at home.

Jerry was put to his wit’s end, by this new and unexpected demand. He had been off on a skating frolic the afternoon previous, while his mother supposed him to be at school, and he could not, therefore, ask her for a note of excuse. What could he do? If he did not bring an excuse in the afternoon, he was afraid the matter would be investigated, and lead to the discovery of his other frequent truancies; and in this case, he knew he would not escape a severe punishment. At first he thought of writing a note himself, and signing his mother’s name to it; but then he wrote such an awkward hand, and was such a poor speller, that he was afraid he could not deceive the teacher. After thinking the matter over, all the forenoon, he at last resolved to do one of two things,—either to persuade some one to write the excuse for him, or else never to enter the school-room again.

When school was dismissed, Jerry walked home with Clinton, as usual. After they had got beyond the hearing of the other scholars, Jerry said:—

“Clinty, I’ve got into a bad scrape, and I don’t know how to get out of it, unless you help me.”

“How can I?” inquired Clinton, who at once comprehended the situation of affairs.

“I’ll tell you of a plan I’ve thought of,” continued Jerry; “and if you’ll only say yes, I guess we can fix it easy enough. You see it wont do for me to ask the old woman for a note,”—the old woman was the disrespectful title by which he usually spoke of his mother,—“and if I go to school without one, I’m afraid that old Eaton will find out that I’ve been playing truant all along, and he’ll give me a regular trouncing. Now if you will write the note, nobody will ever know the difference, for you can write just like a woman. I would do it myself, if I could write as well as you can.”

“What!” said Clinton, with some signs of astonishment; “you don’t mean that you want me to write an excuse, and sign your mother’s name to it, do you?”

“Yes, that’s it, exactly; unless you can tell me of a better way to get out of my trouble.”

“I should like to help you out of it,” replied Clinton; “but I couldn’t do that.”

“Then,” added Jerry, in a decided tone, “I shall never see the inside of the old school-house again. I don’t know of anybody else that I can get to write the note, and I am not going there without it, to have the breath beat out of my body. I shall go to Boston, and take my chance,—I wont stay about here any longer.”

“Don’t talk so,” said Clinton. “Why not tell your mother that you didn’t go to school yesterday afternoon, and ask her to write an excuse? She would do it, I guess, if you made the confession, rather than have you punished.”

“She do it!” exclaimed Jerry, with some bitterness; “no, more likely she would write a note requesting old Eaton to lick me like blazes. But,” he continued, “why wont you write the excuse, Clinty?”

Clinton hesitated what reply to make to this question. If he had honestly confessed his feelings, he would have said, “It would be wrong, very wrong, to do such a thing;” for his conscience told him this, and this alone was the objection that weighed in his mind. And yet Clinton, though a well-trained and virtuous boy, had a foolish dread of confessing that he was afraid to do a wrong act. This was especially the case in his intercourse with Jerry, who, he knew, seldom had scruples of this kind, and whose ridicule he dreaded more than that of his other associates. So, after a brief pause, he said,

“Why, there would be a great risk in doing that. If Master Eaton should discover that I wrote the excuse, it would be a bad piece of business for both of us.”

“But how can he find it out? He doesn’t know my mother’s hand-writing, and if you write it neat and fine, he wont suspect anything. Come, you write it when you get home, and bring it with you this afternoon, and I’ll meet you on the road. If you don’t I shan’t go to school, that’s all.”

By this time they had reached Mr. Preston’s house, and after a few more words of coaxing and entreaty, Jerry left his friend, with a pretty confident feeling that he would accede to his wishes. True, Clinton did not actually promise to write the note; but Jerry knew how difficult it was for him to say no, to any pressing suitor, and he felt almost sure that his wicked plan would be successful.

When Clinton was left to his own thoughts, there came on a severe struggle in his mind. He could not bear the idea of lending himself to such a mean and wicked piece of deception, and yet he feared to meet Jerry with a refusal. He thought, also, what the consequences would be to himself, should the fraud be discovered. And then he thought of Jerry’s threat to leave school and run away from home, if he did not write the excuse. If he could prevent this great sin on the part of Jerry, might it not atone in a measure for the lesser sin of writing the note? This question arose in his mind, and many an older head has been led astray by a similar suggestion. No, Clinton, you must not do evil that good may come, or greater evil be prevented. You must not commit a sin, even in kindness to a friend. But he did not hear the voice, and when he reached his home, he was as undecided as ever what to do.

Clinton’s long walk to and from school, left him little more than time enough to eat his dinner. The noon meal not being quite ready, when he entered the house, he went to his father’s desk, and began to scribble something in the form of a note of excuse. After writing several, to see how they would look, he was called to dinner; and hastily selecting the best looking of the notes, he put it in his pocket, for future consideration, and destroyed the others. Even now, he was no nearer a decision than he was at first.

When Clinton arose from the dinner-table, it was time to start for school. He had not proceeded far before he overtook Jerry, who was loitering along, in expectation of his approach.

“I’ll take that note now,” said Jerry, stretching out his hand to Clinton, as the latter came up with him.

“I don’t know about that,” said Clinton; “I’ve been thinking it all over, and have about come to the conclusion that I can’t agree to your proposal. But haven’t you thought of some other way to get out of the scrape?”

“No,” replied Jerry, “there is no other way; but you have written the note, haven’t you?” he added, with some appearance of alarm.

“I have written something,” replied Clinton, “just to see how it would seem; but I rather guess I shan’t let you have it.”

“Let me look at it, then, wont you?”

“I guess so!” said Clinton, with a laugh.

“But I’m in earnest,” added Jerry, “just let me look at it, and I can tell in a minute whether it will answer. Perhaps it wont do, and then I shan’t want it, at any rate. Come, let me see it, and if you don’t want me to keep it, I wont.”

Clinton took the excuse from his pocket, and allowed Jerry to look at it. It read as follows;—

“Mr. Eaton will please excuse Jerry for absence from school, yesterday, as he was needed at home.

Eliza Preston.

Jan. 5th.”

After reading the note, Jerry said it would do first rate; but instead of returning it to Clinton, as he promised, he put it into his own pocket. Clinton reminded him of his promise, and tried to get the paper back again, but in vain; and Jerry carried on the contest in such a good-natured, bantering spirit, that Clinton could not take offence. Thus the deed was done, so far as Clinton was concerned, without his coming to any decision about it. In such cases as this, no decision at all, is often equivalent to a wrong decision.

As Jerry entered the school-room, that afternoon, he handed the forged note to Master Eaton, who read it, and, without saying anything, tore it up. The deception was successful.

CHAPTER VII.
DISCLOSURES.

My young friend, did you ever master a hard lesson, after a great effort? And do you remember how you felt, after the achievement? Perhaps it was a difficult sum; and when you began, you did not see how you could possibly work your way through it. But you persevered, and covered your slate with long columns of figures, until at length you arrived at the correct answer, and you felt something like the philosopher of old, who exclaimed, after solving a difficulty, Eureka,—I have found it! And now, having conquered this sum, you felt just like attacking a still harder one, the next day. You knew you could do it, because you did the other; and you took hold of it, with a determination to work it out—and you did work it out, did you not?

Perhaps there was another boy in your class, who attempted to do the same thing. But before he had put forth half the effort required, he got tired of the sum, and gave up the attempt. The next day the teacher tried to encourage him to make another attempt, but the boy knew he could not do the sum,—he had tried once, and it was of no use to try again. So the teacher was obliged to turn him back into simple addition and multiplication, and he will probably never get much beyond those departments of arithmetic.

It is precisely the same with everything else that we attempt to do. Suppose, instead of a difficult sum, it was a fault, or temptation, that these two lads tried to master. One of them persevered until he conquered the difficulty, and the result was, his virtuous principles were strengthened, and he was prepared to resist still greater temptations, or to subdue greater faults. His motto is, “I can.” The other boy would not make the necessary effort, and gave up the attempt after a poor, feeble trial. The consequence was, he not only fell into bad habits, but lost his self-reliance, by degrees, until the notion got into his head that it was of no use for him to try to do right. “I can’t” is his motto.

The lesson to be drawn from this is a very important one, as you will see from the history of Clinton. That you may have a clear idea of it, let me state it thus:—

Every temptation resisted, will give you greater confidence in your ability to overcome new temptations. Every temptation yielded to, will impair your self-reliance, and prepare the way for yet greater faults.

Clinton soon found that he had made a great mistake, in aiding Jerry to escape the consequences of his truancy. True, the deception was not discovered; but the very success of the plan encouraged Jerry to repeat the experiment, and Clinton now found it less easy to refuse to write an excuse than at first. His sin was, therefore, repeated again and again, until Jerry felt at perfect liberty to absent himself as often as he pleased, knowing that Clinton would furnish him with the written excuse, which the teacher now required in all cases of absence. To be sure, Clinton objected, and scolded, and threatened; but Jerry cared little for this, so long as he was sure to yield to his desires in the end. If ever a more convincing argument than usual was needed, the hard-hearted boy would secure his end by hinting at an exposure of Clinton’s-share in his past truancies. Thus did Clinton find himself fast in the net of this bad associate; and thus, through the influence of one false step, did he continue to do wrong, against his conscience, and even against his own wishes.

The people of Brookdale frequently held social parties, at their houses, in the long winter evenings, which were usually attended by all the neighborhood. They were not favorably situated for maintaining the lectures and other entertainments which are common in large towns, and these social gatherings were a substitute for them. At one of these parties, Mrs. Preston happened to meet Master Eaton, and after a few words on unimportant matters, she inquired how Jerry got along at school. Mr. Eaton could not give a very favorable report either of Jerry’s behavior or scholarship. He did not wish to pain Mrs. Preston, at such a time, by telling her exactly how things stood; and so he thought he would evade a direct reply to her question, by turning her attention to a point where he supposed she herself was at fault.

“Why,” he remarked, “he is absent so often that it is hard to tell whether he really does make any progress. I find that scholars never get along very well unless they are pretty regular in their attendance.”

“But what do you mean?” inquired Mrs. Preston; “I thought he attended school regularly.”

“O,” replied Mr. Eaton, “parents are hardly ever conscious of the bad effects of absences upon the scholar. They think it of little consequence if their children are kept at home two or three times a week, but it is just this little irregularity in attendance that often prevents their learning anything.”

“But you are mistaken, Mr. Eaton,” said Mrs. Preston; “I have not kept Jerry at home half a day this winter.”

“He always brings an excuse from you, when absent,” added Mr. Eaton.

“An excuse from me!” said Mrs. Preston, with an air of astonishment; “why, I have not written an excuse for him this term, and I did not know that he had ever been absent.”

Master Eaton was now as much astonished as was Mrs. Preston. Both had made an unpleasant discovery. It was evident that Jerry was a worse boy than either of them had supposed. He had played the rogue with a high hand. After some further conversation, it was agreed that Mrs. Preston should say nothing at present respecting Jerry’s misconduct, but leave the teacher to investigate the affair.

The next morning, on searching his desk, Master Eaton found several of Jerry’s old notes of excuse, which had been accepted, and thrown aside. His first object was to find out who wrote them, for he knew that Jerry could not have done it. At first, he thought the writing was the work of a female hand; but among the girls who attended school, there was not one whom he could suspect of such conduct. Besides, he knew that Jerry was not very popular, with the girls, who regarded him as a rude, rough boy, and shunned his company as much as possible. He then took the writing-books of the male scholars, and examined each one carefully, by itself, comparing the penmanship with that of the notes. The conclusion to which he came was, that there were only three male scholars who could possibly have written the notes. Two of these were young men, nearly grown up, who apparently held very little intercourse with Jerry; the other was Clinton, an intimate acquaintance of Jerry, but a boy whose conduct at school had always been unexceptionable. Surely, none of these could have had a hand in the mischief. At least, so thought Master Eaton.

Several days elapsed, and the teacher made no progress in his investigations. At last, Jerry’s seat was vacant, for one entire day, for he now seldom took less than a day at a time, when he played truant. The next morning, he appeared with a note, as usual, which the master read, and put in his desk, without making any remark. Mr. Eaton had noticed that Clinton and Jerry came to school together, that morning, and as he glanced at Clinton, after reading the note, he observed that the latter turned his eye quickly away, and dropped his head, as if afraid to meet the gaze of his teacher. This led Mr. Eaton to watch him more closely, and it was with the deepest pain that he detected an uneasy, anxious appearance in his manners, which he had never before observed. In the course of the forenoon, he stopped a few moments at Clinton’s seat, and conversed familiarly with him about his lessons; but there was a constraint and want of frankness in the boy’s appearance that only served to deepen the master’s painful suspicion.

The truth was, Clinton went to school, that morning, with a vague foreboding that his guilt was about to be brought to light. By some mysterious process, which I cannot explain, a secret impression of approaching evil sometimes weighs heavily upon the mind, without any known cause. This was the case with Clinton, that morning, and the glance which his teacher cast toward him, after reading Jerry’s excuse, sent the conviction to his heart that he was discovered. How easily does guilt betray itself!

School was dismissed as usual, at noon, and again assembled in the afternoon. The master had intended to detain Clinton after school in the forenoon; but the intermission was so short, that he concluded to defer the investigation until afternoon. Just before dismissing the scholars, at night, he went to Clinton’s seat, and in a low tone of voice which no one else heard, requested him to remain after school. Clinton turned red, and then pale, at this unusual request, made in so unusual a manner. After the scholars had all passed out, and the doors were shut, Mr. Eaton called Clinton up to his desk, and taking Jerry’s excuse from the drawer, held it up, and asked him if he knew anything about it.

It was a terrible moment for the unhappy boy. He felt that his guilt had already betrayed itself, and exposure, shame, and punishment were now inevitable. His tongue refused to speak, and after vainly struggling with his emotions a few moments, his pent-up feelings found an outlet in an outburst of tears. His legs trembled beneath him; and throwing himself upon a bench near by, he buried his face in his hands and sobbed bitterly.

Mr. Eaton did not repeat his question—it was already answered. He saw, however, that there was penitence as well as guilt, in the youth before him, and when he spoke to him, it was in a kind and soothing tone. “Clinton,” he said, “I have kept school here three winters, and this is the first time I have ever had to call you to account for a fault. You have always behaved well; if you have done wrong now, I think you must have been led astray by some great temptation. I accidentally discovered, a few days ago, that these notes did not come from Jerry’s mother, and I determined to trace them to their source. I judge from your conduct that you wrote them. If so, I want you to make a clean confession of the affair. If you have really had a hand in this matter, you should consider yourself fortunate that you have been detected, before it went any farther. I have long known Jerry Preston to be a very bad boy, but you are so unlike him that I did not suspect he was leading you on to ruin. Come, wipe your eyes, and tell me the whole history of this matter.”

“Will you promise me one thing?” said Clinton, speaking with considerable difficulty amid his sobs and tears.

“I cannot promise you anything until I know what it is,” replied Mr. Eaton. “What is the promise you refer to?”

“I am willing to tell you the whole story,” added Clinton, “but I don’t want any body else to hear of it.”

“I cannot promise you that,” remarked Mr. Eaton, “for there may be good reasons why the affair should not be kept secret. I will agree, however, to keep it private, provided I think I can properly do so.”

Clinton now proceeded to relate all the circumstances connected with the forged excuses, just as they occurred. He described his fears, his struggles with conscience, the threats of Jerry to run away, and the artifice by which the latter obtained possession of the first note. Nothing was kept back, and as Mr. Eaton listened to the disclosures thus frankly made, and read the sorrow and repentance of Clinton in his looks and tones, he was satisfied that a true account had been given. Clinton himself felt as though a terrible burden had been rolled from his heart, after he had concluded his confession. He breathed freer than he had for several days previous.