The cover image was created by the transcriber and is placed in the public domain.

Whistler; or, the Manly Boy

THE FOREST PICNIC. (See page [123].)

The
Aimwell
Stories.
By
Walter Aimwell.
Whistler
TAKE HEED WILL SURELY SPEED
Gould & Lincoln

The Aimwell Stories.

WHISTLER;

OR,

THE MANLY BOY.

BY

WALTER AIMWELL,

AUTHOR OF “OSCAR,” “CLINTON,” “ELLA,” ETC.

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS.

BOSTON:

GOULD AND LINCOLN,

59 WASHINGTON STREET.

NEW YORK: SHELDON, BLAKEMAN & CO.

CINCINNATI: GEORGE S. BLANCHARD.

1857.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1856, by

GOULD AND LINCOLN,

In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts.

Electro-Stereotyped by

G. J. STILES & COMPANY,

23 Congress Street, Boston.

PREFACE.

The object of this book is to portray the character of the MANLY BOY—a character that never fails to inspire love and esteem, if only it be natural and genuine. That a youth may still be a real boy in his tastes, his pursuits, and his feelings,—as every young lad certainly ought to be,—and yet exhibit something of true manliness in his spirit and deportment, will, it is hoped, be made manifest to the youngest mind, in the story of Whistler.

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:

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER I.

A VACATION JOURNEY.

CHAPTER II.

LOOKING ABOUT.

CHAPTER III.

CHAPTER IV.

AN AFTERNOON’S EXCURSION.

CHAPTER V.

THE ACCIDENT.

CHAPTER VI.

A LITERARY ENTERPRISE.

CHAPTER VII.

THE INCENDIARY.

CHAPTER VIII.

THE FOREST PICNIC.

CHAPTER IX.

THE MIDNIGHT ATTACK.

CHAPTER X.

THE HOMEWARD TRIP.

CHAPTER XI.

THE CITY HOME.

CHAPTER XII.

ROMANCE AND REALITY.

CHAPTER XIII.

SIGHT-SEEING.

CHAPTER XIV.

SCHOOL TRIALS.

CHAPTER XV.

LESSONS IN PHYSIOLOGY.

CHAPTER XVI.

THE PRESTON FAMILY.

CHAPTER XVII.

A WATER EXCURSION.

CHAPTER XVIII.

LAST DAY OF THE VISIT.

Illustrations.

WHISTLER.

CHAPTER I.
A VACATION JOURNEY.

THE steamer’s bell is pealing forth its last call. The huge, hot engine, as if impatient of delay, seems hissing at every joint, while the dark clouds that roll up from its smoke-pipes tell of the activity of the sweltering firemen below. The hawser is cast off. A tardy passenger or two are hurried over the gangway, and their baggage sent after them with more celerity than care. A carriage, driven at a furious rate, is coming down the wharf, and a man’s head and arm are thrust out of the window,—the arm “sawing the air” in a most vehement manner. But his gesticulations are in vain. The gangway is drawn in on deck; the wheels slowly move; the steamer gently swings away from her moorings; and by the time the carriage is abreast of her, six yards of foam-covered water separate the would-be passenger from the crowded deck. A general half-suppressed laugh from the crowd on the wharf and the steamer reminds the unhappy straggler that there is something ridiculous, as well as provoking, in being a little too late; and, seeking refuge in the carriage, he is leisurely driven off, to be again laughed at, perchance, when he reaches the home he had lately left in such hot haste.

The steamer has now got clear of the vessels moored around her, and begins to move with greater speed. So easy is the motion, it would not be difficult for those on board to imagine that the wharf itself had hoisted sail, and parted company with the steamer, to take a turn about the harbor on its own account. Little groups on shore and on board the boat are exchanging farewells by the waving of hats and handkerchiefs. But soon the distance becomes too great for recognition; wharves and warehouses mingle together; the city assumes a crowded and compact look, and finally resolves itself into that beautiful panorama which Boston presents when viewed from the sea. Even this view soon fades, and is lost; for the steamer is now far down the harbor, gallantly ploughing her way through the dark-blue waters.

Among the passengers who were enjoying the scene from the upper, or hurricane deck, might have been seen a gentleman and three children, who appeared to be intent upon missing no object of interest. The largest of the children was a bright and pleasant looking boy of fourteen. His name was William Davenport; but he was frequently called Willie, and still oftener Whistler, by his young associates. This latter name he acquired when several years younger, being indebted for it to his whistling talents, which were really quite clever. He rather liked the nickname; and, indeed, had become so accustomed to it, that even “Willie” did not sound quite natural, and “Bill” was altogether out of the question. You must not suppose, however, that he was one of those whistling bores who give our ears no rest from their shrill pipings, either in house or in street. On the contrary, he was rather chary of his music,—perhaps more so than he would have been but for his nickname, which put him on his guard against spending too much of his breath in this manner. But, then, he could whistle beautifully when he chose to; and, as he had a quick ear for music, he caught all the new and popular airs of the day, which made his performances still more pleasant to the listener. Whistler we shall call him, therefore, in imitation of his comrades. He belonged in Boston, and was now on his way to a distant town in Maine, where he was to spend his summer vacation with the family of his uncle.

The gentleman who was with Whistler was Mr. Preston. He was a stout, sun-burnt, and plainly-dressed man, and was on his way home from a visit to Boston, with his eldest daughter, Emily, a girl of thirteen. The other girl, who was a few months younger, was Ella Preston, a cousin of Emily, who lived in Boston, and was now on her way to her uncle’s home in Brookdale. It was in this same town that Whistler’s uncle lived; and being well acquainted with Ella, he had arranged to make the journey in company with her little party.

It was a mild August evening, and the sea was calm. Mr. Preston and the children remained upon the deck until the supper-bell sounded, when they went down into the cabin, and found a long table spread, around which the hungry passengers were crowding and pushing, without much regard to manners, or even decency. It was with some difficulty that Mr. Preston procured seats for the children; and even then the difficulty was but half overcome, for it required a good deal of effort, not to say rudeness, to obtain enough to eat, so ravenous and selfish were the company, and so limited was the supply upon the table. The meal was swallowed, and the cabin vacated, in about ten minutes. Shortly after, as Whistler was walking about, he overheard a few remarks between two gentlemen, that set him to thinking. From their appearance, and their peculiar accent, he concluded they were foreign gentlemen, travelling for pleasure.

“You did not witness the feeding of the animals?” said one of the gentlemen, who had just come up from the cabin.

“No,” said the other, “I have no taste for such exhibitions. I took the precaution to drink my tea before I came on board.”

“Well, sir,” added the first speaker, “I’ve breakfasted with the Turks, I’ve dined with the Arabs, I’ve supped with the Chinese, and I’ve eaten with nearly all the nations of Europe; but, sir, I must say that I never met with such a greedy, scrabbling set of gormandizers as I have found in this country. Why, sir, they seize and devour their food like wild beasts. They shovel it down whole, sir, just as a dog bolts his meat. I only wonder that these Yankees do not dispense with knives and forks altogether. Yes, sir, those implements of a civilized table seem altogether out of place in their hands.”

This was all that Whistler heard. The unpleasant American habit which so disgusted this gentleman, and which is often glaringly conspicuous in our hotels and steamboats, has been justly censured with great severity by foreigners who have visited us. Whistler had himself observed the rude and greedy conduct at the table; but he supposed such scenes were always enacted when large numbers of people got together to eat. Now, however, he had learned that it was a peculiarly American characteristic; and, perceiving how it was viewed by intelligent and well-bred foreigners, his pride and patriotism were both touched, and he made up his mind that he would never be guilty of such rudeness, either at a public or a private table.

The air was now becoming damp and chilly, and little could be seen beyond the steamer’s decks, save the occasional flash of some distant lighthouse. The passengers began to disappear, some seeking out sheltered nooks in the stern, and others retiring to the saloons and berths. Mr. Preston gave Emily and Ellen in charge to the stewardess, who conducted them to their berths in the ladies’ saloon; while himself and Whistler soon after turned in to their own quarters in the gentlemen’s cabin. The saloons were lined on each side with berths arranged in three tiers. Each berth was furnished with bedding, and screened in front by a drapery curtain. The two selected by Mr. Preston, though not favorite ones in their location, were the best that were not engaged when he bought his tickets. One of them was an upper berth; and, as Whistler was the lightest and nimblest of the two, it was assigned to him, while Mr. Preston took the other, directly beneath him.

Following the example of others, Whistler put off his shoes, jacket and shirt-collar, and climbed into his lofty and narrow sleeping-place. Here, partially concealed by his curtain, he amused himself by watching the movements of his fellow-passengers, and listening to their remarks. When Mr. Preston, who had been reading a newspaper, got ready to retire, he picked up Whistler’s shoes from the floor, and told him to put them on a shelf over the berth, if he did not want “Boots” to get them. This personage, he afterwards explained, was a colored man, who gathered up all the boots and shoes he could find in the night, and cleaned them, charging each of the respective owners a ninepence (the ninepence is twelve and a half cents in New England) for his services. As Whistler’s shoes did not need to undergo this process, his friend was probably justified in thus interfering with the legitimate business of the aforesaid “Boots.”

The novelty of his position, the glare of the saloon lamps, and the noise of the machinery, made it rather difficult for Whistler to get to sleep. The ocean was so smooth, however, that he felt no symptoms of seasickness; and he was very well contented to lie awake in his berth, so long as he was not troubled with this distressing malady, from which he had once suffered quite severely while sailing in the harbor. But, in spite of all disturbing influences, he was favored with several good naps towards morning, from one of which he awoke, and discerned the gray light of morning through a small window over his berth. He lowered himself down from his elevated bed, and went on deck, when he found that the steamer had already entered the river, the banks of which were scarcely visible through the heavy mist with which the atmosphere was loaded. Ella and Emily soon made their appearance, and declared that their first night on the ocean was anything but disagreeable. The fog rapidly disappeared before the sun; and, as they advanced up the river, the scenery became more interesting, so that their attention was constantly occupied, until Mr. Preston informed them that they had reached their landing-place.

Our travellers were still forty miles from Brookdale; but the rest of the journey was to be by land. On landing, they went directly to the village tavern, where they found a good breakfast awaiting them, to which, however, they could devote but a very few minutes, for the stage coach was waiting. Having made as large a draft on the driver’s patience as they deemed prudent, they took their seats in the vehicle, and resumed their journey. For a while, the children found much to interest them in the country through which they passed; but it soon became an old story; and before they had climbed half of the hills that separated them from Brookdale, the inquiries were frequently heard,—

“How far have we got to go, now, Mr. Preston? Haven’t we come more than half way? Shan’t we get there before noon?”

As the stage coach did not pass through Brookdale, passengers for that village were obliged to leave it at a place called the Cross Roads, about five miles distant, and find their way over as best they could. It was noon when our party reached this stopping-place. As they alighted, a boy about fourteen years old stepped up to Mr. Preston, who introduced him to Ella and Whistler as Clinton Davenport. The two boys were cousins; but they had never seen each other before. It seemed that Clinton, knowing they were expected, had gone over to the Cross Roads after them, with a wagon. A drive of five miles through a pleasant road brought them to their journey’s end. They were in Brookdale.

CHAPTER II.
LOOKING ABOUT.

DINNER was on the table when Whistler arrived at Mr. Davenport’s, and he found his uncle and aunt, and his little cousin Annie, ready to welcome him to their hospitalities. These, with Clinton, constituted the whole family. The young stranger soon felt quite at home in their society. He was much pleased with his cousins at first sight, for he had never seen either of them before. Annie, who was about seven years old, was a beautiful child, with golden curls and fair blue eyes, and a face full of gentleness and affection. She seemed to be the pet of the household. Clinton, though but a month or two older than Whistler, was a stouter and taller boy, and his browned skin and hardened hands told that he was not unacquainted with labor and out-door exposure. He had, moreover, an intelligent, cheerful, and frank expression of countenance, that could not help prepossessing a stranger in his favor. The parents of these children Whistler had previously seen at his own house, and he had always numbered them among his favorite relatives.

Whistler’s first movement, after dinner, was to make an inspection of the premises. He found that his uncle’s farm lay at the base of a range of hills, and embraced a wide extent of land, a good part of which seemed to be under skilful cultivation. The house itself was set back a few rods from the street, and was pleasantly situated, with its front towards the south. It was a snug, plain-looking building, a story and a half high, with a kitchen and wood-shed attached in the rear. A noble oak tree, in front, afforded a grateful shade; and climbing roses and honeysuckles were trained around the front door, giving a neat and tasteful aspect to the cottage. In the rear, upon an elevated pole, was a perfect fac-simile of the house, in miniature, erected for the accommodation of the birds; and there never was a spring-time when this snug tenement failed to secure a respectable family as tenants for the season. On the next page is a view of the premises.

The barn, which the picture is not large enough to take in, was a short distance from the house, on the left. It was much larger than the cottage, and attached to it were buildings for the hens and pigs.

Clinton, who had been busy, now joined his cousin, and offered to accompany him around the premises.

“This is what we call the shop,” he said, opening the door into a small room adjoining the pantry.

“Why, what a snug little place! and what a lot of tools you have got!” said Whistler.

“Father used to be a carpenter before he went to farming,” added Clinton, “and he has always kept a set of tools. They are handy in such a place as this, where carpenters are not to be had.”

“I suppose you work here some, don’t you? If I had such a place, I should spend half my time in it,” said Whistler.

“Yes,” replied Clinton; “I use the tools a little. There’s a windmill I’m making now; but I don’t know when it will be finished. I haven’t much time to work in the shop in summer.”

“Clinty made this cart for me,” said Annie, who had followed the boys; and she pointed to a neat little wagon.

“Did he? Why, he is a real nice workman,” said Whistler.

“And he made the vane on the barn, and the bird-house, too,” added Annie.

“Can’t you think of something else that I made, Sissy?” said Clinton, laughing at the pride Annie evidently took in his ingenuity.

“Yes,” she promptly replied; “he made the arbor over the front door.”

“Why, Clinton, you are a carpenter, sure enough!” said Whistler. “I should think you might almost build a house; I mean a real house, not a bird-house.”

Clinton smiled at this rather extravagant estimate of his mechanical skill, and led the way towards the barn, through which he conducted his cousin, from the cellar almost to the ridge-pole. The hayloft was very large, and was nearly filled with new-mown hay, the fragrance of which was delightful. Swallows were darting in and out of the great door, and gayly twittering among the lofty rafters, where they had made their nests. A large quantity of unthreshed grain, bound up in sheaves, was stacked away on the main floor, in one end of the barn.

“There’s a good lot of straw,” said Whistler, as they passed by the grain.

“And something besides straw, too; that is rye,” replied Clinton.

“Is it rye?” said Whistler. “Well, I’m just green enough not to know straw from grain, or one kind of grain from another. Father told me I should make myself so verdant that the cows would chase me, and I don’t know but that he was right.”

“They laugh about country people being green, when they go to the city,” said Clinton; “but I guess they don’t appear much worse than city folks sometimes do in the country. I don’t mean you, though,” he added; “for you haven’t done anything very bad yet.”

Whistler broke off a head of rye, and found concealed beneath the bearded points several hard, plump kernels, that had a sweet and pleasant taste. Following his cousin, he then visited the pig-pen, which was behind the barn, and connected with a portion of the barn cellar. Half a dozen fat porkers were lazily stretched about, in shady places, presenting one of those familiar groups that, if they do not appeal to the artist’s sense of the beautiful, do appeal most forcibly to the plain farmer’s sense of lard and “middlings.” If not picturesque, they are decidedly baconesque, which some people consider much better.

“Now you must go and see my biddies,” said Clinton; and he led the way to a large hen-coop, near the piggery.

“Are these your fowls?” inquired Whistler.

“Yes, they are all mine,” replied his cousin. “Father gave me all of his fowls, five years ago, and I have managed them just as I pleased ever since. I have to find their food, and I have all their eggs and chickens. Even the eggs mother uses she has to buy of me.”

“That is a first-rate plan,” said Whistler. “I should think you might make lots of money in that way.”

“This isn’t all,” added Clinton; “I have a flock of turkeys, and a lot of ducks, besides. The turkeys are off, somewhere; they roam all over the farm. The ducks are in that little house down by the brook; we’ll go and see them by-and-by.”

“I should think I was rich, if I owned so many creatures,” said Whistler. “But you have to buy corn for them,—I suppose that takes off the profit, doesn’t it?”

“I haven’t bought a bushel of corn since the first year I had them,” replied Clinton. “Do you see that cornfield, just beyond the brook? That is my field. I planted and hoed it myself, and I shall have all the corn that grows there.”

“But how did you come by it?—did you buy the land?” inquired Whistler, more astonished than ever.

“No, I don’t own the land,” replied Clinton. “Father has got more than he can cultivate, and he lets me have the use of that piece for nothing. He helps me plough and harrow it, too; but I have to do everything else myself. If I want any manure, I pay him for it. If the corn does well, I shall have enough to carry all my fowls through another year. There will be a lot of corn fodder too, that I shall sell to father for the cows; and I have a lot of pumpkins scattered in among the corn, that will be worth something in the fall.”

“Well, you’re a real farmer, as well as a carpenter, that’s a fact,” said his cousin. “How I should like to be in your shoes!—and not in yours, either, but in another pair just like them. Come, don’t you want a partner? I’ll buy in, and we’ll start a new firm—‘C. & W. Davenport, Farmers, Poultry Dealers and Carpenters.’ Won’t that sound tall! What will you sell out one half of your business for? I haven’t much capital, and don’t know much about the business; but I’ll try to make myself useful.”

“I’m afraid you would get sick of the bargain,” replied Clinton. “You’d find it pretty tough work to hoe an acre of corn down there in the sun, when the thermometer is up to ninety in the shade. It’s a good deal of trouble, too, to take care of so many fowls every day, in summer and winter. I like to do it, to be sure; but a great many boys would think they were real slaves if they had to do what I do.”

“It doesn’t take all your time, does it?” inquired Whistler.

“O, no,” replied Clinton. “I suppose it doesn’t take me more than two hours a day, on an average, to take care of my fowls and cornfield; but I do other work besides. I have had the whole care of the garden this summer. Come and look at it.”

They proceeded to a large patch of ground in the rear of the house, which was devoted to a kitchen garden. It had been sown with peas, beans, radishes, lettuce, onions, early potatoes, sweet corn, cucumbers, and other vegetables. Some of the crops had already been gathered, such as the lettuce, radishes, and green peas; and the others seemed to be in a flourishing condition.

“After we had planted the garden last spring,” resumed Clinton, “father told me that if I would take the whole care of it, I might have one fourth of all the profits. I thought it was a pretty good offer, and so I took it up, and I’ve never been sorry for it yet. The garden has done very well, so far. We keep an account of everything that is raised; and next fall I can tell just how much my share will come to. I haven’t had to work so hard as I expected I should, either. I do a little every day, and the weeds don’t have a chance to get the upper hand of me. That is the way to manage a garden. If I should let my work get behindhand, I suppose I should very soon be discouraged.”

“Mr. Preston told us that you did almost as much work as a man,” said Whistler; “and I think he was about right. One thing is pretty certain: you can’t have much time to play.”

“O, no, I don’t work so hard as a man,” replied Clinton. “It only takes about one half of my time to do all my work; but then I have some errands to do, and my lessons to study.”

“I heard about your studying at home, and reciting to your mother: is that the way you do?” inquired Whistler.

“Yes,” replied Clinton; “our school doesn’t keep in the summer, and, as I have some spare time, I study a little at home. Last summer my rule was to study two hours a day; but this year I have had more work to do, and haven’t studied quite so much.”

“What do you study?” inquired his cousin.

“Arithmetic and grammar, principally,” replied Clinton; “but I write a composition once a fortnight and now and then get a spelling or a geography lesson.”

The boys now proceeded towards the duck-house. This was a small, rough shed; but it answered the purpose for which it was intended very well. It was situated near a small brook, and there was a little artificial pond connected with it, in which the ducks could swim when the water in the brook was low. Clinton himself made both the pond and the duck-house, the summer previous. There were about a dozen ducks in the pond, several of which were very small, being but a few weeks old. They gracefully sailed off as the boys approached; but when Clinton spoke to them they recognized his voice, and wheeled about towards him.

Having visited the principal objects of interest on the farm, Whistler began to manifest some curiosity about the geography of Brookdale. He got a pretty good idea of the natural features of the town, by ascending a high hill back of his uncle’s house. Before him lay a beautiful lake, or pond, as the Brookdale people called it, which looked like a bright mirror set in emerald. A narrow river, glistening in the sunlight like a silver thread, stole along through the meadows towards the southwest. There were but a few widely scattered houses in sight, for Brookdale was only a small farming settlement. On the north and east the view was hemmed in by high hills, covered with trees; but in other directions the prospect was extensive. Clinton pointed out to his cousin a mountain which he said was twenty miles distant. It looked like a faint cloud on the horizon.

But I can give you a better idea of the geography of Brookdale by the aid of a little map, which will show you at a glance an outline of the objects which Whistler saw from the hill, and also some things which he could not see from that position. The house numbered 1 is Mr. Davenport’s, and behind it is the hill from which Whistler obtained his view. No. 2 is Mr. Preston’s house, and No. 3 is the schoolhouse. The map shows the position of the lake, the river, and the brook near Mr. Davenport’s house. It also shows the Cross Roads village, and the principal roads passing through the town.

CHAPTER III.
A MORNING’S WORK.

CLINTON’S chamber, which Whistler was to share during his stay in Brookdale, was one of the most curious rooms in the house. It was in the second story, on the west side of the house,—the side represented as nearest to the spectator in the engraving on page 30. It had two windows, one on the west, and the other—a luthern, or dormer window,—looking towards the south. The room was of pretty good size, but was low studded, the pitch of the roof bringing the ceiling so far down, on the sides, that a boy twelve years old could not stand up straight under it. This made it seem like a garret to Whistler, who had always slept in a large, airy chamber; but the walls were plastered and papered, and the room was in all other respects comfortably finished. It had a neat and cosy air, however, which, in spite of its low ceiling, won rapidly upon the city boy’s regards. The tastes and habits of its occupant were reflected in nearly every article. The bed, chairs and table, were such as you might find in almost any boy’s chamber; but the extras that you do not find in every body’s room were quite numerous.

The first thing that attracted Whistler’s notice was a neat little box upon the table, made of maple. On turning over the top, it was transformed into a portable writing-desk, and was found to be supplied with pens, ink and paper. This, Clinton informed him, was a birthday present from his father, who made it. A small book-rack, with three shelves, was fastened to the wall, and held Clinton’s little library. The books were mostly of a juvenile order, and among them were several that Whistler had sent to him in former years. The rack itself was of Clinton’s own workmanship, and was very neatly made. Upon the upper shelf, which held no books, there was another specimen of his handiwork, in the shape of a full-rigged schooner, with sails spread and flag flying. Brought up in an inland town, and never having seen the salt water but once or twice, Clinton knew but little about vessels. And yet he had built quite a respectable schooner; although, to the more experienced eye of Whistler, the model was not of the most approved clipper style. The name, “Dolphin,” was painted on the stern.

A number of engravings, of various degrees of merit, were attached by pins to the walls of Clinton’s room. Pasted upon the wall, around the looking-glass, there was a whole constellation of small pictures, which evidently had once figured in newspapers and handbills. The windows were furnished with paper curtains, which, judging from the quantity of pulleys, fish-bone rings, cords, and other rigging attached, were evidently put up by Clinton with an eye rather to ingenuity than simplicity of arrangement.

Such was the room to which Clinton introduced his cousin, when the family retired at night. After glancing at the various objects I have described, Whistler noticed a slate and several school books upon the table, and inquired:

“When do you study your lessons, Clinton? Have you got to get one this evening?”

“No,” he replied; “I’m going to have a vacation now. Father thinks I had better suspend my studies while you are here, so that I may have as much time to spend with you as possible. I am going to arrange my work, too, so that it won’t take so much of my time.”

“You needn’t do that,” said Whistler; “I can help you some about your work, and I’d rather do it than not. I can drive the cows home, and help weed the beds, and hoe the corn, and do lots of other things.”

“Well, you can help me some, if you want to,” replied Clinton. And the boys continued to lay their plans, and talk over matters of mutual interest, for an hour after they had got into bed, when sleep began to steal over their senses, and their pleasant schemes melted imperceptibly into airy dreams.

Early the next morning, before the sun was up, a rap on the chamber door aroused the boys, and was instantly obeyed; for it was the signal to arise, from Clinton’s mother. Having hastily dressed themselves, they proceeded to the barn-yard, where they found Mr. Davenport engaged in milking the cows. A vacant stool, an empty bucket, and a gentle-looking cow, were awaiting Clinton’s movements and without any delay he seated himself by the side of “Daisy,” and the milky stream began to flow. There were two other cows, “Princess” and “Nelly.” As Whistler could be of no service, he stood looking on, discussing the merits of the several cows with his uncle and cousin. He found that each of the animals had its own private character. Nelly was a red and white cow, with a gentle, motherly look. She evinced much attachment for Daisy, who, indeed, was her daughter, and resembled her in appearance and disposition. Daisy, however, was the tamest of the three, and a trifle handsomer than her mother. She would follow any of the family, and eat a turnip or an ear of corn out of their hands. Princess was dark-colored, and gave the most milk; but, as is apt to be the case with those bearing royal names, she was selfish, stubborn and mischievous. One curious thing about her was, that she always wanted to be milked first; and if the preference was given to one of the other cows, she showed her indignation very plainly. If any little attention was manifested towards the others, such as carding or stroking them, she would seem very jealous, and try to interrupt their enjoyment.

As the conversation was proceeding, Daisy showed some signs of uneasiness, upon which Mr. Preston said, in a pleasant tone:

“Mind your milking, Clinty, and postpone your stories until you get through. You haven’t learned yet to milk well and talk at the same time.”

Milking is an operation that ought to be done rapidly and without interruption, to be thoroughly and properly performed. Conversation is very apt to distract the attention of the milker, and thus interfere with his work, as it did in the case of Clinton.

The milking was soon completed, and the boys, as they drove the cows to pasture, talked as fast as they pleased. When they returned, breakfast was upon the table, and the morning air had so sharpened their appetites that they were prepared to do full justice to the ample meal.

“Now,” said Clinton, as they went out after breakfast, “work is the first thing in the order of the day. I must attend to the fowls, and then I have got to weed a piece of ground, and after that I shall be at your service.”

“I’ll help you do the weeding, and I’ll see you do the feeding,” said Whistler, laughing at his impromptu rhyme.

“Your kindness is exceeding,—come, let us be proceeding,” quickly replied Clinton, taking up the rhyme.

“Good!” exclaimed Whistler. “Between us both we might make quite a decent song.”

“That’s the song I like to hear,” said Clinton, as a hen, flying down from the box in which she had just deposited an egg, set up a noisy “Cut-cut-cut-cut-ca-dah-cut!” with the accent very strongly upon the last syllable but one.

“I suppose that’s what you call ‘The Lay of the Last Minstrel,’” observed Whistler.

“Yes,” replied Clinton; “and if it isn’t good poetry, it is good poultry, which comes near enough to it.”

A flock of turkeys, which were at large, spying Clinton with his familiar peck measure, now approached the boys, pompously marching like a file of soldiers,—a solemn-looking gobbler taking the lead. A few handfulls of corn scattered among them, gave them plenty of business, and Clinton then turned his attention to the hens, which at this season of the year were confined within their own quarters, in consequence of their scratching propensity. Having fed them, and given them a dish of fresh water, he was ready to commence work in the garden. Whistler wanted a hoe, too; and he was provided with one, and set himself to work by the side of his cousin.

“I shouldn’t think there were many weeds here,” said Whistler, after hoeing a few minutes. “I can’t find hardly anything but grass.”

“I should say that was enough,” replied Clinton. “This witch-grass is about the worst stuff that ever got into a garden.”

“Do you call this witch-grass?” inquired his cousin.

“Yes, that’s one name for it,” replied Clinton. “Some people call it piper-grass. Just feel of the roots, and see how tough they are.”

“Why, they’re almost like wire!” said Whistler.

“I never saw anything like it to grow,” continued Clinton. “I’ve cleaned out every spear of it from this ground three times this summer, and yet see how it has grown. It is almost impossible to kill it. The roots will grow right through a potato, or a chip, or almost anything that happens to be in the way. I left a handful on the fence-rail last spring, and the first thing I knew it had taken root in the wood, and was growing finely. Father says that when he was a boy they used to say that the only way to kill it was to dry it, and then put it in your pipe and smoke it, and be very careful of the ashes.”

“Does it bother you so every year?” inquired Whistler.

“No,” replied his cousin; “this is the first time we have had any in this piece of ground, and nobody knows how it came here. I suppose a few seeds got scattered here somehow or other. Before the ground is planted again, it will have to be dug all over with a ten-tined fork. That will clear it out, if anything will.”

“If father was here now,” said Whistler, “how he would moralize over this witch-grass! I can imagine just how he would talk. He’d say, ‘That’s right, boys!—pull away! This witch-grass has all got to come out, at some rate or other. It’s an abominable pest, isn’t it? Well, it’s just like a bad habit in a man’s mind.—It’s no trouble at all to get it started; but if he ever wants to get rid of it, what a time he’ll have of it! Why, he’ll have to be raked fore and aft with the ten-tined fork of tribulation, and then he won’t be sure that he has got all the plaguy roots out.’”

The half-serious, half-comic air with which this was said, and the amusing imitation which Whistler gave of his father’s manner, proved too much for Clinton’s gravity, and he indulged in a hearty laugh, in spite of the excellent moral so queerly brought to his mind. It was not Whistler’s design, however, to make sport of his father. He had merely given as faithful an imitation as he could of what his father might have said, could he have looked in upon the boys just at that moment. Mr. Davenport, when in the company of his children, lost no opportunity of drawing lessons of instruction from the natural world, and from the daily events that happened around them; and this habit had so impressed itself upon Whistler’s mind, that he often found himself instinctively imitating his example.

The boys, who were now some distance apart, worked on in silence a short time, when suddenly Whistler gave a vigorous stroke with his hoe, and then said, as if talking to himself:

“There, old fellow,—you’re fixed now!”

“What is that?” inquired Clinton.

“A toad.”

“Did you kill him?”

“Not exactly. I only cut off his jumpers. Just look here, and see how smooth I took off his hind legs.”

Clinton took a look at the poor victim, which was struggling in its agony, and, shaking his head, said, seriously:

“That is too bad!”

“What is too bad?” inquired Whistler, with some surprise.

“Why, to torture a poor thing in that way. I’d put him out of his misery, if I were you.”

Whistler felt the mild rebuke, and, having found a large stone, he gave the poor reptile his death-blow with far less satisfaction than he experienced when he cut him in halves with his hoe. He was not at heart a cruel boy, but he was thoughtless,—a fault which is the excuse (and a very poor one it is) for a great deal of suffering inflicted upon dumb creatures. Having dispatched the toad, he resumed his hoe, saying, in a half-apologetic tone:

“I never could bear toads;—they say they are poisonous.”

“I don’t believe that,” said Clinton; “I never heard of any body being poisoned by a toad. Besides, they are very useful in a garden,—didn’t you know it?”

“Useful? no, indeed! I thought they ate up the things,” replied his cousin.

“They eat up the grubs, and worms, and bugs, and such things,” replied Clinton; “but they don’t hurt the crops. They are good friends to the farmer, and I’m always careful never to hurt them.”

“I didn’t know that; I thought they had no business here,” said Whistler. “I’ve always been in the habit of pelting them, just as I would a snake, wherever I found them; and that’s the way all the boys serve them where I live.”

“You ask my father about them when we go home, and see if he doesn’t tell you they are useful,” remarked Clinton, who thought his cousin was not entirely satisfied on this point.

“O, I suppose you are right; only it is something I never heard of before,” replied Whistler.

“I’ve tamed toads, before now, so that they would eat out of my hand,” resumed Clinton.

“You have?”

“Yes; it is easy enough to tame them. If they find you don’t disturb them they’ll come out from their hiding-places, and hop around you, and follow you, especially if you give them something to eat. Did you ever see them eat?”

“No; I never did.”

“Well, you ought to; for it’s a curious sight. When they get within reach of a slug or a fly, they dart their tongue out as quick as lightning, and seize it. The tongue is very long, and red; and it moves so quick that people sometimes think they are spitting fire, when they are only feeding.”

“I’ve heard that toads spit fire,” said Whistler.

“That’s only one of the old prejudices against them,” replied Clinton. “They don’t spit fire any more than I do; but I can tell you of one strange habit that they do indulge in.”

“What is that?”

“They swallow their own skins.”

“How can they do that?” inquired Whistler, with a look of incredulity.

“They shed their skins, like snakes, at certain times; but, instead of leaving their old coat where they happen to take it off, they always swallow it.”

“How do you know that?—did you ever see them do it?”

“No; but father has a book that says so. Besides, I never found a toad’s skin, although there are plenty of toads about here.”

“Perhaps they bury their cast-off skins,” suggested Whistler, who, now that several of his illusions in regard to toads were dispelled, was disinclined to allow them the credit of doing anything remarkable.

“If I were going to guess,” replied Clinton, “I should think that they might hide them in some way. But the book I spoke of was written by a great naturalist, and I suppose he knew what he was writing about. In fact, I don’t know that they shed their skins at all, only from what I have heard and read about it.”

“Well, poor toady, I’m sorry that I killed you; but I didn’t know any better,” said Whistler, as he tossed away the remains of his victim with his hoe, and resumed his work.

About two hours before the sun reached the meridian the boys finished weeding the piece of ground, and Clinton’s work for the day was accomplished.

CHAPTER IV.
AN AFTERNOON EXCURSION.

THE boys, after completing their work, amused themselves in various ways until dinner time. They proposed going over to Mr. Preston’s in the afternoon; and as soon as dinner was dispatched, they were on their way. The distance was about three quarters of a mile; but it was the nearest house to Mr. Davenport’s. A walk of less than fifteen minutes brought them to a large, old-fashioned farm-house, shaded by a great elm tree. Three girls were just coming from the house, each with a small basket or tin pail in her hand. Ella and Emily were among them, and the first-named introduced the youngest to Whistler as her cousin Harriet. Harriet was between ten and eleven years old. She and Emily were the only children of the family now at home. The youngest of the flock—sweet little Mary—fell sick and died about six months previous to the time of which I am writing. A month or two before that sad event, the oldest of the children, Jerry, took it into his head that he could find a better place than home, and suddenly disappeared one Sunday, while the family were at church. For a long time nothing was heard from him; but at length he wrote to them, from a foreign port, stating that he had gone to sea, and was bound on a long voyage.

It appeared that the girls were about starting on a strawberry excursion when the boys arrived; and the latter having been invited to join them, they all set out together. Strawberries grow wild in that part of the country. Ella and Whistler, to whom this fruit was known only as a dear-bought luxury, thought it must be fine to eat the berries fresh from the vines, with no fear of coming to the bottom of the box, and no two-shillings-per-quart drawback upon the indulgence. They sauntered along in advance of the others, looking on every side for the red and luscious fruit; but they found none; for it was a long walk to the strawberry patch. In going to it, they had to pass through a swamp, near the upper end of the pond, the entrance to which did not look very inviting to Ella.

“O, dear! I never can go through that horrid place!” she exclaimed. “I should be frightened out of my wits!”

“O, no, you won’t,” said Clinton. “There’s a good path all the way through, and nothing will hurt you. You follow right behind me, and I’ll help you over the bad places.”

Ella still stood in doubt, while Whistler in his eagerness was following the faint track, forgetful of his companions. Emily and Harriet assured their cousin that they had often crossed the swamp; and, with a little further encouragement from Clinton, she set forward,—not, however, without some misgivings. In some places the ground was very wet; and they had to step upon stones, logs, stumps, etc., which had been used for this purpose for years. Two or three brooks also crossed their track, over which old logs had been thrown to serve as bridges. In many places a thick growth of bushes, often armed with sharp thorns, stretched across the path, making it difficult for them to force their way through. Ella, however, was the only one who evinced any fear; and, but for Clinton’s constant encouragement and aid, she would have concluded that the strawberries were not worth the risk and trouble of getting them.

“Are there any snakes here?” she inquired, a new terror bursting on her mind.

“None of any consequence,” replied Clinton. “There may be a few water-snakes: but they won’t harm any body.”

“It makes no difference what they are, if they are only snakes,—I’m as afraid of one kind as of another,” said Ella, who had a city girl’s dread of everything of the serpent kind.

“O, no; you wouldn’t be afraid of a water-snake. They are just as harmless as toads,” said Clinton.

“I’m afraid of toads, too,—and I can’t help it,” replied Ella.

“If you should live in the country a little while you wouldn’t mind such things,” said Emily.

“Yes, I should,” replied her cousin. “I always had a perfect antipathy to snakes, and toads, and spiders, and all such creatures. I know they won’t hurt me; but I can’t help hating them.”

Seeing how little headway they made against her prejudices, Clinton and Emily dropped the subject. They were not yet out of the swamp, however; and soon another terror arose in the mind of the timid city girl.

“I shall get poisoned here!—I know I shall!” she said, in a tone of mingled alarm and resignation, as though she would have added, “You may do what you please with me,—I’m resigned.”

“There’s no danger of that,” replied Clinton, with a laugh. “You keep close to me, and I will look out for you.”

“Are there any poisonous plants in this swamp?” inquired Whistler, who had heard Ella’s remark.

“Yes, there’s plenty of poison ivy,” replied Clinton.

“O, yes; I see some now!” said Whistler, who was still at the head of the little party. “That’s poison ivy, isn’t it?” he continued, pointing to a luxuriant vine that was twining around the trunk of a dead tree.

“No, that isn’t it; that’s the other kind of ivy, or woodbine, or creeper, as we call it,” replied Clinton.

“What is the difference?” inquired Whistler.

“A good deal of difference;—one is poisonous and the other isn’t,” said Clinton.

“I know that; but how do you tell one from the other?”

“You see the leaves grow in clusters?”

“Yes; there are five of them. Each leaf looks as if it were made up of five little ones.”

“Well, the leaves of the poison ivy have only three in a cluster; and that is the way I tell the difference between them. When the leaves grow in threes, look out; but when they are in fives, there’s no danger.”

“I must try to remember that,” said Whistler, repeating to himself the last remark of Clinton. “Let me see,—how can I fix that in my mind, so that I shall know ‘which is which,’ as they say? Now, I have it! If the leaf has five fingers, like my hand, I can handle it; if it hasn’t, I must not touch it.”

This process, in Whistler’s mind, was not a mere boyish whim. It was founded on a law planted deep in our mental natures,—the law of the association of ideas. It is difficult to remember a number or figure standing by itself; and the matter becomes still worse when two numbers are to be borne in mind, and distinguished from each other, as in this instance. But, by associating the number in the mind with some particular object, event or word, we have a clew to it, which will seldom fail us; and if the word, event or object, bears any resemblance to the number, it is all the better. Thus you see that Whistler was quite a philosopher in this matter, although he did not know it. By making the act of handling depend upon the fancied resemblance of the leaf to his hand, he would never be at a loss to tell whether it was the three or five-lobed leaf that he was to avoid.

“There’s a three-leaved one!—that’s a poison ivy, isn’t it?” exclaimed Whistler, a few moments after, pointing to a vine that looked very much like the other, except in the number of its leaflets.

“Yes, that’s one of them,—don’t touch it!” said Clinton, as Whistler approached it.

“I shan’t look at it,” said Ella, turning her head in an opposite direction.

“It won’t hurt you if you don’t touch it,—you needn’t be afraid to look at it,” remarked Clinton.

“I’ve a great mind to touch it, just to see how it would operate,” said Whistler, going still nearer to the vine.

“Why, William Davenport!—you silly boy!” exclaimed Ella, with a look of astonishment.

“No! don’t touch it, Willie! You’ll be sorry if you do,” said Clinton. “It will make your face and eyes swell up, so that you won’t know yourself; and it won’t feel very comfortable, either.”

“But it doesn’t poison every body, does it?” inquired Whistler.

“No; some people can handle it without being hurt,” said Clinton; “but I wouldn’t risk it, if I were you. If you get poisoned once, you’ll be more liable to it next time; and so the danger will keep increasing, every time you come in contact with it.”

“Is there any dogwood about here?” inquired Whistler, turning away from the ivy.

“Yes; there’s a little, I believe,” said Clinton.

“That is awful stuff! I’ve heard that you can’t look at it without getting poisoned,” said Ella.

“I don’t believe that story,” replied Clinton. “I’ve looked at it myself without being poisoned. Sometimes people who have been poisoned a good many times, get to be so susceptible that they can’t go near ivy or dogwood without being infected, even if they don’t touch it; and I suppose that accounts for the notion that dogwood will poison you if you only look at it.”

“What sort of a thing is dogwood? What does it look like?” inquired Whistler.

“It is a very pretty shrub,” replied his cousin. “It grows almost large enough to be called a tree, and has smooth and glossy branches and leaves. It thrives only in wet places, I believe; but it is not near so common as the poison ivy.”

There are one or two other facts relating to these plants, which Clinton did not know, but which may be of some advantage to my readers when they ramble through the woods and swamps. These two shrubs, known in common language as “poison ivy” and “poison dogwood,” both belong to the sumach family, and are the only plants in our New England woods that are poisonous to the touch. Neither of them bears a conspicuous blossom or fruit; so that if the young botanist should chance to discover a strange plant with a beautiful and prominent flower, he may be sure that it will not harm him to pluck it. An unknown plant should never be eaten, however; as many species of the vegetable kingdom, which may be handled with impunity, are poisonous if taken into the stomach.

Our party had now emerged from the swamp, and were ascending to higher land. They soon came to the strawberry patch, but did not find the berries quite so plenty as they anticipated, other pickers having been there before them. Clinton proposed going further, and Whistler fell in with the suggestion; but the girls preferred to stop and glean the few berries that were left, rather than to seek new fields. The boys, however, concluded to extend their tramp to the hills, about a mile distant, leaving the girls to look out for themselves. Their course lay through a succession of fields and pastures, gradually ascending, until they reached the base of the high hills shown in the upper part of the map of Brookdale. These hills were thickly wooded, many of the trees being of majestic size and great beauty. They were chiefly pines, and the ground beneath was cushioned with the brown foliage of former years, while the air was full of the balmy odor that distills from this noble tree. Now and then a decayed stump, which their united arms could scarcely encircle, showed where some giant of the woods had fallen; but, in the main, this hill-side forest was as nature made it.

The boys found it a slippery and toilsome path up the hill; but, once on the top of “Bald Peak,” as the eminence was called, they were rewarded for their pains by the extensive prospect that met their eyes. The spot was very rocky, and, as its name implied, was destitute of trees. The view took in a wide range of country, dotted with houses and cultivated fields.

“There!” exclaimed Clinton, as they seated themselves upon a mossy stone,—“have you got anything in Boston that beats this?”

“I don’t know,—we have some pretty good views in Boston,” replied his cousin.

“From the top of the State House?” inquired Clinton.

“Yes, that’s one of the places,” said Whistler; “but we have a pretty distant prospect from our house,—fully equal to this, I should say.”

“How far can you see?” continued Clinton.

“Well, I can’t say exactly,” replied Whistler, with the utmost soberness; “but I believe we can see about ninety-five million miles, in the day time, and considerably further in a clear evening.”

“I’ll knock under,—I don’t think even Bald Peak can beat that,” replied Clinton, with a laugh.

After resting themselves, the boys, suddenly remembering that they had started in quest of strawberries, concluded to go down to the foot of the hill on the side opposite to the one they ascended, where Clinton thought they should find some berries. They had not proceeded far, when the sharp crack of a musket was heard not far off.

“Halloo! somebody’s gunning about here! I wonder who it can be?” said Clinton.

“Are there many houses over this way?” inquired Whistler.

“No; there isn’t one nearer than our house,” replied Clinton. “There isn’t a road within two or three miles either, except a logging-road through the woods.”

“Then it must be somebody from Brookdale,” observed Whistler.

“I suppose so,” added his cousin.