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Title: The Unseen Hand
       or James Renfew and His Boy Helpers

Author: Elijah Kellogg

Release Date: December 15, 2016 [EBook #53738]

Language: English

Character set encoding: UTF-8

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[Illustration: MR. WHITMAN HELPED JAMES TO GET DOWN FROM THE WAGON. Page
10.]




                            THE UNSEEN HAND
                                   OR
                    JAMES RENFEW AND HIS BOY HELPERS


                                   BY

                             ELIJAH KELLOGG

  AUTHOR OF “ELM ISLAND STORIES” “PLEASANT COVE STORIES” “FOREST GLEN
 STORIES” “A STRONG ARM AND A MOTHER’S BLESSING” “GOOD OLD TIMES” ETC.


                              ILLUSTRATED


                                 BOSTON
                       LEE AND SHEPARD PUBLISHERS
                     NEW YORK CHARLES T. DILLINGHAM
                                  1882

------------------------------------------------------------------------




                            Copyright, 1881,
                          BY LEE AND SHEPARD.

                         _All Rights Reserved._

------------------------------------------------------------------------




                               CONTENTS.


               CHAPTER                               PAGE
                    I. “THE MOTHER’S BREATH IS WARM”    9
                   II. THE REDEMPTIONER                18
                  III. JAMES RENFEW                    29
                   IV. THE WHITMAN FAMILY              39
                    V. THE UNSEEN HAND                 47
                   VI. “THERE’S LIFE IN HIM YET”       68
                  VII. NOBLE CONDUCT OF BERTIE         83
                 VIII. INFLUENCE OF HOPE               97
                   IX. THE REDEMPTIONER AT MEETING    115
                    X. THE REDEMPTIONER AT SCHOOL     129
                   XI. THE PLOT EXPOSED               146
                  XII. STUNG TO THE QUICK             162
                 XIII. THE SCHOLARS SUSTAIN JAMES     172
                  XIV. RESENTING A BASE PROPOSAL      189
                   XV. SOMETHING TO PUT IN THE CHEST  205
                  XVI. A YEAR OF HAPPINESS            221
                 XVII. REDEMPTION YEAR                239
                XVIII. WILLIAM WHITMAN                253
                  XIX. TRAPPING                       270
                   XX. JAMES AND EMILY                282
                  XXI. THE BRUSH CAMP                 299
                 XXII. THE WILDERNESS HOME            316




                                PREFACE.


A vast majority of the noblest intellects of the race have ever held to
the idea that,—

               “There’s a divinity that shapes our ends,
               Rough hew them how we will.”

By its influence they have been both consoled and strengthened under the
pressures and in the exigencies of life. This principle, to a singular
degree, assumes both form and development in the story of James Renfew,
the Redemptioner.

He comes to us as an orphan and the inmate of a workhouse, flung upon
the world, like a dry leaf on the crest of a breaker; his mind a blank
devoid of knowledge, save the idea of the Almighty and the commands of
the Decalogue, whose force, in virtue of prior possession, held the
ground and kept at bay the evil influences by which he was surrounded.
And in consequence of thus holding aloof from all partnership in vice,
he was brow-beaten, trampled upon, and made a butt of by his companions
in misfortune.

His only inheritance was the kiss of a dying mother, the dim
recollection of her death, and a Bible which he could not read,—her sole
bequest.

The buoyancy, the frolic of the blood, the premonition of growing power,
which render childhood and youth so pregnant of happiness, and so
pleasant in the retrospect, were to him unrevealed. At nineteen the life
seemed crushed out of him by the pressure, or, rather puncture, of a
miserable present and a hopeless future. In the judgment of the most
charitable, he was but one remove from fatuity.

From such material to develop the varied qualities of a pioneer, a man
of firm purpose, quick resolve, and resolute to meet exigencies, might
well seem to require supernatural power; and yet, by no other alchemy
than sympathy, encouragement wisely timed, and knowledge seasonably
imparted, was this seeming miracle accomplished.

The pity of Alice Whitman, the broad benevolence of her husband, the
warm sympathy of Bertie and his young associates, the ripe counsels of
the glorious old grandfather,—sage Christian hero,—and the efforts of
Mr. Holmes, who honored his calling, while sowing good seed in the
virgin soil of a young heart, were but visible instruments in the grasp
of the Hand Unseen.




                            THE UNSEEN HAND;

                                  OR,

                   JAMES RENFEW AND HIS BOY-HELPERS.




                               CHAPTER I.
                     “THE MOTHER’S BREATH IS WARM.”


It was the autumn of 1792. The beams of the declining sun were resting
peacefully upon the time-worn walls of a log house of large dimensions,
evidently built to serve the purposes both of a dwelling and a fortress,
and situated upon the banks of the Swatara Creek, in the State of
Pennsylvania.

A magnificent chestnut-tree, whose trunk and lower branches were all
aglow with the long level rays of the retiring light, shadowed a large
portion of the spacious door-yard.

This was the homestead of Bradford Whitman, a well-to-do farmer, and
whose family consisted of himself and wife, his aged father, and three
children, Peter, Albert and Maria, aged respectively sixteen, fourteen
and eleven.

Upon one of the highest branches of this great tree was seated Bertie
Whitman. The eyes of the lad were eagerly fastened upon the road that,
skirting the rising ground upon which the dwelling stood, led to a
distant village.

At once his features lighted up with a jubilant expression; he rapidly
descended from his perch, and ran to the door of the house, shouting,
“Mother! Maria! Grandfather! They’ve got him; they are coming down
Liscomb’s hill this minute, and there’s three in the wagon. Oh!”

He would have run to meet the approaching team, and had taken a few
steps when he was met by his elder brother.

“Bertie, we’ve got the _redemptioner_, and I jumped out of the wagon
while the horses were walking up our hill to tell you and Maria not to
laugh if you can help it, ‘cause it would make him feel bad; but you
can’t think how funny he does look; he’s lame besides, and his name’s
James Renfew.”

This conversation was interrupted by the rumbling of wheels as their
father drove up, where his whole family were grouped around the door.
Mrs. Whitman stood on the door-stone, the old grandfather beside her,
leaning on his staff, the children in front, while Fowler, the
house-dog, with his fore-legs on the shoulders of old Frank, the near
horse, his particular friend, was trying to lick his nose and Frank was
arching his neck to accommodate him.

Mr. Whitman helped James to get down from the wagon. The boy made no
return to the salutations of the family save by a stony stare, not even
taking the hand extended to him by Mrs. Whitman. He, however, manifested
some token of sensibility by offering to help in unharnessing, and would
have limped after the horses to the barn, but his master told him to go
into the house and keep still till his leg was better; nevertheless
there he stood staring after the horses, and evidently would much rather
have followed them to the barn.

The dog then came and smelt of him. Mrs. Whitman told Peter to take him
by the hand and lead him into the house. She placed an arm-chair for
him, and a smaller one to put his lame leg on, and in a few minutes he
was fast asleep.

Judging by appearances Bradford Whitman had drawn a blank at this his
first venture in the redemptioner lottery. The children got together
(with the dog) under the great chestnut-tree to free their minds and
compare notes.

“Isn’t he queer?” said Bertie.

“Did ever anybody see such funny clothes? I guess they were made for him
when he was small and so he’s grown out of them, but he’d be real
handsome if he had good clothes and his hair combed, and didn’t have
such a pitiful look out of his eyes,” said Maria.

“I tell you what he puts me in mind of,” said Bertie, “Mr. William
Anderson’s oxen that are so poor, their necks so long and thin; and they
look so discouraged, and as though they wanted to fall down and die.”

Peter now related all he had heard Wilson tell their father, and dwelt
with great emphasis upon Mr. Wilson’s statement that the lad had not a
friend in the world and no home.

“He’s got one friend,” said Bertie, “Fowler likes him, ‘cause he smelt
of him and wagged his tail; if he hadn’t liked him he would have
growled. Mother’s a friend to him, and father and grandpa and all of
us.”

“We will be good to him because he never had any chestnut-tree to play
under and swing on, nor any garden of his own,” said Maria.

“How can we be good to him if he won’t say anything, Maria!” said
Bertie.

“Can’t we be good to the cattle, and I’m sure they don’t talk?”

“If they don’t they say something; the cat she purrs, the hens prate,
Fowler wags his tail and barks and whines; and the horses neigh, and
snort, and put down their heads for me to pat them; but how could you be
good to a stone? and he’s just like a stone, when mother put out her
hand to shake hands he did not take it, nor look pleased nor anything.”

“Perhaps ‘twas ‘cause he was afraid. When we first got our kitten she
hid away up garret, and we didn’t see her for three days, but she got
tame, and so perhaps he will.”

They finally made up their minds that James was entitled to all the
sympathy and kindness they could manifest towards him, when they were
called to supper.

It now became a question between Mr. Whitman and his wife, where to stow
James that night.

“Put him in the barn and give him some blankets to-night, and to-morrow
we will clean him up.”

“I can’t bear to put him in the barn, husband, I’ll make him a bed of
some old ‘duds’ on the floor in the porch. Send him right off to bed;
I’ll wash his clothes and dry ‘em before morning. I can fix up some old
clothes of yours for him to work in, for I don’t want any of the
neighbors to see him in those he has on.”

Mr. Whitman now ushered James to bed, waited till he undressed, and
brought in his clothes that were soon in scalding suds. Had Mr. Whitman
gone back he would have seen this poor ignorant lad rise from his bed,
kneel down and repeat the Lord’s prayer, and though repeated with a very
feeble sense of its import may we not believe it was accepted by Him who
“requireth according to that a man hath and not according to that he
hath not,” and whose hand that through the ocean storm guides the
sea-bird to its nest amid the breakers, has directed this wayfarer to
the spot where there are hearts to pity and hands to aid him.

A blazing fire in the great kitchen fireplace so nearly accomplished (by
bedtime) the drying of the clothes, that in the morning they were
perfectly dry, the hot bricks and mouldering log giving out heat all
night long. In the morning Mr. Whitman carried to the porch water in a
tub, soap and his clean clothes, and told James to wash himself, put
them on and then come out to his breakfast.

When James had eaten his breakfast (Mr. Whitman and Peter having eaten
and gone to the field), the good wife cut his hair which was of great
length, gave his head a thorough scrubbing with warm soapsuds, and
completed the process with a fine-toothed comb. Removing carefully the
bandages she next examined his leg.

“It was a deep cut, but it’s doing nicely,” she said, “there’s not a bit
of proud flesh in it; you must sit in the house till it heals up.” When
having bound up the wound she was about to leave him, he murmured,—

“You’re good to me.”

This was not a very fervent manifestation of gratitude, but it betokened
that the spirit within was not wholly petrified; as Alice Whitman looked
into that vacant face she perceived by the moisture of the eyes, that
there was a lack not so much of feeling as of the power to express it.

“God bless you, I’ll act a mother’s part towards you; it shall be your
own fault if you are not happy now. I know God sent you here, for I
cannot believe that anything short of Divine Power would have ever
brought my husband to take a redemptioner.”

Bertie and Maria, who had been looking on in silence, now ran into the
field to tell their father and Peter all their mother had said and done,
and that the redemptioner had spoken to her.

“Father,” said Maria, “if mother is his mother, will he be our brother?”

“Not exactly; your mother meant that she would treat him just as she
does you, and so you must treat him as you do each other, because your
mother has said so, and that’s sufficient.”

“Then we mustn’t call him a redemptioner?”

“No; forget all about that and call him James.”

“When we have anything good, and when we find a bumblebee’s nest, shall
we give him part, just like we do each other?”

“Yes.”

Mrs. Whitman sent for Sally Wood, one of her neighbor’s daughters, to
take care of the milk and do the housework; and then set herself to
altering over a suit of her husband’s clothes to fit James, who, clean
from head to foot, sat with his leg in a chair watching Mrs. Whitman at
her work, but the greater portion of the time asleep.

“Let him sleep,” she said; “‘twill do him good to sleep a week; he’ll
come to his feeling after that and be another boy. It’s the full meals
and the finding out what disposition is to be made of him, and that he’s
not to be hurt, makes him sleep. I doubt if he had any too much to eat
on the passage over.”

By night the good woman, with the aid of Sally (who, besides doing the
work, found some time to sew), had prepared a strong, well-fitting suit
of working-clothes and a linsey-woolsey shirt, and, after supper, James
put them on. He made no remark in relation to his clothes, but Maria
reported that she knew he was as pleased as he could be, because she
peeped into the door of the bedroom and saw him looking at himself in
the glass and counting the buttons on his waistcoat and jacket.

James improved rapidly, and began in a few days to walk around the
door-yard and to the barn, and sit by the hour in the sun on the
wood-pile (with Fowler at his feet, for the dog had taken a great liking
to him), insomuch that Mrs. Whitman asked her husband if it would not
make him better contented to have some light work that he could do
sitting down.

“Not yet, wife. I want to see if, when he finds us all at work, he won’t
start of his own accord. He has no more idea of earning anything, or of
labor in our sense of that word, than my speckled ox has. When I hold up
the end of the yoke and tell old Buck to come under, he comes; and so
this boy has been put out to hard masters who stood over and got all out
of him they could. He has never had reason to suppose that there are any
people in this world that care anything about others, except to get all
they can out of them.”

“If, as you say, he has always had a task-master, perhaps he thinks
because we don’t tell him what to do, that we don’t want him to do
anything.”

“We’ll let the thing work; I want to see what he’ll do of his own accord
before I interfere. It is my belief that, benumbed as he now appears,
there’s enterprise in him, and that the right kind of treatment will
bring it out; but I want it to come naturally just as things grow out of
the ground. He’s had a surfeit of the other kind of treatment.”

Affairs went on in this way for a week longer, till the boy’s leg had
completely healed, during which time it became evident that this
apparently unimpressible being was not, after all, insensible to the
influence of kindness, for, whenever he perceived that wood or water
were wanted, he would anticipate the needs of Mrs. Whitman nor ever
permit her to bring either.

Mr. Whitman still manifested no disposition to put the boy to work, and
even shelled corn himself, till his wife became somewhat impatient; and
though even the grandfather thought the boy might, at least, do that
much. Whitman, however, paid no attention to the remonstrances of
either, and matters went on as before.




                              CHAPTER II.
                           THE REDEMPTIONER.


The reader of the opening chapter will, doubtless, be disposed to
inquire, “What is a redemptioner? By what fortunate chance has this
singular being been flung into the path, and at once domesticated in the
family of Bradford Whitman, and admitted without scruple to the inner
sanctuary of a mother’s heart.”

Not by any chance as we believe, and will, therefore, endeavor to
satisfy these demands by introducing to our young readers Mr. Robert
Wilson, a _soul-driver_, as the occupation in which he was engaged was
then termed (and one of the best of them) and permit him to tell his own
story.

The great abundance of food and coarse clothing in America, and the
anxiety of the farmers to obtain cheap labor, led to this singular
arrangement.

They contracted with the masters of vessels to bring over able-bodied
men accustomed to farm-work, the farmers paying their passage, which
included the captain’s fees, the laborers contracting to serve for a
certain term of years to reimburse the farmer for his outlay; the
farmers agreeing to furnish the laborers with wholesome and sufficient
food and comfortable clothing.

These people were called redemptioners, and the term of service was
generally three years, and, in the case of boys, four.

The system, however, which operated very well for a while, had its
disadvantages that brought it into disrepute, and resulted in its
abolition. The principal of these was its falling into the hands of
speculators, who went to the other side and took whomsoever they could
pick up, without regard to their honesty, industry, or capacity of
labor, some of them parish-poor, not only ignorant of agricultural
labor, but even thieves and vagabonds. These persons collected them in
gangs of twenty, and even more, and drove them through the country and
delivered them to the farmers, ostensibly at the rate of their
passage-money and a reasonable compensation for their own trouble and
expense in seeking and bringing them over.

Mr. Wilson naturally a man of kindly feelings, that had not been
entirely blunted by the business in which for many years he had been
engaged, and who—having been well brought up by godly Scotch
parents—could by no means wholly ignore the lessons of his youth, was
now on board of the “Betsy” brig, in Liverpool, bound for Philadelphia,
and had engaged berths for thirteen persons, eleven of whom different
farmers in Pennsylvania had agreed to take off his hands. He had paid
the passage of the twelfth at his own risk, and wanted, but had not been
able to obtain, one more, having been disappointed in a man whom he had
engaged on the previous voyage, and, as he would be compelled to pay for
the berth, whether occupied or not, he was, of course, anxious to obtain
another man. The vessel was not to haul out of the dock under two days,
and he resolved to make a final effort to find another man.

Mr. Wilson was well known among the neighboring population, and
therefore possessed peculiar facilities. The persons already obtained he
had brought from the country, and he doubted not from his extensive
acquaintance that he could dispose of almost any man who was sound in
limb, accustomed to labor, whether much acquainted with farm-work or
not. “If he is only honest,” said Wilson to himself, “and young enough,
it will do; for what he don’t know he can learn, and must work for his
employer a longer time, that’s all.”

In regard to character he was able, in many cases, to obtain references,
but a shrewd judge of men, he trusted much to his own judgment, and had
seldom cause to repent it, although, as we shall see, he was deceived in
the character of one of the men then on shipboard which led to his
relinquishing the traffic not many years after.

He set out early in the morning for a village about ten miles from the
city, and where he had often found men to his liking, especially on the
previous voyage. He found quite a number eager to go, but some were
Irish, whom he did not like; some were boys, some old and decrepid, or
too much labor-worn.

He was returning from his bootless search in no very satisfactory state
of mind, when he stumbled upon a company of young persons, who late as
was the hour, had just started out from the shelter of some old crates
filled with straw that had been piled against the brick wall of a
glass-house, in which were built the chimneys of several ovens, and
which had afforded them warmth, for the nights were quite cool.

They were shaking the straw from their garments and evidently preparing
to break their fast. One had a fish in his hand, another meat, and
another vegetables, but all uncooked.

The group presented such a hardened vagabond appearance, that Wilson who
had paused with the intention of speaking, was about to pass on, when
upon second thoughts, he said within himself, “They look like thieves,
but they are a hard-meated rugged looking set and all young. Perhaps
there may be among them one who taken away from the rest, and put under
good influences, and among good people, might make something.”

Turning towards them, he said,

“Young men, do any of you want to go to America?”

“Go to ‘Merica,” replied a dark-complexioned fellow of low stature, with
a devil-may-care-look, and quite flashily attired, apparently in the
cast-off clothes of some gentleman.

“Yes, some people are going over to the States with me as redemptioners,
and I want one more to make up my number, it’s a first-rate chance for a
young man who’s smart, willing to work, and wants to make something of
himself. There are scores of men there whom I carried, that are now
forehanded, have large farms, cattle and money at interest, who when
they left here lived on one meal a day and often went without that.”

“Don’t you know Dick,” said a red-headed, saucy, but intelligent-looking
chap, with sharply cut features, “that’s the genteel name of those poor
devils who sell themselves for their passage and this ‘ere likes is the
boss what takes the head money.”

Without noticing the interruption, Wilson continued,—

“Here, for instance, is a young man who can get no work these hard
times, which means no clothes, no bread, no place to put his head in. A
farmer over there who wants help pays his passage. He works for that
farmer till he pays up the passage money; and the farmer takes him into
his family, and feeds and clothes him while he is doing it.”

“How long will he have to work to pay for his passage?”

“Three or four years; three if he is used to farm work.”

“What does he do after that?”

“Then he is his own man and can always have plenty of work at good wages
and found, and won’t have to lay up alongside of a glass-house chimney
to keep from freezing. Land is so cheap that if he is prudent and saves
his money, he can in a few years buy a piece of land with wood on it
that he can cut down, build him a log house, plant and sow and be
comfortable. In some places the government will give him land to settle
on if he builds a house and stays five years, or he can pay for it by
working on the highways.”

“Go, Dick,” cried the red-head, “they say it’s a glorious country,
plenty of work, plenty of bread, and no hanging for stealing, just the
place for you my lad.”

“You shut up. What is he going to do after he gets the land!”

“Work on it to be sure, make a home of it, have cattle, and sheep, and
hogs, and lashings to eat.”

“Then all the redemptioners, as you call ‘em, go to ‘Merica for is to
work?”

“To be sure, to get a chance to work and get ahead, and that’s what they
can’t do here.”

“Well, grandfather, I won’t be a redemptioner, because work and I have
fallen out. Ain’t it so with you, Tom Hadley?”

This interrogatory was addressed to a tall pale youth, clothed in a suit
of rusty black, that might have belonged to a curate, with finger nails
half an inch in length, and on his fingers three valuable rings and a
broad-brimmed hat on his head.

“Yes, I never fell in with it yet. Don’t think I am fool enough to work
three years for the sake of getting a chance to work all the rest of my
life, a thing I am altogether above and do despise.”

“If you won’t work how do you expect to live?”

“By stealing,” replied the lank boy, displaying his rings.

“By working when we can’t do any better, granddaddy, and begging for the
rest,” said Tom Hadley.

During this conversation this select company had gradually gathered
around Wilson, and one of them was in the act of purloining a
handkerchief from the latter’s pocket, when he received a blow from a
stout cudgel in the hand of the Scotchman, that felled him to the
ground.

“Why don’t you take Foolish Jim?” said the red-headed chap, “he’ll work;
rather work than not.”

“Who’s Foolish Jim?”

“There he is,” pointing to a boy leaning against the wall of the
glass-house, aloof from the rest.

“Why do you call him Foolish Jim?”

“‘Cause he’s such a fool he won’t lie, swear nor steal; but we are
dabsters at all three.”

“What makes him so much worse dressed than the rest?”

“‘Cause he’s a fool and won’t steal. Now we all get one thing or
another, meat, fish, vegetables; and we’re going down to the brick yards
to have a cook and a real tuck-out, but he’s had no breakfast, nor won’t
get any, till he runs some errand for the glass-house folks, or gets
some horse to hold, or some little job of work, just ‘cause he won’t
steal nor beg either. If you’d a dropt that handkerchief on the ground
and he’d a picked it up, instead of putting it in his pocket, he’d a run
after you crying, ‘Mister you’ve lost your handkerchief.’ Now there’s no
work to be had by those who are fools enough to work, so he’s just
starving by inches.”

“And to help him out of the world you keep him with you to make sport of
him.”

“That’s so, as much as we think will do, but we can’t go but about so
far, ‘cause he’s strong as a giant and he’s got a temper of his own,
though it takes an awful sight to git it up; but when its up you’d
better stand clear, he’ll take any two of us and knock our heads
together. When the glassmen have a heavy crate to lift, they always sing
out for Jim.”

“Ask him to come here.”

“Jim, here’s a cove wants yer.”

Mr. Wilson scanned with great curiosity the lad whom his companions
termed a fool because he would neither lie nor swear, steal nor beg, but
was willing to work. He was tall, large-boned, with great muscles that
were plainly visible, of regular features, fair complexion and clean,
thus forming a strong contrast to his companions, who were dirty in the
extreme. He might be called, on the whole, good looking, as far as form
and features went, but on the other hand there was an expression of
utter hopelessness and apathy in his face that seemed almost to border
upon fatuity, and went far to justify the appellation bestowed upon him
by his companions.

His movements also were those of an automaton; there was none of the
spring, energy or buoyancy of youth about him.

He was barefoot, with a tattered shirt, ragged pants and coat of
corduroy, the coat was destitute of buttons and confined to his waist by
a ropeyarn. On his head he wore a sailor’s fez cap, streaked with tar
and that had once been red, but was faded to the color of dried blood.

“What is your name, my lad?”

“Jim.”

“Jim what?”

“Jim, that’s all.”

“How old are you?”

“Don’t know.”

“Where are your father and mother?”

“Haven’t got none?”

“Any brothers or sisters?”

“No.”

“Where did you come from? Where do you belong?”

“Work’us.”

“Do you want to go to America with me, and get work?”

“I’ll go anywhere if I can have enough to eat, clothes to keep me warm,
and some warm place to sleep.”

“Will you work?”

“Yes; I’ll work.”

“What kind of work can you do?”

“I can dig dirt, and hoe, and pick oakum, and drive horses, and break
stones for the highway, and break flax.”

“What other farm-work can you do?”

“I can mow grass, and reap grain, and plash a hedge, and thrash (thresh)
grain.”

“Where did you learn these things?”

“They used to put me out to farmers once.”

“How long was you with the farmers?”

“Don’t know.”

“Mister,” broke in the lank youth, “he don’t know anything. Why don’t
you ask ‘em up to the work’us; like’s they know who he is, where he came
from, and all about him. They feed him, but he’s so proud he won’t call
upon ‘em if he can help it, ‘cause he thinks it’s begging. He might have
three good meals there every day if he would, but he’s such a simpleton
he won’t go there till he’s starved within an inch of his life.”

Upon this hint the Scotchman, whose curiosity was now thoroughly
aroused, taking the lad for a guide, started for the workhouse.




                              CHAPTER III.
                             JAMES RENFEW.


As they went along, Wilson, feigning fatigue, proposed that they should
sit down to rest, but his real motive was that, undisturbed by his
companions, he might observe this singular youth more at his leisure and
be the better able to form some more definite opinion in his own mind
respecting him.

After long contemplating the features and motions of Jim at his leisure,
Mr. Wilson came to the conclusion that there was no lack of sense, but
that discouragement, low living, absence of all hope for the future,
ignorance and being made a butt of, were the potent causes that had
reduced the lad to what he was; and that, under the influence of good
food and encouragement, he would rally and make an efficient laborer and
perhaps something more, and resolved to sift the matter to the bottom.

From the records of the workhouse he ascertained that the boy’s name was
James Renfew, that he was not born in the institution, but was brought
there with his mother, being at that time three years of age. The mother
was then in the last stages of disease, and in a few weeks died. He was
informed that the boy had been several times put out to different
farmers, who, after keeping him till after harvest, brought him back in
the fall to escape the cost of his maintenance in the winter.

Wilson mentioned what he had been told in respect to his character, to
which the governor replied it was all true, and that he should not be
afraid to trust him with untold gold, that he came and went as he
pleased; and when starved out, and not till then, he came to them and
was housed, fed and made welcome.

“Where did he get ideas in his head so different from those of workhouse
children in general?”

“I am sure I don’t know except they grew there. You seem to have a great
deal of curiosity about the history of Jim, there’s an old Scotchwoman
here, Grannie Brockton, who took care of his mother while she lived and
of the boy after her death; she’s a crabbed venomous old creature, deaf
as a haddock, but if she happens to be in a good mood and you can make
her hear, she can tell you the whole story.”

“I’ll find a way to make her agreeable.”

He found Grannie Brockton, who seeing a stranger approach, drew herself
up, put one hand to her ear, and with the other motioned the intruder
away.

Wilson, without a word, approached and laid a piece of silver on her
knee. This wrought an instantaneous change, turning briskly round she
pulled down the flap of her right ear (the best one) and said,—

“What’s your will wi’ me?”

“I want you to tell me all you know about James Renfew and his parents.”

“It’s Jeames Renfew ye want to speer about, and it’s my ain sel’ wha’
can tell you about him and his kith, and there’s na ither in this place
that can.”

The interrogator felt that the best method of getting at the matter was
to leave the old crone to her own discretion, and without further
questioning placed another small piece of silver in her lap.

“What countryman may ye be?”

“A Scotchman.”

“I kenned as much by the burr on your tongue; ay then, ye’ll mind when
the battle o’ Bannockburn was.”

“The battle of Bannockburn was fought on the twenty-fifth day of June.”

“True for ye. It was sixteen years ago Bannockburn day that this boy’s
mother was brought here sick, and this Jeames wi’ her a bairn about
three years old. A good woman she was too. I’m not a good woman, naebody
ca’s me a good woman, I dinna ca’ myself a good woman, but for all that
I know a good person when I see one.

“She had death in her face when she was brought in, would have been glad
to die, but her heart was breaking about the child to be left to the
tender mercies o’ the work’us.

“When she had been here little better than a week, a minister came to
see her; a young, a douce man. Oh, he was a heavenly man! She was so
rejoiced to see him, she kissed his hands and bathed them wi’ her hot
tears. She thanked him, and cried for joy. I could nae keep from
greeting my ain sel’.”

“Where was he from?”

“He was the curate of the parish where she used to live, was with her
husband when he was sick, and read the service at his funeral; and he
had christened this child, and aye been a friend to them.”

“She told me the parson o’ the parish was a feckless do-little, naebody
thought he had any grace; this curate did all the work and visited the
people, who almost worshipped him.”

“Did he come any more?”

“Ay, till she died, and then attended the burial. For four years after
her death he came three times a year to see the child, and would take
him on his knees and tell him stories out of the Bible and teach him the
Lord’s prayer. He made the child promise him that he would never lie,
nor swear, nor steal, and taught him a’ the commandments. He likewise
made me promise that I would hear him say the Lord’s prayer, when I put
him to bed, and that I would be kind to him. I did hear him say the
prayer, but I was never kind to him, for ‘tis not in my nature to be
kind to any body, but I used to beat him when he vexed me.”

“Who was this boy’s father?”

“He was a hedger and ditcher, and rented a small cottage, and grass for
a cow, in the parish where the curate lived. After his death, his widow
came to Liverpool, because she had a sister here who had saved money by
living at service, and they rented a house, and took boarders, and
washed and ironed; but her sister got married and went to Canada, and
she was taken sick, and came here to die.”

“What became of the curate?”

“He came here till the laddie was seven years auld, and then he came to
bid him good-by, because he was going to be chaplain in a man-of-war,
and the laddie grat as though his heart wad break.

“The curate gave him his mother’s Bible, but little good will it do him,
for he canna read a word, nor tell the Lord’s prayer when he sees it in
print.” Finding her visitor was about to leave, she said,—

“Mind, what ye have heard frae me is the truth, sin a’ body kens that
cross and cankered as auld Janet may be, she’s nae given to falsehood.”

The relation of auld Janet had stirred the conscience of Robert Wilson,
and probed his soul to its very depths.

“I cannot,” he said within himself, “leave the boy here. The curse of
that dying mother would fall on me if I did. He must come out of this
place. Let me see what can I do with him? Could I only hope to prevail
upon Bradford Whitman to take him—I know he hates the very sight of me
and of a redemptioner, but a friendless boy of this one’s character,
that I can get a certificate from the governor of the workhouse to
establish, might operate to move him, and he’s a jewel of a man. I’ll
try him. If I can do nothing with him, I’ll try Nevins or Conly, but
Whitman first of all. If none of them’ll keep him, you must take him
yourself, Robert Wilson; take him from here, at any rate.”

Mr. Wilson made his way back to the authorities, and said to them:—

“I’m taking some redemptioners to the States; if you’ll pay this boy’s
passage, I’ll take him off your hands, but you must put some decent
clothes on him.”

To this the chairman of the board replied: “We cannot do that. We will
let you have the boy and put some clothes on him, and that’s enough. You
make a good thing out of these men; you don’t have to advance anything,
the farmers pay their passage and pay you head-money.”

“Thank you for nothing, that’s not enough. The rest of my redemptioners
are able-bodied men used to farm-work, but this creature is but
nineteen, don’t know much of anything about farm-work; only fit to pick
oakum or break stones on the highway, and there’s none of that work to
be done in the States. He’ll be a hard customer to get rid of, for he
don’t seem to have hardly the breath of life in him; these Americans are
driving characters; they make business ache, and will say right off he’s
not worth his salt. I shall very likely have him thrown on my hands (if
indeed he don’t die before he gets there) for I have no order for any
boy.”

“You are very much mistaken, Mr. Wilson, that boy will lift you and your
load, will do more work than most men, is better fitted for a new
country than one who has been delicately brought up.”

“Mr. Governor, I have made you a fair offer. This boy has got a
settlement in this parish, and you cannot throw it off, so you will
always have him on your hands more or less. By and by he’ll marry some
one as poor as himself, and you’ll have a whole family on your hands for
twenty, perhaps fifty years. You know how that works, these paupers
marry and raise families on purpose, because they know they will then be
the more entitled to parish help. Give him up to me and pay his passage,
you are then rid of him forever and stop the whole thing just where it
is. I’ve told you what I’ll do. I won’t do anything different.”

After consultation the authorities consented to pay his passage and give
him second-hand but whole shoes, shirts, and stockings enough for a
shift, and a Scotch cap.

Mr. Wilson then took him into a Jew’s shop, pulled off his rags,
furnished him with breeches and upper garments, and put him on board the
brig.

Mr. Wilson was an old practitioner at the business of soul-driving. His
custom was to stop a week in Philadelphia in order to let his men
recover from the effects of the voyage, which at that day, in an
emigrant ship, was a terrible ordeal, for there were no laws to restrain
the cupidity of captains and owners. This delay answered a double
purpose, as his redemptioners made a better appearance, and were more
easily disposed of and at better prices. He also improved the
opportunity to send forward notices to his friends, the tavernkeepers,
stating the day on which he should be at their houses; and they in turn
notified the farmers in their vicinity, some of whom came out to receive
the men they had engaged, and others came to look at and trade with
Wilson for the men he might have brought on his own account, of whom he
sometimes had a number, and not infrequently his whole gang were brought
on speculation.

It was about nine o’clock on the morning of the second day after his
arrival in Philadelphia, and Mr. Wilson, having partaken of a bountiful
meal, was enjoying his brief rest in a most comfortable frame of mind.
He had good reason to congratulate himself, having safely passed through
the perils of the voyage, and, on the first day of his arrival disposed
to great advantage of the man he had brought at his own risk; the other
eleven were engaged, and the boy alone remained to be disposed of.

His cheerful reflections were disturbed by a cry of pain from the
door-yard, and James was brought in, the blood streaming from a long and
deep gash in his right leg.

The tavern-keeper asked him to cut some firewood, and the awkward
creature, who had never in his life handled any wood tool but an English
billhook, had struck the whole bit of the axe in his leg. The blood was
staunched, and a surgeon called to take some stitches, at which the boy
neither flinched nor manifested any concern.

The doctor and the crowd of idle onlookers, whom the mishap of James
drew together, had departed, the landlord had left the bar to attend to
his domestic concerns. Mr. Wilson, his serenity of mind effectually
broken, paced the floor with flushed face and rapid step, and talking to
himself.

“Had it been his neck, I wad nae hae cared,” he muttered (getting to his
Scotch as his passion rose) “here’s a doctor’s bill at the outset; and I
maun stay here on expense wi’ twelve men, or take him along in a wagon.

“I dinna ken, Rob Wilson, what ailed ye to meddle with the gauk for an
auld fool as ye are, but when I heard that cankered dame wi’ the tear in
her een tell how his mother felt on her deathbed, and a’ about the
minister taking sic pains wi’ him, it gaed me to think o’ my ain mither
and the pains she took tae sae little purpose wi’ me. I thocht it my
duty to befriend him and gi’ him a chance in some gude family, and
aiblins it might be considered above, and make up for some o’ thae hard
things I am whiles compelled in my business to do. I did wrang
altogether; a soul-driver has nae concern wi’ feelings, nor conscience
either. He canna’ afford it, Rob, he suld be made o’ whin-stone, or he
canna thrive by soul-driving.”

Mr. Wilson arrived in Lancaster county, within a few miles of the
residence of the Whitmans and their neighbors, the Nevins, Woods, and
Conlys, with only three redemptioners, who were already engaged to
farmers in the vicinity, and the boy Jim, who was so lame that he had
been obliged to take him along in a wagon.




                              CHAPTER IV.
                          THE WHITMAN FAMILY.


The starting of a boy in the right direction, and the imparting of that
bent he will retain through life, is a work the importance of which
cannot be overrated. That our readers may appreciate the force of these
influences about to be invoked to shape the future,—to fling a ray of
hope upon the briar-planted path of this pauper boy, and quicken to life
a spirit in which the germs of hope and the very aroma of youth seem to
have withered beneath the benumbing pressure of despair,—we desire to
acquaint them with the character of Bradford Whitman, to whose guiding
influence so shrewd a judge of character as Robert Wilson wished to
surrender his charge (and moreover resolved to leave no method untried
to effect it), and in no other way can this object be so effectually
accomplished as by our relating to them a conversation held by Whitman
and his wife in relation to the building of a new dwelling-house on the
homestead.

Several of Whitman’s neighbors had pulled down the log-houses their
forefathers built and replaced them with stone, brick, or frame
buildings, but Bradford Whitman still lived in the log-house in which he
was born; it was, however, one of the best of the kind, built of
chestnut logs, with the tops and bottoms hewn to match, and the ends
squared and locked.

Whitman was abundantly able to build a nice house, and only two days
before the event we are about to narrate occurred, mentioned the subject
to his wife, saying that several of the neighbors had either built or
were about to build new houses, and perhaps she felt as though they
ought to build one, but she replied,—

“Bradford, you cannot build a better house than the old one, a warmer or
one more convenient for the work, nor could you find a lovelier spot to
set it on than this. It is close to the spring from which your father
drank when he first came here a strong lusty man, stronger, I have heard
you say, than any child he ever had. There’s many a bullet in these old
logs that were meant for him or some of his household.”

“True enough, Alice, for Peter dug a bullet out last fall that came from
an Indian rifle, and made a plummet of it to rule his writing-book; but
the same may be said of many other houses in this neighborhood that have
been taken away to make room for others, for there are but few on which
the savage did not leave his mark.”

“But I fear it would give the good old man a heartache to miss the house
in which his children were born, his wife died, all his hardships and
dangers were met and overcome, and his happiest days were spent.

“A little jar will throw down a dish that is near the edge of the shelf;
the least breath will blow out a candle that’s just flickering in the
socket, and though I know he would not say a word, I am sure it would
make his heart bleed, and I fear hurry him out of the world. Besides,
husband, while your father lives your brothers and sisters will come
home at New Years, and I have not a doubt they would miss the old house
and feel that something heartsome and that could never be replaced, had
dropped out of their lives. I hardly think you care to do it yourself,
only you think that as we are now well to do, I have got ashamed of the
log-house, and want a two-story frame, or brick, or stone one, like some
of the neighbors.”

“It would be very strange if you didn’t, wife.”

“No, husband; I am not of that way of thinking at all. We have worked
too long and too hard for what we have got together to spend it on a
fine house. Here are some of our neighbors whom I could name who were
living easy, had a few hundred dollars laid by that were very convenient
when they had a sudden call for money, or wanted to buy stock, or hold a
crop of wheat over for a better market, but their wives put them up to
build a fine house. It cost more than they expected, as it always does,
and when they got the house, the old furniture that looked well enough
in the old house, didn’t compare at all with the new one, they had to be
at a great expense to go to the old settlements to buy fine things; it
took all the money they had saved up, and now those same people, when
they want to buy cattle or hire help, have to come to you to borrow the
money.”

“That is true; for only yesterday a man who lives not three miles from
here, and who lives in a fine house, came to me on that same errand.”

“No, husband; you and I are far enough along to be thinking less of mere
appearances than we might have done once. We have three children to
school and start in the world; a new house won’t do that, but the money
it would cost will.”

“May the Lord bless you,” cried Bradford Whitman, imprinting a fervent
kiss on the lips of his wife, “and make me as thankful as I ought to be
for the best wife a man ever had. You have just spoken my own mind right
out.”

Alice Whitman blushed with pleasure at the commendation of her husband
so richly deserved, and said,—

“Husband, that is not all. If we have something laid by we can open our
hearts and hands to a neighbor’s necessities as we both like to do, and
I am sure I had much rather help a poor fatherless child, give food to
the hungry, or some comfort to a sick neighbor, than to live in a fine
house and have nice things that after all are not so comfortable nor
convenient as the old-fashioned ones.”

“You are right wife, for when John Gillespie was killed by a falling
tree last winter and all the neighbors helped his widow and family,
William Vinton said his disposition was to do as much as any one, but he
hadn’t the means, and the reason was that the cost of his new house had
brought him into difficulties. I knew it gave him a heartache to refuse,
and I believe he would have much rather have had the old chest of
drawers and the log-house and been able to give something to the
fatherless, than to have the new house and the nice furniture and not be
able to help a neighbor in distress. I hope Alice you won’t object to
having the old house made a little better and more comfortable,
providing it can be done without much expense.”

“If you will promise not to make it look _unnatural_, like an old man in
a young man’s clothes and wig, and if you meddle with the roof (as most
like you will) not to disturb the door that bears to-day the gash cut by
the Indian’s tomahawk who chased your mother into the house, and that
took the blow meant for her, nor meddle with the overhang above it,
through which your father fired down and shot him.”

Bradford Whitman put a new roof on the house and ceiled the wall up
inside with panel work, thus hiding the old logs. He also laid board
floors instead of the old ones that were laid with puncheons (that is,
sticks of timber hewn on three sides) that were irregular, hard to sweep
over and to wash. But in his father’s bedroom he disturbed nothing, but
left both the walls and the floors as they were before. The grandfather,
though he made no remark, yet manifested some trepidation in his looks
when the roof was taken off, and the floors taken up, and seemed very
much relieved when he found that the walls on the outside were not
disturbed, that the old door with its wooden latch, hinges and huge
oaken bar, the former scarred with bullets and chipped with the
tomahawks of the savages, remained as before. And when he found that his
son, with a thoughtfulness that was part of his nature, had, after
ceiling up the kitchen, replaced in its brackets of deer’s horns over
the fireplace, the old rifle with which he had fought the savage and
obtained food for his family in the bitter days of the first hard
struggle for a foothold and a homestead, not only expressed decided
gratification with the change but to the great delight of Alice Whitman
desired that his bedroom might be panelled and have a board floor like
the rest of the house. And the delighted daughter-in-law covered it with
rugs, into the working of which were put all the ingenuity of hand and
brain she possessed.

This was the family in which Robert Wilson desired to place James
Renfew, for notwithstanding in his passion, he had wished that James had
stuck the axe into his neck instead of his leg, he was really interested
in, and felt for, the lad, and wanted to help him.

He knew Bradford Whitman well, knew that he was as shrewd as
kindly-affectioned, and that he was bitterly prejudiced against the
business of soul-driving in which he was engaged, as Wilson had for
years vainly endeavored to persuade him to take a redemptioner; but he
had heard from the miller that Mr. Whitman was coming to the mill in a
few days with wheat, and he resolved to make a desperate effort to
prevail upon him to take James.

“He’s a kindly man,” said Wilson to the miller, “perhaps he’ll pity the
lad when he comes to see him.”

“Yes, he is a kindly man but if he could be brought to think that it was
his _duty_ to take that boy, your work would be already done, and if he
_should_ take him, the boy is made for life, that is, if there’s
anything in him to make a man out of.”

“Can’t you help me old acquaintance?”

“I would gladly, Robert, but I don’t feel free to, for this reason.
Bradford Whitman is a kindly man as you say, and an upright man, and a
man of most excellent judgment, a man who knows how to make money and to
keep it and is able to do just as he likes. We have always been great
friends, but he is a man quite set in his way, and if I should influence
him to take this boy, about whom I know nothing, and he should turn out
bad (or what I think is most likely, to be stupid and not worth his
salt) he never would forget it.”

But notwithstanding the backwardness of the miller to aid his friend,
the Being who is wont to shape the affairs of men and bring about events
in the most natural manner, and one noticed only by the most thoughtful,
was all unbeknown to the soul-driver preparing instrumentalities and
setting in operation causes a thousand times more effective than the
efforts of the miller (had he done his best), to bring about the purpose
Wilson had at heart.




                               CHAPTER V.
                            THE UNSEEN HAND.


As the Whitmans were seated at the supper-table of an autumn evening,
Peter, the eldest boy, who had just returned from the store, reported
that Wilson, the soul-driver, had come to the village and put up at
Hanscom’s tavern, with some redemptioners, and that Mr. Wood, one of
their neighbors, who had engaged one the last spring, was going over to
get his man, and they said there was a boy he hadn’t engaged, and wanted
some one to take him off his hands.

“From my heart I pity these poor forlorn creatures,” said the mother;
“brought over here to a strange land with nothing but the clothes on
their backs, and how they will be treated and whose hands they will fall
into, they don’t know.”

After the meal they all drew together around the fire, that the season
of the year made agreeable.

The children, hoping to obtain some old-time story from their
grandfather, drew his large chair with its stuffed back and cushion,
worked in worsted by the cunning hand of their mother, into his
accustomed corner. Bradford Whitman sat in a meditative mood, with hands
clasped over his knees, watching the sparks go up the great chimney.

“Bradford,” said the old gentleman, “I have sometimes wondered that you
don’t take one of these redemptioners; you are obliged to hire a good
deal, and it is often difficult to get help when it is most needed.”

“I know that there are a good many of these people hired by farmers;
sometimes it turns out well, but often they are villains. Sometimes have
concealed ailments and prove worthless; at other times stay through the
winter, and after they have learned the method of work here, run off and
hire out for wages in some other part of the country.”

“Husband, Mr. Wilson has been many years in this business, and I never
knew _him_ to bring any people of bad character.”

“He is too shrewd a Scotchman to do it knowingly, but he is liable to be
deceived. I have thought and said that nothing would ever tempt me to
have anything to do with a redemptioner, but when Peter came to tell
about that boy it seemed to strike me differently. I said to myself,
this is a new thing. Here’s a boy flung on the world in a strange land,
with nobody to guide him, and about certain to suffer, because there are
not many who would want a boy (for it would cost as much for his passage
as that of a man), and he will be about sure to fall into bad hands and
take to bad ways; whereas he is young, and if there was any one who
would take the pains to guide him he might become a useful man.”

“That, husband, is just the light in which it appears to me.”

“So it seemed to me there was a duty for somebody concerning that boy,
that there wouldn’t be allowing he was a man. When I cast about me I
couldn’t honestly feel that there was any person in this neighborhood
could do such a thing with less put-out to themselves than myself. Still
I can’t feel that it’s my duty; he might turn out bad and prove a great
trial, and I am not inclined to stretch out my arm farther than I can
draw it back.”

“My father,” said the old gentleman, “was a poor boy, born of poor
parents on the Isle of Wight. His father got bread for a large family by
fishing, and by reaping in harvest; and his mother sold the fish, and
gleaned after the reapers in wheat and barley harvest. The children as
they grew large enough went out to service.”

“What was his name?” said Peter.

“Henry.”

“What relation was he to me?” said Bert.

“Your great-grandfather. When he was sixteen years old, with the consent
of his parents, he came to Philadelphia in a vessel as passenger, and
worked his passage by waiting on the cook and the cabin passengers. The
captain spoke so well of him that a baker took him into his shop to
carry bread. A farmer who hauled fagots to heat the baker’s oven offered
to hire him by the year to work on his farm, and he worked with him till
he was twenty-one. After that he worked for others, and then took what
little money he had, and your grandmother who was as poor as himself,
for her parents died when she was young and she was put out to a farmer,
and they went into the wilderness. They cleared a farm and paid for it,
raised eight children, six boys and two girls. I was the youngest boy;
my brothers and sisters all did well, they and their husbands acquired
property and owned farms. Your mother and I came on to this land when it
was a forest. I with my narrow axe, she with her spinning-wheel; and a
noble helpmate she was as ever a man was blessed with.”

The old gentleman’s voice trembled, he dashed a tear from his eye and
went on. “We raised eleven children, they all grew to man’s and woman’s
estate, the girls have married well, the four boys are all well-to-do
farmers and prospering. There are nineteen farmers and farmers’ wives
without counting their children, and not a miserable idle “shack” among
them; all of whom sprang by the father’s side from that poor boy who was
the poorest of the poor, and worked his passage to this country, but
found in a strange land friends to guide him. So you see what good may
come from a friendless boy, if he is well-minded and helped.”

“You know, husband, the children have a long distance to go in the
winter to school, and a boy like that would be a great help about the
barn and to cut firewood, or go into the woods with you. The clothing of
him would not be much, for I could make both the cloth and the clothes,
and as for his living, what is one more spoon in the platter? And in
regard to the money for his passage you know we haven’t built any new
house, and so you won’t need to borrow the money.”

“Wife, if you want to take that boy, I’ll start off to-morrow morning
and get him.”

“I want you to do just as you think best in regard to taking anybody,
either boy or man. We are only talking the matter over in all its
bearings, and as you brought up the disadvantages and risks, your father
and myself were bringing up something to balance them; it is not a very
easy matter to decide, at any rate.”

“But father,” cried Peter, “Bertie and Maria and I want you to take
him.”

“Why do you want me to take him?”

“‘Cause we want him to come here and grow up to be a great, smart, good
man, just like our great-grandfather—and as grandfather says he will.”

“And we want to help about it and befriend him,” put in Bertie.

“And me, too,” cried Maria; “I want to befriend him.”

“No, Peter, I didn’t say he _would_ become a good man, because no one
knows that but a higher Power. I said that to my certain knowledge one
boy did, and that ought to be an encouragement to people to put other
boys in the way of making something.”

“Well, that’s what grandpa means,” said Peter, resolved to carry his
point.

“Father,” said Maria, “I want you to take him, ‘cause if Peter or Bertie
was carried ‘way off where they didn’t know anybody, and where their
father and mother wasn’t, they would want somebody who was good, to ask
‘em to come to their house and give them something to eat.”

“Wife, where did Peter get all this news that seems to have set him and
the rest half crazy?”

“At Hooper’s, the shoemaker. He went to get his shoes, and Mr. Hooper
told him that his father-in-law, John Wood, was going to-morrow to
Hanscom’s tavern to get a redemptioner Mr. Wilson had brought over for
him, and that neighbor Wood wanted him to get word to you that Wilson
had a man and a boy left. Mr. Wood wants you to go over with him
to-morrow and take the boy; he says you couldn’t do better.”

“I am going over there day after to-morrow to haul some wheat that I
have promised; if the boy is there I shall most likely see him.”

“Oh, father, before that time somebody else may get him.”

“Well, Peter, let them have him; if he gets a place, that’s all that is
needed.”

“But perhaps ‘twon’t be a good man like you who’ll get him.”

“He may be a great deal better man.”

More enthusiastic and persistent than her brothers, and unable to sleep,
the little girl lay wakeful in her trundle-bed till her mother and
father had retired, and then crawling in between them, put her arms
around her father’s neck and whispered,—

“Father, you will take the boy, won’t you?”

“My dear child, you don’t know what you are talking about. I have not
set eyes on him yet, and perhaps when I come to see him he will appear
to me to be a bad, or stupid, or lazy boy, and then you yourself would
not want me to take him.”

“No, father; but if you like the looks of him, and Peter likes the looks
of him, ‘cause if Peter likes him Bertie and I shall, will you take him
then?”

“I’ll think about it, my little girl, and now get into your bed and
cuddle down and go to sleep.”

Instead of that, however, she crept to the other side of the bed, hid
her face in her mother’s bosom and sobbed herself to sleep.

Notwithstanding the entreaties of the children, their father remained
firm in his purpose, but, at the time he had set, started, taking Peter
with him, as the lad was to have a pair of new shoes. He was also to buy
the cloth to make Bertie a go-to-meeting suit, as the cloth for the best
clothes was bought, and made up by their mother who wove all the cloth
for every-day wear. He was also to buy a new shawl for Maria, and get a
bonnet for her that her mother had selected some days before. In the
mean time Peter had received the most solemn charges from both Bertie
and Maria, “to tease and tease and tease their father to take the boy.”
Just as they were starting Maria clambered up to the seat of the wagon
and whispered in his ear,—

“If father won’t take him, you cry; cry like everything.”

Peter promised faithfully that he would.

When the sound of wagon wheels had died away in the distance, Bertie and
Maria endeavored to extract some consolation by interrogating their
mother, and Bertie asked if she expected their father would bring home
the boy.

“Your father, children, will do what he thinks to be his duty, and for
the best, but there is an unseen hand that guides matters of this kind.
I shall not be very much surprised if the boy should come with them.”

No sooner was the wheat unloaded than Peter entreated his father to go
and see the redemptioner.

“Not yet, my son, I must go and pay a bill at Mr. Harmon’s, he is going
to Lancaster to-day to buy goods and wants the money. And then I must
get your new shoes and the cloth for Bertie’s suit, and a bonnet and
shawl for Maria, and _then_ we will go.”

“Couldn’t you pay the bill please, and get our things after you see the
redemptioner?”

“I don’t know, I’ll see.”

The truth of the fact was, Mr. Whitman was sorry that he had expressed
before his family the transient thought that crossed his mind in regard
to the boy, because he felt that his wife and father were anxious that
he should take him, although they disclaimed any desire to influence his
actions; and being an indulgent parent, the clamorous eagerness of the
children aided to complicate the matter. He likewise felt that he had so
far committed himself, he must at least go and look at this lad, though
inclined to do it in that leisurely way in which a man sets about an
unpleasant duty. But, to the great delight of Peter, before the horses
had finished their provender, Mr. Wilson himself appeared on the ground.

“Good morning, Mr. Whitman. I understand from Mr. Wood, to whom I have
brought a man, that you want a boy. I have a boy and a man at the public
house and would like to have you step over and look at them.”

“I have never said to neighbor Wood nor to any one that I wanted a
redemptioner; he must either have got it from Peter here, through some
one else, or have imagined it. All I ever had to do in the matter was to
say, when we were talking in the family about your having a boy among
your men, that I did not know but it might be my duty to take the boy.
It was however merely a passing thought. I have about made up my mind
that I will have nothing to do with it, and I do not think it is worth
while (as I have met you) for me to go and see either of them.”

“You had better go look at them, your horses have not yet finished
eating.”

“I am an outspoken man, Mr. Wilson, and make free to tell you I don’t
like this buying and selling of flesh and blood. It seems to me too much
like slavery, which I never could endure. I think a capable man like you
had better take up with some other calling, and I don’t care to
encourage you in this. If you’ll buy oxen or horses or wheat I’ll trade
with you, but I don’t care to trade in human bodies or souls.”

“I know, Mr. Whitman, that we are called _soul-drivers_, and a great
many hard things are said of us, but just look at the matter for a
moment free from prejudice. Here is a young able-bodied man on the other
side, willing to work, but there is no work to be had, and he must do
one of three things—starve, steal, or beg; there is a farmer in
Pennsylvania who wants help but can’t get it. I introduce these men to
each other and benefit both. The farmer gets help to handle his wheat,
the poor starving man bread to eat, he learns the ways of the country,
and when his time is out can find work anywhere and become an owner of
land. You know yourself, Mr. Whitman, that within ten, twelve, and
twenty miles of here, yes, within five, are living to-day persons,
owners of good farms and one of them a _selectman_, another of them
married to his employer’s daughter, who were all brought over by me, and
came in rags, and who would not care to have their own children know
that they were redemptioners.”

“I’ve no doubt but that like everything else almost in this world, the
business has its benefits. And by picking out the best and leaving out
the worst parts of it, you may make a plausible showing so far as you
are concerned, but you know yourself that it is liable to be abused, and
is abused every day, and I don’t care to have anything to do with it.”

“But father,” cried Peter, with the tears in his eyes, “you _promised_
me you would go and see him when the horses had done eating.”

“I forgot that, then I will go; I never break a promise.”

“I will bring the boy here,” said Wilson, “it is but a few steps.”

“Perhaps that is the best way, as, now I think of it, I want to trade
with the miller for some flour.”

Wilson soon returned with our old acquaintance Foolish Jim, very little
improved in appearance, as his clothes, though whole, did not by any
means fit him. His trowsers were too short for his long limbs, and his
legs stuck through them a foot, and they were so tight across the hips
as to seriously interfere with locomotion. As to the jacket, it was so
small over the shoulders and around the waist it could not be buttoned;
a large breadth of shirt not over clean was visible between the
waistcoat and trowsers, as instead of breeches he wore loose pants or
sailor trowsers and no suspenders. The sleeves, too short, exposed
several inches of large square-boned black wrists, and on his head was a
Highland cap, from under which escaped long tangled locks of very fine
hair; and his skin, where not exposed to the weather, was fair. Jim was
so lame that he walked with great difficulty by the help of a large
fence stake, his right leg being bandaged below the knee, and he was
barefoot. He wore the same stolid, hopeless look as of old, and which
instantly excited the pity and moved the sympathies of Peter to the
utmost.

His father, on the other hand, could not repress a smile as he gazed on
the uncouth figure before him.

“Do you call him a boy, Wilson? If he was anything but skin and bones he
would be as heavy as I am, near about.”

“Yes I call him a boy, because he’s only nineteen, though there’s
considerable of him.”

“There’s warp enough, as my wife would say, but there’s a great lack of
filling.”

“He’s a wonderfully strong creature, see what bones and muscles he’s
got.”

The miller rolled out three barrels of flour for Whitman, and he and
Wilson went into the mill leaving James seated on one of the barrels.

“What do you think of him?” said Wilson when they were inside?

“I think I don’t want anything to do with him. What do you think I want
of a cripple?”

“That’s nothing; he cut himself with an axe after we landed, and I had
to carry him in a wagon, but it’s only a flesh wound. He’s got a good
pair of shoes, but has been so used to going barefoot that they make his
feet swell.”

“The boy looks well enough, Mr. Wilson, if he was put into clothes that
fitted him; is handsomely built, has good features, good eyes and a
noble set of teeth, and that’s always a sign of a good constitution. But
there don’t seem to be anything _young_ about him, and if he had the use
of both legs seems to have hardly life enough to get about. He is like
an old man in a young man’s skin. Then he has such a forlorn look out of
his eyes, as though he hadn’t a friend in the world, and never expected
to have.”

“Well, he hasn’t, except you and I prove his friends. It is the misery,
the downright anguish and poverty that has taken the juice of youth out
of that boy. He never knew what it was to have a home, and no one ever
cared whether he died or lived, but there is youth and strength; and
kind treatment and good living, such as I know he would get with you,
will bring him up.”

“Where did you get him that he should have neither parents, relatives,
nor friends?”

“From a parish workhouse.”

“I judged as much.”

“They gave him up, and he is bound to me.”

“It was not much of a gift; I wonder so shrewd a man as I know you to be
should have taken him with the expectation that anybody would ever take
him off your hands.”

“I know, Mr. Whitman, you think we are all a set of brutes, and buy and
sell these men just as a drover does cattle, but there’s a _little_
humanity about some of us, after all.”

He then related the circumstances with which our readers are already
familiar, saying, as he concluded the narration,—

“When I saw those miserable wretches with whom he was brought up,
dressed up in stolen clothes, and he in rags that were dropping off him;
heard them call him a fool because he would neither beg, lie, swear nor
steal; and when, being determined to know the truth of it, I inquired
and heard the story of the old nurse at the workhouse confirmed by the
parish authorities,—a change came over me, and I determined to take this
boy, but from very different motives from those that influenced me at
first.”

“How so?”

“You see I had engaged, and had to pay for, berths to accommodate
thirteen men, had been disappointed and had but twelve. The vessel was
about ready for sea, I had to pick up some one in a hurry and thought I
would take this boy. I knew I could get rid of him somehow so as to make
myself whole in the matter of trade. But when I heard about the poor
dying mother, and the good minister, I determined to take that boy,
bring him over here, put him in some good family and give him a chance;
and that family was yours, Mr. Whitman, and I have never offered this
boy to any one else, never shall. If you do not take him I shall carry
him to my house.”

“Body of me, why then did you come within two miles of your own house
and bring him here? And what reason could you have for thinking that I
of all persons in the State would take him?”

“I will tell you. You and I have known each other for more than
twenty-five years. I have during that time felt the greatest respect for
you, though you perhaps have cherished very little for me. I know how
you treat your hired help and children, and believed that there was
something in this boy after all,—stupid as misery has made him
appear,—and that you could bring it out both for your benefit and his,
whereas I cannot stay at home. I must be away the greater part of the
time about my business, and at my place he would be left with my wife or
hired men and small children. If I was to be at home, I would not part
with him even to yourself.”

Peter could restrain himself no longer, but climbing upon the curbing of
the millstone near which his father stood, flung his arms around his
parent’s neck, exclaiming,—

“Oh, father, do take him! I’ll go without my new shoes; Maria says she
will go without her new bonnet and shawl, and Bertie will go without his
new suit, if you will only take him. Grandpa wants you to take him, and
so does mother, though they didn’t like to say so. I can tell by
mother’s looks when she wants anything.”

Peter burst into a flood of real heartfelt tears, that would have
satisfied both his brother and sister had they witnessed it.

“Be quiet, my son; I’ll see about it.”

Wilson then handed him a certificate from the parish authorities, in
which they declared: “That the boy James Renfew had been under their
charge since he was three years of age, and that he was in every respect
of the best moral character.”

After reading this document Whitman said: “This is a strange story, yet
I see no reason to doubt it; neither do I doubt it, nor wonder that you
took the boy.”

“If you had been in my place, and seen and heard what I did, you would
have taken him in a moment. Those workhouse brats all have their
friends, and enjoy themselves in their way together. But because this
boy would not do as they did, they hated him and called him a fool, till
I believe he thought he was a fool; and I don’t know where they would
have stopped, short of murder, had it not been for one thing.”

“What was that?”

“The authorities told me that it was possible by long tormenting to get
his temper up, and then he was like a tiger, and so strong that they
were all afraid of him, and glad to let him alone. He seemed to me (so
innocent among those villains) like a pond lily that I have often
wondered to see growing in stagnant water, its roots in the mud and its
flower white as snow spread out on that black surface. He was, poor
fellow, shut out from all decent society because he was a workhouse boy;
and from all bad because he was a good boy. No wonder he looks forlorn.”

“Can he do any kind of work?”

“I will call him and ask him.”

“No matter now. What do you want for your interest in this boy?”

“The passage-money, eight pounds.”

“But you have a percentage for your labor, and you were at expense
keeping him at a public house, and after he was lame had to carry him in
a wagon.”

“My usual fees and the expenses would be about ten dollars. I will make
him over to you (as he is a boy and has about everything to learn before
he can be of much use) for four years for eight pounds. And if at the
end of a year you are dissatisfied, you may pay me the ten dollars, and
I will take him off your hands and agree in writing to pay you back the
eight pounds, in order that you may see that I do not want to put the
boy on you, just to be rid of him.

“I will take him, and if he runs away, let him run; I shall not follow
him.”

“Run?” said the miller; “when you have had him a fortnight, you could
not set dogs enough on him to drive him off.”

“I shall not take him but with his free consent, and not till the matter
is fully explained to him, Mr. Wilson.”

“Explained, you _can’t_ explain it to him; why he’s as ignorant as one
of your oxen.”

“So much the more necessary that the attempt should be made. I never
will buy a fellow-creature as I would buy a “shote” out of a drove.”

“You are not buying, you are hiring him.”

“Nor hire him of somebody else without his free consent.”

The boy was now called and Wilson said to him,—

“Jim, will you go to live with that man,” pointing to Mr. Whitman, “for
four years?”

“He my master?” said the boy, pointing in his turn to Mr. Whitman.

“Yes. He’ll give you enough to eat every-day, and good clothes to keep
you warm.”

“I’ll go, have plenty to eat, warm place to sleep, clothes keep me
warm.”

“You are to work for this man, do everything he tells you.”

“I love to work,” replied the boy with a faint smile.

“Tell him about the length of time,” said Whitman.

“You are to stay with him four years.”

“Don’t know.”

“He don’t know how long a year is,” said the miller.

“You are to stay four summers.”

“I know, till wheat ripe, get reaped, put in the stack four times?”
counting on his fingers.

“That is it.”

“Yes I go, I stay.”

“What can you do James?” said Mr. Whitman.

“I can break stones for the road, and pick oakum, and sort hairs for
brushmakers, and make skewers for butchers.”

“What else can you do?”

“I can drive horses to plough.”

“That indeed! what else my lad?”

“I can milk cows, and reap grain, and thrash wheat, and break flax.”

“What else?”

“I can hoe turnips, mow grass, and stook up grain.”

“That is a great deal more than I expected,” said Whitman.

The money was paid, and the writings drawn, at the miller’s desk who was
a justice. James made his mark at the bottom of the articles of
agreement, and Mr. Whitman gave an agreement to him, after reading and
explaining it to him.

When they left the mill three barrels of flour were lying at the tail of
Mr. Whitman’s wagon.

“Jim,” said Wilson, “put those barrels into that cart.”

He took hold of the barrels and pitched them one after another into the
cart, without bringing a flush to his pale cheek, though it burst open
the tight fitting jacket across the shoulders,—while Peter clapped his
hands in mingled pleasure and wonder.

“You won’t find many boys, Mr. Whitman, who can do that, and there are
twenty _men_ who can’t do it, where there is one who can. He’ll break
pitchfork handles for you, when he gets his hand in, and his belly full
of Pennsylvania bread and beef.”

Mr. Whitman did not take advantage of the self-denying offer of his
children, who had volunteered to give up their new clothes as an
inducement to their father to take the boy, but procured them all as he
had at first intended.

After calling at the public house to get James’ bundle, they turned the
heads of the horses homeward; refreshed by provender and a long rest,
and relieved of their load, they whirled the heavy wagon along at a
spanking trot. Peter in great spirits kept chattering incessantly, but
James sat silent and stoical as an Indian at the stake, apparently no
more affected by the change of masters than a stone.

Wilson compromised with his conscience by putting the boy into a good
family, and consulted his interest by putting the eight pounds in his
own pocket,—since the workhouse authorities had paid the passage-money
to the captain of the brig Betsy,—which he probably felt justified in
doing, as he had agreed and was holden to take the boy back if Whitman
at the end of a year required. He really meant to do it and keep the boy
himself, and do well by him, for like most men he acted from mixed
motives. It is easy to see, however, that he was not so thoroughly
upright as Bradford Whitman.

Thus was the _unseen hand_, spoken of by Alice Whitman, guiding both the
soul-driver and the Pennsylvania farmer, though they knew it not, and in
accordance with the prayers of that Christian mother whose last thought
was for her child.




                              CHAPTER VI.
                       “THERE’S LIFE IN HIM YET.”


In due time it appeared that this silent boy had been taking careful
note of the household arrangements and the routine of work. James had
hitherto slept till called to breakfast, but one morning Mr. Whitman at
rising found the fire built, the teakettle on, the horses fed, and James
up and dressed. As they were about to go to milking he took the pail
from Mrs. Whitman and said he would milk.

“You may take this pail, James, and I’ll take another; the sooner the
cows are out the better. Sometime when I’m in a hurry, or when it rains,
you can milk my cows.”

After breakfast James, without being told, began to clean the horses.
They were harvesting the last of the potato crop, and Mr. Whitman,
wishing to ascertain how much the boy really knew in regard to handling
horses, asked him if he could put the horses on the cart and bring it
out at night to haul in the potatoes as they sorted them on the ground.
James replied that the harnesses were not like those to which he had
been accustomed, but thought he could get them on. At the time he came
with the cart, it was evident that he was no novice in handling horses,
and that the animals knew it as he backed up his load to the cellar door
in a workmanlike manner.

Mr. Whitman expressed his approbation very decidedly, and Peter said
afterwards,—

“Father, he was ever so much pleased that you told him to bring out the
cart, and that you liked what he did.”

“How do you know that? What did he say?”

“He didn’t _say_ anything, but I have got so that I can tell when he is
pleased.”

Saturday evening came, work was cleared up early, and preparation made
for the Sabbath in accordance with the custom of our forefathers.

“This boy, husband, must not grow up among us like a heathen. He must go
to meeting, and I must make him a good suit of clothes to go with.”

“He is farther removed from being a heathen if, as is reported of him,
he will neither swear, lie nor steal, than some among ourselves who go
to meeting every Sabbath and yet are guilty of all three. I intend that
he shall not only go to meeting but to school as well.”

“I thought the only thing that made you ever think of getting a boy at
all, was to have his help in the short days of winter, as the children
have not time to do the chores before they go, and after they get home,
from school.”

“True, but since I have learned that he is ignorant of everything that
he ought to know, except what he learned by rote from the lips of that
minister, I feel that it becomes my duty to send him to school. A boy
who has made so good use of what he does know, in spite of poverty and
persecution, certainly deserves to be further instructed.”

“Then I must teach him his letters. I never would send one of my own
children to school till they knew their letters; I won’t him.”

“How will you ever get the time with all you have to do?”

“I’ll take the time, and Bertie can help me.”

“I’ll help you, mother. I’m going to teach him to tell the time of day
by the clock. I asked him if he would like to have me teach him, and he
said he would. He can swim and fire a gun first rate. I got him to talk
a little yesterday; he said he worked with a farmer who gave him powder
and small shot and kept him shooting sparrows that eat up the grain. And
after that he was all summer with the gamekeeper on a nobleman’s place,
and used to shoot hawks and owls; he says they call ‘em vermin there;
and he used to drive horses for weeks together.”

There were no Sabbath-schools in those days, but after meeting on
Sabbath afternoon Mr. Whitman catechized his children. They were all
assembled in the kitchen, and he put to Peter the first question:

“What is the chief end of man?” Peter replied,—

“To glorify God and enjoy him forever;” when James exclaimed abruptly,—

“I know that man.”

“What man?”

“God. Mr. Holmes used to tell me about him; and he’s a Lord, too,—he
made the Lord’s prayer and the Bible, and made me, and every kind of a
thing that ever was, or ever will be.”

“Mercy sakes, James!” cried Mrs. Whitman, holding up both her hands in
horror; “God is not a man.”

“I thought he was a great big man, bigger than kings or queens; and I
heard a minister what came to the workhouse read in the Bible, ‘The Lord
is a man of war.’”

“He is indeed greater than all other beings; but he is not a man, but a
spirit, and they that worship him, must worship him in spirit and in
truth.”

“What is a spirit?”

“Don’t you know what a spirit is, what your own spirit is?”

“No.”

“Oh, dear! What shall we do with him, Mr. Whitman? We shall be
accountable for him; we must get the minister to come and talk with
him.”

“Tut, the minister would not do any better with him than yourself, not
as well. Wait till he goes to school, and when he comes to obtain
knowledge in general, he’ll find out the distinction between flesh and
spirit. All will come about in proper time and place, as it has with our
children—they had to learn it, and so will he.”

“What else did Mr. Holmes tell you?” said Mrs. Whitman.

“He told me the prayer and said God made it, said you must remember the
Sabbath day to keep it holy. Mustn’t work that day nor play; that you
mustn’t lie nor steal nor swear for God didn’t like it, and if you did
he wouldn’t like you. He told me the commandments. Then I promised him I
would say the prayer every night and morning, and I have. I promised him
I would never lie nor steal nor swear, and I never did. I would be cut
in pieces first.”

“Where do you think you will go to when you die?”

“I shall go to heaven. Mr. Holmes said he expected to go there, and if I
did as he told me, I would go there and be with him. I want to go there
to see him. He’ll take me on his knees and kiss me just as he used to
do; nobody ever loved me only Mr. Holmes, and I never loved anybody else
only him.”

“Didn’t he never tell you about your mother?”

“Yes, and said she died praying for me; and gave me a bible that was my
mother’s, her name is in it, but I can’t read it, though I know where it
is.”

He drew a bible from his breast pocket and pointed with his finger to
the fly-leaf, on which was written “Estelle Whitneys, her book, bought
while at service at Bolton Le Moors.”

Bertie, who had become intensely interested in this narration, entreated
that he might have the sole care of instructing James, and as the
evenings were now quite long, the time after supper was devoted to that
purpose. As they took supper at an early hour this afforded them a good
opportunity, James being excused from milking and all other work at that
hour. James stipulated that he should first of all be taught to tell the
time by the clock. He was soon able to tell the hours and half hours and
quarters, and by the next Sabbath had mastered the minutes and seconds.

It was the intention of Mr. Whitman to ascertain and bring out the
capabilities of the boy by leaving him as much as possible to his own
direction, hoping in that way to stimulate thought, and cultivate a
spirit of self-reliance. He had engaged to haul another load of wheat to
the miller, and also wanted to have some corn (that the old grandfather
had shelled) ground, and the horses required shoeing, and as James had
recovered from his lameness, and was able to carry the bags of grain
into the mill, resolved to entrust him with the errand.

Mrs. Whitman demurred at this, saying that the horses had not done much
work of late, and were full of life; that he did not know anything about
James, whether he was capable of driving a team with a valuable load on
a long hilly road or not. Besides he knew neither the way to the mill,
nor to the smith’s shop.

“I’ve watched his movements with the horses, and I’ll risk him. He is
altogether different from one of our boys, who are quite likely to
undertake more than they can perform, and will hesitate at nothing. I’ll
ask him, and if he is willing to do it, I’ll let him go, and send Bert
with him to show him the way, and tell the miller and blacksmith what I
want done.”

“Why don’t you send Peter with him, and then all will go right?”

“That would be just to take the business out of his hands and spoil the
whole thing; whereas I want to put it into his hands and give him the
sole management of the team.”

James professing his readiness to go, the pair set out taking their
dinner with them. Bertie was heard chattering, expatiating upon the good
qualities of the horses, and telling James their names, ages, and
pedigree, till his voice became inaudible in the distance.

“If he rides eight miles with Bert and don’t talk any, he will do more
than I think he can,” said Mr. Whitman, as he looked after them, not
without a shade of anxiety upon his face as he remarked the rate at
which the spirited team whirled the heavy load down a long reach of
descending ground, snorting as they travelled. It passed off however, as
he saw that James had them well in hand, and stopped them to breathe at
the foot of the first sharp rise. They returned, having accomplished
their errand, and after James had eaten his supper and retired, Mr.
Whitman said to Bertie,—

“I did not expect you for an hour and a half, as you had to get a grist
ground, and the horses shod, and one of them shod all round.”

“Everything worked just as well as it could. There was no grist in the
mill, and Mr. Lunt turned our corn right up. I took the horses right to
the blacksmith’s and found Joe Bemis sitting on the anvil smoking his
pipe. Wasn’t I glad! So he went right at the horses. When I got back
James had carried in every bag of the wheat, and the grist was in the
wagon, and all we had to do was to feed the horses, eat ourselves, and
start. Mother Whitman, we found the prettiest place to eat! a little
cleft in the rocks, a birch tree growing out of it. Father, a bag of
wheat is just nothing to James, he’s awful strong.”

“What did Mr. Lunt say to him?”

“Don’t you think he didn’t know him?”

“Didn’t know him?”

“No, sir; and asked me who that man was with the team; and when I told
him it was the redemptioner you had of Mr. Wilson he wouldn’t believe it
for ever so long, and said he didn’t look like the same man. No, he
don’t father; he gets up and sits down quicker, and he was just pale,
but now there’s a little red spot in the middle of each cheek. His
cheeks were hollow and the skin was drawn tight over the bone, and
looked all glossy, same as the bark on a young apple-tree where the
sheep rub against it in the spring. He looked kinder,—what is it you
call it mother, when you talk about sick folks?”

“Emaciated?”

“That’s it; he looked emaciated but he don’t now.”

“How did you find the road?”

“They have been working on the road in the Showdy district, and it was
very bad, and the worst hills are there, too.

“If I had known that, I would not have put on so much load. Did you have
any trouble? Did James have to strike the horses, or did he get stuck?”

“He never struck them nor spoke to them, only chirruped, ‘cept once, and
that was on Shurtleffs hill. The nigh wheel sunk into a hole into which
they had hauled soft mud, and he said ‘Lift again Frank!’ Then old Frank
straightened himself, and took it out with a great snort, and when he
stopped him on top of the hill I could see the muscles on the old
fellow’s shoulder twitch and quiver.”

“Did he talk with you any, going to the mills?” said the mother.

“Never opened his mouth from the time we started till we got there, but
once; when he said it was a noble span of horses.”

“Then you think it is safe to send him with a team?”

“Safe, mother? he knows all about it. How to guide four horses or six,
and the horses know it, and do what he asks ‘em to. Frank thinks he
knows, and Dick does just as Frank tells him, for Dick hasn’t any mind
of his own.”

“How do you know what Frank thinks?”

“Mother, you may laugh, but I know what Frank thinks just as well as I
know what our Maria thinks. And he likes James, too; for when he hears
his step he’ll begin to look, and when James pats him he’ll bend his
neck and put his nose on his shoulder. Frank wouldn’t do that to anybody
he didn’t like.”

“Shouldn’t think,” said Peter, “he’d be very good company on the road if
he wouldn’t say anything.”

“When he sat down to eat he talked a lot. Said he never saw an ox yoked
in England,—that they did all their work with horses; called ‘em
bullocks and killed ‘em for beef; said they didn’t have any of our kind
of corn there, and the farmers gave their horses beans for provender,
and only a few oats, and that they fatted their hogs on peas and barley.
He said the beans they gave their horses were larger than ours. That
they had no woods, only scattering trees in the hedges, and all their
land, except where it was too rocky to plough, was just like our fields.
They would plough and plant and sow it ever so long, and then make
pasture of it and plough up what was pasture before, and keep twice as
many cattle on the same ground as we do.”

“I never thought,” said Mrs. Whitman, “that he would talk so much as
that; or that he knew so much about any kind of business.”

“Why mother, he knows more than I do, if I am his teacher.”

“I asked him why he, and the men who came over in the vessel with him,
couldn’t work in England and get their living, instead of going to the
poorhouse, or selling themselves to come over and work.”

“What did he say to that?” inquired the father.

“He said there were so many folks wanted to work, there was no work for
them, and because there were so many, the farmers would only give those
they did hire just enough to keep alive; and if they were taken sick, or
lame, or had no work, they must go to the workhouse.

“He said they used to send him away to farmers, and they would keep him
all summer, make him work very hard, and not give him half so much to
eat as he had at the workhouse, and after they got their harvest all in,
carry him back and say he was good for nothing, so as not to keep him in
the winter.

“I asked him if the workhouse folks ever drove him off, he said no, but
it seemed so much like begging to ask them, that rather than do it he
had gone three days without anything but water and a little milk.

“I asked him how he came to think of coming here. He said he knew winter
was coming on, he had no work, no clothes, and not a friend in the
world, and one day after the rest of the boys had been abusing him and
calling him a fool, and showing him things they had stolen, he put some
stones in his pocket and went down to the water to kill himself, but
something told him not to, and he flung ‘em away. And the next day Mr.
Wilson came along and asked him to go to America, and he thought he
couldn’t be in any worse place, and couldn’t suffer any more so he
came.”

“What did you say to that?”

“Father, I’d rather not tell.”

“You cried,” said Maria, “I know he did, father, he’s most crying now.”

“I couldn’t help it May, and I guess you couldn’t have helped it
neither, if you had only seen how pitiful he looked, and how sad his
voice sounded.”

“What did he say when he found you cried?”

“He put his arm round me and said ‘don’t cry Bertie,’ and said he was
sorry he made me feel bad. I tell you, all of you, I love him, I know
he’s good as he can be, and I knew he was from the first, ‘cause I saw
Frank loved him. Frank knows I tell you.”

“I suppose Frank will love anybody who’ll feed and make much of him.”

“No he won’t father, because there was Mike Walsh who stole your coat,
and ran off after you overpaid him, would feed him and try every way to
get the right side of him, but he couldn’t, and Frank would bite him
whenever he could get a chance; and you know father he couldn’t catch
him in the pasture.”

“Did he talk with you on the way home?”

“Never opened his mouth only to say ‘yes,’ or ‘no,’ or ‘don’t know.’”

“I shouldn’t think you’d like him so much as though he talked more, I
shouldn’t,” said Maria.

“Who wants anybody all the time a gabbing just like Matt Saunders when
she comes here to help mother draw a web into the loom, her tongue going
all the time like a pullet when she’s laid her first egg. I’ve heard
mother say it was just like the letting out of water, but when James
says anything there’s some sense to it,” retorted Bertie resolved in the
enthusiasm of friendship that no fault should be found in his _protégé_.

“Ain’t you glad you took him, father?”

“I took him because I thought it to be my duty, and I think we always
feel best when we have done our duty,” replied the cautious parent.

“I am!” exclaimed the grandparent, “what a sin and a shame it would have
been for a young able-bodied man like that to have remained starving in
rags, scorned by the sweepings of a workhouse, because he could find no
work by which to earn his bread, had too much pride of character to beg,
and too much principle to steal.”

“Aye,” said Alice Whitman, “and suppose he had been driven by misery to
take his own life. But now he is in a fair way to make a good and useful
member of society. As far as I am concerned, he shall have as kind usage
as any child of mine, for I believe he was sent to us.”

“The prayers of good persons are always heard, but are not always
answered at once; and I have no doubt it was the prayer of that
Christian mother that stood in the way to stay his hand when he thought
to commit murder upon himself.”

“You need not be afraid, Jonathan Whitman, to do for and trust that lad.
His father was a hard working Christian man, and his mother a hard
working Christian woman. There’s no vile blood in his veins, he was born
where the birds sang, and the grass grew around the door-step, if he did
find shelter in a workhouse. You’ll honor yourself and bring a blessing
upon your own hearthstone by caring for him.”

“Amen,” exclaimed the grandparent, laying his great wrinkled hand in
benediction upon the head of his son’s wife.

In making such minute inquiries of Albert in respect to the conversation
between himself and James, Mr. Whitman was influenced by a stronger
motive than mere curiosity. He knew, for he was a keen observer, that
James would unbosom himself to this innocent, enthusiastic and artless
boy in a manner that he would not to any other; and he wanted to get at
his inward life that he might thoroughly know, and thus understandingly,
guide and benefit him.

Reflecting upon what he had heard, he drew from it this inference, and
said within himself, “There’s life in him yet.”




                              CHAPTER VII.
                        NOBLE CONDUCT OF BERTIE.


The next day proved rainy, but Mrs. Whitman perceived
that—notwithstanding the lack of enthusiasm manifested by her husband
the evening before,—though there was much work under cover that was
quite necessary to be done, he did not set James about it; but told
Bertie that he and James might take the day to study, after doing the
chores, and, taking Peter, went to the barn to thresh beans.

“Father, can I teach James to write, too?”

“You have no writing-book.”

“I have one I didn’t quite finish last winter, and so has Maria.”

“There’s not a quill in the house, and but one pen that has been mended
till there’s not much of it left, and I can’t spare that.”

“We can pull some out of the old gander.”

“They will be too soft.”

“Mother says she can bake ‘em in the oven.”

“Well, fix it to suit yourselves.”

One obstacle surmounted, another arose.

“Mother, I can’t find my plummet, and there’s not a mite of lead in the
house; what shall I do to rule the writing-book?”

“Ask grandfather to give you a bullet; he’s never without bullets.”

When grandfather was appealed to, he said, “I have but one, Bertie; and
that’s in my rifle. I loaded her for an owl that’s been round trying to
kill a goose, but I will lend it to you to rule your book.”

He took down the rifle into which Bertie had seen him drive the bullet,
wrapped in a greased patch. “Grandpa, you never can get it out.”

“Go up stairs and get a bag of wool that is right at the head of the
stairs.”

When Bertie brought the wool, grandfather made a circle on the bag with
a smut coal, and a cross in the middle of it.

“Now, Bertie, take that bag out of doors and set it up where I tell you.
I’m going to put a bullet into the middle of that cross.”

After placing the bag at the distance pointed out, he said, “Where shall
I stand, grandpa?”

“Wherever you like, ‘cept betwixt me and that cross.”

“Why, grandfather, what are you thinking of? Come right into the house,
Bertie,” cried Mrs. Whitman, “your grandfather’s going to shoot.”

“What if I am,” replied the old man testily, “I’m not going to shoot all
over the country. His father would hold the bag in his hand, as he has
done smaller things, a hundred times.”

“I know it, grandpa; but you must remember that you are an old man now,
and of course can’t see as well as you could once, and your hand cannot
be so steady.”

“I can see well enough to thread your needle when you can’t, and well
enough to hit a squirrel’s eye within thirty yards.”

The old gentleman fired, the bag fell over and Bertie cried,—

“There’s a hole right in the middle of the cross, as you said, grandpa.”

“Indeed! I wonder at that. Wonder the bullet hadn’t gone up into the
air, or into the ground, or killed your father or Peter in the barn, or
into the pasture and killed one of the horses,” replied he, entirely
unable to digest the suspicion that his powers were waning, implied in
the caution of Mrs. Whitman to Bertie.

The bullet was found in the wool, having penetrated a few inches. After
hammering the bullet into the shape of a plummet on the andiron, he gave
it to Bertie, saying,—

“When you are done with it give it back to me, and I will run it into a
bullet again, for I want to kill that owl. It’s all I’m fit for now; to
kill vermin, some people think. I expect I’m in the way.”

Mrs. Whitman never noticed any little testiness that occasionally
clouded the spirit of the genial sunny-tempered old gentleman, who,
though he would sometimes say that he was growing old, could seldom
without disturbance brook the remark or even suspicion, from another.

He had been celebrated for strength and activity, and with the exception
of a stiffness in his legs, the result of toils and exposures in early
life, was still strong. It was surprising to see what a pile of wood he
would cut in an hour. He used no glasses, had every tooth he ever
possessed, his mind was clear, his judgment good, his health firm, and
his disposition such as made every one happy around him. Any labor that
admitted of standing still or moving slowly he could still perform;
could reap, hoe, chop wood, took entire charge of the garden, and could
work at a bench with tools, and nothing seemed to disturb the serenity
of his mind, save the suspicion that he was superannuated. No one could
equal him in putting an edge on a scythe, and he ground all the scythes
in haying time, the grindstone being placed under the old chestnut, and
fitted with a seat for his convenience.

Alice Whitman soon restored the old gentleman’s good humor by showing
him the pattern of a new spread for his bed that she was then drawing in
the loom to weave; she then wheeled his great chair to the fire, flung
on some cobs to make a cheerful blaze, and grandfather, restored to his
composure, began to chat and tell of the birch-bark writing-books they
had in his school days.

Thus did Bradford Whitman and his wife unite in smoothing the declivity
of age to one who had fought and won life’s battle; made many blades of
grass to grow where there were none before; reared a large family in
habits of industry and virtue; had fought with the savage in defence of
his own hearthstone; bore the scars of wounds received in the service of
his country, and having made his peace with God, resembled an old ship
just returned from a long and tempestuous voyage—her sails thread-bare,
her rigging chafed and stranded, her bulwarks streaked with
iron-rust—riding quietly at anchor in the outer harbor, waiting for the
tug to tow her to the pierhead.

The example of the parents infected the children, and they vied with one
another in attention to their grandfather and in obedience and affection
to their parents. Thus were Jonathan Whitman and his wife reaping as
they had sown, and daily receiving the blessing promised to filial
obedience.

Provided at last with quill and writing-book and plummet, the boys spent
the entire day in alternate exercises of teaching and learning the
letters of the alphabet, and to make straight marks.

When the boys had gone to bed, Mr. Whitman and his wife were looking at
the writing and the latter said,—

“The last of James’ straight marks are a good deal better than the copy
Bertie set for him.”

The old gentleman, after looking at it, said, “That boy will make a good
penman. You can see that he improves, as he goes on; his marks are
square and clean cut at top and bottom. I think, for a boy that never
had a pen in his hand before, he has done remarkably well.”

“Husband, what are you going to set James about to-morrow?”

“Driving horses to plough. Why?”

“We want some wood cut; and I don’t think your father ought to cut so
much as he does. The weather is getting cooler, and we burn a good deal
more, but I am afraid it will hurt his feelings if anybody else cuts
wood for the fire, as he considers that his work.”

“I can arrange that. I’ll tell him in the morning that I want James to
learn to handle an axe; that he undertook at Hanscom’s tavern to cut
some wood and stuck the whole bitt of the axe in his leg the second
clip, and ask him if he won’t grind an axe for him and take him to the
wood-pile with him, and teach him, and see that he does not cut
himself.”

The old gentleman was well pleased with the idea of teaching James an
art in which he was so competent to instruct, not in the least
suspecting that it was thought he could not supply the fire without
doing more than he was able.

No sooner was breakfast despatched than, having ground an axe, he
proceeded with James to the wood-pile.

The old gentleman set his chopping-block on end near a pile of oak and
maple limbs cut eight feet in length, and said to his pupil,—

“Now, Jeames (he held on to the old pronunciation) I’ll hold these
sticks on the block and I want you to strike just there,” pointing with
his finger, “where they bear on the log, because if you don’t, you’ll
jar my hands.”

Not, however, reposing much confidence in his assistant, he had taken
the precaution to put on a very thick patched mitten to deaden the jar.

James began to strike, the blows were forcible but most of them
misspent. Whenever he struck fair on a stick he cut it off as though it
had been a rush. But many times he struck over, and as many more fell
short, so that only the corner of the axe hit the stick, and sometimes
missed it altogether and drove the axe into the block with such force
that it was hard work to pull it out.

It was by no means the old chopper’s purpose to find fault, he praised
the vigor with which James struck and protected his own fingers from the
jar of the random blows as well as he could. In the course of an hour
James improved very sensibly; perceiving this, Mr. Whitman began to
point out some of his errors and said: “You must look at the place where
you mean to hit and not at your axe, and you must let your left hand
slip up and down on the axe-handle and guide your axe a good deal with
your right hand, whereas you keep a fast grip with both hands on the
axe-handle, just as a woman does when she undertakes to cut wood.”

James blushed and replied,—

“If I should do that way I don’t think I could strike as fair as I do
now.”

“You won’t at first, but after a while you will. You may cut off small
limbs on a block in your fashion, but you could not work to any purpose
in cutting large wood on the ground. I’ll cut a while and you may hold
on, and you’ll see how I cut.”

The blows of the senior were delivered with the precision of a machine.

James took the axe again, and though, at first, he seemed to retrograde,
it was not long before he became accustomed to the new method. The old
gentleman now began to put on the block sticks that were so large that
it required two or three blows to sever them when the blows were
delivered with precision, but it required seven or eight of James’. For
instance, if it was a stick that might be cut at two blows, he would
deliver one and cut it half off, and then, instead of striking in the
same scarf and severing it he would strike a little on one side or the
other and the blow went for nothing. He now saw that it was necessary to
strike fair, for by striking once in a place he could never cut a stick
of any size off, and feeling that when he did strike into the same place
it was more by chance than skill, began to be somewhat discouraged.

The senior noticed this and said,—

“Let me cut a spell, you are tired and will strike better after resting
a while.”

James could not but admire the precision and ease with which he lopped
the sticks, so true were the blows that when he took and looked at the
ends they seemed to have been cut at one blow, whereas the ends of his
sticks looked like a pair of stairs and the bark was in shreds.

When at the expiration of an hour the old gentleman gave him the axe,
and he saw what a pile of wood the former had cut, James could not help
saying,—

“I don’t believe I shall ever strike true.”

“Indeed you will; it’s all in practice. You mustn’t be discouraged if
you should find that little Bertie can strike truer than you can now,
for the boys here begin to chop as soon as they can lift an axe, whereas
it is a new thing to you.”

The next morning his instructor set James to cutting large logs, showed
him how to cut his scarfs and told him to strike slow, and as fair as
possible, for every miss clip was so much time and strength laid out for
nothing, and thinking it would only discourage James if he should go to
cutting logs with him, employed himself in splitting.

It was now an entirely different thing with James. He was stiff and
sore, but after he got warmed up, he found that he could strike a great
deal better. The old gentleman praised his work and told him he had a
mechanical eye and he knew it by his writing, and with practice he would
handle any kind of a tool.

The hands of James were now blistered, and Mr. Whitman, who had a large
breadth of ground to plough for spring wheat, made out two teams,—Bertie
driving John and Charlie for Peter, and James driving Frank and Dick for
him.

James proved an excellent driver, and Mr. Whitman was so much gratified,
that at night he said to his wife,—

“I believe, after all, that boy is going to make most excellent help, he
handles horses as well as anybody, young or old, that I ever had on the
place.”

“He has a great memory, and if he learns other things as fast as he
learns to read and write, you’ll never regret that you took him.”

“James,” said Mr. Whitman, as they were at work together the next day,
“did you ever hold plough?”

“I never was anything but a ploughboy. In England the ploughman does
nothing but plough, and in many places drives and holds both, but I have
held plough a few hours, and sometimes half a day, when the ploughman
was sick or away.”

“Well, take hold of the handles.”

Mr. Whitman took the reins, and James held so well, that his master kept
him at it till noon. Peter and Bertie were ploughing in the same field,
and they could not help going into the house for a drink, and telling
their grandfather that James was holding plough, and their father
driving the horses.

While matters were thus pleasantly going on among the Whitmans, the most
contradictory stories were circulated in the neighborhood in respect to
James.

Those who obtained their information from the landlord of the
public-house where Wilson put up, having James with him, averred that
Jonathan Whitman had got awfully cheated in a redemptioner; that he was
lame and underwitted; a great scrawny, loutish boy, and no life in him,
and had such a down look that many people reckoned he might be a thief,
most likely he was, for Wilson got him out of a parish workhouse.

Others were of opinion that the next time Wilson came that way he should
be treated to a coat of tar and feathers for putting such a creature on
to so good a man as Mr. Jonathan Whitman; still others said there could
be no doubt of it, for Blaisdell, Mr. Wood’s redemptioner, who came over
in the same vessel, said he thought he was underwitted or crazy, for he
never heard him speak, nor saw him talk with any of the passengers.

While this talk was going on in the bar-room, a shoemaker came in, who
said that Lunt the miller told him that the week before the redemptioner
was at his mill with Whitman’s youngest boy, and he never saw a man
handle a span of horses or bags of wheat better, and that he would pitch
a barrel of flour into a wagon as easily as a cat would lick her ear.

James Stone the peddler then said that the last time he was there, the
redemptioner was sitting in the sun on the wood-pile, while Whitman and
Peter were threshing in the barn with all their might, and the
redemptioner had been there a week then.

At that moment a drover, a joking, good-natured fellow, came into the
bar-room and said he was over in Whitman’s neighborhood that very
forenoon, and when he went by there about eleven o’clock, the
redemptioner was holding plough, and Whitman was driving, and the horses
were stepping mighty quick too.

This occasioned a great laugh, and the subject was dropped. The verdict,
however, remained unfavorable to James, as Eustis the shoemaker was not
considered very reliable, and Sam Dorset the drover was so given to
joking, that though a truthful man, everyone supposed he then spoke in
jest.

James now went again to the wood-pile with the old gentleman, and
chopped for four days in succession, the former cutting till he was
tired, and then going into the house or piling up the wood.

The weather was fast growing cooler, and it was the custom of Mr.
Whitman to cut and haul a large quantity of wood to last over the wet
weather in the fall and till snow came. He also wished to haul wheat to
the mill himself, and wanted Peter to go with him, going two turns in a
day. He therefore asked his father if he felt able to go into the woods
with James and Bertie, and show James how to fell a tree, and see that
he didn’t fell one on himself or Bertie.

The old gentleman said he could go as well as not, that he could ride
back and forth in the cart, chop as much as he liked, and then make up a
fire, and sit by it, and see to them, and he thought it would do him
good to be in the woods.

The old gentleman selected a tree and cut it down, while James who had
never seen a tree cut down in his life, looked on; he then selected
another and told him to chop into it. James did so, though he found it a
little more difficult to strike fair into the side of a tree, than into
a log lying on the ground. When it was more than half off his instructor
told him where to cut on the other side.

James walked round the tree and stood by the lower side of his scarf,
and was about to strike.

“You mustn’t stand there; turn round and put your left shoulder to the
tree, and your left hand on the lower end of the axe-handle, now
strike.”

“I can’t cut so, it don’t come right, I ain’t lefthanded.”

“That indeed! but all good choppers, when they fell a tree, learn to
chop either hand forward; you must put your right hand forward.”

“I couldn’t guide the axe with my right hand forward; I never could cut
a tree down in that way. I should only hack it off.”

“Well, hack it then, you must creep afore you can walk, it comes just as
unhandy to everybody at first.”

He then took James to a ravine, the sides of which were quite
perpendicular and the edges covered with large trees, and said,—

“Now, suppose you wanted to cut one of those trees, you couldn’t stand
on the lower side to cut, but must either cut them off all on one side,
or chop right hand forward. Besides, there is often another tree in the
way and you would have to cut both, to cut one.”




                             CHAPTER VIII.
                           INFLUENCE OF HOPE.


As the old gentleman ended, James heard the crash of a falling tree, and
saw that Bertie had just dropped a much larger tree than the senior had
given to him, and had also cut it right hand forward; this determined
him, and he began to chop into the side of another tree while his
instructor, feeling that James would rather not have his eye upon him,
went to help Bertie.

James took very good care to cut the tree almost off in his usual way,
in order that he might be compelled to chop as little as possible in the
new fashion (that is, new to him); he however found that little
sufficiently puzzling. Two only out of five blows that struck upon the
upper slanting side of his kerf took effect in the same place, but when
he came to strike in square across on the lower side, the first blow hit
the root of the tree, and the edge of the axe came within a hair’s
breadth of a stone; the next struck about half way between the root and
the spot aimed at, and the third alone reached the right place. James
sweat, grew red in the face, and showered blows at random, very few of
which effected anything, and when at length the tree came down the stump
looked as if it had been gnawed by rats. In cutting up the tree, James
recovered his equanimity, his nervous spasm passed off, and, resolved to
conquer, he cut the next only half way off in his usual manner, and when
he turned to the other side, succeeded so much better as to feel
somewhat encouraged, especially as he was assured by Bertie that it was
long before he learned to chop right hand forward, and that in his
opinion James was getting along remarkably fast, and would soon be able
to chop as easily with his right hand forward as with the left.

They had brought their dinners with them, and besides a jug of hot
coffee wrapped in a blanket to keep it warm. Bertie had also brought a
gun, and while James was making a great fire against a ledge of rocks he
shot a wild turkey, a great gobbler, and they roasted it before the
fire, and also roasted potatoes in the ashes, and set the coffee jug in
the hot ashes till the contents fairly boiled. They now made a soft seat
for grandfather with bushes, on which they spread their jackets, and he
sat with his back against the ledge that was warmed from the heat of the
fire, while the sun shone bright upon his person, and then they fell to,
with appetites sharpened by labor and the breath of the woods, and had a
great feast, drinking their coffee out of birch-bark cups that the
grandfather made and put together with the spike of a thorn-bush for a
pin.

This, which was but an ordinary affair to Bertie and his grandfather,
opened a new world to James. It was the first time in his experience
that pleasure was ever connected with labor. Hitherto labor with him
recalled no pleasant associations; it was hard, grinding toil, performed
to obtain bread, and under the eye of a task-master, and dinner was for
the most part a little bread and cheese, eaten under a hedge, or rick of
grain, with a mug of beer to wash down the bread, made largely of
peas,—with the dark background of the past and a hopeless future,—but
now every moment and every morsel was full of enjoyment. The good old
man, refreshed by rest and a hearty meal, breathing once more the air of
the woods where he loved to be, and exhilarated by old and pleasant
associations, was in a most jovial mood, that infected his companions;
and when Bertie, in response to some humorous remark of his grandfather,
broke out in a ringing laugh, James joined heartily in it. The surprise
of Bertie at such a development can only be imagined, not described. His
features expressed wonder, mingled with surprise, in so ludicrous a
manner as to provoke another peal of laughter from James, who from that
moment became a different boy. The fetters that had bound him to
despondency as with gyves of steel were loosened. A ray of sunlight
darted athwart the gloom, hope was born, and a dim consciousness of
something higher and nobler began to dawn upon him. He stretched himself
on the ground beside the fire, and lay looking up into the sky in a
perfect dream of happiness. Rousing himself at length, he asked the old
gentleman who planted all the trees on that land.

“The Lord planted them; they’ve always been here; as fast as one dies or
is cut down another comes up. We don’t plant trees here, except fruit
trees; we cut ‘em down. When I came on to this farm it was all forest,
and no neighbor within nine miles.”

“It must be some great duke or earl who owns this land. I shouldn’t
think he’d let you cut down so many trees. In England, if you cut a
little tree as big as a ramrod you’d be sent to jail, and I don’t know
but be hung.”

“Dukes or earls! We don’t have any such vermin here; but my father came
from England, and we’ve heard him say that there a few great proprietors
own all the land, and the farmers are mostly tenants and pay rent. Thank
God, any man who has his health and is sober and industrious can own
land here.”

“Does Bertie’s father own all this land?”

“Yes, it was mine; I gave it to him.”

“You can own a piece of land, James,” said Bertie; “I am saving my money
to buy a piece of land. I’ve got twenty dollars now, and a yoke of
steers that I am going to sell. I mean to have a farm of my own, and
raise lots of wheat, just as grandfather did, and then when I’m old I
can tell what I did, just as he does; and I hope there will be a war, so
that I can fight, and have it to tell of, and be made much of, just as
he is.”

“Such as me have a farm!” and James smiled incredulously.

“Sartain you can,” replied the senior; “if you are steady and
industrious and learn to work, when you have done here you can obtain
all the work you want at good wages. It takes but little money to buy
wild land. You can go where land is cheap and begin as I did.”

This was an idea too large for James to grasp, and seemed, though
magnificent, altogether fantastic. He again smiled incredulously, and
repeated to himself in a low tone, “Such as me have a farm!”

“Why do you say such as me?” replied the senior, who overheard the
remark. “If you want to be a man, and to be well thought of and
respected, and to have friends, all in the world you have to do in this
country is to learn to work and read and write and be honest; and nobody
is going to ask or care who your father was, all they will want to be
satisfied about is as to what you are. There’s nothing can hinder you,
nothing can keep you down.

“But there’s another thing, and it is of more consequence than all the
rest. If you want to feel right and prosper, fear the Lord who giveth
food to man and beast.

“When I came into these woods, all I had left after paying for my land
was the clothes on my back, my rifle, a few charges of powder and shot,
a narrow axe and a week’s provisions; all my wife had was her
spinning-wheel, cards, a few pounds of wool, two pewter plates, one
bottle and the clothes on her back and some blankets. I carried a pack
on my back, and my axe, and hauled the other stuff on a sledge—for it
was the last of March and there was plenty of snow in the woods—she
carried my rifle and a bundle.”

“But, Mr. Whitman,” said James, “if it was all woods and nobody lived
near, where were you and your wife going to stop?”

“My intention was to cut out a place to build a log-house, and I had
expected to reach the spot at noon, so as to be able to make a bush camp
by night to shelter us while building; but the travelling was bad, the
sun was down before reaching the spot and we came into the woods by
twilight.

“I built a fire after scraping away the snow with a piece of bark, and
as we sat by it and listened to the sound of the wind among the trees,
you don’t know how solemn it seemed.”

“I should have thought you would have felt afraid,” said Bertie.

“I had been well instructed, and both myself and wife had professed to
fear God—and did fear him—but we did not fear much else, though we had
but a week’s food, and were nine miles from any human being. We knelt
down together and I told my Maker there and then, that my wife and I
were a couple of his poor children; that she was an orphan and had been
put out since she was twelve years of age and had never had any home of
her own. That we had nothing but our hands, and health, and strength,
and were about to begin for ourselves in His woods; and wanted to begin
with His blessing. That we would try to do right, and if we found any
poorer or worse off than ourselves, would help them and be content with
and thankful for whatever He gave us, be it little or much.

“I then made a bed of brush for my wife, covered her with blankets,
threw some light brush on them, and sat all night by the fire with my
rifle in hand.”

“I guess grandmother didn’t sleep much?” said Bertie.

“She slept all night like one of God’s lambs, as she was, though she had
the courage of a lion. The next day I made a shelter of brush that kept
out rain and snow, and by Saturday morning I had built a house of
small-sized logs (such as your grandmother and I could roll up) with a
bark roof, a stone fireplace and chimney of sticks and clay. I had also
shot a buck, we brought a peck of Indian meal with us, your grandmother
baked her first loaf of bread on the hearth, and we kept the Sabbath all
alone in the woods with glad hearts. It is more than fifty years since I
thus sought God’s blessing, and during all that time I have never
lacked. I have raised up a large family of children; they are all
well-to-do in the world. I am still able to be of some use, and am ready
whenever the Master calls.

“Jeames, my laddie, fear God, you may be tempted to think trying to do
right has in the past brought you nothing but unhappiness, that you have
only been scorned and flouted because you would not take His name in
vain. But those bitter days will never come back. His providence has
brought you to us, and should you live as long as I have, you will never
regret having put your trust in Him!”

No force of learning, eloquence, or wit, could have produced so genial
and abiding an impression upon James, as the words we have recorded. The
character and person of the speaker himself—the very situation, beside a
forest fire—all tended to heighten both the moral and physical effect of
the sentiments uttered.

The elder Whitman possessed indeed a most commanding presence. His great
bones and sinews, now that the body was attenuated by age, stood out in
such bold relief as to challenge attention; showing the vast strength he
once possessed, and that still lingered in those massive limbs, while
the burden of years had neither bowed his frame, nor had age dimmed the
fire of his eye.

In addition to all this, the accounts James had heard from Bertie of his
encounters with the red men, and with bears, and wolves, together with
the scars of wounds that he had upon his person, supplemented by the
respect and affection with which he was treated by the whole household,
caused James to look upon and listen to him with awe and wonder.

He could understand the plain and terse utterances of the old woodsman,
and they gave a new and strong impulse to ideas and trains of thought
that were now germinating within him.

The next morning, as Mr. Whitman wanted the four horses to haul wheat,
he told Bertie they must take the oxen and cart with them, and bring
home a load of wood both at noon and night. He also told his father that
he had better not go, that two days’ work in succession and the travel
back and forth were too much for him. The old gentleman, however, said
it was not, he could ride in the cart; and that as they were now to cut
larger trees, it was not safe to leave the boys to fell them alone.

James had never seen an ox in the yoke, and he was much surprised to see
with what docility the near ox came across the yard to come under the
yoke, when Bertie held up the end of it and said,—

“Bright, come under.”

He also observed how readily they obeyed the motion of the goad, and
handled the cart just as they were directed.

“I never thought a bullock knew anything, but they seem to know as much
as horses,” said James.

“Yes, just as much.”

Having ground their axes—with grandfather in the cart—they started, and
when they came to the wood the oxen were unyoked to go where they
pleased.

“Won’t they run away?” said James.

“No, they saw the axes in the cart and know what we are going to do; you
see they don’t offer to start. The very first tree we fell, if it is
hard wood or hemlock, they’ll come to browse the limbs. They love to
browse dearly, and all day they won’t go farther than a spring there is
near, to drink.”

They now began to cut the trees, and the moment the cattle heard the
sound of the axes they came running to the spot.

“What did I tell you?” said Bertie. “They know what the sound of an axe
means, just as I know when I come home from school and see mother look
into the oven, or reach her hand up on the top shelf, she’s got
something good laid away for me.”

A road was first cleared, and then the trees were cut into lengths of
sixteen feet, and rolled up in piles on the sides of the road.

“What makes your grandfather have them cut so long, they can never be
put into a cart?” said James.

“This wood is for next winter, and won’t be hauled till snow comes, and
then it will be hauled on two sleds put one behind the other.”

Mrs. Whitman insisted that grandfather should take a nap after dinner,
and as Bertie had to wait to haul him out, James went to the wood-lot
alone. He had felled a large hemlock and was cutting off the first log,
when he observed a man on horseback attentively watching him. In a few
moments the man rode up and inquired where Mr. Whitman was. James
replied that he had gone to the mill with a load of wheat. He then
inquired if the oxen were there, James told him they would be along in a
few minutes, and as they were talking Bertie and the old gentleman came.
This person was the drover who had seen James holding plough, and who
occasioned so much merriment by saying so at the tavern. He felt of the
cattle, took a chain from his pocket, measured them, and then told the
old gentleman to inform his son to be at home the next Monday, for he
was coming that way then, and wanted to trade with him for the oxen and
some lambs.

When, on the next Saturday night, the usual company of idlers and hard
drinkers assembled in the bar-room of the tavern, the drover added still
more to the muddle of conflicting opinions in regard to James by telling
the crowd that he “went through the woods to Malcom’s, after lambs, and,
as he returned through Whitman’s woods, came across the redemptioner
chopping alone. That he had just cut a big hemlock and was junking it up
and handled an axe right smart. That he made some talk with him and
called him a real good-looking, rugged, civil-spoken fellow,” and went
on to say that he “wouldn’t give him for two, yes, three, of that
Blaisdell, Mr. Woods had got. The boy certainly was not lame, for he
stood on the tree to chop, and when he got down to speak to him didn’t
limp a particle, and he believed all the stories told about him were a
pack of lies, got up to hurt a civil young man because he was a
foreigner.”

This brought out the tavern-keeper, and the dispute came near ending in
a downright brawl, and was only prevented by the drover proposing to
“treat all hands and drop it.”

The elder Whitman was so much gratified with the progress made by James
that he resolved to make him aware of it. The next day proved stormy,
and after breakfast he brought out an axe that had been ground, and
said,—

“James, that axe of yours is not fit to chop with. It is not the best of
steel, nor is it made right to throw a chip, and the handle is too big
and stiff; it’s just the handle to split, not to chop with. But there’s
an axe Mr. Paul Rogers made for me that’s made just right to work easy
in the wood, and he is the best man to temper an edge-tool I ever knew.
My cutting days are about over and I’ll give it to you, and make a
proper chopping handle to it, and then we’ll grind it and you’ll have a
good axe.

“I’ve not the least doubt you’ll make a first rate chopper, and be real
‘sleighty’ with an axe. This is a heavier tool than I care to use now,
but you’ve got the strength, and practice will give you the sleight.”

James, stimulated by finding that he had finally mastered the
difficulty, and delighted with the kindly interest manifested by the old
gentleman, gave his whole soul to work; and by the time the winter’s
wood was cut could chop faster than either of the boys, and could drive
the oxen well enough for most purposes.

A variety of circumstances conspired not only thereby to develop the
ability of James, but also to prove that he was by no means untouched by
the kindness with which he was treated.

Mr. Whitman, having sold his large oxen to the drover, to be delivered
in a week, desired, before parting with them, to break up a piece of
rough land with them and the steers, and also to plough a piece of old
ground that had been planted with corn that year, and that two horses
could plough. All this work must be done speedily, as the ground was
likely to shut up.

In the evening the family were seated around the fire, Bertie
superintending James who was writing, when Mr. Whitman said,—

“Father, I don’t see but I must hire a hand. I want to plough a piece of
corn-ground for wheat, and I want very much to break up that rough piece
before I give up the old oxen. By hiring some one to drive for James to
plough for wheat I could accomplish it. After the land was struck out,
Bertie could drive the oxen and Peter tend the plough for me.”

“Peter is not strong enough to tend the plough in that ground. There
will be roots to cut, stumps to drag out of the way, great turfs as big
as a blanket to turn over; it needs a strong man such as this poor old
worn-out creature was when you was a boy. But I can drive the oxen, and
then you can have both boys to tend plough.”

“I never will allow that; you cannot travel over that rough ground. I
can stop the team once in a while, and help Peter.”

James, who had listened to this conversation, gave Bertie a hint to go
into the porch, and when they were alone, said,—

“Bertie, I can take Frank and Dick, and plough that ground alone.”

“You can’t do that, James; nobody here ever ploughs alone with horses.
They do sometimes with old steady oxen.”

“Yes, I can. In England most of the ploughmen drive themselves. The
corn-butts have been all taken off, and the plough won’t clog much.”

James resumed his writing, and Bertie soon made the matter known to his
father, who said,—

“James, can you plough that corn-ground alone?”

“Yes, sir; with old Frank and Dick. I would not try it with the other
horses.”

The next morning the two teams started at the same time. Bertie wanted
to go and see James begin, but his father told him to keep away, as he
had no doubt James would prefer to be alone.

Bertie was on tenter-hooks all the forenoon to know how his _protégé_
got along, and kept chattering incessantly about it.

“Father, I saw him cut four alder sprouts as much as six feet long, with
a little bunch of leaves left on the end, and then he stuck ‘em under
the hame-straps on Frank’s collar.”

“That was to mark his land out. The sprouts are so limber that the
horses will walk right over them without turning aside, and the tuft of
leaves on top will enable him to see them between the horses’ heads.”

At eleven o’clock they stopped to rest the oxen, and Bertie improved the
opportunity to climb a tree that he might be able to see James over the
rising ground between them.

“Can you see him?” said Peter.

“I can’t see him, but he’s ploughing all right. Everything is going
along just right.”

“How do you know that, my son, if you can’t see him?”

“Because, father, I can see the heads and part of the necks of the
horses, and they are going round and round as regular as can be. They
are stepping lively, too, and every now and then old Frank keeps
flirting up his head just as he does when he feels about right and
everything suits him. You know how he does?”

“No, I don’t know, for I don’t take so much notice of Frank’s ways as
you do.”

When they left work at noon, and while his father and Peter were tying
up the oxen, Bertie scampered off to the field where James had been at
work and came back in most exuberant spirits. After dinner he could not
be satisfied unless his father went out to see the ploughed ground, and
to his great delight his grandfather accompanied them.

The ground was a hazel loam, free of stones, and James had turned a back
furrow through the middle as straight as an arrow. The furrows were of
equal width; there were no balks, and it looked like garden mould. Mr.
Whitman was very much gratified, as Bertie knew by his looks, though he
merely observed,—

“That is good work.”

“It is as good a piece of work as I ever saw done,” said the
grandfather.

When night came Bertie importuned James to tell him how he drove the
horses so straight the first time going round, when they had no furrow
to guide them and held the plough at the same time.

James, in ridicule of Bertie, who was so fond of imputing human
intelligence to Frank, and with a sly humor, of which he had never
manifested a trace before, said,—

“I told old Frank I had never tried to plough alone before, and wanted
to plough a straight furrow, and I asked him if he wouldn’t go just as
straight for the marks as he could, and so he did.”

“Oh, now you’re fooling; come tell me.”

“I stuck up my marks, and then I drove the horses twice back and forth
over the ground, before I put the plough to ‘em. Don’t you know that
when a horse goes over ground the second time he always wants to step in
the same tracks?”

“No.”

“Well, he does, and if another horse has been along, to step in his
tracks. Did you never notice in the lanes and wood roads, how true the
lines of grass are each side of the horse?”

“Yes.”

“They wouldn’t be, if horses didn’t want to go in the same track. The
horses could see their tracks in the soft ground, and when I came to put
the plough to ‘em, knew what I wanted, and that helped me to guide ‘em.
Horses go in the main road because in the first place folks make ‘em go
there, and when the ruts get worn, the carriage keeps them there, and it
is easier than to cross the ruts. But in the pastures the horses and
cattle always have their beaten paths, and nobody makes ‘em go in them,
yet they always go in them,—and all go in them,—they wouldn’t be horses
if they didn’t.”

“What did you do with the reins?”

“Flung ‘em over my neck.”




                              CHAPTER IX.
                      THE REDEMPTIONER AT MEETING.


While James was thus giving new proofs of capacity for usefulness, Mrs.
Whitman had woven a web of cloth, sent it to the mill where it was
colored and pressed, and had made James a suit of clothes for meeting,
and a thick winter overcoat, and Mr. Whitman had bought him a hat.

Sunday morning came, Mrs. Whitman gave the clothes to James and told him
to go up stairs and put them on, that she might see how they fitted.
While the children, enjoying his dazed looks, were bursting with
repressed glee, Bertie capered around the room at such a rate that Peter
said he acted like a fool.

“Isn’t he stuck up?” said Peter.

“I mean to peek and see how he acts when he gets by himself,” said
Bertie with his foot on the lower stair.

“Don’t do that, Bertie; mother, don’t let him,” said Peter.

His mother called him back, and he reluctantly sat down to await the
conclusion.

At last they heard James, with a slow, hesitating step, descending the
stairs. He paused long in the entry, and at length opening the door as
cautiously as would a thief, crossed the room, and with a scared,
troubled look, went and stood by the window with his back to all the
inmates of the room, looking directly into the main road.

Mrs. Whitman found it somewhat difficult to compose her features as she
said,—

“Come here, James, and let me see how they set; they may need some
little alteration.”

When he turned, Mr. Whitman was looking straight at the crane, Peter was
buried in the catechism which he held up to his face, while Bertie and
Maria ran out to the barn and there vented their long suppressed
feelings in peals of laughter, till they had obtained sufficient command
of themselves to return to the house.

What unalloyed satisfaction, resulting from contributing to the
happiness of others, predominated in the breasts of that household, as
Mrs. Whitman turned James round and round, and invited the criticism of
her husband as to the set of the garments. The grave features of
Jonathan betokened a strong disposition to smile as he said,—

“I think they set well, and don’t see how you can alter them for the
better.”

“They are a trifle long, husband, and a little large, but I can turn up
a seam and it will do to let out again, for he’s growing.”

“Not one mite too large, wife, he’s at least forty pounds heavier than
he was when he came here.”

The children now came around him with the charitable desire of relieving
his embarrassment, and began to talk to him.

“What nice pockets!” said Bertie, thrusting his hands alternately into
those of the waistcoat, and into the breast-pockets of the coat. Maria
took hold of his hand and stood looking at the buttons of the coat, and
Peter, passing his hands over the shoulders of James, admired the fit of
the coat.

Mrs. Whitman now brought out the overcoat and put it on him, the
children assisting, and thrusting his arms through the sleeves.

James knew that Mrs. Whitman was making him a suit of clothes, because
she had taken his measure. But he did not know that she was making him
an overcoat, and that at the same time she measured him for the coat and
pants and waistcoat, had also measured him for that garment; neither did
she intend he should. The surprise therefore was as great as she could
have wished.

During all this time James stood like a statue, staring into vacancy,
while the children made their comments and handled his limp form as they
pleased. Mrs. Whitman, in the meantime, buttoned up the garment, pulled
it down behind and before, manipulated it in various ways, finally
pronouncing it as good a fit as could be made, concluding with the
declaration that James had a good form to fit clothes to.

“Ain’t they handsome? Don’t you like ‘em?” said Bertie, putting his arms
around the passive recipient of all these favors.

Instead of replying, this apparently insensible being burst into tears.
Peter and Maria drew back amazed. Bertie’s eyes moistened with
sympathetic feeling, and the situation was becoming sufficiently
embarrassing to all, when Mr. Whitman said,—

“James, put Frank and Dick into the wagon; it’s getting towards meeting
time, but go upstairs first, and take off your clothes.”

Thankful for the interruption, James quickly left the room.

“What made him cry, father?” said Peter. “Didn’t he like the clothes?”

“Yes, tickled to death with them.”

“Then what made him cry?”

“He cried for joy.”

“I didn’t know anybody ever cried because they were glad.”

“Some folks do; your mother burst out a crying when she stood up to be
married to me, and there never was a gladder woman.”

“I guess somebody who didn’t cry was just as glad,” retorted Mrs.
Whitman.

“That’s a fact, Alice; and has been glad ever since. Boys, run out and
help James water, clean, and harness the horses, because he has got to
shift his clothes again. Tell him he is going to meeting with us, and
that I want him to drive.”

The great bulk of the people, in that day, rode on horseback, the women
on pillions behind their husbands. They had the heavy Conestoga wagons,
for six, four, or two horses, to haul wheat to market, and for farm
work, but Whitman and a few of his neighbors had covered riding wagons.

As they neared the meeting-house Mr. Whitman told James to rein up, and
pointed out to him the horse block. This was a large stick of timber
placed near the main entrance of the church, one end of which rested
upon the ground, while the other was raised so as to be on a level with
the stirrup of the tallest horse. This arrangement accommodated
everybody; the elderly people rode to the upper end, where they could
dismount on a level, and where was a little platform, and a pair of
steps with a railing, by which they could descend from the timber, while
the others dismounted lower down. Many of the young gallants, however,
disdained to make use of the horse-block at all.

Great was the wonderment when James drove up to the block in such a
manner that the old grandfather could step out on the platform; and then
drove to the hitching-place under a great locust tree, in the branches
of which was hung the sweep of a well that furnished the people and
animals with water, as there was no house in the vicinity, and most of
the congregation came long distances to meeting.

From one to another the whispered inquiries and comments went around.

“Who is that driving the Whitmans?” said Joe Dinsmore to Daniel
Brackett.

“That’s Whitman’s redemptioner.”

“Pshaw! what are you talking about, most likely it’s some relation of
theirs from Lancaster. A mighty good-looking fellow he is, too; and has
seen a horse afore to-day.”

“I tell you it’s his redemptioner.”

“And I tell you I know better. Why, man alive, do you think a
redemptioner who’s a half fool, as everybody knows his redemptioner is,
and was took out of a workhouse, would look, and act, and handle horses
as that chap does?”

“Well, there’s Sam Dorset, the drover, knows him, and has spoken to him;
I’ll leave it to him.”

Beckoning to Dorset, who was sitting on the horse-block, to come near;
Brackett asked, —

“Who is that young fellow who drove Whitman’s folks up to the block just
now?”

“Jim Renfew, his redemptioner.”

“You are such a joker that it’s hard to tell how to take you. Be you
joking, or not? The story round our way is, and came pretty straight
too, for it came from the tavern-keeper with whom Wilson always puts up,
that Wilson took him out of a workhouse and that he’s underwitted.”

“I don’t know what he was took out of, but I know this much, that I was
by Whitman’s, saw him holding plough and Whitman driving. I was there
again, and came across him chopping in the woods and making the chips
fly right smart, and last week I went there after lambs, and saw him
ploughing by himself with the horses; and I venture to say there’s not a
man of all who run him down can draw so straight a furrow as that fellow
drew. I reckon Whitman has just got a treasure in that redemptioner, and
I, for one, am glad of it. Jonathan Whitman is a man who is willing that
others should live as well as himself, and uses everybody and everything
well, from the cattle in his pastures to the hired hands in his field.
And his wife is just like him, and so are the whole breed of ‘em; strong
enough to tear anybody to pieces and not half try, and wouldn’t hurt a
fly except they are provoked out of all reason, _then_ stand from
under.”

When the morning service was ended, Mrs. Whitman produced a basket of
eatables of which they all partook, after which Mr. Whitman went into
the porch.

It was not long before John and Will Edibean came into the pew and were
introduced to James. John was about the age, and a great friend, of
Peter, and Will of Bertie.

“Come,” said Bert, “let’s go sit in the carriage and talk till meeting
begins.”

The boys turned the front seat round, so that they faced each other, and
conversed, James putting in a word at times when drawn out by some
question from Peter, and while they were thus engaged Sam Dorset
sauntered along and shook hands with James.

In the porch Mr. Whitman encountered his neighbor Wood, who after
greeting said,—

“Jonathan, you was dead set against having a redemptioner, allers said
all you could agin the whole thing; now you’ve got one, how do you like
him?”

“I despise the whole thing as much as ever, but I like the redemptioner
well enough thus far; the old saying is ‘you must summer and winter a
man to find him out,’ and I have not done either yet.”

“If you haven’t changed your mind and still despise the whole thing,
what made you take this redemptioner?”

“I got kind of inveigled into it. Had he been grown man, such as most
any one would have been glad to have, I would have had nothing to do
with it, but when I came to look at the poor lad, lame, with scarcely a
rag to his back, without friends or money, and in a strange land, when I
found that he came out of a workhouse, and naturally thought he could do
no farm work, and noticed how kind of pitiful he looked, you don’t know
how it made me feel. I knew in reason that boy would be like to suffer,
because well-to-do people would not have him, and he would be almost
certain to fall into the hands of those who would abuse him.”

“I see it worked on your feelings.”

“More than that, it worked upon my conscience. I knew I was able to
protect that boy; something seemed to say to me, ‘Jonathan Whitman, you
won’t sell an old horse that has served you well, lest he should fall
into bad hands; are you going to turn your back upon a friendless boy,
made in the image of God who has blessed you in your basket and your
store?’ Still I could hardly bring myself to take a boy who had been
born, as it were, brought up, at least, in a workhouse, and thought to
give him a ten-dollar bill and get off in that way.”

“You didn’t want to take him into the family with your own children?”

“You’ve hit the nail on the head. As I said at first, I got inveigled
into it and took him; but if it was to be done over again I would do it.
Now that you have wormed all this out of me, I am going to measure you
in your own bushel. For these six years past you’ve been aching to take
a redemptioner, and importuning me to take one, now that you’ve got one,
how do you like him?”

“Not over and above, and I don’t mean to do much in the way of clothing
him, or keeping him, till I find him out. When I come to see how much
less he does than a man I could hire; and feel that I must keep and
board him all winter when he won’t earn his board; must run the chance
of his being taken sick or getting hurt, I find that it is not, after
all, such cheap labor as I at first imagined,—let alone the risk of his
running away after he finds out what wages he can get elsewhere. I am
going to find out what’s in him before I throw away any more money on
him. By the way, don’t you think you’re beginning rather strong with
your redemptioner? You take a boy right out of the workhouse, who, by
all accounts, has been hardly used and kept down, bring him into your
family, dress him up and treat him just like one of your own children;
don’t you think he’ll be like to get above himself and you too, and give
you trouble?”

“I don’t calculate to make him my heir, or indulge him to his injury;
but I mean that he shall have the privilege of going to meeting and to
school as my children do.”

“To _school_! What, send a redemptioner to _school_?”

“Yes, I am after the same thing that you are; you are trying to find out
what is in your redemptioner, and I in mine.”

“That’s a queer way to find out.”

“It is somewhat different from yours, but suppose you had a colt and
wanted to bring out his real disposition, which would be the surest way,
to keep him short, work him hard, give him a cold stable, never bed or
curry him, or to give him plenty of provender, a warm blanket, a good
bed, and dress him down every day?”

“I suppose if there was any spirit or any ugliness in him, the good
keeping would bring it out.”

“I think so, and if my man is of that nature that he can’t bear nor
respond to good treatment I don’t want him.”

“But you are taking a very costly way to get information; and if, after
all your expense of sending him to school, clothing, and buying books
for him, he gives you the slip, you have failed of your object, which
was to get cheap labor, and lost much money. While I, if my man proves
worthless, have only lost a portion of the passage money.”

“I shall not have failed of my object, since it was not my intention in
taking this lad to obtain cheap labor, or to make money out of him.”

“I should like to know what you did take him for? You’re a sharper man
than I am, can make two dollars where I make one, and calculate to get
labor as cheap as any body.”

“I took him because I thought it my duty to befriend a friendless boy.
His being a redemptioner had nothing to do with it; but his youth, his
misery, and his liability to be abused had. I don’t believe in cheap
labor, which means dear labor in the end. I don’t believe in losing
fifty bushels of wheat for the sake of saving two shillings on a man’s
wages in harvest. Thus I shall not fail of my object if the boy does not
turn out well, because I shall have discharged my duty. It seems to me,
neighbor, that upon your principle of not risking anything, not trusting
anybody, nor letting the laboring man have a fair chance, lest he should
take advantage of it, that business could not go on, or if it could,
that the relish would be all taken out of life.”

The conversation was interrupted by the arrival of the hour for
afternoon meeting.

Sam Dorset invited James to sit with him, he was about to decline but
Bertie gave him a punch in the ribs, and volunteered to go with them,
John and Willie Edibean taking their places in his father’s pew. It was
the design of Bertie to secure a friend for James who had some influence
among people in general, for the drover was a frank, good-natured
fellow, whom few could talk down and very few indeed dared to provoke,
and whose occupation gave him a large acquaintance.

We shall watch with interest the different methods pursued by these very
different farmers with their redemptioners.

In the course of the evening, Mrs. Whitman asked James how he liked the
minister.

“I liked to hear him talk; I knew who he meant by that man he talked
about in the afternoon, it was Mr. Holmes.”

“No, James, that was the Lord Jesus Christ.”

“I know he called him so, but that was who he meant, for he said he was
just as good as he could be, and went about doing good, and that’s just
what Mr. Holmes was, and just the way he did. I suppose he was afraid
Mr. Holmes wouldn’t like it if he knew he called him by name.”

“But, dear child, Mr. Holmes was nothing but a man, and the Lord Jesus
Christ is God.”

“The minister said he was a man and had feelings just like anybody. He
said he was born at a place called Bethlehem (if he was born he must be
a man) and told how he grew up, and said when a friend of his, a Mr.
Lazarus, died, he felt so bad he wept, and after that he died himself;
and now you say he was God, but one Sunday a good while ago when I said
God was a man, you said he wasn’t, he was a spirit.”

“You had better drop the subject there, wife. And you will understand it
better by and by, James, when you have heard more,” said Mr. Whitman,
“and when you can read the scriptures for yourself.”

This incident, however trifling in itself, gave token that new ideas had
begun to stir in that hitherto vacant mind, and to shape themselves into
processes of connected thought. It, at the same time, served to confirm
in the minds of his friends the belief already cherished, that he
possessed a most retentive memory; as they found that as far as he could
understand what he had listened to, he could repeat the most of both
sermons, and had committed the questions and answers in the catechism by
hearing Mr. Whitman ask them and the boys reply. The result of which was
that when they came to go through the catechism again, he could get
along as well without the book as the others could by its aid, and could
repeat what he was unable to read.




                               CHAPTER X.
                      THE REDEMPTIONER AT SCHOOL.


The great chestnut was the favorite resort of the boys and their mates
for planning all sorts of enterprises. In the hollow of it they kept
their bows and arrows, fishing-poles and bats. It was so large that a
little closet was made in one side, where they put foot-balls,
fish-hooks, skates, powder-horns, shot, bullet-moulds and anything they
wished to keep safe and dry. But in the winter they met for consultation
in a little room over the workshop, which was used to keep bundles of
flax in. And being on the south side of the barn, and three of its sides
and the space overhead filled with hay,—while the chimney of the
workshop ran through it,—was warm enough for them. When there was a fire
in the workshop they sat on bundles of flax with their backs against the
chimney; when there was not they burrowed in the hay and kept warm by
contact, or wrapped themselves in skins. The great object of Peter and
Bertie in introducing James to the Edibean boys, was that when he should
go to school he might have some companions beside themselves. They had
succeeded in inspiring them with the like interest for the welfare of
James, and many and grave were the consultations held under the great
tree, as the time for school to commence drew near.

In pursuance of a settled plan, the Edibeans began to come to Mr.
Whitman’s in the evenings. James was unwilling to spell or read before
them, or even to write, lest they should look over, and wanted Bertie to
go up stairs with him.

It was, however, no part of the boys’ plan to permit this, for their
design in inviting the Edibeans was to bring James to recite before
them, and thus to moderate the shock to his extreme diffidence that they
foresaw would occur when he should be compelled to recite before the
whole school; and Bertie, excessively proud of his pupil’s progress,
longed to exhibit him to his friends. So he hit upon this plan,—Willie
Edibean was a poor writer, but an excellent scholar in other respects.
Bertie borrowed his writing-book, and showing it to James and the
family, said,—

“There, James, only see how much better your writing is than Willie
Edibean’s. Isn’t it, father? Isn’t it, mother? See, gran’pa.”

“It is a great deal better,” said Mr. Whitman, taking both the books in
his hand and comparing them, and then handing them to his father.

“James,” said the latter, “you need not be afraid to show that
writing-book to anybody.”

“May I show it to the boys, James, next time they come?” said Bertie.

“When are they coming?”

“Day after to-morrow night.”

“I don’t want them to see this old book that I began in, but I’ve
written it full, and to-night I’m going to begin the new one your father
brought me. I will write in that to-night and to-morrow night instead of
reading and spelling, and then you can let ‘em see that.”

When the evening came and Bertie produced the writing-book, James’ face
was redder than a fire coal. The boys lavished their praises upon the
writing, in which all the family joined. Indeed they laid it “on with a
trowel.”

To relieve the embarrassment of James, and prevent the boys from
increasing it by their questions, Mrs. Whitman placed a bowl of
butternuts and chestnuts upon the table. But the old grandfather changed
the subject much more effectually by saying,—

“Fifty years ago this morning, about day-break I shot a Seneca Indian
behind the tree these butternuts grew on, with that rifle that hangs
over the fireplace, buried him under it, and his bones are there now.”

No more was thought of writing, reading, or spelling, that evening, and
for half an hour the nuts were untasted.

James soon became so accustomed to the Edibeans, that he did not
hesitate to write when they were present, and John Edibean proposed that
they should have a reading-lesson together, and also a writing-lesson,
after which they should spell together, the whole family taking part,
which was done.

James could now read short sentences and spell most words of two
syllables, and could make a better pen than any of them; the boys soon
ascertained this and got him to make their pens. So little a matter as
this tended very much to inspire him with confidence, and help him
overcome the shrinking sensitiveness and self-deprecation when
contrasting himself with others, and which he ever manifested in the
expression, “such as me or the likes of me.”

When they were about to write, it was quite ludicrous to hear Bertie
sinking the master in the pupil, and with much effort to keep a sober
countenance, saying,—

“Master, please mend my pen.”

Jonathan Whitman had a good set of carpenter’s tools, made all his farm
implements that were constructed of wood, and repaired his buildings.
This tendency he inherited from his father, who, according to the son,
possessed much more mechanical ability and ingenuity than himself,
though the stern struggles and exigencies of his early life left scant
opportunity for the practice of it. But now in his old age he spent much
time in the shop, repaired all the farming tools, and was considered the
best man to make a wheel or stock a rifle in the whole county.

One day he was making a gate, and having lined some boards, set James to
split them up with a ripping saw, and after he had finished, said,—

“You have split those boards as true as I could have split them, and cut
the chalk mark right out. If I had set either of our boys to splitting
them, the line would have been left sometimes on one side and sometimes
on the other, and they’d have been sawed bevelling, and wider on one
side than the other.”

He then laid out some mortises, and set James to boring and beating them
out with mallet and chisel, and then to planing the slats, after which
he said,—“James, I see you have a mechanical eye and a natural turn to
handle tools. I knew that before by your chopping. I advise you to
cultivate it, because it will give you a means to earn your bread. I’m
most always here stormy days in the winter, come in and practise with
the tools, and I’ll show you. If, as I trust you will, you should have a
piece of land, it will be a great thing in a new settlement to be able
to handle tools.”

Scarcely had the old gentleman and James left the shop, than Peter,
Bertie, and the Edibeans came in, replenished the fire to heat the
chimney, and taking some skins from the wagon, ascended to the loft
above, and seated themselves for consultation, evidently with something
of great weight upon their minds.

“The fact is,” said Peter, “school begins in two days. James is going,
father says so. How he’ll look, great big creature, bigger than the
master,—yes, he could take the master and fling him over his
head,—standing up to read and spell with little tots not up to his
knees. I don’t believe he’ll be able to get a word out.”

“That’s not the worst of it,” said John Edibean, “perhaps some of ‘em
will laugh because he’s a _redemptioner_, Sammy Parsons called Mr.
Wood’s man an old redemptioner, and the man flung a stone at him and
hurt him awfully.”

The master, Walter Conly, was a farmer’s son, living two miles distant,
and the boys knew him well, as he had kept the school the winter
previous.

“Let us do this,” said Willie, “Walter Conly is a nice man; we’ll go
over there this evening, tell him all about James, how fast he learns
and how hard we’ve been trying to help him, and ask him if he won’t hear
him read by himself, and not put him in a class with little children.”

“So we will,” said Bertie, “he’s going to board round, and I’ll ask
father to tell him to come to our house first and get him to send a note
by me, and then James will get acquainted with him. We’ll call you the
minute we get our supper.”

Mr. Conly, a young man of nineteen, who labored on his father’s farm in
the summer and taught school in the winter, and under the instruction of
the minister was fitting for college, received this deputation of his
best scholars with great cordiality. He listened to their story with
great interest, and expressed his gratification at the spirit they had
manifested, and the efforts they had put forth to benefit James, but
told them that he would improve much faster to be in a class than to
recite by himself, as there would be more stimulus, though he might be
subjected to some mortification at first.

“If,” said he, “James has so good a memory, and is as willing to apply
himself as you have represented, he will very soon begin to excel his
mates, because the mind of a boy of that age is more mature than the
mind of a child, and he is capable of more application. He will outstrip
them, that will encourage him. I will then put him into a class with
older scholars, which will stimulate him still more. I shall put him to
nothing but reading, writing, and spelling, for the first two months,
but at home you can teach him the multiplication table, and then give
him some sums to do in his head, and thus prepare him to cipher the last
part of the school term.”

Bertie was a beautiful boy, with a face that expressed every emotion of
his heart, and Mr. Conly, observing a shade of disappointment upon his
handsome features, said,—“Boys, you have manifested such a noble spirit
in regard to James, that I would not, for any consideration, that you
should feel hurt or be in any way discouraged. On the other hand, I want
you to feel satisfied and happy, and if you are not content with my
method I will hear him by himself.”

The boys, after talking the matter over among themselves, concluded the
master’s plan was the best.

“I see what troubles you in particular. You fear that as he has never
been at school, coming on the floor to spell, and standing before me a
stranger, will so confuse him that he will not be able to spell perhaps
at all; certainly not to do himself justice. I think, however, we can
get over that. The school was so large last winter that I was compelled
to make use of some of the older scholars as assistants. It will be
larger this winter, as the two districts are to be put together and the
term lengthened. I will appoint you, Albert, to hear the class that I
put James in, and that will go a good way towards giving him
confidence.”

“O, sir, I thank you.”

“We all thank you,” said John Edibean.

“That will make all the difference in the world,” said Peter. “You see,
sir, what makes him so sensitive is that in England they picked upon him
and called him ‘workhouse,’ and in the vessel coming over, the rest of
the redemptioners and the sailors did so. Mr. Wilson told my father,
after he came here, a good many mean fellows at the public-house made
fun of him and called him a redemptioner. He told me that a good many
people who came to look at and see if they would take him, called him
hard names. One man told Mr. Wilson he was a chowder-head; wasn’t worth
his salt, and the best thing he could do would be to put a good stone to
his neck and drop him into the mill-pond. And another man asked Wilson
whose cornfield he robbed to get that scarecrow.”

“He was lame then, sir,” said Bertie, “‘cause he had cut himself and had
on the worst-looking old clothes, and such a downcast look. But now he
has good clothes; is not lame, has got red cheeks, and we think is real
handsome.”

“So he is, Bertie,” said Mrs. Conly, the master’s mother. “I saw him in
your pew Sunday, and told husband when we came home I guessed that young
man was some of your mother’s relations from Lancaster.”

When the boys reached home, Bertie noticed that James seemed a good deal
disturbed about something, and very sad, and in a few moments went to
bed.

“What is the matter with James, mother? What makes him look so
downcast?” said Bertie.

“Your father has told him he must go to school, and he feels bad about
it, I suppose.”

Bertie ran up stairs and told James not to feel bad about going to
school, for the master was a real kind man, and he was going to hear him
recite there just as he did at home. James’ ideas of school were very
vague; he only knew that he was going among a crowd of strange boys to
be exposed to criticism, and put under a new master, but much comforted
by what Bertie told him, he composed himself and went to sleep.

The morning school was to begin, the boys took an early start, thus
giving James an opportunity to view the schoolhouse. It was a log
building of the rudest kind, and nearly a hundred years old. It had
remained without alteration, except receiving a shingle roof and glazed
windows. The walls were chestnut logs of the largest size, save a few
near the top, and the crevices between them were stuffed with clay, and
moss and hemlock brush had been recently piled to the windows around the
whole building, for the sake of warmth. The door was of plank with
wooden hinges and latch.

It was situated in a singularly wild and rugged spot, on a high ridge of
broken land, over the surface of which huge boulders and precipices
alternated with abrupt hills and swales of moderate extent, the whole
region heavily timbered with oak, chestnut, and beech.

The ancient building seemed to have appropriated to itself the only
level spot in the vicinity, a little green plot, though of small extent.

It was bounded on the northwest by a precipice that rose perpendicularly
above the roof of the schoolhouse that was built within a few feet of
it. On the summit of this cliff were large beeches that thrust their
gnarled roots into the interstices of the rock, and flung their branches
over the ancient building. The main road was through a natural break in
the ridge of rock, and beside it a pure spring of water supplied the
wants of the school, and the necessities of travellers.

There lay in the mind of this apparently stolid lad, whose life hitherto
had known neither childhood nor joyous youth, a keen susceptibility to
impressions of the beautiful and majestic in nature. Through all those
years of misery it had lain dormant and undeveloped, but of late the
woods and fields had begun to have a strange fascination for him, he
knew not why, and his happiest hours were spent while laboring alone in
the forest. He had as yet seen nothing to compare in rugged grandeur and
beauty with this, and the old schoolhouse was in such perfect keeping
with its wild surroundings that it seemed to have grown there.

“Do let me look a little longer.”

This to Bertie, who was pulling him by the arm and saying,—“Come, let’s
go into the schoolhouse. I want you to speak to Arthur and Elmer Nevins
before the rest come; they are first-rate boys and live close by here,
this land is on their farm. I want you to see Edward Conly, the master’s
brother, too.”

“In a moment.”

James kept gazing, and for the first time the thought came into his
mind: “Oh, that I could own land like this!” As this idea like the
lightning’s flash darted through his mind, and with it all the stories
he had heard the old grandfather tell of persons who began with only
their hands and obtained a freehold, it was with reluctance he at last
permitted Bertie (who might as well have tugged at a mountain) to pull
him away from the spot.

Entering the house they found the Nevins boys, Edward Conly, and a few
more of both girls and boys present, with a fire sufficient to roast an
ox and every window open. The boys had overdone the matter, for the
schoolhouse, though old, was warm, being sheltered by the precipice and
the forest from the cold winds. It had been stuffed with moss and clay
that fall, and the logs, though decayed on the outside were of great
size, making a very thick wall and sound at heart.

If the outside of the house had arrested the attention of James, the
inside was much more calculated to do so. The fireplace was of stone.
The jambs and mantel were large single stones, the back composed of
single stones set edgewise upon each other. There were a large pair of
shovel and tongs, but no andirons, and in their stead were two stones
four feet in length, and a foot in height, to hold the wood and afford a
draft beneath, and an iron bar laid across to keep the wood from rolling
out.

The walls were of rough logs with the bark still adhering, except where
it had been pulled off by the busy fingers of the children. There was no
flooring above, all was open to the roof and the purlins were decked
with swallows’ nests, the birds having found admittance at some place
where the clay had fallen out, and despite the noise of the children
during the summer school, had reared their young and migrated at the
approach of winter. Along the walls on either side were seats for single
scholars, and the space between was filled up with seats that held
three, and aisles between.

Arthur Nevins was nineteen, and Edward Conly eighteen, they were
therefore among the largest boys, excellent scholars, of good principles
and dispositions, and met James in a very kind and social manner.

“I am going to take my old seat,” said Bertie, selecting one of the
single seats in the back corner,—“Where are you going to have yours,
James?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, take the one right before me, put your books in it, and sit down,
then you’ll hold it.”

Peter, John, and Will Edibean took the back seat next to Bertie; Arthur
and Elmer Nevins, and Edward Conly the seats before them. Thus by
previous arrangement among the boys, who were no novices in these
matters, James had Bertie directly behind; Peter and the Edibeans,
Arthur and Elmer Nevins, and Edward Conly on the side, and behind; all
fast friends to each other and all friendly to him. Peter, Bertie, and
the Edibean boys, had determined to make the school pleasant for James,
by prejudicing the Nevins boys and Edward Conly in his favor, and they
had come to school thus early for that purpose. Let boys alone for
carrying out any plan of that kind they get in their noddles. They never
let the iron cool on the anvil, not they.

By the time the master came they were nearly all seated, though there
was some bickering about seats, that was not settled but by an appeal to
him, and some trading for seats among the boys themselves.

The majority of the boys had quills for pens, plucked from their
parents’ geese.

Nat Witham,—a disagreeable lad, whom the boys had nicknamed Chuck,—sat
in the seat before James; his hands were covered with great seed-warts
that he was always pricking, and endeavoring to put the blood on the
hands of the smaller children, to make them have warts, and pulling the
hair of the children before him. He got more whippings than any boy in
school, and deserved more than he got.

Bertie and Arthur Nevins gave this boy a Dutch quill each, to change
seats with Stillman Russell, a good scholar, and a boy whom they all
liked. Having thus successfully carried out all their plans, the
Whitmans and Edibeans flattered themselves that they had arranged
matters satisfactorily for their own progress and comfort, and that of
James during the school term, but they were destined to find that,—

                 “The best-laid schemes o’ mice and men
                           Gang aft a-glee.”

Great was the curiosity manifested, when the master called out the class
to which James had been assigned, and told Bertie to hear them. You
might have heard a pin drop. James was taller by a head than any boy in
the school, and his classmates were children; they had attended a
woman’s school in the summer, but it was two months’ previous; they had
become rusty, and had to spell half their words. James, on the other
hand, who had been over the lesson with Bertie the evening before and
early that morning, read right along in a very low tone, but without
hesitating a moment, greatly to the relief of Bertie, whose heart was in
his mouth, for he was afraid James would not muster courage to hear the
sound of his own voice.

It was no less a matter of surprise to the school, most of whom were
ready to titter at seeing such a big fellow reading with little
children.

When, in the afternoon, he came to write, and the master complimented
him for the excellence of his writing, James took heart of grace and
felt that the worst was over, and when he entered the house at night,
Mrs. Whitman gathered from the expression of his face that all had gone
well.

While Peter and James were doing up the chores at the barn, Bertie, who
was bringing in the night’s wood, embraced the opportunity to unbosom
himself to his mother.

“Oh, mother, James did first-rate, ma’am, first-rate.”

“Yes, child, I hear you.”

“He’s tickled to death. What do you suppose he did, mother? He didn’t
know anybody saw him, but I was up on the haymow; he put both arms round
Frank’s neck, and hugged him, and talked to him ever so long, and I
expect he told Frank how glad he was that he had read and spelt, before
the whole school, and got through the first day.”

“What reply did Frank make?” said his mother, laughing.

“He wickered. You may laugh, mother, but he knew well enough that James
was glad, and that was his way to say he was glad too.”

“I suppose Frank heard you on the mow, and wickered for some hay.”

“James,” said Bertie, not heeding the interruption, “won’t talk with
other folks, but he’s all the time talking to the horses when he thinks
nobody hears him.”

The naturally proud and sensitive nature of James shrank from familiar
contact with those who had been reared under such different conditions.
He was haunted with the notion that, in their secret mind they looked
upon him as inferior, and notwithstanding the kindness they manifested,
did in thought revert to his former condition; but in regard to the
animals this feeling had no place, he lavished upon them his caresses,
and understood their expressions of gratitude. To them, he well knew,
the redemptioner and “work’us” was master, benefactor, friend.

Thus passed away the first week of school, to the mutual satisfaction of
all concerned.




                              CHAPTER XI.
                           THE PLOT EXPOSED.


The next week the master set James copies in fine hand, and also copies
of capital letters; and he began to learn at home, and recite to Bertie,
the multiplication table, that was, in those days, printed on the covers
of the writing-books. The next week the master gave him short sentences
to copy, and wound up the week’s work on Saturday, with setting him for
a copy of his own name and that of his mother before her marriage. James
was so much delighted with this as to overcome his usual diffidence, and
show it to Mr. Whitman.

When school was half done, Mr. Conly put James into the class with
Bertie, who no longer instructed James in reading, spelling, or writing
at home, as the latter could read nearly as well as his former teacher;
and write much better than any boy in the school, or even the master.

The afternoon of Saturday was a half-holiday and stormy; the old
gentleman had a fire and was at work in the shop. Mr. Whitman having
broken a whiffletree in the course of the week, laid the broken article
on the bench, intending to mend it. James saw it, made a new one by it,
and put the irons of the old one on the ends. About the middle of the
afternoon, Mr. Whitman bethought himself of the whiffletree, and going
to the shop, found the remains of it on the bench, and a new one lying
beside it.

“Father, did you make this whiffletree?”

“No, Jonathan; your redemptioner made it.”

Mr. Whitman made no remark, but his father noticed that afterwards, on
stormy days, he but seldom gave James any indoor work, but seemed well
content to have him work in the shop with his father, who in the course
of the winter and spring taught him to dovetail, hew with a broad axe,
and saw with a whipsaw.

Although Peter, Bertie, and their friends, had taken such unwearied
pains, and exhausted their ingenuity, to render the position of James at
school both pleasant and profitable, circumstances conspired to render
their efforts, to a great extent, and for some time, abortive.

Children hear all that is said in the family, and often much more than
it is meant, or desirable, they should.

Many of the boys at the other extremity of the district, had seen James
while Wilson had him at the tavern. They had many of them heard
disparaging remarks made by their parents and brothers at home. Some of
them had listened to the talk in the public-house by their elders
respecting him, and imbibed the tone of feeling in the neighborhood that
was in general hostile to redemptioners, and were thus prejudiced
against him, even before he came to school. The parents of some of the
largest scholars were, in politics, the opposite of the Whitmans, and
they had heard their parents say that no doubt Jonathan Whitman took
that ragamuffin to train him up to vote as he wanted him to, and then
would get him naturalized. This feeling of prejudice would have probably
worn off, if James had been less reserved, and had joined with the rest
in the horse-plays that were ever going on at recess and between
schools.

James, however, did not know how to play; sport and amusement were to
him terms without signification. The only things he could do that boys
generally practise were to shoot, swim, and throw stones. He could shoot
indifferently well, swim like a fish, and could kill a bird or a
squirrel with a stone.

His sensitiveness made him believe the boys would not care to associate
with him, and his whole mind was given to his books, for he had begun to
appreciate the value of knowledge, and desired to make the most of the
present opportunity, for he did not expect to have another.

When the other boys were at play during noon and recess, he was in his
seat getting his lessons, and never spoke unless he was spoken to.

This gave occasion to those who had come prepared to dislike him to say
that he was stuck up; that the Whitmans and Edibeans, Nevins and Conlys,
had made too much of him; that he was getting too large for his
trousers, and should be taken down, and they were the boys to take him
down; that he put on great airs for a redemptioner, just out of the
workhouse.

Some were nettled because he, in so short a time, distanced them in
study, and in spelling went above them, and kept above.

The master one day gave mortal offence to William Morse, because, being
busy setting copies, he told him to go to James to mend his pen.

Some who disliked the Whitmans and Edibeans, because they were better
scholars than themselves, and their parents were better off, were
willing to see James annoyed, because they knew it would annoy them.

Chuck Witham felt aggrieved because he had sold his seat so cheap, and
wanted Bertie and Arthur Nevins to give him two more quills; but they
told him a bargain was a bargain, that they gave him all he asked; and
being possessed of a sullen, vindictive temper, he likewise was on the
watch to annoy them through James.

This hostile spirit had been long fermenting in the breasts of a portion
of the scholars, and was only prevented from breaking out in offensive
acts from wholesome fear of the strength of James, and uncertainty in
regard to the temper of one so reserved.

The boys were constantly pitting themselves against each other, and
testing their strength and activity by wrestling, jumping and lifting
rocks and logs.

James never manifested the least interest in their sport, not even
enough to look on. Thus they could find no opportunity to form any
estimate of his strength, or disposition. His whole bearing, however,
was indicative both of strength and activity, for he had lost the low,
creeping gait he once had, and the despondent look. In addition to this,
two of their number, Ike Whitcomb and John Dennet, were fishing for eels
in the mill-pond the day Wilson brought James to Mr. Whitman, and told
the others that they saw him pitch the barrels of flour into the wagon
as though they had been full only of apples. This information tended
also to inspire caution.

There was still another sedative, and by no means the least influential.
There was a circle of friends around James, not merely those we have
named, but several others from both districts, of like sympathies and
principles; and though far inferior in numbers, they comprised the best
minds and the most energetic persons of the whole school, and were
actuated by a sentiment of chivalry, taking the part of the oppressed,
that made them doubly formidable.

Arthur Nevins was in his twentieth year; the most, athletic boy in the
school, the leader in all exercises that tested strength and endurance,
and resolute as a lion. There was no doubt which side he would take, in
any affair that Peter or Bertie Whitman were concerned in.

As, however, this feeling of enmity increased, and grew all the faster
from being causeless, and open rupture being considered imprudent,—it
found vent at first in ill-natured remarks, slurs and gibes, as, for
instance: “There goes the redemptioner.” “Here comes ‘work’us;’ got any
cold vittles?” “Any old clo’es?”

At noon, when James was in the schoolhouse, and his enemies outside, one
boy would shout to another so as to be heard all over the
schoolhouse,—“I say, John Edmands, do you know how to pick oakum?”

“No.”

“Well, then ask Redemptioner. He learned the trade in the work’us, and
he’s a superior workman.”

Did James leave the schoolroom at recess, half a dozen snowballs flung
by nobody would hit him. When at night he had his books under his arm
going home a volley of balls would cover his books with snow.

James endured all this in silence, and without manifesting the least
resentment, which only served to encourage imposition. Not so, however
the Whitmans, and the Nevins boys, and the Valentines; when either of
those caught a boy flinging a snowball at James, they returned it with
interest, and Arthur Nevins generally had an icy one at hand.

This brought on a general snowball fight, under cover of which James, as
his enemies said, “meeched” off.

It was now the turn of James to build the fire. Orcutt, who built it the
morning previous, had put on a very large rock-maple log, which, being
but half burnt out, gave promise of a noble bed of coals for James to
kindle his fire with in the morning.

After school at night, the three boys cut up and carried into the
schoolhouse a large quantity of wood to build the morning fire, but when
James reached the schoolhouse in the morning, there was not a coal on
the hearth, the fireplace was full of half-melted snow, and not a single
stick of all the wood carried in the night before was to be found
anywhere.

James had his axe on his shoulder, and was equal to the occasion; he cut
a log, back-stick, fore-stick, and small wood, went into the woods and
split kindling from a pine stump, then went to Mr. Nevins’ for fire.
Arthur and Elmer instantly came with him; Elmer with a firebrand, and
Arthur hauling a load of dry wood on a hand-sled, which, in addition to
what James had already prepared, made one of the hottest fires of the
season, and soon dried up the snow-water that flooded the hearth, and
the floor around it that was smeared with ashes. They cut some
hemlock-brush, made a broom, and soon restored things to their pristine
order.

“Now,” said Arthur, “whoever did this thing thought that James, not
being used to wood fires, would not be able to make one; the master and
scholars would get here, find no fire, and he would appear like a fool,
and be blamed. James, don’t you lisp a word of it, and we won’t; if it
comes out, the one who did it will have to tell of it himself, and then
we shall find out who did it.”

The perpetrators of the trick did not know that James had built the fire
every morning at Mr. Whitman’s for two months.

Just as the school was called to order, Arthur and Elmer came in, and
stood so long with their backs to the fire, that the master at last
said,—

“Boys, are you not sufficiently warm?”

They were by no means suffering from cold, but as they stood thus,
facing the whole school, they took careful note of the surprise depicted
on several faces at finding a good fire, and everything as usual,
likewise of sundry nods, winks, and whispers; sometimes saw something
written on a slate, and the slate held up for some one in another seat
to read the message. When the two brothers came to compare notes that
night, after returning home, they were not in much doubt as to the
perpetrators of this low trick.

The Nevins boys held themselves in readiness to assist James, if
needful, the next morning, who came early but found everything as usual.

“Their gun has missed fire,” said Arthur to James.

“Elmer, you and I must be all eyes and ears, for we shall certainly hear
about it to-day. They’ll get no fun out of it, unless it comes out.”

It was not long after school began, before there took place an unusual
movement all over the room. Every one seemed to be excited in regard to
something, but in a very different way; some very much pleased, but by
far the larger number indignant. Presently a slate was passed to Arthur,
on which was written, “There is a story going, that night before last
the fireplace was filled with snow, and all the wood we cut was carried
off; but it is a lie, for if it had been so, James would have told us of
it,” signed “Albert.”

The slate was passed back with the question, “Who told?”

Soon the answer was returned,—

“Chuck Witham started it.”

At recess the affair became a matter of discussion, but it was almost
universally condemned. Even most of those who were prejudiced against
James and the Whitmans revolted at the low character of this act.

The girls came out _en masse_ in favor of James, avowing it was the
meanest and most dastardly thing they ever had heard of; that there was
not a more obliging or better behaved boy in the school than James, and
if they knew who the fellows that did it were they would never speak to
them again.

The girls had ascertained the willingness of James to oblige; for,
noticing that he always made and mended pens for Bertie Whitman, they
got Maria to carry their pens and quills to him, and as they became
better acquainted, went to him themselves.

Arthur Nevins said very little, but taking Chuck aside said,—

“Who told you all that news?”

“Sam Topliff.”

He went to Sam, and found that Will Orcutt told him. Going to Orcutt he
inquired,—

“Who told you about what was done in the schoolhouse, night before
last?”

“None of your business.”

“Say that again, I’ll shake your teeth out of your head; you were one of
them.”

“No, I wasn’t one of them, neither.”

“Ay, my fine fellow, you may think it a good joke, but I can tell you it
may prove a sore joke to you. Every decent boy, and all the girls in
school, are down on you; and if it gets to the ears of the master and
the school-committee, you’ll see trouble, for it was not merely a trick
upon a boy, but it was trespass, breaking into the schoolhouse in the
night. You broke a lock, you villain. Mr. Jonathan Whitman is one of the
school-committee, and is not a man to be trifled with; you had better
think about it.”

He then left him, but when Arthur started for home at night, Will Orcutt
followed him and said,—

“I wasn’t one of them, and you needn’t think, nor say, I was.”

“Then why won’t you tell who told you?”

Orcutt made no reply.

“If you’ll tell me the names of all who were in it, I’ll give you a
pistareen, and if you won’t, I’ll tell Mr. Whitman you was one of them.”

“I’m afraid to; they’ll lick me to death.”

“I never will tell who told me.”

“But they’ll know, because they know I am the only one, except
themselves, who knows who did it.”

“If I guess whom they were, will you tell me if I guess right?”

“If, instead of the pistareen, you’ll give me a quarter, and keep it to
yourself till day after to-morrow noon, I’ll tell you.”

“Why don’t you want me to keep it to myself any longer than till day
after to-morrow noon?”

“Because to-morrow is my last day of school, and I am going off the next
morning to Reading, to learn a trade, and I know you won’t tell a lie.”

“I’ll give you the quarter, and promise to keep it till then.”

“Then go into the schoolhouse with me. I’ll show you on the fire-list.”

The fire-list was a paper fastened to the master’s desk, on which were
the names of all the boys who were expected to take their turns in
making the fires, and Orcutt pricked with a pin the names of William
Morse, David Riggs, George Orcutt.

“Two of them are the very fellows I had picked out, the other was Sam
Dinsmore. I never should have thought your brother George would have
been in it.”

After this matter came out, the boys told James that he was able to take
his own part, and ought not to tamely submit to anymore abuse; for still
the petty insults from small boys, set on by the larger ones, continued.

Peter Whitman told the others, that there were only four or five large
boys who set the rest on, and they ought to pitch into them, give them a
good beating, and protect James.

“I don’t feel like going into a fight,” said Arthur, “to protect a
fellow who is better able to protect us than we are him, and could
thrash the whole of ‘em with one hand tied behind him; they are a set of
cowards, and would be quiet enough if they once saw in him any
inclination to resist.”

“I think as Arthur does,” said Elmer.

The Edibean boys were of the same mind.

“But he won’t resist. He’ll only say, ‘It is not for such as me to be
making a disturbance,’” said Bertie, sorely puzzled.

“Do you think he’s afraid of ‘em, Bertie? Don’t he know we’ll back him
up?”

“I don’t believe he cares a straw for them, or cares whether anybody
backs him up, or not; but it seems as if he thinks, because he came out
of a workhouse, that he was made for other people to wipe their feet
on.”

“Let’s go at him,” said Stillman Russell; “and tell him that he must
stick up to them, and thrash the next one who insults him, and we’ll
back him up. But if he don’t, we shan’t care anything about him and
shall be ashamed of him.”

“That’s it; only leave the last part out, for that would break his
heart, and it would be a falsehood for me to say I would not care
anything about him,” said Bertie; “and let us also do another thing.
James thinks everything of my grandfather; they talk together a great
deal, when they are at work in the shop, and grandfather never will tell
anything if you ask him not to. We’ll tell grandfather the whole story,
and get him to stir James up. If grandfather tells James to defend
himself, he’ll think it’s right, and he will, but as for us, we are but
boys like himself.”

“It is not for such as me to make any disturbance. I didn’t go to school
to make a disturbance. I went to learn,” was the reply of James to his
aged adviser.

“_Such as me_,” replied the irate grandfather; “don’t ever use that
phrase again. Haven’t I told you, time and again, that in this country,
one man’s as good as another, provided he behaves as well; and if he
don’t he is not. It’s the character, and not the nation, the blood, nor
money, that makes a man here.”

“The boys in the school don’t seem to think so.”

“The most of ‘em do, and their parents do, and the most of their parents
wouldn’t uphold ‘em in anything else. It is only a few rapscallions who
are at the bottom of the whole thing. They are keeping the whole school
in confusion, and taking the attention of the scholars off their
lessons; and you are helping to keep it along by putting up with it. If
they insult you without provocation, knock ‘em over, and they will be
quiet as frogs, when a stone is flung into the pond.”

“It is not my place to strike and hurt boys whose fathers own land, when
my father hadn’t any land; my mother went out to service and died in the
workhouse, and was buried by the parish. If I was in England they would
all call me a workhouse brat. Old Janet, my nurse, when she got mad used
to say to me,—

“‘My grandfather was a hieland lord and my father was a hieland
gentleman; but your mither was a servant girl, and your father was a
hedger and ditcher, and out of nothing comes nothing, ye feckless
bairn.’”

“Pshaw, it’s no fault of yours that your parents were poor and that you
was born in a workhouse, nor disgrace neither; and it’s no merit of
theirs that their fathers own land. It came about in the providence of
God, who is no respecter of persons.”

“Is not a man who owns land, better than one who don’t?”

“No; he may be a great deal worse; owning land don’t make a man any
better in the sight of God, and it ought not to in the sight of men.”

“I always thought that anybody who owned land was next to the quality;
ain’t the quality better?”

“No.”

“I always thought they were kind of little kings.”

“Kings are no better.”

“O, yes, grandfather, kings must be better, because the Bible tells
about ‘em; and Mr. Holmes always used to say, his most sacred majesty.”

“All moonshine; half of ‘em are great rascals. Being a king don’t make a
man better or worse any more than owning land does. It only gives them a
better chance to act out their true characters.”

“If a king was no more and no better than a man, how could he cure the
king’s evil?”

“No king ever did cure it, and it’s my opinion it never was cured.”

“O, yes, there was Farmer Vinal’s son, whose father I worked for, had a
great swelling on his neck, and his father carried him into the
procession when the king went to the tower, and the king touched it and
it went away.”

“I’ve no doubt it went away,” replied the sturdy republican; “but if the
king had never been born, it would have gone away all the same. It’s a
disorder that once in the blood is always there, and goes and comes.
Medicine will appear to cure it, and drive it from one part of the body
to another, and just as like as not, it went away on account of some
medicine the child had been taking. You’d better put all such nonsense
out of your head; it is not worth bringing over the water. If those boys
impose upon you, defend yourself; you are big enough. Give no offence
and take none; the whole district will uphold you in it.”




                              CHAPTER XII.
                          STUNG TO THE QUICK.


James could be neither goaded to retaliation by the provocation of his
persecutors, nor stimulated to self-defence by the arguments and
persuasions of his friends, so thoroughly had the bitter lesson of
submission to superiors been impressed by the iron fingers of stern
necessity; but an event now occurred, which, placing the matter before
him in a new light, removed his scruples in a moment.

The persons who had put the snow in the fireplace were well known to
James, for Arthur had not scrupled to expose them after the time had
elapsed during which he had promised to keep the secret. James also knew
that they still continued to instigate Chuck Witham and other boys to
annoy and insult him. He occupied a side seat near one of the back
corners of the schoolhouse, and his head, when bent over his book, was
on a level with a crevice between two logs, that was stuffed with clay
and moss. One night after school, Chuck Witham bored a small hole
through this clay, and filled the hole with cotton, for fear James would
feel the draft and observe it. The next day he brought to school, half
an ox-goad, with a long brad in it, made of a saddler’s awl.

The day was warm for the season; there was quite a large fire, and at
recess time, the master opened a window on each side of the fire to
create a draft, and ventilate and cool the room.

James was in his seat writing, when he suddenly sprang to his feet,
upsetting his inkstand, and throwing all his books to the floor. The
master was walking back and forth on the floor, and seeing him put his
hand to his head, looked out of the window and saw Chuck running from
the hole, for the woods. He instantly pursued and caught him, with the
goad in his hand, called the scholars in and gave him a severe whipping.
Witham, with the expectation of mitigating his punishment, declared that
he was persuaded to it by Morse, Riggs, and Orcutt, and that Will Morse
gave him a two-bladed knife to do this and other things he had done to
James. This declaration was made before the whole school, and Peter and
Arthur Nevins now recollected that William Morse stayed in during
recess, a thing he had never been known to do before, and it was evident
to all that he had stayed in to gloat over the torture about to be
inflicted upon one who had never injured, or even spoken to him.

The brad was long, and entered deep, for the stab was given with
good-will, and the blood flowed freely.

At noontime the boys and girls collected together in knots, commenting
upon the affair, when Chuck Witham, still writhing under the effects of
the castigation, for it was most severe, made some disparaging remark
about redemptioners, in a tone loud enough for James to hear, as he was
passing by on his way to the spring, to wash off the blood that had
dried on his neck, upon which William Morse laughed heartily, in which
he was joined by Riggs and Orcutt.

Perfectly willing to pick a quarrel, Bert replied,—“Morse, you should
have had that licking yourself; for you set Chuck on, and have been at
the bottom of all the mean tricks that have been done, and that you had
not courage to do yourself.”

This brought a sharp rejoinder from Morse. Riggs and Orcutt sided with
Morse, and the debate became so warm that just as James came along on
his return from the spring, Morse, feeling he was getting the worst of
the argument, caught a stick from the wood-pile and felled Bertie to the
ground. James saw the blow fall on the head of the boy whom he loved
better than himself,—yea, almost worshipped,—his scruples vanished in a
moment. It was no longer the workhouse boy against the landed gentry;
but, forgetting all that, he dealt Morse a blow that cut through his
upper lip, knocked out a tooth, flattened his nose, and sent him
backward over the wood-pile. Riggs turned to run, but came in contact
with the broad shoulders of Arthur Nevins, who was purposely in the way,
and before he could recover himself, James, seizing him behind, flung
him to the ground, and catching up the stick that fell from the hand of
Morse, beat him till he cried murder. While this was going on George
Orcutt would have made his escape, but Stillman Russell, the most
retiring boy in school, and so diffident that he would blush if you
spoke to him, put out his foot and tripped him up. Before he could rise,
Arthur Nevins put his foot on him, but James went into the schoolhouse,
and resumed his studies.

“Now for Chuck Witham,” shouted Will Edibean. Chuck took to his heels
with three boys after him, but Edward Conly cried,—“He’s had enough;
he’s only an understrapper,” and they came back.

The boys had formed a ring round Orcutt, and whenever he would attempt
to break through, one would trip him, another pull him over backwards,
and while on his back others would pelt him with great chunks of snow
and crust, or push three or more smaller boys on top of him; and even
the girls took part and flung snowballs, so much was his conduct
detested. In the morning before school, it being a thaw, the smaller
boys had rolled up several great balls of snow, meaning at noon to make
a fort. With these they buried him, and stuck up over him, this
inscription, printed with a smut coal on a piece of fence-board,

                               “JUSTICE.

           _Administered by the Scholars of District No. 2._”

They next formed a cordon around him, snowballs in their hands, and the
moment he attempted to move pelted him anew, and kept watch till the
master was so near that he could not but notice the inscription, and
then all went into the schoolhouse and were seated when he entered.

Morse having washed himself at the spring, came in late, in company with
Riggs, while George Orcutt crawled out of his prison, and sneaked home.

The face of Morse was discolored, and his lips swollen, and Riggs
exhibited two red stripes on the back of both hands, and one across his
face, extending from the roots of the hair across the forehead and face
to the lower jaw. They tried to attract the attention of the master.
Morse displayed a bloody handkerchief, and Riggs snivelled occasionally,
but the master was too much occupied to notice them, and asked no
questions. As for James, he was commended by nearly the whole school.

“Is he not a noble, manly fellow,” said Emily Conly, “to bear so much
from those mean creatures, while he might at any time have done what he
has done to-day?”

“Yes,” said Mary Nevins, “and when at last he did turn upon them, it was
not upon his own account, but Albert Whitman’s, and our Arthur and Elmer
both say they don’t believe he would have touched them, let them have
done what they might to him, if William Morse had not struck Albert.”

“What a different spirit he manifested,” said Emily, “from Morse, who
after hiring Witham to stick the awl into James, stayed in at recess to
see and enjoy it, but Renfew didn’t stop and look on when the other
scholars were punishing George Orcutt, but went right back to his books.
Oh, I do like him.” Then feeling she had gone too far, and seeing the
rest of the girls begin to titter, she blushed to the roots of her hair,
and stopped short.

“Never mind, Emily,” said Jane Gifford; “we all like him; all of the
girls are on the side of the redemptioner.”

“My brother Stillman thinks the reason he learns so fast, is because he
is so old, and sees the need of it, and makes a business of learning, as
a young boy wouldn’t; and not knowing anybody, and being so by himself,
has nothing to take off his attention. Still. says if he knew all the
boys and girls, and had brothers and sisters, and went with them, to
bees and apple-parings, and singing schools, and parties, and spelling
schools, he wouldn’t learn half so fast; but now he’ll learn as much and
more this winter, than a small boy would in three years,” said Eliza
Russell.

The friends of James could hardly contain themselves till school was
out. Arthur Nevins had invited Peter, Bertie, the Edibeans, and Ned
Conly, to take supper with him, and have a real “howl of triumph,” and
had sent Elmer home at recess to tell his mother she would have seven
hungry school boys at supper time. After a bountiful supper, they sat
down to eat nuts and apples, and to congratulate each other upon the
success of all their plans.

“The master,” said Ned Conly, “is going to put James into arithmetic
soon.”

“He’s got all the multiplication by heart now,” said Bertie, “and every
night after supper, father and grandpa give him sums to do in his head,
and he can add, and subtract, and multiply, and divide, and makes
handsome figures. When he first came to our house he didn’t know how
long a year was, but called four years four times reaping wheat, and
couldn’t tell the clock; but now he can tell how many months there are
in a year, and how many days in a year, and how many hours in a day, and
minutes in an hour, and all about it. I think that’s a good deal for a
boy to do in one fall and winter, starting from nothing. He is fast
learning to handle tools, too, and can dovetail, and plane and saw and
handle a broad axe.”

The first question asked by Bert when he reached home, was,—“Mother,
where is James?”

“Gone to bed.”

“And grandfather, too?”

“Yes, James said the whole of his multiplication table, and didn’t miss
a figure, and then your father and grandfather gave him sums to do in
his head.”

“Did he tell you what happened at school to-day?”

“He didn’t tell us anything.”

“Just like him. Didn’t he tell you there had been a real sisemarara—an
eruption, an earthquake—there to-day. Didn’t you see the blood on his
shirt collar? Don’t you see that bunch on top of my skull?” displaying a
swelling the size of a hen’s egg. “Oh, he’s done it; he’s done it up to
the handle.” And Bert went capering about the room, and slapping his
sides with his hands.

“Tell us what you mean, if you mean anything, Albert,” said his father,
“or else sit down and let Peter.”

“Tell, Pete, tell ‘em regular, and I’ll put in the side windows, the
filagree work.”

Peter rehearsed the whole matter to his parents, by virtue of keeping
his hand part of the time on Bert’s mouth.

“Why didn’t you tell your father or me what was going on, and ask your
father’s advice?”

“Because,” said Peter, “James begged us not to; said he didn’t want to
make a disturbance, and the boys would get ashamed of their tricks after
a while, and leave off. James said we might tell grandfather if he would
promise not to tell, and he did, and so we told him.”

“What did your grandfather say?”

“He had a long talk with James, and told him he had borne enough; to
give no offence and take none; but if they continued to insult him,
knock ‘em over.”

“Well, I don’t know about such doings; husband, what do you think of
it?”

Jonathan Whitman, who had listened all this time without question,
replied,—“I think father gave good advice, and James did well to take
it.”

There the matter dropped. Morse, Riggs, and Orcutt were so ashamed, and
so well convinced that nearly all the members of the school heartily
despised them, and that if they made complaint at home the master and
scholars would inform their parents of the provocation James had
received, that they lied to account for their bruises, and made no
complaint at home.

Jonathan Whitman and his next neighbor, Mr. Wood, were great friends,
and had been from boyhood, though about as unlike as men could well be,
and though, when his boys told him of the doings at school, Mr. Wood
fell in with the general verdict of the district, “served them right,”
he could but feel a little sore, that his neighbor should be so much
more fortunate in his choice of a redemptioner than himself.

The first time they met he could not forbear remarking,—

“Jonathan, they say that you are finding out what’s in your redemptioner
pretty fast; that he begins to feel his oats, and is showing a clean
pair of heels. How do you like him now, neighbor?”

“Better and better. Old Frank is the best horse I ever had, and a little
child might safely crawl between his legs; Bert has done it many a time,
but a man would run the risk of his life who should abuse him.”

These apparently untoward events accomplished what nothing else could
have done, and which all the efforts of his friends had utterly failed
to effect, they broke the crust and shattered the reserve, hitherto
impenetrable, that isolated him, and furnished a stimulant that urged
him onward in a course of more rapid development.

Before the boys separated on the evening which they spent together at
Mr. Nevins’, they were closeted an hour in Arthur’s bedroom. What grave
consultations were held, and what profound ideas were originated in
their teeming noddles, will probably never be fully known, save that as
they parted, Bertie shouted back: “Good night; now we’ve got him
a-going, let’s keep him a-going.”




                             CHAPTER XIII.
                      THE SCHOLARS SUSTAIN JAMES.


The next morning Peter, Bertie, John, and Will Edibean, the Nevins boys,
and Edward Conly, by pure accident, entered the schoolroom at the same
moment with James, and some little time before the master came.

James, as usual, made directly for his seat; but they all surrounded and
crowded him along to the fireplace, and instantly the Wood boys, the
Kingsburys, the Kendricks, Stillman Russell, and all the girls, got
round him, shook hands with him, told him he did just right, the day
before, that those boys had always domineered over the smaller scholars,
set them on to mischief, and made trouble in school, and with the master
when they could. James, to his amazement, found himself the centre of an
admiring crowd; he blushed and fidgeted, stood first upon one foot, then
upon the other, and rolled up his eyes, till Bertie, fearing he would
burst into tears, as he did when he received his new clothes, took him
by the hand, and said,—

“Come, James, let us look over the reading-lesson before the master gets
here.”

When recess came, Peter and Bertie went to his seat, and asked James to
go out and play with them. This, to use a homely phrase, “struck him all
of a heap.”

“How can I go? I don’t know how to play any of your plays.”

“We are not going to play plays or wrestle, but fire snowballs at a
mark, and you are first-rate at that,” said Peter.

James still declined; but Bertie stuck to him like bird-lime, and so did
Peter, who called Ned Conly, whom James particularly liked, to aid them;
but all in vain, till at length Bertie said,—

“Come, James, if you don’t want to go upon your own account, go to
please me; this is the first thing I ever asked you to do for me.”

James rose directly; and Bertie, taking him by the hand, led him out of
the house in triumph. The windows of the school were furnished with
board shutters, and the boys had utilized one of them for a target by
propping it with stones, and making three circles on it, and a bull’s
eye in the centre. The boys, having heard how well James could throw
stones, stipulated that he should stand six paces farther from the
target than the rest, otherwise, they said, “there would be no chance
for them.”

As James wanted the sport to go on to please Bert, he assented to this.
Bert threw the first ball, hitting just outside the centre ring.

“I can beat that,” said John Kendrick, and hit within the second ring.

Arthur Nevins hit right on the third ring. None of them, however, struck
the bull’s eye. It was now the turn of James. His first ball struck
within the innermost circle, and about half-way from that to the bull’s
eye; and the second he planted directly in the central dot, and covered
it all over. They all shouted,—

“You can’t do that again.”

Upon which he plumped another on the second. None of the boys except
James hit the centre, but very few within the second ring; and they were
blowing their fingers, and beginning to tire of the sport, when Sam
Kingsbury, pointing upwards, shouted,—

“Only look there!”

Following the direction of his finger, they saw an owl of the largest
size (that had been overtaken by daylight before he could reach his
roosting-place) sitting upon the branch of a large oak, motionless, and
apparently lost in meditation, and entirely regardless of the uproar
beneath.

“If anybody had a gun,” said Arthur Nevins. “I wonder if there’s time to
run home and get mine before school begins.”

“No,” said Peter, “and if you should, perhaps you’d miss him; but I’ll
bet James’ll take him with a snowball.”

“I could with a good stone, but I don’t think I can with a snowball; for
I never threw a snowball in my life before to-day.”

James searched the stone wall of the pasture, but could find no stone to
suit him, and urged by the boys to try, made three snowballs as hard as
he could, with a small stone in the centre of each. The first ball
brushed the feathers of the philosophical bird, and broke the thread of
his meditations; but as he was gathering himself up to fly, a second
struck him with such force under the wing as to bring him down half
stunned into the snow, and before he could recover himself Ned Conly
flung his cap over his head and caught him.

“Give him to me, will you, Ned?” said Bertie.

“I will, if you and Peter and James will come over to my house to supper
to-morrow night and spend the evening.”

James objected decidedly to this arrangement.

“Well, he can’t have the owl unless you come.”

“Come, James, do go, because I want it ever so much to put it in a cage.
I never had an owl in my life. I have had crows, and eagles, and
bluejays, and robins, and coons, and foxes, and gray squirrels. I’ve got
a nice cage that my bob-o-link was in.”

James was sorely pressed. He liked Ned Conly, for Ned and Stillman
Russell were the only boys with whom he had any intercourse approaching
to intimacy. Ned Conly in school sat next beside and Stillman Russell
before him; he also could not bear to prevent Bertie from getting the
bird that he saw he wanted. The perspiration fairly stood in drops on
his forehead. At length he said,—

“I cannot go to supper, for then there would be nobody to do the chores,
and it would not look well to leave Mr. Whitman to do them, but I’ll
come after supper.”

They, therefore compromised on that ground.

“The master’s coming; how shall we keep him till school’s done?” said
Bert.

“Cut his head off,” said James.

This was the first time that James had ever volunteered a remark, or
been guilty of an approach to a witticism, and Peter stared at him
astonished.

“I’ve got a skate-strap; you may have that,” said Chuck Witham, who was
aching to be once more noticed, for no one spoke to him now.

“Thank you,” said Bert, though not very cordially, and took it, and with
this they fastened the owl in the entry of the schoolhouse.

“Is not Ned Conly as quick as lightning?” said Arthur Nevins to Elmer;
“who but he would have thought of that way to get James over there; he
might have invited him till Doomsday to no purpose, but when James found
Bertie couldn’t have the owl unless he went, that brought him. Only
think how long we’ve been trying to get him to come to our house.”

[Illustration: JAMES BRINGS DOWN AN OWL. Page 175.]

“What shall we do with James, mother?” said Peter, as he and Bertie were
preparing to go to Mr. Conly’s. “What shall we do with him when he
comes? We don’t want him to sit all the evening and look straight into
the fire, and never open his mouth, and Ned won’t either, and he’ll be
frightened half to death.”

“I’ll tell you what to do,” said the grandfather; “ask him questions
that he cannot answer by yes and no; he’ll have to answer them, and
after he hears the sound of his own voice a few times he’ll gain
courage.”

“What shall we ask him?”

“Ask him about the manner in which they do farming work in the old
country, and if you can get him started, he will, I have no doubt, tell
a great many things that Mr. Conly’s folks would like to know, for he
never learned to reap, and mow, and break flax, and swingle it, and
handle horses as he does, without working on the land a good deal. He
talks when he is in the shop with me.”

The boys set out, leaving Maria to come with James, in order that he
might not be obliged to come in alone.

The Conly family consisted of Emily, Edward, and Walter the
schoolmaster, who was then boarding at the Edibeans.

After James and Maria came in, the first greetings were over, and the
usual remarks in regard to the weather and the school had been made, and
something said about a spelling school that was to come off in the near
future. James merely listening, the conversation began to lag. Bertie
grew desperate, and as was his wont resolved to make or mar, began to
tell Mr. Conly about James hitting the owl, and about the accuracy with
which he could throw stones, and then turned to James and asked,—

“James, how did you learn to throw stones almost as true as folks fire
bullets?”

“I learned by throwing road metal when working on the roads. In England
they keep a good many parish poor at work breaking stones for the roads;
every man has a pile of stones before him, a hammer and a ring, he
breaks a stone till it is small enough to go through the ring and then
throws it on the pile.”

“What does he put it through a ring for?”

“Because the rings are all of a size, and that makes the stones all of a
size, then they haul these stones and spread ‘em very thick on the
roads, and spread coarse gravel on them, and roll the whole down with a
great iron roller that it takes four and sometimes six horses to haul,
and roll it down so hard that a wheel won’t dent it.”

“It must make a nice road,” said Mr. Conly.

“Yes, sir, one horse would haul as much on that kind of a road as two,
yes, as three, on the roads we have here. I was set at work on the
roads, and we didn’t work half the time and used to practise throwing
stones. There was one fellow, Tom Lockland, could beat me,—and but
one,—I knew how to break a stone to make it go true.”

“Where did you learn to drive horses? They say when you first came here
you knew how to drive horses,” said Ned Conly, who perceived what Bert
would be after.

“The governor at the workhouse used to hire me out to drive the teams to
haul these stones. I drove one horse first, and then two, and then four,
and sometimes six to draw the great roller.”

“Why, then,” said Mr. Conly, “couldn’t you go and work for yourself and
support yourself?”

“Because there’s no work to be had. Why, sir, there are five men to do
one man’s work. People are so plenty a man can only get a day’s work
once in a while, and get so little for it that it will barely keep him
alive, and when there’s no work he must fall back upon the parish or
starve. The farmers don’t generally like to hire the parish poor, and
then the settlement hurts poor people.”

“What’s that?”

“If a man gets a settlement in a parish, and can’t maintain himself,
that parish must help maintain him.”

“How does he get a settlement?”

“If a man was born in any parish, his settlement is there. If he is
bound for an apprentice forty days in a parish, his settlement is there.
If he has been hired for a year and a day, he gains a settlement. If he
has rented a house that is valued at ten pounds a year he gains a
settlement.”

“I understand; it’s something like what we call gaining a residence.”

“Well, sir, the settlement act works very badly for a poor laboring man.
Some of the parishes are quite small, and if in the parish where a poor
person belongs, and has got his settlement, there is no work he can’t go
into the next parish and get work, though there may be plenty of work
there.”

“Why can’t he go?”

“He can go, sir, but he will get no work, for nobody will hire him for
fear he will get out of work or fall sick, and stay long enough to gain
a settlement; they will say: ‘Get you back to where you came from,’ and
hustle him right out. Sometimes the farmers will hire a man for a few
days short of a year, lest he should gain a settlement. They will take a
boy out of the workhouse, keep him all summer till after harvest, and
then quarrel with him and drive him off.”

“Can’t they be obliged to take an apprentice?”

“Yes, sir, or pay a fine; but the fine is so light they had sometimes
rather pay the fine.”

Bertie found that by thus drawing a “bow at a venture,” he had struck
upon a fruitful theme, and the evening passed so rapidly that it was
nine o’clock before they thought it was eight, and when at last they
came to separate, Mr. Conly made James promise that he would come again
with Peter and Bertie. So much had his feelings and temper become
modified by the discipline to which these high-minded boys, guided
solely by their own instincts, had subjected him, that as Bertie told
his mother when they got home, “James didn’t hang back at all when Mr.
Conly asked him to come again with us, but said he would like to.”

“So that is the young man,” said Mr. Conly, to his family after the boys
had gone, “that some of the scholars took a miff at as a redemptioner,
and outlandish, and all that. I for one have got a good deal of
information this evening, and I doubt very much if William Morse, or
Riggs, or George Orcutt, could give so good an account of the methods of
work here.”

“Father,” said Peter, “the master says James had better begin arithmetic
at school.”

“I am going to the village to-morrow, and will get him a slate and a
book.”

“There’s a slate in the house, only it has no frame, but make that do,
and instead of a slate get him a large book to set down his sums in. He
writes so well and makes such handsome figures, he will make it look
nice to show at the committee examination.”

When Peter told James, the latter said he could make a slate frame
himself, and did, of curled maple. Fondness for mechanical work grew
upon James daily, and engrossed a portion of the time that had before
been devoted to study. Peter had mechanical ability, and could make
whatever he fancied. Not so, however, with Bertie, and thus an abundant
opportunity was furnished to James to supply his friend. James made for
him a sled, a crossbow, and a wheelbarrow, grandfather making the wheel;
but James could hit nearer the mark with a stone, than Bertie could with
his crossbow.

James now mingled freely with the other boys in their amusements at
recess, and between schools; that is, he did not thus do every day. For
some days he would not leave his seat, being inclined to study, but
mingled with them sufficiently to produce the best of feeling, and
distanced them all in lifting or pitching quoits, but in regard to
wrestling,—a sport of which they never seemed to tire or get enough,—he
was merely an interested spectator. One Saturday afternoon Peter said to
him,—

“James, you do everything else us boys do, why don’t you wrestle?”

“Because I don’t know how.”

“Well, learn then, we all had to.”

“It seems to me I have got enough to learn that is of more value than
wrestling, besides I am the largest boy in school. How it would look to
have some little fellow like George Wood, or Chuck Witham, lay me on my
back, and what a row it would make; if some of the larger boys did it
that would be another thing.”

“Why not do as you have done in respect to reading, writing and
spelling, learn at home, wrestle with me and Bertie? We are not much, to
be sure, but I can throw most of the boys, and you can learn the locks
and trips, and how to guard and handle yourself, and then when you come
to wrestle at school you won’t be ashamed. If grandfather was not so
stiff in his legs of late years he’d take delight in learning you.”

“Your grandfather?”

“To be sure. Grandfather has been an awful wrestler in his time. I can
just remember when he wrestled. After you practise with us we can get
Ned Conly and Arthur Nevins to come over here and wrestle. They are
capable wrestlers, and father would wrestle with you.”

“Does your father wrestle?”

“I guess he does; there’s nobody can throw him, and he never was thrown.
He won’t go into a ring to wrestle at a raising or at a town meeting
now, because my mother don’t want him to, but grandfather told me that
was not all the reason, because mother was never willing he should go
into a ring, but he always would. Grandfather says it is because he
feels he’s getting a little old, and is afraid some young man would get
the better of him, and that he don’t blame him for not running that
risk, after he had held the ring for years against three towns, fetch on
who they would.”

“Does everybody wrestle here?”

“Everybody who thinks anything of themselves; everybody but the women
and the minister, and they look on. They say the minister is a
first-rate wrestler, and sometimes tries a fall in his back yard with
friends who come to see him. A man who can’t wrestle, is thought very
little of in these parts.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes, ask grandfather, or ask the schoolmaster. He’s a good wrestler.
Come, I’ll get Bertie, and we’ll begin to-night.”

“I can’t begin to-night.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s most night now and the chores are to be done.”

“I’ll call Bertie, and we’ll soon do ‘em.”

“Then I can’t, because it is Saturday night, and I want to look over the
lesson for Monday morning and get my catechism.”

“Will you Monday night?”

“Yes, if your father don’t want me to do something.”

The boys took very good care that their father should not set James to
doing anything, and after the chores were done they went into the barn
floor.

James took hold of Bertie first, but he was so strong and his arms were
so long, that Bertie could not get near enough to trip or move him in
the least, James stiffening his arms and holding him off while Bertie
twisted and wriggled like an eel on the end of a spear.

On the other hand James could not throw Bertie, because he was afraid of
hurting him, else he might have either twitched him down or have lifted
him bodily from the floor and taken his feet from under him at any
moment.

“That’s no way to wrestle, you great giant,” cried Bertie.

“I told you I didn’t know how.”

“But you must slack up your arms and give me some chance. How do you
think I am ever going to throw you if you won’t let me get near you?”

“I don’t mean you shall; folks don’t wrestle to get thrown, do they?
Your grandfather didn’t.”

“But you must give me some chance to get at you or you’ll never learn.
How could two men wrestle if one was in the barn and the other in the
house; or one here, and the other in Philadelphia? We might as well be.”

Peter flinging himself upon the hay, rolled over and over convulsed with
laughter, crying,—

“I’ll bet on James, he’ll hold the ring I’ll be bound, I mean to call
grandfather to see the fun.”

“If you do I’ll not try to wrestle again,” said James.

James gradually yielded to the exhortations of Bertie, and permitted him
to come near enough to push him over the floor, and it was not long
after the wily boy got him to lift his feet till he tripped and threw
him.

“There, you see how I did that, now do the same by me.”

“I shall hurt you.”

“That’s my look-out.”

It was not long before James got thrown again, but he was all the while
gaining knowledge and watching the operations of his opponent, and at
last gave Bertie a fair fall. James was evidently much pleased, and
Bertie not less so. The former who at first had been dragged into the
sport by the influence of his friends, began to take great interest in
it, mastered the trips, and locks, and feints, without resorting to main
strength, and at length made such progress that Bertie could no longer
throw him.

He now began to wrestle with Peter, when he passed through the same
experience, being thrown at first, but kept improving till at length
Peter could but seldom get him down. Edward Conly and the Nevins boys
now came over, and he wrestled with them, beginning now to wrestle at
the back, in which mode of wrestling he excelled them all, as in that
practice strength, a stiff back and capacity to endure punishment, avail
more than agility and sleight.

A small plot of level ground before the schoolhouse, free from stones,
and covered with long moss, where the boys were wont to wrestle, was now
bare of snow. A wrestling match was got up, and had not been long in
progress before Bertie persuaded James to enter the ring. The instant he
entered, William Morse stepped in as his antagonist.

The castigation administered by James had never ceased to rankle, and he
had not the least doubt but the opportunity had come for revenge, or at
least to mortify his enemy before the whole school.

“Won’t he get terribly mistaken?” whispered Bertie to Arthur Nevins.

“He thinks he’s taking hold of a green redemptioner.”

They had scarcely placed themselves in position, till he was thrown. Red
as a fire brick, and burning with shame,—for a great shout greeted the
victory of James,—he took hold only to be again thrown. David Riggs then
stepped in with the same result.

The boys then clamored to Orcutt to take his turn, but he declined.
Edward Conly came in and was thrown, and after him Arthur Nevins, who
threw James after a short struggle. James was now as eager to wrestle as
he had been backward before, and wrestled every day till there were but
two, Edward Conly and Arthur Nevins, who could throw him at arm’s
length, and no one could throw him at the back. It was quite wonderful
to notice the change imparted to his whole bearing by these exercises;
before he was stiff and awkward in all his movements, but now he was
lithe, graceful, his step was lighter and more elastic, and smiles had
taken the place of the despondent look he formerly wore, insomuch that
it was a matter of common remark in the neighborhood.




                              CHAPTER XIV.
                       RESENTING A BASE PROPOSAL.


The ground was now getting bare fast, and baseball began to be in order,
and James must learn that. Peter brought a ball to school and James soon
mastered the game in the simple method in which it was then played, and
bore no more honorable appellation than that of “knock-up and catch.”

“How many things a boy has to learn,” said Bertie to Peter as they were
going home from school after playing ball for the first time. “I didn’t
think a boy had so many things to learn till we began to teach James.”

“Because we had to teach James right along, but we were years about it
ourselves. We spread it all over.”

“There’s only one more thing I want James to do, then I shall be
satisfied. Ned Conly says master is going to have a spelling school and
invite scholars from the other districts, and I want to persuade James
to spell, and if he’ll only spell more words than William Morse, Orcutt
and Dave Riggs, I shall sit down contented and perfectly happy, and let
things take their course.”

“You are a revengeful little viper, brother of mine, did you know it?
You can’t forget the blow on the head Morse gave you.”

“It is not that. I wouldn’t have you think it is that, but I want James
to beat those three boys who have done all they could to injure him, and
out of pure malice because that seems what ought to take place.”

“Well, I shouldn’t wonder if he did, for they are three about as poor
spellers of their age as there are in school.”

Mr. Whitman bought James a large blank book, and in it he set down his
sums and printed with a pen headings beginning with capitals at the top
of the pages, and took great pains with the writing and the forms of the
figures. In addition to this he took some brass mountings from the stock
of an old fowling-piece, put them in a vice and filed them all away, and
sprinkled the filings over the headings of his pages before the ink was
dry, having also put glue in the ink to make the brass dust adhere. On
the last day of school the master passed this and the books of several
other boys around among the school committee as examples of proficiency.

On the evening of examination day they had the spelling school, and
James out-spelled Morse, Riggs and Orcutt. Peter was fully occupied
during the spelling holding his hand over Bertie’s mouth to keep him
from saying “good” at every success of his pupil and loud enough for
everybody to hear.

Mr. Whitman and his wife, and even grandfather attended both the
examination and the spelling school. To go out in the evening except to
a religious meeting was something that the old gentleman of late years
never had done.

The family went home rejoicing in the success of their endeavors, and
experiencing that unalloyed happiness, the result of benefiting others;
and the term which had opened so gloomily for James, closed in triumph.

Mr. Whitman lived some distance from the saw mill, and accordingly had a
sawpit in the door-yard where he often sawed small quantities of stuff
for wheels, harrows and other uses, and in the course of the fall and
winter the old gentleman had, when he wished to saw anything, taken
James to help him, and thus the latter had obtained considerable
practice in working with that implement.

Mr. Whitman had in the winter, cut and hewn out some rock-maple logs, to
saw into plank for mill-wheels, and cogs, which required to be sawed
very accurately; he also had cut some red-oak for common uses, in
respect to which he was not so particular; he therefore resolved to saw
the red-oak first, and, if James proved equal to the work, to cut out
the mill-stuff afterwards. The two had worked ten days with the whipsaw,
when Mrs. Whitman said to her husband,—

“How do you get along, sawing your stuff with James?”

“We get along well. It has always been my way, since father has been so
lame, when I had timber of any great amount to saw, to hire Mr. John
Dunbar, give him nine shillings or two dollars sometimes a day, and
board him; but I thought as James seemed to take to handling tools, and
was a strong, tough boy, and I was going to have him for some years, I
would try and teach him, and in two days more we shall cut all the
stuff, and it will be done as well as though I had hired Dunbar, though
it has taken much longer, and made harder work for myself, and after
haying I mean to learn him to saw on top.”

“A good whip-sawyer, husband, always commands good wages, and it will be
fitting James to get his living when he leaves you.”

“I intend to do more for him, and must, to carry out the idea I started
with, which was to treat him, as far as fitting him to make his way in
the world is concerned, as I do my own boys; not only teach him all I
can about labor, but also give him some ideas about property, and the
value of a dollar, for a man may work his fingers off to no purpose, if
he don’t know how to take care of what he gets.

“I have got some clear boards in the workshop, and I think I shall let
him make himself a chest of them, and give him a lock and hinges, and
handles, and paint to paint it, and then he will have something, and
some place that he can call his own.”

“But what is the use of talking to a person about saving who has nothing
to save, and no way of getting anything; the principle can’t grow much
without the practice, and he has nothing to practice with. It seems to
me very much as if grandfather had sat in his arm-chair, and tried to
teach James to fell trees by telling him how, and James contented
himself with listening. What is the use of giving him a chest with a
lock, when, as Bertie says, all in the world he has got to lock up is
his mother’s Bible, and one sheet of paper, with the agreement you made
with him, written on it?”

“Very well, let him put them in, and his school-books, and his Sunday
clothes; then make him up some shirts, and knit him a good lot of
stockings. There is something, not much to be sure, but enough to give
the idea of ownership. There is something of his own that he can take
with him, something quite different from the state of a workhouse boy.”

“But you gave Peter a pair of calves; he raised them, and sold them;
Bertie has a pair of steers now, and Maria a pair of sheep. I think it
has a good effect upon them, and I don’t see why it should not upon
James.”

Jonathan Whitman, who was never in haste to decide, and very seldom
announced his intention to do anything till his mind was fully made up,
changed the subject of conversation, and there the matter rested for
that time.

It was not late enough to work upon the ground, and Mr. Whitman gave the
boards to James, and the old gentleman after he had cut and planed them,
assisted him in laying out his dove-tails, and by a little instruction
from him, James succeeded in making a handsome chest, and was evidently
highly gratified, although he was so reticent and singularly
constituted, that he never manifested either pleasure or gratitude, as
do more impulsive persons. George Wood was at Mr. Whitman’s just as
James was putting the last coat of paint on his chest, and James lifted
the cover and let him look inside. The boy went home and told his folks
about James’ chest.

“Ay,” said Mr. Wood, “Jonathan puts too much confidence in that
redemptioner altogether, and now has given him a chest; no wonder the
fellow is tickled with it, for he has got something to carry his clothes
in when he gets ready to run off.”

An event now occurred that placed the character of James in a very
strong light, and completely justified the good opinion Mr. Whitman had
formed in regard to him.

They had just finished sowing wheat, and James, having worked very hard
till after sundown, had put up the horses and sat down upon the ground
to cool off and rest, with his back against the underpinning of the
barn, which, as the ground fell off, was raised up several feet on the
back side. Into the space thus left the hens were wont to crawl, lay,
and sometimes hatch.

“Bertie,” said Mr. Whitman, “we don’t get near the eggs we should this
time of year. I don’t believe but the hens lay under the barn; why won’t
you look?”

Bertie took up a short plank in the barn floor, crawled under and
crawled about; he drove one hen that was sitting from her nest; found
several nests with eggs in them, and was searching for others, when he
heard the sound of voices outside, and recognized that of James. Looking
through a hole in the rocks he saw Daniel Blaisdell, Mr. Wood’s
redemptioner, in earnest and even passionate dispute with James.
Prompted by curiosity, he crept near enough to hear the conversation,
the nature of which made him an eager listener.

Bertie inferred from what he heard, that they had been talking some
time; that Blaisdell wanted to leave his employer by stealth, as he
could obtain plenty of work at good wages, for the next six or eight
months, whereas, at his present place, he should get only his board and
clothes, and “very mean board and beggar’s rags at that,” and wanted
James to go with him, which it seemed the former had bluntly refused to
do, as in reply to some remark of James, that Bertie was not then near
enough to hear, Blaisdell said,—

“If you are fool enough to work for nothing, when you can get high wages
by going after them, I am not.”

“Do you think I have no more principle, or good feeling, than to leave a
man who has treated me better than many of the people in England, I have
worked for, treat their own children; and that, too, just when he wants
me the most; who has put me in the way of learning to read, write, and
cipher, which of itself, is worth more to me, than four years’ labor at
the highest wages?”

“He had selfish ends in it, because he thought it would pay in the long
run. It didn’t cost him much to send you to school in the winter, when
there was not much to do; and he knew it would make you smart, and
contented to work for nothing, four years.”

“You agreed, Mr. Blaisdell, before you left England, if Mr. Wood would
pay your passage, to work on his farm three years; you have only worked
about eight months, and you want to leave him, without his knowledge,
and at the busiest time of year. Do you consider that right, Mr.
Blaisdell?”

“Do I consider it right? To be sure I do. He knew what labor was worth
over here; I didn’t. He knew, too, that I, and hundreds like me, were
starving on the other side, and took advantage of our necessity to get
his work done for nothing. He has tried to get ahead of me all he could,
but he got hold of the wrong man. I don’t say but it would have been
different had he fed me well, clothed me decently, and showed some
consideration; but he has taken all the advantage he could of my
necessity, and now I’ll take all I can of his. There’s no law in this
country against begging, and no hanging for stealing. I’ll leave him,
and you had better go with me. Come on.”

Bertie was so anxious to hear the answer James would make, that in his
efforts to get nearer, he displaced a stone of the wall that fell
outward, but the parties were too much occupied to notice it. The
opening, however, permitted a glance at the features of James, and
Bertie could perceive that he was both excited and irritated. At length
he said,—

“I have nothing to complain of; but every thing to be thankful for. I
shall stay with Mr. Whitman the four years, and do all that I can; and
if after that, he should be taken sick, and become poor, and need my
help, I’ll stay with him, and try to do by him, as he has done by me.”

“Then you must be a fool. They all said on board ship coming over, that
you was a fool, and didn’t know enough to take care of yourself, and now
I believe it. It cost Whitman about forty dollars to get you over here,
and you are going to work four years for him for that. It wouldn’t be
four coppers a day, while you can get a dollar a day now, and nine
shillings in harvest. As for your board, he won’t miss that, nor your
clothes, for they will all be made in the house.”

Bertie saw that James was growing more and more angry every moment, but
he kept his temper down admirably, and merely said,—

“If I were under no obligation to Mr. Whitman, I have pledged my word to
stay with him for four years. To break it would be a lie: I have never
told a lie, and I never shall.”

“Don’t tell me that; a man must lie once in a while, especially a poor
man. There ain’t a man in the world but has lied, and you are lying when
you say that.”

Scarcely had the words left his lips than he received a blow that sent
him headlong across the back of an ox, that lay chewing his cud near by.
An ox always rises first behind, and the startled animal jumping up,
flung Blaisdell on to his neck, and still more frightened, rising
forward, flung him from his horns, to which he clung, to the dung-heap;
and the terror of the ox communicating itself to the rest of the cattle
in the yard, they began to snort and curvet around the prostrate
intruder.

“Be off with you, or I’ll break every bone in your carcass. It is you,
and the likes of you, who have given redemptioners a bad name, and taken
the bread out of a great many honest people’s mouths on the other side,
who might have found good homes in this country.”

Blaisdell was a burly fellow, and ugly enough, but he had seen somewhat
of James’ strength on the passage over, and had received unmistakable
evidence that he was no longer the discouraged being who could be abused
with impunity.

Oblivious of eggs, sitting hens, and leaving his hat full of eggs behind
him, Bertie rushed into the house, seized his father and mother, hurried
them into the parlor, and shutting the door, told them every word he had
heard, and all he had witnessed.

“Well,” said Mrs. Whitman, turning to her husband, “you have got to the
bottom now; you have found out what is in your redemptioner, and also in
neighbor Wood’s.”

“Now, my son,” said the father, “you must not mention this to Peter,
Maria, your grandfather, nor any one, and by all means not to James.
Will you remember what I say?”

“Yes, father, I will; for I never had a secret to keep before, except
some boy’s nonsense.”

“Well, then, remember you are trusted, and don’t get Will Edibean to
help you keep it.”

“But, husband, ought you not to tell neighbor Wood?”

“No; if the man means to run off, he’ll run. He can’t watch him all the
time.”

“But he could lock him up nights.”

“He would break out, or set the house on fire.”

“But, perhaps if he knew, he would treat him better. You think he don’t
treat him very kindly?”

“That wouldn’t keep him. He wants money every Saturday night to get
liquor with. I am not going to be mixed up with it, nor have James mixed
up with it. I’ll warrant you’ll not hear a lisp from him.”

The next morning, about ten o’clock, Mr. Wood came in, much excited,
saying,—

“Good morning, Jonathan. I’ve found out what’s in my redemptioner. He’s
run off, and stolen one of my horses, and the other horse is lame, and I
want one of yours to go after him. I’m glad now I didn’t lay out any
more on him.”

“You are welcome to the horse, and I’ll go with you, if you wish; but,
he’s not worth his board. If I could get the horse, I would let the man
go about his business.”

“I won’t. I’ll get a writ for him, and give him his choice, to go back
to work, or go to jail. I want to punish him, and I want you to go with
me.”

The second day of the quest they found the horse feeding beside the
road, with the bridle under his feet, but could get no trace of the man.

It was near planting time. Mr. Whitman, the previous fall, had ploughed
under a heavy crop of clover, and in the spring sowed the ground to
wheat, with the exception of a quarter of an acre, that he had reserved
to plant.

He then said to James,—

[Illustration: “SCARCELY HAD THE WORDS LEFT HIS LIPS THAN HE RECEIVED A
BLOW THAT SENT HIM HEADLONG ACROSS THE BACK OF AN OX.” Page 198.]

“I’ll give you the use of this land. You may take the team; haul all the
dressing on it that is necessary, and plant it with potatoes; take care
of them through the summer, dig them in the fall, sell them, and have
the money; but you must pay me for the seed, or return me in the fall as
many potatoes as you plant. When you come to hoe them, you can have the
horse to plough amongst them. You must keep the ground clear of weeds;
if you do not, I shall hoe the potatoes, and then you will lose the
crop. You may plant them, and put on the dressing, in my time, but you
must hoe them at odd chances that you will find plenty of before
breakfast, while the horses are eating, at noon, and after supper, and
father will instruct you about planting them.”

By the old gentleman’s direction he put on a large quantity of dressing,
and then advised him, as the land was in such good heart, and abundantly
dressed beside, to plant his potatoes in drills, as he would thus get
more seed on the ground. When he began to plant, Maria insisted upon
dropping the seed for him.

Peter and Bertie had each of them a corn patch of his own, and they hoed
the three pieces in company. Sometimes James would be up at three
o’clock in the morning, to hoe among his potatoes, or in Bertie or
Peter’s corn patch, just which needed hoeing the most.

The boys had considerable time at their disposal, some before breakfast,
some at noon while the horses were eating and resting, and also after
supper, which they had at five o’clock, as not much work was done after
that except in haying, or wheat harvest.

This was the time chosen by grandfather to instruct James in shooting
with the rifle. James at first only manifested that fondness for a gun
common to most young people, but he soon began to feel the hidden motion
of that strange passion which throbs in the very marrow of the hunter,
and became as enthusiastic as his preceptor, who before the summer was
out, had taught him to shoot at flying game.

Mr. Whitman, while Walter Conly was boarding at his house, had engaged
him to help him, from hoeing time till after wheat harvest, and to his
great surprise, James, after a few days’ practice, did nearly as much as
Conly; after the first two days he kept up with them both, hoed as many
hills, and as well as they did. In mowing, he could not get along as
fast, but cut his grass _well_, but after he had pitched hay three days,
he could put more hay on the cart or the mow by one half, than Conly
could, and do his best.

The most importance was attached to the wheat harvest. There were no
reaping machines then; all was done with the sickle and cradle, and in
reaping, James distanced the whole of them, for in that work he was at
home.

Mr. Whitman and Conly were tying up some grain, beside a piece of
potatoes, when the schoolmaster observed,—

“I never in my life saw so handsome a piece of potatoes as that.”

“Those are not my potatoes. I have none half as good as them.”

“Whose are they?”

“They belong to James. I told him he might have all he could raise on
that piece of ground. He had my father for counsellor, both in respect
to the quantity of dressing, and the method of planting, and by the
looks, I think he could not have had a better one. In that respect James
is different from any boy I ever saw; he has not a particle of conceit
about him; is always willing to take advice, and generally asks it.”

“There is not much danger of your redemptioner’s leaving you, at least
not till after the potatoes are dug, and they are never known to leave
in the fall, as then they begin to think of winter quarters.”

“I took the boy, not to benefit myself, but to help him, and I am
willing he should go when he can do better; but I know very well that he
is better with me than he can be away from me, and therefore I try to
make him contented and happy. I gave him the use of this land because I
have noticed that since he has obtained some notion of time, knows how
many days there are in a month, and how many months in a year, that he
will sometimes say: ‘A year is a good while,’ and perhaps when he
remembers that he has agreed to stay here four years, it seems to him
like being bound for a life-time. But now when he has a crop in the
ground to take up his attention all summer, the proceeds in the fall, to
put in his chest, and look at in the winter, and another crop to look
forward to in the spring, it will shorten time up wonderfully. He’ll
forget all about being a redemptioner; won’t feel that he is working
just to pay up old scores, and he’ll be more contented. I know I should;
besides it will teach him to lay up, and put life right into him.”

“I think it has put life into him, for he works just as though he was
working on a wager all the time.”




                              CHAPTER XV.
                     SOMETHING TO PUT IN THE CHEST.


That night as Mr. Whitman, accompanied by Peter and Bertie, reached the
door-step, they were met by George Wood who said their mare had broken
her leg, and they were going to kill her, that she had a colt four days
old, and his father would sell it for a dollar.

“Father,” shouted Bertie, “won’t you let James have it, and keep it for
him till it is grown up? You know Peter and I have each of us a yoke of
steers, and James ought to have something. Will you, father?”

“James has no dollar to pay for a colt.”

“I’ll lend it to him, and he can pay me when he sells his potatoes.”

“But how do you know he wants a colt? Perhaps he had rather have the
dollar.”

“Oh! I know he does, of course he does; you know how much he thinks of a
horse, father, there’s nothing he loves like a horse. He’s got no father
nor mother, nor brother nor sister, and it will be something for him to
love just like a brother. He’s out to the barn, I’ll ask him, and if he
says he wants him will you let him keep him?”

“He won’t say so, if he wants him ever so much, but you have a sort of
freemasonry by which you reach each other’s thoughts, and if you think
he would like very much to have him and pay a dollar for him, you may
get him.”

It is to be presumed that James wanted the colt; for when work was done,
Peter, Bertie and Maria all got into the wagon that was half filled with
straw, and in the edge of the evening brought home the colt.

James watched his opportunity, and taking Mrs. Whitman aside, said,—

“I don’t think Mr. Whitman ought to keep this colt for me, it is doing
too much for such as me. It takes a good deal to keep a horse.”

“That don’t amount to anything, James; we’ve hay enough, and pasture
enough; there’s no market here for hay and we want to eat it up on the
place, and we never shall miss what that little creature eats.”

“But by-and-by he will eat as much as the other horses.”

“Then you can sell him or let us use him, it will be handy to have a
spare horse to use when the others are at work, and to go to market or
to mill with.”

“I am afraid Mr. Whitman will think I asked for him, and can never be
satisfied. I was out to the barn, when Bertie came running, and asked me
if I should like such a little thing to make a pet of, and I said ‘I am
sure I should,’ and away he went; he didn’t tell me he had asked his
father to keep it for me, and the next thing I knew they came with the
colt, and said it was mine and that their father would keep it for me.”

“Husband wanted you to have it, he knew just what Bertie would do when
he went to the barn; you have never had any home, and we want you to
feel that this is your home. Husband wants you to have this little colt
because he thinks it will make you happy, and by-and-by it will be worth
considerable to you, and you can see it grow, and we shall never feel
the difference.”

“It will make me happy, for I do love horses, I think they are nearer to
us than other creatures, and I shall love this little fellow like a
brother, but I want you to tell Peter and Bertie not to ask their father
for any more things for me. I am afraid Mr. Whitman will think I put ‘em
up to ask.”

“Why, James, he loves to give you things. They did not ask him to send
you to school, nor to give you boards to make your chest, nor to let you
have that piece of ground to plant, it came out of his own head and
heart; he is just the best man that ever was in this world, and the
children take after him, and he takes after his father. Grandfather is
getting a little childish sometimes now, but he is the best old
gentleman that ever was, and a real treasure.”

It was so dark when the boys got the colt home, that they could not have
a fair view of him, but the next morning the children were all at the
barn by sunrise, and their mother with them, to give him his breakfast.

“Isn’t he a beauty?” said Bertie. “Mr. Wood says, when he comes to his
color he’ll be a chestnut, same as Frank, mother. He’s a real good
breed, Mr. Wood and I traced it out; he’s half-brother to Frank and
perhaps he’ll be just like Frank.”

The mother had been injured four days, and the Wood boys had taught the
colt to drink milk by putting a finger in his mouth and his mouth in the
milk.

“Mother,” said Peter, “Mr. Wood has brought up a great many colts by
hand, and he said that they ought to be fed a little at a time and
often, to do right well. James nor we can’t come from the field to feed
him, Maria can’t do it because she’s at school all day. What shall we
do?”

“I’ll feed him twice in the forenoon and twice in the afternoon, a
little at a time and often is the way, and then you and James can feed
him morning, noon and night.”

After a few days’ feeding with her fingers, Mrs. Whitman nailed a teat
made of rags and leather to the bottom of the trough, and the colt would
suck that. All she had to do then was to pour the milk into the trough.

No one could have witnessed without emotion the wealth of affection
lavished upon that colt by James. Much as he loved the children there
was always a little feeling of restraint, and a little distance
pervading their intercourse on his part. Bertie and Maria would put
their arms around his neck and hug him, but he never returned their
caresses.

Not so, however, in regard to the colt, the only pet he ever had, the
only live thing that had ever called out the childhood feelings and
sympathies of his nature so long dormant, and which they now fastened
upon and clung to in their entire strength and freshness.

In the morning, before the rest were stirring, he would fondle and talk
to it by the half hour. As the little creature grew stronger and
playful, and could lick meal and eat potatoes and bread, James would put
bread in his waistcoat pocket and lie down on the barn floor, sometimes
he would put there maple sugar, then the colt, smelling the delicacies,
would root them out with his nose, and as he became earnest get down on
his knees and lick the lining of the pocket, and turn it out to get the
sugar.

Just back of the house was a piece of grass ground extremely fertile,
with a great willow in the centre of it. An acre of this was fenced and
reserved for a pasture in which to turn the horses to bait when work
pressed, and it was important to have them near at hand. In this pasture
James put the colt when he was old enough to feed, and there he would
frisk and caper and roll and try to act out the horse, and when tired
lie under the great willow, stretched out at full length as though he
was dead or sound asleep. Whenever James came in sight he would cry for
him, and when the other horses came in from work there would be a vocal
concert vigorously sustained on both sides.

“Poor little thing,” said Bert, “he’s lonesome, why don’t you turn him
into the pasture with the other horses? He wants somebody to talk with
him that can understand his language. I would, James.”

“I’m afraid to, he won’t know any better than to run right up to them,
and they will bite or kick him; perhaps they’ll all take after him, get
him into a ring and pen him in the corner of the fence and kill him.”

“Put one of ‘em in his place, and let us see what they will do.”

They turned old Frank in, the colt ran right up and began to smell of
him. Frank smelt of the colt, seemed glad to meet, and did not offer to
bite or kick him. Frank was just from work, hungry and wanted to feed,
but the colt wouldn’t let him, kept thrusting his nose in Frank’s face
and bothering him, when the old horse gave him a nip, taking the larger
portion of the colt’s neck into his great mouth. The little creature
screamed with pain and ran off, but soon came back and began feeding
close by, just as Frank did, the latter taking no further notice of him.

“They’ll do well enough,” said Mr. Whitman, who was looking on. “Frank
won’t hurt him, he was only teaching him manners, you can leave ‘em
together.”

They eventually became great friends, and after they had fed to the full
would stand in the corner of the fence or under the willows, the colt
nestled under Frank’s breast, and the latter with his head over the
colt’s back.

The colt would follow James like a dog; and sometimes when Frank would
take a notion not to be caught James would call the colt to him and
start for the barn, and the old horse would follow them right into the
stable.

Mr. Whitman had an offer for wheat at a high price, and kept Mr. Conly
and hired another man (as he had two barn floors) to help thresh,
threshing being then all done with the flail, or else the grain was
trampled out by cattle. The evenings were now getting to be quite long.
James therefore began to study, and Mr. Conly assisted him and heard him
recite. This was a golden opportunity for James, and he made the most of
it. While devoting every leisure moment to study, James was not
unmindful of his crop, there was not a weed to be seen among his
potatoes, and I should not dare to say how many times the fingers of
James and Bertie and Maria had been thrust into the hills on a voyage of
discovery, and their conclusions, as reported by Maria to her mother,
were most satisfactory. The soil indeed was full of great cracks, caused
by the growth and crowding of the potatoes.

When Mr. Whitman found that Mr. Conly was disposed to assist James, and
that James fully appreciated the privilege, he so arranged his work as
to afford him every possible opportunity, and the boys were ever ready
to take an additional burden upon themselves for the same purpose. One
evening Arthur Nevins came in to see the boys, and said he had been to
the mill that day and saw a notice posted up that Calvin Barker was
buying potatoes for a starch mill, and would pay cash and a fair price
for first-rate potatoes sound and sorted, no cut ones. Potatoes were
cheap, there was not much of a market for them, and the traders would
pay but part cash and the rest in goods.

“Now is your chance, James,” said the grandfather, “you want the money
and don’t want goods.”

They brought only seventeen cents per bushel, but there were one hundred
and sixteen bushels and a half, and after returning a bushel and one
half to Mr. Whitman to replace the seed received of him, and paying
Bertie for the colt, James had eighteen dollars and fifty cents left. In
addition to this were several bushels of small and cut potatoes that he
put in the cellar to give the colt.

Barker paid James in silver, and after reaching home he piled the coins
up on the table and gazed at them with a sort of stupid wonder. Never
before had he at one time possessed more than two shillings, seldom
that,—more frequently a few pennies for holding a horse, opening a gate,
or doing some errand for the men in the glass-house, and he counted them
over and over.

James now knew the value of a dollar in theory, how many cents there
were in a dollar, and how many mills in a cent; and yet he had little
more conception of its practical value than a red Indian, for he had not
received any wages nor bought anything above the value of a penny loaf
or a bit of cheese. At length, looking up wistfully in the face of Mr.
Whitman, he asked,—

“How much would all these dollars buy?”

“According to what you might buy. They would buy a good deal of some
articles and not much of others; they would buy about twenty-four
bushels of wheat and thirty of corn, but they would not buy a great deal
of coffee, or indigo, or broadcloth, or silk.”

“I’d buy a gun and lots of powder and shot,” said Bertie.

“Would it buy any land, Mr. Whitman?”

“Yes.”

“How much?”

“That would depend upon circumstances. In the western part of Ohio, of
wild land, one hundred and eighty acres—more than half as much as I have
got here.”

“O my! how much is an acre? I know what the arithmetic says, one hundred
and sixty square poles. But how big a piece is it?”

“That little pasture where the colt is measures about an acre. One of
those dollars would buy ten pieces of land as big as that pasture out
there; but you must recollect it is wild land, all woods, no house, no
road: you have to cut the trees down before you can grow anything on
it.”

“I know grandfather has told me ‘twas just so once where this house
stands. But would it buy any land here?”

“Yes, it will buy an acre, buy two, perhaps three of some land; of most
land it would not buy one.”

“It would buy a yoke of little steers, and quite a lot of sheep.”

“But why don’t you buy a gun? You love to shoot,” said Bertie.

“I mean to save my money to buy land.”

“That’s right, James,” said grandfather, “then you will have something
under your feet that will last as long as you will, and longer, too. Not
that I would say that it don’t pay a man who can shoot to buy a gun; but
every thing in its place.”

James had now something to put in his chest, and went up stairs to
deposit the money there. When he came back Mr. Conly explained to him
the source of values, and told him that land became valuable by being
settled, made accessible by roads, productive of crops and cattle, and
by mills being built to grind the grain and manufacture the timber.

“When I go trading, James, I’ll take you with me, and then you will
learn the prices of things, and after a while I’ll send you to trade as
I often do Peter and Bertie,” said Mr. Whitman.

Mr. Whitman now said to James and his sons,—

“I think I shall turn out about two acres of the field to pasture, and
take in as much more of woodland. I can get the land cleared and fenced
with logs by giving the first crop; but if you three boys wish to take
the job, I’ll give you the crop for three years; but you must keep the
sprouts down and the fire-weed and pigeon-weed, and you may keep the
ground you now have the use of two years more.”

They all said they would do it.

“That,” said Peter, “will be to become backwoodsmen, and do just what
grandfather did, and we’ll make a chopping bee.”

“No, we won’t; we’ll do it ourselves. If we are to be beholden to the
neighbors, I won’t have anything to do with it. I should be ashamed if
we three could not do what your grandfather when he was young would have
done alone, and not thought it a hard task either,” said James.

“So I say,” replied Bertie, “do it ourselves.”

“But how shall we find out how to do it quickest, and to the best
advantage?” said James.

“Father will show us,” said Peter.

“Here sits a venerable gentleman,” said Bertie, making a magnificent
gesture in the direction of his grandparent, “who can show us better
than father.”

Bertie was prone to be grandiloquent at times, and he had just been
reading Patrick Henry’s celebrated speech, and committing it to memory.
He then asked his grandfather what time of the year was the best to do
it.

“The best time to do it is in June, because then the stumps will bleed
freely and be less likely to sprout, and the leaves will draw the sap
out of the bodies of the trees and dry them, so that they will burn
better, and the leaves will dry and help to burn them; but you can’t do
it then, because it will be right in hoeing time; you will have to do it
after harvest, and let it lie over till the next summer.”

“Then,” said James, “we shall not get any crop, not even the second
year.”

“You will get a crop into the ground the second year, and harvest it the
third, though you may get a crop the second year, but in the meantime
you will keep the ground you have now and be getting something from
that. If it should prove a dry summer you could burn it in June of the
second year, and sow it with spring rye or barley, and if you get a good
burn, an extra burn, you might venture to put in corn, for a crop comes
along master fast on a burn, the hot ashes start it right along.”

“I don’t think,” said James, “we had better try to burn it till after
wheat harvest, as we shall have the other pieces, and it would interfere
so seriously with Mr. Whitman’s work, that if he was willing I shouldn’t
be.”

The old gentleman now told James there was another way in which he might
earn something for himself; he might shoot the coons that would be
getting into the corn in the moonlight nights, and when there was no
moon he might tree them with the dog, and shoot them by torchlight, and
the hatters at the village would buy the skins. There was a pond in the
pasture where there were plenty of muskrats.

“How do you get the muskrats?”

“This time of year set traps in the edge of the water for them; in the
winter they make houses among the flags at the edge of the pond and go
to sleep like flies, then you can catch ‘em in their houses. You can now
shoot very well with a rifle, and if it was not for going to school you
might in the winter get a wolf or a bear; a wolf’s pelt would bring two
dollars, but a good bearskin would bring twenty, more than all the
potatoes you worked so hard to raise. But no doubt you might trap a fox
or two, and their skins bring a good price.”

“But where should I get a trap?”

“Come along with me.”

The old gentleman took James into the chamber over the workshop and
opened a chest, in which were traps of all sizes and adapted to catch
different animals, from a mink to a wolf or bears; there were but two of
the latter but great numbers of the others, all clean and oiled, and in
excellent order. He then opened a closet in which were chains to fasten
the traps to prevent the animals from taking them away, and clogs, and
broad chisels on long handles. The latter, the old gentleman told him,
were ice chisels to cut ice around the beaver lodges in the winter.

“When I was younger, I used to leave Jonathan and the other boys to take
care at home in the winter, and I and old Vincent Maddox used to take a
hoss each, and traps, and rifles, and go over the Ohio river and trap
and hunt sometimes till planting time, and sometimes I took one of my
own boys. It’s a kind of pleasure to me to clean up the old traps, and
repair ‘em, and look ‘em over, brings back old times, though I never
expect to use ‘em much more ‘cept perhaps to take a fox or an otter.”

“Did Mr. Whitman use to go with you?”

“No, Jonathan never took much to such things. He’s all for farming, but
my William, who’s settled in the wilderness on the Monongahela, was full
of it from the crown of his head to the sole of his foot. He’s a chip of
the old block. But Jonathan is right, farming pays the best now; but in
those days if you raised anything there was no market for what you could
not eat, and trapping and hunting, and killing Indians for the bounty on
their scalps were all the ways to get a dollar.”

Peter and Bertie liked well enough to watch for and kill coons in the
corn or on the trees for a few hours in pleasant moonlight nights, but
did not possess that innate hunter’s spirit that reconciled them
patiently to bear hunger, cold and watching to circumvent their game;
but James did, and his former life of poverty, hunger and outdoor
exposure with but scanty clothing had rendered him almost insensible to
cold and wet, and he embraced every opportunity that was offered him to
shoot or trap. Besides coons and muskrats, he shot, on the bait afforded
by a dead sheep, two silver-gray foxes, and caught one cross fox and two
silver-grays in traps that the old gentleman told him how to set. His
greatest exploit and one that elicited the praises of grandfather, was
in the latter part of winter, trapping an otter, that brought him twelve
dollars.

The elder Whitman instructed him in the right methods of stretching and
curing the skins, and sent them to Philadelphia to a fur dealer with
whom he had dealt a great many years, and James received for what he
took alone, and half of those he obtained in company with Peter and
Bertie, sixty-eight dollars.




                              CHAPTER XVI.
                          A YEAR OF HAPPINESS.


The success of James in trapping did by no means overshadow his love for
the soil, neither did it lead him to neglect his studies, nor cool his
affection for the colt. A quart of oats every night, and potatoes,
Sunday morning, with plenty of hay, made the animal grow finely.

This winter James so excelled in writing that the master employed him to
set the copies. Everything passed along pleasantly in the school; James
mingled freely with the scholars in their diversions, and even Morse,
Riggs, and Orcutt forgot the old grudge, or pretended they had. He
likewise so far conquered his reserve as to spend a sociable evening
where he was invited; went through the arithmetic, and took surveying by
the advice of the old gentleman, who told him it would put many a dollar
in his pocket if he could run land, and he could in no other way get it
so easily, especially if he ever went into a newly settled place.

In short, it was the happiest winter James had ever passed; time seemed
to take to itself wings, and he could hardly realize it was March when
March came.

As the time for work upon the land drew near, James said to Mr.
Whitman,—

“I don’t think you need to hire a man this summer; the boys are some
older. I have got the run of the work, and have learned to cradle grain
as well as to reap. I think we can do the work.”

“It is poor economy to have barely help enough to get along, providing
the weather is just what you would wish. I shall plough less, and dress
heavier than I have done; that will leave less ground to go over. I
think we can get along till hay and wheat harvest, then I will hire
George Kendrick; he can spread, rake, build the loads of hay, tie up
grain, and reap a little; he’s but a boy, and won’t want much wages.”

Although they could not set to work upon their new land till autumn, the
boys were teasing their father to go and measure it, and their
grandfather said it was a pleasant day, and he would go with them.

When the boys came to see how large a piece of land was contained in a
measure of two acres, and how near together the trees were, their
courage cooled a little.

“If we are to cut all these trees,” said James, “snow will fly before we
get half done.”

“You haven’t got to cut half of ‘em clear off. If I was twenty years
younger I could fall the whole and lop off the large limbs, and burn and
pile it in eight weeks.”

When the time came to clear their land, the old gentleman went with
them, and spotted a great oak with long spreading limbs.

“That’s the _driver_; that’s not to be cut yet.”

He then spotted a great number of trees in a line before it, and in a
space as wide as the branches of the great tree extended. He then
directed the boys to cut the tree nearest the drive-tree nearly off, and
the next ones less, and the next less still, till the outside ones
received only a few blows.

While the boys were at work, the old gentleman began leisurely to chop
into the great tree, sitting down to rest when he liked, till he had cut
it as nearly off as was safe. This occupied him the greater part of the
forenoon, and, seating himself in the sun, he slept till James shouted
that they had cut all the spotted trees.

“Then come here, all of you.”

The great oak stood at the summit of gently descending ground. Directly
before it was a clump of enormous pines, which the boys had been
directed to chop into till they stood tottering to a fall, and before
them were some large hemlocks and sugar-trees that had been cut half
off, and below these smaller trees that had received but a few blows of
the axe.

All were now assembled at the foot of the oak. A few well-directed
strokes from the old gentleman’s axe, it began to nod, and small, dead
limbs to fall from it; then came a short, sharp crack. Slowly it
toppled, and seemed but to touch the trunks of the tall pines that stood
seventy feet to a limb, when down they went with a tremendous roar upon
the hemlocks, and the whole avalanche, smoking and cracking, plunged
right down the descent into the mixed growth below: leaves, limbs, and
bark flew high into the air, a wide lane was opened through the forest,
as when a discharge of grape ploughs through a column of infantry; the
very earth shook with the concussion, and the sunlight broke in where it
had not shone for a hundred years.

Bertie leaped upon the trunk of the great oak, and swinging his hat,
shouted,—

“Hoorah, grandfather, you know how to do it, don’t you?”

“I should be a dull scholar if I didn’t, considering how much experience
and practice I’ve had.”

Scores of trees were prostrated, some torn up by the roots, others shorn
of their branches, and sure to die when scorched by the clearing fire,
others broken off at various heights. The trees broken off or stripped
of their branches were not cut down, as, casting no shade, they did not
interfere with the crop, but were left to rot down.

Finding the labor so much less than they had anticipated, the boys set
to work with resolution, and before the ground froze, cut the trees,
lopped the larger branches, and cleared up the work of the season. James
raised three bushels of potatoes more than the previous year, and
obtained two cents a bushel more for them of the same buyer.

The Whitmans all possessed musical ability. Mr. Whitman and his wife
sang in the choir till they were married; and the children, though they
had received no training, and could not read music, all sang by rote;
and soon after school began, Bertie made a new discovery. One of the
cows that he milked had spells of holding up her milk, and caused much
inconvenience.

“I’ll swap cows with you, Bertie,” said James; “you milk my old
line-back, and I’ll milk the black cow; perhaps she’ll give down her
milk better to me.”

The black cow after this gave down her milk, which was for some time a
great puzzle to Bertie and Peter, although their parents said it was
because James milked faster, and it was easier to the cow.

James was the first to rise, and generally had his cows nearly milked by
the time the rest got into the yard, and was ready either to work among
his potatoes or to sit down to study till breakfast was ready, and the
black cow was always milked before Bertie got along.

Bert imagined James had some method of charming the cow, and resolved to
find out, so getting up before light he hid himself in the barn.
By-and-by James came out and sitting down to the cow leaned his head
against her and began to sing an old folk ditty to make a cow give down
her milk, and Bertie’s quick ear discovered to his astonishment that
James had both an ear and most excellent voice for singing, though so
great was his diffidence and power of concealment that no one of the
family had ever suspected it before. Bertie told his father and mother.

“If that is so,” said Mrs. Whitman, “let us get Walter Conly to keep a
singing school this winter, and let James and our children go, we need
better music in the church, most of the choir have sung out.”

When snow came they harnessed up the colt in a most singular vehicle
called a drag, made of rough poles, the shafts and runners being made of
the same pole. The harness they made of straw rope, which James, who had
been taught at the workhouse, showed them how to twist with an
instrument that he made, called a throw-crook. It was made of a crooked
piece of wood bent at one end and a swivel in the other end by which he
fastened it to his waist, and turned it with one hand, while one of the
boys attached the straw and walked backwards as it twisted. He told them
great use was made of these ropes in England to bind loads of hay and
grain, and to secure stacks of grain. They braided the straw to make the
saddle, and twisted hickory withes for bit and bridle. They put Bertie
and Maria on the sled and the docile creature drew them to the
schoolhouse with some help; there he was fastened in the sun beneath the
lee of the woods and fed.

When school was done at night the creature, colt-like, and limber as an
eel, had twisted round, gnawed off the straw halter, then the
shoulder-strap, which permitted the traces to fall, and then being freed
from the drag he rubbed against the tree to which he had been fastened
till he broke the girth and freed himself from the saddle; and ended by
devouring the whole harness, except the bridle, even to the reins.

“Oh, you little monkey,” cried Bertie, “if I had given you that straw at
home you would have turned up your nose at it. How do you think Maria is
going to get home? She won’t bake you any more corn cakes nor give you
any more sweet apples.”

The snow was quite deep; they put Maria on the drag, James and Peter and
the Wood boys hauled the drag, and Bertie led the colt after the
vehicle. They made another straw harness, but took care to fasten him
with a leather halter and hitch him short.

The inhabitants of the district and the scholars were so much attached
to Mr. Conly that they assessed themselves to keep the school that was
out in February through March, Mr. Whitman offering to board him the
entire month. The days were so long that James found much time to work
in the shop, both before and after school. Mr. Whitman was making a pair
of wheels, tongue and axle-tree for one of his neighbors, and finding
how much progress James had made in handling tools, availed himself of
his help. When the job was finished, James, with some aid from Mr.
Whitman, made an axle-tree, wheels and shafts, with which to break the
colt. He had just put the finishing stroke to his work by boring the
linchpin holes, and sitting down upon the axle-tree and contemplating
it, he said,—

“There, I have done all I know how to do to those wheels; I don’t know
whether they’ll run off or on, but I hope they will answer the purpose.”

The old gentleman was in the shop making a grain cradle, he viewed the
work, took off the wheels, measured the shoulder, and the taper of the
ends of the axle, and said,—

“I call that a good piece of work, and I believe those wheels will run
true as a die; you have learned something since Jonathan brought you to
our door two years ago last fall; you couldn’t have made a sled stake
then and made it right.”

“Indeed I have, grandfather, and I owe it to you, and I have often
wondered that you should take so much pains with a strange boy, and as
you may say an outcast, with neither kith nor kin.”

“I have tried to teach you some things, and chiefly those that would put
you in the way of getting your bread in this country, and the things
that I knew by experience to be both necessary and profitable to a young
man going to take up land, which is the best, safest, and in my
judgment, the happiest venture here. I have spent a great many hours
teaching you to handle a rifle, for though playing with a gun is just
time thrown away in an old settlement where there is nothing to shoot
but sparrows and robins, my family would have often gone without a meal
had it not been for my rifle; and the money that bought the greater part
of this farm came by trapping and hunting. If I could not have handled
tools I must have gone without cart or plough or harrow, for I had no
money to buy, and must have gone nine miles to borrow.

“But there is one thing more necessary for you than anything I have ever
tried to teach you, and I cannot teach it, I wish I could.”

“What is that, grandfather?”

“The grace of God, something that cannot be learned as you can learn to
line and cut the shoulder of an axle-tree to make the wheel run true, or
to work out a sum at school, and yet it is by all odds more necessary
than any and all of the things you have learned here.”

“But you never told me anything about this before.”

“Perhaps you think it strange that when I have taken so much pains from
the time you came here to teach you other things, and so many other
things, that I have never said anything about that.”

“Yes, grandfather, I do.”

“It was because I didn’t think the time had come for me to speak. I knew
you were becoming acquainted with the Scriptures, that you heard the
gospel faithfully preached every Sabbath, and that you would not then
have understood my talk, but now you know what I mean, do you not?”

“You mean what you prayed, that Peter and Bertie and Maria and I might
have, this morning at family prayers. But how can I get it? If neither
the schoolmaster nor you can teach me, and I can’t learn it myself, how
am I going to get it?”

“Beg for it. When a man has nothing to buy bread with, and can’t work,
he must beg. Get it where I got mine, on your knees.”

“But the minister says folks must feel that they are sinners, and
confess their sins and ask forgiveness in the name of the Saviour. I
don’t feel that way; don’t feel that I have got anything to confess.”

“You don’t?”

“No, sir. I can’t confess that I have lied, or sworn, got drunk, or
stolen, or broken the Sabbath, or cheated anybody, because I never have.
I know I am not bad, like the workhouse boys I was brought up with, nor
like some folks here, and I never go to bed or get up but I say the
Lord’s prayer.”

“What makes you say in the Lord’s prayer ‘forgive us our sins,’ if you
have no sins to be forgiven; and what sense was there in putting it in
the Lord’s prayer, that was made for the whole world, and you among the
rest, if you have no sin?”

“I don’t know.”

“The reason you don’t feel that you have anything to confess is that you
don’t know what’s inside of you. Everybody is the same way by nature. I
used to be.”

“What must I do then?”

“Ask the Lord to send His spirit to show yourself, and if He does, you
will see need enough to ask pardon. I hope you’ll think about it, James,
for I never was so set upon anything as I am upon this. It is not an
affair of the moment with me. I have had it in my mind from the first
spring you were here till now, and it has grown upon me of late, because
within the last six months I have begun to feel that I have not much
longer to tarry here. I don’t think I shall see the leaves fall again.”

The tears sprang into the eyes of James. He exclaimed,—

“Grandfather, don’t talk so; I can’t bear to hear you talk in that way.
You will live a good many years to make us all happy.”

“That’s impossible according to the course of nature. I have lived to
see all my children settled and making a good living, and what is more,
giving evidence of grace, though Jonathan and Alice have not as yet seen
their way clear to come forward, and I am ready to go; but I would like
to see you and Peter, Bertie and Maria, rejoicing in the Lord.”

This conversation affected James as had nothing else in the course of
his life. He loved and revered the old gentleman, and though he was
aware of his great age yet the idea of parting with him had never
crossed his mind, and when at night he repeated the Lord’s prayer as
usual, the words “forgive us our sins” were fraught with a new meaning.
He resolved to search the scriptures and find out if he was a sinner or
not.

A few days after this one half-holiday Bertie came into the shop and
hung around, sat upon the bench and whittled, a thing quite unusual, as
he had no desire to handle tools, and was seldom in the shop except
James or Peter was making something for him, at length he said,—

“Grandpa, I want you to pray for me.”

“My child, I have done that ever since you were born, but what makes you
ask me now? How do you feel?”

“I don’t know, I never felt as I have these last two days. I want to be
good. Mother says I am a good boy and so does father and the
schoolmaster, but I know I am not good the way the Bible calls good.”

“My dear boy, it is the blessed spirit that is showing you your heart.
We must both pray, for in these things one cannot take another’s place.
Tomorrow is the Sabbath day and I hope you will find pardon through the
Saviour, and that it will be the happiest Sabbath you ever spent. How
came you to turn your thoughts that way?”

“I was hurrying to get my part of the chores done before school time
when these thoughts came into my mind just like a flash, and they won’t
go away.”

After meeting on the next Sabbath, as the minister, Mr. Redman, came to
shake hands with the old gentleman as he always did, the former said,—

“Mr. Redman, if I were you at the close of the meeting to-night I would
ask any persons who felt disposed to converse on religious subjects to
tarry.”

“I don’t believe there would a single person stop. Never during my
ministry here have I seen the people as thoughtless, and Christians
themselves so indifferent; it is one to his farm and another to his
merchandise.”

“Didn’t you notice how full the meeting has been to-day and how
attentive the people were?”

“The pleasant Sabbath after several stormy ones accounts for the full
attendance, and our people usually give good attention. But what leads
you to think there is any special interest among the people?”

“The Lord has told me so.”

Mr. Redman looked anxiously into the face of his Elder, fearing that his
mind was enfeebled, but in the clear eye and compressed lips and earnest
expression of his features he saw nothing to confirm his suspicions, and
replied,—

“Although I perceive not the least reason for doing as you desire, I
will reflect upon it and if when we meet to-night you are of the same
opinion, I’ll certainly do it.”

“Will you mix a little prayer with your reflections?”

“I will.”

When Mr. Redman got home he related the affair to his wife, and inquired
if she thought there was any more thoughtfulness than usual among the
females of the parish.

“In my opinion there was never less, but I would do as Elder Whitman
requests.”

“He is a very old man and may be in his dotage. I am afraid it would
seem ridiculous and do more harm than good.”

“He has the clearest head of any man in this parish to-day, and is more
likely to know the mind of the Lord than anybody else, and I know never
would say what he did to you without a solid reason.”

Mr. Redman, a nervous person, greatly puzzled and agitated by what he
considered an unreasonable request, was unable to fix his mind upon any
definite topic of remark, and went to the meeting with very slight
preparation.

He was surprised to find the house was filled and Mr. Whitman of the
same opinion, which served to increase his agitation, and after a few,
as he felt, incoherent remarks threw the meeting open and sat down.

Mr. Whitman instantly got up and said,—

“I am an old man, about the oldest among you. I feel that I have been an
unprofitable servant and that, profitable or unprofitable, I am almost
at my journey’s end, but this is no time to depart. I would not die in
such a dead state of the church and people of God as this. My neighbors,
you must wake up, and wake up to-night. I must go and I want to carry
better tidings than it is possible to carry now. Can I face my Master,
and yours, and tell him that the wise and the foolish are slumbering
together, and that the seed his servant sows rots in the furrow because
it is not watered with the prayers of the church, and because Christian
people are more concerned to train their children to get a living than
they are to save their souls?”

He went on for half an hour, and when he sat down there were three or
four on their feet together, for his words went through the people like
an electric shock.

At the close of the meeting Mr. Redman gave the notice and more than
half of the assembly stopped. Among them was Walter Conly the
schoolmaster, his brother Edward, and sister Emily; Will Orcutt who had
come home from Reading on a visit, and his brother George; Arthur and
Elmer Nevins, John and William Edibean, and the Wood boys, Jane Gifford,
Martha Kendrick; many heads of families, Lunt the miller and Samuel
Dorset the drover. Mr. Whitman and his wife, Peter and Maria, remained,
but the grandfather saw Bertie and James go out. It gave the good old
man a heartache, and he said within himself,—

“God’s ways are not our ways, His will be done.”

That night after the old gentleman had retired to rest, Bertie crept to
his bedside and said,—

“Grandfather, the reason I did not stop to-night was I didn’t want to
talk with anybody only you, but I have prayed to God a great many times,
and asked him to take me for his child, and make me just what he wants
me to be, and somehow I feel as though he hears me.”

“Would you be ashamed to have your father and mother know how you feel?”

“I shouldn’t be ashamed to have the whole school know I am trying to be
good and be a Christian.”

A week passed away, and the old gentleman found no opportunity to talk
with James, as he was busy out of doors, and did not come into the shop,
but on Saturday evening as the former was sitting in his bedroom, James
entered and said,—

“Grandfather, I have done what you wished me to, and I have been
studying the New Testament to find out what sin is and whether I am a
sinner.”

“What did you find there?”

“I found that sin is the transgression of the law; that it is not doing
this or that, but having a wrong principle, and that I had a wrong
principle, and so there was not a bit of good in me. When I came to
cipher the thing right out, I saw that it was not because it was a sin
against God that I didn’t do as the rest in the workhouse did, but
because Mr. Holmes told me not to, and that Mr. Holmes was my God all
the while.”

“Ah! you’ve got to the bottom of it now, my boy.”

“But why did not Mr. Holmes tell me about my being a sinner, and about
pardon through the Saviour, as you have, and as Mr. Redman does?”

“Because Mr. Holmes was not only a good man, but a man of sense, all
good men don’t have common sense. You were a child then, and he did not
mean to burden your mind with things that, not understanding, you would
forget, but he knew if he told you not to lie, steal nor swear, and
taught you the commandments, that you would know what that meant, and he
put the idea of God in your mind. He knew that you loved him and would
do as you promised him you would, and that if you kept clear of those
sins it would keep your conscience alive, and that if you said the
Lord’s prayer it would give you the idea of going to God, and though you
might not understand it would finally have its effect, and as you grew
older that influence would grow stronger.”

The religious interest increased not only there, but extended to other
towns in the county, and was part of that wonderful religious movement
called “The Great Awakening” that pervaded Kentucky, was more or less
felt in every state then in the Union, and which provided Christian
pioneers for the new settlements constantly forming.




                             CHAPTER XVII.
                            REDEMPTION YEAR.


It was now planting time. James, this year, planted his patch with corn,
as he had planted it with potatoes two years, and the boys planted
potatoes. The weather proved very dry and so favorable for farm work
that the planting and sowing were finished much earlier than usual.

“Now, boys,” said Mr. Whitman, “if you handle yourselves, you can burn
your lot over and plant corn before hoeing comes on: and, after harvest,
you can knock the sprouts from the stumps and kill the fire-weeds.”

They put in the fire, and got an excellent burn.

They now determined to make a log-rolling and invite the neighbors, far
and near, to come with axes and oxen to cut and roll and twitch the
unburnt logs into great piles to be set on fire and burned entirely up.
The old gentleman was busily at work in the shop, when Maria came
running in, and said,—

“Grandpa! George Orcutt is coming up the road, and he looks as though he
was coming here.”

“I hope he is; and if he turns up here, you tell him the men-folks are
all in the field, except me, and that I am at work in the shop.”

In a few moments George came in, and was received very cordially by the
old gentleman. George said his father had broken one of the glasses in
his specs, and as he was about the age of Mr. Jonathan, but some older,
he might have a pair that he did not use, that he would lend him till he
could get another pair. He said that William was coming, but he had an
errand at Mr. Wood’s, and told his folks he would do the errand.

“There are glasses enough in the house. I don’t use ‘em; but I have got
two pair that were my father’s. Jonathan has got two pair, and Alice has
a pair that she don’t use much of any now. I was glad to see that you
stopped awhile ago after meeting. I trust you have found the hope you
sought then?”

“No, Mr. Whitman, I have not; there’s a thing stands right in the middle
of the road, and blocks the whole road up.”

“What is that?”

“You know, I suppose, what happened at school?”

“Have you any hardness against James?”

“No, sir; and I have told the Lord I am sorry, and asked his
forgiveness; but that is not satisfactory, and I don’t feel that it is
any use for me to go to my Maker till I have forgiveness of James, but I
don’t know how to bring it about.”

“I’ll fix it for you; it is only about half an hour to supper time;
you’ll stop and take supper with us?”

“I dread to go into the house.”

“Never be afraid to do right, because you will have help. But, before
you go in, I want to show you some things James has made.”

The old gentleman showed him a wheelbarrow and crossbow he had made for
Bertie, and the wheels and shafts he had made to break the colt in, and
told him that James had made himself a nice chest, dovetailed it
together, and painted it.

“Come, let us go into the house and find the specs.”

Mrs. Whitman received George in so kindly a manner that it relieved him
of much of his embarrassment.

The old gentleman told Maria, when she went to call the men-folks to
supper, to tell her father that George Orcutt was in the house and would
stop to supper.

“Boys,” said Mr. Whitman, “George Orcutt is in the house; I suppose you
can guess what has brought him here. He will feel embarrassed enough, no
doubt, and I want you all to shake hands with him as if you meant it,
and receive him as though nothing had happened, and as you did when he
used to come here.”

“I am sure I will,” said Bertie; and so they all said, and did
accordingly; but the grandfather excelled them all, for, as soon as they
had shaken hands with George and talked a little, the former said,
“James, I’ve been showing George your cart, and have told him about your
chest. Why won’t you take him upstairs and let him see it?”

They went upstairs together.

“I think we had better sit down to the table,” said Mr. Whitman; “they
will feel better to find us eating than they will to find us all sitting
here still, and have to look us in the face when they come down.”

Before James and George came down, the boys and their father had eaten
their supper and gone out, leaving James and George to eat together.

There were traces of tears on the cheeks of the latter, but he looked
happy and as though a great load was lifted from his heart, and felt so
much relieved that the boys persuaded him to pass the night with them.
In the course of the evening he told Bertie that David Riggs and William
Morse, who had also stopped at the meeting on the Sabbath succeeding the
one upon which he stopped, felt as he did, and wanted to do likewise,
but did not know how to bring it about. The four friends talked the
matter over, and it was resolved to invite David and William to the
log-rolling and the supper afterwards, and George was commissioned to
invite and come with them.

The day was set, the neighbors responded to the summons, the logs were
piled and burnt, and great numbers of the smaller stumps torn out by
main force and flung on the piles. David, William and George were among
the first on the ground, David bringing four oxen and George and William
a yoke each. Before they parted harmony was restored between them and
James and Peter and Bertie.

The boys were very solicitous that their grandfather should go out and
look at the burn but he was not able. The good old man had been failing
since the approach of hot weather and could only work a little while in
the garden in the morning; and at evening and during the greater part of
the time dozed in his chair. In the midst of wheat harvest there came a
week of extremely sultry weather which affected him very sensibly, and
as Mrs. Whitman was passing through the room where the old gentleman sat
asleep in his chair, she was alarmed by the extreme paleness of his
features, went to the chair and found him unconscious. She summoned her
husband and children, who were near by reaping, but when they reached
the house he was no more. A well-spent life had ceased without a
struggle. His death, though not unexpected, threw a gloom over that
happy family that not even the assurance of his preparedness could
dissipate, and that yielded only to the soothing hand of time.

James, to whom he had stood in the place of a parent, was so affected
that for several weeks he could speak of nothing else. Mr. Whitman now
conducted family prayers as his father had done, and in a few weeks
himself and wife, James and the children, united with the church. As the
result of the singing school there was formed a new choir, which Peter,
Bertie, and James joined, also Emily Conly, Jane Gifford, Sarah Evans,
Maria Whitman, and Prudence Orcutt.

When the boys came to harvest their corn they found an opportunity to
sell it in the ear to an agent who was buying corn and shelling it at
the mill with a machine that was moved by water-power, and shared
forty-nine dollars and fifty cents each. James also obtained eighteen
dollars and some cents for that raised on the same piece that he had
before planted with potatoes.

The season throughout had been dry and held so, the boys therefore took
the oxen, pulled out all the roots the oxen could start by means of
their help, and with the axe cut down all the stubs that had been broken
off and left. There were also a great many logs that were too green to
burn and had been piled up around the stumps; these they hauled together
and then setting fire to the corn stubble made a clean burn of weeds,
sprouts and logs, feeding the fire till the whole was consumed and a
good seed bed made for another year.

Edward Conly kept the school in the winter and everything passed off
pleasantly. James was now, as one of the choir, brought to the choir
meetings, mingled with the girls as he had never done before, and was
even induced by Bertie and Edward Conly to speak a piece and take part
in a dialogue at a school exhibition.

The boys resolved this spring (as they had cleared their burn so
thoroughly) to plough it a few inches deep and sow it with rye. It was
hard work for the cattle, and as they stopped to breathe them, Bertie
cried out, in his abrupt fashion,—

“Look here, James; by the time this grain comes off, or not long after,
your time will be out, your four years.”

After reflecting a moment, James replied,—

“So they will. Can it be that four years are gone already?”

“What are you going to do about the next crop after this? Father
promised us three crops; I don’t suppose he thought anything about the
time.”

“I’ll give it to you and Peter.”

“We’ll buy it of you,” said Peter.

“You are not going away,” said Bertie. “What is the use to talk about
that. This is your home just as much as it is ours; we won’t let you go,
will we, Pete?”

“Of course we won’t.”

“Father,” said Bertie, at dinner, “do you know that James’ time is out
next fall?”

“Yes.”

“But you said he and we might have three crops off that burn. If he goes
away he’ll lose his crop.”

“He won’t go away. I’ll hire him and let him have his crop to boot. I
suppose he’ll work for me, won’t you, James?”

“Work for you, Mr. Whitman. I’ll gladly work for you a year without
wages, and then I shall be altogether in your debt, for coming here has
been my salvation, both for soul and body.”

“You are worth more to me than any man I can hire, and I shall hire you,
and pay you all you are worth. Whatever I have done for you I have
received back, and more, too, in relief from the care and anxiety of
looking up help at critical periods, and in having the best of help, and
also in feeling that I had a man in whom I could place confidence, whom
the children could love, and who would not teach them any bad habits.
More especially do I think of how much father loved you, and only a few
days before his death he said to me,—

“‘Jonathan, James’ time will be out next year; don’t lose sight of him
when I am gone, and be kind to him for my sake.”

So far was Mr. Whitman from forgetting when James’ time was out, that
early in the spring he had written to his brother William, telling him
about James, and how much they were all attached to him; that under the
instruction of his father he had become a good shot with a rifle, had
learned a little of trapping, and to travel on snow-shoes. He then asked
him to take him with him a winter trapping, as he was anxious to earn
money to buy land.

He received a letter from his brother saying that he would willingly
take James, more especially as a Seneca Indian, with whom he had trapped
two winters, was dead. That he need bring no traps, except, perhaps, a
few small ones, nor lead, nor powder, as these articles could be
procured at Pittsburg, nor blankets, for they had enough; and to come on
horseback, as he had plenty of hay and grain, for which there was no
market, and that he would meet him at Pittsburg the last week in October
or the first in November.

Mr. Whitman put the letter in his pocket, and said nothing about it at
the time.

When the rye came off they shared twenty dollars each, after returning
two bushels to Mr. Whitman.

It was now the twenty-seventh of September, the corn and grain were
harvested, and the potatoes nearly dug. It was in the evening, cool
enough to render a fire comfortable, and the boys were seated around the
hearth, mute, and evidently expectant.

Mr. Whitman went into his bedroom, and returning with a letter in his
hand, said,—

“James, you have honorably fulfilled the agreement made with me four
years ago, and are now your own man, and to-morrow we will pass
receipts. Of course you now want to earn all you can. I know that the
desire to own a piece of land and call it your own is eating you up.
Bertie says you talk about it in your sleep, and I want to put you in
the way of getting it.”

He then told James of the letter he had received from his brother, and
put it in his hand. When James had read the letter, he said,—

“There is nothing I so much desire as to own a piece of land. Working
out by the month on a farm is a very slow way of getting money to buy it
with, as in the winter a man can earn but little more than his board,
and the winters are long here; in England the plough goes every month in
the year. I should like very much to go.”

“Trapping is a poor business to follow, but a very good resort for a
young man who wants to obtain something to give him a start. You can go
out there, trap till April, and if you are commonly successful can earn
more than you could in a whole farming season, and get back in time for
farm work, when I will hire you for the rest of the season, and you and
the boys can raise another crop on your burnt land.”

There was no time to be lost, as the journey was long, and James began
instantly to make his preparations.

“Father,” said Bertie, “the colt is too young for such a journey with a
heavy load, it will spoil him. Why don’t you let James take old Frank?
He’ll be back by the time we want to plough, and Frank is good for
anything.”

“I will, if you and Peter think you can part with Frank.” Mr. Whitman
gave his father’s rifle to James, a most excellent piece. He took with
him a few otter and beaver traps, pork, bread, and also a camp kettle,
as he calculated to kill game, and camp where taverns were not
convenient.

“Where are James and Bertie?” said Mr. Whitman, the night before James
was to set out.

“They have gone over to Mr. Conly’s,” said Peter.

“James has been over there two evenings this week. I should think if he
is going in the morning he would want to be at home this evening.”

“He thinks a great deal of Edward Conly, and I believe Walter is
expected home to-night.”

“I guess,” said Maria, “that it’s not Edward nor Walter, but Emily whom
he thinks the most of, for he went home from meeting with her last
Sunday night, and he never went home with anybody before. I don’t
believe but what Bert knows.”

“If he does he won’t blab it all round,” said Peter.

James took with him flint, steel and tinder, fish-hooks and lines, and
one blanket, and provender for Frank.

He started off with the good wishes of all the household. Bertie put his
arms round old Frank’s neck and told him to remember that he had a
character to sustain, and not to stumble on the mountains. The old
roadster bent down his head, rubbed his nose on the shoulder of his
young friend and seemed to signify, I will.

Uncle Nathan Kendrick, an old trapper, not far from the age of the
deceased grandfather, had given James a rough draft of the roads, with
the names of the streams, fords, and towns, the localities of the public
houses and log taverns, and the distances, and the places where grass
and water were to be found, and that were good camping grounds.

In the meanwhile the object of all this solicitude rode on, crossed the
Susquehannah at Harris Ferry, and found a good tavern, where he put up.
The next morning he started on, fed his horse on grass and provender,
buying provender at the farm-houses for the horse and what little he
required for himself, as he shot or trapped most of his provision. At
night he camped early, and after he left the older settlements behind,
he built a brush camp every night and put Frank into it to protect him
from the wolves, building his fire in front.

He found no difficulty in regard to living. When he stopped to bait at
noon on the banks of the Yellow Breeches Creek, he shot a wild turkey,
and had a sumptuous dinner. At Falling Spring he caught muskrats and
snared a partridge, and caught fish in the Conococheague Creek; on the
top of the North Mountain he found a log tavern, where he obtained
provender and camped; from thence, crossing the Alleghanies, he came to
Laurel Hill and Chestnut Ridge. This ridge was covered with a heavy
growth of chestnut trees, mixed with oaks, which rendered it a resort
for wild turkeys, coons and deer, and in the openings was an abundance
of sweet grass for the horse. Here he camped two days to rest the horse
after the fatigue of climbing the mountains, and while there he shot a
deer and trapped two minks.

James now found himself within about two miles of Pittsburg village,
then an assemblage of log houses, having some trade in furs and by
flat-boats down the river with New Orleans, Ohio and Kentucky; also some
trade by pack-horses with Baltimore and by water carriage by way of the
Kiskiminetas Creek and by portage.

Frank had not been in a stable since leaving Harristown. It was near
sundown, the wood was too thick for grass to grow, and James resolved to
put up at some farm-house and give him a good baiting of hay.

Seeing a log house, the logs of which were hewn on the sides and chinked
with lime mortar, a large barn and good breadth of land cleared, he made
application and received a cordial welcome from the farmer, a Scotchman.
His family consisted of a wife and three children, with all the
necessaries of life in abundance. When the evening meal was over, he
called the family together for prayers, and, according to the Scotch
custom, read a hymn, and finding that James sang, they all, even to the
children, united in praising God.

James had now the opportunity to clean his horse thoroughly from dust
and sweat, and feed him bountifully. Aside from his attachment to a good
horse, he knew that Mr. Whitman would never have let anybody else have
him, and was therefore very anxious to bring him through in good shape,
and nothing could exceed the pains he had taken with him on the road,
the result being that he was in excellent flesh and spirits, and showed
no signs of a hard journey.

James was much disappointed next morning, when he rode into Pittsburg,
at the mean appearance of the village, having heard so much of the
conflicts around Duquesne. He found most of the houses built of logs,
some of round logs, others two-story and the logs hewn, one brick house
and a few stone, some good frame houses, and a church built of hewn
timber, but plenty of public-houses.




                             CHAPTER XVIII.
                            WILLIAM WHITMAN.


James was proceeding leisurely along the street bordering on the river,
called Front Street, when, as he approached a log tavern where a great
number of teams were standing, his horse was suddenly caught by the
bridle, and upon looking up, he was confronted by one of the
finest-looking men he thought he had ever met, and who, extending his
hand, exclaimed,—

“Is this James Renfew?”

James replied in the affirmative, as he clasped the offered hand of the
stranger, and returned his hearty grasp.

“I am William Whitman, and I knew old Frank the instant I set eyes on
him. How are you, old playmate?” patting Frank’s neck. “He’s just my
age; twenty-five years old last April, the tenth. Frank and I are one
year’s children. How smooth he looks; young as a colt. You’ll have a
good time here, old fellow, this winter, plenty to eat and nothing to
do.”

“Ah! there’s father’s old rifle,” laying his hand on the weapon, that
lay across the forward part of the saddle. “Oh! what a good father he
was to us, and brought us all up in the right way. I know in reason he
is better off, and that we must all die, but the old rifle brings
everything back,—all the old days when he used to teach me to shoot
under the old chestnut. Father did not know how old that tree was. How
long have you lived with my brother?”

“Four years.”

“And you have lived right among them all that time, and was there when
my father died?”

“Yes, sir; your father taught me to work with tools, and to shoot, and
trap, and could not rest till he brought me and Peter, Bertie and Maria,
to pray to God, and then he died.”

“You don’t know how glad I am to see you, and how glad Mary will be to
see somebody right from home. I suppose you knew my wife was Bradford
Conly’s daughter?”

“Yes, sir; I went to school to Walter two winters; and Edward Conly was
the last person except your brother’s folks that I shook hands with.”

William Whitman went for his horse, and they set forth; the road, very
good for a few miles, soon became a mere bridle path between spotted
trees. Clearings were sparse, and consisted of a few acres, the houses
were built of round logs, the roofs covered with splints hollowed like a
gouge, two laid hollow side up, and a rider rounded so that the edges of
it turned into the hollows of the under ones, was placed on top, like
the tiles of a West Indian house.

“I am taking you to a rough place by a rough road, but we shall be
comfortable and find something to keep soul and body together when we
get there.”

They now came in sight of the Monongahela and to some high bottom land
of about six acres, smooth, bare of trees and covered with a thick sward
of grass, in which was a young orchard, and in the midst of the orchard
stood a house built of logs, the tops and bottom hewn, and the chimney
of brick laid in lime mortar, and the bottom logs of the house were
underpinned with stone and the stones pointed with lime mortar. The
windows were small but glazed and fitted with bullet-proof shutters, and
the roof covered with pine shingles nailed. There was also a good frame
barn and a corn crib of round logs. Besides this natural meadow, about
ten acres had been cleared of forest, part of which had that season been
planted with corn and sown with wheat, and about three acres were
already green with winter rye, the remainder was in grass. The house
stood at a slight elbow in the stream, and thus commanded a view of the
river in both directions. Mr. Whitman told James it was about three
miles to where the river Youghiogheny came in.

“We are a rough-handed people here, Mr. Renfew, have forgotten what
little breeding we ever had, but we can give you a hearty welcome,” said
William as they dismounted, and fastening the horses, he led the way to
the house.

“Mary,” he said to his wife who met them at the door with a babe in her
arms, “this is Jonathan’s boy, James Renfew. I reckon he must think
about as much of him as he does of Peter or Bertie. If he didn’t, he
never would have let him have Frank to come out into this wilderness.”

“Now, Mr. Renfew, just sit you down and talk with the woman while I see
to the horses.”

James told Mrs. Whitman how lately he had parted with her parents and
brothers, and as Mr. Whitman just then came in, everything in relation
to the old gentleman that he thought would be interesting to them.

Suddenly Mrs. Whitman exclaimed,—

“Husband, what are we thinking about? Mr. Renfew has not had anything to
eat and now it is past noon.” Her husband took the child, and she soon
had biscuit in the Dutch oven and slices of venison, killed the day
before, broiling.

“Take a seat in my wife’s rocking chair, Mr. Renfew,” pointing to a
singularly constructed affair in the corner; “you see it took three to
make that chair. The Lord found the stuff; I did a little cabinet work,
and Mary the ornamental part.”

It was made by fitting a board into two-thirds of a hollow cedar log for
a seat, and notching into it for the arms, and slanting the back, to the
bottom, were fitted rockers. The wife had made a cushion, covered and
stuffed the arms and back, and thus made a most comfortable chair.

The cradle was more remarkable still, being made of an entire hollow
sycamore log; this log, after being cut off the right length, was sawed
down two feet from the ends, the piece taken out leaving the rest for
the top; the ends were filled with basswood bark, pressed flat and
fastened with glue, made by boiling the tips of deer’s horns; and
rockers were put on.

It was large enough for three babies, as a large log was taken in order
to get height sufficient for the top, but the space was filled with a
bed and stuffing. Two pewter platters, four earthen mugs, wooden plates,
spoons and bowls, all of wood, made the table furniture, and bedsteads
were made of rough poles.

On the other hand there was a handsome loom with reeds and harness, all
in excellent order, large and little wheels and reels and cards, and
good feather beds and bedding.

“I see you are looking at my wife’s cradle,” said William, “it was made
for the occasion, but the child is comfortable, and may be President of
the United States yet.”

“Did you make that loom? It is very handsome.”

“Yes, I thought as it was a thing we should always need, I would take
time and make it well. I could have made a cradle of boards, but we
needed the boards for a roof, and nails are a scarce article here. The
fact is we brought the things we most needed, and I brought my tools,
because I knew I could with them hatch up something to get along with,
and when I got time make something better. Now, Mr. Renfew,—”

“Call me James, if you please, I shall feel more at home.”

“Now, James, if you’ll take care of the beasts, I’ll take my rifle and
see if I can get a wild turkey, or pigeon, and then we’ll have another
chat; for to-morrow we must get ready for the woods.”

“You may think it silly, James, but I’ll go out with you, for I want to
see and pet old Frank; nothing brings home so near as seeing him,” said
Mary.

“That’s because I always rode him over to her father’s when I was
courting her, and she used to ride on his back, on the pillion behind
me, to singing school, huskings and all sorts of doings.”

Away he went, humming a merry tune. While Mrs. Whitman was talking to
Frank, patting him, pulling locks of sweet hay out of the mow and giving
to him, James looked after the retreating form of her husband, who was
making the woods ring with his music, and said within himself,—

“What a man!—far from neighbors, with three little children,
bullet-proof window shutters, five rifles and a shot-gun hanging over
the fireplace, and gay as a lark. He’s just like Bertie for all the
world; it’s just as Mrs. Whitman said, ‘If you like Bertie you’ll like
his uncle, for they are just alike.’”

At dusk Mr. Whitman returned with a turkey and three pigeons, and after
the evening meal was partaken of and the children in bed, James asked
him how he came to think of settling where he was when there was plenty
of wild land east of the mountains, and especially as the homes both of
himself and wife were there.

“I came up here when I was seventeen years old with uncle Nathan
Hendrick trapping, we trapped on this stream and on the Youghiogheny;
there were beaver here then,—a few,—a good many otters and foxes, and no
end to the coons; we did well and that gave me a taste for trapping.

“When I was eighteen, father gave me my time, a good rifle, and money to
buy a good set of traps. I worked two summers on farms, and in the
winters came up here and trapped alone. Then I had fallen head over ears
in love with that girl who is jogging the cradle, and she wanted to get
married and settle down awful”—upon this he received a sound box on the
ear from his wife. “You see we wanted to get together, I had taken a
great liking to this place, couldn’t get it out of my head, used to
dream about it. I hadn’t much money but wanted considerable land,
couldn’t bear to be crowded; and this land was dog cheap. About this
time I got acquainted with a half-breed Indian, who told me there was
good trapping and hunting on the Big Beaver. I went and looked over this
land, made up my mind just exactly as to what I could do with it, saw
that I could get along faster here than anywhere else, because I could
do two things as you may say at once.”

“What two things?”

“I could trap and farm. I made up my mind at once and bought two hundred
acres, though it took all the money I had. I went to a blacksmith in
Pittsburg who I knew often saw the half-breed, and got him to ask him to
trap with me the next winter, and for the smith to write me, and went
home. When I got home, father had given the farm to Jonathan to take
care of him and mother. I hired with Jonathan at twenty-five dollars a
month. I worked till August and had a hundred dollars.”

“Why didn’t you work through the season?”

“Because I had received a letter from the smith saying that the
half-breed would trap with me, and I knew I could trust that Indian.

“I gave forty-five dollars of my money to that woman for safe keeping
(it was an awful risk, but I did it). I borrowed a mule and a
pack-saddle of Mr. Nevins and put on him seventy-five steel traps,
powder, lead and blankets, a few tools to make dead-falls (wooden traps)
and other fixings, took old Frank, put a saddle and pillion on him and
some light things, tied the mule’s bridle to Frank’s tail, put Bertie on
the pillion, and started. The Indian had agreed to meet me at Turkey
Foot.”

“What is Turkey Foot?”

“Don’t you remember that just after you left Somerset you crossed a
creek with high banks?”

“Yes.”

“Not far from that the Yo. (Youghiogheny) splits into three forks. That
is the middle one, and the place where they divide is called Turkey
Foot, because it looks so much like one.

“You know what that boy is; keen as a brier and smart as steel. Wasn’t
he tickled when he found he was going and where he was going; he hugged
me, kissed me, and hardly knew which end he stood on.”

“That explains something that has puzzled me. When I got near the
crossing I found an Indian path, and Frank was so determined to follow
it that I had to strike him several times before he would give it up. I
could not imagine what it meant, for I thought I knew he had never been
there before.”

“When we reached Turkey Foot the Indian had been there a week, and had
laid in a lot of provisions; he had the carcass of a deer hung up and
had smoked and dried the best parts of several more, and had killed and
dried a lot of wild pigeons.”

“What did Bertie say to the Indian?”

“Made friends with him right off; stuck to him like his shadow, Bert’s
tongue running like a mill-clapper and the Indian grunting once in a
while, but the half-breed made him a bow and arrows and a little birch,
and he went back with the two horses, about the biggest-feeling boy ever
you saw.

“We paddled down the Yo. into this stream, and down this to Pittsburg,
got some more traps there, went down the Allegheny twenty-five miles to
Big Beaver, and up that about fifteen miles; went to trapping and
trapped till the middle of April. The Indian wanted to carry his furs to
Canada, so we made another canoe and came to Pittsburg, where I stored
my furs.”

“Then I suppose you took the canoe, came to Turkey Foot, and from there
home?”

“By no means. I wrote a letter, told ‘em what I had done; that I was
well; hoped they were the same; must excuse all mistakes; came here, and
went to felling trees, till the fifteenth of May; then I went eight
miles to the nearest neighbor, and got him to come with his team, and
plough up an acre of the clear land; planted it with potatoes and corn,
and sowed a little flax. I then cut all the grass that grew on the
bottom land, and in openings in the woods, made a hand-sled, hauled it
to the stack and stacked it. Then I went right into a thick place in the
woods and built a log camp; it was only fourteen feet by twelve, and
just high enough to get into, with a splint roof, a stone fireplace, no
chimney, only a hole through the roof, and no floor, but brush laid on
the ground. It had but one window, and that was made in the door; was
filled with oiled paper, and had a slide for stormy weather. Then, after
making a house for cattle, I went to chopping till the last of August,
and then went to hunting and trapping again.”

“Did you go back to the Beaver?”

“No, indeed; had hunting and trapping enough on the spot. I had built no
fence because I had no cattle, and the bears, deers, and coons were
determined to have my corn. Sometimes when I turned out in the morning,
I would find a moose or a deer feeding on my grass, or browsing among
the trees I had cut last. In a brook about a mile off there were a few
otters, and many minks and foxes. I bought a lot of hens and geese, on
purpose to tole the foxes, and went to trapping and shooting in good
earnest. I made a log-trap for bears and wolves, and once in a while
shot a moose or deer, and trapped otters and foxes. I had so much meat
lying round that it toled the foxes and wolves; the wolves soon drove
off the deer and moose, and then I shot the wolves on bait. Every wolf I
killed I got ten shillings bounty and his skin was worth two dollars;
and a bear’s skin from sixteen to twenty. That’s what I meant when I
said that here I could do two things at the same time. I had built a
house, raised corn, potatoes, flax, and hay enough to carry me through
the winter, felled five acres of trees, and earned by trapping and
shooting more than I had all the summer before, working for my brother,
and been at work for myself most of the time. As for the deer, bears,
and wolves, I didn’t go after them, and it did not take much time to set
the traps, and what was of no less consequence I had got a first-rate
birch. There’s nothing like a birch to a wild Indian, or a new settler.”

“Is a birch then so valuable?”

“Next to the Bible and the narrow axe.”

“I don’t suppose you meant to go on to your place till spring?”

“Didn’t. I pulled my flax and spread it to rot, put my pack, rifle and
provisions into the birch and started up-stream. I didn’t go to the
Forks where I met the half-breed, but into Sewickly Creek, and paddled
up it to within a rod of the road, hid the birch in the woods, took my
pack and started for home.”

“That was a long hard journey.”

“It was all that. I told this little woman what I had done, made it as
bad as I knew how; told her just what a miserable place she would have
to live in, and gave her the choice to go back with me or I would go
back alone, trap all winter and come for her in the spring, and before
another winter build a more comfortable house; and all her folks and
most of mine thought that was the best way.

“But she wouldn’t hear a word of it, said if I could stand it, she
could; wasn’t a bit afraid, that it was the best time of the year to go
because the roads were better and the streams we would have to ford were
low; and that I ought to be on my land early in the spring to sow or
plant the ground I had ploughed. So we got married, and then the old
folks set in worse than ever for us not to go till spring, and even the
neighbors took it up, but I had one on my side and he was worth all the
rest.”

“Who was that?”

“Father,” said William, sinking his voice to a whisper.

“Yes,” said Mrs. Whitman, “his opinion was worth more than all the
other’s opinions. A few nights before we set out, and when all the young
girls, my schoolmates, were pitying me and doing all they could to make
me feel worse, the good old man took me into the other room and said:
‘Mary, never you mind those young people, don’t let anything they say
jar you a particle. Listen to the old man who has been over every inch
of the road you and William are starting on. If you live to my age
you’ll look back and say that the days you spent in the brush camp were
the happiest days, for they were full of hope; but when you have lived
to my age you will have outlived all your hopes but the hope of eternal
life, and that is the best of all, because the possession will be more
than the expectation while everything else falls short. You have got a
good husband, his heart is tender as a child’s, but his mind is as firm
as a piece of the nether millstone. He’s a cheery lad, he’ll look on the
bright side, keep your heart up and his own too. You are married now and
have taken the first step, don’t look back, it didn’t work well with
Lot’s wife. I never knew it to work well with anybody, look ahead; a man
isn’t half a man and a woman isn’t half a woman who has never had any
load to carry. I take it you’ll work in an even yoke; you are both
smart, and no doubt feel that you are equal to anything, and perhaps
look down on people who have not your strength and resolution, but it is
better to look up, and the first night you get into the camp I want
William to take the Bible and read and pray, and I want you to ask him
to.’ I didn’t have to ask him.”

“Didn’t you wish you had taken your parents’ advice before you got over
the mountains, and before you got through that first winter?”

“By no means. We had no table only some pieces of bark set on four
stakes, driven into the ground; no bedstead, but put the beds on the
brush; we had no room for furniture, because I must have room for my
wool and flax wheels, to spin the flax William had raised and the wool I
had brought from home.”

“Were you comfortable?”

“I never saw so warm a place as that camp. William covered it all over
with brush outside, and the snow drifted over it; we had plenty of bear
and wolf skins, and if it had not been for the hole in the roof we
should have roasted.”

“How did you get the wagon here,—there was no road?”

“William got a teamster who was going to Pittsburg with four horses and
a light load to take the canoe, and it arrived in Pittsburg before we
did. We put our things, part of ‘em, in that, and we came in; the next
day he got the rest and left the wagon till winter, and then made a sled
and hauled it up the river on the ice. The river makes an excellent road
in winter for a sled and in summer for the canoe.”

“Yes; and Providence keeps it in repair, and no road tax to work out,”
said her husband.

James could not have been placed in a better school to learn how to cut
his way through life than with this cheerful, resolute pair in the
wilderness.

The next morning they took the birch canoe from the barn; Whitman gummed
the seams, and they carried it to the water. Whitman held it, told James
to get in, sit down in the middle and keep still; he then got in
himself, and standing up, with one stroke of the paddle, sent the light
craft flying into the middle of the stream. James was delighted with the
movement of the buoyant craft.

William then told him to kneel down and take the paddle while he kept
the balance, and to paddle without fear, for he would keep her on her
bottom.

“James, you have got to learn to use this birch. Can you swim?”

“Like a fish.”

“Well then, take off part of your clothes and try it; for most likely
you’ll upset.”

James crossed the stream, came back and attempted to go up stream; he
went up a little way, but in turning to come back, the birch went out
from under him, then righted, and was three times her length from him in
a moment.

“You can’t get into her, give her a shove to me.” James gave the canoe a
little push with one hand, and the light craft spun over the water to
William, who held her while James swam ashore.

“What queer things they are! I was in the water before I could wink.”

“Ay, they’ll tip you out, and right themselves without a drop of water
in ‘em, and then sit and laugh at you. We must now make up our minds how
many traps we can tend. How many traps did you bring?”

“Only twenty-five small ones.”

“I think we ought to tend three hundred. I am going to trap on the same
ground that the Indian and I trapped on last year. My traps are there
hid under rocks. I shall get a few more. If you’ll take care of the
cattle and practise in this birch, I’ll go to Pittsburg and get the
traps, and leave ‘em there to take when we go along, and to-morrow we’ll
start.”

James, in the course of the day, got used to the birch, and met with no
farther mishap.

Whitman got home at dusk, and called him to supper, when he found a
young woman of twenty and a stout boy of eighteen by the name of
Montgomery. They could neither of them read or write, and were to stay
with Mrs. Whitman during the absence of her husband, and she was to
teach them to read and write. Jane Montgomery was also to weave a web of
cloth for her mother, as they were recent settlers and had as yet no
loom. The next day was spent in preparations for departure and in
putting all their things into the birch,—cooking utensils, blankets,
provisions and other matters, tools to make dead falls, and repair
camps, and snow shoes.




                              CHAPTER XIX.
                               TRAPPING.


They proceeded down the Monongahela to the Alleghany; down the Alleghany
to the mouth of the Big Beaver, and up that about thirty miles till they
came to a fork. Taking the easterly fork, they proceeded about three
miles till they reached another fork. Here they found a temporary camp,
which they repaired and passed the night in, collected the traps Whitman
had concealed the year before, and set them as they went up the stream,
till in the course of five miles they came to another temporary camp in
very good repair. They went on five miles more, and found another camp
that needed slight repairs. Having repaired this, they went on five
miles more, and found a camp with a bark roof, stone chimney and
fireplace. The roof and chimney needed some repairing. They passed the
night here and found more traps, which they set, and replaced some that
were worn out with new ones. They now returned, and as they went found
in the traps two beavers, four minks and one otter. This put them in
good spirits. They paddled rapidly down to the Fork, and ascended the
other streams and began to set the new traps, as this was the ground the
half-breed had trapped. In the course of five miles they came to a
temporary camp and repaired it, setting traps as they went. Here they
found stretchers for skins. At the distance of five miles they came to a
permanent log camp with a stone fireplace, chimney, and a lug pole in
the chimney to hang a kettle on. There was a window with oiled paper in
it, bark shelves, backwoods stools, and a table made of cedar-splints.
There were also bark dishes and wooden spoons and plates. This was the
main or home camp. Here they unloaded the birch and deposited all their
provisions. They made a hemlock broom, cleaned out the camp, collected
small hemlock and cedar brush for beds, heated water and washed and
scalded every thing that had need of washing; and cooked the tail of a
beaver and roasted a fish they caught in the stream for supper.

The next morning they proceeded up stream five miles, setting traps
until they reached another temporary camp, which needed much repairing,
and did not reach the home camp till dark. After supper they sat some
time chatting and arranging their plans for the winter.

“I can’t help thinking of the Indian; there in the corner are his arrows
and bow. If I could use them as well as he, we should get more deer meat
this winter,” said William.

“A rifle is better than a bow.”

“True, but we cannot fire a rifle till the stream is frozen. The beaver
is a very timid creature, and while they are running about the bank the
less noise we make the better, but the bow is a silent weapon, and in an
Indian’s hand effective.”

Such was the divergency of the creeks that when each was at the upper
end of his line of traps they were ten miles apart, but every other
night they met at the home camp where they did most of their cooking;
the other camps were for shelter and to skin their game in and stretch
and keep the skins.

Every Sunday they met at the home camp, and indulged in a pot of pork
and beans, and sassafras tea and Johnny-cake, baked on a flat stone,
with a slice of pork. When they had made their plans and partaken of the
supper William threw himself upon the brush, wrapped the blanket around
him, and was asleep in a moment.

But in respect to James the situation was too novel to permit of sleep.
He went out and seated himself upon the birch, that was turned upon the
bank. It was a night of stars but moonless. He was nearly three hundred
miles from home, sixty from any village, and half that from any
habitation; no baying of dogs, rumbling of wheels, nor any of the sounds
of civilized life fell upon his ear as he reflected and listened to the
moaning of the stream as it swept past, and the sounds new and
inexplicable to him that came up on the night wind from the forest. A
strange feeling of loneliness came over him. He felt his own nothingness
as never before; the mighty forest seemed closing around and about to
crush him; and commending himself to God he also wrapped himself in his
blanket, and lay watching the flickering firelight till sleep and
fatigue overpowered him.

Here they remained and trapped till the middle of April, and then made
up their furs. Mr. Whitman took them to Philadelphia. They divided five
hundred dollars between them, and James reached home the sixth of May.

The Whitmans were seated at the dinner-table. During the forenoon they
had been preparing the ground to plant corn, they had been working four
horses, putting James’ colt in with Dick, in the absence of his mate.

“Father,” said Peter, “hadn’t we better plough that piece of burnt land,
and not wait for James?”

Mr. Whitman was about to reply, but his voice was drowned in a loud
neigh that penetrated every cranny of the dwelling, and took precedence
of all other sounds, and was instantly followed by a most vigorous
response from the four horses in the barn, in which the tones of Dick
were the most prominent.

“It’s Frank’s voice, Frank and James!” shouted Bertie, running to the
door, followed more leisurely by all the rest.

Great was the joy and fervent the greetings, and not less warm the
welcome bestowed upon old Frank, who, after a whole winter’s rest, had
renewed his age.

“Take him to the stable, Bertie,” said his father, “or Dick will tear
the stall down, he wants to see his mate.”

James was soon seated at the table, when Mr. Whitman said,—

“Do you like that part of the state better than this, James.”

“No, sir, it is too near the Indians.”

“But hasn’t General Wayne settled them?”

“Yes, sir, for a few years, perhaps; but there are a great many of them
in the country beyond the Ohio, and they will always be ready to take up
the hatchet, and certainly won’t lack provocation. Then there’s no
market but by flat boats two thousand miles down the river to New
Orleans, or by pack-horses and wagons over the mountains. If you raise
crops you can’t sell ‘em; a good cow is worth but five dollars, a horse
ten; wheat thirty cents a bushel and won’t bear transporting over the
mountains,—nothing will but whiskey. Four bushels of grain is a load for
a horse over the mountains, but he will carry twenty-four made into
whiskey.”

“By-and-by it will be different.”

“They hope and expect it will, but it may be a long time. Why should
anybody go where he can get land for nothing, and that is good for
nothing to him after he has got it, as he can’t sell anything from it?
It is about as broad as it is long. I have no doubt there is land this
side of the mountains, and wild land too, about as cheap, and where
crops can be got to market.”

As no one of the family thought of questioning James as to his route,
naturally supposing that he came back by the same road over which he
went, he did not tell them that he turned off at the foot of the north
mountain, proceeded up along the west bank of the Susquehannah, crossed
it at Northumberland, and travelled for two days inspecting the country,
looking over the farms and clearings, inquiring the price of land
improved and wild, the price of cattle, grain, and opportunities for
market, and also in relation to the state of roads, and distances from
markets and the means of conveyance.

“Boys,” said Mr. Whitman, “you may take the harnesses off the horses,
we’ll have a half holiday to talk with James, and it would be too bad to
put old Frank into the team the first day he came home.”

It was a matter of necessity that James should (after conversing with
Mr. Whitman, and telling him all the news in regard to his brother’s
family) go directly to Mr. Conly’s, carry letters, and tell him and his
wife everything in relation to their daughter, her husband and the
grandchildren, interesting for them to know. It was, however, not
accomplished that afternoon or even in the evening, of which it consumed
a large portion, but required so many evenings that at length it began
to attract attention.

“James goes to the Conlys a great deal. Do you think he has any
particular reason?” said Mr. Whitman to his wife.

“I don’t know. Mr. Conly’s was the first place he ever went to; he and
Edward are great friends; always have been. The master, you know, worked
here all one summer and has always tried to help James from the start. I
think it would be strange if he didn’t go there a good deal, especially
as he goes nowhere else.”

“I know all that, but I am of the same mind still.”

“Bertie knows; I mean to ask him.”

Mrs. Whitman interrogated Bertie, but though generally so communicative,
he was all at once very reticent.

“Bertie, your father and myself are the best friends James has in the
world, and your father is able to help James if he is so minded. If
there is anything in this, you know and ought to tell us, for it will go
no farther.”

“Well, mother, if you must know, he’s dying for Emily, and she’s dying
for him.”

“Then why don’t he tell her so? There’s not a better girl in the
country, nor more capable.”

“Because he imagines a host of things. He thinks because she and her
folks know all about his coming out of a workhouse, and she knows what
he was when he first came here, and how he was picked upon and scouted
at school, they must kind of look down upon him; that though they might
pity him, treat him as a friend and try to help him along, it would be
another thing if he wanted to come into the family, and even if they
didn’t care they might think other people would, and throw it up at them
that she was going with a _redemptioner_.

“That’s all the merest nonsense, and his imagination. I go there with
him, and after a little while get up to go; then up he’ll jump and go
with me, though they ask and urge him to stop. He’ll go home from
meeting with her, and sometimes I go with them on purpose, and she’ll
ask us to go in, I’ll say I must go, and give him a punch in the ribs to
go in, but no, off he comes with me. I know by what Ed. says the old
folks would like it, and I tell him he can’t expect her to break the
ice, and would not want her to. I wish I could shut them up together,
I’d starve them to it as they do a jury.”

“If they like each other, and it suits all round,—I know it would suit
William and his wife; he wrote a long letter to your father, and sent it
by James, in which he said everything good about James that he could
say, and has made him promise to trap with him next winter,—and if there
is nothing in the way but James’ diffidence, it will take care of
itself. There never was a man yet who liked a woman and didn’t find some
way to let her know it.”

“Yes, mother, she may know; I expect she knows it now, but how shall she
know it enough?”

“There will be some way provided.”

James and the boys concluded to sow their land with wheat and grass
seed, as this was their last year, Mr. Whitman finding the grass seed.
Matters went on in their regular course till the beginning of wheat
harvest, when Mrs. Conly sent for Mrs. Whitman to come over there and
spend the afternoon, and for Mr. Whitman to come to tea.

“I have had a letter from Mary,” said Mrs. Conly, “and she is just crazy
for me to let Emily come on with James Renfew this fall, when he goes to
trap, and come back with him in the spring, she does so long to see some
of us: and she can’t come on account of the baby, and it’s such a good
chance. I thought I never could let Emily go over the mountains. I don’t
see how I can; and I want to talk it over with you.”

After weighing the matter all round, these sage counsellors concluded
that Mary Whitman ought in reason to be gratified; she was away there in
the woods; and it was natural that she should want to see her sister, or
some of her folks; and she was so lonely when William was away trapping.
There could be no danger from Indians, since General Wayne had chastised
them so severely.

“I have not said a word to Emily yet. It may be that she will be afraid
to venture so far, for she never was from home a night in all her life.”

“I think she’ll go,” said Mrs. Whitman; “she thinks so much of her
sister, and these young folks are venturesome.”

When the matter was broached to Emily, “though she was at first,” as her
mother said, “struck all up in a heap,” yet she consented, _on her
sister’s account_, to venture.

When Mrs. Whitman, after going home, broached the matter to James, she
feared, as the good woman told her husband, he would faint away; for he
turned as many colors as a gobbler-turkey when a red cloth is held
before him.

As for Bertie he was in raptures.

“Could anything be more nice, mother? How happened it to come just now?”

“Nothing could be more natural, Bertie; Mary Whitman has been teasing
her mother ever since she was married, to let Emily come out there, and
when she found James was coming again to trap, she was just furious, and
there was no doing anything with her.

“You must go over there with James to-night, for Mrs. Conly will want to
know about it and encourage him, for I am afraid he will appear so
diffident that Mrs. Conly, and perhaps Emily too, will think he don’t
want her to go with him, though I know better than that.”

“If he does, mother, I’ll pull every spear of hair out of his head. Oh,
I wish it was me instead of him, I’d make my best bow, so, mother
(suiting the action to the word), and I’d say that nothing would give me
greater pleasure than to enjoy the company of Miss Conly, and that I
considered it a privilege to be the instrument of cheering Mrs. Whitman
in her loneliness.”

“Ay, you are very brave, but if it was your own case, you might,
perhaps, be as bad as James.”

“I don’t believe that, mother, but I mean to come home early and leave
James there if I can.”

Bertie, however, came home before eight o’clock and with him James, who
went directly to his bedroom. The moment the door closed after James,
Bertie exclaimed,—

“It’s all fixed, mother.”

“What’s fixed?”

“About her going with him. I told him what to say; he didn’t say half
what I told him, nor the way I told him, but it came to about the same
thing.”

“If he had he would have appeared ridiculous.”

“Why, mother?”

“Because your manner of expressing yourself would have appeared as much
out of the way from his lips as would your head on his shoulders.”

“I mean to tell him that the journey is his chance, and if he don’t
improve it he’ll never have another, and never ought to.”

“You had a great deal better tell him that Emily never would have
consented to go with him, and her parents would never have let her go,
if both she and they had not reposed the utmost confidence in him,
neither would Mary Whitman have made the request; and that will
encourage him to overcome his bashfulness.”

“Mother, how much better you can plan than I can.”

“She has had a good deal of experience in managing men,” said Mr.
Whitman, who had been a silent, but by no means indifferent listener.

“Husband, do you want me to box your ears?”




                              CHAPTER XX.
                            JAMES AND EMILY.


They set forward the first week in September. James had left everything
but his rifle and ammunition in the wilderness, and on his way home had
stopped every night at a tavern or farm-house. He therefore had nothing
to carry of any consequence, and put a pack-saddle on his colt, which
Mr. Whitman had broken in the course of the winter, and in the pockets
of the saddle put all Miss Conly’s clothes, flint and steel, provender,
pepper and salt, and mugs to drink out of, and knives and forks. Behind
the saddle of Miss Conly’s horse was strapped a round valise, in which
she carried her needles and some clothing and light articles. When the
weather was pleasant they put up only at night at the taverns, which
were generally poor; halting at noon by some stream or pleasant spot
that afforded grass for the horses. At such times James would often
shoot game and cook it on the coals, or catch a fish in the stream, and
they would lunch.

The diffidence of James gradually wore off as he became better
acquainted with his companion and found how implicitly she relied upon
him for care and protection, but that very fact, coupled with his high
sense of honor, prevented him from giving voice to the words that were
often upon his lips, because he felt that to do this when they were
alone in the wilderness was taking an undue advantage and placing her in
an embarrassing position,—and more terrible still, should he meet with a
refusal, how awkward and constrained would be their positions going back
together, as go they must in the spring.

He could not, however, endure the thought of going into the woods before
the matter was settled, and remaining in a state of suspense all winter.
They were now within a day’s journey of Pittsburg and James had not
effected the purpose nearest his heart. He now began to accuse himself
for having neglected on the road opportunities that would never occur
again, for at Pittsburg they would be in a crowded tavern; and at
William Whitman’s his stay would be brief, and there would occur no
opportunities so favorable as many he had suffered to pass by
unimproved.

The sun was setting as they neared the Scotch settler’s, where James had
before been made so welcome, and Pittsburg was but two miles away. Mr.
Cameron was seated bareheaded on the door-stone with his wife, watching
the children, who were frolicking with a calf they were rearing. Hearing
the tread of horses, he looked up and instantly coming forward, said,—

“Gude e’en, Maister Renfew, I am blythe to see you, and to find that you
like us weel eneuch to be ganging this way again.”

“I never enjoyed myself better than I did last winter, and I am glad to
find you and your family all in good health, for I see they are all
here. This is Miss Conly, a sister to Mrs. Whitman, and is going to
spend the winter with her.”

“I’m right glad to see baith you and the lassie, and now light ye down
and the gude wife’ll gie ye some supper in the turning of a glass, and
ye’ll spend the Sabbath wi’ us, and Monday morning ye can gang on
rejoicing,”

“You are very kind, Mr. Cameron, but it is early and we can get to
Pittsburg before it is very late.”

“I’ll niver consent to it. The horses are weary, so is the lassie; I ken
it by the glance of her een. Ye’ll surely not travel on the Lord’s day,
bating necessity, and the tavern at Pittsburg is no place for Christian
people on the Sabbath, for there will be brawling and fighting and
mayhap bloodshed between the flat-boat men.”

“Take the beasts by the bridles, Donald,” said his wife, “while I put on
the kettle. What ails ye that ye dinna do it? We hae room eneuch for ten
people, let alone twa, and what’s mair a hearty welcome.”

[Illustration: THE SCOTCH SETTLERS’ WELCOME. Page 284.]

James could not have arranged matters so well for himself. Inwardly
rejoicing, he assisted Miss Conly to alight, and they were ushered into
the best room of the hospitable abode. While the travellers washed and
rested a little from the fatigue of a long ride, Mrs. Cameron had
prepared a backwoods supper.

“We have had worship,” said Mr. Cameron, “before ye came, but an ye are
not too weary I wad like to sing a psalm or two; it’s seldom we hae any
one wi’ us can sing.”

After spending an hour so pleasantly as to make James and Emily forget
the fatigue of their journey, they retired for the night.

The evening had thus been fully occupied, and James, his courage screwed
by despair to the sticking point, had as yet found no opportunity for a
private interview.

When Sunday morning came, Emily told Mrs. Cameron if she would like to
attend meeting with her husband, she would take care of the children and
get the meals, to which the former replied that she would gladly go, as
she seldom could leave the children, and Mr. Cameron’s brother was to
have a child christened that Sabbath.

Thus were they left alone, with the exception of the children, who were
most of the time out of doors or in the barn. It seemed indeed a most
auspicious moment; but, although ever approximating like a moth flying
around a candle, James could not summon courage to declare himself in
broad daylight. Mr. Cameron and his wife most likely would be inclined
to sing till bedtime, and thus the opportunity that seemed at the outset
so favorable, would in all probability have resulted in disappointment
had not a fortunate circumstance prevented so untoward an occurrence.

Mr. Cameron was to deliver a load of wheat at Pittsburg by sunrise
Monday morning, and intended to rise at twelve o’clock in order to eat,
load his grain and reach the landing in season, as it was going into a
flat-boat.

Her husband, unsuspecting soul, thought it was the most natural thing in
life that Mrs. Whitman’s sister should come to visit her, and come with
this young man who was going right there; and was anxious even at the
expense of his rest to indulge in a psalm or two. But his shrewder
helpmeet divined that there was a feeling stronger than that of
friendship between her guests, and when supper and worship were
finished, ushered them into the best room, and begging them to excuse
herself and husband, as he was to start at one of the clock or soon
after, and she must rise at twelve to get his breakfast, left them
together.

James found that, like many other things in life, the anticipation was
worse than the reality, and though he could not the next morning have
told the words he had uttered in that little parlor, he was very sure
that Emily Conly had promised to be his wife, provided her parents were
willing, and that he was the happiest fellow that night that the stars
looked down upon.

They took no note of time till they heard Mrs. Cameron up stairs getting
up, and had barely opportunity to scud to their beds before she came
down stairs.

Mr. Cameron had seen William Whitman Sunday at meeting, and notified him
of their being at his house, and when they arrived at Pittsburg they
found William, his wife, with the baby, and Jane Montgomery. It was a
joyful meeting, for the two sisters were tenderly attached to each
other.

“James,” said William Whitman, “we’ll put everything into the birch and
get in ourselves and go home in fine style. Jane Montgomery will take
both the horses along.”

When they had proceeded about seven miles and become a little satiated
with conversation, William struck up a tune in which they all joined,
for it was one which William and the sisters with the rest of the family
were accustomed to sing sitting on the door-step at home. Before going
into the woods James wrote to Mr. Conly and obtained the consent of the
parents on condition that he should not carry her over the Alleghenies
to live, for they could not bear to have the mountains between them and
the remaining daughter.

They began trapping earlier this year; and abandoning the eastern branch
of the stream that had been trapped out, took the western branch and
went farther up, which necessitated the building of some new camps, but
they found more beaver, and being so much earlier upon the ground,
before the bears went into winter quarters, were enabled to kill
several; likewise found more otters, and James, having had the advantage
of a winter’s practice, was more successful, and in the spring they
divided six hundred and fifty dollars between them.

During the journey that James made on his way back the year before to
the Susquehannah, he had been very much pleased with the beauty and
fertility of the limestone soil in the valley of that stream.
Settlements had been made there as early as 1778, but latterly a new
county had been formed, a town had been laid out just above the mouth of
Lycoming Creek that emptied into the west branch of the Susquehannah
River, and a road had been laid out to a painted post, where it struck
the road to New York.

The Susquehannah was navigable, spring and fall, down to the Swatara,
the home of the Conlys and Whitmans, and with a birch at any time of
year. This was quite different from a market at New Orleans by water two
thousand miles away, with hostile Indians on the banks of the stream, or
by wagon road to Baltimore, and across the mountains to Philadelphia,
four horses being required to haul twenty hundred weight, and occupying
six weeks’ time. He now proposed to Emily that they should return that
way and view together that country. They found that the lands in the
valley bordering directly on the river were held very high, much above
James’ means, but that a short distance up the creek that was navigable
for small craft, land equally good could be bought for two dollars an
acre, and could be paid for in gales, as it was termed, that is, by
instalments extending to three years or even five.

“I do not incline, Emily,” said James, “to put myself in such a position
that I must wait till I am past labor and enjoyment both, before I can
obtain sufficient to be comfortable. I think it is better to pay more
for land that is improved and nearer a market, even if you have to wait
longer in the first place, for after you once purchase you must remain
or sell at a loss.”

The landlord of the public-house told James of two places in the
vicinity that had been improved and could be bought; one of which, he
said, was owned by proprietors, had a log house and hovel on it with
twenty acres cleared, and which they held at ten dollars an acre, one
hundred and sixty acres.

“That,” said James, “is the asking price.”

“They are rich and will not take less; they know land will never be
worth less on this creek.”

The other place, he said, was a great deal better place, better land and
better location, because it was on the stream, while the other was a
back lot. It had been bought and paid for by a Mr. Chadwick, but it took
all he had to pay for the land, and having not a cent to help himself
with, and having to work part of the time for others, he could not make
much improvement, and became broken down with hard work and
discouragement, and died in the struggle the winter before; that his
widow and two little children were at her brother-in-law’s at the mouth
of the creek, and she was anxious to sell, but would only sell for cash;
that it would have been bought long before but the majority of settlers
could not pay down; he never had been on it, but believed the buildings
were not much and the lot was a hundred acres.

“If the place is as good as you represent, and joins the land of the
proprietors, and will be sold cheap for cash, why don’t they buy it?”

“They mean to buy it, but are holding off to get it at their own price
because she is poor, and they know she will be obliged to sell, and I
wish that somebody would come along who has the money and take it from
between their teeth.”

“You don’t know what she asks?”

“She did ask nine dollars; don’t know what she asks now.”

Obtaining directions from the landlord, they set out to see the places.
After about four miles’ travel over a good road they then struck into
the woods over a road of very different character, but nevertheless a
very good one for the backwoods. The stumps were cut low to permit the
passage of wheels, many of them taken out, the large rocks removed and
the brooks and gullies bridged in some places with hewn timber, in
others with round logs or flat stones. They passed through clearings on
which were log and timber houses, some of them underpinned with stones
and pointed with lime mortar, and most of the houses built, of round
logs, were chinked with stone pointed with lime mortar, the chimneys
were all built of stone laid in lime mortar, and on most of the farms
were peach orchards. This road had been made by proprietors to increase
the value of their lands, and in dry weather was a very tolerable road
for teams; they also passed a limestone quarry, near which was a rude
kiln.

They now reached the proprietor’s lot; a clearing of twenty acres had
been made, ten of which were in grass, the rest pasture. A timber house
of two stories, hovel built of logs, and hogsty and corncrib; the house
had three rooms on the lower floor, stone fireplace, chimney and oven
laid in lime mortar, two glazed windows in each room and in front;
between the house and the road was a peach orchard in bearing, and a hop
vine was clinging to the corner of the house. A spring in the head of a
ravine ten rods from the dwelling afforded water.

James judged that the land was of fair quality, but broken and heavily
timbered. After examining all that portion of the lot under culture, and
the buildings, they rode on six miles farther, when they came to a very
large pine-tree, hollow, blazed, and that bore the marks of fire. This
tree had been given to James as a mark, and stood at the head of a
bridle path which they followed, and soon came in sight of the creek,
and rode through a beautiful stretch of level land, alluvial soil, and
extending along the stream. In the centre of this clearing stood a great
sugar maple, and beneath its lofty branches was nestled a diminutive
camp, built of small logs, rather poles, stuffed with moss and clay. It
was evident that stones were either not to be found upon this place or
else the occupant had not cattle to haul them, as the fireplace was made
of logs with a lining of clay, and small stones evidently water-worn and
procured from the brook.

A large branch had been torn from the tree by the wind, and falling on
the roof and chimney that was made of sticks coated with clay, had
crushed in both roof and chimney. Within ten feet of the door a
beautiful spring was bubbling out from beneath the spur roots of the
maple. The hovel was much larger and higher than the dwelling, which
would not have admitted a horse, being too low, and boasted a good bark
roof; it was of sufficient size to contain six head of cattle and
considerable hay.

It was already far past noon and they sat down by the spring to quench
their thirst, bait their horses and partake of a luncheon.

“It is,” said James, “idle for us to think any more of the other place
at present, as it is beyond my means, and I will not run in debt, my
only object in looking at it was to compare prices. It is possible this
place may not do, but there is not time to examine as thoroughly as I
should like, we will go back and come again to-morrow.”

They returned again next morning in such season as to have the greater
part of the day before them, and after a thorough examination, James
said,—

“This place is worth two of the other for any poor man to get his living
on, and I know if it will come within my means it is the place for me.
What do you think of it. Do you feel as though you could ever make it
feel like home?”

“My home will be where my husband finds it for his interest to be, and
there shall I be content and happy, provided I can have sheep and cows,
and flax, and spinning and weaving enough to do, that I may carry my
part of the load in the way mother brought me up from childhood. But, to
tell the truth, I should not have to try very hard to like this place,
for it is the sweetest spot I ever saw.”

“I like the place, but must be governed entirely by the possibility of
being able to pay for it and to get my living from it afterwards.”

“I can’t help feeling a little sad as I sit by this spring of which they
drank, look upon that roof that once sheltered them, now all fallen in,
and recollect that they came here no doubt building castles in the air
as you and I do, and full of hope as we are, thinking what they would
do; and then the husband was taken sick and, as the landlord expressed
it, died in the struggle for a homestead.”

“The man died,” said James, who had not one bit of sentiment about him,
“of a broken heart, and the reason that his heart broke was because he
paid his last cent for land, and looked no farther, a thing no man
should ever do.”

“Perhaps he liked the place, and his wife liked it, and wanted to live
here and nowhere else.”

“I like the place, but I shall not buy it and go on it without a cent.”

James ascertained that the stream in its windings had formed a tongue of
alluvial soil equal in extent to all the cleared land on the place, and
which was concealed from his view the day before by the forest. It was
overflowed and dressed by the spring and fall freshets and bore an
abundance of grass, and by cutting a few bushes and removing the rafts
of driftwood could be enlarged. This added vastly to the value of the
land, particularly to an emigrant, as a stock of cattle could be kept at
once, the openings in the woods affording with the browse sufficient
pasturage in summer. He also found that the next lot of a hundred and
sixty acres was government land, could be bought for two dollars an
acre, or one dollar and sixty cents cash, and that on this lot was a
mill-site.

“Now, Emily, we have seen all there is to be seen, and talked the matter
over, I want to know if you like this place well enough for a home,
because when I go to see this woman to know if she will take what I can
give, I shall close the bargain. My own mind is made up that for me this
is home.”

“My mind is made up; this is my home.”

The next morning, James went to find Mrs. Chadwick. She held the place
at nine dollars an acre; said she had held it at ten; that everybody who
was a judge of land said that it was worth more than the Ainsworth
place, that the proprietors held at ten dollars, and that she must have
cash.

James replied that the place had no buildings but a brush camp, only six
acres cleared; that he expected to pay cash, but not so much as that.

Mrs. Chadwick said in reply, as James very well knew, that though there
were but six acres cleared, yet by reason of the natural grass that grew
on the intervale, it cut as much hay as the other place, that had twenty
acres cleared by fire and axe.

After talking a while she fell to eight and a half. James replied that
he compassionated her misfortunes, and wished she might get ten dollars,
and even more, per acre, but that he was a young man just starting in
life, had but seven hundred and sixty dollars in the world, but could
get enough more to make up to eight hundred, and would give that, she
replied,—

“Can I have any time to think of it? I would like to consult my
brother-in-law.”

“I am going through here to-morrow on my way home. I will call then and
get your mind.”

When upon his return, he told what he had said to Mrs. Chadwick, Emily
replied,—

“I do not see how you could offer eight hundred for the land, when you
have got but seven hundred and sixty, and you have always said that you
never would spend all you had, to get a piece of land, and then be
obliged to go on it without a cent to help yourself with.”

“Nor do I intend to do it either. Arthur Nevins has been coaxing me for
several months to sell the colt to him. He’s an extra colt, and I don’t
know but he’ll make as good a horse as old Frank. He has offered me a
hundred and ten dollars for him. I am going to ask him a hundred and
twenty. I know he’ll give it; if not, there’s another who will, and I
shall have eighty dollars left.”

“Is that enough to begin with?”

“Many have begun with less, but that is not my method of looking at
things. I shall work for Mr. Whitman this summer, trap with William next
winter, and if Mrs. Chadwick takes me up, go on to the place in the
spring or early in the fall. If she won’t sell, I shall by that time
have sufficient, by the blessing of God,—as grandfather, if he was
living, would say,—to buy a place in this region equally good. There are
always people enough who are unfortunate or fickle-minded, who want to
sell.”

James slept but very little that night, for his heart was set upon
getting that land, and more especially since he saw that his companion
was equally desirous of making it her home.

Miss Conly had told the landlord’s wife that James could run land, and
by the time they were up in the morning, the landlord told James that
there was a gentleman in the bar-room inquiring for a surveyor, for the
only person in that place who surveyed land was sick with a rheumatic
fever, and asked him if he could go, to which James replied that he had
no instruments with him, but the landlord urged him to go and see the
man, for doubtless they could obtain the sick man’s chain and compass.
James told the man if it was merely measuring land to ascertain the
number of rods, feet or acres, he would go after he had met his
engagement with Mrs. Chadwick, but if it was a matter of contested
lines, he must get some person of more experience. The man replied there
was no other person to be obtained without going a great distance, that
there was no dispute about titles, but his work would be merely to
divide a large body of land into lots, and lay out roads through it.

James lost no time in going to see the lady, who by the advice of her
relatives, had concluded to accept his offer, and he paid her fifty
dollars to hold the bargain till he could obtain the money at home. The
next day he went on the survey, and was occupied five days, at two
dollars and seventy-five cents a day, and paid but a trifle for the use
of the instruments.

“Grandfather was right,” said James, as they rode away from the inn,
“when he urged me to study surveying, and would make me, when Saturday
afternoons came and I wanted to work in the shop, go with Walter Conly
and measure and plot land, and learn the use of instruments. He said it
would put many a dollar in my pocket, and it has already put in almost
fourteen.”




                              CHAPTER XXI.
                            THE BRUSH CAMP.


Great was the uproar when Bertie and Peter found that James was going to
sell the colt.

“Husband,” said Mrs. Whitman, “I do hope you are not going to let James
part with that colt he has brought up, and thinks so much of. Give him
the money to pay for his land,—he only lacks forty dollars,—and let him
keep his colt.”

But Mr. Whitman was firm. “James,” he said, “was getting along well, let
him struggle, it was better for him, too much help was worse than none;
when he is sick or unfortunate ‘twill be time enough to give him. I had
rather give him a chance to help himself,” and with that view he gave
him twenty-seven dollars a month for the summer, and also half an acre
to plant or sow, and Bertie and Peter the same.

James sent on his money and received a deed of the land, and through Mr.
Creech, the landlord with whom he had put up, made arrangements with
Prescott, his nearest neighbor, to fell the trees on an acre of land.

When the time drew near for James to start for the Monongahela, Bertie
said to him,—

“What will you do for a horse now you have sold the colt? I mean to ask
father to let you have Frank.”

“I don’t want him, Bertie, as I shall go right to my place from
trapping, and you will want Frank early in the spring. I have nothing to
carry but a rifle; my traps are all there. I shall go afoot or in one of
the wagons that haul goods over the mountains, and in the spring I can
buy a horse there or a mule for ten dollars, and sell him this side of
the mountains for seventy-five, perhaps a hundred.”

The night before he started, Miss Conly said to him,—

“You will be at work on the place before we meet again, I want you to
promise me one thing, and that is that you will not tear down the camp,
for I intend to live in it.”

“That is the very first thing I intended to do.”

“I thought as much; well, don’t you do it, I don’t want you should.”

“But you wouldn’t think of moving into such a place as that, and I could
not consent that you should.”

“Why not? Did not Mrs. Chadwick live there four years with a sick
husband and two little children? I hope I can do what any other woman
has done.”

“I don’t doubt that, but there is no necessity. I intend in the spring
to get Mr. Prescott’s oxen and haul some of the trees he will cut this
fall to the spot, hew them, and put up a comfortable timber house.”

“You will have work enough to do without that. It is a great expense to
_begin_; we must lessen it all we can. It will be but little work to
repair that camp, and when we are on the spot and you have cattle of
your own, and your tools are all there, you can do it in the intervals
of other work, and can do it much more to your mind.”

“That is all true, Emily, but——”

“But what?”

“Do you think I want to take you into the woods to suffer?”

“I have not the least idea of suffering unless I am called to. Then, I
trust, I shall be supported. Tell me honestly, cannot such a camp be
made comfortable? You know well enough what I mean by that?”

Thus appealed to, James hesitated, looked every way but at her, and
finally said,—

“It is true that the camp can be made a shelter from rain and snow, and
can be kept warm.”

“Warm enough?”

“Yes, hot as an oven, for it is not much larger,” said James, with a
groan; “but what a hole to take you from a good home and put you into.”

“I was born in a log house and passed my childhood in it, and one not
much better than that camp, nor much larger, and there were seven of us.
Sister and William tell of what they have been through. Father and
mother and our boys are always telling the neighbors of how much William
and Mary have been through and how resolute they are and faculized. I
mean to have something to tell of and be praised for. Come, promise, you
may put down a floor in the camp and make it three poles higher, that I
may have room for my loom and spinning wheel, and that the wheels and
loom may stand firm on the floor. I don’t care whether there’s any
chimney or not. We didn’t have any in our log house for years, and the
hole in the roof was about as good, for the clay was all the time
falling off the cob-work and dropping into mother’s pots and
frying-pan.”

“You won’t want to stay there long, I hope?”

“Only till we can see our way clear to build a log house.”

James reluctantly promised, and they parted. He set forth, mounted on
Frank. Bertie took Dick and accompanied him to the foot of the North
Mountain. He then took his pack and rifle, and proceeded on foot, while
Bertie went back with the horses.

Starting much earlier in the season than before, they abandoned the Big
Beaver and went on the Little Beaver, and far up that stream. They met
with fewer beavers, but more otters, and took in log traps and in one
large steel trap which they possessed, and by killing with the rifle,
more bears than ever before, so that although they went farther and came
out of the woods much earlier (as James wanted to go on his land), they
obtained furs to the amount of five hundred and twenty-five dollars.
When they were at the mouth of the Little Beaver, on their return, they
met some Delaware Indians on their way to Pittsburg, encamped on the
bank of the main river, their canoes turned up on the grass.

“I want a birch as I am going to live on a stream. I wonder if I can buy
one, of these Indians?” said James.

“You can buy anything of an Indian, but his rifle or tomahawk, but if
you buy one take that dark-colored one, even if they ask more for it,
because the bark of which it is made was peeled in the winter and it is
worth, double.”

“I thought bark wouldn’t run in the winter?”

“It will if you pour hot water on it or hold a torch to the tree.”

James, after considerable talk with the Indians, who wanted him to take
another one, bought the dark-colored birch. It was twenty-eight feet in
length, twenty inches deep, and four feet six inches wide. It required a
person possessed of the strength of James to carry it, as it was a load
for two Indians, but James, much to the astonishment of the savages,
turned the birch over his head and took it to the water. He now took all
his traps and some tools that he had carried to make dead-falls, and
parted with William and Mary, much to their regret, as they had
cherished the hope that he would settle near _them_.

Jonathan Whitman had told him before he left home if he could find a
good young horse that would weigh twelve hundred, and was used to team
work, to buy him, for Frank was failing somewhat, and he wanted to favor
his faithful servant and should not work him much more. He hired a
wagoner to haul the traps and canoe and other articles to the
Susquehannah at Harristown, bought a horse, pack-saddle, and some tools;
an axe, auger, trowel, chain, and handsaw, irons made at a blacksmith’s
to peel bark, irons for a whiffletree. He also bought some white paper
and oiled it, and a window sash with six squares of glass in it, put his
traps and other matters into the birch, and managed at a small expense
to send his horse to Mr. Creech his former landlord. He then got into
the birch and, having a fair wind to start with, made a sail of his
blanket, and by alternate sailing and paddling landed at length in the
early twilight before his own camp. At the gray dawn and while it was
still dark in the forest, he took his way to the brook with his rifle on
his arm, and returned with two wood-ducks, one of which together with
the provisions in his pack, furnished him with a substantial breakfast.

His nearest neighbor, Prescott, had been ten years on his clearing and
kept a large stock of cattle. His family consisted of three strong,
active boys, Dan, the eldest, being nineteen, which enabled him to work
for others when disposed. James had engaged with Prescott the previous
spring to cut all the grass to be found in the field pasture and
openings in the woods, and to fell in the course of the summer an acre
of trees; upon looking around he found the work all done, and the felled
trees in just the right state to burn.

James now sat down under the shadow of the great maple to reflect, and
lay his plans for a summer’s work, and to make the most of his means. He
had left in Bertie’s care at Swatara, when he went into the woods, two
hundred and fifteen dollars, after paying for his land. This money was
the result of the sale of the colt, his summer’s work with Mr. Whitman,
the proceeds of his potato crop, and the money he had earned on his way
home by surveying. He could not expect however to obtain two dollars and
three quarters a day in future for surveying, two dollars was the
customary price, but in the former case he was delayed on his journey,
and kept on expense, and his employer had not the time to go for another
surveyor at a great distance.

When James left Mr. Whitman’s he took but five dollars with him. He
obtained his birch of the Indians by barter, letting them have some of
his traps in exchange. They had sold their furs at Pittsburg; but the
buying of the horse, tools, and other expenses, and the money due Mr.
Prescott for labor, brought it down to about one hundred and eighty-six
dollars, and there was much still to be bought. The money for the horse,
however, would be repaid by Mr. Whitman, who would take the beast off
his hands, and in the meantime James would have the use of him. He had
carpenter’s tools enough for ordinary purposes, but not a single farming
implement, not even a narrow axe, only a broad axe, and no seed to sow
or plant, and all the harness he had in which to work his horse was a
pack-saddle, an open bridle, and no description of cart or sled.

Having matured his plans, he cooked the remaining duck for his dinner,
put in his purse the money he intended to use, hid the rest under a heap
of stones, and swinging his pack started for Prescott’s.

When settling with him he found that there was a great difference in
wages between the place he was now in and Swatara. He could hire
Prescott for fifty cents a day, his oxen at the same price, and Dan for
two shillings.

Arriving at Creech’s, he was received with great cordiality, and found
there his horse and pack-saddle. He inquired in regard to the surveyor,
and was informed that the rheumatic fever had left him a cripple on
crutches.

“The best thing you can do, Mr. Renfew,” said Creech, “if you mean to
settle here, is to buy his instruments.” James bought them for fifteen
dollars, and told Creech if he heard of any one that wanted land run, to
send them to him.

He bought a narrow axe, and what farming tools he needed for the
present, and some rope and nails, and returned; put the fire into his
trees, and got a good burn. With the rope and cedar-bark for a
breastplate he contrived, by chopping the logs into short lengths, to
twitch and roll them together sufficiently for a second burn, and
planted his corn. He was dropping the last kernels of his corn when a
man, sent by the proprietors, came to ask if he would go twenty miles
into the woods to lay out a road, and measure some lots; that they would
send three men to his place, one to carry the chain, and two to clear
the way, if he concluded to go. They thought it would take about ten
days.

James replied that he must have the next day to make his preparations,
and would then be ready to go.

He hired Prescott to plough and sow to wheat two acres of ground; plant
half an acre with potatoes, except a few rods reserved for beans.

When James returned, his first care was to peel hemlock bark, and put
the bark under pressure to flatten the sheets to cover the roof, and to
cut the timber for the roof, and logs to raise the walls, and haul them
to the camp.

There was a mill at the mouth of the creek, and from thence he brought,
in his birch, boards to lay a floor, make an outside door and a large
chest, with a cover and partings, for cornmeal and flour.

James rather exceeded the instructions of Emily, and raised the wall
high enough to make a good chamber above; laid the floor with boards,
and made a ladder to reach it.

He went seven miles to a limekiln and brought lime in the pockets of the
pack-saddle, that would contain half a bushel each, and built a
fireplace and chimney of stones, with the chimney at the end of the camp
and outside, thus affording more room.

The camp was twenty feet long by twelve wide; he put a bark partition
across at thirteen feet, leaving a room of seven feet by twelve. This
room he divided by a bark partition into a bedroom and a storeroom; the
doors were a bear’s skin and a blanket hung up. His single glazed window
and two windows filled with oiled paper were put in the kitchen, as
there all the spinning, weaving and sewing was to be done, and the most
light would be needed. In the intervals of hoeing he cleared a road to
the highway, and made it passable with wheels by great labor and two
days’ help from Prescott and his boys.

Haying and wheat harvest were now at hand. There was not a pair of
wheels in the whole section of country in which James lived; the
settlers hauled their hay and grain on sleds, or carried it on poles and
hand-barrows. James contrived a singular vehicle for the present
necessity. He hewed out two pieces of tough ash eighteen feet in length,
fashioned one end of each into the form of cart-arms, and by pouring on
hot water bent the other ends to a half circle; he then spread them the
width of a sled, put cross-bar and whiffletree on, and two stakes behind
the cross-bar and some light slats across. The trouble now was in
respect to a harness; the rope traces did as well as leather, but the
breastplate of cedar-bark needed constant renewal, and he had neither
saddle or lugs to support the arms. He put a torch on the stem of the
birch, paddled about five miles up the creek in the night, and shot a
deer that attracted by the light came to the water’s edge. With this
rough hide he went to Prescott, who had shoemaker’s tools, and by
doubling the hide made a breastplate that would bear all the horse could
pull; he also made lugs to support the arms and put them over the
pack-saddle, and on this he hauled hay and grain, and even stones; it
went much easier than a sled would have done, because there was less
surface to drag on the ground, and a good portion of the weight was on
the horse’s back. As he had neither barn nor threshing-floor, when his
grain was ripe he threshed it on a platform of timber placed on the
ground, and the hovel being filled with hay, stored it in the kitchen as
a makeshift, and went to ask advice of Prescott, who he knew began very
poor and had passed through many similar exigencies.

“You may put it in my barn, Mr. Renfew, but there is a better method
than that. There are a great many emigrants passing along the valley of
the Susquehannah going west, and a good many settling round the mouth of
the creek. They want supplies. Grain and pork have gone up, and the
miller is buying all the old corn and grain he can get to grind, and all
the new wheat, and storing it for a rise. I have no doubt you could sell
it.”

The next day James received a letter from Bertie, who informed him that
during the winter his father and Peter had made him a wagon to move
with, and his mother had woven the cloth to cover it, and as he was not
much of a mechanic he was going to paint it as his share of the work.

James wrote Bertie to thank his father and mother and Peter, and to ask
his father to put in a tongue suitable for cattle to work, as he should
move with oxen.

He now went to the mill and sold his wheat for ninety cents, and carried
it down in the birch; it measured sixty bushels. He brought back some
flour, cornmeal, a grindstone, pork, and a keg of molasses.

“This is better than living on the Monongahela,” said James to himself;
“there wheat won’t pay to carry over the mountains or down the Ohio, but
it will pay to carry it yourself in a birch down a creek.”

He now dug a potato hole in which to store his potatoes for the winter,
and built over it a log house eight feet in width and fourteen in
length, underpinned it, and pointed the underpinning with lime mortar,
hewed the logs at top and bottom, put on a bark roof and laid a floor
with flattened poles, and made a good door with wooden hinges and latch
and two windows closed by shutters; here he put all his tools and traps,
intending to make at some future time a workshop of it, and for the
present it served as a convenient storehouse and protected his potatoes
from freezing, otherwise he must have covered them with such a depth of
earth that it would have been difficult to get at them during the
winter.

He was now ready to set out for home; and mounting his horse rode to
Prescott’s, and exchanged his pack-saddle for a riding-saddle, and
happened to mention to his neighbor that he had left a keg of molasses
in the camp.

“You should not have done that, for if a bear happens to come along and
smells it, he’ll set his wits at work to get to it.”

“Is that so?”

“Sartain; a bear is raving crazy after molasses or honey or sugar; he’ll
stave the door in or make the bark fly off that roof a good deal faster
than you put it on.”

“Then what will become of my corn while I am away?”

“There will be nothing to hinder all the wild animals from helping
themselves.”

“They’ll destroy it all before I get back.”

“Oh, no, they won’t! They may hurt it a good deal, and they may not.
There’s one thing in your favor: it is a great year for acorns and
beech-nuts, and hickory, and all kinds of nuts and cranberries,—the bogs
are full of cranberries, and the bears and coons love them dearly, so
they won’t be so hard upon the corn as they would otherwise be. But I
don’t think there are many bears round this fall; the coons and the
turkeys are the worst, because there are so many of them; but the coons
are ten times as bad as the wild turkeys, because there are so many of
them, and they come when you are asleep—the turkeys come in the daytime,
and a shot or two at them scares them off for a week, and they are
first-rate eating. If they take the bread out of your mouth, they put
meat into it.”

“I wouldn’t object to the bears if I was to be here—a bear’s skin is
worth about thirty bushels of corn.”

“Ay; but you might lose your corn and not get the bear.”

“I wish I had sowed wheat on the burn, I could have taken care of that
before I went; but I think I’ll go back and get the molasses, and leave
it here.”

“I think I can help you, neighbor. Here’s my Dan; he’s the master
critter for hunting and trapping you ever saw—plagues me to death with
his nonsense. He’d sit up two nights to shoot one coon. We arn’t much
driven with work now, and shan’t be till you get back, and if you’ll let
him use some of your traps, I know he’d be tickled to death to live in
your camp and hunt and trap; and you may depend on it no wild critter
will do any damage while he’s around, for he’d take the dog with him,
and nothing can stir in the night but the dog will let him know it.”

“I should be very glad to have him, and will pay him.”

“The traps will be pay enough and more too.”

“I should like to have him pull my beans and thresh ‘em out.”

“Yes, he can do that, and dig the potatoes and put them in the pit; he
can do it as well as not; he’ll have a great deal of idle time, and I
don’t want him to get too lazy; and so you won’t need to go back after
your ‘lasses.”

“It must be a great change to Miss Conly to leave a pleasant home and
kind neighbors and come here, and I had thought of getting some hens. It
would make it seem a little more like home to her to hear the hens
cackle and the rooster crow, and have eggs to get; and if Dan is going
to be there to feed ‘em, I can have ‘em as well as not.”

“We can find you in hens, and Dan can take ‘em down with him.”

“What are they worth apiece? I’ll take half a dozen.”

“Look here, neighbor, hens nor geese nor turkeys ain’t worth anything
here ‘cept to eat; there’s no market for such things here. I perceive
you have carpenter’s tools, and know how to use them, which none of us
do. Take all the hens you want, for I believe we’ve got a hundred, and
if you could make me a good ox-yoke I should be more than paid; and any
little thing that you can’t do alone just call on the boys, and they or
I will help you, and we will change about in that way. I can make
things, to be sure—have ter—but it takes me forever, and then I’m
ashamed to have any body see ‘em, only shoes. I can make a good shoe or
boot, and I can tan a hide or skin as well as anybody.”

“Can you curry?”

“No, but it isn’t much to carry a hide to the village to get it
curried.”

“There’s one thing, Mr. Renfew, that I want to tell you,” said Mrs.
Prescott, “that you wouldn’t be likely to think of, and that is to get a
pig and have it in the pen when you get there. When we came on to this
place we were eleven miles from neighbors, and you don’t know how much
company and comfort it was to me when Mr. Prescott was away at his work
and before we had so many children, to hear a pig squeal and to have him
to feed; and so it is to have a cat or a dog. When we have no company of
our own kind, we take to the dumb creatures.”

“Have you any pigs to spare, Mr. Prescott?”

“We’ve got a whole litter of late pigs and a dozen shoats, and there’s a
black and white kitten you may have; and when you come with your woman
we want you to come right here, because you’ll both be fatigued, and the
wife won’t want to go right to cooking the first moment, and then you
can take the kitten and the pigs along with you. I wish we had a puppy
for you; a dog is valuable to a new settler as well as company.”

“I’ve got a dog at home if he has not forgotten me. I do not feel that I
ought to put myself upon you; perhaps I shall have four oxen and other
cattle when I come.”

“No matter if there’s ten oxen. Thank God there’s room enough in house
and barn, and victuals enough, and nothing will suit the boys better
than to wait on you. You must pass your word, and then we shall know,
for the good Book says, ‘Better is a neighbor that is near, than a
brother afar off.’”

James promised.

James reached home safely.




                             CHAPTER XXII.
                          THE WILDERNESS HOME.


They were married, and instantly began to make their preparations for
departure. Emily took none of her nicer articles of housekeeping,
nothing in the shape of furniture but a small looking-glass, saying that
there was no room or use for them in the camp; and as they were not
going west of the mountains, and James had a birch, and could come down
the river, they could get them when they had more room and it was
needful; that what she wanted most of all were her tools and necessary
things. And she carried not only the fixtures for a loom, but the loom
itself, wool, flax, dye-stuffs, wheels to spin flax and wool, cards,
warping-bars, a quill-wheel, reels, a flax-comb, a Dutch-oven, plenty of
pots and kettles, but one large pewter platter, three pewter plates and
two earthen mugs; three milkpans, and a churn and milk-pail and skimmer,
and two good beds; not a chair, nor even a chest of drawers. But as the
wagon was of great size, and the team strong, they were able to carry an
abundance of the implements that would enable them, as they were
possessed of both brains and hands, to manufacture these other
conveniences and comforts, and be really independent. James did much
after the same fashion, taking a good stock of carpenter’s tools, some
cooper’s tools, a brick trowel, horse-nails, and a shoeing-hammer,
harrow-teeth, the irons and mould-board of a plough, and the iron
fixtures, and the tools pertaining to a lathe.

“Mother,” said Bertie, “they are just alike; isn’t it queer? They want
to take the same things; it’s all tools with ‘em both. James hasn’t
taken hardly anything but tools, except books.”

“That is because they are both gifted with common sense, and mean to be
comfortable, and not to make a failure of it.”

James bought four oxen that measured six feet nine inches in girth. Mr.
Conly gave his daughter a cow, and Mrs. Whitman gave James another, and
Maria gave him six sheep. James had the cows and oxen shod, put the cows
in a yoke, and fastened them behind the wagon.

When Mr. Whitman asked James why he preferred to move with oxen, when he
was so fond of horses and was accustomed to handling them, he replied:
“On the score of economy;” that he had bought a pair of oxen for what
the harnesses of two horses would have cost him, and the four for what
two good horses would have cost, and then had more strength; that there
was not much difference in the rate of travel, on a long road, between
oxen and horses when they were both heavily loaded; and as he should not
at first have a great deal of hay and grain, oxen could be kept on
browse much better than horses; that he could make yoke and bows and all
the gear for oxen himself, and if he wished could, at any time, sell the
oxen for beef and buy horses when better able to keep the latter; and,
finally, if like to starve, could eat them, and thus had one winter’s
provision in possession.

Bertie insisted upon going with them, and driving the team as far as
Shamokin, while James rode on old Frank with his wife behind him on a
pillion.

When they parted, Bertie said,—

“You needn’t be surprised to see me up there on a piece of land. I don’t
mean to stay at home; and if you’ll let me stay with you, I may buy a
piece of land, and come up there and work on it.”

“Then you had better keep right on with us,” said Emily, “for I have no
doubt you have some one in view for a future housekeeper.”

“No, truly, the fact is, I like all the girls so well that I can’t like
any one to pick her out. I romp with ‘em, quarrel with ‘em, and then
make up, and they are all just like sisters. Expect I must go among
strangers to get one; but if I thought I’d got to go through such a
tribulation, and suffer so much as James did in getting you, I never
would undertake it.”

“It will pay if you do, Bertie,” said James.

The emigrants slept in the wagon, built a fire at night and morning, and
cooked beside the roads; stormy days, put up, milked the cows, and
exchanged the milk that they did not need themselves at the farm-houses
for other articles of food; and the latter part of their journey, as
they came into the unsettled portion of the country, James killed game.
They reached Prescott’s upon a Thursday at noon, and stopped till the
next morning.

Mr. Prescott, without their knowledge, sent Clarence, the second boy, to
inform Dan of their coming, with the pig and the kitten; and his wife
sent butter, bread, and a boiled ham.

When the married pair reached the camp, they found the provisions on the
table, a good fire, a camp-kettle full of hot water, a birch-bark dish
full of eggs, the kitten in Dan’s lap and the pig was squealing lustily
in the hovel; while the rooster, jealous of the intruder, was flapping
his wings on the roof of the camp, and crowing in defiance. The walls of
the hovel were hung with the skins of coons, foxes, and two otters
stretched on hoops; the beans were threshed, and the potatoes in the
pit. The boys were invited to dinner as the first visitors, and as they
had but three plates and two mugs, James and his wife ate and drank out
of the same plate and mug, and gave the other vessels to the boys, who,
after the meal, helped to unload the cart, set up the loom, and make
other necessary arrangements, and took leave after an early supper.

They now retired to rest, not without first returning thanks for their
safe arrival to the Being whose hand, unseen, had brought them safely
hitherto, and given to the pauper boy a homestead and a helpmeet.

It was quite an important matter for James to prepare his workshop, as
he had brought only the iron portion of his farming tools; and they had
not a bowl, nor barrel, nor even a wash-tub. So, after they had arranged
matters, and he had built a pigpen and dug out a trough, he went to the
mill in the birch, and brought home plank for a work-bench, and hardwood
stuff for the framework of his lathe, and to make a wheel and footboard;
and pine-boards for shelves and racks to put his tools in, and to make
drawers; and before the ground froze, he had, mostly on stormy days,
made bowls and plates and trays of wood, two wash-tubs and a trough to
salt pork in, and the wood-work both of a plough and harrow, and had cut
down the great wagon to proper dimensions for farm labor.

When James went to mill after his lumber, he felt quite uneasy lest
Emily, left thus alone in the woods, should feel unhappy and homesick;
but, upon his return, he heard, as he came up the bank, the whir of the
shuttle, and found her singing at the loom, with the kitten on the bench
beside her.

“You seem in excellent spirits,” said James, delighted to find her in
this happy mood.

“Why should I not be? Plenty to eat, plenty to do, and a nice young man
to take care of me.”

James bought three shoats, and let them run in the woods, and every
night and morning they came up to the hovel, and he fed them with milk
and a little corn, and then they were off to the woods nutting and
hunting for rattlesnakes.

James ground his axe, to cut logs and hew them, on the two sides, for
the walls of a house; but Emily persuaded him to cut and hew timber for
a frame barn, telling him the camp was good enough; that she did not
want a house to take care of; she wanted to spin and weave, and get
something to keep house with; that she was just as happy as she could be
in the camp; and that he needed a barn to hold the hay he was now
obliged to stack out; he also needed a barnfloor to thresh his grain and
to store it afterwards.

Thus exhorted and encouraged, James, convinced that his wife was really
well content to live in the camp, cut and hewed his barn frame in the
winter, and also cut logs sufficient to make boards to cover it, and
hauled them to the bank of the creek, sawed up bolts for shingles, and
in the evening split out the shingles, and shaved them before the fire
in the camp, enough for the barn and house both; had also cut logs
enough to furnish boards for the roof of the house and for doors,
window-frames and sashes, for he had tools to make sashes. When the
spring freshet came, he rolled his logs into the stream, and hired two
men, who were river-drivers, to drive them to the mill, and the first of
April raised his barn, and had it fit to put hay in by the time it was
needed, though the doors were not made till after wheat harvest.

A Mr. Litchfield, an emigrant, had bought the farm that James first
looked at; it had taken all his means, and he was obliged to work out
part of the time to get a little money and provisions. While at work on
his barn, James hired Litchfield to clear three acres of land, and paid
him in pork, wheat to sow, wheat flour to eat, and by letting him have
his cattle to plough. That autumn James dug a cellar and stoned it, and
in the winter hauled the logs to build the walls, and hewed them on two
sides; hauled bricks from the mouth of the creek to build a chimney and
put them in the hovel, which now made an excellent storehouse for the
materials to build the house. Indeed, everything was done that could be
done till the walls were raised; but Emily manifested no more desire for
a house than at first, and still clung to the camp; and James sold pork
and corn and flour to emigrants, who began to multiply, going west, and
had caught coons and foxes and otters enough, in the previous fall and
winter, to pay all the expense incurred in building his barn, and after
all his expense in outfits and labor, was a hundred dollars better off
in money than at the time he left the Monongahela.

Just after wheat harvest, James received a letter from Bertie, saying
that if he would come to Swatara in his birch, himself and Ned Conly
would return with him, and bring his sheep.

“I know what they want,” said James; “they want to come in the birch,
and see the rough side of life, and that’s the reason they want to come
now, while we are in the camp; but I wish we had a good house for them.”

“I don’t. They wouldn’t have half so good a time; they want to see just
what beginning in the woods is, and what they must come to if they take
it up, and perhaps it will sicken them.”

“It won’t sicken Bertie. But where shall we put them? In the loft they
will stifle this hot weather. If we give them our bedroom, and put our
bed in the kitchen, there won’t be room to eat, for the loom and the
spinning-wheels take up the greater part of it.”

“Put ‘em in the barn.”

“Indeed I won’t put Bertie and your brother in the barn. I shouldn’t
sleep a wink myself.”

“Take the cloth that was on the wagon and make a tent. You make the
poles, and I’ll cut and make the rest; put a good bed in it, and they
can build a fire before it, and make believe they are Indians, if they
want to. I know that’ll suit Ned; he is running over with that sort of
thing.”

“You don’t want any bed, Emily, Bert won’t want that, I know. I’ll make
a bed of cedar brush, and spread a bearskin over it; do you make a good
bolster and stuff it with straw, and I’ll spread a wolfskin over that. I
have a lot of skins that I didn’t sell, thinking we might need them for
bedding. Give them a blanket, a birch bark dish to drink out of, and
hang up some otter and coon skins, round the tent; pitch it near the
spring, and they’ll be in kingdom come.”

“I believe you are going to turn boy yourself. I didn’t think you had
any such notions about you.”

“True, I never had any boyhood like other children; but I know the
feelings of Bert and Ned, for all that, and I think it is as much my
duty to make Bert happy, as it is to pray to God.”

James arrived safely at Mr. Whitman’s. The return voyage was not
difficult, as there were three to paddle, and carry the canoe when
needful, Ned and Bertie bringing their packs, as they intended to go
back on foot, and by their actions, seemed to be going into training for
the backwoods.

It was now two days over the time James had fixed as the probable date
of his return. The sun was setting, and Emily was looking forward to
another lonely night, when the report of two rifles in quick succession,
told her they were at hand. Before she could reach the spot, James was
climbing the bank, and she almost fell into her husband’s arms.

“I am going to have part of that, Em,” cried Ned, clasping her round the
waist.

“And I too,” said Bertie, coming up on the other side, while the
overjoyed wife and sister fairly cried with excess of happiness.

“What is that?” said Bertie, catching a glimpse of the white covering of
the tent in the gathering twilight.

“That’s where we are going to put you,” said James.

Bertie turned aside the cloth and peered in.

“Come here, Ned Conly; this is worth coming all the way here for.”

“How glad I am, Bert, that we didn’t wait till they had got a good
house; then we should have had to sleep in the best room, with a linen
spread, all wove in patterns, on the bed, and curtains.”

“Yes, and had to wipe our feet every time we came into the house; but
now” (and he turned a somersault on the bearskin) “we can get into bed
with our boots on.”

After a most bountiful supper, for Dan had killed a wild turkey, they
retired pretty thoroughly fatigued to their tent. In the morning Bert
said,—

“Now, James, we want to go all over your place to-day, and see all
you’ve got and all you’ve done, and talk and loll and fool round, and
the next day we want to go over the next two places, above and below,
and then we are going to work.”

“You are not going to do a stroke of work. I didn’t bring you up here
for that; I suppose you could have done that just as well at home.”

“We are going to help thresh your grain,” said Ned.

“My neighbors have threshed it since I went away. You are going thirty
miles up the creek with me in the birch to catch trout in a brook, and
to hunt deer and perhaps a bear.”

“I go in for that,” said Bert; “but after that you need not think you
are going to keep us from doing something; you are putting on too many
airs, prosperity is injuring you. Remember, young man, you have been to
school to both of us.”

They went on the hunt, and took Dan Prescott with them, had a glorious
time, and Ned and Bert brought home a bearskin each; it is presumed they
killed the bears.

The first night after they arrived home, Bertie said,—

“Now prick up your ears and hear the news. Ned, you tell.”

“No, you tell; you can do it best.”

“James, can these two places above and below be bought, and for how
much?”

“For two dollars an acre. I have got the preemption” (right to purchase
before another) “of the one above.”

“Then you must buy ‘em,—the upper one for me, and the lower for Ned
Conly.”

Emily, during this conversation, sat with clasped hands; and then
running to Bert, taking him by both shoulders, said,—

“Bertie Whitman, are you telling the truth, or are you fooling?”

“The truth and nothing but the truth, my dear girl. Walter has concluded
not to go to college. Your father has given the farm to him to take care
of the old folks; my father is going to do the same by Peter. Ned and I
have got to shirk for ourselves, and are going to shirk up to Lycoming;
that is, by and by, but we want to make sure of the land before we go
back.”

Ned Conly was an adept at handling tools, and as James had the materials
for the house all on the spot, the cellar prepared, and the logs hewn,
they put up the house, moved into it, and harvested the potatoes and
corn before the boys went back. Ned Conly was engaged to Jane Gifford.
He married her, and came on to his place the next year. Bert came the
next year after Ned, built a log house on his place, and a saw-mill, as
his father supplied him with abundant means, and boarded with James
three years, when he married the daughter of Henry Hawkes, a neighbor of
James; and in the course of five years more Arthur Nevins and John
Edibean settled six miles above them on the creek.

They built a schoolhouse, and had meetings in it on the Sabbath, and got
Stillman Russell up there to keep school in the winter for three winters
in succession, and Mr. Whitman contributed to his support for the first
winter.

Thus did the Hand Unseen, through the benevolent action of one man, and
amid obstacles apparently insurmountable, lay the foundations of a
Christian community.




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     Cringle and Cross-Tree; or, The Sea Swashes of a Sailor.

     Bivouac and Battle; or, The Struggles of a Soldier.

     Sea and Shore; or, The Tramps of a Traveller.

 =Young America Abroad Series.= A Library of Travel and           =1 50=
   Adventure in Foreign Lands. Illustrated by Nast, Stevens,
   Perkins, and others. Per vol. 16mo

                            _First Series._

     Outward Bound; or, Young America Afloat.

     Shamrock and Thistle; or, Young America in Ireland and Scotland.

     Red Cross; or, Young America in England and Wales.

     Dikes and Ditches; or, Young America in Holland and Belgium.

     Palace and Cottage; or, Young America in France and Switzerland.

     Down the Rhine; or, Young America in Germany.

                            _Second Series._

     Up the Baltic; or, Young America in Norway, Sweden, and Denmark.

     Northern Lands; or, Young America in Russia and Prussia.

     Cross and Crescent; or, Young America in Turkey and Greece.

     Sunny Shores; or, Young America in Italy and Austria.

     Vine and Olive; or, Young America in Spain and Portugal.

     Isles of the Sea; or, Young America Homeward Bound.

 =Riverdale Stories.= Twelve volumes. A New Edition. Profusely
   Illustrated from new designs by Billings. In neat box. Per
   vol.

     Little Merchant.

     Young Voyagers.

     Robinson Crusoe, Jr.

     Dolly and I.

     Uncle Ben.

     Birthday Party.

     Proud and Lazy.

     Careless Kate.

     Christmas Gift.

     The Picnic Party.

     The Gold Thimble.

     The Do-Somethings.

 =Riverdale Story Books.= Six volumes, in neat box. Cloth. Per
   vol.

     Little Merchant.

     Young Voyagers.

     Dolly and I.

     Proud and Lazy.

     Careless Kate.

     Robinson Crusoe, Jr.

 =Flora Lee Story Books.= Six volumes in neat box. Cloth. Per
   vol.

     Christmas Gift.

     Uncle Ben.

     Birthday Party.

     The Picnic Party.

     The Gold Thimble.

     The Do-Somethings.

 =Great Western Series, The.= Six volumes. Illustrated. Per vol.  =1 50=

     Going West; or, The Perils of a Poor Boy.

     Out West; or, Roughing it on the Great Lakes.

     Lake Breezes.

 =Our Boys’ and Girls’ Offering.= Containing Oliver Optic’s       =1 50=
   popular Story, Ocean Born; or, The Cruise of the Clubs;
   Stories of the Seas, Tales of Wonder, Records of Travel, &c.
   Edited by Oliver Optic. Profusely Illustrated. Covers printed
   in Colors. 8vo.

 =Our Boys’ and Girls’ Souvenir.= Containing Oliver Optic’s       =1 50=
   Popular Story, Going West; or, The Perils of a Poor Boy;
   Stories of the Sea, Tales of Wonder, Records of Travel, &c.
   Edited by Oliver Optic. With numerous full-page and
   letter-press Engravings. Covers printed in Colors. 8vo.




                             BY SOPHIE MAY.


 =Little Prudy’s Flyaway Series.= By the author of “Dotty Dimple    =75=
   Stories,” and “Little Prudy Stories.” Complete in six
   volumes. Illustrated. Per vol.

     Little Folks Astray.

     Prudy Keeping House.

     Aunt Madge’s Story.

     Little Grandmother.

     Little Grandfather.

     Miss Thistledown.

 =Little Prudy Stories.= By Sophie May. Complete. Six volumes,      =75=
   handsomely illustrated, in a neat box. Per vol.

     Little Prudy.

     Little Prudy’s Sister Susy.

     Little Prudy’s Captain Horace.

     Little Prudy’s Cousin Grace.

     Little Prudy’s Story Book.

     Little Prudy’s Dotty Dimple.

 =Dotty Dimple Stories.= By Sophie May, author of Little Prudy.     =75=
   Complete in six volumes. Illustrated. Per vol.

     Dotty Dimple at her Grandmother’s.

     Dotty Dimple at Home.

     Dotty Dimple out West.

     Dotty Dimple at Play.

     Dotty Dimple at School.

     Dotty Dimple’s Flyaway.

 =The Quinnebassett Girls.= 16mo. Illustrated                     =1 50=

 The Doctor’s Daughter. 16mo. Illustrated                         =1 50=

 Our Helen. 16mo. Illustrated                                     =1 50=

 The Asbury Twins. 16mo. Illustrated                              =1 50=


 =Flaxie Frizzle Stories.= To be completed in six volumes.          =75=
   Illustrated. Per vol.

     Flaxie Frizzle.

     Flaxie Frizzle and Doctor Papa.

     Little Pitchers.




                          BY J. T. TROWBRIDGE.


 =His Own Master.= 16mo. Cloth. Illustrated. (In press.)          =1 25=

 =Bound in Honor; or, Boys will be Boys.= 16mo. Cloth.            =1 25=
   Illustrated




                             MISCELLANEOUS.


 =Alden Series.= By Joseph Alden, D.D. 4 vols. Illustrated. Per     =50=
   vol.

     The Cardinal Flower.

     The Lost Lamb.

     Henry Ashton.

     The Light-hearted Girl.

 =Baby Ballad Series.= (In press.) Three volumes. Illustrated.    =1 00=
   4to. Per vol.

     Baby Ballads. By Uno.

     Little Songs. By Mrs. Follen.

     New Songs for Little People. By Mrs. Anderson.

 =Beckoning Series.= By Paul Cobden. To be completed in six       =1 25=
   volumes. Illustrated. Per vol.

     Who will Win?

     Going on a Mission.

     The Turning Wheel.

     Good Luck.

     Take a Peep.

     (Another in preparation.)

 =Blue Jacket Series.= Six vols. 12mo. Illustrated. Per vol.      =1 50=

     Swiss Family Robinson.

     Willis the Pilot.

     The Prairie Crusoe.

     Gulliver’s Travels.

     The Arctic Crusoe.

     The Young Crusoe.

 =Celesta Stories, The.= By Mrs. E. M. Berry. 16mo. Illustrated.  =1 00=
   Per vol.

     Celesta.

     The Crook Straightened.

     Crooked and Straight.

 =Charley Roberts Series.= By Miss Louise M. Thurston. To be      =1 00=
   completed in six volumes. Per vol.

     How Charlie Roberts became a Man.

     Hoome in the West.

     Children of Amity Court.

 =Crusoe Library.= An attractive series for Young and Old. Six    =1 50=
   volumes. Illustrated. In neat box. Per vol.

     Robinson Crusoe.

     Arabian Nights.

     Arctic Crusoe.

     Young Crusoe.

     Prairie Crusoe.

     Willis the Pilot.

 =Dick and Daisy Series.= By Miss Adelaide F. Samuels. Four         =50=
   volumes. Illustrated. Per vol.

     Adrift in the World; or, Dick and Daisy’s Early Days.

     Fighting the Battle; or, Dick and Daisy’s City Life.

     Saved from the Street; or, Dick and Daisy’s protégés.

     Grandfather Milly’s Luck; or, Dick and Daisy’s Reward.

 =Dick Travers Abroad Series.= By Miss Adelaide F. Samuels. Four    =50=
   volumes. Illustrated. Per vol.

     Little Cricket; or, Dick Travers in London.

     Palm Land; or, Dick Travers in the Chagos Islands.

     The Lost Tar; or, Dick Travers in Africa.

     On the Wave; or, Dick Travers aboard the Happy Jack.

     The Turning of the Tide; or, Radcliffe Rich and his Patients.

     Winning his Spurs; or, Henry Morton’s First Trial.

 =Girlhood Series, The.= Comprising six volumes. 12mo.            =1 50=
   Illustrated

     An American Girl Abroad. By Miss Adeline Trafton.

     The Doctor’s Daughter. By Sophie May.

     Sallie Williams, The Mountain Girl. By Mrs. E. D. Cheney.

     Only Girls. By Virginia F. Townsend.

     Lottie Eames; or, Do Your Best, and Leave the Rest.

     Rhoda Thornton’s Girlhood. By Mrs. Mary E. Pratt.

 =Sunnybank Stories.= Twelve volumes. Compiled by Rev. Asa          =25=
   Bullard, editor of the “Well-Spring.” Profusely Illustrated.
   32mo. Bound in high colors, and put in a neat box. Per volume

     Uncle Henry’s Stories.

     Dog Stories.

     Stories for Alice.

     My Teacher’s Gem.

     The Scholar’s Welcome.

     Going to School.

     Aunt Lizzie’s Stories.

     Mother’s Stories.

     Grandpa’s Stories.

     The Good Scholar.

     The Lighthouse.

     Reward of Merit.

 =Sunnybank Stories.= Six volumes. Compiled by Rev. Asa Bullard.    =25=
   Profusely Illustrated. 32mo. Bound in high colors, and put up
   in a neat box. Per volume

     Uncle Henry’s Stories.

     Dog Stories.

     Stories for Alice.

     Aunt Lizzie’s Stories.

     Mother’s Stories.

     Grandpa’s Stories.

 =Shady Dell Stories.= Six volumes. Compiled by Rev. Asa            =25=
   Bullard, editor of the “Well-Spring.” Profusely Illustrated.
   32mo. Bound in high colors, and put up in a neat box (to
   match the Sunnybank Stories). Per volume

     My Teacher’s Gem.

     The Scholar’s Welcome.

     Going to School.

     The Good Scholar.

     The Lighthouse.

     Reward of Merit.

 =Tone Masters, The.= A Musical Series for the Young. By the      =1 25=
   author of “The Soprano,” &c. 16mo. Illustrated. Per volume

     Mozart and Mendelssohn.

     Handel and Haydn.

     Bach and Beethoven.

 =Twilight Stories.= By Mrs. Follen. Twelve volumes. 4to.           =50=
   Illustrated. Per volume

     Travellers’ Stories.

     True Stories about Dogs.

     Made-Up Stories.

     Peddler of Dust Sticks.

     When I was a Girl.

     Who speaks Next?

     The Talkative Wig.

     What Animals do and say.

     Two Festivals.

     Conscience.

     Piccolissima.

     Little Songs.

------------------------------------------------------------------------




                          TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES


 1. Moved advertisement page from after Contents page to before
      advertisements at the end of book.
 2. Changed ‘self-depreciation’ to ‘self-deprecation’ on p. 132.
 3. Added missing ‘of’ on p. 146.
 4. Added missing ‘as’ on p. 159.
 5. Silently corrected typographical errors.
 6. Retained anachronistic and non-standard spellings as printed.
 7. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.
 8. Enclosed bold font in =equals=.





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