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diff --git a/old/54018-0.txt b/old/54018-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 581d56d..0000000 --- a/old/54018-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,5483 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Farmington, by Clarence S. Darrow - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: Farmington - -Author: Clarence S. Darrow - -Release Date: January 24, 2017 [EBook #54018] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FARMINGTON *** - - - - -Produced by Richard Tonsing and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images generously made available by The -Internet Archive) - - - - - - - - - - Farmington - - -[Illustration] - - - - - FARMINGTON - - - _By_ - CLARENCE S. DARROW - - - CHICAGO - A. C. M^cCLURG & CO. - 1904 - - - - - COPYRIGHT, 1904, - BY A. C. MCCLURG & CO. - - Entered at Stationers’ Hall, London. - - _All rights reserved._ - - Published September 24, 1904 - - - THE UNIVERSITY PRESS - CAMBRIDGE, U. S. A. - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - CONTENTS - - - CHAPTER PAGE - - I. ABOUT MY STORY 1 - - II. OF MY CHILDHOOD 11 - - III. MY HOME 21 - - IV. MY FATHER 32 - - V. THE DISTRICT SCHOOL 43 - - VI. THE SCHOOL READERS 56 - - VII. THE LAST DAY OF SCHOOL 74 - - VIII. FARMINGTON 84 - - IX. THE CHURCH 96 - - X. THE SUNDAY-SCHOOL 110 - - XI. THE BURYING-GROUND 120 - - XII. CHILDHOOD SURROUNDINGS 130 - - XIII. ILLUSIONS 144 - - XIV. ABOUT GIRLS 155 - - XV. FISHING 165 - - XVI. RULES OF CONDUCT 177 - - XVII. HOLIDAYS 193 - - XVIII. BASEBALL 208 - - XIX. AUNT MARY 220 - - XX. FERMAN HENRY 232 - - XXI. AUNT LOUISA 243 - - XXII. THE SUMMER VACATION 254 - - XXIII. HOW I FAILED 264 - - - - - FARMINGTON - - - - - CHAPTER I - ABOUT MY STORY - - -I begin this story with the personal pronoun. To begin it in any other -way would be only a commonplace assumption of a modesty that I do not -really have. It is most natural that the personal pronoun should stand -as the first word of this tale, for I cannot remember a time when my -chief thoughts and emotions did not concern myself, or were not in some -way related to myself. I look back through the years that have passed, -and find that the first consciousness of my being and the hazy -indistinct memories of my childhood are all about myself,—what the -world, and its men and its women, and its beasts and its plants, meant -to me. This feeling is all there is of the past and all there is of the -present; and as I look forward on my fast shortening path, I am sure -that my last emotions, like my first, will come from the impressions -that the world is yet able to make upon the failing senses that shall -still connect me with mortal life. - -So why should I not begin this tale with the personal pronoun? And why -should I not use it over and over again, with no effort to disguise the -fact that whatever the world may be to you, still to me it is nothing -except as it influences and affects my life and me? - -I have been told that I was born a long time ago, back in the State of -Pennsylvania, on the outskirts of a little struggling town that slept by -day and by night along a winding stream, and between two ranges of high -hills that stood sentinel on either side. The valley was very narrow, -and so too were all the people who lived in the little town. These built -their small white frame houses and barns close to the river-side, for it -was only near its winding banks that the soil would raise corn, -potatoes, and hay,—potatoes for the people, and hay and corn for the -other inhabitants, who were almost as important to the landscape and -almost as close to my early life as the men and women who gathered each -Sunday in the large white church, and who had no doubt that they were -different from the horses and cattle, and would live in some future -world that these other animals would never reach. Even then I felt that -perhaps, if this was true, the horses and cattle had the best of the -scheme of the universe, for the men and women never seemed to enjoy life -very much, excepting here and there some solitary person who was pointed -out as a terrible example, who would surely suffer in the next world -during the eternity which my long-faced sober neighbors would spend in -enjoying the pleasures they had so righteously denied themselves while -here on earth. - -Of course no one will expect me to tell all my life. In fact, much of -the most interesting part must be left out entirely, as is the case with -all lives that are really worth the writing; and unless mine is one of -these, why bother with the story? Polite society, that buys books and -reads them,—at least reads them,—would not tolerate the whole; so this -is an expurgated life, or, rather, an expurgated story of a life. Thank -God, the life was not expurgated any more than absolutely necessary, -sometimes not even so much as that. But so far as I can really tell my -story, I shall make a brave endeavor to tell it truthfully, at least as -near as the truth can be told by one who does not tell the whole -truth,—which, after all, is not so very near. - -Lest anyone who might borrow this book and read it should think that I -am not so very good, and am putting my best foot foremost, let me hasten -to say that if I told the whole truth it would be much more favorable to -me than this poor expurgated version will make it seem. I have done many -very good things which I shall not dare to set down in these pages, for -if I should record them some envious and unkind readers might say that I -did these things in order to write them in a book and get fame and -credit for their doing, and so after all they were not really good. But -even the bad things that I leave out were not so very bad,—indeed, they -were not bad at all, if one has my point of view of life and knows all -the facts. The trouble is, there are so few who have my point of view, -and most of those are bound to pretend that they have not. Then, too, no -one could possibly tell all the facts, for one can write only with pen -and ink, and long after everything is past and gone, while one lives -with flesh and blood, and sometimes tingling blood at that, and only a -single moment at a time. So it may be that no one could write a really -truthful story if he would, and perhaps the old fogies are right in -fixing the line as to what may be set down and what must be left out. At -least, I promise that the reader who proclaims his propriety the -loudest, and from the highest house-top, need not have the slightest -fear—or hope—about this book, for I shall watch every word with the -strictest care, and the moment I find myself wandering from the beaten -path I shall fetch myself up with the roundest and the quickest turn. -And so, having made myself thus clear as to the plans and purposes of my -story, there is no occasion to tarry longer at its threshold. - -I have always had the highest regard for integrity, and have ever by -precept urged it upon other people; therefore in these pages I shall -try, as I have said, to tell the truth; still I am afraid that I shall -not succeed, for, after all, I can tell about things only as they seem -to me,—and I am not in the least sure that my childhood home, and the -boys and girls with whom I played, were really like what they seem to -have been, when I rub my eyes and awaken in the fairy-land that I left -so long ago. So, to be perfectly honest with the reader,—which I am -bound to be as long as I can and as far as I can,—I will say that this -story is only a story of impressions after all. But this is doubtless -the right point of view, for life consists only of impressions, and when -the impressions are done the life is done. - -I really do not know just why I am telling this story, for it is only -fair to let the reader know at the beginning, so that he need not waste -his time, that nothing ever happened to me,—that is, nothing has -happened yet, and all my life I have been trying hard to keep things -from happening. But as nothing ever happened, how can there be any story -for me to write? I am unable to weave any plot, because there never were -any plots in my life, excepting a few that never came to anything, and -so were really no part of my life. What happened to me is nothing more -than what happens to everyone; so why should I expect people to bother -to read my story? Why should they pay money to buy my book, which is not -a story after all? - -I hardly think I am writing this for fame. If that were the case, I -should tell the things that I leave out, for I know that they would be -more talked about than the commonplace things that I set down. But I -have always wanted to write a book. I remember when I was very small, -and used to climb on a chair and look at the rows of books on my -father’s shelves, I thought it must be a wonderful being who could write -all the pages of a big book, and I would have given all the playthings -that I ever hoped to have for the assurance that some day I might -possibly write down so many words and have them printed and bound into a -book. But my father always told me I could never write a book unless I -studied hard,—Latin, Greek, geometry, history, and a lot of things that -I knew nothing about then and not much more now. As I grew older, I was -too poor and too lazy to learn all the things that my good father said I -must know if I should ever write a book, but I never gave up the -longing, even when I felt how impossible it would be to realize my -dream. - -I never studied geometry, or history, or Greek, and I studied scarcely -any Latin, and not much arithmetic; and I never did anything with -grammar, except to study it,—in fact, I always thought that this was the -only purpose for which grammar was invented. But in spite of all this, I -wanted to write a book, and resolved that I would write a book. Of -course, as I am not a scholar, and have never learned anything out of -books to tell about in other books, there was nothing for me to do but -tell of the things that had happened to me. So I tell this story because -it is the only story I know,—and even this one I do not know so very -well. Sometimes I think I am one kind of person, and then sometimes I -think I am another kind; and I am never quite sure why I do any -particular thing, or why I do not do it, excepting the things I am -afraid to do. But there is no reason now why I should not write this -book, for I have money enough to get it printed and bound, and even if -no one ever buys a copy still I can say that I have written a book. I -understand that a great many books are published in this way, and I must -have read a number that never would have been printed if the author had -not been able to pay for them himself. - -But I have put off writing this story for many, many years, until at -last I am beginning to think of getting old; and if I linger much longer -over unimportant excuses and explanations, I fear that I shall die, and -future generations will never know that I have lived. For I am quite -certain that no one else will ever write my story, and unless I really -get to work, even my name will be forgotten excepting by the few who go -back to my old-time home, and open the wire gate of the little -graveyard, and go down the winding path between the white headstones -until they reach my mound. I know that they will find it there, for I -have already made my will and provided that I shall be carried back to -the little Pennsylvania town beside the winding stream where I used to -stone the frogs; and I have written down the exact words that shall be -carved upon my marble headstone,—that is, all the words except those -that are to tell of the last event, and these we are all of us very -willing to leave to someone else. - -But this story is about life and action, and boys and girls, and men and -women; and I really did not intend to take the reader to my grave in the -very first chapter of the book. - - - - - CHAPTER II - OF MY CHILDHOOD - - -I forgot to mention that my name is John Smith. Of course this is a very -plebeian name, but I am in no way responsible for it. As long as I can -remember, I answered to the call of “John” or “Johnny” many a time in my -childhood, and even later, when I would much have preferred not to hear -the call. My father’s name was John Smith, too. No doubt he, and his -father before him, could see no way to avoid the Smith, and thought it -could not make much difference to add the John. The chief trouble that I -have experienced from the name has come from getting my letters mixed up -with other people’s,—mainly my father’s,—which often caused me -embarrassment in my younger days. - -I have tried very hard to remember when I first knew my name was John. -Indeed, I have often wondered when it was that I first knew that I was -I, and how that fact dawned upon my mind. Over and over again I have -tried to remember my first thoughts and experiences of life, but have -always failed in the attempt. If I could only tell of my first -sensations, as I looked at the blue sky, and felt the warm sun, and -heard the singing birds in my infancy, I am sure they would interest the -reader. But I can give no testimony upon these important points. I have -no doubt, however, that when I looked upon the heavens and the earth for -the first time I must have felt the same ignorance and awe and wonder -that possess my mind to-day when I try to understand the same -unexplainable mysteries that have always filled me with queries, doubts, -and fears. - -Neither can I tell just what I first came to remember; and when I look -back to that little home beside the creek I am not quite sure whether -the feelings that I have are of things that I actually saw and felt and -lived, or whether some imaginings of my young brain have taken the form -and semblance of real life. - -I was only one of a large family, mostly older than myself; but while I -was only one, I was the chief one, and the rest were important only as -they affected me. It must have been the rule of our family that each of -the children should have the right to give orders to those younger than -himself; at any rate, all the older ones told me what to do, and I in -turn claimed the same privilege with those younger than myself. - -My early remembrances have little sequence or logical connection. I am -quite unable to tell which events came first of those that must have -happened when I was very young. - -Among my earliest impressions is one of a hill in our back yard, and of -our going down it to bring water from the well. I am sure that the hill -is not a dream, for I have been back since and found it there, although -not near as long and steep as it seemed in those far-off years. I -remember that we children used to slide down this hill and then walk up -again. Even then I was willing to do a great deal of work for a very -small amount of fun. Somehow, in looking back, it seems as if I were -always sliding downhill and tugging my sled back to the top in the dusk -of the evening. I cannot quite understand how it is that I remember the -evening best, but there it is as I unroll the scroll,—there are the -dents in my memory, and there is the little boy pulling his sled uphill -and looking in at the lighted kitchen window at the top. There, too, are -the older and wiser members of the family,—those who have learned that -the short sensation of sliding down the hill is not worth the long tug -up; a lesson which, although I am growing old and gray, I never have -been wise enough to learn. There are the older ones gathered around the -table with their books, or busy with their household work,—the old -family circle that I see so plainly now in the lamplight through the -window, perhaps more plainly for the years that lie between. This magic -circle was long since broken and scattered, and lives only in the memory -of the man-child who knew so little then of what life really meant, and -who knows so little now. - -It is strange, but somehow I have no such distinct recollection of our -home as I have of the other objects that were familiar to my childish -mind. I can see the little muddy brook that ran just back of the garden -fence. Down the hill on the edge of the stream stood a log -cheese-house,—at least, it seems so now,—and back of this cheese-house -beside the brook must have been a favorite spot for me to wade and fish, -although I have no remembrance that I ever caught anything, which fact I -am happy to record. Beyond the stream was an orchard. I am uncertain -whether or not it belonged to my father, although I rather think it must -have been owned by somebody else, the apples always looked so tempting -and so red,—which reminds me that all through life it has seemed to me -that no fruit was quite so sweet as that which was just beyond my reach. -Anyhow, this orchard stands out very plainly in my mind. It was a very -large orchard,—in fact, a great forest of trees; and I remember that I -always stole over the fence intending to get the apples on the nearest -tree, but they did not taste so sweet nor look so red as some others -farther on, which in turn were passed by for others yet a little farther -off, until I had gone quite through the orchard in my endeavor to get -the very best. Although I have been grown up for many a year, somehow -this habit of seeing something better further on has clung to me through -life. So tenacious is this habit, that I fancy I have missed much that -is valuable and good in my eager haste to get something better still. I -am not quite certain about the orchard, perhaps it was not so very large -after all; at least, when I went back a few years ago there was no -cheese-house, and no orchard, and even the brook was grown up to grass -and weeds. I know that in my childhood my parents moved from the old -house to another slightly better, and nearer town; but though I can -clearly remember certain incidents of both, still I have no recollection -of our moving, and it is utterly impossible to keep the impressions of -each separate and distinct. - -My first memory of a schoolhouse seems quite clear. It may be that the -things I remember never really happened, although the impression of them -is very strong upon my mind. I must have been very young, hardly more -than three or four years old, and was doubtless taken to school by an -elder brother or sister; certainly I was too young to be a pupil. The -schoolhouse was a long way from home,—miles and miles it seemed to me. -After being in school for hours, I must have grown weary and restless, -sitting so motionless and still, for I know that I was boxed on the ears -either by the teacher’s hand or with a slate. I ran out of the room -sobbing and crying, and went down the long white road to my home. I -shall never forget that journey in the heat and dust. It must have been -the greatest pain and sorrow I had ever known. Doubtless it was the -humiliation of being boxed on the ears before the whole school that -broke my heart; at least, I felt as if I never would reach home, and I -must have sprinkled every foot of the way with my bitter tears. I -remember that teacher’s name to-day, and I never forgave her, until a -short time ago, after I read Tolstoi. Now I only realize how stupid and -ignorant she was to awaken such hatred in the heart of a little child. -In those days whipping was a part, and a very large part, of the regular -course of the district school, and I learned in a few years not to mind -it very much,—in fact, rather to enjoy it, for it gave me such good -standing with the other children of the school. - -How full of illusions and delusions we children were! Since I have grown -to man’s estate, I have travelled the same road over which I sobbed in -that far-off day, and it was really but a very little way,—a short -half-mile,—and still, as I look back to that little crying child, it -seems as if he must have walked across a desert beneath a tropical sun, -and borne all the despair and anguish of the world inside his little -jacket. - -Another memory that has become a part of my being grows out of the great -Civil War. I was probably four or five years old, and was playing under -the big maple-trees in our old front yard. The scene all comes back to -me as I write. I have a stick or hoop, or perhaps both, in my little -hand. No one else is anywhere about. I hear a drum and fife coming over -the hill, and I run to the fence and look down the gravelly road. A -two-horse wagon loaded with men and boys, whose names and perhaps faces -I seem to know, drives past me as I peer through the palings of the -fence. They are dressed in uniform, and are proud and gay. In the centre -of the wagon is one boy standing up; I see his face plainly, and catch -its boyish smile. They drive past the house to the railroad station, on -their way to the Southern battle-fields. I must have been told a great -deal about these men and about the war, for my people were -abolitionists, who looked upon the rebels as some sort of monsters, and -had no thought that there could be any side but ours. However, I now -remember nothing at all of what was said to me, but I hear the martial -music, I see the horses and wagons and men, and clear and distinct from -all the rest is this one boy’s face that I knew so well. Even more -distinctly do I remember a day some months later. I must then have begun -going to the district school, for I remember that there was no school -that day. I recall a great throng of people, and among them all the boys -and girls from school, and we are gathered inside the burying-ground -where they are carrying the young soldier who rode past our house a few -months before. I cannot remember what was said at the funeral, but this -is the first impression that I can recall of the grim spectre Death. -What it meant to my childish mind I cannot now conceive. I remember only -the hushed awe and the deep dread that fell upon us all when we realized -that they were putting this boy into the ground and that we should never -see his face again. Whatever the feeling, I fancy that time and years -have not changed or modified it, or made it any easier to reconcile or -understand. - -But with the memory of the funeral there lingers an impression that we -all thought this young man a glorious, brave, and noble boy, and that -his widowed mother and brothers and sisters ought to have felt happy and -proud that he was buried in the ground. I remembered the mother for many -years, and how she always mourned her son; but it was a long, long time -before I came to understand that the fact that the boy was killed upon -the field of battle really did not make the sorrow any less for the -family left behind. And it was still longer before I came to realize -that it is no more noble or honorable to die fighting on the field of -battle than in any other way. - - - - - CHAPTER III - MY HOME - - -My earliest recollections that I can feel quite sure are real are about -my family and home. My father was a miller, and had a little grist-mill -by the side of the creek, just in the shade of some large oak-trees. His -mill must have been very small, for I always knew that he was poor. -Still, it seemed to me that the mill was a wonderful affair, almost as -large as the big white church that stood upon the hill. It was run by -water when the creek was not too low, which I am sure was very often, as -I think it over now. Above the mill was a great dam, which made an -enormous pond, larger than the Atlantic Ocean, and much more dangerous -to any of us boys venturesome enough to go out upon it in a boat, or -even on skates in the winter time. But the most marvellous part of all -was the wonderful water-wheel hidden almost underneath the mill. It -seemed as if there were a great hollow in the ground, to make room for -the wheel; and if I had any opinion on the subject, I must have thought -that the wheel grew there, for surely no one could make a monster like -that. Often I used to go with my father up to the head of the mill-race, -when he lifted the big wooden gate and let the waters come down out of -the dam through the race and the wooden flume over the great groaning -wheel. I well remember how I used to stand in awe and wonder while my -father opened the gate, and then run down the path ahead of the rushing -tide and peep through a hole to see the old wheel start. Then I would -scamper over the mill, from the cellar with its cogs and pulleys, up to -the garret with its white dusty chutes and its incomprehensible -machines. Then I played around the great sacks and enormous bins of -wheat and corn, and watched the grain as it streamed into the hopper -ready to be ground to pieces by the slowly turning stones. - -How real, and still how unreal, all this seems to-day! Is it all a -dream? and am I writing a fairy-story like “Little Red Riding Hood” or -“The Three Black Bears”? Surely all these events are as clear and vivid -as the theatre party of last week. But while I so plainly see the -little, idle, prattling child, looking with wondering eyes at the great -turning wheel, and asking his simple questions of the grave, kind old -man in the great white coat, somehow there is no relation between that -simple child and the man whom the world has buffeted and tossed for so -many years, and with such a rough unfriendly hand, that he cannot help -the feeling that this far-off child was really someone else. - -My father was a just and upright man,—I can see him now dipping his bent -wooden measure into the hopper of grain and taking out his toll, never a -single kernel more than was his due. No doubt the suspicious farmers who -brought their sacks of wheat and corn often thought that he dipped out -more grain than he had a right to take; and even many of those who knew -that he did not, still thought he was a fool because he failed to make -the most of the opportunities he had. As I grew up, I learned that there -are all sorts of people in the world, and that selfishness and greed and -envy are, to say the least, very common in the human heart; but I never -could be thankful enough that my father was honest and simple, and that -his love of truth and justice had grown into his being as naturally as -the oaks were rooted to the earth along the little stream. - -The old wheel ceased turning long ago. The last stick of timber in its -wondrous mechanism has rotted and decayed; the old mill itself has -vanished from the earth. The drying stream and the great mills of the -new Northwest long since conspired to destroy my father’s simple trade. -Even the dam has been washed away, and a tiny thread of water now -trickles down over the hill where the rushing flood fell full upon the -great turning wheel. Last summer I went back to linger, like a ghost, -around the old familiar spot; and I found that even the great unexplored -pond had dried up, and a field of corn was growing peacefully upon the -soil that once upheld this treacherous sea. And the old miller too, with -his kindly, simple, honest face,—the old miller with his great white -coat,—he too is gone, gone as completely as his father and all the other -fathers and grandfathers who have come and gone; the dear, kind old -miller, who listened to my childish questions, and taught me, or rather -tried to teach me, what was right and wrong, has grown weary and lain -down to rest, and will soon be quite forgotten by the world,—unless this -story shall bring his son so much fame that some of the glory shall be -reflected back to him. - -Somehow the mill seems to have made a stronger impression than the house -on my young mind. Perhaps it was because it was the only mill that I had -ever seen or known; perhaps because the associations that naturally -attached to the mill and its surroundings were such as appeal most to -the mind of a little child. Of course, from the very nature of things -the home and family must have been among my earliest recollections; yet -I cannot help feeling that much of the literature about childhood’s home -has been written for effect,—or not to describe home as it really is to -the child, but from someone’s ideal of what home ought to be. - -I know that my mother was a very energetic, hard-working, and in every -way strong woman, although I did not know it or think about it then. I -know it now, for as I look back to my childhood and see the large family -that she cared for, almost without help, I cannot understand how she did -it all, especially as she managed to keep well informed on the topics of -the day, and found more time for reading and study than any of her -neighbors did. - -In the main, I think our family was like the other families of the -neighborhood, with about the same dispositions, the same ideas and -ideals,—if children can be said to have ideals,—that other people had. - -There were seven of us children, and we must have crowded the little -home, to say nothing of the little income with which my father and -mother raised us all. Our family life was not the ideal home-life of -which we read in books; the fact is, I have never seen that sort of life -amongst children,—or amongst grown people either, for that matter. If we -loved each other very dearly, we were all too proud and well-trained to -say a word about it, or to make any sign to show that it was true. When -a number of us children were together playing the familiar games, we -generally quarrelled and fought each other much more than was our habit -when playing with our neighbors and our friends. In this too we were -like all the rest of the families that I knew. It seems to me now that a -very small matter was always enough to bring on a fight, and that we -quarrelled simply because we liked to hurt each other; at least I can -see no other reason why we did. - -We children were supposed to help with the chores around the house; but -as near as I can remember, each one was always afraid that he would do -more than his share. I recall a story in one of our school readers, -which I read when very young; it was about two brothers, a large one and -a small one, and they were carrying a pail on a pole, and the larger -brother deliberately shoved the pail nearer to his end, so that the -heavier load would fall on him; but I am sure that this incident never -happened in our family, or in any other that I ever knew. - -Most home-life necessarily clusters around the mother; and so, of -course, it must have been in our family. But my mother died when I was -in my earlier teens, and her figure has not that clearness and -distinctness that I wish it had. She seems now to have been a remarkable -combination of energy and industry, of great kindness, and still of -strong and controlling will; a woman who, under other conditions of -life, and unhampered by so many children and such pressing needs, might -have left her mark upon the world. But this was not to be; for she could -not overlook the duties that lay nearest her for a broader or more -ambitious life. - -Both my father and mother must have been kind and gentle and tender to -the large family that so sorely taxed their time and strength; and yet, -as I look back, I do not have the feeling of closeness that should unite -the parent and the child. They were New England people, raised in the -Puritan school of life, and I fancy that they would have felt that -demonstrations of affection were signs of weakness rather than of love. -I have no feeling of a time when either my father or my mother took me, -or any other member of our family, in their arms; and the control of the -household seemed to be by such fixed rules as are ordinarily followed in -family life, with now and then a resort to rather mild corporal -punishment when they thought the occasion grave enough. Both parents -were beyond their neighbors in education, intelligence, and strength of -character; and with their breadth of view, I cannot understand how they -did not see that even the mild force they used tended to cause -bitterness and resentment, and thus defeat the object sought. I well -remember that we were all glad if our parents, or either of them, were -absent for a day; not that they were unkind, but that with them we felt -restraint, and never that spirit of love and trust which ought always to -be present between the parent and the child. - -While I cannot recall that my mother ever gave me a kiss or a caress, -and while I am sure that I should have been embarrassed if she had, -still I well remember that when I had a fever, and lay on my bed for -what seemed endless weeks, she let no one else come near me by day or -night. And although she must have attended to all her household duties, -she seemed ever beside me with the tenderest and gentlest touch. I can -still less remember any great affection that I had for her, or any -effort on my part to make her life easier than it was; yet I know that I -must have loved her, for I can never forget the bitterness of my despair -and grief when they told me she must die. And even now, as I look back -after all these weary years, when I think of her lying cold and dead in -the still front room I feel almost the same shudder and horror that -filled my heart as a little child. And with this shudder comes the -endless regret that I did not tell her that I loved her, and did not do -more to lighten the burdens of her life. - -This family feeling, or lack of it, I think must have come from the -Puritanic school in which my father and mother were born and raised. It -must be that any intelligent parent who really understands life would be -able to make his children feel a companionship greater than any other -they could know. - -With my brothers and sisters my life was much the same. We never said -anything about our love for each other, and our nearness seemed to bring -out our antagonism more than our love. Still, I am sure that I really -cared for them, for I recall that once when a brother was very ill I was -wretched with fear and grief. I remember how I went over every -circumstance of our relations with each other, and how I vowed that I -would always be kind and loving to him if his life were saved. -Fortunately, he got well; but I cannot recall that I treated him any -better after this sickness than before. - -I remember how happy all of us used to be when cousins or friends came -to stay a few days in our house, and how much more we liked to be with -them than with our own family. I remember, too, that I had the same -feeling when I visited other houses; and I have found it so to this day. -True it is, that in great trouble or in a crisis of life we seem to -cling to our kindred, and stand by them, and expect them to stand by us; -and yet, in the little things, day by day, we look for our comradeship -and affection somewhere else. - -So I think that in all of this neither I nor the rest of my people were -different from the other families about us, and that the stories of the -ideal life of brothers and sisters, of parents and children, are largely -myths. - - - - - CHAPTER IV - MY FATHER - - -My father was a great believer in education,—that is, in the learning -that is found in books. He was doubtful of any other sort, if indeed he -believed there could be any other sort. His strong faith in books, -together with the fact that there were so many of us children around the -house in my mother’s way, early drove me to the district school. - -Before this time I had learned to read simple sentences; for I cannot -remember when my father began telling me how important and necessary it -was to study books. By some strange trick of fortune, he was born with a -quenchless thirst for learning. This love of books was the one great -passion of his life; but his large family began to arrive when he was at -such an early age that he never had time to prepare himself to make a -living from his learning. He always felt the hardship and irony of a -life of labor to one who loved study and contemplation; so he resolved -that his children should have a better chance. Poor man! I can see him -now as plainly as if it were yesterday. I can see him with his -books,—English, Latin, Greek, and even Hebrew,—carrying them back and -forth to the dusty mill, and snatching the smallest chance, even when -the water was spilling over the dam, to learn more of the wonders that -were held between the covers of these books. - -All my life I have felt that Nature had some grudge against my father. -If she had made him a simple miller, content when he was grinding corn -and dipping the small toll from the farmer’s grist, he might have lived -a fairly useful, happy life. But day after day and year after year he -was compelled to walk the short and narrow path between the little house -and the decaying mill, while his mind was roving over scenes of great -battles, decayed empires, dead languages, and the starry heavens above. -To his dying day he lived in a walking trance; and his books and their -wondrous stories were more real to him than the turning water-wheel, the -sacks of wheat and corn, and the cunning, soulless farmers who dickered -and haggled about his hard-earned toll. - -Whether or not my father had strong personal ambitions, I really never -knew; no doubt he had, but years of work and resignation had taught him -to deny them even to himself, and slowly and pathetically he must have -let go his hold upon that hope and ambition which alone make the -thoughtful man cling fast to life. - -In all the country round, no man knew so much of books as he, and no man -knew less of life. The old parson and the doctor were almost the only -neighbors who seemed able even to understand the language that he spoke. -I remember now, when his work was done, how religiously he went to his -little study with his marvellous books, and worked and read far into the -night, stopping only to encourage and help his children in the tasks -that they were ever anxious to neglect and shirk. My bedroom, with its -two beds and generally four occupants, opened directly from his study -door; and no matter how often I went to sleep and awakened in the night, -I could see a little streak of lamplight at the bottom of the door that -opened into his room, which showed me that he was still dwelling in the -fairy-lands of which his old volumes told. He was no longer there in the -morning, and this was usually the first time that I missed him in my -waking moments after I had gone to bed. Often, too, he wrote, sometimes -night after night for weeks together; but I never knew what it was that -he put down,—no doubt his hopes and dreams and loves and doubts and -fears, as men have ever done since time began, as they will ever do -while time shall last, and as I am doing now; but these poor dreams of -his were never destined to see the light of day. Perhaps, with no one to -tell him that they were good, he despaired about their worth, as so many -other doubting souls have done before and since. It is not likely, -indeed, that any publisher could have been found ready to transform his -poor cramped writing into print. Whatever may have been the case, if I -could only find the pages that he wrote I would print them now with his -name upon the title-page, and pay for them myself. - -I cannot remember when I learned to read. I seem always to have known -how. I am sure that I learned my letters from the red and blue blocks -that were always scattered on the floor. Of course, I did not know what -they meant; I only knew that A was A, and was content with that. Even -when I learned my first little words, and put them into simple -sentences, I fancy that I knew no more of what they meant than the poor -caged parrot that keeps saying over and over again, “Polly wants a -cracker,” when he really wants nothing of the kind. I fancy that I knew -nothing of what they meant, for as I read to-day many of the brave -lessons learned even in my later life I cannot imagine that I had any -thought of their meaning such as the language seems now to hold. - -But I know that I learned my letters quickly and early,—though not so -early as an elder brother who was always kept steadily before my eyes. -It must be that my father gave me little chance to tarry long from one -simple book to another, for I remember that at a very early age I was -told again and again that John Stuart Mill began studying Greek when he -was only three years old. I thought then, as I do to-day, that he must -have had a cruel father, and that this unnatural parent not only made -miserable the life of his little boy, but of thousands of other boys -whose fathers could see no reason why their sons should be outdone by -John Stuart Mill. I have no doubt that my good father thought that all -his children ought to be able to do anything that was ever accomplished -by John Stuart Mill; and so he did his part, and more, to make us try. - -But, after all, I feel to-day just as I did long years ago, when with -reluctant ear and rebellious heart I heard of the great achievements of -John Stuart Mill. I look back to those early years, and still regret the -beautiful play-spells that were broken and the many fond childish -schemes for pleasure that were shattered because John Stuart Mill began -studying Greek when three years old. - -I would often shed bitter tears, and mutter exclamations and protests -which no one heard, but which were none the less terrible because they -were spoken underneath my breath,—and all on account of John Stuart -Mill. It was long before I could forgive my gentle honest father for -having tried so hard to make me learn those books. I am sure that no -good fortune can ever compensate me for the wasted joys, the broken -playtimes, the interrupted childish pleasures, which I should have had. - -If I were writing this story as I feel to-day, and if I could not recall -the little child who had so lately come from the great heart of Nature -that he still must have remembered what she felt and thought and knew, I -might not regret those broken childish joys. I might rather mourn and -lament, with all the teachers and parents and authors, that I was so -profligate of my time when I was yet a child, and that I was not more -studious in those far-off years. But as I look back to my childhood -days, my sluggish heart beats quicker, and I can feel the warm young -blood rush to my tingling feet and hands, and I realize once more the -strange thrill of delight and joy that life and activity alone bring to -all the young. And so I cling to-day to the childish thought that I was -right and my poor father wrong. “When I was a child, I spake as a child, -I understood as a child, I thought as a child; but when I became a man I -put away childish things,” said the apostle twenty centuries ago. The -mistake of maturity and age has ever been that it lives so wholly in the -present and so completely forgets the childhood that is past. To guard -infancy and youth as a precious heritage, to keep them as long as we -can, seems to me the true philosophy of life. For, after all, life is -mostly illusions, and the illusions of infancy and childhood and youth -are more alluring than those of later years. - -But I fancy now that I can understand my father’s thoughts. A strange -fate had set him down beside the little winding creek and kept him at -his humble task of tolling his neighbors’ grist. He looked at the high -hills to the east, and at the high hills to the west, and up and down -the narrow country road that led to the outside world. He knew that -beyond the high hills was a broad inviting plain, with opportunity and -plenty, with fortune and fame; but as he looked at the hills he could -see no way to pass beyond. It is possible that he could have walked over -them, or even around them, had he been alone; but there was the -ever-growing brood that held him in the narrow place. No doubt as he -grew older he often looked up and down the long dusty road, half -expecting some fairy or genie to come along and take him away where he -might realize his dreams; but of course no such thing ever happened,—for -this is a real story,—and so he stayed and ground the grain in the old -decaying mill. - -My father must have been quite advanced in years before he wholly gave -up his ambitions to do something in life besides grinding the farmers’ -corn. Indeed, I am not sure that he ever gave them up; but doubtless, as -the task seemed more hopeless and the chain grew stronger, he slowly -looked to his children to satisfy the dreams that life once held out to -him; and so this thought mingled with the rest in his strong endeavor -that we should all have the best education he could get for us, so that -we need not be millers as he had been. Well, none of us are millers! The -old family is scattered far and wide; the last member of the little band -long since passed down the narrow road, and out between the great high -hills into the far-off land of freedom and opportunity of which my -father dreamed. But I should be glad to believe to-day that a single one -over whom he watched with such jealous care ever gave as much real -service to the world as this simple, kindly man whose name was heard -scarcely farther than the water that splashed and tumbled on the turning -wheel. - -I started bravely to tell about my life,—to write my story as it seems -to me; and here I am halting and rambling like a garrulous old man over -the feelings and remembrances of long ago. By a strange trick of memory -I seem to stand for a few moments out in the old front yard, a little -barefoot child. The long summer twilight has grown dim, and the quiet -country evening is at hand. Beyond the black trees I hear the falling -water spilling over the wooden dam; and farther on, around the edges of -the pond, the hoarse croak of the frogs sounds clear and harsh in the -still night air. Above the little porch that shelters the front door is -my father’s study window. I look in and see him sitting at his desk with -his shaded lamp; before him is his everlasting book, and his pale face -and long white hair bend over the infatuating pages with all the -confidence and trust of a little child. For a simple child he always -was, from the time when he first saw the light until his friends and -comrades lowered him into the sandy loam of the old churchyard. I see -him through the little panes of glass, as he bends above the book. The -chapter is finished and he wakens from his reverie into the world in -which he lives and works; he takes off his iron-framed spectacles, lays -down his book, comes downstairs and calls me away from my companions -with the old story that it is time to come into the house and get my -lessons. For the hundredth time I protest that I want to play,—to finish -my unending game; and again he tells me no, that John Stuart Mill began -studying Greek when he was only three years old. And with heavy heart -and muttered imprecations on John Stuart Mill, I am taken away from my -companions and my play, and set down beside my father with my book. I -can feel even now my sorrow and despair, as I leave my playmates and -turn the stupid leaves. But I would give all that I possess to-day to -hear my father say again, as in that far-off time, “John Stuart Mill -began studying Greek when he was only three years old.” - - - - - CHAPTER V - THE DISTRICT SCHOOL - - -In the last chapter I intended to write about the district school; but I -lingered so long over old remembrances that I could not get to school in -time, so now I will go straight there without delay. - -The first school that I remember was not in the little town near which -we lived, but about half a mile away in the opposite direction. Our -house must have stood just outside the limits of the little village; at -any rate, I was sent to the country school. Every morning we children -were given a dinner-pail packed full of pie and cake, and now and then a -piece of bread and butter (which I always let the other children eat), -and were sent off to school. As we passed along the road we were joined -by other little boys and girls, and by the time we reached the building -our party contained nearly all the children on the road travelling in -the direction from which we came. We were a boisterous, thoughtless -crowd,—that is, the boys; the girls were generally quieter and more -reserved, which we called “proud.” - -Almost as soon as the snow was off the ground in the spring, we boys -took off our shoes (or, rather, boots) and went barefooted to the -school. It was hard for us to wait until our parents said the ground was -warm enough for us to take off our boots; we felt so light and free, and -could run so fast barefooted, that we always begged our mother to let us -leave them off at the very earliest chance. The chief disadvantage was -that we often stubbed our toes. This was sometimes serious, when we were -running fast and would bring them full tilt against a stone. Most of the -time we managed to have one or more toes tied up in rags; and we always -found considerable occupation in comparing our wounds, to see whose were -the worst, or which were getting well the fastest. The next most serious -trouble connected with going barefoot was the necessity for washing our -feet every night before we went to bed. This seemed a grievous hardship; -sometimes we would forget it, when we could, and I remember now and then -being called up out of bed after I thought I had safely escaped and -seemed to be sound asleep, and when my feet were clean enough without -being washed. - -It seemed to us children that our mother was unreasonably particular -about this matter of washing our feet before we went to bed. She always -required it when we had been barefoot through the day, even though it -had been raining and we had wiped our feet in the grass. Still the -trouble of washing our feet was partly compensated by our not being -obliged to put on or take off our stockings and our boots. This was a -great relief, especially in the morning; for this part of our toilet -took longer than all the rest, and when the time came around to go -barefoot we had only to get up and jump into a few clothes and start -away. - -In the summer-time it took a long while for us children to travel the -short half-mile to the district school. No matter how early we left -home, it was nearly always past the hour of nine when we reached the -door. For there were always birds in the trees and stones in the road, -and no child ever knew any pain except his own. There were little fishes -in the creek over which we slid in winter and through which we always -waded in the summer-time; then there were chipmunks on the fences and -woodchucks in the fields, and no boy could ever manage to go straight to -school, or straight back home after the day was done. The procession of -barefoot urchins laughed and joked, and fought, and ran, and bragged, -and gave no thought to study or to books until the bell was rung and -they were safely seated in the room. Then we watched and waited eagerly -for recess; and after that, still more anxiously for the hour of noon, -which was always the best time by far of all the day, not alone because -of the pie and cake and apples and cheese which the more prudent and -obedient of us saved until this time, but also because of the games, in -which we always had enough boys to go around. - -In these games the girls did not join to any great extent; in fact, -girls seemed of little use to the urchins who claimed everything as -their own. In the school they were always seated by themselves on one -side of the room, and sometimes when we failed to study as we should we -were made to go and sit with them. This was when we were very young. As -we grew older, this form of punishment seemed less and less severe, -until some other was substituted in its stead. Most of the boys were -really rather bashful with the girls,—those who bragged the loudest and -fought the readiest somehow never knew just what to say when they were -near. We preferred rather to sit and look at them, and wonder how they -could be so neat and clean and well “fixed up.” I remember when quite a -small boy how I used to look over toward their side of the room, -especially at a little girl with golden hair that was always hanging in -long curls about her head; and it seemed to me then that nothing could -ever be quite so beautiful as this curly head; which may explain the -fact that all my life nothing has seemed quite so beguiling as golden -hair,—unless it were black, or brown, or some other kind. - -To the boys, school had its chief value, in fact its only value, in its -games and sports. Of course, our parents and teachers were always urging -us to work. In their efforts to make us study, they resorted to every -sort of means—headmarks, presents, praise, flattery, Christmas cards, -staying in at recess, staying after school, corporal punishment, all -sorts of persuasion, threats, and even main force—to accomplish this -result. No like rewards or punishments were required to make us play; -which fact, it seems to me, should have shown our teachers and parents -that play, exercise, activity, and change are the law of life, -especially the life of a little child; and that study, as we knew it, -was unnatural and wrong. Still, nothing of this sort ever dawned upon -their minds. - -I cannot remember much real kindness between the children of the school; -while we had our special chums, we never seemed to care for them, except -that boys did not like to be alone. There were few things a boy could do -alone, excepting tasks, which of course we avoided if we could. On our -way to and from the school, or while together at recess and noon, while -we played the ordinary games a very small matter brought on a quarrel, -and we always seemed to be watching for a chance to fight. In the matter -of our quarrels and fights we showed the greatest impartiality, as boys -do in almost all affairs of life. - -While our books were filled with noble precepts, we never seemed to -remember them when we got out of doors, or even to think that they had -any application to our lives. In this respect the boy and the grown-up -man seem wonderfully alike. - -But really, school was not all play. Our teachers and parents tried -their best to make us learn,—that is, to make us learn the lessons in -the books. The outside lessons we always seemed to get without their -help,—in fact, in spite of their best endeavors to prevent our knowing -what they meant. - -The fact that our teachers tried so hard to make us learn was no doubt -one of the chief reasons why we looked on them as our natural enemies. -We seldom had the same teacher for two terms of school, and we always -wondered whether the new one would be worse or better than the old. We -always started in prepared to find her worse; and the first kind words -we ever had for our teacher were spoken after she was gone and we -compared her with the new one in her place. Our teachers seemed to treat -us pretty well for the first few days. They were then very kind and -sweet; they hardly ever brought switches to the school until the second -week, but we were always sure that they would be called into service -early in the term. No old-time teacher would have dreamed that she could -get through a term of school without a whip, any more than a judge would -believe that society could get along without a jail. The methods that -were used to make us learn, and the things we were taught, seem very -absurd as I look back upon them now; and still, I presume, they were not -different from the means employed to-day. - -Most of us boys could learn arithmetic fairly well,—in this, indeed, we -always beat the girls. Still, some parts of arithmetic were harder than -the rest. I remember that I mastered the multiplication-table up to -“twelve times twelve,” backwards and forwards and every other way, at a -very early age, and I fancy that this knowledge has clung to me through -life; but I cannot forget the many weary hours I spent trying to learn -the tables of weights and measures, and how much vexation of spirit I -endured before my task was done. However, after weary weeks and months I -learned them so well that I could say them with the greatest ease. This -was many, many years ago; since that time I have found my place in the -world of active life, but I cannot now remember that even once have I -had occasion to know or care about the difference between “Troy weight” -and “Apothecaries’ weight,” if, in fact, there was any difference at -all. And one day, last week I think it was, for the first time in all -these endless years I wished to know how many square rods made an acre, -and I tried to call back the table that I learned so long ago at school; -but as to this my mind was an utter blank, and all that I could do was -to see the little girl with the golden locks sitting at her desk—and, by -the way, I wonder where she is to-day. But I took a dictionary from the -shelf, and there I found it plain and straight, and I made no effort to -keep it in my mind, knowing that if perchance in the uncertain years -that may be yet to come I may need to know again, I shall find it there -in the dictionary safe and sound. - -And all those examples that I learned to cipher out! I am sure I know -more to-day than the flaxen-haired barefoot boy who used to sit at his -little desk at school and only drop his nibbled slate-pencil to drive -the flies away from his long bare legs, but I could not do those sums -to-day even if one of my old-time teachers should come back from her -long-forgotten grave and threaten to keep me in for the rest of my life -unless I got the answer right. - -And then the geography! How hard they tried to make us learn this book, -and how many recesses were denied us because we were not sure just which -river in Siberia was the longest! Of course we knew nothing about -Siberia, or whether the rivers ran water or blood; but we were forced to -know which was the largest and just how long it was. And so all over the -great round world we travelled, to find cities, towns, rivers, mountain -ranges, peninsulas, oceans, and bays. How important it all was! I -remember that one of the ways they took to make us learn this book was -to have us sing geography in a chorus of little voices. I can recall -to-day how one of those old tunes began, but I remember little beyond -the start. The song was about the capitals of all the States, and it -began, “State of Maine, Augusta, is on the Kennebec River,” and so on -through the whole thirty-three or four, or whatever the number was when -I was a little child. Well, many, many years have passed away since -then, and I have wandered far and wide from my old-time country home. -There are few places in the United States that I have not seen, in my -quest for activity and change. I have even stood on some of the highest -peaks of the Alps, and looked down upon its quiet valleys and its lovely -lakes; but I have never yet been to Augusta on the Kennebec River in the -State of Maine, and it begins to look as if I never should. Still, if -Fortune ever takes me there, I shall be very glad that I learned when -yet a child at school that Augusta was the capital of Maine and on the -Kennebec River. So, too, I have never been to Siberia, and, not being a -Russian, I presume that I shall never go. And in fact, wherever I have -wandered on the earth I have had to learn my geography all over new -again. - -But, really, grammar made me more trouble than any other study. Somehow -I never could learn grammar, and it always made me angry when I tried. -My parents and teachers told me that I could never write or speak unless -I learned grammar, and so I tried and tried, but even now I can hardly -tell an adverb from an adjective, and I do not know that I care. When a -little boy, I used to think that if I really had anything to tell I -could make myself understood; and I think so still. The longer I live -the surer I am that the chief difficulty of writers and speakers is the -lack of interesting thoughts, and not of proper words. Certainly grammar -was a hideous nightmare to me when a child at school. Of all the parts -of speech the verb was the most impossible to get. I remember now how -difficult it was to conjugate the verb “to love,” which the books seemed -always to put first. How I stumbled and blundered as I tried to learn -that verb! I might possibly have mastered the present tense, but when it -came to all the different moods and various tenses it became a hopeless -task. I am much older now, but somehow that verb has never grown easier -with the fleeting years. The past-perfect tense has always been -well-nigh impossible to learn. I never could tell when it left off, or -whether it ever left off or not. Neither have I been able to keep it -separate from the present, or, for that matter, from the future. A few -years after the district school, I went for a brief time to the Academy -on the hill, where I studied Latin; and I remember that this same verb -was there, with all the old complications and many that were new, to -greet me when I came. To be sure, it had been changed to “Amo, Amas, -Amat,” but it was the old verb just the same, and its various moods and -tenses caused me the same trouble that I had experienced as a little -child. My worry over this word has made me wonder whether this verb, in -all its moods and tenses, was not one of the many causes of the downfall -of the Roman Republic, of which we used to hear so much. At any rate, I -long since ceased trying to get it straight or keep it straight; indeed, -I am quite sure that it was designed only to tangle and ensnare. - - - - - CHAPTER VI - THE SCHOOL READERS - - -If we scholars did not grow up to be exemplary men and women, it surely -was not the fault of our teachers or our parents,—or of the schoolbook -publishers. - -When I look back to those lessons that we learned, I marvel that I ever -wandered from the straight path in the smallest possible degree. Whether -we were learning to read or write, studying grammar or composition, in -whatever book we chanced to take, there was the moral precept plain on -every page. Our many transgressions could have come only from the fact -that we really did not know what these lessons meant; and doubtless our -teachers also never thought they had any sort of relation to our lives. - -How these books were crammed with noble thoughts! In them every virtue -was extolled and every vice condemned. I wonder now how the book -publishers could ever have printed such tales, or how they reconciled -themselves to the hypocrisy they must have felt when they sold the -books. - -This moral instruction concerned certain general themes. First of all, -temperance was the great lesson taught. I well remember that we children -believed that the first taste of liquor was the fatal one; and we never -even considered that one drop could be taken without leading us to -everlasting ruin and despair. There were the alms-house, the jail, and -the penitentiary square, in front of every child who even considered -taking the first drink; while all the rewards of this world and the next -were freely promised to the noble lad who should resist. - -As I look back to-day, it seems as if every moral lesson in the universe -must have grown into my being from those books. How could I have ever -wandered from the narrow path? I look back to those little freckled, -trifling boys and girls, and I hear them read their lessons in their -books so long ago. The stories were all the same, from the beginning to -the end. We began in the primer, and our instruction in reading and good -conduct did not end until the covers of the last book were closed. - -It seems to me to-day that I can hear those little urchins reading about -the idle lazy boy who tried to get the bee and the cow and the horse to -play with him,—though what he wanted of the bee I could never -understand,—but they were all too busy with their work, and so he ran -away from school and had a most miserable day alone. How could we -children ever stay away from school after we had read this lesson? And -yet, I cannot now recall that it made us love our books, or think one -whit less of the free breeze, the waving grass and trees, or the -alluring coaxing sun. - -We were taught by our books that we must on all accounts speak the -truth; that we must learn our lessons; that we must love our parents and -our teachers; must enjoy work; must be generous and kind; must despise -riches; must avoid ambition; and then, if we did all these things, some -fairy godmother would come along at just the darkest hour and give us -everything our hearts desired. Not one story in the book told how any -good could ever come from wilfulness, or selfishness, or greed, or that -any possible evil ever grew from thrift, or diligence, or generosity, or -kindness. And yet, in spite of all these precepts, we were young -savages, always grasping for the best, ever fighting and scheming to get -the advantage of our playmates, our teachers, and our tasks. - -A quarter of a century seems not to have wrought much change; we still -believe in the old moral precepts, and teach them to others, but we -still strive to get the best of everything for ourselves. - -I wonder if the old school-readers have been changed since I was a boy -at school. Are the same lessons there to-day? We were such striking -examples of what the books would not do that one would almost think the -publishers would drop the lessons out. - -I try to recall the feelings of one child who read those stories in the -little white schoolhouse by the country road. What did they mean to me? -Did I laugh at them, as I do to-day? Or did I really think that they -were true, and try and try, and then fail in all I tried, as I do now? I -presume the latter was the case; yet for my life I cannot recall the -thoughts and feelings that these stories brought to me. But I can still -recall the stories. - -I remember, as if it were yesterday, the story about the poor widow of -Pine Cottage, in the winter, with her five ragged children hovering -around her little table. Widows usually had large families then, and -most of their boys were lame. This poor widow had at last reached the -point where starvation faced her little brood. She had tasted no food -for twenty-four hours. Her one small herring was roasting on the dying -coals. The prospect was certainly very dark; but she had faith, and -somehow felt that in the end she would come out all right. A knock is -heard at the back door. A ragged stranger enters and asks for food; the -poor widow looks at her five starving children, and then she gives the -visitor the one last herring; he eats it, and lo and behold! the -stranger is her long-lost son,—probably one that was left over from the -time when she was a widow before. The long-lost son came in this -disguise to find out whether or not his mother really loved him. He was, -in fact, rich; but he had borrowed the rags at the tavern, and had just -arrived from India with a shipload of gold, which he at once divided -among his mother and brothers and sisters. How could any child fail to -be generous after this? And yet I venture to say that if any of us took -a herring to school for dinner the day that we read this story in our -class, we clung to it as tenaciously as a miser to his gold. - -Then there was the widow with her one lame son, who asks the rich -merchant for a little charity. He listens to her pathetic story, and -believes she tells the truth. He asks her how much she needs. She tells -him that five dollars will be enough. He writes a check, and tells her -to go across the street to the bank. She takes it over without reading -it. The banker counts out fifty dollars. She says, “There is a mistake; -I only asked for five dollars.” The banker goes across the street to -find out the truth, and the merchant says: “Yes, there was a mistake, I -should have made it five hundred,”—which he straightway does. Thus -honesty and virtue are rewarded once again. I have lived many years and -travelled in many lands, and have seen more or less of human nature and -of suffering and greed; I have seen many poor widows,—but have never yet -come across the generous merchant. - -There was no end to the good diligent boys and girls of whom the readers -told; they were on every page we turned, and every one of them received -his or her reward and received it right away in cash. There never was -the slightest excuse or need for us to be anything but diligent and -kind,—and still our young hearts were so perverse and hard that we let -the lessons pass unheeded, and clutched at the smallest piece of pie or -cake, or the slightest opportunity to deceive some good kind teacher, -although we must have known that we missed a golden chance to become -President of the United States and have money in the bank besides. - -One story of a contented boy stands out so clearly in my mind that I -could not refrain from hunting up the old schoolbook and reading it once -more. It must have made a wonderful impression on my mind, for there it -is, “The Contented Boy.” I cannot recall that I ever was contented in my -life, and I am sure that I have never seen a boy like this one in the -reader; but it is not possible that I knew my schoolbooks were clumsy, -stupid lies. After all this time there is the story, clear and distinct; -and this is the way it runs: - - THE CONTENTED BOY. - -Mr. Lenox was riding by himself. He got off from his horse to look at -something on the roadside. The horse broke away from him and ran off. -Mr. Lenox ran after him, but could not catch him. - -A little boy at work in a field, near the road, heard the horse. As soon -as he saw him running from his master, the boy ran very quickly to the -middle of the road, and catching the horse by the bridle, stopped him -till Mr. Lenox came up. - -MR. LENOX. Thank you, my good boy. What shall I give you for your -trouble? - -BOY. I want nothing, sir. - -MR. L. You want nothing? Few men can say as much. But what were you -doing in the field? - -BOY. I was rooting up weeds, and tending the sheep that were feeding on -turnips. - -MR. L. Do you like to work? - -BOY. Yes, sir, very well, this fine weather. - -MR. L. But would you not rather play? - -BOY. This is not hard work. It is almost as good as play. - -MR. L. Who set you to work? - -BOY. My father, sir. - -MR. L. What is your name? - -BOY. Peter Hurdle, sir. - -MR. L. How old are you? - -BOY. Eight years old next June. - -MR. L. How long have you been here? - -BOY. Ever since six o’clock this morning. - -MR. L. Are you not hungry? - -BOY. Yes, sir, but I shall go to dinner soon. - -MR. L. If you had a dime now, what would you do with it? - -BOY. I don’t know, sir. I never had so much. - -MR. L. Have you no playthings? - -BOY. Playthings? What are they? - -MR. L. Such things as ninepins, marbles, tops, and wooden horses. - -BOY. No, sir. Tom and I play at football in winter, and I have a -jumping-rope. I had a hoop, but it is broken. - -MR. L. Do you want nothing else? - -BOY. I have hardly time to play with what I have. - -MR. L. You could get apples and cakes if you had money, you know. - -BOY. I can have apples at home. As for cake, I don’t want that. My -mother makes me a pie now and then, which is as good. - -MR. L. Would you not like a knife to cut sticks? - -BOY. I have one. Here it is. Brother Tom gave it to me. - -MR. L. Your shoes are full of holes. Don’t you want a new pair? - -BOY. I have a better pair for Sundays. - -MR. L. But these let in water. - -BOY. I do not mind that, sir. - -MR. L. Your hat is all torn, too. - -BOY. I have a better one at home. - -MR. L. What do you do if you are hungry before it is time to go home? - -BOY. I sometimes eat a raw turnip. - -MR. L. But if there are none? - -BOY. Then I do as well as I can without. I work on and never think of -it. - -MR. L. I am glad to see that you are so contented. Were you ever at -school? - -BOY. No, sir. But father means to send me next winter. - -MR. L. You will want books then. - -BOY. Yes, sir; each boy has a spelling-book, a reader, and a Testament. - -MR. L. Then I will give them to you. Tell your father so, and that it is -because you are an obliging, contented little boy. - -BOY. I will, sir. Thank you. - -MR. L. Good-bye, Peter. - -BOY. Good-morning, sir. - -One other story that has seemed particularly to impress itself upon my -mind was about two boys, one named James and the other named John. I -believe that these were their names, though possibly one was William and -the other Henry. Anyhow, their uncle gave them each a parcel of books. -James took out his pocket-knife and cut the fine whipcord that bound his -package, but John slowly and patiently untied his string and then rolled -it into a nice little ball (the way a nice little boy would do) and -carefully put it in his pocket. Some years after, there was a great -shooting tournament, and James and John were both there with their bows -and arrows; it was late in the game, and so far it was a tie. James -seized his last arrow and bent his bow; the string broke and the prize -was lost. The book does not tell us that in this emergency John offered -his extra piece of whipcord to his brother; instead, the model prudent -brother took up his last arrow, bent his bow, when, lo and behold! his -string broke too; whereupon John reached into his pocket and pulled out -the identical cord that he had untied so long ago, put it on the bow, -and of course won the prize! - -That miserable story must have cost me several years of valuable time, -for ever since I first read it I have always tried to untie every knot -that I could find; and although I have ever carefully tucked away all -sorts of odd strings into my pockets, I never attended a shooting-match -or won a prize in all my life. - -One great beauty of the lessons which our school readers taught was the -directness and certainty and promptness of the payment that came as a -reward of good conduct. Then, too, the recompense was in no way -uncertain or ethereal, but was always paid in cash, or something just as -material and good. Neither was any combination of circumstances too -remote or troublesome or impossible to be brought about. Everything in -the universe seemed always ready to conspire to reward virtue and punish -vice. - -I well remember one story which thus clearly proved that good deeds must -be rewarded, and that however great the trouble the payment would not be -postponed even for a day. - -It seems that a good boy named Henry—I believe the book did not give his -other name—started out one morning to walk about five miles away to do -an errand for his sick father. I think it was his father, though it may -possibly have been his mother or grandmother. Well, Henry had only got -fairly started on his journey when he met a half-starved dog; and -thereupon the boy shared with the dog the dinner that he was carrying in -his little basket. Of course I know now that, however great his -kindness, he could not have relieved the dog unless he had happened to -be carrying his dinner in a little basket; but my childish mind was not -subtle enough to comprehend it then. After relieving the dog, Henry went -on his way with a lighter heart and a lighter basket. Soon he came upon -a sick horse lying upon the ground. Henry feared that if he stayed to -doctor the horse he would not get home until after dark; but this made -no sort of difference to him, so he pulled some grass and took it to the -horse, and then went to the river and got some water in his hat (it must -have been a Panama) and gave this to the horse to drink, and having done -his duty went on his way. He had gone only a short distance farther when -he saw a blind man standing in a pond of water. (How the blind man got -into the pond of water the story does not tell,—the business of the -story was not getting him in but getting him out.) Thereupon little -Henry waded into the pond and led the blind man to the shore. Any other -boy would simply have called out to the man, and let him come ashore -himself. Of course, if Henry had been a bad boy, and his name had been -Tom, he would have been found leading the blind man into the pond -instead of out, and then of course he (Tom) would have taken pneumonia -and died. - -But Henry’s adventures did not end here. He had gone only a little way -farther when he met a poor cripple, who had been fighting in some war -and who was therefore a hero, and this cripple was very hungry. Henry -promptly gave him all the dinner he had saved from his interview with -the dog; and having finished this further act of charity, he at last -hurried on to do his errand. But he had worked so long in the Good -Samaritan business that by the time he started home it began to get -dark. Then, of course, he soon reached a great forest, which added to -his troubles. After wandering about for a long time in the darkness and -the woods, he sat down in hunger and despair. Thereupon his old friend -the dog came into the wood and up to the tree where Henry sat, and he -found that the dog carried some bread and meat nicely pinned up in a -napkin in payment for the breakfast given him in the morning. How the -dog had managed to pin the napkin, the story does not tell. After eating -his supper, Henry got up and wandered farther into the woods. He was -just despairing a second time, when by the light of the moon he saw the -horse that he had fed in the morning. The horse took him on his back and -carried him out of the wood; but the poor boy’s troubles were not yet -done. He was passing along a lane, when two robbers seized him and began -stripping off his clothes; then the dog came up and bit one robber, who -thereupon left Henry and ran after the dog (presumably so that he might -get bitten again), and just then some one shouted from the hedge and -scared the other robber off. Henry looked toward the hedge in the -darkness, and, behold! there was the crippled soldier riding on the back -of the blind man,—and in this way they had all come together to save -Henry and pay him for being such a good little boy. - -When such efforts as these could be put forth for the instant reward of -virtue, where was there a possible inducement left to tempt the most -wayward child to sin? - -Not only good conduct, but religion, was taught to us children in the -same direct and simple way. Nothing seemed to pay better than Sabbath -observance, according to the strict rules that obtained when I was -young. - -I remember the story of a barber who was doing a “thriving business” in -an English city. He was obliged to shave his customers on Sunday morning -(possibly in order that they might look well at church). However, one -Sunday the barber went to church himself; and, as it so happened, the -minister that day preached a sermon about Sabbath observance. This made -so deep an impression on the barber’s mind that he straightway refused -to do any more shaving on Sunday. Thereupon he was obliged to close his -shop in the aristocratic neighborhood where he had lived, and rent a -basement amongst the working people who did not go to church and hence -had no need of a Sunday shave. - -One Saturday night a “pious lawyer” came to town and inquired in great -haste where he could find a barber-shop, and was directed to this -basement for a shave. The “pious lawyer” told the barber that he must -have his work done that night, as he would not be shaved on the Sabbath -day. This at once impressed the barber, who was then so poor that he was -obliged to borrow a halfpenny from his customer for a candle before he -could give him the shave. When the “pious lawyer” learned of the -barber’s straits, and what had been the cause, he was so deeply moved -that he gave him a half-crown, and asked his name. The barber promptly -answered that it was William Reed. At this the lawyer opened his -eyes,—doubtless through professional instinct,—and asked from what part -of the country the barber had come. When he answered, from Kingston, -near Taunton, the lawyer’s eyes were opened wider still. Then he asked -the name of the barber’s father, and if he had other relatives. The -barber told his father’s name, and said that he once had an “Uncle -James,” who had gone to India many years before and had not been heard -from since. Then the “pious lawyer” answered: “If this is true, I have -glorious news for you. Your uncle is dead, and he has left a fortune -which comes to you.” It is needless to add that the barber got the -money,—and of course the death of the uncle and the good luck of the -nephew were entirely due to the fact that the barber would not shave a -customer on the Sabbath day. - -Well, those were marvellous tales on which our young minds fed. I wonder -now which is the more real,—the world outside as it seemed to us in our -young school-days, or that same enchanted land our childhood knew, as we -look back upon the scene through the gathering haze that the fleeting -years have left before our eyes! - - - - - CHAPTER VII - THE LAST DAY OF SCHOOL - - -School had at least two days that made us as happy as children could -well be. One was the first day of the term, and the other was the last. -Anxious days and weeks and much nervous expectation led up to the first -day of school; we wondered what our teacher would be like, and eagerly -picked up and told and retold all the gossip that floated from her last -place as to her good points and her bad,—especially her bad. Then there -was always the question as to what pupils would be at school; what new -faces we should see and what old ones would be gone, and whether or not -we should like the new ones better than the old. Our minds were firmly -made up on this point before we went to school, and no possible -circumstance could make us change the opinion, or rather the -determination, we had formed. Then we speculated and negotiated as to -who should be our seat-mate for the term, or until we fought. There was -always the question of studies and classes, and whether the new teacher -would let us begin where the old left off, or whether we should have to -commence the book over again. We almost always began again, and thus the -first parts of our books were badly worn and thumbed, while the pages in -the back were fresh and new. - -We looked forward to the last day with all the expectancy of the first. -Long before this the work began to drag; the novelty had all worn off, -and our life was a constant battle with the teacher to see how much we -need not do. As the last day drew near, our minds were filled with -visions of how easy life would be when there was no school, and of the -pleasure the summer held in store for us. On the last day we had no -lessons to recite, and in the afternoon our parents were invited in, and -we spoke pieces and read essays,—that is, the boys generally spoke the -pieces and the girls read the essays. Somehow a boy never could write an -essay, and even if he could manage to write one it would be beneath his -dignity to stand up on the platform and read from little sheets of -notepaper tied with red or blue ribbon. But this task seemed especially -to fit the girls. In the first place, they could write better than the -boys,—letters or essays or anything of the kind. In the next place, they -could not be thought of as standing bolt upright and facing the whole -school, visitors and all; they were too shy to stand out alone with -nothing in their hands to hide their faces. So the girls read essays on -Success, and Work, and Truthfulness, and Spring, and things like that, -while the boys spoke pieces. Sometimes we were afraid, but after a -little practice we promptly answered to our names, and went on the -platform and spoke with the greatest assurance, holding our heads up and -making the gestures according to printed forms laid down in the books. - -I fancy that none of us ever really understood anything about the pieces -that we spoke. I remember in a general way that they were mainly of our -country, and brave boys fighting and winning victories and dying, and -about the evils and dangers of strong drink. We had a great many pieces -about intemperance, ambition, and the like. I especially remember one -boy, with red hair and freckles and a short neck and large warts on his -hands, who used always to speak a piece entitled “How have the Mighty -Fallen.” I don’t know who wrote it, or where it came from, or what has -become of it; but I remember the piece almost as well as if I heard it -yesterday. This boy was the prize speaker of the school, and the piece -told about Alexander and Cæsar and Napoleon, and how and why they -failed. Their lack of success was due to ambition and strong drink. I -know this piece made a deep impression on my mind, and I always vowed -that I never would fail as Alexander and Cæsar and Napoleon had -done,—and I never have. I remember that once my father came to school on -the last day, in the afternoon, to hear us speak; and when I got home at -night he told me that the boy who spoke the piece about How the Mighty -had Fallen had all the elements of an orator, and he predicted that some -day he would make his mark in the world. I felt that I would have given -everything I possessed if only my father had said that about me. I know -that in my tactful way I led up again and again to the piece that I had -spoken, but about this my father said not a single word. - -How I envied that red-headed lad, and how I wondered if there really was -any chance that I might come out as well as he! For some years my -remembrance of this youth had passed away, until the last time I went -back home. Then, as I drove past his house with never a thought of my -old-time friend, I looked over into the weed-covered yard,—perhaps it -was weedy before, but I did not so remember it,—and there I saw a man -with a hoe in his hand cleaning out a drain that ran from the cellar to -the ditch in front of the house. I looked closely at him, and I never in -the world should have known him; but he came down to the fence, and -leaned on his hoe, and hailed me as I passed. No doubt he had heard that -I had come to town. Then I remembered the piece about How the Mighty had -Fallen, and the little red-headed boy at school; but this boy’s hair was -white, he was bent, and his clothes were about the color of his hair and -hands and face in those far-off years when he spoke the piece. I was -shocked, but I tried not to let him know it. I asked him how he was, and -how he was getting along; and he told me he was very well, and was doing -first-rate. And then I thought of my poor father, who said that he had -all the elements of an orator and would make his mark some day. Well, -perhaps he had made his mark, even though he was cleaning out a -cellar-drain,—and, after all, this is better work than making speeches, -however fine. - -To go back to the last day of school. I remember one piece that we used -to speak, about Marco Bozzaris, and how he got into a fight with some -Turks; and first he was killed, and then he killed the Turks, as it -seemed to me. I had no idea who the Turks were, or why Marco Bozzaris -was fighting them, or what it was all about; but I seemed to think there -were certain parts of the piece that should be spoken in a loud voice, -and certain others that should be said very softly. The book I learned -it from had characters or figures that told us when we should speak -softly and when we should speak loudly, and we always followed the -instructions of the book. If it had told us to speak loudly when it said -softly, and softly instead of loudly, we would have done it that way -without a thought that it could make any difference with the piece. I -have no doubt that if I should read “Marco Bozzaris” to-day I should -read it loudly and softly in just the same places that I did at school, -without any more regard for what it meant than I had then. - -But there was one piece that I always thought especially fine. It was -about Casabianca. The name now sounds to me like a Spanish name, but I -am sure I had no thought then of what it was. It might have been a -Swedish or an Irish name, for all I knew. I remember that this -Casabianca was a lad about my own age, and somehow he was on a ship in a -battle, and his father was with him. His father was called away on some -important matter, and told Casabianca to stand right there on a certain -spot and wait until he got back. Something must have detained him,—as I -recall it, he was killed, or something of that kind,—at any rate, he did -not get back, and it grew dark, and Casabianca began to cry. Pretty -soon, to make matters worse, a fire broke out on board the ship, and the -smoke began to smother him and the flames to roll around him. The other -people on the ship ran to the shore, and they called to him to run too, -and the gang-plank had not been taken in or burned, and he had lots of -time to get away; but no, his father had gone off, and had told -Casabianca to wait until he returned, and he proposed to wait. So he -called wildly for his father a great many times; but his father did not -come. Still the boy stood fast, and the flames crept slowly up until he -was burned to cinders at his post. - -This was a very exciting story, and we used to speak it with voices loud -and soft, and with gestures that looked like rolling fire and smoke. I -did not really know then, but I know now, that this piece was written by -somebody who fancied himself or herself a poet, and that it was written -to teach a moral lesson. I remember that the last line read: “But the -noblest thing that perished there was that young and faithful heart.” -From this I am sure that the lesson meant to be taught was the great -virtue of obeying your parents. - -I cannot recall that I ever heard any of our teachers say a word about -this poem, so I infer that they must have approved its sentiments. Of -course I am old enough now to know that a boy who would stick to a -burning ship like that might just as well get burned up and be done with -it at once. But I cannot exactly make up my mind what punishment should -be given to the poet or the book-publisher or the teacher who allowed -this sort of heroics to be given to a child. - -In our pieces and in our lessons a great deal was said about the duties -that children owe their parents, a great deal about how much our parents -had done for us, and how kind and obedient we should be to them. But I -cannot recall that there was a single line about the duties that parents -owe to children, and how much they should do for the child who had -nothing to say about his own entrance into the world. It is true that -these books were written for children, but just as true that the -children were to become parents, and that most of them would get little -instruction beyond the district school. Which fact may to some extent -account for the great number of bad and foolish parents in the world. - -Many of these pieces told how much we owed the country, and of our duty -to live for it and fight for it, and if need be to die for it. I cannot -recall that a single one ever told of any duty the country owed to us, -or anything that should be given in return for our service and our -lives. All of which shows what a great handicap we children suffered by -being obliged to go to school. - -After the last piece had been spoken, the teacher put on her most -serious face (she always had a variety of faces to put on) and told us -how she loved us all,—although she had never said a word of this sort -before,—how good and faithful and studious we had been; she told us how -kind our parents were to let us go to school, how sad she felt at the -final parting, and how impossible it was that the little group could -ever be gathered together again this side of heaven, which she trusted -all of us would some day reach, so that she might meet us once again. At -this we began to regret that we had not treated her better and been more -obedient to her rules. Then we felt sad, and drew our coat-sleeves -across our eyes, and wished that she would stop talking and let us go -out. Finally she spoke the last words and dismissed the school, and our -days of captivity were done. Each child snatched his carefully packed -books and slate, and with shouts and laughter rushed through the -schoolhouse door into the free open world outside. - - - - - CHAPTER VIII - FARMINGTON - - -Our house stood a short distance beyond the town, and on the other side -of the creek that ran my father’s mill. This little stream came down out -of the hills from somewhere a long way off, and emptied into the river -that wound through the long valley beside the road, flowing from no man -knew where. I must have been nine or ten years old before I was allowed -to go to the mouth of the stream and watch it join the river and run off -between the high hills beyond the town into the great unknown world. -Many years before, I had heard that there was such a place, but I was -not allowed to go; it was so far away, and the dangers were supposed to -be so very great,—though why, I cannot say, any more than I can give a -reason for other things that we boys believed, or, for that matter, that -we grown-up folk believe. - -But I used to go quite early across the creek to the little town; at -first holding my father or mother tightly by the hand, or, rather, -having my hand held close by theirs. There were many wonders on the way: -first, the old wooden bridge that used often to be carried off in the -spring, when heavy rains and melting snow and ice came down the stream. -But this bridge was nothing compared with the long covered one below the -town, that I found some years later, when I had grown large enough to -fish and was ashamed to hold my father and my mother by the hand. - -Just across the stream was the blacksmith-shop into which I used to look -with wondering eyes. I can see now the white-hot iron as the old -bare-armed smith pulled it from the coals and threw the sparks in all -directions, frightening me almost beyond my wits; still, I would always -go back to the open door to be scared again. Especially in the early -dusk, this old blacksmith-shop, with its great bellows and anvil and -hammers, and its flying sparks and roaring fire lighting up the room and -throwing dark shadows in the corners and around the edges, was a -constant source of wonder and delight; and I used to beg my good father -to throw away my stupid books and apprentice me to learn the blacksmith -trade. But he steadfastly refused my prayers and tears, and told me that -I would live to thank him for denying this first ambition of my life. -Well, I did not learn the trade, and in a halting way I have followed -the path into which the kind old miller guided my young reluctant feet. -Still, I am not yet sure that he was right; for all my life, when I am -honest with myself, I cannot help the thought that I have been a good -deal of a blacksmith, after all. - -Just beyond was the wagon-shop, where they made such nice long shavings, -and where we used to go and play “I spy,” or “High spy,” as we boys -called the game. The benches, wagons, and piles of lumber, and the -garret overhead, furnished the best possible places for us to hide. - -Then came the shoe-shop, where my father took us to get our winter -boots, which he paid for by trading flour saved up from his tolls. This -shop was a large affair, with three or four men and boys working -steadily in the busy season of the year. Two or three checkerboards, -too, were constantly in use, especially in the long winter evenings, and -every man in the room would tell the player where he ought to move, or -rather where he should have moved in order to win the game. - -The old shoe-shop was a great place to discuss the questions of the day; -it was even more popular than the store. Politics and religion were the -favorite topics then, as they are to-day,—as they have ever been since -the world began, and will ever be while the world shall last; for one of -them has to do with the brief transitory life of man upon the earth, and -the other with his everlasting hopes and doubts, desires and fears for -another life when this is done. Besides politics and religion, men and -women were discussed,—all the men and women for miles around who were -not there; these critics debated about the skill of the blacksmith and -the carriage-maker, the thrift of the merchant and the farmer, and the -learning of the preachers and the doctors. This last topic was a -never-ending subject for debate, as there were two of each. I do not -remember what they said about the preachers, but I know that when any -doctor was discussed his disciples stoutly claimed that he was the best -in the whole country round, while his enemies agreed that they would not -let him “doctor a sick cat.” As I recall those little groups, their -opinions on men and women almost always seemed unfavorable and hard, -like most of the personal discussions that I have ever heard. After much -reflection I have reached the conclusion that all people are envious to -a greater or a less degree, and of course each one’s goodness and -importance increase in proportion as those of others are made to grow -less. - -The last time I went back along the road, I found that the wagon-shop -and the shoe-shop had long since closed their doors. Cincinnati buggies -and Studebaker wagons had driven away the last board of the old -lumber-piles around which we children used to play; and New England -shoe-factories had utterly destroyed the old forum where were discussed -the mysteries of life and death. Even the customs of the simple country -folks had changed, for I observed that the boys wore shoes instead of -boots; but in those days all the girls wore shoes, and now they were -wearing boots. The blacksmith-shop still stood beside the road, but the -old smith had gone away, and his son was now hammering stoutly at the -same piece of white-hot iron that his father pulled out of the red coals -so long ago; but the little boy who once looked in with wondering eyes -at the open door,—it seemed as if he too were dead and buried forever -behind a great mass of shifting clouds heaped so thick and high as to -make nothing but a dream of those far-off childhood years. - -I had almost forgotten to tell the name of my boyhood town. It was -Farmington; and I feel that I ought to write it down in this book, so -that the world may know exactly where it is, for I am sure it was never -in a book before, excepting a county atlas that once printed pictures -and biographies of all the leading citizens of the place. I remember -that the agent came to see my father, and told him what a beautiful -picture the mill would make, and how anxious he was to have his portrait -and history in the book. I really believe my father would have given his -consent but for the reason that the season had been dry and he did not -dare to sign a note. Poor man! I almost wish he had consented, for even -if the book had never been seen by any but the simple country folk who -paid for their glory, as we all must do in some way, still my father -could have read his own biography, and looked at the picture of himself -and his famous mill. And really this is about the only reason that any -of us write books, if the truth were known. - -Beyond the shop the road ran into a great common which we called a -square. This really was a wonderful affair,—about the size of Rhode -Island, as it seemed to us. Here we boys often gathered on Saturday -afternoons, and, when I grew older, on the few nights that my father was -away from home, or on some special occasion when I prevailed on him to -let me go there and play. - -On one side of the square was the country store,—a mammoth -establishment, kept by a very rich man, who had everything that was ever -heard of on his shelves. I used to marvel how he could possibly think to -buy all the things that he had to sell. Across the road from the store -was the country tavern, and alongside it was a long low barn with a big -shed at the end. A fierce dog was kept chained inside the barn. We -hardly dared to look into the tavern door, for we had all heard that it -was a very wicked place. It was said that down in the cellar, in some -secret corner, was a barrel of whiskey; and the tavern-keeper had once -been sent for three months to the county jail, when some good people had -gone in, one winter night, and told him that they were very cold, and -asked him to sell them some whiskey to keep them warm. At any rate, our -people would never let us go near the door. I used to wonder what kind -of things they had to eat in the tavern. It was the only place I ever -heard of where they charged anything for dinner or supper, and I thought -the meals must be wonderful indeed, and I always hoped that some day I -might have a chance to go there and eat. - -On another side of the common was Squire Allen’s place. This was a great -white house, altogether the grandest in the town,—or in the world, for -that matter, so we children believed. It was set back from the road, in -the midst of a grove of trees, and there was a big gate where carriages -could drive into the front yard along the curving roadway and up to the -large front door. Beneath the overhanging porch were four or five great -square white pillars, and the door had a large brass knocker, and there -were big square stone steps that came down to the road. Back of the -house were a barn and a carriage-house, the latter the only building of -the kind in Farmington. - -Squire Allen was a tall man with white hair and a clean-shaven face. He -carried a gold-headed cane, and when you met him on the street he never -looked to the right or left. Everyone knew he was the greatest man in -the place,—in fact, the greatest man in all the world. He had a large -carriage, with two seats and big wheels and a top, and two horses; and -he was nearly always riding in the carriage. I do not remember much -about his family; I know that he had a little boy, but I was not -acquainted with him, although I knew all the rest of the little boys in -town. I would often see the Squire and his whole family out driving in -their great carriage. I remember standing on the little bridge and -looking down at the fishes in the brook; and I hear the rumble of wheels -coming down the hill. I glance up, and there comes Squire Allen; his -little boy is sitting on the front seat with him, and on the back seat -are some ladies that I do not know. They drive down the hill, the old -Squire looking neither to the right nor left. I am afraid of being run -over, and I go as near the edge of the bridge as I dare, to escape the -great rolling wheels. The little boy peers out at me as the carriage -passes by, as if he wondered who could dare stand in the road when his -father drove that way; but neither the Squire nor the ladies ever knew -that I was there. - -A few months ago, this same little boy called on me at my office in the -city. He, like myself, had wandered far and wide since he passed me on -the bridge. He came to ask me to help him get a job. Somehow, as I saw -him then, and recalled the arrogance and pride that old Squire Allen and -his family always had, I am afraid I almost felt glad that he had been -obliged to come, I am almost sure I felt that at last fortune was making -things right and even. I cannot find in my philosophy any good reason -why the scheme is any more just if he was rich and I was poor when we -were young, and I am rich and he is poor when we are growing old,—but -still I believe I felt this way. - -Old Squire Allen has been dead for a quarter of a century and more. Last -summer, when I visited the old Pennsylvania town, I went to the little -burying-ground, and inside the yard I found an iron picket fence, and in -this enclosure a monument taller than any other in the yard, and on this -stone I read Squire Allen’s name. Poor old man! It is many years since -the worms ate up the last morsel of the old man that even a worm could -find fit to eat, but still even after death and decay he lies there -solitary and exclusive, the most commanding and imposing of all the -names that seek immortality in the carved letters of the granite stones. -Well, I am not sure but sometime I shall go back to Farmington and put -up a monument higher than Allen’s, and have “Smith” carved on the base; -and then I suppose it will be easier to go down under it to rest. - -But it is only when I am especially envious that I have such thoughts as -these. I was yet a little boy in Farmington when they placed the old -Squire inside the burying-ground. What a day was that! The store was -closed; the tavern door was shut; the old water-wheel stood still; all -Farmington turned out in sad procession to follow the great man to his -grave. The hawks and crows flying high above the town must have looked -down and thought we mourned a king. At least no such royal funeral was -ever seen in all those parts before or since. The burial of old Squire -Allen was as like to that of Julius Cæsar as Farmington was like to -Rome. So, after all, it would be very mean for me to buy a monument -higher than his, just because I can; so I will leave him the undisputed -monarch of the place, and will get for myself one of the small black -oval-cornered slabs that we boys passed by with such contempt when we -rambled through the yard to pick out the finest stones. - - - - - CHAPTER IX - THE CHURCH - - -Farmington was a very godly place; so, at least, her people thought. -Among the many well-known attractions of the town, its religious -privileges stood easily at the head. A little way up the hill, on a -level piece of ground, the early settlers long ago had built a great -white church. The congregation professed the United Presbyterian faith; -and this was the state religion, not only of Farmington but of all the -country around. The church itself was a wonder to behold. It seemed to -us children to have been built to accommodate all the people in the -world and then have room to spare. No other building we had ever seen -could be compared in size with this great white church. And when we read -of vast cathedrals and other wonderful buildings, we always thought of -the United Presbyterian church, and had no idea that they were half so -grand. - -The main part of the building was very long and wide, and the ceiling -very high; but more marvellous still was the great square belfry in the -front. None of us boys ever knew how high it was; we always insisted -that it was really higher than it seemed, and we were in the habit of -comparing it with all the tall objects we had ever seen or of which we -had heard or read. It was surely higher than our flag-pole or our -tallest tree, higher than Niagara Falls or Bunker Hill Monument; and we -scarcely believed that anyone had ever climbed to its dizzy top, -although there was a little platform with a wooden railing round it -almost at its highest point. We had heard that inside the belfry was an -endless series of stairs, and that the sexton sometimes went to the top, -when a new rope was to be fastened to the bell; but none of us had so -much as looked up through the closed trap-door which kept even the most -venturesome from the tower. - -The church stood out in plain view from every portion of the town; and -for a long distance up and down the valley road, and over beyond the -creek on the farther hill it loomed majestic and white,—a constant -reminder to the people who lived round about that, however important the -other affairs of life, their church and their religion were more vital -still. - -I never heard when the church was built. As well might we have asked -when the town was settled, or when the country road came winding down, -or even when the river began flowing between the high green hills. If -any one object more than another was Farmington, surely it was the great -white church. - -I am certain that the people of the town, and, in fact, of all the -country round, had no thought that religion was anything more or less, -or anything whatever, than communion with the church. - -High up in the belfry swung a monstrous bell. None of us had seen it, -but we knew it was there, for every Sunday its deep religious tones -floated over the valley and up the hills, breaking the stillness of the -Sabbath day. Sometimes, when we were a little early at church, at the -ringing of the bell we would look up to the tower and fancy that through -the open slats of the belfry we could see some great object swinging -back and forth; and then, too, all of us had seen the end of a rope in a -little room back of the organ on the second floor, and we had been told -that the other end was fastened to the great bell away up in the high -tower, and we used to wonder and speculate as to how strong the sexton -must be to pull the rope that swung the mighty bell. - -Every Sabbath morning the procession of farmers’ wagons drove by our -home on their way to church, and we learned to know the color of the -horses, the size of the wagons and carriages, and the number of members -in each family, in this weekly throng; we even knew what time to expect -the several devotees, and who came first and who came last, and we -assumed that those who passed earliest were the most religious and -devout. These Sabbath pilgrims were dressed in their best clothes, and -looked serious and sad, as became communicants of the church. The pace -at which they drove, their manner of dress, cast of countenance, and -silent and stolid demeanor were in marked contrast to their appearance -on any other days. - -The Sabbath, the church, and religion were serious and solemn matters to -the band of pilgrims who every Sunday drove up the hill. All our -neighbors and acquaintances were members of the United Presbyterian -church, and to them their religion seemed a very gloomy thing. Their -Sabbath began at sun-down on Saturday and lasted until Monday morning, -and the gloom seemed to grow and deepen on their faces as the light -faded into twilight and the darkness of the evening came. - -My parents were not members of the church; in fact, they had little -belief in some of its chief articles of faith. In his youth my father -was ambitious to be a minister, for all his life he was bent on doing -good and helping his fellowman; but he passed so rapidly through all the -phases of religious faith, from Methodism through Congregationalism and -Universalism to Unitarianism and beyond, that he never had time to stop -long enough at any one resting spot to get ordained to preach. - -My father seldom went to church on Sunday. He was almost the only man in -town who stayed away, excepting a very few who were considered worthless -and who managed to steal off with dog and gun to the woods and hills. -But Sunday was a precious day to my father. Even if the little creek had -been swollen by recent rains, and the water ran wastefully over the big -dam and off on its long journey through the hills, still my father never -ran his mill on Sunday. I fancy that if he had wished to do so the -people would not have permitted him to save the wasted power. But all -through the week my father must have looked forward to Sunday, for on -that day he was not obliged to work, and was free to revel in his books. -As soon as breakfast was over he went to his little room, and was soon -lost to the living world. I have always been thankful that the religion -and customs of the community rescued this one day from the tiresome -monotony of his life. All day Sunday, and far into the night, he lived -with those rare souls who had left the records of their lives and -spirits for the endless procession of men and women who come and go upon -the earth. - -Both my father and my mother thought it best that we children go to -church. So, however much we protested (as natural children always -protest), we were obliged to go up the hill with the moving throng to -the great white church. - -In another part of the town, in an out-of-the-way place, was the -unpretentious little Methodist church. It stood at the edge of the -woods, almost lost in their shadow, and seemed to shrink from sight, as -if it had no right to stand in the presence of the mighty building on -the hill. We never went to this church, except to revivals, and we never -understood how it was kept up, as its members were very poor. The -shoemaker and a few other rather unimportant people seemed to be its -only devotees. The Methodist preacher did not live in Farmington when I -first knew the town, but used to drive in from an adjoining village in -the afternoon, and preach the same sermon he had delivered in his home -town in the morning, and then go on to the next village and preach it -once more in the evening. Some years later, after a wonderful revival in -which almost all outsiders except our family were converted to -Methodism, this church became so strong that it was able to buy a piece -of ground in the village and put up a new building with a high steeple, -though it was nothing like as grand as the old white church on the hill. -After this the Methodist preacher came to Farmington to live. - -But although we were not United Presbyterians, we children went -regularly to this church because we had to go. The old bell that rang -out so long on Sunday mornings always had a doleful sound to us, and -altogether Sunday was a sore cross to our young lives. - -There were many substantial reasons why we did not like the Sabbath day. -Games of all kinds were prohibited; and although we managed sometimes to -steal away to play, still we had no sooner begun a game than someone -came along and made us stop. It made no difference who chanced to -come,—anyone had the right to stop our playing on the Sabbath day. Then, -too, on Sunday we must dress up. This was no small affair, for if we put -on our best clothes and our stockings and boots when we first got up we -were obliged to wear them nearly the whole day; whereas if we had on our -comfortable everyday clothes in the morning, we must change them in an -hour or less, so as to get ready for church. Even if we put on our best -clothes and went barefoot until the first bell rang, then we were -obliged to wash our feet,—for our mother would not let us put on our -stockings except in the early morning unless we first washed our feet. -Then, after church was out and we had eaten dinner, we either had to -wear our best clothes the rest of the day, or change them all; and then -it was only a little while until bedtime, and we could not play even if -we did change our clothes. If we just pulled off our boots and went -barefoot the rest of the day, then we must wash our feet at night. -Childhood was not all joy: it had its special sorrows, which grew less -as years crept on, and one of the chief of these burdens, as I recall -them, was the frequency with which we had to wash our feet. - -But more burdensome if possible than this was the general “cleaning” on -Sunday mornings. On week-days we almost always washed our faces and our -hands each day, but as a rule this duty was left largely to ourselves, -with a scolding now and then as a safeguard to its performance. Often, -of course, we passed such a poor inspection at mealtimes that we were -sent from the table to wash again. Still, for the most part we knew how -much was absolutely required, and we managed to keep just inside the -line. But on Sundays all was changed. Then our words and good intentions -went for naught. We were not even allowed to wash ourselves. Our mother -always took us in hand, and the water must be warm, and she must use -soap and a rag, and we had to keep our eyes shut tight while she was -rubbing the soapy rag all over our faces,—and she never hurried in the -least. We might have stood the washing of hands and faces, but it did -not end here. Every Sunday morning our mother washed our necks and ears; -and no boy could ever see the use of this. Nothing roused our righteous -indignation quite so much as the forced washing of our necks. The -occasion, too, was really less on Sunday than on any other day, because -then we always wore some sort of stiff collar around our necks. Neither -was it enough to wash our hands; our sleeves must be pushed up nearly to -our elbows, and our arms scrubbed as carefully as if they too were going -to show. Even if we had been in swimming on Saturday night, and had -taken soap and towels to the creek, and had been laughed at by the other -boys for our pains, still we must be washed just the same on Sunday -morning before we went to church. In the matter of Sunday washing our -mother seemed never to have the slightest confidence in anything we said -or did. There were no bathtubs in Farmington,—at least none that I ever -heard of; so we boys had something to be thankful for, although we did -not know it then. To be sure, we were often put into a common washtub on -Saturday night or Sunday morning, but sometimes swimming was accepted in -lieu of this. - -When we were thoroughly cleaned, and dressed in our newest and most -uncomfortable clothes, with stiff heavy boots upon our captive feet, our -mother took us to the church. We were led conspicuously up the aisle, -between the rows of high pews, set down on a hard wooden seat, the door -of the pew fastened with a little hook to keep us safely in, and then -the real misery began. The smallest of us could not see over the high -pew in front, but we scarcely dared to play, except perhaps to get a -piece of string out of our pockets, or to exchange marbles or -jack-knives or memory-buttons, or something of the sort, and then we -generally managed to get into some trouble and run the risk of bringing -our mother into disgrace. In the pew in front of us there usually sat -the little girl with the golden curls,—or was it the one with the black -hair? I am not sure which it was, but it was one of these, and I managed -sometimes to whisper to her over the pew, until my mother or hers -stopped the game. I somehow got along better with her on Sunday than at -any other time,—perhaps because neither of us had then anything better -to do than to watch each other. - -I could not understand then, nor do I to-day, why we were made to go to -church; surely our good parents did not know how we suffered, or they -would not have been so cruel and unkind. I remember that the services -began with singing by the choir in the gallery, and I sometimes used to -turn around and look up to see the singers and the organ; and I remember -especially a boy who used to sway back and forth, sideways, to pump the -organ. I had an idea that he must be a remarkable lad, and endowed with -some religious gifts, second only to the preacher. After the first song -came the first prayer, which was not very short, but still nothing at -all to the one yet in store. Then came more singing, and then the long -prayer. My! what agony it was! I remember particularly the old preacher -as he stood during those everlasting prayers. I can see him now,—tall -and spare and straight, his white face encircled with a fringe of white -whiskers. I always thought him very old, and supposed that he came there -with the church, and was altogether different from other men. As he -prayed, he clasped his hands on the great Bible that lay upon the altar, -and kept his eyes closed and his face turned steadily toward the -ceiling. He spoke slowly and in a moderate tone of voice, and in the -most solemn way. I never could understand how he kept his eyes closed -and his sad face turned upward for so long a time, excepting that he had -a special superhuman power. - -I could not have sat through that prayer, but for the fact that I -learned to find landmarks as he went along. At a certain point I knew it -was well under way; at another point it was about half done; and when he -began asking for guidance and protection for the President of the United -States, it was three-quarters over, and I felt like a shipwrecked -mariner sighting land. But even the longest prayers have an end, and -when this was through we were glad to stand up while they sang once -more. Then came the sermon, which was longer yet; but we did not feel -that we must sit quite so still as during the long prayer. First and -last I must have heard an endless number of the good old parson’s -sermons read in his solemn voice; but I cannot now remember a single -word of anyone I heard. After the sermon came singing and a short -prayer,—any prayer was short after what we had passed through,—then more -singing, and the final benediction, which to us children was always a -benediction of the most welcome kind. - - - - - CHAPTER X - THE SUNDAY-SCHOOL - - -When the church services were ended, we children stayed for -Sunday-school. There was never anything especially alluring in -Sunday-school; still it was far better than the church. At least ten or -twelve of us boys could sit together in a great high pew, and no one -could keep us from whispering and laughing and telling jokes. Even the -teachers seemed to realize what we had been through, and were disposed -to allow us a fair amount of liberty in Sunday-school. - -The superintendent was a young man named Henry Pitkin. He was a few -years older than the boys. I cannot now remember what he did on -week-days; we never thought of him as working, or wearing old clothes, -or doing anything except being superintendent of the Sunday-school. I -presume he is dead, poor fellow, for I know he was always sickly,—at -least, that is what we boys thought. I believe he was threatened with -consumption, and I heard people speak of him with pity and say what a -nice young man he was. I never knew him to take part in our games, or to -go swimming or fishing, or anything of that kind. I cannot remember that -he was cross or unkind, or what we boys called mean; but still I know we -never talked so loud, and were always a little more particular, and -sometimes stopped our games, when he came along the road. I am sure we -felt sorry for him, and thought he never had any fun. He was always -dressed up, even when it was not Sunday; and he never went barefooted, -or shouted, or made any kind of jokes. I know that I often saw him go up -to the church, to the Thursday evening prayer-meetings, in the -summer-time. He would walk past us while we were playing ball on the -square in the long twilight. None of us could understand why he went to -prayer-meeting on Thursday night. None of us really knew what -prayer-meeting was. We never had to go to church any day but Sunday, and -although our curiosity was strong it never led us to go to the Thursday -evening prayer-meeting. Everybody who went seemed awfully old, except -Henry, and we never understood how he could go. Sometimes we met him -going to the preacher’s for an evening visit, and this seemed still -stranger. None of us boys ever went for an evening visit anywhere; and -if we had gone we never would have thought of going to the -preacher’s,—he was so old and solemn, and we were sure that if we ever -went there he would talk to us about religion. - -Our fathers and mothers and the grown-up people were always telling us -what a good boy Henry was, and asking us why we didn’t do things the way -he did. Of course, we couldn’t do as he did, no matter how hard we -tried. - -In the Sunday-school Henry always told us what to sing; he would talk to -us softly and quietly, and he never scolded the least bit. He always -asked us to be good, and told us how much happier we would be if we -learned lots of verses, and never called bad names, or fought, and -always tried to do right. Henry told us all about the lesson papers, and -seemed to know everything there was in the Bible, and all about Damascus -and Jericho and those foreign cities that are in the Bible. Then he used -to give out the Sunday-school books. We usually took one of these home -with us, but we never cared much about them. The stories were all rather -silly, and didn’t amount to much. - -We boys used to argue about what a superintendent was, and just how high -an office Henry had. We all knew that it was not so high as the -preacher’s, but we thought it was next to his, and some said it was -below a deacon. Some of us thought that Henry was elected by the -Sunday-school teachers, and some thought his office was higher than -theirs and that he could turn them off whenever he had a mind to. - -When the Sunday-school began, Henry would make us a little speech, -telling us something about the lesson-papers, and sometimes telling us a -story that he said came out of the Bible; and then he would have one of -the boys pass around the singing-books, and tell us what piece to sing. -The boys and girls rather liked the singing. With the boys the singing -partook largely of the nature of physical exercise. - -We used to stand up and sing together in a chorus, or as nearly in -harmony as the superintendent and the organ could possibly keep us. -True, the songs were not of a humorous or even cheerful nature; but then -we really had no idea of what they meant, if indeed the teachers or the -authors had, and we sang them with the same zest and vigor that we would -have given to any other words. I especially remember one song that we -sang pretty well, and very loud and earnestly; not with the least bit of -sadness or even solemnity, but with great energy and zeal. It began with -the lines, “I want to be an angel, and with the angels stand.” Now, of -course, there was not a boy or girl in the school who wanted to be an -angel; neither did the teachers or the superintendent, or even the -parson. In fact, this was the last thing that any of us wanted; but we -fairly shouted our desire to be an angel in a strong chorus of anything -but angelic voices. I presume children sing that same song to-day in -Sunday-school, and sing it without any more thought of its meaning than -the little freckle-faced boys and girls who used to gather each Sunday -in the old white church and fidget and fuss over their new stiff clothes -and their hard and pinching boots. - -Besides the singing, the chief work of the Sunday-school teachers was to -have us learn verses from the Testament. Of course, none of us had any -idea what these verses meant, or why we were to learn them, or what we -were to do with them after they were learned. In a general way, we all -knew that the Testament was a sacred volume, and not to be read or -studied or looked at like any other book; and certainly the lives and -characters of which it told were in no way human, but seemed hazy, -nebulous, and far away. - -I cannot recall all the means that were taken to make us learn those -verses. Of course there was no whipping in the Sunday-school as there -was in the district school, and the inducements given us were of a -somewhat higher kind. I especially remember that for every certain -number of dozen verses we learned we were given a red card; this card -had a picture of a dove on the top and some verses below it, and a red -border around the edges; then I know that for a certain number of red -cards we were given a blue card similar to the red, except that the dove -had been changed to a little spring lamb. I cannot recall what we got -for the blue card; probably nothing at all. It was no doubt the -ultimate. There must be somewhere an ultimate with children as with men. - -I remember that at Christmas time we had a tree, and the two churches -used sometimes to get up a rivalry as to the value of the presents, and -there were little desertions back and forth on this account. I know we -all thought that the number and value of the presents would be in some -way related to the number of verses we had learned; and I am sure that -the number of scholars and the regularity of attendance always increased -toward Christmas time. I must have learned a great many million verses -first and last, but none of them seem to have made any impression on my -mind, and I can now recall only a few about John the Baptist, who came -preaching in the wilderness of Judæa, and had a leather girdle around -his waist, and whose food was locusts and wild honey, and who called on -all the people in the wilderness to repent, for the kingdom of heaven -was at hand. Now, I am certain that John the Baptist did not seem a real -man to me, and that I had no idea of what the wilderness of Judæa was -like or what sort of people lived there. All this was only so many -verses to be learned, for which I would get so many cards. I believe I -thought that John the Baptist had some sort of relation to the Baptist -church, and I wondered how he could live on locusts and wild honey; for -I had seen locusts, and they were only a sort of flying bug, and no more -fit to eat than a grasshopper or a horse-fly. I am sure that I thought -this a very slim diet for a man,—even for a preacher, who we thought -cared little about what he ate. I have grown older now, and wiser, and -have heard many John the Baptists preaching in the wilderness and -calling unwilling sinners to repentance; and now I do not so much wonder -about the locusts, but I can scarcely understand how he was so fortunate -as to get the wild honey. - -But the one thing that most impresses me as I look back on the -day-school and the Sunday-school where we spent so many of our childhood -hours is the unreality of it all. Surely none of the lessons seemed in -any way related to our lives. None of them impressed our minds, or gave -us a thought or feeling about the problems we were soon to face. - -Often on Sunday evening my father gathered us about the family table in -the dining-room and read a sermon from Channing or Theodore Parker or -James Martineau. I cannot recall to-day a single word or thought or -impression that lingered from the sermons Channing preached, but I am -sure that the force and power and courage of Parker left an impression -on my life; and that even in my youth the kindly, gentle, loving words -and thoughts of James Martineau were not entirely thrown away on me. - -The old preacher, as he stood before us on Sunday morning, never seemed -quite like a man,—we felt that he was a holy being, and we looked on him -with fear and reverence and awe. I remember meeting him in the field one -day, and I tried to avoid him and get away; but he came to me and talked -in the kindest and most entertaining way. He said nothing whatever about -religion, and his voice and the expression of his face were not at all -as they seemed when I sat in front of him in the hard pew during the -terrible “long prayer.” - -But my father never feared him in the least, and often these two old men -met for an evening to read their musty books, although I could not -understand the reason why. After I had gone to bed at night I often -heard them working away at their Greek, with more pains than any of the -scholars at the school. I wondered why they did these tasks, when they -had no parents to keep them at their work. I was too young to know that -as these old men dug out the hard Greek roots, they felt the long stems -reaching back through the toilsome years and bringing to their failing -lives a feeling of hope and vigor from their departed youth. - - - - - CHAPTER XI - THE BURYING-GROUND - - -Directly in the shelter of the church was the burying-ground. It had -first been laid out at the corner of the road, on one side of the great -building; but slowly and surely it crept around behind the sheds where -the horses were hitched during the Sunday services, and then still -farther on to the other side. The first part of the yard was almost -filled with little mounds and leaning stones, and most of its silent -tenants were forgotten by all save a few old people who lingered far -beyond the natural term of life. The new yard, as we called it, was in -every way more pretentious than the old; the headstones were higher, the -grass was greener, the mounds were more regular, and the trees and -shrubs were better kept. The bones of many of the dead aristocracy had -been dug up out of the old yard by their proud relatives, and carefully -laid in the new, where they might rest in the same exclusive -surroundings in which they lived while still upon the earth. - -As a child, these graveyards had no definite meaning to me, but I never -went by them after nightfall if I could possibly go any other way, -especially if I chanced to be alone. If I could not avoid going this -way, I always kept well to the other side of the road, and walked or ran -as fast as I could, with scarcely a glance toward the silent yard and -the white stones that gleamed so grimly in the dusk. Sometimes a number -of us boys would go through the yard in broad daylight, but even then we -preferred almost any other spot. - -I cannot recall when a sense of the real meaning of a churchyard came -full upon me. I have no doubt that I unconsciously felt the gloom of the -place before I fully understood what it really meant. - -In the summer-time we children were usually taken through the graveyard -on our way home from church; but after the long services even this -seemed a pleasant spot. On Sunday we were not afraid, for all the -worshippers went home this way. - -The yards were filled with evergreen trees carefully trimmed and -clipped, with here and there a weeping-willow drooping its doleful -branches to the ground. Why these trees were chosen for the churchyard, -I cannot tell; but I have never since seen an evergreen or a -weeping-willow that did not take me back to that little spot. The -footpaths wound in and out, and ran off in all directions to reach each -separate plat of ground that the thrifty neighbors had set apart as the -final resting-place which would be theirs until the resurrection came. -Most of them firmly believed in this great day,—or at least they told -themselves they did. Around the yard was a neat white fence, always kept -in good repair; and the gates were carefully locked except on the -Sabbath day. Many times I saw the old sexton wait until the last mourner -had slowly left the yard, and then carefully lock the gate and go away. -It seemed to me as if he were locking the gate to keep his silent -tenants in, like a jailer who turns the bolts upon the prisoners in -their cells. - -As a little child, I used to look at the sexton half in awe, and I -almost feared to come into his uncanny presence. I never could think -that he was quite like other men, or else he could not shovel the dirt -so carelessly into the open grave. I had never seen anyone but the old -sexton fill the grave and smooth the little mound that was always made -from the dirt that was left over after the coffin was put down; and I -used to wonder, in my childish way, how the sexton himself would get -buried when he was dead. - -The church and the graveyard were closely associated in my mind. It -seemed to me, as a little child, that the church had full jurisdiction -of the yard, and that the care and protection of the graves and their -mouldering tenants were the chief reasons why the church was there. The -great bell tolled slowly and mournfully at each death, and we counted -the solemn strokes to know the age of the hapless one whose turn had -come. Sometimes we could even guess who had died, from the number of -times it struck; but even these strokes did not impress me much. Almost -always the number was very great. I could not see any connection between -these old people and myself; and, besides, I felt that if the time could -ever come when I had grown so old, I would have lived far beyond an age -when there was any joy in life. On the day of the funeral, too, the bell -commenced to toll when the hearse came into view from the church and -began its slow journey up the hill, and it did not cease until the last -carriage was inside the yard. The importance of the dead could always be -told by the length of time the old bell rang while the procession -crawled up the hill. We used to compare these processions, and dispute -as to who had the longest funeral; but after old Squire Allen’s turn had -come, there was no longer any doubt. As I grew older, and began to give -rein to my ambitions and dreams, I hoped and rather believed that in the -far-off years I might have a longer procession than the one that had -followed him to the little yard, but of late years I have rather lost -interest in this old ambition. - -At almost every mound stood a white marble slab, and sometimes there was -a grand and pretentious monument in the centre of the lot. When I was -very young, I thought that those who had the finest monuments were the -ones most loved and mourned. It was long before I realized that even the -barred gates of a graveyard could not keep vanity outside. I often heard -the neighbors talk about these stones. Sometimes they said it was -strange that Farmer Smith could not show enough respect for his wife to -put up a finer gravestone. Again, they said that it would have been -better if Farmer Brown had been kinder to his wife while she lived, than -to have put up such a grand monument after she was dead. - -We boys sometimes went through the yard to pick out the slabs we liked -the best; these were always the tallest and the largest ones. We -carefully read the inscriptions on these stones, and never for a moment -doubted a word they said, any more than we doubted Holy Writ. All the -inscriptions told of the virtues of the dead, and generally were helped -out by a Scriptural text. In the case of children the stone was usually -ornamented with a lamb or a dove, which we thought wonderful and fine. -Sometimes an angel in the form of a woman was coming down from the -clouds to take a happy child away to heaven. I cannot recall that I saw -any angels in the forms of men, though why all the angels were women I -did not know then, nor, for that matter, do I know now. - -I think the first time my faith was shaken in anything I saw on a -gravestone was one day when I chanced upon a brand-new slab erected to -the memory of the town drunkard by his “loving wife and children.” The -inscription said that the deceased was a kind and loving husband and a -most indulgent father. Everyone in Farmington knew that the wife had -often called in the constable to protect her from the husband; but still -here was the stone. Yet, after all, the inscription may not have been -untrue; indeed, it may have been more truthful than those that rested -above many a man and woman who had lived and died without reproach. - -Even in the churchyard we boys knew which were the favored spots. We -understood that the broad thoroughfares where carriages could drive were -taken by the richest people of the town, and that the mounds away off at -one side and reached only by narrow footpaths were for the poorer and -humbler folk. I always hoped I might be buried where the teams could -pass; it seemed as if I should be lonely away on the outskirts where no -one ever came along. - -Even when quite young, I could not help noticing how many graves were at -first planted with flowers and decked and kept with the greatest care, -and how soon the rosebushes were broken and the weeds and grass grew -rank and high upon the mound. Everyone thought this a shame; and I -thought so too. But that is not so clear to me to-day as it was then. I -have rather come to think it fortunate that Nature, through time and -change, heals the sore wounds and dulls the cruel memories of the past. - -When I had grown old enough to go to the Academy on the hill, we boys -had a playground just at the edge of the graveyard. Sometimes the -strongest hitter would knock the ball clear over to the newest mounds -that were slowly encroaching on our domain. When it was my turn to chase -the ball, I always got it as quickly as I could, and ran away, for even -this momentary intrusion of the dead into our games left an uneasy -feeling in my mind. - -The last time I was in Farmington I once more went inside the old -graveyard; somehow it had a nearer and more personal meaning to me than -it ever had before. In those far-off days the churchyard was only a -casual thought that flitted now and then like a shadow through my -mind,—never with much personal relation to myself, but more in -connection with my father or mother, or with some old neighbor whom I -knew and loved; but I find that more and more, as we grow older, the -thought of churchyards becomes familiar to our lives and brings a -personal meaning of which childhood cannot know. - -Farmington itself, when I last saw it, had not much changed except to -grow older and more deserted than when I was young. Some of the shops -and stores were vacant, and many of the people had gone to more -prosperous towns; but the churchyard had grown larger with the passing -years. The old part was well-nigh forgotten, but the new yard had -stretched out until it quite covered the field where we used to chase -the ball, and had then slowly crept off over a ravine farther back, and -was climbing on up the hill. I wandered for a while around the winding -paths, and read again the inscriptions on the leaning stones; these had -a meaning that I never felt before. When I read the ages of the dead, I -found many a stone that told of fewer years than those that I could -boast, and in the newer part I spelled out the names of some of those -little white-haired boys that once skipped along the winding path with -me without the slightest thought that they so soon would be sleeping -with the rest. - - - - - CHAPTER XII - CHILDHOOD SURROUNDINGS - - -The life of the child is not the life of the man, and the town of the -child is not the town of the man. - -I can never see Farmington except through my boyhood’s eyes, and no -doubt the town and its people were not at all the same to the men and -the women that they were to me. Every object meant one thing to them and -quite a different thing to our childish minds. As I grew to boyhood, the -mill-pond was only a place where I could fish and skate and swim, and -the great turning wheel served only to divert my wondering eyes and ears -as it kept up its noisy rounds. The old mill furnished us boys a place -to hide and run and play our games. The whole scheme of things was ours, -and was utilized by a boy’s varying needs to help fill up his life. - -To the kind old miller the condition of the water in the pond was -doubtless quite another thing, and every revolution of the groaning -wheel must have meant bread to him,—not only bread for the customers -whose grain he ground, but sorely needed bread for the hungry mouths of -those who had no thought or care whence or how it came, but only -unbounded faith that it would always be ready to satisfy their needs. - -It is only by imagination, through the hard experience life has brought, -that I know these familiar things had a different meaning to the old -miller and to me. Yet even now I am not sure that they had for him a -deeper or more vital sense. Perhaps the water for my swimming-hole was -as important as the water for his bread. For after all both were needed, -in their several ways, to make more tolerable the ever illusive game of -life. - -But I must describe Farmington and its people as they seemed to me,—as -in fact they were to me, according to their utility in the small schemes -of a little child. - -The world seems to take for granted that every parent is a hero to his -children, and that they look to the father and mother as to almost -superhuman beings whose power they cannot understand but can rely upon -with implicit faith. Even the street-car signs tell this old tale, and -advertise “pies like mother used to make.” No doubt the infant looks -with perfect confidence into the eyes of the mother who gave it birth, -and in its tender years the child has the utmost trust in the wisdom and -protection of the parent to whom it has always looked to satisfy its -needs. But I cannot remember that in my youth either I, or any of my -companions, had the feeling and regard for our parents that is commonly -assumed. In fact, we believed that, as to wisdom and general ability to -cope with the affairs of life, we were superior to them; and we early -came to see their shortcomings rather than their strength. I cannot say -that I looked upon my mother even as a cook exactly in the light of the -street-car advertisements, but I distinctly recall that often when I -visited the woodsheds of neighboring children and was kindly given a -piece of pie or cake, I went back home and told my mother how much -better this pie tasted than the kind she baked, and asked her why she -did not make pies and cakes the way the neighbors did; but to all these -suggestions I ever got the same reply,—if I did not like her cooking I -could go elsewhere to board. Of course this put a stop to all -discussion. I am quite certain that it is only after long years of -absence, when we look back upon our childhood homes, the bread and pies -are mixed with a tender sentiment that makes us imagine they were better -than in fact they really were. I rather fancy that if our mother’s -cooking were set before us once again, we should need the strong -primitive appetite of our youth to make it taste as our imagination -tells us that it did. - -As to my father, I am sure I never thought he was a man of extraordinary -power. In fact, from the time I was a little child I often urged him to -do things in a different way,—especially as to his rules about my -studies and my schooling. I never believed that he ran the mill in the -best way; and I used to think that other men were stronger or richer, or -kinder to their children, than my father was to us. It was only after -years had passed, and I looked back through the hazy mist that hung -about his ambitions and his life, that I could realize how great he -really was. As a child, I had no doubt that any man could create -conditions for himself; the copy-books had told me so, and the teachers -had assured us in the most positive way that our success was with -ourselves. It took years of care and toil to show me that life is -stronger than man, that conditions control individuals. It is with this -knowledge that I look back at the old miller, with his fatal love of -books; that I see him as he surveys every position the world offers to -her favored sons. He knows them all and understands them all, and he -knows the conditions on which they have ever been bestowed; yet he could -bury these ambitions one by one, and cover them so deep as almost to -forget they had once been a portion of his life, and in full sight of -the glories of the promised land could day by day live in the dust and -hum of his ever-turning mill, and take from the farmer’s grist the toll -that filled the mouths of his little brood. To appreciate and understand -the greatness of the simple life, one must know life; and this the child -of whatever age can never understand. - -After my father and mother,—whom I did not appreciate, and who, I am -bound to think, but half understood me,—no other men or women came very -near my life. My relations were with the boys and girls,—especially the -boys. The men and women were there only to board and clothe the -children, and furnish them with a place to sleep at night. To be sure, -we knew something of all the men and women in the town, but we saw them -only through childish eyes. There was the blacksmith, who was very -strong, and whom we liked and called “clever” because he sometimes -helped us with our games. There was one old farmer in particular, who -had a large orchard and a fierce dog, and who would let his apples rot -on the ground rather than give us one to eat. We hated him, and called -him stingy and a miser. Perhaps he was not that sort of man at all, and -the dog may not have been so very fierce. No doubt someone had given -them bad names, and the people preferred to believe evil of them instead -of good. Then there was the town drunkard, whom all of us knew. We liked -him when he was sober, although we were told that he was very bad; but -he always laughed and joked with us, and watched our games in a friendly -way, but when we heard that he was drunk we were all afraid of him and -ran away. Then there was another man who kept a little store, and we -knew he was very rich; we had no idea how much he was really worth, but -anyhow we knew that he was rich. And so on, through all the -neighborhood, we knew something of the men, and classified them by some -one trait or supposed fact,—just as the grown-up world always persists -it has a right to do. The women, too, we knew even better than the men, -for it was the mothers who controlled the boys, and in almost every case -it depended on them alone whether or not the boys might go and play. -Still, we children only knew and cared about the grown-up people in a -remote secondary way. Every home was full of boys, and by common -affinity these boys were always together,—at least, as many of them as -could get away from home. As a rule, the goodness and desirability of a -parent were in exact proportion to the ease with which the children -could get away from home. I am afraid that in this child’s-world my good -parents stood very low upon the list,—much lower than I wished them to -stand. - -We children had our regular seasons’ round of games and sports. There -was no part of the year in which we could not play, and each season had -its special charm. There might not have been much foundation for the -custom, but somehow certain games always came at certain times. When the -season was over the games were dropped unceremoniously and left for -another year. - -Of course the little creek and the great mill-pond and the river were -sources of never-failing delight. I cannot remember when I learned to -swim, but I learned it very young and very well; and it was lucky I did, -for I have been in deep water many times since then. The boys seemed to -prefer water to land,—that is, water like a pond or a stream. We did not -care for the kitchen tub and the wash-basin. It was the constant aim of -our parents and teachers to keep us out of the water for at least a -portion of the time, and they laid down strict rules as to when and how -often we should go swimming. But when boys are away from home they are -apt to forget what teachers and parents say; and we always contrived to -get more swimming than the rules prescribed. This would have been easier -except for the fact that it generally took us so long to dry our hair, -and our teachers and parents could often detect our swimming by simply -feeling of our heads. I shall always remember that a boy was never -supposed to be a complete swimmer until he could swim the “big bend.” -There was a bend in the river, which was very broad and deep, and a -favorite swimming-place for the larger boys. I well remember the first -time I swam across, and I have accomplished few feats that compared with -this. All my life I had supposed that the big bend was very broad and -deep, until I made a special examination of the place on my last visit, -a little time ago, and really it was so changed that I could almost wade -across. Still, at that very time there were little boys in the stream -just getting ready to perform the same feat that I had accomplished long -ago. - -The same water that served us in summer-time delighted us equally in the -winter months. We learned to skate as early as we learned to swim. Our -skates were not the fancy kind that are used to-day, but were made of -steel and wood, and were fastened to our boots with straps. Few boys -could skate long without the straps coming loose; but then, a few -difficulties more or less have little terror for a boy. It would be hard -to make a town better fitted for boys than Farmington; even the high -hills were made for coasting in the winter-time. In fact, nothing was -lacking to us except that our parents and teachers were not so kind and -considerate as they should have been. - -In the summer-time we often climbed to the top of the hills and looked -down the valley to see the river winding off on its everlasting course. -Then we would fancy that we were mountaineers and explorers, and would -pick our way along the hills with the beautiful valley far beneath. I do -not know why we climbed the hills in the summer-time. It could not have -been for the scenery, which was really very fine; for boys care little -for this sort of thing. The love of Nature comes with maturing years and -is one of the few compensations for growing old. More and more as the -years go by we love the sun and the green earth, the silent mountains -and the ever-moving sea. It seems as if slowly and all unawares our -Mother Nature prepares and ripens us to be taken back into her -all-embracing breast. - -But boys like hills and animals and trees, not so much because they are -a part of Nature as for the life and activity they bring. So we climbed -the hills and the trees, and went far down the winding stream for no -purpose except to go, and when we reached the point for which we started -out we turned around and came back home. Still, since I have grown to -man’s estate I do the self-same thing. I make my plans to go to a -foreign port, and with great trouble and expense travel half-way round -the earth, and then, not content with the new places I have found, and -longing for the old ones once again, I turn back and journey home. - -Since the days when we children followed the crests of the hills along -the valley, this lovely scene has fallen under the notice of a business -man. He has built a hotel on the top of the highest hill, overlooking -the valley and the little town, and in the summer-time its wide verandas -are filled day after day with women, young and old, who sit and swing in -hammocks, and read Richard Harding Davis and Winston Churchill, and -watch for the mail and wait for the dinner-bell to ring. - -With what never-ending schemes our youth was filled, and in what quick -succession each followed on the others’ heels! Our most cherished plans -fell far short of what we hoped and dreamed. Somehow everything in the -world conspired to defeat our ends,—and most of all, our own childish -nature, which jumped from fad to fancy in such quick succession that we -could never do more than just begin. Even when we carried our plans -almost to completion, their result was always very far short of the -thought our minds conceived. - -With what infinite pains and unbounded hopes we prepared to go nutting -in the woods! How many bags and sacks we took, and how surely these came -back almost empty with the boys who started out with such high hopes as -the sun rose up! How often did we prepare the night before to go -blackberrying in the choicest spots, but after a long day of bruises and -wasp-bites and scratches, come back with almost empty pails! Still, our -failures in no way dampened the ardor of any new scheme we formed. - -We could run and jump and throw stones with the greatest ease; but when -we put any of our efforts to the test, we never ran so fast or jumped so -high or threw a stone so far as we thought and said we could,—and yet -our failures had no effect in teaching us moderation in any other -scheme. I well remember one ambitious lad who started out to make a -cart. He planned and worked faithfully, until the wonderful structure -took on the semblance of a cart. Then his interest began to flag, and -the work went on more slowly than before. For days and weeks we used to -come to his shop and ask, “Will, when are you going to finish your -cart?” We asked this so often that finally it became a standing joke, -and the cart was given up in ignominy and chagrin. - -When the snow was soft and damp, we often planned to make a giant -snow-man or an enormous fort. We laid out our work on a grand scale, and -started in with great industry and energy to accomplish it. But long -before it was finished, the rain came down or the sun shone so hot that -our work and schemes melted away before our eyes. - -So, too, the grown-up children build and build, and never complete what -they begin. When the last day comes, it finds us all busy with -unfinished schemes,—that is, all who ever try to build. But this is -doubtless better than not to try at all. - -The difference between the child and the man lies chiefly in the -unlimited confidence and buoyancy of youth. The past failure is wholly -forgotten in the new idea. As we grow older, more and more do we -remember how our plans fell short; more and more do we realize that no -hope reaches full fruition and no dream is ever quite fulfilled. Age and -life make us doubtful about new schemes, until at last we no longer even -try. - -Well, our youth brought its mistakes and its failures, its errors of -judgment and its dreams so hopeless to achieve. But still it carried -with it ambition and life, a boundless hope, and an energy which only -time and years could quench. So, after all, perhaps childhood is the -reality, and in maturity we simply doze and dream. - - - - - CHAPTER XIII - ILLUSIONS - - -As I look back upon my childhood, it seems as if the world were an -illusion and as if everything were magic that passed before my eyes. -True, we children learned our lessons in our arithmetics and geographies -and readers, but we only learned by rote and said them from our lips; -they had no application to our lives,—they were only tasks which we must -get through before our foolish parents and unkind teachers would leave -us free to live. We seem to have breathed an enchanted air, and to see -nothing as it really was. And still, can I be sure of this? Are the -heartbeats of the young less natural and spontaneous than those of later -life? Are the vision and hearing and emotions of youth less trustworthy -than the dulled faculties and feelings of maturer years? Certain it is -we children lived in a world that was all our own,—a world into which -grown-up people could not come, from which in fact they had long since -passed out never to return. - -But we had our illusions and our dreams. Time and distance and -proportion did not exist for us. Time is ever illusive to young and old -alike; it is no sooner come than it is gone. The past is regretted, the -present disappointing; the future alone is trusted, and thought to be -worth our pains. Childhood is the happiest time of life, because the -past is so wholly forgotten, the present so fleeting, and the future so -endlessly long. But how little I really knew of time, of youth and of -age, when I was young! We children thought that old age lay just beyond -the time when childish sports would not amuse. We could see nothing in -life beyond thirty that would make it worth living, excepting for a very -few who were the conquerors of the world. True, we dreamed of our future -great achievements, but these were still far off, and to be reached in -strange fantastic ways. The present and the near future were only for -our childish joys. We looked at older people half in pity, half in fear. -I distinctly remember that when a child at the district school I thought -the boys and girls at the Academy were getting old. - -As to my parents, they always seemed old; and when I was not vexed about -things they would not let me do, I felt sad to think their days of sport -were past and gone. I well remember the terrible day when they laid my -mother in her grave, and the one consolation I felt was that she had -lived a long life and that her natural time had come. Even now, as I -look back on the vague remembrances of my mother, I have no thought of -any time when she was not old. Yet last year I went to see the little -headstone that marks her modest grave. I read her name, and the -commonplace lines that said she had been a good wife and a loving -mother; and this I have no doubt was true, even though I found it on a -churchyard stone. Poor soul! she never had a chance to be anything else -or more. But when I looked to see her age, I felt a shock as of one -waking from a dream; for there, chiselled in the marble stone and -already growing green with moss, I read that she had died at -forty-eight. And here I stood looking at my old mother’s grave, and my -last birthday was my forty-sixth. Was my mother then so young when she -lay down to sleep?—and all my life I had thought that she was old! I -felt and knew, as I sadly looked upon the stone, that my career was all -before me still, and that I had only been wandering and blundering in a -zigzag path through childhood and youth, to begin the career I was about -to run. True, as I drew close to the marble slab to read the smaller -letters that told of the virtues of the dead, I put on a pair of -gold-rimmed glasses to spell the chiselled words. And these glasses were -my second pair! Only a few days before, I had visited an oculist and -told him that my old ones somehow did not focus as they should, but -warned him not to give me a new pair that magnified the letters any more -than the ones I had. After several trials he found a pair through which -I could see much clearer than before, and he assured me on his honor -that they were no stronger than the ones I was about to lay aside,—only -they were ground in a different way. And although I had lived on the -earth for six and forty years, I believed he told the truth. I -remembered, too, that only a few days before an impudent college -football hero gave me a seat in the street-car while he stood up. But -then college boys were always thoughtless and ill-mannered, and boastful -of their strength. I recovered from the shock that came upon me as I -realized that my mother had died while she was really young; and then my -mind recalled a day that had been buried in oblivion for many, many -years,—a day when I rested upon the same spot where I was sitting now, -and when the tremendous thought of eternal sleep dawned upon my mind. No -doubt it was my mother’s stone that so long ago awakened me to conscious -life. I remember that on that far-off day I was fifteen years of age, -and that I consoled myself by thinking that at any rate I should live -until I was sixty, which was so far away that I could not even dream -that it would ever come. And now I was here again, and forty-six. Well, -my health was good, my ancestors were long-lived,—all except my mother, -who came to an untimely grave,—and I should live to be ninety at the -very least. And then—there might be another world. No one can prove that -there is not. - -But I am lingering too long around the old graveyard of my childhood -home, and if I do not go out into the living, moving world, no one will -ever read my book. And still I fancy that I am like all the other men -and women who were ever born; we eat and drink, and laugh and dance, and -go our way along the path of life, and join the universal conspiracy to -keep silent on the momentous final event that year by year draws closer -to our lives. - -Distance was as vague and illusive and as hard to realize as time. A -trip to the next town, four miles away, awoke in my mind all the feeling -of change and travel and adventure that a voyage across the sea can -bring to-day. I recall one great event that stands out clearly in my -childhood days. For months and months I had been promised a long trip -with my older sister to visit my Aunt Jane. She lived miles and miles -away, and we must take a railroad train to reach her home. For weeks I -revelled in the expectation of that long-promised trip. I wondered if -the train would really stop at our station long enough for me to get on -board; if there would be danger of falling out if I should raise the -window of the car; and what would happen if we should be carried past -the town, or the train should run off the track. I am always sure of a -fresh emotion when I think of the moment that we were safely seated in -the car and the train began to move away. How I watched and wondered as -the houses and telegraph poles flew past in our mad flight! And how I -stored my mind with facts and fancies to tell the wondering boys when I -returned! if indeed I ever should. I remember particularly how I pleaded -with the train conductor to let me keep the pasteboard ticket that had -been handed to me through the hole in the little window at the station -when I took the train. I felt that this would be a souvenir of priceless -worth, but the conductor regretfully told me that he must deny my wish. -It seems even now as if I journeyed across a continent, there were so -many things to see that were wholly new and strange. And yet my Aunt -Jane lived only twenty miles away, and the trip must have been made in -one short hour or less. Many times since then I have boarded a train to -cross half the continent. I have even stood on the platform of the -Orient Express in Paris, and waited for the signal to start on the long -journey across Europe to Constantinople; but I have never felt such -emotions as stirred my soul when the train actually moved away to take -me to see Aunt Jane. - -Men and their works are indeed inconsistent. The primitive savage who -dwelt at home went to a foreign land when he moved his tent or paddled -his log canoe across the stream; but civilized man, with his machines, -inventions, and contrivances, has brought the world into such close -connection that we must journey almost around the earth to find -something new and strange. - -Not time and space alone, but also men and women, were illusive to our -young minds. My Sunday-school teacher, a fat asthmatic woman, who always -held her lesson-paper between her stiff thumb and finger covered with a -black glove, seemed a wonderful personage to me. How was it possible she -could know so much about Palestine and Jerusalem and Judæa and the Dead -Sea? Surely she had never visited these mythical realms, for there was -no way to go. As easily might she have gone to the moon, or to some of -the fixed stars; and still she talked of these things with the -familiarity with which she would have spoken of a neighboring town. I -never had any idea that she was like a common woman, until one day when -I went to her house and found her with her sleeves rolled up and a great -apron reaching clear around her dress, and she was washing clothes. -After that, the spell was broken. How could anyone wash clothes if she -really knew about Paul and John the Baptist and the river Jordan? - -All the grown-up men seemed strange and unreal to my mind, and to have -nothing in common with the boys. No matter what we did, we thought that -if any man should come around he had a right promptly to make us stop. -Most of the men never seemed to notice us, unless to forbid our doing -certain things, or to ask us to turn a grindstone while they sharpened -an axe or a scythe; and there were only a very few who even knew our -names. Once in a long while some man would call me “that Smith boy,” but -even then he seemed a little doubtful who I really was. If now and then -a grown-up man took a friendly interest in our sports, or called us by -our first names, we liked him, and would have voted for him for -President of the United States if we could have had the chance. - -I well remember Deacon Cole. I used always to see him in one of the -front pews at church. Every Sunday morning he drove by our home, and he -was usually the very first to pass. He wore a ruffled shirt, a long -black coat, and a collar that almost hid his chin. His face was long and -sad, and he never looked to the right or left during the services at the -church. I had no doubt he was a very holy man. He always took up the -collection just before the benediction had been said, and his boots -would creak as he tiptoed from pew to pew. I did not know just what a -deacon was, or how anyone ever happened to be a deacon. I remember I -once asked my father; and although he could tell me all about Cæsar and -Plato and Herodotus, he could never make it clear how Mr. Cole ever -became “Deacon Cole.” But one day when I was down at the mill, a farmer -drove up to the door with a load of corn. He wore overalls, an old -patched coat, and a big straw hat. I looked at him closely before I -could believe that he was Deacon Cole, and then slowly another illusion -was dissolved. I found that a deacon was a man just like my father and -other men that I had known. - - - - - CHAPTER XIV - ABOUT GIRLS - - -In Farmington the girls were of small account. Of course we had to -tolerate them, for all of us had sisters, and then, too, we were told -that we ought to treat them more kindly than the boys: but still we -never really wanted them around. - -The girls were much prettier than the boys, and they had on clean -clothes, and generally shoes, and they wore red or blue ribbons around -their necks and white or colored sashes around their waists, and their -hair was combed and fixed in long twists and tied with ribbon every day; -and it was almost always as smooth and nice at night as when they came -to school in the morning. As for us boys, our mothers combed our hair in -the morning before we went to school, and occasionally with a fine-tooth -comb; and when we left home it was usually parted on the side, and had -no snarls, and lay down smoothly on the top of our heads,—but of course -it was different before we got home. Sometimes even on our way to school -we would turn somersaults, or walk on our hands, or “skin a cat” on the -limb of a tree, and then our caps would fall off and our hair get pretty -badly mussed. Then, too, we often ran and got warm, and had to take off -our caps and fan ourselves, and run our hands through our hair; and -sometimes we wrestled and fell down, and things like that; and when we -were not playing ball we often went in swimming at noon, and of course -we could not keep our hair straight, and did not much care or try. But -the girls were different; they never would do anything that hurt their -hair, and if it got mussed the least little bit they always stopped and -combed it out so that it looked almost as well as when they went to -school. Generally they had little pocket looking-glasses; but even if -they had not, any of the girls would help the others to comb and tie -their hair. But no boy would ever think of asking another boy to help -him to fix his hair; if he had done anything like this, he would have -known pretty well what he might expect to get. - -We used to wonder how the girls could keep their clothes so smooth and -nice; for many of them had a long way to walk to school, and the road -was dusty, and the dirt got on them from the long grass and weeds. We -thought the reason they looked so well was that they were different from -the boys. All of us liked to watch the girls, for they were so pretty -and behaved so well. Their side of the schoolhouse was always the -cleaner, and they never threw things on the floor, and their desks -looked better, for the books and the slates were not tumbled around as -they were on our side of the room. And there was no writing on their -desks, nor carvings made with jack-knives; and in every way one could -tell which was their side of the house, even if no scholars were in the -room. - -The girls always behaved better in school than the boys; of course they -whispered some, and giggled quite a bit, but they hardly ever threw -apples, or brought in bugs, or set pins in the seat, or played jokes, or -contradicted the teacher, or refused to do what she said. As a rule, -they got their lessons better than the boys, and had more headmarks in -spelling; and the teacher hardly ever made them stand on the floor, and -did not keep them in at noon or recess or after school nearly as often -as she did the boys. Then, if one girl told another that she could have -a piece of her apple at lunch, or a bite of her stick candy, and took a -pencil and marked off how much she could have, she would always bite in -the right place, and never take any more,—if anything, she took a little -less. But if a boy held up his apple and told another boy that he could -take a little bite, not so far down as the core, very likely the boy -would have to pull his hand back quick to keep his fingers from being -bitten off. Really, no boy who was not green would let another boy take -a bite of his apple, or his candy, or his gum. If he really wanted to -give any of it away or trade it for something, he always took out his -knife and cut off just the part he wanted to give away, or else he bit -it out himself without taking any chances. - -In the games we played, the girls were of no use; they could not run, or -jump, or climb a tree, or even throw a ball or a stone, or do anything -that had to be done to play a game. Sometimes they stood around and -watched us boys, and coaxed us to choose them in, and sometimes we let -them play just as we did the little fellows. But if they ever played -“fox and geese” or “pump-pullaway,” they were sure to get caught the -first thing, and they hurt the game. And when they had to catch you, of -course you couldn’t run right through and knock them down just as if -they were boys. Sometimes they coaxed us to let them play ball; but they -never could hit the ball, and if they did it only went a little ways, -and they couldn’t run to the first base, and you never knew where they -were going to throw, and they were always in the way when you were -running, and you were afraid to hit the ball as hard as you could, or to -throw it very hard, when they were around. They were not much good to -play “I spy,” for they never could hide very well. If they got behind a -tree, their dresses would stick out, and they couldn’t climb up on any -high place, or jump down, or lie down behind a log so that you couldn’t -see them; and even if they had a chance to get in first, they ran so -slow that they were always behind when they reached the post. - -Of course they could jump rope pretty well, but boys seldom played such -games as jumping the rope; it wasn’t really any game at all. And then -the girls always wanted you to help to turn the rope, and maybe there -would be only a girl at the other end. They did not quarrel with the -teachers, and sometimes they told on us boys when we did something the -teachers said we mustn’t do. When any of the boys got whipped hard in -school, the girls cried and made a fuss; they never could stand anything -like boys. Always at noon when we wanted to play ball or go in swimming, -they would coax us to play “needle’s eye,” or “Sally Waters,” or some -such silly game. And in the winter, when we were sliding down hill, they -never had a sled of their own, but would always want to ride with us; -and we always had to be careful, and go only in the safest places, or -they would fall off and get hurt and cry. - -When we went skating, they wanted us to draw them on a sled on the ice, -and they never dared go anywhere unless the ice was thick. If it bent -the least little bit, they ran away and cried for fear their brothers -would get drowned. When they had skates, they never would go out on the -river where the water was over their heads; and they were afraid of -holes in the ice, or of our building a fire on the ice, and we always -had to put on and take off their skates. We never could pull the straps -tight, because it hurt their feet and made them cold; and then their -skates would get loose all the time, and we had to fix them; and they -couldn’t go far away on the ice, for they were afraid they wouldn’t get -back before the school-bell or the supper-bell rang. Then, if they went -out skating, or anywhere, after dark, they could not stay late, and we -had to stop and go home with them when they got the least bit cold. They -never thought they could go home alone after dark, but they could have -gone as well as not if they had only thought so. Sometimes they went -sleigh-riding with the boys in a big sled; but this was not half so much -fun as hitching to cutters or jumping on sleds, and the girls never -could do this. - -When we went to see any of the other boys, we never went into the house. -There was nothing to do in the house except to take off your hat and sit -in a chair and tell the boy’s mother how your mother was. We always -played around the yard, or went into the barn or out in the woodshed, -where we could have some fun. But the girls couldn’t go out and play in -the yard or in the barn or in the woodshed, and if they did they could -not play anything that was good fun, but they would tease us to come -into the house and look at the album while they told us who all the old -pictures were, and would want us to stay in the sitting-room, or go into -the parlor and hear them play a lot of tunes on the organ, and sing -“Shall we gather at the river,” and “Home, Sweet Home,” and duets, and -“Darling, I am growing old,” and such things, and that would spoil all -the fun. And after they got through playing the organ and singing, if it -was not time to go home they wanted us to play “Authors.” This was the -only kind of cards that girls could play. - -They never were any good to go fishing, but they always wanted to go, -and we had to bait their hooks, and take off the fishes if they caught -any, but they hardly ever did; and they talked about how sorry they were -for the fishes and the worms, but they let us do all the work. And if -sometimes they went hickory-nutting or chest-nutting with us, we let -them help to pick up the nuts while we had to climb the trees and shake -them off; but they couldn’t carry any of them home, and when we came to -fences they never would climb over them for fear they would tear their -dresses, and we always had to go away around until we could find bars or -a gate or take down the fence; and they were afraid of cows and dogs, -and tried to keep us from going anywhere, and bothered us and held us -back. And then when we took them we had to be careful what we said, and -could not run or walk very fast or go very far, and we always had to get -back at a certain time, and couldn’t stay out after dark, or go across -any water, or get into swamps or places where they could get their feet -wet and catch cold. - -Of course they got up parties, and wanted us to go; but these were -always in the houses, and we had to wear our best clothes and our shoes, -and be careful not to run against a chair, or tip over the lamp, or -break anything, and we had to keep still, and couldn’t go outdoors, and -had to play “needle’s-eye” and “post-office” and charades and -“blindman’s-buff.” Of course we had a little cake and sometimes some -ice-cream, but never half enough, and we were always glad when the party -was out. - -In fact, in our boys’ world there was no room for girls, except that we -always liked to look at them and think how pretty and clean they were. - - - - - CHAPTER XV - FISHING - - -I was very small when I began to fish,—so small and young that I cannot -remember when it was. In fact, my first fishing comes to me now, not as -a distant recollection, but only as a vague impression of a far-off -world where a little boy once lived and roamed. I am quite sure that I -first dropped my line into the little muddy pool just behind our garden -fence. I am sure, too, that this line was twisted by my mother’s hands -from spools of thread, and the hook was nothing but a bended pin. I -faintly recall my protests that a real fish-line and hook bought at the -store would catch more fish than this homemade tackle that my kind -mother twisted out of thread to save the trifling expense; but all my -protests went for naught. I was told that the ones she made were just as -good as the others, and that I must take them or go without. All that -remains to me of those first fishing-days is the faint impression of a -little child sitting on an old log back of the cheese-house, his bare -feet just touching the top of the little pool, holding a fish-pole in -his hands, and looking in breathless suspense at the point where the -line was lost in the muddy stream. - -More distinctly do I remember a later time, when I had grown old enough -to go down the road to the little bridge, and to have a real fish-line -and a sharp barbed hook which my brother brought me from the store. I go -out on the end of the planks and throw my line close up to the stone -abutments in the dark shadow where the water lies deep and still. The -stream is the same fitful winding creek that comes down through the -meadow behind the garden-fence; but here it seems to stop and linger for -awhile under the protecting shadows of the little wooden bridge. I have -no doubt that the spot is very deep,—quite over my head,—and with -throbbing heart I sit and wait for some kind fish to take my baited -hook. I learned later that I could wade clear under the bridge by -pulling my trousers up above my knees; but this was after I had sat and -fished. True, my older brothers had always told me that there was -nothing but minnows in the muddy pool; but how did they know? Their eyes -could see no farther into the unknown stream than mine. - -I do not remember catching a single fish either behind the cheese-house -or under the bridge; but I do remember the little bare-legged boy, with -torn straw hat, waiting patiently as he held his pole above the pool, -and wondering at the perversity of the fish. If I could only have seen -to the bottom of the stream, no doubt I should have known there were no -fishes there for me to catch; but as I could not see, I was sure that if -I sat quite still and kept my line well up to the abutment of the -bridge, the fishes would surely come swimming up eager to get caught. - -Many a time I was certain that the fishes were just going to bite my -hook; but at the most critical moment some stupid farmer would drive his -noisy clattering wagon at full speed upon the sounding bridge, and as -like as not shout to me, and of course drive all the fishes off. Or, -even worse, the driver would halt his team just before he reached the -little bridge, get down from the high wagon seat, unrein his horses, and -drive them down the sloping bank to the edge of the bridge to get a -drink. The stupid horses would push their long noses clear up under the -bridge, close to the stone abutment where I had cast my line, clear down -almost to the bottom of the pool, and drink and drink until they were -fairly bursting with water, and finally they would stamp their feet, and -splash through to the other side, pulling along the great wagon-wheels -after them. Of course it was a waste of time to sit and fish after a -catastrophe like this. But although I caught no fish, still day after -day I would go back to the end of the planks and throw my baited hook -into the pool, and sit and blink in the broiling sun and wait for the -fish to bite. - -But when I grew older I gave my fishing-tackle to my younger brothers -and let them sit on the old log and the end of the bridge where I had -watched so long, and, turning my back in scorn upon the little stream, -sought deeper waters farther on. - -I followed my older brother up to the dam, and sat down in the shade of -the overhanging willow-trees, and cast my line over the bank into the -deep water, which was surely filled with fish. Perhaps in those days it -was not the fish alone, but the idea of fishing. It was the great pond, -which seemed so wide and deep, and which spread out like glass before my -eyes. It was the big willow-trees that stood in a row just by the -water’s edge, with their drooping branches hanging almost to the ground, -and casting their cool delicious shade over the short grass where we sat -and fished; and then the blue sky above,—the sky which we did not know -or understand, or really think about, but somehow felt, with that sense -of freedom that always comes with the open sky. Surely, to sit and fish, -or to lie under the green trees and look up through their branches at -the white clouds chasing each other across the clear blue heavens,—this -was real, and a part of the life of the universe, and also the life of -the little child. - -How many castles we built from the changing forms of those ever-hurrying -clouds, moving on and ever on until they were lost in the great unknown -blue! How many dreams we dreamed, how many visions we saw,—visions of -our manhood, our great strength, and the wonderful achievements that -would some day resound throughout the world! And those castles and -dreams and visions of our youth,—where are they now? What has blasted -the glowing promises that were born of our young blood, the free air, -and the endless blue heavens above? Well, what matters is whether or not -the castles were ever really built? At least the dreams were a part of -childhood’s life, as later dreams are a part of maturer years. And, -after all, if the dreams had not been dreamed then life had not been -lived. - -But here in the great pond we sometimes caught real fish. True, we -waited long and patiently, with our lines hanging listlessly in the -stream. True, the fishes were never so large or so many as we hoped to -catch, but such as they were we dragged them relentlessly from the pond -and strung them on a willow stick with the greatest glee. - -I remember distinctly the time when some accident befell the dam, and -the water was drawn off to make repairs. The great surface of stone and -mud for the first time was uncovered to our sight, and I remember the -flopping and struggling fishes that found themselves with no water in -which to swim. I remember how we pounced upon these fishes, and caught -them with our hands, and almost filled a washtub with the poor helpless -things. I cannot recall that I thought anything about the fishes, except -that it was a fine chance to catch them and take them home; although the -emptying of the mill-pond must have been the greatest and most serious -catastrophe to them,—not less than comes to a community of men and women -from the sinking of a city in the sea. But we had then only seen the -world from the point of view of children and not of fishes. - -But it was not until I was large enough to go off to the great river -that wound down the valley that I really began to fish. I had then grown -old enough to get first-class lines and hooks and a bamboo pole. I went -with the other boys down below the town, down where our little stream -joined its puny waters with the great river that scarcely seemed to care -whether it joined or not, and down to the long covered bridge, where the -dust lay cool and thick on the wooden floor. Here I used to sit on the -masonry just below the footpath, and throw my line into the deep water, -and wait for the fish to come along. - -Where is the boy or the man who has not fished, and who does not in some -way keep up his fishing to the very last? Yet it is not easy to -understand the real joys of fishing. Its fascination must grow from the -fact that the line is dropped into the deep waters where the eye cannot -follow and only imagination can guess what may be pulled out; it is in -the everlasting hope of the human mind about the things it cannot know. -In some form I am sure I have been fishing all my life, and will have no -other sort of sport. Ever and ever have I been casting my line into the -great unknown sea, and generally drawing it up with the hook as bare as -when I threw it down; and still this in no way keeps me from dropping it -in again and again, for surely sometime something will come along and -bite! We are all fishers,—fishers of fish, and fishers of each other; -and I know that for my part I have never managed to get others to nibble -at my hook one-half so often as I have swallowed theirs. - -Our youthful fishing did not all consist in dropping our hooks and lines -into the stream. In fishing, as everywhere in life, the expectation was -always one of the chief delights. How often did we begin our excursions -on the night before! We planned to get up early, that we might be ready -to furnish the fishes with their breakfast,—to come upon them after -their night’s sleep, when they were hungry and would bite eagerly at our -baited hooks. How expectantly we took the spade and went to the garden -and dug up the choicest and fattest worms,—enough to catch all the -fishes in the sea! Then at night we dreamed of fish. We went to bed at -twilight, that we might be ready in the gray morning hours. We started -out early with lines and poles and bait. We stopped awhile at the big -covered bridge and sat on the hard stone abutments, we put the wiggling -worms upon the hooks and threw our lines far out into the stream. I -cannot recollect that we thought of any pain to the fish, or still less -to the worm,—though I do not believe that I could string a twisting worm -over the length of one of those cold steel hooks to-day, no matter what -reward might come. My father did not encourage me in fishing, although I -do not remember that he said much about how cruel it really was. But he -told me never to take a fish that I could not eat, and to throw the -small ones back into the stream at once. Yet though all the fishes that -came up were smaller than I had hoped or believed, still I was always -reluctant to throw them back. - -The first fishing-spot seldom fulfilled our expectations, and most of us -waited awhile and then went farther down the stream. Slowly and -carefully we followed the winding banks, and we always felt sure that -each new effort would be more successful than the last. But our -expectations were never quite fulfilled. Now and then we would meet men -and boys with a fine string of fish. These were generally of the class -my father called shiftless and worthless; but as for us, we had little -luck. Gradually, as the sun got higher in the heavens, we went farther -and farther down the stream, always hopeful for success in the next deep -hole. Finally, tired and hungry, we threw away our bait, and, with our -small string of sickly-looking fish, turned toward home. Sometimes on -our return we came upon a more patient boy who had sat quietly all day -at the hole we left and been abundantly rewarded for his pains. -Generally, weary and worn out, we would drop our fish on the woodshed -floor and go into the kitchen to get our supper. Not until the next day -would we again think of our string of fish, and then we usually found -that the cat had eaten them in the night. - -When we reflected on our fishing, it was a little hard to tell where the -fun came in; but on the whole this is true of most childish sports, and, -for that matter, it holds good with all those of later years. But this -has no tendency to make us stop the sport, or rather the hope of sport, -for to give up hope is to give up life. - -The last time I drove across the old covered bridge I stopped for a -moment by the stone pier where I used to sit and fish. I looked over at -the muddy stream, and the hard gray abutment where I had watched so -patiently through many hot and dusty days; and there in the same place -where I once sat and expectantly held my pole above the stream was -another urchin not unlike the one I knew, or thought I knew, so long -ago. I lingered a few moments, and shuddered as I saw the cruel boy push -the barbed hook through the whole length of the squirming worm. I -watched him throw the bait silently into the yellow stream, and, behold! -in a short time he pulled out a little wiggling fish. I went up to him -as he took the murderous hook from the writhing fish, and tried to make -him think that it was so small that he ought to throw it back. But in -spite of all I could say, the little brute stuck a willow twig through -its bleeding gills and strung it on a stick, as I had done when I was a -little savage catching fish. - - - - - CHAPTER XVI - RULES OF CONDUCT - - -I was very young when I first began to wonder why the world was so -unreasonable; and now I am growing old, and it is not a whit more -sensible than it used to be. Still, as a child I was in full accord with -the other boys and girls about the stupidity of the world. Of course -most of this perversity on the part of older people came from their -constant interference with our desires and plans. None of them seemed to -remember that they once were young and had looked out at the great wide -world through the wondering eyes of the little child. - -It seemed to us as if our elders were in a universal conspiracy against -us children; and we in turn combined to defeat their plans. I wonder -where my little playmates have strayed on the great round world, and if -they have grown as unreasonable as our fathers and mothers used to be! -Reasonable or unreasonable, it is certain that our parents never knew -what was best for us to do. At least, I thought so then; and although -the wisdom, or at least the experience, of many years has been added to -my childish stock, I am bound to say that I think so still. Even a boy -might sometimes be trusted to know what he ought to do; and the instinct -and teachings of Nature, as they speak directly to the child, should -have some weight. - -But with our parents and teachers all this counted not the least. The -very fact that we wanted to do things seemed ample reason why we should -not. I venture to say that at least nine-tenths of our requests were -denied; and when consent was granted, it was given in the most grudging -way. The one great word that always stood straight across our path was -“No,” and I am sure that the first instinct of our elders on hearing of -our desires was to refuse. I wondered then, and I wonder still, what -would happen if our elders and the world at large should take the other -tack and persuade themselves to say “Yes” as often as they could! - -Every child was told exactly what he ought to do. If I could only get a -printed list of the rules given for my conduct day by day, I am sure -they would fill this book. In arithmetic and grammar I always skipped -the rules, and no scholar was ever yet found who liked to learn a rule -or could tell anything about it after it was learned. - -I well remember what a fearful task it was to learn the rule for partial -payments in the old arithmetic. I could figure interest long before I -learned the rule; and although I now have no trouble in figuring -interest,—and if I have, some creditor does it for me,—still, to save my -life, I could not now repeat the rule for partial payments. When was -there ever a boy who knew how to do a sum, or parse a sentence, or -pronounce a word, because he knew the rules? We knew how because we knew -how, and that was all there was of the matter. Yet every detail of -conduct was taught in the same way as the rules in school. - -I could not eat a single meal without the use of rules, and most of -these were violated when I had the chance. I distinctly remember that we -generally had pie for supper in our youthful days. Now we have dessert -for dinner, but then it was only pie for supper. Of course we never had -all the pie we wanted, and we used to nibble it slowly around the edges -and carefully eat toward the middle of the piece to make it last as long -as possible and still keep the pie-taste in our mouths. - -I never could see why we should not have all the pie we could eat. It -was not because of its cost, for my mother made it herself, just the -same as bread. The only reason we could see was that we liked pie so -well. Of course we were told that pie was not good for us; but I have -always been told this about everything I liked to eat or do. Then, too, -my mother insisted that I should eat the pie after the rest of the meal -was done. Now, as a boy, I liked pie better than anything else that I -could get to eat; and I have not yet grown so old but that I still like -pie. I could see no reason why I should not eat my pie when I was hungry -for it and when it looked so good. My mother said I must first eat -potato and meat, and bread and butter; and when I had enough of these, I -could eat the pie. Now, of course, after eating all these things even -pie did not seem quite the same; my real appetite was gone before the -pie was reached. Then, too, if a boy ate everything else first, he might -never get to pie; he might be taken ill, or drop dead, or be sent from -the table, or one of the other boys might come along and he be forced to -choose between going swimming and eating pie,—whereas, if he began the -meal according to his taste and made sure of the pie, if anything else -should be missed it would not matter much. - -Our whole lives were fashioned on the rules for eating pie. We were told -that youth was the time for work and study, so that we might rest when -we got old. Now, no boy ever cared to rest,—it is the very thing a boy -does not want to do; but still, by all the rules we ever heard, this was -the right way. Since I was a child I have never changed my mind. I do -not think the pie should be put off to the end of the meal. I always -think of my poor Aunt Mary, who saved her pie all through her life, and -died without eating it at last. And, besides all this, it is quite -possible that as we grow old our appetites will change, and we may not -care for pie at all; at least, the coarser fare that the hard and cruel -world is soon to serve up generously to us all is likely to make us lose -our taste for pie. For my part, I am sure that when my last hours come I -shall be glad that I ate all the pie I could get, and that if any part -of the meal is left untasted it shall be the bread and butter and -potatoes, and not the pie. - -Of course we were told we should say “Yes, ma’am,” and “No, ma’am.” I -observe that this rule has been changed since I was young,—or possibly -it was the rule only in Farmington and such provincial towns. At any -rate, when I hear it now I look the second time to see if one of my old -schoolmates has come back to me. But I cannot see why it was necessary -for us to say “Yes, ma’am,” and “No, ma’am,” in Farmington, and so -necessary not to say them in the outside world. - -But while the rule made us say “Yes, ma’am,” and “No, ma’am,” it did not -allow us to say much more. We were told that “Children should be seen -and not heard.” It was assumed that what we had to say was of no -account. As I was not very handsome when I was young, there was no -occasion for me to be either seen or heard. True, we were industriously -taught how to talk, yet we had no sooner learned than we were told that -we “must not speak unless spoken to.” It is true the conversation of -children may not be so very edifying,—but, for that matter, neither is -that of grown-up folk. It is quite possible that if children were -allowed to talk freely, they might have a part of their nonsense talked -out by the time they had matured; and then, too, they might learn much -that would improve the conversation of their later life. At any rate, if -a child was not meant to talk, his faculties of speech might properly be -withheld until a riper age. - -To take off our hats in the house, to say “Thank you” and “Please” and -all such little things, were of course most strictly enjoined. It did -not occur to our elders that children were born imitators, or that they -could possibly be taught in any other way than by fixed rules. - -The common moral precepts were always taught by rule. We must obey our -parents, and speak the truth. Just why we should do either was not made -clear, although the penalty of neglect was ever there. The longer I -live, the more I am convinced that children need not be taught to tell -the truth. The fact is, parents do not teach them to tell the truth, but -to lie. They tell the truth as naturally as they breathe, and it is only -the stupidity and brutality of parents and teachers that drive them to -tell lies. In high society and low, parents lie to children much oftener -than children lie to parents; it would not occur to a child to lie -unless someone made him feel the need of doing so. - -I remember that when I was a child two things used to cause me the -greatest trouble. One was the fact that I had to go to bed so early at -night, and the other that I had to get up so early in the morning. I -have never known a natural child who was ready to go to bed at night or -to get up in the morning. I suppose this was because work came first, -and pie was put off to the end of the day; and we did not want to miss -any of the pie. Of course there were exceptions to the rule. We were -ready to get up in the gray dawn of the morning, to go a-fishing or -blackberrying, or to celebrate the Fourth of July, or on Christmas, or -to see a circus come to town, or on any such occasion. And likewise we -were ready to go to bed early the night before, so that we might be -ready to get up. I remember one of my lies in connection with getting up -in the morning. It was my father’s custom to call us some time before -breakfast, to help do the chores; and as this was work and the bed was -warm, we were never ready to get up. On this particular morning I was -called twice, but seemed to be sound asleep, and did not move. Thereupon -at the next call my father came up the stairs, saying, “You know what -you are going to get,” and asking why I had not come before. There was -nothing else to do, and so I promptly answered that I did not hear him -the first two times. Somehow I learned that he surmised or found out -that I had lied, and after this I regarded him as a sort of Sherlock -Holmes. I did not know then, any more than my father did, that the -reason I lied was that I was afraid of being whipped. Neither did my -parents, or any of the others, understand that to whip us for lying only -served to make us take more pains to conceal the truth. - -We were given certain rules as to our treatment of animals. We were told -to be kind to them, but no effort was made to awaken the imagination of -the child so that in a way he might put himself in the place of the -helpless beings with whom he lived. I am sure that had this been done -the rule would not have been required. - -In our association with each other, we were more simple and direct. When -we lied to each other, we soon found that our tales were disbelieved, -and thus the punishment was made to fit the crime. But among ourselves -we were generally truthful, no matter how long or persistently our -teachers and parents had made it seem best for us to lie. We knew that -the other boys cared very little for the things that parents and -teachers thought important; and, besides, we had no jurisdiction over -each other, except as the strongest and most quarrelsome might take for -himself, and against him we always had the right to combine for -self-defence. - -I seem to be living again in the world of the little child, and so hard -is it to recross to that forgotten bourne that I cannot help wishing to -linger there. I remember that as I grew beyond the time to play -base-ball and to join in other still more youthful games, I now and then -had the rare privilege of revisiting these early scenes in sleep; and -often and often in my waking moments, when I realized that I dreamed and -yet half thought that all was real, I tried to keep my eyes tight shut -that I might still dream on. And if I can now and then forget my years -and feel again the life of the little child, why should I not cling to -the fond remembrance and tell the story which he is all too young to -make us understand? - -It is rarely indeed that the child is able to prevent the sorrows of the -man or woman; and when he can prevent them, and really knows he can, no -man or woman ever looks in vain to him for sympathy or help. But the -happiness of the child is almost wholly in the keeping of men and women -of maturer years, and this charge is of the most sacred kind. If schools -for the education of children were closed, and those for the instruction -of parents were kept open, surely the world and the children would -profit by the change. No doubt men and women owe duties to themselves -that even their children have no right to take away; but these duties -are seldom inconsistent with the highest welfare of the child. - -As I look back at the father and mother who nourished me, I know that -they were both wise and kind beyond others of my time and place; and yet -I know that many of my deepest sorrows would have been spared had they -been able to look across the span of years that divided them from me, -and in thought and feeling become as little children once again. - -The joys of childhood are keen, and the sorrows of childhood are deep. -Years alone bring the knowledge that in thought and in feeling, as in -the heavens above, sunshine and clouds follow each other in quick -succession. In childhood the shadows are wholly forgotten in the -brilliant radiance of the sun, and the clouds are so deep as to obscure -for a time all the heavens above. - -Over childhood, as over all the world, hangs the black pall of -punishment,—which is only another name for vengeance and hate. In my -day, and I fancy too often even now, parents believed that to “spare the -rod” was to “spoil the child.” It was not the refinement of cruelty that -made parents promise the child a whipping the next day or the next week, -it was only their ignorance and thoughtlessness; but many times I went -to bed to toss and dream of the promised punishment, and in the morning, -however bright the sunshine, the world was wrapped in gloom. Of course -it was seldom that the whipping was as severe as the fear that haunted -the mind of the child; but the punishment was really there from the time -it was promised until after it was given. - -Few boys were mean enough to threaten to tell our parents or teacher of -our misdeeds, yet there were children who for days or even weeks would -hold this threat over their playmates and drag it forth on the slightest -provocation. But among children this species of cruelty was generally -condemned. We knew of no circumstances that could justify the threat to -tell, much less the telling. A “tattle-tale” was the most contemptible -of boys,—even more contemptible than a “cry-baby.” A “cry-baby” did not -rank much below a girl. Still, we would suffer a great deal without -flinching, to avoid this name. - -In my time boys were not always so democratic as children are supposed -to be. Somehow children do pick up a great deal from their elders, -especially things they ought not to learn. I know that in our school -there was always the same aristocracy as in our town. The children of -the first families of the village were the first in the school. In games -and sports these would usually get the foremost places, and each one -soon knew where he belonged in the boys’ social scale. Certain boys were -carefully avoided,—sometimes for sanitary reasons, more often, I fancy, -for no reason at all. I am sure that all this discrimination caused the -child sorrow and suffering that he could in no way defend himself -against. So far from our teachers doing anything to show the cruelty and -absurdity of this caste spirit, it was generally believed that they were -kinder and more considerate and what we called “partial” to the children -of influential parents than to the rest. And we were perfectly sure that -this consideration had an important bearing on our marks. - -As a general rule, we children did not care much to read; and, for that -matter, I am inclined to think that few healthy children do. A child -would rather do things, or see them done, than read about how someone -else has done them. So far as we did read, we always chose the things we -were told we should not read. No doubt this came from the general belief -that the imagination of children should be developed; and with the -ordinary teacher and parent this meant telling about fairies, giants, -and goblins, and sometimes even ghosts. These stories were always told -as if they were really true; and it was commonly believed that -cultivating the imagination of a child meant teaching him to see giants -instead of men, and fairies and goblins instead of beasts and birds. We -children soon came to doubt the whole brood of fairies, and we never -believed in ghosts except at night when there was no candle in the room, -and when we came near the graveyard. After these visions were swept -away, our minds turned to strong men, to kings and Indians and warriors, -and we read of them. - -My parents often despaired about the rules that I would not learn or -keep, and the books I would not read. They did not seem to know that all -the rules ever made could cover only the very smallest fraction of the -conduct of a child or man, and that the one way to teach conduct was by -an appeal direct to the heart, an effort to place the child in harmony -with the life in which he lived. To teach children their duty by rule, -or develop their imaginations by stories of fairies and angels and -goblins, always was and always will be a hopeless task. But imagination -is more easily developed in the little child than in later years, -because the blood flows faster and the feelings are deeper and warmer in -our youth. The imagination of the child is aroused when it really feels -itself a part of all the living things with which its life is cast; -feels that it is of kin to the parents and teachers, the men and women, -the boys and girls, the beasts and birds, with whom it lives and -breathes and moves. If this thought and this feeling take possession of -the heart of the child, he will need no rules or lessons for his -conduct. It will become a portion of his life; and his associations with -his fellows, both human and animal, will be marked by consideration, -gentleness, and love. - - - - - CHAPTER XVII - HOLIDAYS - - -I remember that we boys used to argue as to which was better, summer or -winter. Each season had its special charms, and each was welcome after -the other one had run its course. One reason why we were never sure -which was best was that Christmas came in winter and Fourth of July in -summer. There were other lesser holidays that counted little with the -boy. There was Thanksgiving; but ours was a village of New England -people, and Thanksgiving was largely a religious day. The church-bells -always rang on Thanksgiving, although usually we were not compelled to -go to meeting. Then, too, Thanksgiving was the day for family reunions. -Our aunts and uncles and grandfathers and grandmothers came to take -dinner with us, or we went to visit them; and we had to comb our hair -and dress up, and be told how we had grown, and how much we looked like -our father or our mother or our aunt, or some other member of the -family; and altogether the day was about as stupid as Sunday, and we -were glad when it was over. - -Then there was New Year’s day; but this was of little use. No one paid -much attention to New Year’s, and generally the people worked that day -the same as any other. Sometimes a belated Christmas present was left -over to New Year’s day, and we always had a lingering expectation that -we might get something then, although our hopes were not strong enough -to warrant hanging up our stockings again. Washington’s Birthday was of -no account whatever, and in those days Lincoln’s birthday and Labor-day -had not yet been made holidays. We managed to get a little fun out of -April Fool’s day, but this was not a real holiday, for school kept that -day. - -But Christmas and Fourth of July were really made for boys. No one -thought of working on these days, and even my father did not make us -study then. Christmas was eagerly looked forward to while it was still a -long way off, and a good many of the boys and girls believed in Santa -Claus. All the children had heard the story, but my parents always told -us it was not true, and we knew that Santa Claus was really our father -and mother, or sometimes our uncles and aunts and grandparents, and -people like that. Of course we hung up our stockings; all boys and girls -did that. We went to bed early at night and got up early in the morning, -and after comparing our presents at home we started out through the -neighborhood to see what the other boys and girls had got. Then there -was the Christmas-tree in the evening at the church. This was one -occasion when there was no need to make us go to church; and we all got -a little paper horn of candy, or a candy cane, or some such treasure, -plucked fresh from the green tree among the little lighted wax candles -stuck on every branch. All day long on Christmas we could slide down -hill or skate, and sometimes we even had a new pair of skates or a sled -for a present. Altogether Christmas was a happy day to us children. - -Of course there were some boys and girls who got very little at -Christmas, and some who got nothing at all, and these must have grieved -a great deal; and I wondered not a little why it was that things were so -uneven and unfair. I know now that it was cruel that this knowledge -could not have been kept from the little child until he had grown better -able to know and understand. I also realize that even to my parents, who -were not the very poorest, with so many children Christmas must have -meant a serious burden both for what they gave and what they could not -give, and that my mother must have denied herself many things that she -should have had, and my father must have been compelled to forego many -books that would have brought him comfort and consolation for his buried -hopes. - -As I have grown older, and have seen Christmas-giving develop into a -duty and a burden, and often a burden hard to bear, I have come to -believe less and less in this sort of indiscriminate matter-of-course -gift-making. If one really wishes to make a present, it should be -offered freely from the heart as well as from the hand, and given -without regard to Christmas day. With care and thoughtfulness on the -part of parents, almost any day could be a holiday to little children, -and they would soon forget that “Christmas comes but once a year.” - -But, after all, I think the boys of my time liked the Fourth of July -better than Christmas day. This was no doubt largely due to the fact -that children love noise. They want “something doing,” and the Fourth of -July somehow satisfies this desire more than any other day. Then we boys -ourselves had a great deal to do with the Fourth of July. In fact, there -could not have been a real Fourth without our effort and assistance. As -on Christmas eve, we went to bed early without protest on the night -before the Fourth,—so early that we could not go to sleep, and would lie -awake for hours wondering if it were not almost time for the Fourth to -begin. We always started the celebration before daylight. The night -before, we had put our dimes and pennies together and bought all the -powder we could get the stores to sell us; and then the blacksmith’s boy -had a key to the shop,—and, anyhow, his father was very “clever” to us -boys. By the help of this boy we unlocked the door, took out the anvils, -and loaded them on a wagon. We got a little charcoal stove from the boy -whose father had a tin-shop, and with it a long rod of iron; and then we -started out, before day had dawned, to usher in the Fourth. We drew the -anvils up and down the road, stopping particularly before the houses -where we knew that we would not be welcome. Then we unloaded one anvil, -turned it upside down, filled the little square hole in the bottom level -full of powder, put a damp paper over this, and a little trail of powder -to the edge, and put the other anvil on top; then the bravest boy took -the rod of iron, one end of which had been heated in the charcoal stove, -and while the rest of us put our fingers in our ears and ran away, he -boldly touched off the trail of powder,—and a mighty roar reverberated -down the valley and up the sides of the hills to their very crests. - -After saluting the citizens whom we especially wished to favor or annoy, -we went to the public square and fired the anvils until day began to -break, and then we turned home and crawled into our beds to catch a -little sleep before our services should be needed later on. - -It was generally eight or nine o’clock before we got our hurried -breakfast and met again at the public square. We visited the shops and -stores, and went up to the little knots of men and women to hear what -they had to say about the cannonading, and intimated very broadly that -we could tell who did it if we only would. Then we lighted our bits of -punk and began the fusillade of fire-crackers that was next in order on -our programme. At this time the cannon fire-cracker, with all its -terrors, had not come; and though here and there some boy had a small -cannon or a pistol, the noise was confined almost entirely to -fire-crackers. Most of us had to be very saving of them; they were -expensive in those days, and our funds were low especially after the -heavy firing in the early hours. We always felt that it was not fair -that we should be obliged to get up before daylight in the morning and -do the shooting, and buy the powder too, and once or twice we carried -around a subscription paper to the business-men to raise funds for the -powder; but this met with poor success. Farmington never was a very -public-spirited place. - -There were always plenty of boys who could shoot a fire-cracker and hold -it in their hands until it went off, and now and then one who could hold -it in his teeth with his eyes shut tight. But this last exploit was -considered dangerous, and generally was done only on condition that we -gave a certain number of fire-crackers to the boy who took the risk. -While we were all together, to hear someone else shoot fire-crackers was -a very different thing from shooting them yourself. Although you did -nothing but touch the string to a piece of lighted punk and throw the -fire-cracker in the air, it sounded better when you threw it yourself -than when some other boy threw it in your place. - -Often on the Fourth of July we had a picnic in the afternoon, and -sometimes a ball-game too. This, of course, was in case it did not rain; -rain always stopped everything, and it seemed as if it always did rain -on the Fourth. Some people said this was because so much powder was -exploded; but it could not be so, because it generally rained on picnic -days whether it was the Fourth or not. And then on Saturday afternoons, -at the time of our best base-ball matches, it often rained; and this -even after we had gone to the neighboring town, or their boys had come -to visit us. In fact, rain was one of the crosses of our young lives. -There was never any way of knowing whether it would come or not; but -there it was, always hanging above our heads like the famous sword of -Damascus—or some such man—that our teachers told us was suspended by a -hair. Of course, when we complained and were rebellious about the rain -our parents told us that if it did not rain we should have no wheat or -corn, and everything would dry up, and all of us would starve; but these -were only excuses,—for why could it not rain on Sunday, when there was -nothing to do and no one to be harmed? Besides, there were six other -days in the week besides Saturday, and only one holiday in the whole -long summer; and how could there be any use of making it rain on those -days? - -Another thing that caused us a good deal of annoyance was that Fourth of -July and Christmas sometimes came on Sunday. Of course, either a -Saturday or a Monday was usually chosen in its place; but this was not -very satisfactory, as some of the people would celebrate on Saturday, -and some on Monday,—and, besides, we could not have a “truly Fourth” on -any day except the Fourth. - -When we had a “celebration,” it was generally in the afternoon, and was -held in a grove beside the river below the town. Everyone went to the -celebration, not only in Farmington but in all the country round. On -that day the brass-band came out in its great four-horse wagon, and the -members were dressed in uniform covered with gold braid. Some of them -played on horns almost as long and as big as themselves; and I thought -that if I could only be a member of the band and have one of those big -horns, I should feel very proud and happy. There was always someone -there to sell lemonade, which looked very nice to us boys, although we -hardly ever had a chance to get any after the powder and the -fire-crackers had been bought. There were swings, and things like that; -but they were not much fun, for there were so many boys to use them, -and, besides, the girls had to have the swings most of the time, and all -we could do was to swing them. - -Then we had dinner out of a basket. We always thought that this would be -a great deal of fun; but it never was. The main thing that everyone -carried to the dinner was cold chicken, and I hated chicken; and even if -I managed to get something else, it had been smeared and covered over -with chicken gravy, and wasn’t fit to eat,—and then, too, the butter was -melted and ran over everything, and was more like grease than butter. -Besides, there were bugs and flies and mosquitoes getting into -everything, to say nothing of the worms and caterpillars that dropped -down off the trees or crawled up on the tablecloth. I never could see -any fun in a basket picnic, even on the Fourth of July. - -After we were through with our dinners, Squire Allen came on the -platform with the speaker of the day. The first thing Squire Allen did -was to put on his gold spectacles; then he took a drink of water from a -pitcher that stood on a stand on the platform; then he came to the front -of the platform and said: “Friends and fellow-citizens: The exercises -will begin by reading the Declaration of Independence.” Then he began to -read, and it seemed as if he never would finish. Of course I knew -nothing about the Declaration of Independence, and neither did the other -boys. We thought it was something Squire Allen wrote, because he always -read it, and we did not think anyone else could read the Declaration of -Independence. We all came up quite close and kept still when he began to -read, but we never stood still until he got through. And we never had -the least idea what it was about. All I remember is the beginning, “When -in the Course of Human Events”; and from what I have learned since I -think this is all that anyone knows about the Declaration of -Independence,—or, for that matter, all that anyone cares. - -When Squire Allen finally got through the reading, he introduced the -speaker of the day. This was always some lawyer who came from Warner, -the county-seat, twenty miles away. I had seen the lawyer’s horse and -buggy at the hotel in the morning, and I thought how nice they were, and -how much money a lawyer must make, and what a great man he was, and how -I should like to be a lawyer; and I wondered what one had to study to be -a lawyer, and how long it took, and how much brains, and a lot of things -of this sort. The lawyer never seemed to be a bit afraid to stand up -there on the platform before the audience, and I remember that he wore -nice clothes,—a good deal nicer than those of the farmers and other -people who came to hear him talk,—and his boots looked shiny, as if they -had just been greased. He talked very loud, and seemed to be mad about -something, especially when he spoke of the war and the “Bridish,” and he -waved his hands and arms a great deal, and made quite a fuss about it -all. I know that he said quite a lot about the Declaration of -Independence, and a lot about fighting, and how glorious it was; and -told us all about Europe and Asia and Africa, and how poor and -downtrodden and ignorant all those people were, and how free we were, -all on account of the Declaration of Independence, and the flag, and the -G. A. R., and because our people were such good fighters. He told us -that whatever happened, we must stand by the Declaration of Independence -and the flag, and be ready to fight and to die if we ever had a chance -to fight and die. And the old farmers clapped their hands and nodded -their heads, and said he was a mighty smart man, and a great man, and -thoroughly patriotic, and as long as we had such men the country was -safe; and we boys went away feeling as if we wanted to fight, and -wondering why the people in other countries ever let the rulers run over -them the way they did, and feeling sorry they were so poor and weak and -cowardly, and hoping we could get into a war with the “Bridish” and help -to free her poor ignorant serfs, and wondering if we were old enough to -be taken if we did have a war, and wishing if we did that the lawyer -could be the General, or the President, or anything else, for he -certainly was a great man and could talk louder than anyone we had ever -heard. I usually noticed that the lawyer was running for some office in -the fall, and everyone said that he was just the man that we ought to -have,—he was such a great patriot. - - After the speech was over we went home to supper; and after dark, to -the square to see the fireworks. This was a fitting close to a great -day. We always noted every stage of preparation. We knew just how they -put up the platform, and how they fixed the trough for the sky-rockets. -We knew who touched them off, who held the Roman candles, and who -started the pin-wheels, and just what they all cost. We sat in wonder -and delight while the pin-wheels and Roman candles were going through -their performance; but when the sky-rockets were touched off, we watched -them until they exploded in the air, and then raced off in the darkness -to find the sticks. - -After the fireworks we slowly went home. Although it had been a long day -since we began shooting the anvils in the gray morning, it was hard to -see the Fourth actually over. Take it all together, we agreed that the -Fourth of July was the best day of all the year. - - - - - CHAPTER XVIII - BASE-BALL - - -My greatest regret at growing old was the fact that I must give up -playing ball. Even while I could still play, I began to think how soon -it would be when I could no longer take an active part, but must simply -stand and watch the game. Somehow base-ball has always seemed to me the -only thing in life that came up to my hopes and expectations. And thus -it is by Nature’s fatal equation that the sensation that gave me the -greatest pleasure has caused me the most regret. So, after all, in the -final balance base-ball only averages with the rest. I know that, as a -youth, I thought that nothing felt so good as a toothache—after it had -stopped. Perhaps the world is so arranged that joys and sorrows balance -one another, and the one who has the happiest life feels so much regret -in giving it up that he comes out with the same net result as the one -who feels pleasure in escaping a world of sorrow and despair. - -But I meant to tell about my base-ball days. These began so long ago -that I do not know the time, but I am sure they commenced as the game -began, for base-ball was evolved from our boyish game of “two-old-cat -and three-old-cat,” which we played while very young. Since I batted my -last ball I have often sat on the bleachers of our great towns to see -the game. But base-ball now is not the base-ball of my young days. Of -course I would not admit that there are better players now than then, -but the game has been brought to such a scientific state that one might -as well stand and watch the thumping of some great machine as a modern -game of ball. There used to be room for individual merit, for skill, for -blunders and mistakes, for chance and luck, and all that goes to make up -a game. - -The hired players of to-day are no more players than mercenary troops -are patriots. They are bought and sold on the open market, and have no -pride of home and no town reputation to maintain. Neither I nor any of -my companions could any more have played a game of base-ball with -Hartford against Farmington than we could have joined a foreign army and -fought against the United States. And we would have scorned to hire -mercenaries from any other town. We were not only playing ball, but we -were fighting for the glory and honor of Farmington. Neither had the -game sunk to any such ignoble state that we were paid for our services. -We played ball; we did not work at the trade of amusing people,—we had -something else to do. There was school in the spring and autumn months; -there were the grist-mill, the blacksmith-shop, and the farms in the -summer-time, and only Saturday afternoons were reserved for ball, -excepting such practice as we might get in the long summer twilight -hours. We literally left our callings on the day we played ball,—left -them as Cincinnatus left his plough in the furrow and rode off to war in -obedience to his country’s call. - -At school we scarcely took time to eat our pie or cake and cheese, but -crammed them into our mouths, snatched the bat, and hurried to the -ball-grounds, swallowing our luncheon in great gulps as we went along. -At recess we played until the last tones of the little bell had died -away, and the teacher with exhausted patience had shut the door and gone -back to her desk; then we dropped the clubs and hurried in. When school -was out, we went home for our suppers and to do our few small chores, -and then rushed off to the public square to get all the practice that we -could. - -Well do I remember one summer Saturday afternoon long years ago,—how -long, I cannot say, but I could find the date if I dared to look it up. -The almanacs, when we got the new ones at the store about Christmas, had -told us that there would be an almost total eclipse of the sun that -year. The people far and near looked for the eventful day. As I recall, -some wise astronomers hired a special ship and sailed down to the -equator to make observations which they could not make at home. We -children smoked little bits of glass over a lighted candle, that we -might look through the blackened glass straight at the dazzling sun. - -When the day came round, there it was a Saturday afternoon! Of course we -met as usual on the public square; we chose sides and began the game. We -saw the moon slowly and surely throwing its black shadow across the sun; -but we barely paused to glance up at the wonders that the heavens were -revealing to our view. We did not stop the game until it grew so dark -that we could hardly see the ball, and then sadly and reluctantly we -gathered at the home-base, feeling that the very heavens had conspired -to cheat us of our game. Impatiently we waited until the moon began to -drift so far past the sun that his friendly rays could reveal the ball -again; and then we quickly took our places, and the game went on. It -could not have been too dark to play for more than twenty or thirty -minutes at the most, yet this marvel sank into insignificance in -comparison with the time we lost from our game of ball. - -Our usual meeting-place was on the public square. This was not an ideal -spot, but it was the best we had. The home-base was so near the hotel -that the windows were in constant danger, and the dry-goods store was -not far beyond the second base. Squire Allen’s house and a grove of -trees were only a little way back of the third base, and many a precious -moment was lost in hunting for the ball in the grass and weeds in his -big yard. The flag-pole and the guide-post, too, stood in the most -inconvenient spots that could be found. We managed to move the -guide-post, but the mere suggestion of changing the flag-pole was -thought to be little less than treason; for Farmington was a very -patriotic town. - -We played base-ball for many years before we dreamed of such -extravagance as special suits to play it in. We came to the field -exactly as we left our work, excepting that some of us would manage to -get a strap-belt to take the place of suspenders. We usually played in -our bare feet, for we could run faster in this way; and when in the -greatest hurry to make first-base, we generally snatched off our caps -and threw them on the ground. - -We had a captain of the team, but his rule was very mild, and each boy -had about as much to say as any of the rest. This was especially true -when the game was on. Not only did each player have a chance to direct -and advise, in loud shouts and boisterous words, but the spectators -joined in all sorts of counsel, encouragement, and admonition. When the -ball was struck particularly hard, a shout went up from the gathered -multitude as if a fort had fallen after a hard-fought siege. Then every -person on the field would shout directions,—how many bases should be -run, and where the fielder ought to throw the ball,—until the chief -actors were so confused by the babel of voices that they entirely lost -their heads. - -Finally we grew so proud of our progress in base-ball that after great -efforts we managed to get special suits. These were really wonders in -their way. True, they were nothing but a shirt and a pair of trousers -that came down just below the knee. But all the boys were dressed alike, -and the suits were made of blue with a red stripe running down the side -of the legs to help the artistic effect. After this, we played ball -better than before; and the fame of our club crept up and down the -stream and over beyond the hills on either side. Then we began issuing -challenges to other towns and accepting theirs. This was still more -exciting. By dint of scraping together our little earnings, we would -contrive to hire a two-horse wagon and go out to meet the enemy in -foreign lands. In turn, the outside clubs would come to visit us. The -local feeling spread from the boys to their families and neighbors, and -finally the girls got interested in the game and came to see us play. -This added greatly to our zeal and pride. Often, in some contest of more -than common interest, the girls got up a supper for the club; and when -the game was done we ranged ourselves on the square and gave three -cheers for the other club, and then three cheers for the girls. This -they doubtless thought was pay enough. - -A game of ball in those exciting times was not played in an hour or two -after the day’s work was done. It began promptly at one o’clock and -lasted until dark; sometimes the night closed in before it was finished. -The contest was not between the pitcher and the catcher alone; we all -played, and each player was as important as the rest. Our games never -ended with four or five sickly tallies on a side. A club that could get -no more runs than this had no right to play. Each club got forty or -fifty tallies, and sometimes more; and the batting was one of the -features of the game. Of course, we boys were not so cool and deliberate -and mechanical as players are to-day. We had a vital interest in the -game; and this, more than any other activity, was our very life. The -base-ball teams of these degenerate days are simply playing for pay; and -they play ball with the same precision that a carpenter would nail -shingles on a roof. Ball-playing with us was quite another thing. The -result of our games depended as much upon our mistakes, and those of the -other side, as upon any good playing that we did. In a moment of intense -excitement the batter would knock the ball straight into the -short-stop’s hands; it was an easy matter to throw it to first-base and -head off the runner, and every boy on the field and every man in the -crowd would shout to the short-stop just what to do. He had time to -spare; but for the moment the game was his, and all eyes were turned on -him. As a rule, he eagerly snatched the ball and threw it clear over the -first-baseman’s head, so far away that the batter was safely landed on -third-base before the ball was again inside the ring. The fielder, too, -at the critical time, when all eyes were turned toward him, would get -fairly under the flying ball, and then let it roll through his hands -while the batter got his base. At any exciting part of the game the -fielding nine could be depended upon to make errors enough to let the -others win the game. - -Then, as now, the umpire’s place was the hardest one to fill. It was the -rule that the umpire should be chosen by the visiting club; and this -carried him into a violently hostile camp. Of course, he, like everyone -else, could be relied on in critical times to decide in favor of his -friends; but such decisions called down on him the wrath of the crowd, -who sometimes almost drove him off the field. - -It was a famous club that used to gather on the square. Whether in -batting, catching, or running bases, we always had a boy who was the -best in all the country round, and the base-ball club added not a little -to the prestige that we all thought belonged to Farmington. - -One game I shall remember to the last moment of my life. The fight had -been long and hard, with our oldest and most hated rivals. The day was -almost done, and the shadows already warned us that night was close at -hand. We had come to the bat for the last half of the last inning, and -were within one of the score of the other side, with two players out, -and two on bases. Of course no more exciting situation could exist; for -this was the most critical portion of the most important event of our -young lives. It came my turn to take the bat. After one or two feeble -failures to hit the ball, I swung my club just at the right time and -place and with tremendous force. The ball went flying over the roof of -the store, and rolled down to the river-bank on the other side. I had -gone quite around the ring before anyone could get near the ball. I can -never forget the wild ovation in which I ran around the ring, and the -mad enthusiasm when the home-plate was reached and the game was won. -Whenever I read of Cæsar’s return to Rome, I somehow think of this great -hit and my home-run which won the game. - -All the evening, knots of men and boys gathered in the various public -places to discuss that unprecedented stroke. Next day at church almost -every eye was turned toward me as I walked conspicuously and a little -tardily up the aisle, and for days and weeks my achievement was the -chief topic of the town. Finally the impression wore away, as all things -do in this busy world where everybody wants the stage at once, and then -I found myself obliged to call attention to my great feat. Whenever any -remarkable play was mentioned or great achievement referred to, I would -say, “Yes, but do you remember the time I knocked the ball over the -store and made that home-run?” Many years have passed since then, and -here I am again relating this exploit and writing it down to be printed -in a book. - -Since that late summer afternoon when I ran so fast around the ring -amidst the plaudits of my town, I have had my rightful share of triumphs -and successes,—especially my rightful share in view of the little Latin -I knew when I started out in life. But among them all fame and time and -fortune have never conspired to make my heart so swell with pride -through any other triumph of my life as when I knocked the ball over the -dry-goods store and won the game. - - - - - CHAPTER XIX - AUNT MARY - - -Like everything else in my early life, my Aunt Mary is a memory that is -shrouded in mist. I have no idea when I first heard of her or first saw -her, but both events were while I was very young. Neither can I now -separate my earlier impressions of Aunt Mary from those that must have -been formed when I had grown into my boyhood. It was some time after she -was fixed in my mind before I knew that there was an Uncle Ezra, and -that he was Aunt Mary’s husband. They had never had any children, and -had always lived alone. Whenever either one was spoken of, or any event -or affair connected with their lives was referred to, it was always Aunt -Mary instead of Uncle Ezra. - -When I first remember them, they were old, or at least they seemed old -to me. They had a little farm not far from our home; and I sometimes -used to go down the dusty road to their house for eggs, butter, and -buttermilk. Aunt Mary was famed throughout the region for the fine -butter she made; and, either from taste or imagination, I was so fond of -it that I would eat no other kind. - -Aunt Mary lived in a two-story white house with a wing on one side. In -front was a picket fence, whitewashed so often that it fairly shone. Two -large elm-trees stood just outside the fence, and a little gate opened -for the footpath from the road, and next to this were bars that could be -taken down to let teams drive in and out. In the front yard were a -number of evergreen trees trimmed in such a way as to leave a large -green ball on top. A door and several windows were in the front of the -house, and another door and more windows on the side next the wing, -which was mainly used for a woodshed and summer kitchen. A little path -ran from the gate to the side door, and this was covered with large flat -stones, which were kept so clean that they were almost spotless. There -was no path running to the front door, although two stone steps led down -to the ground. The house was always white, as if freshly painted the day -before. Each of the windows had outside shutters (which we called -blinds), and these were painted blue. I well remember these shutters, -for all the others that I had ever seen were painted green, and I -wondered why everyone did not know that blue was much the most beautiful -color for blinds. The front door was never opened, and the front -shutters were always tightly closed. Whenever any of us went to the -house, we knew that we must go to the side door. If perchance a stranger -knocked at the front door, Aunt Mary would come around the corner of the -house and ask him to come to the kitchen. - -Through all the country Aunt Mary was known for her “neatness.” This had -grown to a disease, the ruling passion of her life. It was never easy to -get any of the other boys to go with me to Aunt Mary’s when I went for -butter. None of them liked her, and they all knew that she did not care -for them. I remember that when I first used to go there she would meet -me at the side door and ask me to stay out in the yard or go into the -woodshed while she got the butter or eggs. Then she would bring me a -lump of sugar or a fried cake (which she called a nut-cake) made from -dough boiled in lard, and which was very fine, especially when fresh and -hot, and tell me not to get any crumbs on the stone steps or on the -woodshed floor. Sometimes Uncle Ezra would come in from the barn or -fields while I was there, and he always seemed to be kind and friendly, -and would take me out to the pigpen while he poured the pails of swill -into the trough. I used to think it great sport to see the grunting hogs -rushing and shoving and tumbling over each other, and standing in the -trough to get all the swill they could. None of them ever seemed to have -enough, or to care whether the others had their share of swill or not. I -shall always feel that I learned a great deal about human nature by -helping Uncle Ezra feed his hogs. - -Uncle Ezra was a man who said but little. I never found him in the -house; he was always out on the farm, or in the barn, or sometimes in -the woodshed. This seemed the nearest that he ever came to the house. -Uncle Ezra was a short man with a bald head and a round face. He had -white whiskers and a little fringe of white hair around his head. He had -no teeth, at least none that I can remember to have seen. He was -slightly stooping, and was lame from rheumatism; and he wore a round -black hat, and a brown coat buttoned tightly around his waist, and -trousers made of some sort of brown drilling, and almost always rubber -boots. In the woodshed he kept another pair of trousers and clean boots, -which he put on when he went into the house to get his meals, or after -it was too late to stay outside. I never heard him joke or laugh, or say -anything angry or unkind. He always spoke of Aunt Mary as “the old -woman,” and showed no feeling or emotion of any sort in connection with -her. Whenever he was asked about any kind of business, he directed -inquirers to “the old woman.” - -Aunt Mary was tall and thin and very straight. Her hair was white, and -done up in a knot on the back of her head. It seems as if she wore a -sort of striped calico dress, and an apron over this. No doubt she -sometimes wore other clothes; but she has made her impression on my -memory in this way. Poor thing! like all the rest of the mortals who -ever lived and died, she doubtless tried to make the best impression she -could, and at some fateful time this image was cast upon my mind, and -there it stayed forever, and gets printed in a book,—the only one that -ever held her name. The real person may have been very different indeed, -and the fault have been not at all with her, but with the poor substance -on which the shadow fell. - -I can remember Aunt Mary only in one particular way; and when her name -is called, and she steps out from the dim, almost forgotten past, I see -the tall, spare old woman, with two or three long teeth and a wisp of -snow-white hair, and a dress with stripes running up and down, making -her seem even taller and thinner than she really was. I see her, through -the side door which opened from the room which was kitchen, dining-room, -and living-room combined. I am a barefooted child standing on the stone -steps outside, and looking in through the open door. I am nibbling -slowly and prudently at a delicious nut-cake, and wondering if there are -any more where that one came from, and if she will bring me another when -this is eaten up, and thinking that if I really knew she would I need -not make this one last so long. Almost opposite the door stands the -cooking-stove. I can see it now, with its two short legs in front, and -its two tall ones in the back. There is the sliding hearth, used to -regulate the draught. Back of this, and above the hearth, is the little -square iron box where wood is put in; over this are the holes for pots -and kettles; and farther back, and above all, is the tall oven almost on -a level with Aunt Mary’s shoulders. On the oven is a pan of dish-water, -and she is wringing out a rag and for the thousandth time wiping the -spotless oven. When this is done, she goes downstairs to the cellar, and -gets the butter in the little tin pail, then goes to the cupboard and -finds another nut-cake and brings them to the door. Then she looks -carefully down to the stone steps to see if I have left any crumbs, and -puts the pail and the nut-cake into my waiting hands. Before I go, she -asks me about my father and mother, my brothers and sisters; whether the -washing has been done this week; whether my sister is going to take -music-lessons this fall; whether there is water enough in the dam to run -the mill; and then she bids me hurry home lest the butter should melt on -the way. - -Aunt Mary did not live in the kitchen because there was no other room. -After a time I learned that there were a parlor and a spare bedroom on -the lower floor, and that the front door opened into a hall that led to -the parlor and then on to the kitchen at the back. As I grew older and -gained her confidence, she told me that if I would go out in the tall -grass by the pump and wipe my feet carefully she would let me come into -the house. As I came up to the door, she looked at me suspiciously, to -see that there was no dirt on my feet or clothes, and set me down in a -straight wooden chair; then she kept on with her dish-rag, and plied me -with questions as to the health of the various members of the family, -and how they were progressing with their work. She never left the high -oven, with its everlasting dish-pan, except to wipe imaginary dirt from -some piece of furniture, and then go back to wring the cloth from the -water once again. Although she almost always gave me a nut-cake or a -piece of pie, she never invited me to dinner, and always asked me to go -outside to eat. - -By slow degrees she told me about her parlor and spare bedroom. And one -day, after watching me wipe my feet with special care, she took me into -the hall, cautiously opened the parlor door, and let me into the -forbidden room. As we went into the hall and the parlor, she took pains -that no flies should follow through the doors; and then, when these were -closed and we were safely inside the cool dark room, she slowly and -cautiously pushed back the curtains, raised the window just enough to -put through her long thin hand and turn the little blue slats of the -window-blinds to let in some timid rays of light. Then she pointed out -the various pieces of furniture in the parlor, with all the pride of -possession and detail of description of a lackey who shows wandering -Americans the belongings of an old English castle or country seat. On -the floor was a real Brussels carpet, with great red and black flower -figures. A set of cane-seated chairs—six in all—were placed by twos -against the different sides of the walls; while a large rocking-chair -was near the spare bedroom, and in the corner a walnut whatnot on which -were arranged shells and stones. Near the centre was a real marble-top -table, with a great Bible and a red plush album in the middle. A square -box sheet-iron stove, with black glistening pipe, stood on one side of -the room on a round zinc base. On the walls were many pictures hung with -big red cord on large glass-headed nails. There was a crayon portrait of -her father, a once famous preacher, and also one of her mother; two or -three yarn mottoes in black walnut frames hung above the doors, and some -chromos, which she said had come with tea, completed the adornment of -the walls. The elegance of all I saw made the deepest impression on my -childish mind. Not a fly was in sight, and everything was without -blemish or spot. I could not refrain from expressing my admiration and -surprise, and my regret that everyone in town could not see this -beautiful parlor. Then Aunt Mary confided to me that sometime she was -going to have a party and invite all her friends. Then she began looking -doubtfully at the streaks of sunlight in the room, and casting her eyes -around the ceiling and the walls to see if perchance a stray fly might -have come through the door; and then she went to the window and pushed -back the long stiff lace curtains, and closed the blinds, leaving us -once more in the dark. Of course I never could forget that parlor, -though Aunt Mary did not take me there again. - -Sometime afterwards, when I went for butter, I missed her at the high -oven where she always stood with the dish-cloth in her hand. When I -knocked, Uncle Ezra let me in. The big rocker had been drawn out into -the kitchen, near the stove; and Aunt Mary, looking very white, sat in -the chair propped up with pillows. I asked her if she was sick, and she -answered no, but that she had been “feeling poorly” for some time past. - -Of course I must have heard all about her illness at the time, but this -has faded from my mind. I remember only that Uncle Ezra came to the -house one day, looking very sad, and when he spoke he simply said, “The -old woman is dead.” - -We children were all taken to the funeral. I shall always remember this -event, for when we went through the little gate there stood the front -door wide open, and we went in through the hall. Aunt Mary was lying -peacefully in her coffin in the front parlor. All the chairs in the -house had been brought in. Uncle Ezra sat with downcast head near the -spare bedroom door, a few neighbors and relatives were seated in chairs -around the room, and overhead, on the white ceiling, the flies were -buzzing and swarming as if in glee. The old preacher was there, and I -remember that in his sermon he referred to Aunt Mary’s “neatness”; and -here I know that Uncle Ezra groaned. - -The day was rainy, and the neighbors had tracked mud on the nice -Brussels carpet. I looked around the room that Aunt Mary had shown me -with such pride and care. The muddy shoes of the neighbors who had -gathered about the coffin were making great spots on the floor; the -ceiling was growing blacker each minute with the gathering flies. A -great bluebottle, larger than the rest, was buzzing on the glass above -Aunt Mary’s head, trying to get inside the lid. The windows were wide -open, the curtains drawn aside, and the blinds thrown back. Slowly I -looked at the muddy floor, the swarming flies, and the people gathered -in Aunt Mary’s parlor; and then I thought of the party that she had told -me she was going to give. - - - - - CHAPTER XX - FERMAN HENRY - - -It was when I began to go to the district school that I first heard of -Ferman Henry and his house. Just after we had waded through the little -stream that ran across the road, we came in full sight of the place. The -house stood about half-way up the hill that rose gently from the little -creek, and in front of it was a large oak-tree that spread its branches -out over the porch and almost to the road. There were alder-bushes and -burdocks along the fence,—or, rather, where the fence was meant to be; -for when I first knew the place almost half of it was gone, and the -remaining half was never in repair. On one side of the house was a well, -and in this was a wooden pump. We used often to stop here to get a -drink,—for there never yet was a boy that could pass by water without -stopping for a drink. I remember that the pump always had to be primed, -the valves were so old and worn; and when we poured water in at the top -to start it, we had to work the handle very hard and fast, until we got -quite red in the face, before the water came, and then we had to keep -the handle going, for if we stopped a single moment the water would run -down again and leave the pump quite dry. I never knew the time when the -pump was in repair, and I do not know why it was that we boys spent our -breath in priming it and getting water from the well. Perhaps it was -because we had always heard that the water was so very cold; and -perhaps, too, because we liked to stop a moment at the house,—for Ferman -Henry and his family were the “cleverest” people we knew. City people -may not know that in Farmington we used the word “clever” to mean kind -or obliging,—as when we spoke of a boy who would give us a part of his -apple, or a neighbor who would lend us his tools or do an errand for us -when he went to town. - -I had always been told that Ferman Henry was a very shiftless man. The -neighbors knew that he would leave his buggy or his harness out of doors -under the apple-trees all summer long, exposed to sun and rain; and that -he did not like to work. Our people thought that everyone should not -only work, but also like to work simply for the pleasure it brought. I -recall that our copy-books and readers said something of this sort when -I went to school; and I know that the people of Farmington believed, or -thought they believed, that this was true. - -Ferman Henry was a carpenter, and a good one, everybody said, although -it was not easy to get him to undertake a job of work; and if he began -to build something, he would never finish it, but leave it for someone -else when it was partly done. He was a large, fat man, and when I first -knew him he wore a colored shirt, and trousers made of blue drilling -with wide suspenders passing over his great shoulders; sometimes one of -these was broken, and he often fastened the end to his trousers with a -nail that slipped through a hole in the suspender and in the cloth, -where a button was torn off. He often wore cowhide boots, with his -trousers legs sometimes inside and sometimes outside; but generally he -was barefoot when we went past the house. I do not remember seeing him -in winter-time, perhaps because then he was not out of doors under the -big oak-tree. At any rate, my memory pictures him only as I have -described him. - -When I first heard of Ferman Henry, I was told about his house. This was -begun before the war, and he was building it himself. He began it so -that he might be busy when he had no other work to do; and then too his -family was always getting larger, and he needed a new home. He had -worked occasionally upon the house for six or seven years, and then he -went out as a soldier with the three-months’ men. This absence hindered -him seriously with his work; but before he went away he managed to -inclose enough of the house so that he was able to move his family in, -intending to finish the building as soon as he got back. - -The house was not a large affair,—an upright part with three rooms above -and three below, and a one-story kitchen in the shape of an L running -from the side. But it was really to be a good house, for Ferman Henry -was a good carpenter and was building it for a home. - -After he got back from the war he would take little jobs of work from -the neighbors now and then, but still tinkered at his house. When any -work of special importance or profit came along, he refused it, saying -he must first “finish up” his house. - -I can just remember the building as it appeared when I commenced going -to the district school. The clapboards had begun to brown with age and -wind and rain. The front room was done, excepting as to paint. The back -room below and the rooms upstairs were still unfinished, and the L was -little more than a skeleton waiting for its bones to be covered up. The -front doors and windows had been put in, but the side and back windows -were boarded up, and no shutters had appeared. Back of the house was a -little barn with a hen-house on one side, and on the other was a pen -full of grunting pigs, drinking swill, growing fat, climbing into the -trough, and running their long snouts up through the pen to see what we -children had brought for them to eat. - -I remember Ferman Henry from the time when I first began to go to -school. He was fat and “clever,” and always ready to talk with any of -the boys; and he would tell us to come into the yard and take the dipper -and prime the pump, whenever we stopped to get a drink. He generally sat -outside, under the big oak-tree, on the bench that stood by the fence, -where he could see all who passed his door. - -Mrs. Henry was almost as large and fat as he, and she too was “clever” -to the boys. She wore a gray dress that was alike from head to foot, and -she never seemed to change it or get anything new. They had a number of -children, though I cannot tell now how many. The boys were always -falling out of the big oak-tree and breaking their arms and carrying -them in a sling. Two or three of those I knew went to school, and I -believe that some were large enough to work out. The children who went -to school never seemed to learn anything from their books, but they were -pleasant and “clever” with their dinners or their marbles, or anything -they had. We boys managed to have more or less sport at their expense. -The fact that they were “clever” and cheerful never seemed to make the -least difference to us, unless to give the chance to make more fun of -them on that account. They never seemed to bring much dinner to school, -excepting bread-and-butter, and the bread was cut in great thick slices, -and the butter never seemed very nice. I know it was none of Aunt -Mary’s. - -We boys could tell whether folks were rich or poor by the dinners the -children brought to school. If they had pie and cheese and cake and -frosted cookies, with now and then a nice ripe apple, we knew that they -were rich. We thought bread-and-butter the poorest kind of a lunch; and -sometimes we would stop on the way and open our dinner-pails and throw -it out. - -We always knew the Henrys were poor. They had no farm, only a bit of -land along the road that ran a little way up the hill. They kept one -cow, and sometimes a horse, and two or three long-eared hounds that used -to hunt at night, their deep howls filling the valley with doleful -sounds. - -Everyone said that Ferman Henry would work only when his money was all -gone, and that when he had enough ahead for a few weeks he would give up -his job. Sometimes he would work at the saw-mill and get a few more -boards for his house, or at the country store and get nails or glass. -After he came back from his three-months’ service he was given a small -pension, and for a few days after every quarterly payment the family -lived as well as the best, and sometimes even bought a little more -material for the house. - -Year after year, as the family grew, he added to the building, sometimes -plastering a room, sometimes putting in a window or a door; and he -always said it would be finished soon. - -But however poor they were, every time a circus came near the town the -whole family would go. The richest people in the village had never been -to as many circuses as the Henry boys; and even if they knew nothing -about the Romans or the Greeks, they could tell all about the latest -feats of skill and strength. - -I often saw Ferman Henry tinkering around the mill, where he came to do -some odd job to get a sack of meal or flour. Once I well remember that -the water-wheel had broken down and we had to stop the mill for several -days; my father tried to get him to come and fix the wheel, but he said -he really had not the time,—that he must finish up his house before cold -weather set in. - -As long as I went up and down the country road to school, I saw Ferman -Henry’s unfinished house. We boys used to speculate and wonder as to -when it would be done, and how it would look when it finally should be -finished. Our elders always told us that Ferman Henry was too shiftless -and lazy ever to complete his house, and warned us by his example. When -we left our task undone, or made excuses for our idleness, they asked us -if we wanted to grow up as shiftless and lazy as Ferman Henry. - -After I left the district school, and went the other way to the Academy -in the town, I still used to hear about Ferman Henry’s house. The people -at the stores would ask him how the work was coming on; and he always -answered that he would plaster his house in the fall, or paint it in the -spring, or finish it next year. - -Before I left Farmington, the growing Henry family seemed to fill every -crack and crevice of the house. The kitchen had been inclosed, but the -porch was not yet done. The shutters were still wanting, the plastering -was not complete, and the outside was yet unpainted; but he always said -that he would go at it in a few days and get it done. - -The last time I went to Farmington I drove past the house. Ferman Henry -sat upon the little bench under the big oak-tree. A pail of water, with -a dipper in it, stood by the pump. Mrs. Henry came out to see if I had -grown. A group of children were grubbing dirt in the front yard. I drew -up for a moment under the old tree, in the spot where I had so often -rested when a child. Ferman Henry seemed little changed. The years had -slipped over him like days or weeks, and scarcely left a furrow on his -face or whitened a single hair. At my questioning surprise, he told me -that the small children in the yard belonged to his sons who lived -upstairs. I looked at the house, now falling to decay. The roof was -badly patched, the weather-boards were loose; the porch had not been -finished, and the building had never seen a coat of paint. I asked after -his health and prosperity. He told me that all the family were well, and -that he was getting on all right, and expected to finish his house that -fall and paint it in the spring. Out in the back yard I heard the hogs -grunting in the pen, as in the old-time days. I saw the laughing -children playing in the dirt. Mrs. Henry stood on the porch outside, and -Ferman sat on the old bench and smiled benignly on me as I drove away. -Then I fell to musing as to who was the wiser,—he or I. - - - - - CHAPTER XXI - AUNT LOUISA - - -If I had only known, when I opened the long-closed door of the past, how -fondly I should linger around the old familiar haunts, I am sure that I -never should have taken a look back. I intended only to set down the few -events that connect me with to-day. I did not know that the child was -alien to the man, and that the world in which he lived was not the gray -old world I know, but a bright green spot where the sun shone and the -birds sang all day long, and the passing cloud left its shower only to -make the landscape fairer and brighter than before. - -And here, once more, while all reluctantly I was about to turn the bolt -on that other world, comes a long-forgotten scene, and a host of -memories that clamor for a place in the pages of my book. I cannot -imagine why they come, or what relation they bear to the important -events of a living world. I had thought them as dead as the tenants of -the oldest and most forgotten grave that had long since lost its -headstone and was only a sunken spot in the old churchyard. - -But there is the picture on my mind,—so clear and strong that I can -hardly think the scientists tell the truth when they say that our bodies -are made entirely new every seven years. I am still a child at the -district school. The day is over, and I have come back down the long -white country road to the little home. My older brother and sister have -come from school with me. As we open the front gate we have an instinct -that there is “company in the house”; how we know, I cannot tell,—but -our childish vision has caught some sign that tells us the family is not -alone. - -“Company” always brought mixed emotions to the boy. We never were quite -sure whether we liked it or not. We had more and better things for -supper than when we were alone; we had more things like pie and cake and -preserves and cheese, and we did not have to eat so much of the things -we liked less, such as bread-and-butter and potatoes and mush and milk. -Then, too, we were not so likely to get scolded when strangers were -around. I remember that I used to get some of the boys to go home with -me, when I had done something wrong that I feared had been found out and -would get me into trouble; and we often took some of the children home -with us when we wanted to ask permission to do something or go -somewhere,—or, better still, we got them to ask for us. These things, of -course, were set down on the good side of having company. - -But, on the other hand, we always had a clean tablecloth, and had to be -much more particular about the way we ate. We had to make more use of -our knives and forks and spoons, and less of our fingers; and we always -had to put on our boots, and wash our faces and hands, and have our hair -combed before we could go in to supper, or even into the front room -where the company was. And when we spoke we had to say “Yes, sir,” and -“No, sir,” and “Yes, ma’am,” and “No, ma’am.” And we were not supposed -to ask for anything at the table a second time; and if anything was -passed around the second time and came to us, we were not to take it, -but pass it on as though we already had enough. And we were always to -say “Please” and “Thank you,” and such useless words,—just as though we -said them every day of our lives. Sometimes, of course, we would forget, -and ask for something without stopping to say “Please,” and then our -mother would look sharply at us, as if she would do something to us when -the company was gone, and then she would ask us in the sweetest way if -we had not forgotten something, and we would have to begin all over and -say “Please.” - -Well, I remember that on this particular evening we all went round to -the back door, for we knew there was company in the house; and when we -went into the kitchen, our mother told us to be very still, and to wash -our feet and put on our stockings and shoes, for Aunt Louisa was there. -We asked how long she was going to stay; and she said she was not quite -sure, but probably at least until after supper. - -None of us liked Aunt Louisa. She was old, and had reddish false hair, -and was fat, and took snuff, and talked a great deal. She belonged to -the United Presbyterian church, and went every Sunday, and sat in a pew -clear up in front and a little on one side. Father and mother did not -like her, though they were nice to her when she came to visit them, and -sometimes they went to visit her. They said she came to see what she -could find to talk about and then would go and tell it to the neighbors; -and for this reason we must be very careful when she was there. - -Aunt Louisa was a “widow woman,” as she always said; her husband had -been killed by a horse many years before. She used often to tell us all -about how it happened, and it took her a long while to tell it, and my -father said that each time it took her longer than before. She had a -little house down a lane about three-quarters of a mile away, and a few -acres of ground which her husband had left her; and she used to visit a -great deal, calling on all the neighbors in regular turn, a good deal -like the school-teacher who boarded around. - -I remember that we had a nice clean tablecloth and a good supper the -night she came, and we all got along well at the table. We said “Please” -every time, and our mother never once had to look at us. After supper we -went into the parlor for a visit with Aunt Louisa. This must have been -only a little while before my mother’s death; for I can see her plainer -that night than at any other time. I wish I could remember the tones of -her voice; but their faintest echo has entirely passed away, and I am -not sure I should know them if they were spoken in my ear. Her face, -too, seems hidden by a mist, and is faded and indistinct. Yet there she -sits in her little sewing-chair, rocking back and forth, with her needle -in her hand and her basket on her lap. Poor woman! she was busy every -minute, and I suppose she never would have had a chance to rest if she -had not gone up to the churchyard for her last long sleep when we were -all so young. - -Aunt Louisa has brought her work; she is knitting a long woollen -stocking, and the yarn is white. She puts on her glasses, unwinds the -stocking, pulls her long steel needles out of the ball of yarn and -throws it on the floor; then she begins to knit. The knitting seems to -help her to talk; for as she moves the needles back and forth, she never -for a moment stops talking or lacks a single word. Something is said -that reminds her of her husband, and she tells us of his death: “It was -nearly thirty years ago. He went out to the barn to hitch up the colt. -The colt was one that Truman had just got that summer. He traded a pair -of oxen for it, to a man over in Johnston, but I disremember his name. -It was a tall rangy colt, almost as black as coal, but with a white -stripe on its nose and white hind feet. He was going out to draw in a -load of hay from the bottom meadow. It was a little late in the season, -but the spring had been dry, and it had rained almost all the summer, -and he hadn’t had a chance to get in his hay any sooner. He was doing -his work that year alone, for his hired man had left because his father -died, and it was so late in the season that he thought he would get on -alone for the rest of the year.” I do not yet know how her husband was -really killed, although she told us about it so many times, stopping -often to sigh and take a pinch of snuff, and wipe her nose and eyes with -a large red and black handkerchief. She said she had never felt like -marrying since, and that she had no consolation but her religion. - -After she had finished the story of her husband’s death, she began to -tell us about the neighbors. She seemed especially interested in some -man who lived alone in the village and who had done something terrible; -I cannot now tell what it was, and in fact I hardly understood then what -she meant. But she said she had been talking with Deacon Cole and with -Squire Allen, and they thought it was a burning shame that the men folks -didn’t do something about it—that Squire Allen had told her there was no -law that could touch him, but she thought if the men had any spirit they -would go there some night and rotten-egg him and ride him on a rail and -drum him out of town. I cannot remember that my mother said anything -about the matter, but she seemed to agree, and Aunt Louisa kept on -talking until it was almost nine o’clock; then she said she thought it -was about time for her to go home. My mother said a few words about her -staying overnight, but Aunt Louisa said she ought to go “so as to be -there early in the morning.” I know I thought at the time that my mother -did not urge her very much, and that if she had, Aunt Louisa would most -likely have stayed. Then my father told my older brother and me to get a -lantern and go home with her. Of course there was nothing else to do. -All along the road she kept talking of the terrible things the man had -done, and how she thought the men and boys of the village ought to do -something about it. - -A few nights afterwards I heard that something was to happen in the -town. I cannot now remember how I heard, but at any rate I went to bed, -and took care not to go to sleep. About midnight my brother and I got up -and went to the public square. Twenty or thirty men and boys had -gathered at the flag-pole. I did not know all their names, but I knew -there were some of the best people in the place. I am certain I saw -Deacon Cole, and I know that we went over to Squire Allen’s -carriage-house and got a large plank which he had told the crowd they -might have. The men had sticks and stones and eggs, and we all went to -the man’s house. When we reached the fence, we opened the gate and went -inside and began throwing stones and sticks at the house and through the -windows; and we broke in the front door with Squire Allen’s plank. All -the men and boys hooted and jeered with the greatest glee. I can still -remember seeing a half-dressed man run out of the back door of the -house, down the garden path, to get away. I can never forget his scared -white face as he passed me in the gloom. After breaking all the doors -and windows, we went back home and went to bed, thinking we had done -something brave and noble, and helped the morals of the town. - -The next day little knots of people gathered around the house and in the -streets and on the square, to talk about the “raid.” Nearly all of them -agreed that we had done exactly right. There were only a few people, and -those by no means the best citizens, who raised the faintest objection -to what had been done. - -Aunt Louisa was radiant. She made her tour of the neighborhood and told -how she approved of the bravery of the men and boys. She said that after -this everyone would know that Farmington was a moral town. - -The hunted man died a year or so afterwards, and someone bought him a -lonely grave on the outskirts of the churchyard where he could not -possibly harm anyone who lay slumbering there, and then they buried him -in the ground without regret. There was much discussion as to whether or -not he should have a Christian funeral; but finally the old preacher -decided that the ways of the Lord were past finding out, and the -question should be left to Him to settle, and that he would preach a -regular sermon, just as he did for all the rest. - -When it came Aunt Louisa’s turn for a funeral, the whole town was in -mourning. The choir practised the night before the funeral, so they -might sing their very best, and the preacher never spoke so feelingly -before. All the people in the room cried as if she were their dearest -friend. Then they took her to the little graveyard and lowered her -gently down beside Truman. Everyone said it was a “beautiful funeral.” -In a few months a fine monument was placed on the little lot,—one almost -as grand as Squire Allen’s. She left no children, and in her will she -provided that all the property should be taken for the funeral and for a -monument, except a small bequest to foreign missions. - - - - - CHAPTER XXII - THE SUMMER VACATION - - -If I were to pick out the happiest time of my life, I should name the -first few days of the summer vacation after the district school was out. - -In those few rare days all thoughts of restraint were thrown away. For -months we had been compelled to get up at a certain time in the morning, -do our tasks, and then go to school. Every hour of the day had been laid -out with the precision of the clock, and each one had its work to do. -Day after day, and week after week, the steady grind went on, until -captivity almost seemed our natural state. It was hard enough through -the long fall and winter months and in the early spring; but when the -warm days came on, and the sun rose high and hot and stayed in the -heavens until late at night, when the grass had spread over all the -fields and the leaves had covered all the twigs and boughs until each -tree was one big spot of green, when the birds sang on the branches -right under the schoolhouse eaves, and the lazy bee flew droning in -through the open door, then the schoolhouse prison was more than any boy -could stand. - -In the first few days of vacation our freedom was wholly unrestrained. -We chased the squirrels and chipmunks into the thickest portions of the -woods; we roamed across the fields with the cattle and the sheep; we -followed the devious ways of the winding creek, clear to where it joined -the river far down below the covered bridge; we looked into every -fishing-pool and swimming-hole, and laid our plans for the summer -campaign of sports just coming on; we circled the edges of the pond, and -lay down on our backs under the shade of the willow-trees and looked up -at the chasing clouds, while we listened to the water falling on the -wheel and the dozy hum of the grinding mill. In short, we were free -children once again, left to roam the fields and woods to suit our whims -and wills. - -But even our liberty grew monotonous in a little while, as all things -will to the very young,—and, for that matter, to the very old, or to -anyone who has the chance to gain freedom and monotony. So in a short -time we thought we were ready to do some work. We wished to work; for -this was new, and therefore not work but play. - -When I told my father of my desire to work, he seemed much pleased, and -took me to the mill. But I noticed that as we left the house he put a -small thin book in the pocket of his coat. Later in the day, I found -that this was a Latin grammar, and that he had really taken me to the -mill to study Latin instead of work. I protested that I did not want to -study Latin; that I wished to work; that school was out, and our -vacation-time had come; and that I had studied quite enough until the -fall term should begin. But my father insisted that I ought to study at -least a portion of the day, and that I really should be making some -progress in my Latin grammar. Of course the district school did not -teach Latin; the teacher knew nothing about Latin, and, indeed, that -study did not belong to district school. - -I argued long with my father about the Latin, and begged and protested -and cried; but it was all of no avail. I can see him now, as he gravely -stood by the high white dusty desk in the little office of the mill. -Inside the desk were the account-books that were supposed to record the -small transactions of the mill; but these were rarely used. The toll was -taken from the hopper, and that was all that was required. Even the -small amount of book-keeping necessary for the mill, my father scarcely -did,—for on the desk and inside were other books more important far to -him than the ones which told only of the balancing of accounts. - -My father stands beside the dusty desk with the Latin grammar in his -hand, and tells me what great service it will be to me in future years -if I learn the Latin tongue. And then he tells me how great my -advantages are compared with his, and how much he could have done if -only his father had been able to teach him Latin while he was yet a -child. In vain I say that I do not want to be a scholar; that I never -shall have any use for Latin; that it is spoken only by foreigners, -anyhow, and they will never come to Farmington, and I shall never go to -visit them. I ask my father if he has ever seen a Latin, much less -talked with one; and when he tells me that the language has been dead -for a thousand years, I feel still more certain that I am right. But he -persists that I cannot be a scholar unless I master Latin. - -It was of no avail to argue with my father; for fathers only argue -through courtesy, and when the proper time comes round they cease the -argument and say the thing must be done. And so, against my judgment and -my will, I climbed upon the high stool in the little office and opened -the Latin grammar, while the old miller bent over my shoulder and taught -me my first lesson. - -Can I ever forget the time I began to study Latin? Outside of the little -door stands the hopper full of grain; a tiny stream is running down the -centre, like the sands in an hourglass, and slowly and inevitably each -kernel is ground fine between the great turning stones. All around, on -every bag and bin and chute, on every piece of furniture and on the -floor, lies the thick white dust that rises from the new-ground flour. -Outside the windows I can see the water running down the mill-race and -through the flume, before it tumbles on the wheel. The hopper is filled -with grain, the wheat is tolled, the water keeps falling over the great -wheel, the noise of the turning stones and moving pulleys fills the air -with a constant whir. My father leaves the mill at its work, comes into -the little office, shuts the door, and tells me that _mensa_ is the -Latin word for “table.” This is more important to him than the need of -rain, or the growing wheat, or the low water in the pond. Then he tells -me how many different cases the Latin language had, and exactly how the -Romans spoke the word for “table” in every case; and he bids me decline -_mensa_ after him. Slowly and painfully I learn _mensa_, _mensæ_, -_mensæ_, _mensam_, _mensa_, _mensa_, and after this I must learn the -plural too. And so with the whirring of the mill is mingled my father’s -voice, saying slowly over and over again, “_mensa_, _mensæ_, _mensæ_, -_mensam_, _mensa_, _mensa_.” I stammer and stutter, and cry and mutter, -and think, until I can scarcely distinguish between the whirring of the -mill and the measured tones of my father’s voice repeating the various -cases of the wondrous Latin word. - -Sometimes he lets me leave my lesson and go to the great pile of cobs -that fall from the corn-sheller, and go over these to take off the -kernels that the sheller left. But in a little while my hands are so red -and sore that I am glad to go back to my Latin word again. Then he lets -me cut the weeds along the edges of the mill-race; but the constant -stooping hurts my back, and the sun is hot, and this, too, soon grows to -be like work, and no easier than sitting on the high stool with the -Latin grammar in my hand. Now and then a farmer drives up to the mill -with his team of horses or slow heavy oxen, and I try to make myself -useful in helping him to unload the grain. This is easier than shelling -corn or cutting weeds or learning Latin; for it is only a little time -until the farmer is gone, and then perhaps another takes his place. -Somehow I never want these farmers or the boys to know that I am -studying Latin at the mill, for they would wonder why my father made me -study Latin, and what he could possibly see in me to make him think it -worth the while. I wondered, too, when I was young; I could not -understand why he should make me study it, as if his life and mine -depended on the Latin that I learned. Surely he knew that I did not like -Latin, and at best learned it slowly and with the greatest pains, and -there was little promise in the efforts that he made in my behalf. - -I could not then know why my father took all this trouble for me to -learn my grammar; but I know to-day. I know that, all unconsciously, it -was the blind persistent effort of the parent to resurrect his own -buried hopes and dead ambitions in the greater opportunities and broader -life that he would give his child. Poor man! I trust the lingering spark -of hope for me never left his bosom while he lived, and that he died -unconscious that the son on whom he lavished so much precious time and -care never learned Latin after all, and never could. - -But still, all unconsciously, I did learn something from my lessons at -the mill. From the little Latin grammar my father passed to the Roman -people, to their struggles and conquests, their triumphs and decline, to -the civilization that has ever hovered around the Mediterranean Sea. He, -alas! had scarce ever gone outside the walls of Farmington, and had -seldom done as much as to peep over the high hills that held the little -narrow valley in its place. But through his precious books and his still -more precious dreams he had sailed the length and breadth of the -Mediterranean Sea,—and though since then I have stood upon the deck of a -ship that skims along between the blue waters below and the soft blue -sky above, and have looked off at the sloping, fertile uplands to the -high mountain-tops of Italy, and even over to Africa on the other side, -still my Roman empire will ever be the mighty kingdom of which my father -talked, and my Mediterranean that far-off blue sea of which he told when -he tried so hard to make me study Latin in the little office of the -mill; and ever and ever the soft murmur of the blue white-crested waves -crawling up the long Italian beach will be mingled with the lazy whir of -the turning stones and my father’s gentle eager voice. - -The dust and mould of many ages lie over Cæsar and Virgil and Horace and -Ovid. The great empire of the Roman world long since passed to ruin and -decay. The waves of the blue Mediterranean have sung their requiem over -this mighty Mistress of the Sea, and many others, great and small, since -then. The Latin tongue lives only as a memory of the language of these -once proud conquerors of a world. And no less dead and past are the -turning wheel, the groaning mill, the crumbling dam, and the kindly -voice that told me of the wonders of the Roman world. And as my mind -goes back to the Latin grammar and the little dusty office in the mill, -I cannot suppress the longing hope that somewhere out beyond the stars -my patient father has found a haven where they still can speak the Latin -tongue, and where he comes nearer to Cæsar and Virgil and Ovid and to -the blue Mediterranean Sea than while the high hills and stern -conditions of his life kept him busy grinding corn. At all events, I am -sure that when my ears are dulled to all earthly sounds, I shall fancy -that I hear the falling water and the turning wheel and the groaning -mill, and with them the long-silenced voice repeating, in grave, almost -religious tones,— - -_Mensa_, _mensæ_, _mensæ_, _mensam_, _mensa_, _mensa_. - - - - - CHAPTER XXIII - HOW I FAILED - - -Somehow I can identify my present self only with the boy who went to the -Academy on the hill. Back of this, all seems a vision and a dream; and -the little child from whom I grew is only one of the old boyish group -for whose sake the sun revolved and the changing seasons came and went. - -It must be that for a long time I looked forward to going to the Academy -as an event in my boyish life. For I know that when I first went up the -hill, I wore a collar and a necktie and shoes,—or, rather, boots. I must -have felt then that I was growing to be a man, and that it was almost -time to put off childish things. When I went to the Academy, we called -the teacher “Professor,” and he in turn no longer called me Johnny, or -even John, but spoke to me as “Smith.” A certain dignity and -individuality had come to me from some source, I knew not where. When we -boys came from the playground into the open door, it was not quite the -mad rush of noisy and boisterous urchins that carried all before it, -like a rushing flood, in the little district school. - -Almost unconsciously some new idea of duty and obligation began to dawn -upon my mind, and I had even a faint conception that the lessons of the -books would be related in some way to my future life. Among us boys, in -our relation to each other, the difference was not quite so great as -that between the teacher and ourselves; but our bearing toward the girls -was still more changed. In the district school they had seemed only -different, and rather in the way, or at least of no special interest or -importance in the scheme. Now, we stood before them quite abashed and -awed. They had put on long dresses, and had taken on a reserved and -distant air; and much that we said and did in the Academy was with the -conscious thought of how it would look to them. This, too, was a reason -why we should wear our collars and our boots, and comb our hair, and not -be found always at the bottom of the class. - -I began about this time to get letters at the post-office,—letters -addressed directly to me, and which I could open first, and show to the -others or not as I saw fit. And I began to know about affairs, -especially to take an interest in politics, and to know our side—which -of course was always beaten. I, like all the rest of the boys, inherited -my politics and my religion. I said,—like all the boys; but I should -have said like all people, whether boys or men. So little do we have the -habit of thought, that our opinions on religion and politics and life -are only such as have come down to us from ignorant and remote -ancestors, influenced we know not how. - -So, too, the same feeling seemed to steal over us at home and in our -family group. The old sitting-room was quieter and wore a more serious -look as we gathered round the lighted lamp on the great table with our -books. The lessons were always tasks, but we tried to get through them -for the sake of the magazine or book of travel or adventure that we -could read when the work was done. My father was as helpful and -interested as ever in our studies, and constantly told us how this task -and that would affect our future lives. More and more he made clear to -us his intense desire that we should reach the things that had been -beyond his grasp. - -Almost unconsciously I grew into sympathy with his ideals and his life, -seeing faintly the grand visions that were always clear to him, and -bewailing more and more my own indolence and love of pleasure that made -them seem so hard for me to reach. I learned to understand the tragedy -of his obscure and hidden life, and the long and bitter contest he had -waged within the narrow shadow of the stubborn little town where he had -lived and struggled and hoped so long. It was many years before I came -to know fully that the smaller the world in which we move, the more -impossible it is to break the prejudices and conventions that bind us -down. And so it was many, many years before I realized what must have -been my father’s life. - -As a little child, I heard my father tell of Frederick Douglass, Parker -Pillsbury, Sojourner Truth, Wendell Phillips, and the rest of that -advance army of reformers, black and white, who went up and down the -land arousing the dulled conscience of the people to a sense of justice -to the slave. They used to make my father’s home their stopping-place, -and any sort of vacant room was the forum where they told of the black -man’s wrongs. My father lived to see these disturbers canonized by the -public opinion that is ever ready to follow in the wake of a battle -fought to a successful end. But when his little world was ready to -rejoice with him over the freedom of the slave, he had moved his soiled -and tattered tent to a new battlefield and was fighting the same -stubborn, sullen, threatening public opinion for a new and yet more -doubtful cause. The same determined band of agitators used still to come -when I had grown to be a youth. These had seen visions of a higher and -broader religious life, and a fuller measure of freedom and justice for -the poor than the world had ever known. Like the despised tramp, they -seemed to have marked my father’s gate-post, and could not pass his -door. They were always poor, often ragged, and a far-off look seemed to -haunt their eyes, as if gazing into space at something beyond the stars. -Some little room was always found where a handful of my father’s friends -would gather, sometimes coming from miles around to listen to the voices -crying in the wilderness, calling the heedless world to repent before it -should be too late. I cannot remember when I did not go to these little -gatherings of the elect and drink in every word that fell upon my ears. -Poor boy! I am almost sorry for myself. I listened so rapturously and -believed so strongly, and knew so well that the kingdom of heaven would -surely come in a little while. And though almost every night through all -these long and weary years I have looked with the same unflagging hope -for the promised star that should be rising in the east, still it has -not come; but no matter how great the trial and disappointment and -delay, I am sure I shall always peer out into the darkness for this -belated star, until I am so blind that I could not see it if it were -really there. - -After these wandering minstrels returned from their meetings to our -home, they would sit with my father for hours in his little study, where -they told each other of their visions and their hopes. Many and many a -time, as I lay in my bed, I listened to their words coming through the -crack with the streak of lamplight at the bottom of the door, until -finally my weary eyes would close in the full glow of the brilliant -rainbow they had painted from their dreams. - -After all, I am glad that my father and his footsore comrades dreamed -their dreams. I am glad they really lived above the sordid world, in -that ethereal realm which none but the blindly devoted ever see; for I -know that their visions raised my father from the narrow valley, the -dusty mill, the small life of commonplace, to the great broad heights -where he really lived and died. - -And I am glad that as a youth and a little child it was given me to -catch one glimpse of these exalted realms, and to feel one aspiration -for the devoted life they lived; for however truly I may know that this -ideal land was but a dream that would never come, however I may have -clung to the valleys, the flesh-pots, and the substantial things, I am -sure that some part of this feeling abides with me, and that its tender -chord of sentiment and memory reaches back to that hallowed land of -childhood and of youth, and still seeks to draw me toward the heights on -which my father lived. - -I never knew that I was growing from the child to the youth; that the -life and experience and even the boy of the district school was passing -forever into the realm of clouds and myth. Neither can I remember when I -grew from the youth to the man, nor when the first stoop came to my -shoulders, the first glint of white to my hair, or the first crease upon -my face. I know that I wear glasses now,—but how did my sight begin to -fail, and in what one moment of all the fleeting millions that hurried -past did I first need to put glasses on my eyes? How lightly and gently -time lays its hand upon all who live! I can dimly remember a period when -I was very small, and I can distinctly remember when I went to the -Academy on the hill and began to think of maturer things if not to think -maturer thoughts. I remember that I began to realize that my father was -growing old; he made mistakes in names, and hesitated about those he -well knew. Still, this is not a sure sign of growing years, for I find -that I am doing this myself, and many times lately have determined that -I must take more pains about my memory, and cultivate it rather than -continue to be as careless as I have always been. And only yesterday -around an accustomed table with a few choice friends, I told a long and -detailed story that I was sure was very clever and exactly to the point. -I had no doubt that the pleasant tale would set the table in a roar. But -although all the guests were most considerate and kind and seemed to -laugh with the greatest glee, still there was something in their eyes -and a certain cadence in their tones that made me sure that sometime and -somewhere I had told them this same story at least once before. - -I gradually realized that many plans my father seemed to believe he -would carry out could never come to pass. I knew that for a long time he -had talked of building a new mill. True, he did not say when or how,—but -he surely would sometime build the mill. At first I used to think he -would; and we often talked of the mill, and just where it would stand, -and how many run of stones the trade demanded, and whether we should -have an engine to use when there was no water in the dam. But gradually -I came to realize that my father never would live to build another mill, -and that doubtless no one else would replace the one he had run so long. -Yet he kept talking of the mill, as if it would surely come. Nature, -after all, is not quite so brutal as she might be. However old and gray -and feeble her children grow, she never lets them give up hope until the -last spark of life has flown. - -Even when my father talked with less confidence of the mill, he was sure -to build a new water-wheel, for the old one had turned over and over so -many times that there was scarce a sound place no matter where it -turned. But this, too, I slowly found would never be; yet after a while -I grew to encouraging him in his illusions of what he would sometime do, -and even in his wilder and fonder illusions of what I would sometime do. -Gradually I knew that he stooped more and rested oftener, and that his -face was whiter; and I forgot his age, and never under any circumstances -would let anyone tell me how old he was. - -As I myself grew older, I came to have a stricter feeling of right and -wrong,—to see clearly the sharp lines that separate the good and the -bad, to grow hard and unforgiving and more intolerant of sin. But this, -like the measles, whooping-cough, and other childish complaints, I -luckily lived through. It is one of the errors of childhood to believe -in sin, to see clearly the division between the good and the bad; and, -strangely enough, teachers and parents encourage this illusion of the -young. It is only as we grow into maturer years that we learn that there -are no hard-and-fast laws of life, no straight clear lines between right -and wrong. It is only our mistakes and failures and trials and sins that -teach how really alike are all human souls, and how strong is the fate -that overrides all earthly schemes. It is only life that makes us know -that pity and charity and love are the chief virtues, and cruelty and -hardness and selfishness the greatest sins. - -As I grew older, one characteristic of my childhood clung about me -still. My plans never came out as I expected, and none of the visions of -my brain grew into the perfect thing of which I hoped and dreamed. I -never seemed able to finish any work that I began; some more alluring -prospect ever beckoned me toward achievements grander than my brain had -conceived before. The work was contrived, the plan was formed, the -material prepared,—but the structure was only just begun. - -And so this poor book but illustrates my life. Long I had hoped to write -my tale, much I had planned to tell my story; and here, after all my -hopes and plans, I have gone off in quite another way, babbling of the -schemes of my boyhood days, the thoughts and desires, the hopes and -feelings, of a little child. So long and so fondly have I lingered in -this fairy-land that now it is too late, and I must close the book -before my story really has begun. - -That fatal trip back to my old home was the cause of my undoing, and has -robbed me of the fame that I had hoped to win. But I felt that I could -not write the story unless I went back once more to visit the town of my -childhood, and to see again the companions of my early life. But what a -revelation came with this simple journey to the little valley where my -father lived! I had looked at my face in the glass each day for many -years, and never felt that it had changed; but when I went back to my -old familiar haunts, and looked into the faces of the boys I once knew, -I saw scarcely a line to call back their images to my mind. These -bashful little boys were bent and gray and old, and had almost reached -their journey’s end. And when I asked for familiar names, over and over -again I was pointed to the white stones that now covered our old -playground and were persistently crawling up the hill beyond the little -rivulet that once marked the farthest limits of the yard. So many times -was I referred to the graveyard for the answer to the name I called, -that finally I did not dare to ask, “Where is John Cole?” or Thomas -Clark, but instead of this I would break the news more gently to myself, -and say, “Is John Cole living still?” or, “Is Thomas Clark yet dead?” - -I am most disconsolate because I could not tell the story that I meant -to write, and I can scarce forgive this weird fantastic troop that -pushed themselves before my pencil and would not let me tell my tale. -Yet, after all,—the everlasting “after all” that excuses all, and in -some poor fashion decks even the most worthless life,—yet, after all, -there was little that I could have told had I done my very best. Even -now I might sum up my story in a few short words. - -All my life I have been planning and hoping and thinking and dreaming -and loitering and waiting. All my life I have been getting ready to -begin to do something worth the while. I have been waiting for the -summer and waiting for the fall; I have been waiting for the winter and -waiting for the spring; waiting for the night and waiting for the -morning; waiting and dawdling and dreaming, until the day is almost -spent and the twilight close at hand. - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES - - - 1. Changed ‘it’ to ‘is’ on p. 170. - 2. Silently corrected typographical errors. - 3. Retained anachronistic and non-standard spellings as printed. - 4. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_. - 5. Superscripts are denoted by a carat before a single superscript - character or a series of superscripted characters enclosed in - curly braces, e.g. M^r. or M^{ister}. - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Farmington, by Clarence S. 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