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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..c8d0696 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #54018 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/54018) 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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Darrow</title> - <link rel="coverpage" href="images/cover.jpg" /> - <style type="text/css"> - body { margin-left: 8%; margin-right: 10%; } - h1 { text-align: center; font-weight: bold; font-size: xx-large; } - h2 { text-align: center; font-weight: bold; font-size: x-large; } - .pageno { right: 1%; font-size: x-small; background-color: inherit; color: silver; - text-indent: 0em; text-align: right; position: absolute; - border: thin solid silver; padding: .1em .2em; font-style: normal; - font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; } - p { text-indent: 0; margin-top: 0.5em; margin-bottom: 0.5em; text-align: justify; } - .sc { font-variant: small-caps; } - .large { font-size: large; } - .xlarge { font-size: x-large; } - .color_red { color: red; } - .ol_1 li {padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em; } - ol.ol_1 {padding-left: 0; margin-left: 2.78%; margin-top: .5em; - margin-bottom: .5em; list-style-type: decimal; } - div.pbb { page-break-before: always; } - hr.pb { border: none; border-bottom: thin solid; margin-bottom: 1em; } - @media handheld { hr.pb { display: none; } } - .chapter { clear: both; page-break-before: always; } - .figcenter { clear: both; max-width: 100%; margin: 2em auto; text-align: center; } - .figcenter img { max-width: 100%; height: auto; } - .id001 { width:90%; } - @media handheld { .id001 { margin-left:5%; width:90%; } } - .ig001 { width:100%; } - .table0 { margin: auto; margin-top: 2em; } - .nf-center { text-align: center; } - .nf-center-c1 { text-align: left; margin: 1em 0; } - p.drop-capa0_0_6 { text-indent: -0em; } - p.drop-capa0_0_6:first-letter { float: left; margin: 0.100em 0.100em 0em 0em; - font-size: 250%; line-height: 0.6em; text-indent: 0; } - @media handheld { - p.drop-capa0_0_6 { text-indent: 0; } - p.drop-capa0_0_6:first-letter { float: none; margin: 0; font-size: 100%; } - } - .c000 { margin-top: 0.5em; margin-bottom: 0.5em; } - .c001 { margin-top: 4em; } - .c002 { page-break-before: always; margin-top: 4em; } - .c003 { margin-top: 2em; } - .c004 { margin-top: 1em; } - .c005 { page-break-before:auto; margin-top: 4em; } - .c006 { vertical-align: top; text-align: right; padding-right: 1em; } - .c007 { vertical-align: top; text-align: left; padding-right: 1em; } - .c008 { vertical-align: top; text-align: right; } - .c009 { margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 0.5em; } - div.tnotes { padding-left:1em;padding-right:1em;background-color:#E3E4FA; - border:1px solid silver; margin:2em 10% 0 10%; } - .covernote { visibility: hidden; display: none; } - div.tnotes p { text-align:left; } - @media handheld { .covernote { visibility: visible; display: block;} } - img {max-width: 100%; height:auto; } - .ph1 { text-indent: 0em; font-weight: bold; font-size: xx-large; - margin: .67em auto; } - </style> - </head> - <body> - - -<pre> - -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) - - - - - - -</pre> - - -<div class='tnotes covernote'> - -<p class='c000'><strong>Transcriber's Note:</strong></p> - -<p class='c000'>The cover image was created by the transcriber and is placed in the public domain.</p> - -</div> - -<div class='ph1'> - -<div class='nf-center-c1'> -<div class='nf-center c001'> - <div>Farmington</div> - </div> -</div> - -</div> - -<div class='figcenter id001'> -<img src='images/i_003.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' /> -</div> - -<div> - <h1 class='c002'><span class='color_red'>FARMINGTON</span></h1> -</div> - -<div class='nf-center-c1'> -<div class='nf-center c003'> - <div><span class='large'><em>By</em></span></div> - <div><span class='large'>CLARENCE S. DARROW</span></div> - <div class='c003'>CHICAGO</div> - <div><span class='xlarge'>A. C. M<sup>c</sup>CLURG & CO.</span></div> - <div>1904</div> - </div> -</div> - -<div class='nf-center-c1'> -<div class='nf-center c001'> - <div><span class='sc'>Copyright, 1904,</span></div> - <div><span class='sc'>By A. C. McClurg & Co.</span></div> - <div class='c004'>Entered at Stationers’ Hall, London.</div> - <div class='c004'><em>All rights reserved.</em></div> - <div class='c004'>Published September 24, 1904</div> - <div class='c003'>THE UNIVERSITY PRESS</div> - <div>CAMBRIDGE, U. S. A.</div> - </div> -</div> - -<div class='pbb'> - <hr class='pb c004' /> -</div> - -<div class='chapter'> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_v'>v</span> - <h2 class='c005'>CONTENTS</h2> -</div> - -<table class='table0' summary='CONTENTS'> - <tr> - <th class='c006'><span class='sc'>Chapter</span></th> - <th class='c007'> </th> - <th class='c008'><span class='sc'>Page</span></th> - </tr> - <tr><td> </td></tr> - <tr> - <td class='c006'>I.</td> - <td class='c007'><span class='sc'>About my Story</span></td> - <td class='c008'><a href='#Page_1'>1</a></td> - </tr> - <tr><td> </td></tr> - <tr> - <td class='c006'>II.</td> - <td class='c007'><span class='sc'>Of my Childhood</span></td> - <td class='c008'><a href='#Page_11'>11</a></td> - </tr> - <tr><td> </td></tr> - <tr> - <td class='c006'>III.</td> - <td class='c007'><span class='sc'>My Home</span></td> - <td class='c008'><a href='#Page_21'>21</a></td> - </tr> - <tr><td> </td></tr> - <tr> - <td class='c006'>IV.</td> - <td class='c007'><span class='sc'>My Father</span></td> - <td class='c008'><a href='#Page_32'>32</a></td> - </tr> - <tr><td> </td></tr> - <tr> - <td class='c006'>V.</td> - <td class='c007'><span class='sc'>The District School</span></td> - <td class='c008'><a href='#Page_43'>43</a></td> - </tr> - <tr><td> </td></tr> - <tr> - <td class='c006'>VI.</td> - <td class='c007'><span class='sc'>The School Readers</span></td> - <td class='c008'><a href='#Page_56'>56</a></td> - </tr> - <tr><td> </td></tr> - <tr> - <td class='c006'>VII.</td> - <td class='c007'><span class='sc'>The Last Day of School</span></td> - <td class='c008'><a href='#Page_74'>74</a></td> - </tr> - <tr><td> </td></tr> - <tr> - <td class='c006'>VIII.</td> - <td class='c007'><span class='sc'>Farmington</span></td> - <td class='c008'><a href='#Page_84'>84</a></td> - </tr> - <tr><td> </td></tr> - <tr> - <td class='c006'>IX.</td> - <td class='c007'><span class='sc'>The Church</span></td> - <td class='c008'><a href='#Page_96'>96</a></td> - </tr> - <tr><td> </td></tr> - <tr> - <td class='c006'>X.</td> - <td class='c007'><span class='sc'>The Sunday-School</span></td> - <td class='c008'><a href='#Page_110'>110</a></td> - </tr> - <tr><td> </td></tr> - <tr> - <td class='c006'>XI.</td> - <td class='c007'><span class='sc'>The Burying-Ground</span></td> - <td class='c008'><a href='#Page_120'>120</a></td> - </tr> - <tr><td> </td></tr> - <tr> - <td class='c006'>XII.</td> - <td class='c007'><span class='sc'>Childhood Surroundings</span></td> - <td class='c008'><a href='#Page_130'>130</a></td> - </tr> - <tr><td> </td></tr> - <tr> - <td class='c006'>XIII.</td> - <td class='c007'><span class='sc'>Illusions</span></td> - <td class='c008'><a href='#Page_144'>144</a></td> - </tr> - <tr><td> </td></tr> - <tr> - <td class='c006'>XIV.</td> - <td class='c007'><span class='sc'>About Girls</span></td> - <td class='c008'><a href='#Page_155'>155</a></td> - </tr> - <tr><td> </td></tr> - <tr> - <td class='c006'>XV.</td> - <td class='c007'><span class='sc'>Fishing</span></td> - <td class='c008'><a href='#Page_165'>165</a></td> - </tr> - <tr><td> </td></tr> - <tr> - <td class='c006'>XVI.</td> - <td class='c007'><span class='sc'>Rules of Conduct</span></td> - <td class='c008'><a href='#Page_177'>177</a></td> - </tr> - <tr><td> </td></tr> - <tr> - <td class='c006'>XVII.</td> - <td class='c007'><span class='sc'>Holidays</span></td> - <td class='c008'><a href='#Page_193'>193</a></td> - </tr> - <tr><td> </td></tr> - <tr> - <td class='c006'><span class='pageno' id='Page_vi'>vi</span>XVIII.</td> - <td class='c007'><span class='sc'>Baseball</span></td> - <td class='c008'><a href='#Page_208'>208</a></td> - </tr> - <tr><td> </td></tr> - <tr> - <td class='c006'>XIX.</td> - <td class='c007'><span class='sc'>Aunt Mary</span></td> - <td class='c008'><a href='#Page_220'>220</a></td> - </tr> - <tr><td> </td></tr> - <tr> - <td class='c006'>XX.</td> - <td class='c007'><span class='sc'>Ferman Henry</span></td> - <td class='c008'><a href='#Page_232'>232</a></td> - </tr> - <tr><td> </td></tr> - <tr> - <td class='c006'>XXI.</td> - <td class='c007'><span class='sc'>Aunt Louisa</span></td> - <td class='c008'><a href='#Page_243'>243</a></td> - </tr> - <tr><td> </td></tr> - <tr> - <td class='c006'>XXII.</td> - <td class='c007'><span class='sc'>The Summer Vacation</span></td> - <td class='c008'><a href='#Page_254'>254</a></td> - </tr> - <tr><td> </td></tr> - <tr> - <td class='c006'>XXIII.</td> - <td class='c007'><span class='sc'>How I Failed</span></td> - <td class='c008'><a href='#Page_264'>264</a></td> - </tr> -</table> - -<div class='ph1'> - -<div class='nf-center-c1'> -<div class='nf-center c001'> - <div>FARMINGTON</div> - </div> -</div> - -</div> - -<div class='chapter'> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_1'>1</span> - <h2 class='c005'>CHAPTER I<br /> <span class='large'>ABOUT MY STORY</span></h2> -</div> - -<p class='drop-capa0_0_6 c009'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_2'>2</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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?</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_3'>3</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_4'>4</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_5'>5</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_6'>6</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_7'>7</span>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?</p> - -<p class='c000'>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, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_8'>8</span>but I never gave up the longing, even when -I felt how impossible it would be to realize -my dream.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_9'>9</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_10'>10</span>and these we are all of us very willing to leave -to someone else.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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.</p> - -<div class='chapter'> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_11'>11</span> - <h2 class='c005'>CHAPTER II<br /> <span class='large'>OF MY CHILDHOOD</span></h2> -</div> - -<p class='drop-capa0_0_6 c009'>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_12'>12</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_13'>13</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_14'>14</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_15'>15</span>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_16'>16</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_17'>17</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_18'>18</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_19'>19</span>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_20'>20</span>changed or modified it, or made it any easier -to reconcile or understand.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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.</p> - -<div class='chapter'> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_21'>21</span> - <h2 class='c005'>CHAPTER III<br /> <span class='large'>MY HOME</span></h2> -</div> - -<p class='drop-capa0_0_6 c009'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_22'>22</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_23'>23</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_24'>24</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_25'>25</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_26'>26</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_27'>27</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_28'>28</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_29'>29</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_30'>30</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_31'>31</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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.</p> - -<div class='chapter'> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_32'>32</span> - <h2 class='c005'>CHAPTER IV<br /> <span class='large'>MY FATHER</span></h2> -</div> - -<p class='drop-capa0_0_6 c009'>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_33'>33</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_34'>34</span>corn, and the cunning, soulless farmers who -dickered and haggled about his hard-earned -toll.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_35'>35</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>I cannot remember when I learned to read. -I seem always to have known how. I am sure -<span class='pageno' id='Page_36'>36</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_37'>37</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_38'>38</span>fortune can ever compensate me for the wasted -joys, the broken playtimes, the interrupted -childish pleasures, which I should have had.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_39'>39</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_40'>40</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_41'>41</span>farther than the water that splashed and -tumbled on the turning wheel.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_42'>42</span>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.”</p> - -<div class='chapter'> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_43'>43</span> - <h2 class='c005'>CHAPTER V<br /> <span class='large'>THE DISTRICT SCHOOL</span></h2> -</div> - -<p class='drop-capa0_0_6 c009'>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_44'>44</span>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.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>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, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_45'>45</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_46'>46</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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. -<span class='pageno' id='Page_47'>47</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_48'>48</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_49'>49</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_50'>50</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_51'>51</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>And all those examples that I learned to -cipher out! I am sure I know more to-day -<span class='pageno' id='Page_52'>52</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_53'>53</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>But, really, grammar made me more trouble -than any other study. Somehow I never could -learn grammar, and it always made me angry -<span class='pageno' id='Page_54'>54</span>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_55'>55</span>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 “<span lang="la" xml:lang="la">Amo</span>, -<span lang="la" xml:lang="la">Amas</span>, <span lang="la" xml:lang="la">Amat</span>,” 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.</p> - -<div class='chapter'> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_56'>56</span> - <h2 class='c005'>CHAPTER VI<br /> <span class='large'>THE SCHOOL READERS</span></h2> -</div> - -<p class='drop-capa0_0_6 c009'>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>How these books were crammed with noble -thoughts! In them every virtue was extolled -and every vice condemned. I wonder now how -<span class='pageno' id='Page_57'>57</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_58'>58</span>not end until the covers of the last book were -closed.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_59'>59</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_60'>60</span>thoughts and feelings that these stories brought -to me. But I can still recall the stories.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_61'>61</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_62'>62</span>have never yet come across the generous -merchant.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_63'>63</span>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:</p> - -<div class='nf-center-c1'> - <div class='nf-center'> - <div>THE CONTENTED BOY.</div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c000'>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='sc'>Mr. Lenox.</span> Thank you, my good boy. What -shall I give you for your trouble?</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='sc'>Boy.</span> I want nothing, sir.</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='sc'>Mr. L.</span> You want nothing? Few men can say -as much. But what were you doing in the field?</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='sc'>Boy.</span> I was rooting up weeds, and tending the sheep -that were feeding on turnips.</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='sc'>Mr. L.</span> Do you like to work?</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='sc'>Boy.</span> Yes, sir, very well, this fine weather.</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='sc'>Mr. L.</span> But would you not rather play?</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='sc'>Boy.</span> This is not hard work. It is almost as good -as play.</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='sc'>Mr. L.</span> Who set you to work?</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_64'>64</span><span class='sc'>Boy.</span> My father, sir.</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='sc'>Mr. L.</span> What is your name?</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='sc'>Boy.</span> Peter Hurdle, sir.</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='sc'>Mr. L.</span> How old are you?</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='sc'>Boy.</span> Eight years old next June.</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='sc'>Mr. L.</span> How long have you been here?</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='sc'>Boy.</span> Ever since six o’clock this morning.</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='sc'>Mr. L.</span> Are you not hungry?</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='sc'>Boy.</span> Yes, sir, but I shall go to dinner soon.</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='sc'>Mr. L.</span> If you had a dime now, what would you -do with it?</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='sc'>Boy.</span> I don’t know, sir. I never had so much.</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='sc'>Mr. L.</span> Have you no playthings?</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='sc'>Boy.</span> Playthings? What are they?</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='sc'>Mr. L.</span> Such things as ninepins, marbles, tops, -and wooden horses.</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='sc'>Boy.</span> No, sir. Tom and I play at football in -winter, and I have a jumping-rope. I had a hoop, -but it is broken.</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='sc'>Mr. L.</span> Do you want nothing else?</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='sc'>Boy.</span> I have hardly time to play with what I -have.</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='sc'>Mr. L.</span> You could get apples and cakes if you had -money, you know.</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='sc'>Boy.</span> 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.</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='sc'>Mr. L.</span> Would you not like a knife to cut sticks?</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_65'>65</span><span class='sc'>Boy.</span> I have one. Here it is. Brother Tom -gave it to me.</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='sc'>Mr. L.</span> Your shoes are full of holes. Don’t -you want a new pair?</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='sc'>Boy.</span> I have a better pair for Sundays.</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='sc'>Mr. L.</span> But these let in water.</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='sc'>Boy.</span> I do not mind that, sir.</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='sc'>Mr. L.</span> Your hat is all torn, too.</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='sc'>Boy.</span> I have a better one at home.</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='sc'>Mr. L.</span> What do you do if you are hungry before -it is time to go home?</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='sc'>Boy.</span> I sometimes eat a raw turnip.</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='sc'>Mr. L.</span> But if there are none?</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='sc'>Boy.</span> Then I do as well as I can without. I work -on and never think of it.</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='sc'>Mr. L.</span> I am glad to see that you are so contented. -Were you ever at school?</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='sc'>Boy.</span> No, sir. But father means to send me next -winter.</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='sc'>Mr. L.</span> You will want books then.</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='sc'>Boy.</span> Yes, sir; each boy has a spelling-book, a -reader, and a Testament.</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='sc'>Mr. L.</span> Then I will give them to you. Tell your -father so, and that it is because you are an obliging, -contented little boy.</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='sc'>Boy.</span> I will, sir. Thank you.</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='sc'>Mr. L.</span> Good-bye, Peter.</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='sc'>Boy.</span> Good-morning, sir.</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_66'>66</span>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!</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_67'>67</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_68'>68</span>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_69'>69</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_70'>70</span>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_71'>71</span>Henry and pay him for being such a good little -boy.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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?</p> - -<p class='c000'>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_72'>72</span>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_73'>73</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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!</p> - -<div class='chapter'> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_74'>74</span> - <h2 class='c005'>CHAPTER VII<br /> <span class='large'>THE LAST DAY OF SCHOOL</span></h2> -</div> - -<p class='drop-capa0_0_6 c009'>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. -<span class='pageno' id='Page_75'>75</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_76'>76</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_77'>77</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>How I envied that red-headed lad, and how -<span class='pageno' id='Page_78'>78</span>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, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_79'>79</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_80'>80</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_81'>81</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_82'>82</span>given to the poet or the book-publisher or -the teacher who allowed this sort of heroics to -be given to a child.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_83'>83</span>great handicap we children suffered by being -obliged to go to school.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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.</p> - -<div class='chapter'> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_84'>84</span> - <h2 class='c005'>CHAPTER VIII<br /> <span class='large'>FARMINGTON</span></h2> -</div> - -<p class='drop-capa0_0_6 c009'>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_85'>85</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_86'>86</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_87'>87</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_88'>88</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_89'>89</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_90'>90</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_91'>91</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_92'>92</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_93'>93</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Old Squire Allen has been dead for a quarter -<span class='pageno' id='Page_94'>94</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_95'>95</span>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.</p> - -<div class='chapter'> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_96'>96</span> - <h2 class='c005'>CHAPTER IX<br /> <span class='large'>THE CHURCH</span></h2> -</div> - -<p class='drop-capa0_0_6 c009'>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_97'>97</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_98'>98</span>the people who lived round about that, however -important the other affairs of life, their church -and their religion were more vital still.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_99'>99</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>The Sabbath, the church, and religion were -serious and solemn matters to the band of -<span class='pageno' id='Page_100'>100</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_101'>101</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_102'>102</span>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_103'>103</span>Methodist preacher came to Farmington to -live.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_104'>104</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_105'>105</span>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_106'>106</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_107'>107</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_108'>108</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_109'>109</span>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.</p> - -<div class='chapter'> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_110'>110</span> - <h2 class='c005'>CHAPTER X<br /> <span class='large'>THE SUNDAY-SCHOOL</span></h2> -</div> - -<p class='drop-capa0_0_6 c009'>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_111'>111</span>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_112'>112</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_113'>113</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_114'>114</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Besides the singing, the chief work of the -Sunday-school teachers was to have us learn -verses from the Testament. Of course, none -<span class='pageno' id='Page_115'>115</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_116'>116</span>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_117'>117</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_118'>118</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_119'>119</span>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.</p> - -<div class='chapter'> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_120'>120</span> - <h2 class='c005'>CHAPTER XI<br /> <span class='large'>THE BURYING-GROUND</span></h2> -</div> - -<p class='drop-capa0_0_6 c009'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_121'>121</span>carefully laid in the new, where they might -rest in the same exclusive surroundings in -which they lived while still upon the earth.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_122'>122</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>As a little child, I used to look at the -sexton half in awe, and I almost feared to -<span class='pageno' id='Page_123'>123</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_124'>124</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_125'>125</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_126'>126</span>I did not know then, nor, for that matter, do I -know now.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_127'>127</span>lonely away on the outskirts where no one ever -came along.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>The last time I was in Farmington I once -more went inside the old graveyard; somehow -<span class='pageno' id='Page_128'>128</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_129'>129</span>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.</p> - -<div class='chapter'> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_130'>130</span> - <h2 class='c005'>CHAPTER XII<br /> <span class='large'>CHILDHOOD SURROUNDINGS</span></h2> -</div> - -<p class='drop-capa0_0_6 c009'>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>To the kind old miller the condition of the -water in the pond was doubtless quite another -<span class='pageno' id='Page_131'>131</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_132'>132</span>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_133'>133</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_134'>134</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_135'>135</span>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_136'>136</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>We children had our regular seasons’ round -of games and sports. There was no part of -<span class='pageno' id='Page_137'>137</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_138'>138</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_139'>139</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>But boys like hills and animals and trees, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_140'>140</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>With what never-ending schemes our youth -was filled, and in what quick succession each -<span class='pageno' id='Page_141'>141</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_142'>142</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_143'>143</span>ever try to build. But this is doubtless better -than not to try at all.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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.</p> - -<div class='chapter'> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_144'>144</span> - <h2 class='c005'>CHAPTER XIII<br /> <span class='large'>ILLUSIONS</span></h2> -</div> - -<p class='drop-capa0_0_6 c009'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_145'>145</span>world into which grown-up people could not -come, from which in fact they had long since -passed out never to return.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_146'>146</span>district school I thought the boys and girls at -the Academy were getting old.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_147'>147</span>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_148'>148</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>But I am lingering too long around the old -<span class='pageno' id='Page_149'>149</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_150'>150</span>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_151'>151</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_152'>152</span>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?</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_153'>153</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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. -<span class='pageno' id='Page_154'>154</span>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.</p> - -<div class='chapter'> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_155'>155</span> - <h2 class='c005'>CHAPTER XIV<br /> <span class='large'>ABOUT GIRLS</span></h2> -</div> - -<p class='drop-capa0_0_6 c009'>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_156'>156</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_157'>157</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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; -<span class='pageno' id='Page_158'>158</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_159'>159</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_160'>160</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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. -<span class='pageno' id='Page_161'>161</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_162'>162</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_163'>163</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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” -<span class='pageno' id='Page_164'>164</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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.</p> - -<div class='chapter'> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_165'>165</span> - <h2 class='c005'>CHAPTER XV<br /> <span class='large'>FISHING</span></h2> -</div> - -<p class='drop-capa0_0_6 c009'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_166'>166</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_167'>167</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_168'>168</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>I followed my older brother up to the dam, -and sat down in the shade of the overhanging -<span class='pageno' id='Page_169'>169</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_170'>170</span>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<a id='t170'></a> 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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_171'>171</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_172'>172</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_173'>173</span>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_174'>174</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_175'>175</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_176'>176</span>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.</p> - -<div class='chapter'> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_177'>177</span> - <h2 class='c005'>CHAPTER XVI<br /> <span class='large'>RULES OF CONDUCT</span></h2> -</div> - -<p class='drop-capa0_0_6 c009'>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_178'>178</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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!</p> - -<p class='c000'>Every child was told exactly what he ought -<span class='pageno' id='Page_179'>179</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_180'>180</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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; -<span class='pageno' id='Page_181'>181</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_182'>182</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_183'>183</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_184'>184</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_185'>185</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>We were given certain rules as to our treatment -of animals. We were told to be kind to -<span class='pageno' id='Page_186'>186</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_187'>187</span>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?</p> - -<p class='c000'>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_188'>188</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_189'>189</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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. -<span class='pageno' id='Page_190'>190</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_191'>191</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_192'>192</span>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.</p> - -<div class='chapter'> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_193'>193</span> - <h2 class='c005'>CHAPTER XVII<br /> <span class='large'>HOLIDAYS</span></h2> -</div> - -<p class='drop-capa0_0_6 c009'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_194'>194</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_195'>195</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_196'>196</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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.”</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_197'>197</span>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_198'>198</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_199'>199</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_200'>200</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_201'>201</span>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?</p> - -<p class='c000'>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>When we had a “celebration,” it was generally -in the afternoon, and was held in a -<span class='pageno' id='Page_202'>202</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_203'>203</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_204'>204</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_205'>205</span>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_206'>206</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'> 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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_207'>207</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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.</p> - -<div class='chapter'> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_208'>208</span> - <h2 class='c005'>CHAPTER XVIII<br /> <span class='large'>BASE-BALL</span></h2> -</div> - -<p class='drop-capa0_0_6 c009'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_209'>209</span>as the one who feels pleasure in escaping a -world of sorrow and despair.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_210'>210</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_211'>211</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_212'>212</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_213'>213</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_214'>214</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_215'>215</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_216'>216</span>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_217'>217</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_218'>218</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_219'>219</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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.</p> - -<div class='chapter'> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_220'>220</span> - <h2 class='c005'>CHAPTER XIX<br /> <span class='large'>AUNT MARY</span></h2> -</div> - -<p class='drop-capa0_0_6 c009'>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_221'>221</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_222'>222</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_223'>223</span>(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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_224'>224</span>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.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_225'>225</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_226'>226</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_227'>227</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>By slow degrees she told me about her -parlor and spare bedroom. And one day, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_228'>228</span>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. -<span class='pageno' id='Page_229'>229</span>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_230'>230</span>the dark. Of course I never could forget that -parlor, though Aunt Mary did not take me -there again.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_231'>231</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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.</p> - -<div class='chapter'> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_232'>232</span> - <h2 class='c005'>CHAPTER XX<br /> <span class='large'>FERMAN HENRY</span></h2> -</div> - -<p class='drop-capa0_0_6 c009'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_233'>233</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_234'>234</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_235'>235</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>After he got back from the war he would -<span class='pageno' id='Page_236'>236</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_237'>237</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_238'>238</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_239'>239</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>As long as I went up and down the country -road to school, I saw Ferman Henry’s unfinished -<span class='pageno' id='Page_240'>240</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_241'>241</span>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_242'>242</span>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.</p> - -<div class='chapter'> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_243'>243</span> - <h2 class='c005'>CHAPTER XXI<br /> <span class='large'>AUNT LOUISA</span></h2> -</div> - -<p class='drop-capa0_0_6 c009'>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_244'>244</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_245'>245</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_246'>246</span>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.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_247'>247</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_248'>248</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_249'>249</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>After she had finished the story of her husband’s -death, she began to tell us about the -<span class='pageno' id='Page_250'>250</span>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_251'>251</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_252'>252</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_253'>253</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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.</p> - -<div class='chapter'> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_254'>254</span> - <h2 class='c005'>CHAPTER XXII<br /> <span class='large'>THE SUMMER VACATION</span></h2> -</div> - -<p class='drop-capa0_0_6 c009'>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_255'>255</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>But even our liberty grew monotonous in a -little while, as all things will to the very young,—and, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_256'>256</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>I argued long with my father about the -Latin, and begged and protested and cried; -<span class='pageno' id='Page_257'>257</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_258'>258</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_259'>259</span>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 <i><span lang="la" xml:lang="la">mensa</span></i> 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 -<i><span lang="la" xml:lang="la">mensa</span></i> after him. Slowly and painfully I learn -<i><span lang="la" xml:lang="la">mensa</span></i>, <i><span lang="la" xml:lang="la">mensæ</span></i>, <i><span lang="la" xml:lang="la">mensæ</span></i>, <i><span lang="la" xml:lang="la">mensam</span></i>, <i><span lang="la" xml:lang="la">mensa</span></i>, <i><span lang="la" xml:lang="la">mensa</span></i>, 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, “<i><span lang="la" xml:lang="la">mensa</span></i>, <i><span lang="la" xml:lang="la">mensæ</span></i>, <i><span lang="la" xml:lang="la">mensæ</span></i>, <i><span lang="la" xml:lang="la">mensam</span></i>, <i><span lang="la" xml:lang="la">mensa</span></i>, -<i><span lang="la" xml:lang="la">mensa</span></i>.” 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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Sometimes he lets me leave my lesson and -<span class='pageno' id='Page_260'>260</span>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_261'>261</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_262'>262</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_263'>263</span>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,—</p> - -<p class='c000'><i><span lang="la" xml:lang="la">Mensa</span></i>, <i><span lang="la" xml:lang="la">mensæ</span></i>, <i><span lang="la" xml:lang="la">mensæ</span></i>, <i><span lang="la" xml:lang="la">mensam</span></i>, <i><span lang="la" xml:lang="la">mensa</span></i>, <i><span lang="la" xml:lang="la">mensa</span></i>.</p> - -<div class='chapter'> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_264'>264</span> - <h2 class='c005'>CHAPTER XXIII<br /> <span class='large'>HOW I FAILED</span></h2> -</div> - -<p class='drop-capa0_0_6 c009'>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_265'>265</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_266'>266</span>hair, and not be found always at the bottom -of the class.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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. -<span class='pageno' id='Page_267'>267</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>As a little child, I heard my father tell of -Frederick Douglass, Parker Pillsbury, Sojourner -Truth, Wendell Phillips, and the rest of that -<span class='pageno' id='Page_268'>268</span>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_269'>269</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_270'>270</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_271'>271</span>back to that hallowed land of childhood and -of youth, and still seeks to draw me toward -the heights on which my father lived.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_272'>272</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_273'>273</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>As I myself grew older, I came to have a -stricter feeling of right and wrong,—to see -<span class='pageno' id='Page_274'>274</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_275'>275</span>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_276'>276</span>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?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>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 -<span class='pageno' id='Page_277'>277</span>best. Even now I might sum up my story -in a few short words.</p> - -<p class='c000'>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.</p> - -<div class='pbb'> - <hr class='pb c004' /> -</div> -<div class='tnotes'> - -<div class='chapter'> - <h2 class='c005'>TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES</h2> -</div> - <ol class='ol_1 c003'> - <li>Changed ‘it’ to ‘is’ on p. <a href='#t170'>170</a>. - - </li> - <li>Silently corrected typographical errors. - - </li> - <li>Retained anachronistic and non-standard spellings as printed. - </li> - </ol> - -</div> - - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Farmington, by Clarence S. 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