THE JOURNEY.
Oscar's valise was well packed for his journey, and many were the
injunctions given him by his mother, in regard to his conduct during
his absence from home. The morning for his departure soon came, and,
in company with his uncle, he proceeded to the depôt, and took the cars
for Portland. It was a mild spring morning, near the close of May.
Oscar secured a seat by a window, from which he could see the country
they passed through; while his uncle, to whom the journey was no
novelty, seated himself by his side, and was soon absorbed in his
morning newspaper.
The keen relish with which Oscar set out upon his long ride gradually
wore off, and he began to feel weary long before the train reached its
destination. It was just noon when they arrived at Portland; and as it
was too late to reach Brookdale that day, Oscar's uncle concluded to
stop there until the next morning. They proceeded to a hotel, where
they booked their names, and were shown to a chamber. After dinner,
Mr. Preston took Oscar to walk, and showed him some of the most notable
places about town. But the latter felt too tired to walk about a great
deal, and spent most of the afternoon in the hotel, while his uncle was
off attending to some business.
After supper, Mr. Preston again went out to make some calls. He
invited Oscar to go with him, but he preferred to remain in the hotel.
He lounged awhile in the bar-room, as it was called (though there was
no bar in it), listening to the conversation of the men who had
gathered there. At length, beginning to grow sleepy, he retired to his
chamber, taking with him a queer little lamp the landlord gave him,
which appeared to hold only about a thimblefull of oil. Oscar thought
it was a stingy contrivance, and had some notion of sitting up to see
how long it would burn; but his eyelids grew heavy, and he gave up the
idea. Throwing off his clothing, he extinguished his diminutive lamp,
and took possession of one of the beds in the room, of which there were
two. As he composed himself to sleep, a slight sense of lonesomeness
stole over him, when he remembered that he was alone in a strange house
and a strange city, more than a hundred miles from his home; and almost
unconsciously he found himself reverently repeating the little prayer
he had been taught by his mother in infancy, but which of late years,
in his sad waywardness, he had outgrown and almost forgotten:
"Now I lay me down to sleep,
I pray the lord my soul to keep;
If I should die before I wake,
I pray the lord my soul to take."
He had occasionally repeated to himself this simple but appropriate
evening petition during his late illness; but, strange to tell, for
several years previous to that time, the thought of asking anything of
the great Giver of all good had scarcely ever entered his mind.
Oscar was soon fast asleep, and the next thing he was conscious of was
the striking of a strange church-clock, that awoke him in the morning.
His uncle was dressing himself, and the sun was shining in at the
window. For a moment, he was puzzled to determine where he was; but
his recollection returned when his uncle remarked:
"Come, Oscar, it is time to get up,--we have got to be at the depôt in
an hour."
Oscar jumped out of bed, and was dressed and ready for the breakfast
table before the bell rang. After the morning meal was
despatched,--for it was literally a work of despatch, judging from the
celerity with which the heaping plates of hot biscuits and beef-steak
disappeared from the long table,--Mr. Preston settled with the
landlord, and proceeded with Oscar to the railroad depôt.
"How much further have we got to go?" inquired Oscar, after they had
taken their seat in the car.
"About one hundred and twenty miles," replied his uncle; "and
thirty-five of it will be in a stage-coach--that is the worst of the
whole journey."
"I shall like that part of it first-rate, I guess," said Oscar. "If
they have good horses, I know I shall."
"You will find out how you like it, before night," added Mr. Preston,
with a smile.
The cars were soon on their way, and Oscar's eyes and attention were
fully engaged in taking note of the scenery from the windows. The
appearance of the country did not differ much from that through which
he passed the day previous; and long before he reached the end of his
eighty-miles' ride, his attention began to flag, and his eyes to grow
weary. It was about eleven o'clock, when they arrived at the depôt at
which they were to leave the train. Here they had an opportunity to
rest an hour, and to take dinner, before resuming their journey.
After dinner, the stage-coach made its appearance, and the passengers
began to stow themselves away within it, Oscar mounted the outside, and
took a seat with the driver, with whom he was soon on intimate terms.
All things being ready, the horses started, at the familiar "Get up!"
and they were on their way toward Brookdale.
The horses did not prove quite so smart as Oscar hoped they would, and
the coach was a heavy and hard-riding concern, compared with those he
was accustomed to ride upon at home. But the road was good, though
hilly, and the scenery, much of the way, was very pleasant. The
driver, too, was quite talkative, and Oscar being the only outside
passenger, enjoyed the full benefit of his communicativeness.
Occasionally they passed through a village, with its rows of neat white
houses, its tall church steeple, its bustling store, and its groups of
children playing in the streets. Now and then they stopped a few
moments, to leave a passenger, a package, or a mail-bag; for the strong
leathern bags, with brass padlocks, which the driver had carefully
packed away under his box, contained the United States' mails for the
towns along his route.
As they advanced on their way, the villages became less frequent, the
farm houses were more scattering, and the country grew more wild.
Sometimes the road extended for miles through thickly-wooded forests.
Occasionally they would come in sight of a river, and, perhaps, would
hear the clatter and whizzing of a saw-mill, or get a glimpse of a raft
of logs floating lazily down the stream. It was about six o'clock when
the stage stopped at the post-office of a small settlement, and the
driver told Oscar he was going to leave him there. His seat had grown
tiresome, during the last few hours, and he was by no means sorry to
leave it.
"Well, Jerry, here I am again," said Mr. Preston, addressing a boy who
stood by. "How are all the folks at home?"
"They are well," replied the boy addressed.
"This way Oscar," said Mr. Preston, pointing to a horse and wagon on
the opposite side of the street. "Oscar, this is your cousin Jerry,"
he continued, and the boys shook hands with each other, in
acknowledgment of the introduction.
Oscar now learned that they were yet five miles from Brookdale, and
that as the stage did not pass any nearer to his uncle's, Jerry had
come over with a horse to take his father home. There being but one
seat to the wagon, Mr. Preston and Oscar took possession of it, while
Jerry seated himself on the floor behind them. While on the way to
Brookdale, Oscar addressed several remarks to his cousin; but the
latter seemed shy, and they did not get acquainted with each other very
fast. They passed but very few houses, and Oscar looked in vain for
any signs of a village. At length, when he thought they could not be
far from their journey's end, he inquired:
"Where is the village, uncle John? Shan't we see any of it, going to
your house?"
"This is the village," replied Mr. Preston.
"This a village!" exclaimed Oscar; "why, I don't see any houses."
"This is all the village there is," replied his uncle; "there are
hardly any two houses in sight of each other in the town."
They were now approaching an old, two-story farmhouse, in the doorway
of which a woman and several children were standing, looking towards
them. This proved to be the end of their journey. Having driven the
wagon into the large barn which stood nearly opposite the house, Mr.
Preston left Jerry to put up the horse, and proceeded at once to the
house with his nephew. Mrs. Preston had seen Oscar in Boston, and came
out to meet him. She welcomed him very cordially, and inquired after
all the other members of the family. She then introduced him to his
three other cousins, Emily, Harriet, and Mary, all of whom were younger
than Jerry, and quite as shy and silent as he, at the presence of a
stranger.
Supper was now ready, and all the family, including James, the hired
man, seated themselves at the table. Mr. Preston, during the meal,
talked freely of what he had seen and done since he left home; but the
children maintained their gravity and silence, though Oscar tried hard
to break the ice of restraint with Jerry, who sat by his side. A
strange face was an unusual thing among them, and they could not get
over it in a moment.
After supper, Mrs. Preston and her oldest daughter cleared off the
table and washed the dishes; James and Jerry went out to the barn; Mr.
Preston sat down to a table to examine some papers he had in his
pocket-book; while Harriet and Mary remained, to keep Oscar company.
The latter now began to make advances towards his youngest cousin, who
was the prettiest and most interesting of the children. A little
coaxing brought her to his side.
"Do you know what my name is, Sissy?" he inquired.
"Yes; it's Oscar," she replied.
"Oscar what?" he inquired.
"Cousin Oscar," she answered, after a little hesitation.
"Yes, but that is n't all of it," replied Oscar; "don't you know the
other part of it--Cousin Oscar----what?"
Mary looked thoughtful a moment, and then replied, in a confident tone,
"Boston."
Oscar could not help laughing at this amusing mistake, and Mary,
feeling hurt at the liberty he took, began to move away; but he held
her by the hand, saying:
"No, don't go yet, Sissy--you got my name almost right, after all.
Cousin Oscar Preston, from Boston,--that was what you meant to say, was
n't it?"
"Yes," replied Mary.
"Now tell me what your name is?" continued Oscar.
"Mary Preston," she replied.
"And how old are you?"
"I 'm going to be six next winter," she answered, with animation.
"Very well,--you 're a smart little girl," replied Oscar.
"How old be you?" inquired Mary, now turning the table upon her
questioner.
"I 'm fourteen," said Oscar.
"You 're a smart little boy," added Mary, with a roguish twinkle in her
eye, and she darted out of the room with a merry laugh.
After that, there was no more shyness between Mary and Oscar. With the
older children, however, Oscar did not get acquainted quite so easily,
particularly with the girls. He made but little progress with any of
them that evening, until he retired with Jerry, with whom he was to
sleep during his visit. After they had got into bed, Jerry's tongue
was loosed, and before they went to sleep his reserve had almost
entirely vanished.