THE WIDOW WESTON
Near the house of Captain Sedley, a sandy beach extended from the road,
on the margin of the lake, down to the water's side. It was here that
Charles Hardy waited the return of his friend. He was thinking of the
sacrifice they had concluded to make for the widow Weston; and it must
be confessed that he felt not a little sad at the thought of resigning
all the enjoyment he anticipated in connection with the excursion to
the city the following day.
On the water, secured by a pole driven into the sand, floated a raft,
which some of the boys in the neighborhood had built, and with which
they amused themselves in paddling about the lake. It was a rude
structure, made by lashing together four rails in the form of a square,
and placing planks across the upper side of them. The boys who had
constructed it lived farther down the lake in the direction of the
village. They did not bear a very good character in the neighborhood.
If an orchard was robbed, a henroost plundered, or any other mischief
done in the vicinity, it could generally be traced to them. They always
played together, went to and came from school together, planned and
executed their mischief together, so that they came to be regarded as a
unit of roguery, and people never saw one of them without wondering
where the rest were.
The foremost of these unruly fellows was Tim Bunker. He was the ruling
spirit of their party, and had the reputation of being a notoriously
bad boy. He was in the habit of lying, swearing, cheating, and
stealing; and people, judging his followers by their ringleader, had
got into the way of calling them the Bunkers.
Of course Captain Sedley was unwilling that his son should associate
with such boys as the Bunkers; and so much did Frank dislike their
company that it was scarcely necessary to caution him to avoid them.
While Charles Hardy was waiting, he walked down to the water's edge.
The sun was just sinking behind the green hills in the west, reflecting
the shadows of the beautiful gold and purple clouds upon the surface of
the silver lake. A gentle breeze was blowing down the valley, and the
little waves broke with a musical ripple upon the pebbly sands. It was
a lovely hour and a lovely scene, and Charles felt the sweet influence
of both. He looked out upon the lake, and wished he was floating over
its tiny wavelets.
He stepped upon the raft, and thought how pleasant and how exciting it
would be to sail over to Centre Isle, as the little wood-crowned islet
that rose from the middle of the lake was called. Pulling up the stake
that held the raft, he pushed out a little way from the shore. The
sensation which the motion of the raft produced was new and strange to
him, and he felt a longing desire to sail farther. But just then Frank
returned.
"My father is not at home," said he.
"Can't you go, then?" asked Charles, as he pushed the raft to the shore
again.
"Yes; I told my mother where I was going."
"Frank, let us go up to Mrs. Weston's on this raft. She lives close by
the shore of the lake."
"My father told me never to go on the lake without permission from
him."
"Pooh! What harm can there be in it?"
"I don't know that there can be any."
"Let us go then."
"My father told me not to go on the lake."
"But he has gone away, you said."
"I cannot disobey him."
"He never will know it."
"You don't mean what you say, Charley. You would not have me go
directly contrary to what my father told me, just because he is not
here to see me."
Charles felt a little ashamed, and replacing the stake that secured the
raft, jumped on shore.
"It is a delightful evening, and it would be so pleasant to take a
little sail!" said he.
"I don't think that raft is very safe. I saw the Bunkers on it the
other day, and they stood ankle deep in water."
"I am not afraid of it."
"No matter; my father told me not to go on the lake, which is quite
reason enough for me not to do so."
"But the Bunkers seem to have a first-rate time on it."
"Perhaps they do."
"But we fellows that have to mind what our fathers and mothers tell us
are the losers by our obedience."
Frank smiled; he could not help doing so at the thought of one who had
just been counselling him to disobedience making such a remark.
"I am quite sure I am contented."
"But don't you think the Bunkers have more fun than we do? Tim Bunker
don't care any more about what his father says than he does about the
fifth wheel of a coach, and he always seems to have a first-rate time."
"Appearances are deceitful," replied Frank with a sage smile. "Do you
think we should enjoy ourselves up to our ankles in water on that
raft?"
"The water wouldn't hurt us."
"Not so much as the disobedience, it is true; but I don't care much
about such fun as that."
"Tim Bunker asked me to sail with him over to the island yesterday, and
I had a great mind to go. If it had been any other fellow, I would."
"Your father told you not to go on the lake."
"He never would have known it."
"Perhaps not; but you would not have felt any better on that account."
"For my part, I hate to be tied to my father's coat-tails or mother's
apron-string when there is any fun going on. I don't see why we
shouldn't have a good time once in a while, as well as the Bunkers, who
are no better than we are."
"I don't know how it is with you, but I can enjoy myself enough and
obey my parents at the same time."
"Right, Frank!" exclaimed Captain Sedley, who at this moment stepped
down from the grove adjoining the beach, where he had overheard a part
of the conversation. "So you think, Charles, that the boys who disobey
their parents enjoy themselves most."
"No, sir. I don't exactly mean that; but the Bunkers have some
first-rate times with this raft," replied Charles, very much confused
by the sudden appearance of Frank's father.
"But their lives are continually in danger," added Captain Sedley.
"Oh, sir, they can all swim."
"All of them?"
"Like ducks, sir."
"Suppose one of them should fall overboard half a mile from the land,
where I saw them yesterday. Do you think he could swim ashore?"
"Tim could."
"There are a great many things to be considered in such a case. His
clothes might encumber him; he might have the cramp; he might get
frightened."
"The others could save him."
"We do not know what they could do. Boys at play are very different
from boys in the hour of peril. When I was a sailor before the mast,
one of my shipmates, a very expert swimmer ordinarily, fell from the
mainyard arm into the sea. Two of us jumped in to assist him; but he
sank to the bottom like a lump of lead, and we never saw him again."
"That was strange," added Charles.
"He was taken unawares; he lost his self-command, and it might be so
with the Bunkers. This rafting is dangerous business, and I advise you
never to engage in it;" and Captain Sedley walked off towards his
house.
"Father, I want to go up to the widow Weston's a little while," said
Frank.
"Very well; but you must be back so as to go to bed and get up in
season for your excursion to the city to-morrow."
"Come, Charley, I guess we won't go up on the raft," said Frank with a
pleasant laugh.
"I guess not;" and the two boys walked towards the rude cottage of the
widow Weston.
It was situated near the lake, about half a mile from Captain Sedley's.
Mrs. Weston was the widow of a poor laboring man who had died about a
year before our story opens. She was the mother of four
children,--three sons and a daughter. Her eldest son, who was now
twenty-two years old, had been in California nearly two years, having
left his home a year before the death of his father. She had received
one letter from him on his arrival at San Francisco, since which she
had heard nothing of him, and had given up all hopes of ever seeing him
again. She had not a doubt but that he had found a grave in the golden
soil of that far-off land. She mourned him as dead, and all the earthly
hopes of the poor mother were concentrated in her remaining children.
Anthony, the next son, whom everybody called Tony, was now thirteen
years old. He was an active, industrious boy; and all the neighbors
were willing to employ him on their farms and about their houses, so
that he was able to do a great deal towards supporting the family. He
was a good boy, so honest and truthful, so kind-hearted, and so devoted
to his poor mother, that he was a great favorite in the vicinity; and
some of the richer folks, when they really had no work for him, would
find something for him to do, for he was so proud and high-spirited
that he would not take money he had not earned.
Mary Weston, the daughter, was eleven years of age. Like her brother,
she had a sweet and gentle disposition, and did all she could to assist
her poor mother in the strait of her poverty. But Mrs. Weston, though
she had a hard struggle to get along, sent her daughter to school
winter and summer, preferring to deprive herself of many of the
comforts of life, rather than have her daughter forego the advantages
of a tolerable education. Mary, though her little hands were too feeble
to work much, felt that she was a burden to her toiling, self-denying
parent; and though she could not persuade her to let her stay at home
and help her, used all her time out of school in taking care of little
Richard, then only three years old. By constantly striving to be
useful, and by continually watching for opportunities to be of service
to her mother, she very sensibly diminished the burden of her cares.
Poor as the widow Weston was, hard as she was obliged to struggle for a
subsistence, she was happy, and her children were happy. They had no
fine house, no money, no rich carpets, no beds of down, as their rich
neighbor had, yet they were quite as happy as he was. The God of nature
gave them the same beautiful prospect of lake and hills, and woods and
rocks, to look out upon; and if these things helped to gladden their
hearts, it was goodness which lay at the foundation of all their joys,
and cast a ray of sunshine across the path of poverty and want. They
were contented with their lot, hard and bitter as many others deemed
it; and contentment made them happy,--prepared their hearts to enjoy
the blessings of plenty, if God in his wisdom should ever bestow it
upon them.
The boys found the family at supper, and Frank could not but contrast
his evening meal with that of the poor widow's family. He had just
partaken of the choicest fruits, nice cake, hot waffles and muffins,
set before him; the Westons had only brown bread and very white butter.
He had used silver dishes and silver forks; they ate their coarse fare
from a few half-broken plates. His father was rich, and they were very
poor.
"You are welcome, Master Frank; I am glad to see you, and Master
Charles too," said Mrs. Weston, rising from the table and handing them
chairs. "I hope your father and mother are well."
"Very well, I thank you, ma'am," replied Frank. "I have called to see
you about something, and I want to see you alone," added he in a low
tone; for he did not wish Tony, who was a great deal prouder than his
mother, to know the nature of his errand.
Just then Tony finished his supper, and Mrs. Weston sent him out to
feed the hens.
"I have brought you a present, Mrs. Weston," continued Frank; "I hope
you will accept it."
"Indeed, Master Frank, you are always very good to me; and your father
and mother too," replied the widow.
"Here are seven dollars. Charles and I wish to give you this sum."
"Seven dollars!" exclaimed the widow; for to a poor woman like her this
was a very large sum.
"Charles and I had saved it for the Fourth of July; but we thought how
much good it would do you, who have to work so hard, and we determined
to make you a present of it."
"May God bless you both!" exclaimed the widow, wiping a tear of
gratitude from her eye; "but I cannot think of taking your money."
"But, Mrs. Weston, you _must_ take it."
"And you give up your pleasure for a poor body like me?"
"We give the money to you because it will afford us a greater pleasure
than to spend it for fire-crackers and gingerbread."
"How noble and generous! but you wrong yourselves."
"Oh, no, we don't," said Charles; and at that moment he felt happier
than if all the gingerbread and fire-crackers in the world had been
showered down upon him.
"Hush! here comes Tony. Not a word to him about it if you please."
"Heaven bless you, boys!" said the poor woman as she put the money in
her pocket.
Frank and Charles talked a few moments with Tony about the "glorious
Fourth," and then took leave of the family.