"He don't like to be called Spunky Clifford," said Johnny Bell; "do you,
Horace?"
"The reason I don't like it," replied the boy, "is because it's not my
name."
"Well, then," said Edward Snow, winking--to the other boys, "won't you
play with us, _Master Horace_?"
"I'll not go back to be laughed at," replied he, stoutly: "when I'm home
I play with Hoosier boys, and they're politer than Yankees."
"'Twas only those big boys," said Johnny Bell: "now they've gone off.
Come, let's play something."
"I should think you'd be willing for us to laugh," added honest little
Willy Snow; "we can't help it, you talk so funny. We don't mean
anything."
"Well," said Horace, quite restored to good humor, and speaking with
some dignity, "you may laugh at me _one_ kind of a way, but if you mean
_humph_ when you laugh, I won't stand it."
"_Woon't_ stand it!" echoed Peter Grant; "ain't that Dutch?"
"Dutch?" replied Horace: "I'll show you what _Dyche_ is! We have a
_Dyche_ teacher come in our school every day, and he stamps his foot and
tears round! 'Sei ruhig,' he says: that means, 'hush your mouth and
keep still.'"
"Is he a Jew, and does he stay in a synagogue?"
"No, he is a German _Luteran_, or a Dutch _Deformed_, or something that
way."
"What do you learn in?" said Johnny Bell.
"Why, in little German readers: what else would they be?"
"Does it read like stories and verses?"
"I don't know. He keeps hitting the books with a little switch, and
screamin' out as if the house was afire."
"Come, say over some Dutch; woon't you, Horace?"
So the little boy repeated some German poetry, while his schoolmates
looked up at him in wonder and admiration. This was just what Horace
enjoyed; and he continued, with sparkling eyes,--
"I s'pose you can't any of you _count_ in Dutch."
The boys confessed that they could not.
"It's just as easy," said Horace, telling over the numbers up to twenty,
as fast as he could speak.
"You can't any of you _write_ Dutch; can you? You give me a slate now,
and I'll write it all over so you couldn't read a word of it."
"Ain't it very hard to make?" asked the boys in tones of respectful
astonishment.
"I reckon you'd think 'twas hard, it's so full of little quirls, but _I_
can write it as easy as English."
This was quite true, for Horace made very hard work of any kind of
writing.
It was not two days before he was at the head of that part of the school
known as "the small boys," both in study and play; yet everybody liked
him, for, as I have said before, the little fellow had such a strong
sense of justice, and such kindness of heart, that he was always a
favorite, in spite of his faults.
The boys all said there was nothing "mean" about Horace. He would
neither abuse a smaller child, nor see one abused. If he thought a boy
was doing wrong, he was not afraid to tell him so, and you may be sure
that he was all the more respected for his moral courage.
Horace talked to his schoolmates a great deal about his father, Captain
Clifford, who was going to be a general some day.
"When I was home," said he, "I studied pa's book of _tictacs_, and I
used to drill the boys."
There was a loud cry of "Why can't you drill us? Come, let's us have a
company, and you be cap'n!"
Horace gladly consented, and the next Saturday afternoon a meeting was
appointed at the "Glen." When the time came, the boys were all as
joyful as so many squirrels suddenly let out of a cage.
"Now, look here, boys," said Horace, brushing back his "shingled hair,"
and walking about the grove with the air of a lord. "First place, if
I'm going to be captain, you must mind; will you, _say_?"
Horace was not much of a public speaker; he threw words together just as
it happened; but there was so much meaning in the twistings of his face,
the jerkings of his head, and the twirlings of his thumbs, that if you
were looking at him you must know what he meant.
"Ay, ay!" piped the little boys in chorus.
"Then I'll muster you in," said Horace grandly. "Has everybody brought
their guns?--I mean _sticks_, you know!"
"Ay, ay!"
"I want to be corporal," said Peter Grant.
"I'll be major," cried Willy Snow.
"There, you've spoke," shouted the captain. "I wish there was a tub or
bar'l to stand you on when you talk."
After some time an empty flour barrel was brought, and placed upright
under a tree, to serve as a dunce-block.
"Now we'll begin new," said the captain. "Those that want to be
mustered, rise up their hands; but don't you snap your fingers."
The caution came too late for some of the boys; but Horace forgave the
seeming disrespect, knowing that no harm was intended.
"Now, boys, what are you fighting about?--Say, For our country!"
"For our country!" shouted the soldiers, some in chorus, and some in
solo.
"And our flag," added Horace, as an afterthought.
"And our flag," repeated the boys, looking at the little banner of stars
and stripes, which was fastened to the stump of a tree, and faintly
fluttered in the breeze.
"Long may it wave!" cried Horace, growing enthusiastic, and pointing
backward to the flag with a sweep of his thumb.
"There ain't a 'Secesh' in this company; there ain't a man but wants our
battle to beat! If there is, we'll muster him out double-quick."
A few caps were flourished in the air, and every mouth was set firmly
together as if it would shout scorn of secession if it dared speak. It
was a loyal company; there was no doubt of that. Indeed, the captain was
so bitter against the South that he had asked his Aunt Madge if it was
right to let _southern-wood_ grow in the garden.
"Now," said Horace, "Forward! March! 'Ploy column!--No, form a line
first. 'Ten*tion*!"
A curved, uncertain line, not unlike the letter S, gradually
straightened itself, and the boys looked down to their feet as if they
expected to see a chalk-mark on the grass.
"Now, when I say, 'Right!' you must look at the buttons on my jacket--or
on yours, I've forgot which; on yours; I reckon. Right! Right at 'em!
Right at the buttons!"
Obedient to orders, every boy's head drooped in a moment.
"Stop!" said Horace, knitting his brows; "that's enough!" For there
seemed to be something wrong, he could not tell what.
"Now you may ''bout face;' that means whirl round. Now march! one, two,
quick time, double-quick!"
"They're stepping on my toes," cried bare-footed Peter Grant.
"Hush right up, private, or I'll stand you on the bar'l."
"I wish't you would," groaned little Peter; "it hurts."
"Well, then, I shan't," said the captain, decidedly, "for 'twouldn't be
any punishin'.--Can't some of you whistle?"
Willy Snow struck up Yankee Doodle, which soon charmed the wayward feet
of the little volunteers, and set them to marching in good time.
Afterward their captain gave instructions in "groundin' arms," "stackin'
arms," "firin'," and "countin' a march," by which he meant
"countermarching." He had really read a good many pages in Infantry
Tactics, and had treasured up the military phrases with some care,
though he had but a confused idea of their meaning.
"Holler-square!" said he, when he could think of nothing else to say.
Of course he meant a "hollow square."
"Shall we holler all together?" cried a voice from the midst of the
ranks.
The owner of the voice would have been "stood on the barrel," if Horace
had been less busy thinking.
"I've forgot how they holler, as true as you live; but I reckon it's all
together, and open your mouths wide."
At this the young volunteers, nothing loath, gave a long, deafening
shout, which the woods caught up and echoed.
Horace scratched his head. He had seen his father drill his men, but he
could not remember that he had ever heard them scream.
A pitched battle came off next, which would have been a very peaceful
one if all the boys had not wanted to be Northerners. But the feeling
was greatly changed when Horace joined the Southern ranks, saying "he
didn't care how much he played Secesh when everybody knew he was a good
Union man, and his father was going to be a general." After this there
was no trouble about raising volunteers on the rebel side.
The whole affair ended very pleasantly, only there was some slashing
right and left with a few bits of broken glass, which were used as
swords; and several mothers had wounds to dress that night.
Mrs. Clifford heard no complaint from her little son, although his
fingers were quite ragged, and must have been painful. Horace was
really a brave boy, and always bore suffering like a hero. More than
that, he had the satisfaction of using the drops of blood for red paint;
and the first thing after supper he made a wooden sword and gun, and
dashed them with red streaks.
*CHAPTER VI*
*SUSIE AND PRUDY*
The Clifford children were very anxious to see Susie and Prudy, and it
seemed a long while to wait; but the Portland schools had a vacation at
last, and then it was time to expect the little cousins.
The whole family were impatient to see them and their excellent mother.
Grandma lost her spectacles very often that afternoon, and every time
she went to the window to look out, the ball of her knitting-work
followed her, as Grace said, "like a little kitten."
There was great joy when the stage really drove up to the door. The
cousins were rather shy of each other at first, and Prudy hid her face,
all glowing with smiles and blushes, in her plump little hands. But the
stiffness wore away, and they were all as well acquainted as ever they
had been, in about ten minutes.
"Ain't that a bumpin' stage, though?" cried Horace; "just like a
baby-jumper."
"We came in it, you know, Susie," said Grace; "didn't it shake like a
corn-popper?"
"I want to go and see the piggy and ducks," said Prudy.
"Well," whispered Susie, "wait till after supper."
The Cliffords were delighted with their little cousins. When they had
last seen Prudy, which was the summer before, they had loved her dearly.
Now she was past five, and "a good deal cunninger than ever;" or so
Horace thought. He liked her pretty face, her gentle ways, and said very
often if he had such a little sister he'd "go a-dyin'."
To be sure Susie was just his age, and could run almost as fast as he
could; still Horace did not fancy her half as much as Prudy, who could
not run much without falling down, and who was always sure to cry if she
got hurt.
Grace and Susie were glad that Horace liked Prudy so well, for when they
were cutting out dolls' dresses, or playing with company, it was
pleasant to have him take her out of the way.
Prudy's mouth was not much larger than a button-hole, but she opened it
as wide as she could when she saw Horace whittle out such wonderful
toys.
He tried to be as much as possible like a man; so he worked with his
jacket off, whistling all the while; and when he pounded, he drew in his
breath with a whizzing noise, such as he had heard carpenters make.
All this was very droll to little Prudy, who had no brothers, and
supposed her "captain cousin" must be a very remarkable boy, especially
as he told her that, if he hadn't left his tool-box out West, he could
have done "a heap better." It was quite funny to see her standing over
him with such a happy, wondering little face, sometimes singing snatches
of little songs, which were sure to be wrong somewhere, such as,--
"Little kinds of _deedness_,
Little words of love,
Make this _earthen needn't_,
Like the heaven above."
She thought, as Horace did, that her sled would look very well "crossed
off with green;" but Susie would not consent. So Horace made a doll's
sled out of shingles, with turned-up runners, and a tongue of string.
This toy pleased Prudy, and no one had a right to say it should not be
painted green.
But as Captain Horace was just preparing to add this finishing touch, a
lady arrived with little twin-boys, four years old. Aunt Madge came
into the shed to call Horace and Prudy. "O, auntie," said Horace, "I
don't believe I care to play with those little persons!"
His aunt smiled at hearing children called "little persons," but told
Horace it would not be polite to neglect his young visitors; it would be
positively rude. Horace did not wish to be considered an ill-mannered
boy, and at last consented to have his hands and garments cleansed with
turpentine to erase the paint, and to go into the nursery to see the
"little persons."
It seemed to him and Prudy that the visit lasted a great while, and that
it was exceedingly hard work to be polite.
When it was well over, Prudy said, "The next lady that comes here, I
hope she won't bring any little _double boys_! What do I love little
boys for, 'thout they're my cousins?"
After the sled was carefully dried Horace printed on it the words "Lady
Jane," in large yellow letters. His friend Gilbert found the paint for
this, and it was thought by both the boys that the sled could not have
been finer if "Lady Jane" had been spread on with gold-leaf by a
sign-painter.
"Now, Prudy," said Horace, "it isn't everybody can make such a sled as
that! It's right strong, too; as strong as--why, it's strong enough to
'bear up an egg'!"
If Horace had done only such innocent things as to "drill" the little
boys, make sleds for Prudy, and keep store with Gilbert, his mother
might have felt happy.
But Horace was growing careless. His father's parting words, "Always
obey your mother, my son, and remember that God sees all you do," did
not often ring in his ears now. Mr. Clifford, though a kind parent, had
always been strict in discipline, and his little son had stood in awe of
him. Now that he had gone away, there seemed to be some danger that
Horace might fall into bad ways. His mother had many serious fears
about him, for, with her feeble health, and the care of little Katie,
she could not be as watchful of him as she wished to be. She remembered
how Mr. Clifford had often said, "He will either make something or
nothing," and she had answered, "Yes, there'll never be any half-way
place for Horace." She sighed now as she repeated her own words.
In his voyages of discovery Horace had found some gunpowder. "Mine!"
said he to himself; "didn't Aunt Madge say we could have everything we
found up-attic?"
He knew that he was doing wrong when he tucked the powder slyly into his
pocket. He knew he did wrong when he showed it to Gilbert, saying,--
"Got any matches, Grasshopper?"
They dug holes in the ground for the powder, and over the powder crossed
some dry sticks. When they touched it off they ran away as fast as
possible; but it was a wonder they were not both blown up. It was
pleasant, no doubt, to hear the popping of the powder; but they dared
not laugh too loud, lest someone in the house should hear them, and come
out to ask what they could be playing that was so remarkably funny.
Mrs. Clifford little thought what a naughty thing Horace had been doing
when she called him in one day, and said, with a smiling face,--for she
loved to make him happy,--"See, my son, what I have bought for you! It
is a present from your father, for in his last letter he asked me to get
it."
Horace fairly shouted with delight when he saw the beautiful Zouave
suit, gray, bordered with red, and a cap to match. If he had any
twinges of conscience about receiving this present, nobody knew it.