A MORNING’S WORK.
CLINTON’S chamber, which Whistler was to share during his stay in
Brookdale, was one of the most curious rooms in the house. It was in the
second story, on the west side of the house,—the side represented as
nearest to the spectator in the engraving on page 30. It had two
windows, one on the west, and the other—a luthern, or dormer
window,—looking towards the south. The room was of pretty good size, but
was low studded, the pitch of the roof bringing the ceiling so far down,
on the sides, that a boy twelve years old could not stand up straight
under it. This made it seem like a garret to Whistler, who had always
slept in a large, airy chamber; but the walls were plastered and
papered, and the room was in all other respects comfortably finished. It
had a neat and cosy air, however, which, in spite of its low ceiling,
won rapidly upon the city boy’s regards. The tastes and habits of its
occupant were reflected in nearly every article. The bed, chairs and
table, were such as you might find in almost any boy’s chamber; but the
extras that you do _not_ find in every body’s room were quite numerous.
The first thing that attracted Whistler’s notice was a neat little box
upon the table, made of maple. On turning over the top, it was
transformed into a portable writing-desk, and was found to be supplied
with pens, ink and paper. This, Clinton informed him, was a birthday
present from his father, who made it. A small book-rack, with three
shelves, was fastened to the wall, and held Clinton’s little library.
The books were mostly of a juvenile order, and among them were several
that Whistler had sent to him in former years. The rack itself was of
Clinton’s own workmanship, and was very neatly made. Upon the upper
shelf, which held no books, there was another specimen of his handiwork,
in the shape of a full-rigged schooner, with sails spread and flag
flying. Brought up in an inland town, and never having seen the salt
water but once or twice, Clinton knew but little about vessels. And yet
he had built quite a respectable schooner; although, to the more
experienced eye of Whistler, the model was not of the most approved
clipper style. The name, “Dolphin,” was painted on the stern.
A number of engravings, of various degrees of merit, were attached by
pins to the walls of Clinton’s room. Pasted upon the wall, around the
looking-glass, there was a whole constellation of small pictures, which
evidently had once figured in newspapers and handbills. The windows were
furnished with paper curtains, which, judging from the quantity of
pulleys, fish-bone rings, cords, and other rigging attached, were
evidently put up by Clinton with an eye rather to ingenuity than
simplicity of arrangement.
Such was the room to which Clinton introduced his cousin, when the
family retired at night. After glancing at the various objects I have
described, Whistler noticed a slate and several school books upon the
table, and inquired:
“When do you study your lessons, Clinton? Have you got to get one this
evening?”
“No,” he replied; “I’m going to have a vacation now. Father thinks I had
better suspend my studies while you are here, so that I may have as much
time to spend with you as possible. I am going to arrange my work, too,
so that it won’t take so much of my time.”
“You needn’t do that,” said Whistler; “I can help you some about your
work, and I’d rather do it than not. I can drive the cows home, and help
weed the beds, and hoe the corn, and do lots of other things.”
“Well, you can help me some, if you want to,” replied Clinton. And the
boys continued to lay their plans, and talk over matters of mutual
interest, for an hour after they had got into bed, when sleep began to
steal over their senses, and their pleasant schemes melted imperceptibly
into airy dreams.
Early the next morning, before the sun was up, a rap on the chamber door
aroused the boys, and was instantly obeyed; for it was the signal to
arise, from Clinton’s mother. Having hastily dressed themselves, they
proceeded to the barn-yard, where they found Mr. Davenport engaged in
milking the cows. A vacant stool, an empty bucket, and a gentle-looking
cow, were awaiting Clinton’s movements and without any delay he seated
himself by the side of “Daisy,” and the milky stream began to flow.
There were two other cows, “Princess” and “Nelly.” As Whistler could be
of no service, he stood looking on, discussing the merits of the several
cows with his uncle and cousin. He found that each of the animals had
its own private character. Nelly was a red and white cow, with a gentle,
motherly look. She evinced much attachment for Daisy, who, indeed, was
her daughter, and resembled her in appearance and disposition. Daisy,
however, was the tamest of the three, and a trifle handsomer than her
mother. She would follow any of the family, and eat a turnip or an ear
of corn out of their hands. Princess was dark-colored, and gave the most
milk; but, as is apt to be the case with those bearing royal names, she
was selfish, stubborn and mischievous. One curious thing about her was,
that she always wanted to be milked first; and if the preference was
given to one of the other cows, she showed her indignation very plainly.
If any little attention was manifested towards the others, such as
carding or stroking them, she would seem very jealous, and try to
interrupt their enjoyment.
As the conversation was proceeding, Daisy showed some signs of
uneasiness, upon which Mr. Preston said, in a pleasant tone:
“Mind your milking, Clinty, and postpone your stories until you get
through. You haven’t learned yet to milk well and talk at the same
time.”
Milking is an operation that ought to be done rapidly and without
interruption, to be thoroughly and properly performed. Conversation is
very apt to distract the attention of the milker, and thus interfere
with his work, as it did in the case of Clinton.
The milking was soon completed, and the boys, as they drove the cows to
pasture, talked as fast as they pleased. When they returned, breakfast
was upon the table, and the morning air had so sharpened their appetites
that they were prepared to do full justice to the ample meal.
“Now,” said Clinton, as they went out after breakfast, “work is the
first thing in the order of the day. I must attend to the fowls, and
then I have got to weed a piece of ground, and after that I shall be at
your service.”
“I’ll help you do the weeding, and I’ll see you do the feeding,” said
Whistler, laughing at his impromptu rhyme.
“Your kindness is exceeding,—come, let us be proceeding,” quickly
replied Clinton, taking up the rhyme.
“Good!” exclaimed Whistler. “Between us both we might make quite a
decent song.”
“That’s the song I like to hear,” said Clinton, as a hen, flying down
from the box in which she had just deposited an egg, set up a noisy
“Cut-cut-cut-cut-ca-_dah_-cut!” with the accent very strongly upon the
last syllable but one.
“I suppose that’s what you call ‘The Lay of the Last Minstrel,’”
observed Whistler.
“Yes,” replied Clinton; “and if it isn’t good poetry, it is good
poultry, which comes near enough to it.”
A flock of turkeys, which were at large, spying Clinton with his
familiar peck measure, now approached the boys, pompously marching like
a file of soldiers,—a solemn-looking gobbler taking the lead. A few
handfulls of corn scattered among them, gave them plenty of business,
and Clinton then turned his attention to the hens, which at this season
of the year were confined within their own quarters, in consequence of
their scratching propensity. Having fed them, and given them a dish of
fresh water, he was ready to commence work in the garden. Whistler
wanted a hoe, too; and he was provided with one, and set himself to work
by the side of his cousin.
“I shouldn’t think there were many weeds here,” said Whistler, after
hoeing a few minutes. “I can’t find hardly anything but grass.”
“I should say that was enough,” replied Clinton. “This witch-grass is
about the worst stuff that ever got into a garden.”
“Do you call this witch-grass?” inquired his cousin.
“Yes, that’s one name for it,” replied Clinton. “Some people call it
piper-grass. Just feel of the roots, and see how tough they are.”
“Why, they’re almost like wire!” said Whistler.
“I never saw anything like it to grow,” continued Clinton. “I’ve cleaned
out every spear of it from this ground three times this summer, and yet
see how it has grown. It is almost impossible to kill it. The roots will
grow right through a potato, or a chip, or almost anything that happens
to be in the way. I left a handful on the fence-rail last spring, and
the first thing I knew it had taken root in the wood, and was growing
finely. Father says that when he was a boy they used to say that the
only way to kill it was to dry it, and then put it in your pipe and
smoke it, and be very careful of the ashes.”
“Does it bother you so every year?” inquired Whistler.
“No,” replied his cousin; “this is the first time we have had any in
this piece of ground, and nobody knows how it came here. I suppose a few
seeds got scattered here somehow or other. Before the ground is planted
again, it will have to be dug all over with a ten-tined fork. That will
clear it out, if anything will.”
“If father was here now,” said Whistler, “how he would moralize over
this witch-grass! I can imagine just how he would talk. He’d say,
‘That’s right, boys!—pull away! This witch-grass has all got to come
out, at some rate or other. It’s an abominable pest, isn’t it? Well,
it’s just like a bad habit in a man’s mind.—It’s no trouble at all to
get it started; but if he ever wants to get rid of it, what a time he’ll
have of it! Why, he’ll have to be raked fore and aft with the ten-tined
fork of tribulation, and then he won’t be sure that he has got all the
plaguy roots out.’”
The half-serious, half-comic air with which this was said, and the
amusing imitation which Whistler gave of his father’s manner, proved too
much for Clinton’s gravity, and he indulged in a hearty laugh, in spite
of the excellent moral so queerly brought to his mind. It was not
Whistler’s design, however, to make sport of his father. He had merely
given as faithful an imitation as he could of what his father might have
said, could he have looked in upon the boys just at that moment. Mr.
Davenport, when in the company of his children, lost no opportunity of
drawing lessons of instruction from the natural world, and from the
daily events that happened around them; and this habit had so impressed
itself upon Whistler’s mind, that he often found himself instinctively
imitating his example.
The boys, who were now some distance apart, worked on in silence a short
time, when suddenly Whistler gave a vigorous stroke with his hoe, and
then said, as if talking to himself:
“There, old fellow,—you’re fixed now!”
“What is that?” inquired Clinton.
“A toad.”
“Did you kill him?”
“Not exactly. I only cut off his jumpers. Just look here, and see how
smooth I took off his hind legs.”
Clinton took a look at the poor victim, which was struggling in its
agony, and, shaking his head, said, seriously:
“That is too bad!”
“What is too bad?” inquired Whistler, with some surprise.
“Why, to torture a poor thing in that way. I’d put him out of his
misery, if I were you.”
Whistler felt the mild rebuke, and, having found a large stone, he gave
the poor reptile his death-blow with far less satisfaction than he
experienced when he cut him in halves with his hoe. He was not at heart
a cruel boy, but he was thoughtless,—a fault which is the excuse (and a
very poor one it is) for a great deal of suffering inflicted upon dumb
creatures. Having dispatched the toad, he resumed his hoe, saying, in a
half-apologetic tone:
“I never could bear toads;—they say they are poisonous.”
“I don’t believe that,” said Clinton; “I never heard of any body being
poisoned by a toad. Besides, they are very useful in a garden,—didn’t
you know it?”
“Useful? no, indeed! I thought they ate up the things,” replied his
cousin.
“They eat up the grubs, and worms, and bugs, and such things,” replied
Clinton; “but they don’t hurt the crops. They are good friends to the
farmer, and I’m always careful never to hurt them.”
“I didn’t know that; I thought they had no business here,” said
Whistler. “I’ve always been in the habit of pelting them, just as I
would a snake, wherever I found them; and that’s the way all the boys
serve them where I live.”
“You ask my father about them when we go home, and see if he doesn’t
tell you they are useful,” remarked Clinton, who thought his cousin was
not entirely satisfied on this point.
“O, I suppose you are right; only it is something I never heard of
before,” replied Whistler.
“I’ve tamed toads, before now, so that they would eat out of my hand,”
resumed Clinton.
“You have?”
“Yes; it is easy enough to tame them. If they find you don’t disturb
them they’ll come out from their hiding-places, and hop around you, and
follow you, especially if you give them something to eat. Did you ever
see them eat?”
“No; I never did.”
“Well, you ought to; for it’s a curious sight. When they get within
reach of a slug or a fly, they dart their tongue out as quick as
lightning, and seize it. The tongue is very long, and red; and it moves
so quick that people sometimes think they are spitting fire, when they
are only feeding.”
“I’ve heard that toads spit fire,” said Whistler.
“That’s only one of the old prejudices against them,” replied Clinton.
“They don’t spit fire any more than I do; but I can tell you of one
strange habit that they _do_ indulge in.”
“What is that?”
“They swallow their own skins.”
“How can they do that?” inquired Whistler, with a look of incredulity.
“They shed their skins, like snakes, at certain times; but, instead of
leaving their old coat where they happen to take it off, they always
swallow it.”
“How do you know that?—did you ever see them do it?”
“No; but father has a book that says so. Besides, I never found a toad’s
skin, although there are plenty of toads about here.”
“Perhaps they bury their cast-off skins,” suggested Whistler, who, now
that several of his illusions in regard to toads were dispelled, was
disinclined to allow them the credit of doing anything remarkable.
“If I were going to guess,” replied Clinton, “I should think that they
might hide them in some way. But the book I spoke of was written by a
great naturalist, and I suppose he knew what he was writing about. In
fact, I don’t know that they shed their skins at all, only from what I
have heard and read about it.”
“Well, poor toady, I’m sorry that I killed you; but I didn’t know any
better,” said Whistler, as he tossed away the remains of his victim with
his hoe, and resumed his work.
About two hours before the sun reached the meridian the boys finished
weeding the piece of ground, and Clinton’s work for the day was
accomplished.
------------------------------------------------------------------------