AN AFTERNOON EXCURSION.
THE boys, after completing their work, amused themselves in various ways
until dinner time. They proposed going over to Mr. Preston’s in the
afternoon; and as soon as dinner was dispatched, they were on their way.
The distance was about three quarters of a mile; but it was the nearest
house to Mr. Davenport’s. A walk of less than fifteen minutes brought
them to a large, old-fashioned farm-house, shaded by a great elm tree.
Three girls were just coming from the house, each with a small basket or
tin pail in her hand. Ella and Emily were among them, and the
first-named introduced the youngest to Whistler as her cousin Harriet.
Harriet was between ten and eleven years old. She and Emily were the
only children of the family now at home. The youngest of the flock—sweet
little Mary—fell sick and died about six months previous to the time of
which I am writing. A month or two before that sad event, the oldest of
the children, Jerry, took it into his head that he could find a better
place than home, and suddenly disappeared one Sunday, while the family
were at church. For a long time nothing was heard from him; but at
length he wrote to them, from a foreign port, stating that he had gone
to sea, and was bound on a long voyage.
It appeared that the girls were about starting on a strawberry excursion
when the boys arrived; and the latter having been invited to join them,
they all set out together. Strawberries grow wild in that part of the
country. Ella and Whistler, to whom this fruit was known only as a
dear-bought luxury, thought it must be fine to eat the berries fresh
from the vines, with no fear of coming to the bottom of the box, and no
two-shillings-per-quart drawback upon the indulgence. They sauntered
along in advance of the others, looking on every side for the red and
luscious fruit; but they found none; for it was a long walk to the
strawberry patch. In going to it, they had to pass through a swamp, near
the upper end of the pond, the entrance to which did not look very
inviting to Ella.
“O, dear! I never can go through that horrid place!” she exclaimed. “I
should be frightened out of my wits!”
“O, no, you won’t,” said Clinton. “There’s a good path all the way
through, and nothing will hurt you. You follow right behind me, and I’ll
help you over the bad places.”
Ella still stood in doubt, while Whistler in his eagerness was following
the faint track, forgetful of his companions. Emily and Harriet assured
their cousin that they had often crossed the swamp; and, with a little
further encouragement from Clinton, she set forward,—not, however,
without some misgivings. In some places the ground was very wet; and
they had to step upon stones, logs, stumps, etc., which had been used
for this purpose for years. Two or three brooks also crossed their
track, over which old logs had been thrown to serve as bridges. In many
places a thick growth of bushes, often armed with sharp thorns,
stretched across the path, making it difficult for them to force their
way through. Ella, however, was the only one who evinced any fear; and,
but for Clinton’s constant encouragement and aid, she would have
concluded that the strawberries were not worth the risk and trouble of
getting them.
“Are there any snakes here?” she inquired, a new terror bursting on her
mind.
“None of any consequence,” replied Clinton. “There may be a few
water-snakes: but they won’t harm any body.”
“It makes no difference what they are, if they are only snakes,—I’m as
afraid of one kind as of another,” said Ella, who had a city girl’s
dread of everything of the serpent kind.
“O, no; you wouldn’t be afraid of a water-snake. They are just as
harmless as toads,” said Clinton.
“I’m afraid of toads, too,—and I can’t help it,” replied Ella.
“If you should live in the country a little while you wouldn’t mind such
things,” said Emily.
“Yes, I should,” replied her cousin. “I always had a perfect antipathy
to snakes, and toads, and spiders, and all such creatures. I know they
won’t hurt me; but I can’t help hating them.”
Seeing how little headway they made against her prejudices, Clinton and
Emily dropped the subject. They were not yet out of the swamp, however;
and soon another terror arose in the mind of the timid city girl.
“I shall get poisoned here!—I know I shall!” she said, in a tone of
mingled alarm and resignation, as though she would have added, “You may
do what you please with me,—I’m resigned.”
“There’s no danger of that,” replied Clinton, with a laugh. “You keep
close to me, and I will look out for you.”
“Are there any poisonous plants in this swamp?” inquired Whistler, who
had heard Ella’s remark.
“Yes, there’s plenty of poison ivy,” replied Clinton.
“O, yes; I see some now!” said Whistler, who was still at the head of
the little party. “That’s poison ivy, isn’t it?” he continued, pointing
to a luxuriant vine that was twining around the trunk of a dead tree.
“No, that isn’t it; that’s the other kind of ivy, or woodbine, or
creeper, as we call it,” replied Clinton.
“What is the difference?” inquired Whistler.
“A good deal of difference;—one is poisonous and the other isn’t,” said
Clinton.
“I know that; but how do you tell one from the other?”
“You see the leaves grow in clusters?”
“Yes; there are five of them. Each leaf looks as if it were made up of
five little ones.”
“Well, the leaves of the poison ivy have only three in a cluster; and
that is the way I tell the difference between them. When the leaves grow
in threes, look out; but when they are in fives, there’s no danger.”
“I must try to remember that,” said Whistler, repeating to himself the
last remark of Clinton. “Let me see,—how can I fix that in my mind, so
that I shall know ‘which is which,’ as they say? Now, I have it! If the
leaf has five fingers, like my _hand_, I can _handle_ it; if it hasn’t,
I must not touch it.”
This process, in Whistler’s mind, was not a mere boyish whim. It was
founded on a law planted deep in our mental natures,—the law of the
association of ideas. It is difficult to remember a number or figure
standing by itself; and the matter becomes still worse when two numbers
are to be borne in mind, and distinguished from each other, as in this
instance. But, by associating the number in the mind with some
particular object, event or word, we have a clew to it, which will
seldom fail us; and if the word, event or object, bears any resemblance
to the number, it is all the better. Thus you see that Whistler was
quite a philosopher in this matter, although he did not know it. By
making the act of handling depend upon the fancied resemblance of the
leaf to his hand, he would never be at a loss to tell whether it was the
three or five-lobed leaf that he was to avoid.
“There’s a three-leaved one!—that’s a poison ivy, isn’t it?” exclaimed
Whistler, a few moments after, pointing to a vine that looked very much
like the other, except in the number of its leaflets.
“Yes, that’s one of them,—don’t touch it!” said Clinton, as Whistler
approached it.
“I shan’t look at it,” said Ella, turning her head in an opposite
direction.
“It won’t hurt you if you don’t touch it,—you needn’t be afraid to look
at it,” remarked Clinton.
“I’ve a great mind to touch it, just to see how it would operate,” said
Whistler, going still nearer to the vine.
“Why, William Davenport!—you silly boy!” exclaimed Ella, with a look of
astonishment.
“No! don’t touch it, Willie! You’ll be sorry if you do,” said Clinton.
“It will make your face and eyes swell up, so that you won’t know
yourself; and it won’t feel very comfortable, either.”
“But it doesn’t poison every body, does it?” inquired Whistler.
“No; some people can handle it without being hurt,” said Clinton; “but I
wouldn’t risk it, if I were you. If you get poisoned once, you’ll be
more liable to it next time; and so the danger will keep increasing,
every time you come in contact with it.”
“Is there any dogwood about here?” inquired Whistler, turning away from
the ivy.
“Yes; there’s a little, I believe,” said Clinton.
“That is awful stuff! I’ve heard that you can’t look at it without
getting poisoned,” said Ella.
“I don’t believe that story,” replied Clinton. “I’ve looked at it myself
without being poisoned. Sometimes people who have been poisoned a good
many times, get to be so susceptible that they can’t go near ivy or
dogwood without being infected, even if they don’t touch it; and I
suppose that accounts for the notion that dogwood will poison you if you
only look at it.”
“What sort of a thing is dogwood? What does it look like?” inquired
Whistler.
“It is a very pretty shrub,” replied his cousin. “It grows almost large
enough to be called a tree, and has smooth and glossy branches and
leaves. It thrives only in wet places, I believe; but it is not near so
common as the poison ivy.”
There are one or two other facts relating to these plants, which Clinton
did not know, but which may be of some advantage to my readers when they
ramble through the woods and swamps. These two shrubs, known in common
language as “poison ivy” and “poison dogwood,” both belong to the sumach
family, and are the only plants in our New England woods that are
poisonous to the touch. Neither of them bears a conspicuous blossom or
fruit; so that if the young botanist should chance to discover a strange
plant with a beautiful and prominent flower, he may be sure that it will
not harm him to pluck it. An unknown plant should never be eaten,
however; as many species of the vegetable kingdom, which may be handled
with impunity, are poisonous if taken into the stomach.
Our party had now emerged from the swamp, and were ascending to higher
land. They soon came to the strawberry patch, but did not find the
berries quite so plenty as they anticipated, other pickers having been
there before them. Clinton proposed going further, and Whistler fell in
with the suggestion; but the girls preferred to stop and glean the few
berries that were left, rather than to seek new fields. The boys,
however, concluded to extend their tramp to the hills, about a mile
distant, leaving the girls to look out for themselves. Their course lay
through a succession of fields and pastures, gradually ascending, until
they reached the base of the high hills shown in the upper part of the
map of Brookdale. These hills were thickly wooded, many of the trees
being of majestic size and great beauty. They were chiefly pines, and
the ground beneath was cushioned with the brown foliage of former years,
while the air was full of the balmy odor that distills from this noble
tree. Now and then a decayed stump, which their united arms could
scarcely encircle, showed where some giant of the woods had fallen; but,
in the main, this hill-side forest was as nature made it.
The boys found it a slippery and toilsome path up the hill; but, once on
the top of “Bald Peak,” as the eminence was called, they were rewarded
for their pains by the extensive prospect that met their eyes. The spot
was very rocky, and, as its name implied, was destitute of trees. The
view took in a wide range of country, dotted with houses and cultivated
fields.
“There!” exclaimed Clinton, as they seated themselves upon a mossy
stone,—“have you got anything in Boston that beats this?”
“I don’t know,—we have some pretty good views in Boston,” replied his
cousin.
“From the top of the State House?” inquired Clinton.
“Yes, that’s one of the places,” said Whistler; “but we have a pretty
distant prospect from our house,—fully equal to this, I should say.”
“How far can you see?” continued Clinton.
“Well, I can’t say exactly,” replied Whistler, with the utmost
soberness; “but I believe we can see about ninety-five million miles, in
the day time, and considerably further in a clear evening.”
“I’ll knock under,—I don’t think even Bald Peak can beat that,” replied
Clinton, with a laugh.
After resting themselves, the boys, suddenly remembering that they had
started in quest of strawberries, concluded to go down to the foot of
the hill on the side opposite to the one they ascended, where Clinton
thought they should find some berries. They had not proceeded far, when
the sharp crack of a musket was heard not far off.
“Halloo! somebody’s gunning about here! I wonder who it can be?” said
Clinton.
“Are there many houses over this way?” inquired Whistler.
“No; there isn’t one nearer than our house,” replied Clinton. “There
isn’t a road within two or three miles either, except a logging-road
through the woods.”
“Then it must be somebody from Brookdale,” observed Whistler.
“I suppose so,” added his cousin.
[Illustration]
They soon reached a clearing in the woods, and discovered a
rough-looking man concealed behind the prostrate trunk of a large tree,
getting ready to fire at a pair of rabbits, which were nibbling the
herbage at a short distance from him. The timid creatures apparently
heard the boys’ footsteps, for they suddenly fled, before the man
noticed that any one else was near. When he turned about and saw the
boys, he looked surprised, and a scowl settled upon his face.
“What did you scare my game for?” he inquired, in a surly tone,
addressing Clinton.
The latter seemed somewhat alarmed, and replied that it was entirely
accidental. The appearance of the man was far from prepossessing,
leaving out of the account his cross looks, and the solitary place in
which they encountered him. His face was coarse and unshaven, and his
hair looked as if it was not on good terms with the comb. He wore a
loose blouse, or frock, and a queer slouched cap, and his feet were
without stockings. After giving the boys a searching look, he said,
addressing Clinton:
“Do you know me?”
“Yes, sir,” he replied.
“Who is this boy?” continued the man, pointing to Whistler.
“He is a cousin of mine, from Boston,” replied Clinton.
“What are you here after?” inquired the gunner.
“Partly to take a walk, and partly to get some strawberries,” said
Clinton.
The man now got up, and the boys noticed—what had before escaped their
attention—that he was quite lame. Using his gun to help support his
body, he hobbled a little ways, and then turned back toward the boys,
and said, in a kinder tone than before:
“Clinton, I want you to do me a little favor, if you will.”
“I will, with pleasure,” replied Clinton.
“I met with an accident this morning,” continued the gunner. “I’m taking
a tramp after game, you see. I started last week, and am on my way to
Moosehead Lake, all alone. I camp out nights, and have got a booth over
yonder, where I slept last night. But this morning, as bad luck would
have it, I fell from a tree and sprained my ankle, and it’s just as much
as ever I can do, now, to hobble about. I’m afraid I shall be laid up
here two or three days, if I don’t do something for it. If I could only
get a little rum, or balm of Gilead, or pain-killer, or something of
that sort, to bathe it with, I should be right down glad.”
“I guess mother has got something that would be good for your ankle,”
said Clinton, anticipating the man’s request. “I’ll ask her, and if she
has, I’ll bring it over to-morrow forenoon.”
“Couldn’t you get it yourself, without saying anything to her about it?”
inquired the sportsman.
“No, I don’t think I could,—I don’t know anything about her medicines,”
replied Clinton. “But if she has got anything that is good for a sprain,
she would send you some, I’m certain of that.”
“But I don’t want her nor any body else to know that I’m here,” said the
man.
Clinton did not know what to say to this. After a brief pause, in which
the sportsman seemed in deep thought, he continued:
“The case is just this: I’m owing old Ben Brown a little money, and I
can’t pay it now; but Ben is such an ugly old dog, that if he should
hear that I’m around here, it would be just like him to have a writ out
after me, or do some other rascally thing. You mustn’t tell a single
soul that you saw me here. If you do, it might get to him. Do you
understand?”
“Yes, sir; I’ll keep dark,” replied Clinton.
“You promise, on your word of honor, that you won’t say a word about
me?” continued the man.
“Yes, sir,” replied Clinton.
“Well, I believe your character is pretty good, and I suppose I can
trust you,” said the man; “but if you _should_ betray me, all I have got
to say is, look out for Dick Sneider!”
The savage tone with which this last sentence was uttered, startled the
boys somewhat; but they made no reply. The man then bound Whistler to
secrecy by a similar promise. The boys, who had seated themselves on the
log, now arose to depart, Clinton observing as he did so:
“I’m sorry that I can’t bring you something for your sprain, Mr.
Sneider; but I don’t see how I can, unless you will let me ask mother.”
“Never mind that. I’ll give my ankle a good bathing in cold water
to-night, and I guess I shall be able to travel in a day or two.”
The sun was getting low, and the boys now started for home, at a brisk
pace. Their adventure supplied a topic of conversation most of the way;
but, in reply to Whistler’s numerous questions, Clinton could give no
very definite information in regard to the man they had so unexpectedly
encountered. All that he knew about Sneider was, that he once kept a
disreputable shop at the Cross Road, where he sold intoxicating liquor,
in violation of law; that his establishment was finally broken up, and
himself sent to jail; and that he had the name of being a desperate
fellow.
On their way the boys passed through the pasture in which the cows were
kept. They found Daisy, Nelly and Princess, quietly awaiting their
coming at the gateway; and, having taken down the bars, they drove, or
rather followed, the sober and dignified animals to their home.
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