A LITERARY ENTERPRISE.
WHISTLER soon found that his visit to Brookdale was not quite “spoilt,”
as he feared it was, by the accident that had happened to him. His
injured finger was somewhat troublesome, it is true, especially at
night, when it received many unfortunate knocks, which often awoke him
from a sound sleep. It also prevented his joining in the rough and
active sports of which boys are generally so fond; and, as he had but
one hand to work with, he found, moreover, that he could render but
little assistance to Clinton, in his regular duties. But there was
another and a pleasanter side to the account. The wound pained him but
slightly, and his health was not at all affected by it. He could walk
and ride as much as he pleased; and then, when Clinton could not
accompany him in his excursions, he never failed to find sources of
amusement about the house, or in the shop or the barn. The doctor called
occasionally to look after the finger, and always reported that it was
doing well, never omitting to praise Whistler for the good care he took
of it.
[Illustration]
One stormy day, about a week after the accident, as Whistler was sitting
in the house, deeply engaged with a book, the lively “Clack! clack!” of
the flail struck up, and, taking his cap and book, he ran out to the
barn. He found Clinton in the back part of the barn, engaged in
threshing rye. The grain, tied up in bundles, was piled on each side of
him as high as the flooring above. The process of threshing hardly need
be described; and yet, as possibly some young city reader may never have
witnessed it, I will say that a quantity of straw is laid upon the barn
floor, and the heads of it are beat by the flail until all the grain is
shaken out of it. The flail is made of hard wood, in two pieces, united
by leather, or some other flexible material, which allows the shorter
piece to play freely, something like the lash of a whip. When the grain
is all threshed out, the straw is removed, and tied up in bundles. The
grain is then shovelled up, and passed through a coarse sieve, and is
ready to be stored away.
“Have you found a piece, Willie?” inquired Clinton, as his cousin
entered the barn.
“No, I can’t find one that suits me,” replied Whistler.
“Well, I’ve thought of another plan, and a better one still,” continued
Clinton; “and that is, that you _write_ a dialogue for us.”
“_I_ write a dialogue! That’s a pretty joke!—ha! ha! ha!” replied
Whistler, with a merry laugh.
“Yes,—why not?” inquired Clinton. “You write compositions, and you have
got plenty of time now, while your finger is sore. Come, you’ll try,
won’t you?”
“O, no; I couldn’t do anything if I should try,” replied Whistler. “If I
had only known it before I left home, I could have got a copy of the
dialogue the boys spoke at our last exhibition. It was a real funny
piece; better than any in this book. One of these will do, though, if we
can’t find something better.”
“But we must have something better,” said Clinton, with earnestness,
laying down his flail. “If you won’t write one yourself, you’ll help me
do it, won’t you?”
“Yes, I’ll agree to do what I can; but I’m afraid I shan’t help you
much,” replied Whistler.
“If we put our heads together, I think we can get up something that will
answer,” said Clinton. “As soon as I’ve threshed this lot I’ll go into
the house with you, and see if we can’t make a beginning.”
The church and Sabbath-school which Clinton attended were making
preparation for a social festive gathering, to be held in a grove; and
among the entertainments proposed were to be declamations by several of
the young people. Clinton and Whistler had both been invited to take
part in these exercises, and they had also been requested to select a
dialogue for two or three smaller boys, and to see that they were
properly drilled in their parts. They felt that quite a serious
responsibility had been laid upon them; and for a day or two it had been
the subject of much consultation. Clinton had at length made a selection
for himself, and Whistler had concluded to repeat the piece which he
spoke at his school exhibition a few weeks before. The dialogue,
however, was yet to be determined on; and, as they had less than two
weeks for preparation, it naturally gave them some uneasiness,
especially as they had thus far been unable to find a suitable piece.
After Clinton had finished threshing the lot of grain which he had
begun, he went up to his bedroom, with Whistler, and opening the little
desk upon the table, they sat down, and tried to agree upon some plan,
or subject, for the dialogue. They did not accomplish much, however,
beyond making a few pen flourishes, and thoroughly overhauling the
contents of the desk, which contained, among other things, a few of
Clinton’s compositions, in which Whistler was much interested. The fact
was, neither of them had any idea to propose, and the longer they sat
there the farther their attention wandered from the subject in hand,
until, at last, the call to dinner interrupted their fruitless
consultation.
The boys had no better success in the afternoon with their literary
enterprise, and Clinton’s ardor began to cool off a little; for, to tell
the truth, the ardor was pretty much all on his side. They retired to
bed early in the evening, intending to have “a good talk” before it was
time to go to sleep. While thus engaged, telling stories to each other,
Whistler related an incident that once occurred in the school he
attended.
“There!” exclaimed Clinton, as soon as he had finished, “why can’t we
bring that into our dialogue? It would be a complete subject, wouldn’t
it? We might change it a little, if we wanted to, to make it tell better
in a dialogue, but it wouldn’t be very bad if we took it just as it is.
What do you say to that idea, Willie?”
“I don’t know; perhaps we might make something out of it,” replied
Whistler. “If we could only get it up equal to the original, it would
make some fun, I can tell you.”
“We’ll try, at any rate,” said Clinton.
And they did try, the next day,—yes, and several days following. The
result was, by their joint efforts, Whistler’s story was “done” into
dialogue, with some slight changes to give it more effect. The old and
very reasonable adage, that “Two heads are better than one,” proved true
in this case, as they made a better dialogue, together, than either
could have written alone. They seemed aware of this, and even Whistler
came to feel quite a lively interest in the literary bantling. As the
reader may like to know something of this production, I will give the
substance of it, or, rather, the story on which it was founded.
A group of boys were playing in a school-room, a little while before
school time, when a trifling dispute arose between two of them—John and
Benjamin. One gave the other the lie, and, both being of hot
temperament, it was “a word and a blow.” They clinched, fell, and rolled
together on the floor, and were pummeling each other well, when suddenly
the teacher walked into the room. Taking the pugilists by the collar, he
lifted them upon their feet, and sent the other boys to their seats. On
inquiring into the origin of the quarrel, he found that they were about
equally guilty. Accordingly, he reproved them both sharply for their
fault.
“If you must fight,” he said, “why don’t you do it in a decent and
gentlemanly way, and not act like a couple of bullies? I’ll show you how
it should be done. Here, John, take this stick (handing him the familiar
ratan), and now give Benjamin one dozen smart cuts with it across his
back. And don’t you lift a finger, Benjamin, unless you want me to take
you in hand.”
John seemed as much astonished as pleased, as he took the rod and began
to pay on the blows; while his antagonist received them without a word
or cry, but with a sullen and dogged look. After he had completed the
dozen, the teacher told Benjamin to take the ratan, and bestow the same
favor upon John’s back. Both faces changed at this unexpected turn in
affairs, and Benjamin laid on his dozen with a heartiness that showed he
fully entered into the spirit of this part of the arrangement.
This operation finished, the teacher asked each of them if he was
satisfied, and received an affirmative answer.
“Well, then,” said the teacher, “if you are both satisfied, your quarrel
is made up, and you may complete the reconciliation by shaking hands,
and giving each other the kiss of peace.”
There was a general titter among the scholars at these words, which the
teacher promptly suppressed. Seeing that the two culprits hesitated, he
repeated the order; but they did not move.
“Well,” he continued, “I see your feelings are hardly mollified, yet,—I
shall have to see what I can do;” and he took the rod, and advanced
towards them.
The boys, blushing to their temples, barely extended their hands, and
brought their faces together, followed by an explosion of laughter from
the whole school, which the teacher sternly silenced.
“That won’t do,” said the teacher; “it was too cold and
mechanical,—there was no soul in it. You can do better than that; now,
try again.”
After a little more coaxing (the ratan still impending over their
heads), the culprits concluded to comply, and went through the ceremony
in a much more cordial manner. There was a new burst of laughter from
all hands, in which the teacher himself joined, this time; and the two
offenders retreated to their seats, with faces as red as peonies, not
knowing whether to laugh or cry.
Such was the story upon which the dialogue was founded. In dramatizing
it, however, Clinton and Whistler had found it necessary to make some
slight changes.
The boys made three copies of the dialogue—one for each of the principal
characters. It was decided that Clinton should take the part of
schoolmaster, and the two belligerents were to be represented by two
smaller boys. These boys had agreed to meet Clinton and Whistler on
Saturday afternoon, to study and rehearse their parts. The place of
rendezvous was a charming little dell, in a grove behind the
schoolhouse, which was well known to all the children in town by the
name of “Spouting Hollow,” from the circumstance that it was
occasionally used by the young orators as a place of rehearsal.
The boys had not yet shown their dialogue to any one. Clinton had
thought of getting his father to read it, but no opportunity had
presented itself as yet. On Friday evening, after tea, Mr. Davenport
took a chair from the house, and seated himself just outside of the
front door to enjoy the cool air, for the day had been quite sultry.
Annie, with her little chair, soon seated herself by his side and
engaged his attention, and it was some little time before Clinton could
get a chance to broach the subject which was upon his mind.
“Ah! have you finished the dialogue, so soon?” inquired Mr. Davenport,
when Clinton alluded to it.
“Yes, sir, it’s all done, and we’re going down to Spouting Hollow,
to-morrow afternoon, to rehearse it,” replied Clinton.
“Well, you have been pretty smart, and I hope you have done your best,
too,” said his father, in a tone that seemed to imply some slight
misgivings.
“_We_ think we have done pretty well,” remarked Whistler. “At any rate,
we’ve made a better dialogue than I thought we could.”
“Ah! I’m glad to hear that,” replied Mr. Davenport; “what is the subject
of it?”
“Perhaps you would like to read it,” said Clinton, with some reluctance,
slowly drawing the manuscript from his jacket pocket.
“Yes, I will read it, if you wish,” replied his father.
Mr. Davenport took the paper, and commenced reading it, for it was not
yet dark. The boys walked back and forth, around the house, both feeling
something of that indefinite dread which the modest literary aspirant
always experiences when his performances are submitted to superior
wisdom and judgment.
“How long it takes him to read it!” at length whispered Clinton, after
they had returned several times to the doorway, and found him still
absorbed with the dialogue.
After a few minutes’ absence they again returned, and Mr. Davenport had
commenced reading it anew.
“He’s reading it over again,—you may know he doesn’t like it,” whispered
Clinton, when they were beyond his hearing; and the hearts of both sank
within them.
The next time they approached the doorway, Mr. Davenport had finished
reading the paper, but seemed to be so absorbed in thought that he did
not notice the boys. They turned to go away again, when he suddenly
called to them, and they went back, feeling like a couple of culprits.
“I was thinking,” he said, “of deferring my judgment of this dialogue
for an hour or so, until I could collect my thoughts a little better;
but, as I see you are in considerable suspense, I won’t ask you to wait
any longer. And, to begin, I think you have executed your task very well
indeed, in a literary point of view. The dialogue is natural and
sprightly, and the whole arrangement is very good, and does you much
credit. And yet, I can’t say I am wholly pleased with the piece. Like
many other authors, I think you have been unfortunate in the choice of a
subject. Whose idea was it,—who suggested the plot?”
“It was my idea,” replied Clinton; “Willie told me the story, and I
thought it would make a good subject for a dialogue.”
“Ah! it is founded on fact, is it?” inquired Mr. Davenport.
“Yes, sir; it is almost word for word what happened in our school,
once,” replied Whistler.
“Well, I will tell you plainly what my objections are,” continued Mr.
Davenport. “They are of a purely moral nature, and perhaps you will not
feel their force so much as I do. In the first place, I don’t like the
fighting scene. I think it is so brutal and wicked for boys to maul each
other in that way, that I would not encourage it, even by imitating it
in sport. Besides, children are great imitators, and it wouldn’t be
strange if some little fellows, after seeing your dialogue represented,
should try to play off a fight on their own hook; and perhaps they might
get in earnest before they were through with it. And then, again, seeing
a sham fight, like yours, might strengthen a taste which too many boys
have for witnessing _real_ battles, in which bloody noses and torn
clothing are the prizes. I presume you didn’t think of these things; but
don’t you see there is some force in them?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Clinton.
“But they represent such things at the theatres,” suggested Whistler.
“I know they do, Willie,” said his uncle; “but, in my opinion, the
theatre is a very poor school of morality.”
“And we read about such things in books, too,” added Clinton, gathering
courage from his cousin’s objection to his father’s position.
“A written description of a fight, or any other species of wrong-doing,
is a very different thing from the same affair acted out by living
performers,” replied Mr. Davenport. “Still, such scenes ought to be
introduced very sparingly and very cautiously into books, in my
opinion.”
“Is there anything else in the dialogue that you don’t approve?”
inquired Clinton.
“Yes,” replied his father; “but I suppose I must blame Willie’s teacher
for the other faults, rather than you. I don’t think he took a very wise
or proper course to settle the dispute between the two boys. I should
say that the mutual flogging must have deepened their hatred of each
other, and encouraged their fighting propensities. Then I do not like
the forced reconciliation; it could only make deceivers and hypocrites
of them. Exposing them to the ridicule of the whole school was another
bad thing about the affair. In fact, I should think that the whole scene
must have had a bad effect, not only on the culprits, but upon all who
witnessed it; and for that reason I should not like to see it
represented in a dialogue.”
“Well, then,” said Clinton, in a desponding tone, “we shall have to give
up the dialogue, for we haven’t time to write another, even if we knew
we could write a better one.”
“I hope you are not going to allow one failure to discourage you,”
replied his father. “I do not find any fault with this, except with the
subject; and I do not see why you cannot write another as good as this,
that shall be free from all objectionable matter.”
Here the conversation ceased, and Mr. Davenport went into the house. His
decision in regard to the dialogue had not been announced without the
greatest pain, as he well knew how sore a disappointment and how deep a
mortification it would carry with it. There was no honest and proper
course, however, but to express his opinion freely and fully; and he
accordingly did so, in as kind a way as he could.
“I almost wish we hadn’t shown it to father,” said Clinton, when they
were alone. “I don’t believe anybody else would think there was any harm
in it.”
“Well, as for my part,” said Whistler, “I’m glad we _did_ show it to
him; for if there’s anything out of the way in it, I should much rather
know it now, than not find it out until after it was spoken.”
This manly remark had a decided effect on Clinton, who, in the
bitterness of his disappointment, had uttered a sentiment which, to do
him justice, we must say did not come from his heart.
“I suppose it’s all for the best,” he said; “but what shall we tell the
boys, when they meet, to-morrow, to learn their parts?”
“We can tell them that our dialogue did not suit us, and we’re going to
write another,” replied Whistler.
“Another?—how can we do that?” inquired Clinton.
“Why, you don’t mean to give it up, do you?” inquired Whistler. “I
don’t, at any rate. We’ve promised the boys an original dialogue, and I,
for one, shan’t back out without trying at least once more. We’ve got
over a week to do it in, and it didn’t take us three days to write
that.”
“Yes,—but the subject?” suggested Clinton.
“Ah, that’s the stick!” said Whistler. “Don’t you think your father
could tell us of something to write about?”
“You might ask him,” said Clinton, who seemed determined that if another
dialogue was written, his cousin should shoulder the burden.
Willie did ask his uncle, who was much pleased to learn that the boys
had concluded to try again. He talked with them during the evening in
regard to the matter, and suggested several plans and subjects, one of
which struck them very favorably, and they at once concluded to adopt
it.
Early the next morning the boys went to work upon their new dialogue;
and so earnestly did they labor, that, to their own astonishment, it was
finished when the dinner hour arrived. It was much shorter, however,
than the first one, and was also simpler in its construction. Mr.
Davenport read and approved it; and in the afternoon the nymphs of
Spouting Hollow—if that classic retreat was honored by such
inhabitants—had the pleasure of listening to its first rehearsal.
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