TEMPTATION.
Clinton’s brood of ducks at length made their appearance, just one
month after he had put the eggs to the hen. There were eight of them,
four of the eggs having produced nothing. If madame Specky was a little
astonished at the singular appearance which her children presented, she
kept it all to herself, like a good, prudent mother, for she behaved
toward them just the same as though they were ordinary chickens. She
did not appear to think anything strange of their large bills, or their
clumsy, webbed feet, or their awkward, waddling gait. If a dog or cat
ventured near them, or a hawk happened to sail through the air, hen
never put on bolder front than did mistress Specky. And there was need
enough for all her courage, for her young family had so little control
over their big feet, that they never could have saved themselves by
their legs, had a foe invaded the premises.
For several days after the ducks were hatched, they continued about the
poultry-yard, ignorant as yet that there was such a thing as water,
except as they had made its acquaintance in the little tin pan from
which they were accustomed to drink. Clinton’s father had told him
that it was a good plan to keep them from water for the first three
or four days, as they were so tender as to be easily injured by cold
and dampness. On the fifth day, Clinton concluded to introduce them
to their new home; so, gathering up the ducklings into a basket, and
taking the hen under his arm, he carried them down to the brook, where
he had made the duck-house and pond before-mentioned. It was now about
the middle of September, and the brook was nearly dry; but the little
round pond contained plenty of water. This pond received all the water
that came down in the brook; and there was a dam, at the lower side of
it, so that the water could not pass on its way, until it had filled
the pond, and flowed over the dam. The pond was thus kept full, all the
time, but it could be easily emptied, when necessary, by opening a
gate which Clinton had made in the dam.
Clinton had no sooner deposited his basket of ducklings by the side
of the pond, than they all seemed possessed to get into the water.
Away they ran, pell mell, and before their cautious and anxious mother
could warn them of their danger, every one of them had launched away
into the new element. And now they were as graceful and beautiful as
they had been ungainly and ugly. They glided along over the water as
naturally and elegantly as does the new ship on its first entrance upon
its destined element. Annie, who had come to witness the scene, was
delighted with the sight, and clapped her hands in glee, exclaiming:—
“O, isn’t it beautiful, Clinty? Look! look! see that cunning little one
duck its head into the water!”
“Yes,” said Clinton, without turning to look at the sight which so
pleased Annie, “yes, and only see what a fuss the old hen is making
on the bank! Look quick! Ha, ha, ha!” and the boy, whose love of the
ludicrous was as strong as his sister’s love of the beautiful, burst
into a hearty laugh. Nor did he laugh without a reason. Madame Specky,
good, honest old hen that she was, had never seen such strange doings
before, and she was greatly alarmed for the safety of her brood. So she
stood by the side of the pond, clucking and calling with all her might,
and with her wings partially opened, as if to receive back her naughty
children. Her neck was stretched out yearningly towards them, and
she was so excited that she could not stand still a moment, but kept
dancing, like a boy whose legs are undergoing that peculiar tingling
sensation produced by a smart switching with a birch rod. There was
horror in her eye, and frenzy in her attitude. But the little ducks,
who were the innocent authors of all this alarm, were sailing about
as calmly as though nothing unusual had happened. Clinton and Annie
remained with them a long time, now admiring the graceful movements of
the ducks, and now laughing at the distraction of the old hen, as she
tried in vain to call them ashore. After a while, Clinton carried them
all to the duck-house, and shut them up for the remainder of the day,
that they might get used to their new home.
Mr. Davenport was at this time engaged in getting a piece of land
ready for a crop of winter wheat, and he required the assistance
of Clinton a considerable portion of each day. The field had to be
broken up and manured, and the soil finely pulverized, to prepare it
for the seed, which must be sown early in the fall, and not in the
spring, like most other seeds. Mr. Davenport always did thoroughly
whatever he undertook. His motto was, “If a thing is worth doing at
all, it is worth doing well;” and a very good motto it is. Clinton
sometimes thought his father was more particular about his work than
was necessary; he certainly took more pains than some of his neighbors
did. But somehow or other, he always seemed to get paid back liberally
for his extra care, by better and larger crops than those could show
who were less particular about their work. Mr. Davenport was especially
anxious to have the ground well prepared for this crop, because it
was an experiment; he never before having attempted to raise winter
wheat. Indeed, but very little of this grain had ever been raised in
the State, and it was yet uncertain whether the climate was favorable
to its production. He therefore determined to give it a fair trial,
not only to satisfy his own mind, but that others might be benefited
by the experiment; for if he and his neighbors could raise their own
flour, instead of sending several hundred miles for it, he thought it
was very important that they should know it. Were it not for such men
as he, who are willing to enter into patient and careful experiments,
for the common benefit, the world would make but slow progress in
improvement.
The land was at length about ready for the seed. Clinton had worked
pretty hard for several days, and as the family arose from their noon
meal, Mr. Davenport said:—
“Well, Clinty, I hope you wont get sick of raising wheat before we
have planted it. You have had a pretty hard time, and I think you
must be tired. You need not go into the field this afternoon, but you
may tackle up Fanny, and drive over to Mr. Fletcher’s, and get the
seed-wheat that I bought of him. Get back as early as you can, as I
want to have the seed cleaned to-night, and ready to put into the
ground to-morrow morning.”
Clinton was not sorry to hear this announcement of his afternoon’s
work; for though he was not a lazy boy, it really seemed to him, that
just then a ride to the Cross-Roads would be quite as pleasant as an
afternoon spent at work in the field. So Fanny was soon harnessed into
the wagon, and Clinton started on his errand.
Mr. Fletcher was a trader, who kept a store at the Cross-Roads,—a place
where two of the main highways of the county cross each other at right
angles, thus ✛.[2] Quite a thrifty little village had sprung up at
this point, boasting, among other things, a school-house, a church, a
post-office, and a “variety store.” It was, in fact, the centre of life
and business for the surrounding dozen miles. Though about five miles
from Mr. Davenport’s house, there was no other store or church within
twice the distance. His family, consequently, had almost come to regard
the Cross-Roads settlement as a part of their own village, though it
was actually situated in another township.
Clinton had not driven half way to his destination, when he discovered
two lads in advance of him, walking the same way he was going. On
coming up with them, he found that they were Oscar and Jerry, who were
out on a gunning excursion,—Oscar having borrowed a fowling-piece of a
young man who lived near Mr. Preston’s.
“Halloo, Clin, give us a ride,” exclaimed Oscar, as the wagon drew
up to them; and without further ceremony, both boys jumped into the
vehicle.
“Where are you going?” inquired Clinton, as he started the horse.
“O, wherever you please,—we are not at all particular,” replied Oscar.
“Jerry and I have been trying to pop off some birds, this afternoon,
but the little fools won’t stop long enough to let us shoot them.”
“I’m glad of it,” replied Clinton, dryly.
“Why are you glad?” asked Jerry.
“Because it’s too bad to shoot them,” replied Clinton. “I like to see
and hear them too well, to harm them. If I could have my way, there
shouldn’t be a bird shot, unless they were crows or hawks, or something
of that kind.”
“Pooh,” said Oscar; “I should like to know what birds were made for,
if it wasn’t to be shot. You don’t know what fine sport it is to shoot
them, or you would be as fond of gunning as I am.”
Oscar had probably shot half a dozen poor little birds in the course
of his life, and severely frightened as many more. But he had got the
idea that gunning was a fine, manly amusement, and he already fancied
himself to be quite an accomplished sportsman. And if the disposition
could have made him a successful hunter, he would have been one; for he
wanted to take the life of every bird and squirrel that he saw. He soon
found, however, that it was easier to fire than to hit; and in most
of his excursions, his powder-flask was emptied much faster than his
game-bag was filled.
The boys continued their conversation, and soon reached the
Cross-Roads. Driving the wagon up to Mr. Fletcher’s store, Clinton
alighted, but on trying the door, he found it locked. Mr. Fletcher
had evidently stepped out for a few minutes, and Clinton was about to
hitch the horse to the post, and await his return, when Oscar proposed
driving round to the “Falls,” instead of waiting there. Clinton at
first refused; but Jerry and Oscar both joined in the request so
earnestly, that he soon began to parley and hesitate, and finally ended
by reluctantly yielding to their proposition. He accordingly jumped
into the wagon, and turned the face of Fanny towards the Falls.
The lake, or pond, which has been before alluded to, has one outlet,—a
little stream which flows away in a south-westerly direction, finally
discharging into a larger river, which finds its way to the ocean.
This little stream, which goes by the simple name of “The River,” in
Brookdale, passes near by the Cross-Roads. About a mile beyond that
village, it comes to a wild, romantic, down-hill place, where the
waters tumble about, and frolic among the rocks, as though they really
enjoyed the sport. This place is called “The Falls,” the descent of the
river here being very marked. It is off from the common roads, the only
way of reaching it being by a “wood-road,”—a sort of path through the
forest, used by the teams in hauling wood. The very seclusion of the
spot, however, made it the more charming, and it was often resorted to
by pleasure parties in the summer.
The road through the woods being narrow and rough, Clinton could not
drive very swiftly; but he and his companions talked fast enough to
make up for their slow progress. They had not proceeded very far in
this road, when Oscar drew from his pocket a small package, enveloped
in a piece of paper, which he began to unroll slowly, and with a very
knowing and significant look. The contents proved to be three cigars.
Holding them out in his hand, he exclaimed:—
“How lucky! just one a-piece. Now, boys, for a good smoke. Take one,
Clin; and here, Jerry, is one for you.”
Jerry took the cigar offered, but Clinton shook his head, saying that
he did not smoke.
“You don’t know what you lose, then,” said Oscar. “I’ve smoked these
two or three years, and I couldn’t live without my cigar, now. You
can’t imagine how much pleasure there is in it. Come, just try this,
and see if it isn’t nice.”
“No,” replied Clinton, “I don’t wish to. Father hates tobacco, in every
shape, and he wouldn’t like it if he knew I smoked.”
“But this is all prejudice,” added Oscar. “Smoking never hurt me, yet,
and nobody can make me believe that there is any harm in it. I felt a
little sickish for a few minutes, the first time, but that was nothing.
Come, try it, Clin,” he added, as he drew a match from his pocket, and
lighted his own cigar; “try it—it can’t hurt you,—and besides, your
father needn’t know anything about it.”
“Here goes mine,” said Jerry, as he touched off a match, and applied
the fire to his cigar. “_My_ father wont object, I know, for he smokes
himself like everything; and if he did object, I guess it wouldn’t make
much difference. I don’t intend to be a boy all my life-time.”
The two young smokers were soon puffing away in good earnest. Oscar
was an old hand at the business, and Jerry had been practising pretty
diligently since his city cousin came to live with him. Between each
whiff, however, they renewed their assaults upon the good resolution of
their comrade; and so skilfully and perseveringly did they conduct the
attack, that Clinton, after a while, began to think it looked a little
unsocial and obstinate to refuse to participate in their enjoyment.
By the time they had reached the Falls, he had concluded to yield to
their wishes. He accordingly drove Fanny into the water, and unhitched
her bridle, that she might drink and cool herself. The three boys
then threw themselves down upon the grass, beneath a large tree, and
prepared to enjoy the scene, and at the same time repose their limbs.
Clinton lighted his cigar,—and now commenced his first experience in
tobacco. He was pleased with the new sensation; and as he lay upon his
back, watching the delicate wreaths of smoke ascending from his cigar,
and listening to Oscar,—who was spinning out one of his long yarns
about a military muster he once witnessed in Boston,—the time flew by
much faster than he was aware. His cigar had half disappeared, and
those of his companions were nearly used up, when he happened to notice
that the sun was fast declining, and would soon go down behind the tops
of the tall pines on the other side of the stream. Tossing his cigar
into the water, he jumped up, saying:—
“Come, boys, this wont do,—we must be on our way home.”
“What’s your hurry?” inquired Jerry; “it isn’t four o’clock yet.”
“Perhaps it isn’t,” replied Clinton, “but I ought to have been at home
by this time. Come, jump in, and I will turn the horse round.”
The boys got into the wagon, and were soon slowly threading their way
out of the woods. In about half an hour they reached Mr. Fletcher’s,
where Clinton stopped, and got the bags of seed. He had now a pretty
good load, and much of the way being up hill, he did not get along
very fast. Oscar and Jerry talked as fast as usual, but Clinton looked
sober, and did not seem inclined to say much. Indeed, he hardly spoke
to them, from the time they left the store until they reached the house
where Oscar and Jerry lived, when he bade them good afternoon, and
drove on.
The fact was, Clinton was suffering the penalty of his first cigar,
but he did not like to confess it, and this was the reason why he said
nothing. Soon after he started from the Falls, he began to experience a
sinking, nauseating feeling in his stomach, and every jolt and jerk of
the wagon seemed to increase it. He concealed his feelings from Oscar
and Jerry, as much as he could, and after they had alighted, he hurried
home as fast as possible.
It was past six o’clock when Clinton drove into the yard at home. His
father, who had begun to feel anxious at his long absence, had come in
from the field, and on seeing Clinton, he called out to him, somewhat
sharply,
“Where have you been all the afternoon, Clinton? I’ve been waiting for
you more than two hours.”
“Mr. Fletcher wasn’t there, and I had to wait for him,” replied
Clinton. “Besides, it was so warm I thought I wouldn’t drive very
fast.” Ah, Clinton, have you forgotten that it is a falsehood to tell
but half the truth?
Clinton had begun to unharness the horse, when he became so faint and
dizzy that he was obliged to stop; and before he could get into the
house, he began to vomit. His father, hearing the noise, ran to his
aid, and led him into the house. The pale, deathly look of Clinton, as
his father assisted him into the sitting-room, was the first notice
his mother received that he was ill. She was somewhat startled by the
suddenness of his entrance, and at first thought that he had got hurt.
“Mercy on us! what has happened?” was her first exclamation.
“Nothing alarming,” replied Clinton; “I am a little sick at my
stomach—that is all.”
“How long have you been so?” inquired his mother.
“Only a little while,” was the reply. “I haven’t felt very smart for
an hour or two, but just as I got home I began to grow worse, and have
been vomiting.”
“Have you eaten any thing this afternoon?” inquired Mr. Davenport.
“No, sir,” replied Clinton, “nothing since dinner.”
“I am afraid he has worked too hard lately,” remarked Mrs. Davenport to
her husband. “You have kept him at it pretty steadily for a week past,
and you know he isn’t so rugged as many boys are. I wouldn’t allow him
to work so hard again.”
“He _has_ been working pretty hard, I know,” observed Mr. Davenport;
“but he has never complained before, and I did not suppose he suffered
from it. I don’t think this is anything serious, wife—he needs a little
physic, perhaps, or something of that sort, to regulate his system.”
While this conversation was taking place, Clinton sat in the
rocking-chair, leaning his head upon his hand. Little Annie stood by
his side, silent and sad, her large, loving eyes looking up wonderingly
at her sick brother. But he did not notice her. He was thinking
very earnestly of something else. His conscience was busily at work,
reproaching him for his conduct during the afternoon. “You disobeyed
your father,” it plainly said, “by going over to the Falls, when he
told you to come right home. You deceived him, after you got home, by
not giving the true reason for your long absence. You made yourself
sick by smoking that cigar, and now you sit still and hear your
parents, in their sympathy and solicitude, attribute your illness to
hard work. O Clinton, you have not only done very wrong, but you have
done it very _meanly_, too! No wonder you cover up your face, and dare
not meet the eye of your parents.”
Thus was conscience talking. At first, Clinton almost resolved to
confess the whole story of his wrong-doings. “Do it,” said conscience;
but shame whispered, “no, don’t expose yourself—you will soon feel
better, and the whole affair will be forgotten in a day or two.” The
longer he hesitated, between these two advisers, the less inclined did
he feel to make the confession. His father soon went out, to put up the
horse, and his mother set about preparing him a bowl of thoroughwort
tea—her favorite medicine, in all common forms of sickness. Clinton
already began to feel much better, and on the whole he thought he would
say nothing about the adventures of the afternoon. When his mother
brought him the herb tea, he drank it down as fast as possible, but he
could not help making a wry face over it, for it was not very palatable
to his taste. His mother thought he had better go to bed early, and
without eating any supper, and he complied with her wishes. Just as he
was beginning to doze, a gentle, timid voice awakened him, saying,
“Clinty, you won’t be sick, will you?”
“No, sis,” he answered, and with a parting “good-night,” he fell
asleep—not the sweet, calm sleep to which he was accustomed, but
fitful, troubled dreams, in which the unpleasant events of the
afternoon flitted before him, in an exaggerated and grotesque, but
always sad and reproachful panorama.
FOOTNOTES:
[2] See the Map of Brookdale, p. 14.