"Well," said he, taking me off the horse, and no doubt suspecting that my
disease was rather in my _heart_ than my head--a suspicion far too
well-founded, I am sorry to say--"well, you may go home. I don't want you
to work if you are sick. Go straight home, and tell your mother that I say
you must take a good large dose of rhubarb. Tell her that I think it will
do you a great deal of good!"
There was no alternative. I went home, of course, and delivered the message
to my mother. I told her, however, that I thought my head was better,
hoping to avoid taking the nauseous medicine. But it was of no use. It was
too late. She understood my case as well as my father did. She knew well
enough my disease was laziness. So she prepared the rhubarb--an unusually
generous dose, I always thought--and I had to swallow every morsel of it.
Dear me! how bitter it was! It makes me sick to think of a dose of rhubarb,
let me be ever so well. I am sure I would have rode horse all day--and all
night, too, for that matter--rather than to have been doctored after that
sort. But it cured my laziness pretty effectually, and it was a long time
before I told another lie, too.
"Honesty is the best policy," children, depend upon it, though there is
another and a better reason, as you very well know, why you should always
speak the truth.
STORY SECOND.
HOW A ROGUE FEELS WHEN HE IS CAUGHT.
When I was a little boy, as near as I can recollect, about nine years of
age, I went with my brother one bright Saturday afternoon, when there was
no school, to visit at the house of Captain Perry. The captain was esteemed
one of the kindest and best-natured neighbors in Willow Lane, where my
father lived; and Julian, the captain's eldest son, very near my own age,
was, among all the boys at school, my favorite play-fellow. Captain Perry
had two bee-hives in his garden, where we were all three at play; and as I
watched the busy little fellows at work bringing in honey from the fields,
all at once I thought it would be a very fine thing to thrust a stick into
a hole which I saw in one of the hives, and bring out some of the honey. My
brother and Julian did not quite agree with me in this matter. They
thought, as nearly as I can recollect, that there were three good reasons
against this mode of obtaining honey: first, I should be likely to get
pretty badly stung; secondly, the act would be a very mean and cowardly
piece of mischief; and, thirdly, I should be found out.
Still, I was bent on the chivalrous undertaking. I procured a stick of the
right size, and marched up to the hive to make the attack. While I was
deliberating, with the stick already a little way in the hole, whether I
had better thrust it in suddenly, and then scamper away as fast as my legs
could carry me, or proceed so deliberately that the bees would not suspect
what was the matter, Captain Perry happened to come into the garden; and I
was so busy with my mischief, that I did not notice him until he advanced
within a rod or two of the bee-hives. He mistrusted what I was about.
"Roderick," said he. I looked around. I am sure I would have given all I
was worth in the world, not excepting my little pony, which I regarded as a
fortune, if, by some magic or other, I could have got out of this scrape.
But it was too late. I hung my head down, as may be imagined, while the
captain went on with his speech: "Roderick, if I were in your place (I
heartily wished he was in my place, but I did not say so; I said nothing,
in fact), if I were in your place, I would not disturb those poor, harmless
bees, in that way. If you should put that stick into the hive, as you were
thinking of doing, it would take the bees a whole week to mend up their
cells. That is not the way we get honey. I don't wonder you are fond of
honey, though. Children generally are fond of it; and if you will go into
the house, Mrs Perry will give you as much as you wish, I am sure."
This was twenty years ago--perhaps more. I have met Captain Perry a
hundred times since; yet even now I cannot look upon his frank, honest
countenance, but I distinctly call to mind the Quixotic adventure with the
bees, and I feel almost as much ashamed as I did when I was detected.
STORY THIRD.
THE WEEKLY NEWSPAPER.
I never shall forget what a sensation it used to produce in our family,
years ago, when the newspaper came. We children--there were three of us,
one brother and two sisters--used to watch for the post, on the
all-important day, as anxiously as a cat ever watched for a mouse. Peter
Packer, the bearer of these weekly dispatches, deserves a little notice. He
was a queer man, at least he had that reputation in our neighborhood. As
long as I can remember, he went his rounds; and, for aught I know, he is
going to this day.
Peter's old mare--she must be mentioned, for the two are almost
inseparable--was as odd as he was. I should think she belonged to the same
general class and order with Don Quixote's renowned Rosinante; but she had
one peculiarity which is not put down in the description of Rosinante, to
wit, the faculty of diagonal or oblique locomotion. This mare of Peter's
went forward something after the manner of a crab, and a little like a ship
with the wind abeam, as the sailors say. It was a standing topic of dispute
among us boys, whether the animal went head foremost or not. But that did
not matter much, so that she made her circuit--and she always did,
punctually; that is, she always came some time or another. Sometimes she
was a day or two later than usual; but this never occurred except in the
summer season, and it was in this wise: she had a most passionate love for
the practical study of botany; and not being allowed, when at home, to
pursue her favorite science as often as she wished, owing partly to a want
of specimens, and partly to her master's desire to educate her in the more
solid branches, she frequently took the liberty to divest herself of her
bridle, when standing at the door of her master's customers, and to gallop
away in search of flowers. She was a great lover of botany, so much so,
that, as I said before, her desire to obtain specimens sometimes interfered
a little with her other literary engagements; and I am sure I can forgive
her--
"For e'en her failings leaned to virtue's side."
Just so it was with Peter himself. No storm, or tempest, or snow-bank,
could detain him--that is, not longer than a day or two--in his weekly
round. But he loved the theory of making money as much as his mare loved
botany; and he was a practical student, too, and the road which he traveled
afforded a good many opportunities both for extending his knowledge of that
science and of practically applying his principles. So, between the two,
our newspaper sometimes got thoroughly aired before it came to the house.
But Peter was punctual--I insist upon it--for he always came some time or
another.
When the paper did come, we literally devoured its contents. With us it was
an oracle. If the "Courier" affirmed or denied a thing, that was enough for
us. It was an end to all debate. How confiding children are! He who has
read "Robinson Crusoe" when a boy, finds it almost impossible to regard it
a fable when he is a man. The newspaper, that makes its weekly visit to the
family circle in the country, leaves the marks of its influence upon the
mind and the morals of the child. It forms his tastes and controls his
character. How careful, then, should parents be, in the selection of
periodicals to be the companions of their children.
* * * * *
STORY FOURTH.
THE CIDER PLOT.
When I was an apprentice, some years ago, I lived--no matter where, and
served--no matter whom. There were three apprentices besides myself; and it
seems necessary to say, that, at the time when the incident happened which
I am about to relate, we had neither of us completed that branch of
husbandry called the sowing of wild oats; and as the soil was very
favorable for the development of that species of grain, we were perhaps a
little too industriously engaged in its cultivation. We were in great haste
to have the oats all sowed in good season.
One day our employer bought a cast of cider--Newark cider, I believe they
called it--and the greater portion of it was nicely bottled, and placed in
a dark corner of the cellar, to be used, not for making vinegar, or mince
pies, but for a very different purpose--which may be surmised by such as
remember that in those days the juice of the apple had a much better
reputation than it has now. We were allowed our share of the beverage. But
we were not satisfied. We resolved ourselves into a sort of committee of
the whole, one afternoon; and after a long and somewhat spirited debate,
came to the unanimous conclusion that, in the course of human events, it
became necessary to employ the most effective measures to procure
additional supplies from the cellar. Now it so happened, that these
measures were not of the most peaceable and honorable kind. Such was their
nature, in fact, that if we had been discovered in the act of resorting to
them, it would no doubt have been deemed necessary, in the general course
of human events, that we should be soundly whipped.
The plan was to seize a bottle once in a while, something after the manner
of privateers; though I believe the trade of privateering is regarded as
piracy, now-a-days. How times are changed! We were to go on this expedition
in rotation, from the oldest downward. We commenced, and two of us had
performed the feat. It came George Reese's turn next. You didn't know
George, I suppose. But I wish you had known him. I think you could
appreciate the story better, if you knew him as well as I did. Well, George
went down cellar, with his pitcher in his hand, thirsting for cider and
glory. You must know that there was a flight of stairs that led directly to
the cellar from the room we occupied. You should know, too, that we went
down without a light, and felt our way in the dark. George had not been
below two minutes, when we heard a report from the cellar very like the
discharge of a pistol. It was loud enough to alarm the whole house. We were
frightened. We had reason to be. Who knows, thought we, but they have set a
spring-gun for us, and poor George is badly wounded? We waited in silence,
and with not a little anxiety, for our hero to come up.
He came at last, and a sorry looking fellow he was. He was covered from
head to foot with yeast! The cook had placed her bottle of emptyings,
tightly corked, in the village of cider bottles; and the truth flashed upon
us at once, that George had made a mistake, and captured the wrong bottle;
and the most of its contents, being a little angry at the time, were
discharged into his face. But this was not all. George thought he had
encountered a cider bottle, after all, for he could see nothing in the
cellar, and he had poured what little remained of his yeast into the
pitcher, and brought it up with him. When he made his appearance, there was
such a noisy trio of laughter as that old kitchen had seldom heard before.
This brought in the cook, and she laughed as loudly as the rest of us.
Then, to crown all, the lady of the house, hearing the noise, came to see
what we were all about; and she laughed the loudest of any body. I shall
never forget the image of George Reese, as he entered that room. It gives
me a pain in the side now, only to think of it.
MORAL 1.--Before undertaking any enterprise similar to this cider-plot, it
is desirable to count the cost.
MORAL 2.--In your pursuit after glory, take care that you do not come in
contact with something else that is not so pleasant.
* * * * *
STORY FIFTH.
MY FIRST HUNTING-EXCURSION.
I shall never forget the first time I sallied out into the woods to try my
hand at hunting. Carlo, the old family dog, went with me, and he was about
as green in the matter of securing game as myself. We were pretty well
matched, I think. I played the part of Hudibras, as nearly as I can
recollect, and Carlo was a second Ralph. I had a most excellent
fowling-piece--so they said. It began its career in the French war, and was
a very veteran in service. Besides this ancient and honorable weapon, I was
provided with all the means and appliances necessary for successful
hunting. I was "armed and equipped as the law directs," to employ the words
of those semi-annual documents that used to summon me to training.
Well, it was sometime before we--Carlo and I--started any game. Wind-mills
were scarce. For one, I began to fear we should have to return without any
adventure to call forth our skill and courage. But the brightest time is
often just before day, and so it was in this instance. Carlo began
presently to bark, and I heard a slight rustling among the leaves in the
woods. Sure enough, there was visible a large animal of some kind, though I
could not determine precisely what it was, on account of the underbrush.
However, I satisfied myself that it was rare game, at any rate; and that
point being settled, I took aim and fired.
Carlo immediately ran to the poor victim. He was a courageous fellow, that
Carlo, especially after the danger was over. Many a time I have known him
make demonstrations as fierce as a tiger when people rode by our house,
though he generally took care not to insult them until they were at a
convenient distance. Carlo had no notion of being killed, knowing very well
that if he were dead, he could be of no service whatever to the world.
Hudibras said well when he said,
"That he who fights and runs away,
May live to fight another day."
[Illustration: RODERICK'S FIRST SHOT.]
That was good logic. But Carlo went farther than this, even. He was for
running away before he fought at all; and so he always did, except when the
enemy ran away first, in which case he ran after him, as every chivalrous
dog should. In the case of the animal which I shot at, Carlo bounded to his
side when the gun was discharged, as I said before. For myself, I did not
venture quite so soon, remembering that caution is the parent of safety. By
and by, however, I mustered courage, and advanced to the spot. There lay
the victim of my first shot! It was one of my father's sheep! Poor
creature! She was sick, I believe, and went into a thicket, near a stream
of water, where she could die in peace.
I don't know whether I hit her or not. I didn't look to see, but ran home
as fast as my legs would carry me. Thus ended the first hunting excursion
in which I ever engaged, and, though I was a mere boy then, and am somewhat
advanced now, it proved to be my last.