GRIM-VISAGED WAR.
It has been said that there were some twenty children in the school.
They were of various degrees and fortunes. There were the sons and
daughters of the land-owners, the pioneers, and there were the sons and
daughters of the men who worked for them, mostly the drifting class,
who occupied log houses on unclaimed ground and got flour or meal or
potatoes for their services with the steadier or more masterful. In
the school, though, there were no distinctions on this account. There
were but two measurements of standing among girls and boys together,
their relative importance in their classes, the teacher giving force to
this, and among the boys alone the equation resulting from the issue of
all personal encounter. Boys will be boys, and our fighting
Anglo-Saxon blood will tell.
There were Harrison Woodell and George Appleton and Frank Hoadly and
Mortimer Butler, among the older boys; and, among the second growth,
though varying somewhat in their ages, were Alf Maitland and Maurice
Shannon and Grant Harlson, and three or four others who ranked with
them. The girls differed more in age, for there were some who aspired
to be teachers, who, if boys, would have been home at work in
summer-time, and some who could come, while very young, since their
older sisters came with them to exercise all needed care. And among
the smaller ones, though not so young as some, was Katie Welwood, a
black-haired, black-eyed, evil-tempered little thing, who was the rage
among the boys. She had smiled upon Grant Harlson, and smiled upon
young Maitland, so early in her years is the female a coquette, and
they looked askance upon each other, though they were the best of
friends. Had they not together defied the big George Appleton, and
vanquished him in running fight, and were they not sworn allies, come
any weal or woe! But woman, even at the age of ten, has ever been the
cause of trouble between males, and those two had, on her account, a
mortal feud. It all came suddenly. There had been certain jealousies
and heartaches caused by the raven-locked young vixen with the winning
eyes, but there had been no outspoken words of anger between these
vassals in her train until there came excuse in other way, for your
country lad is modest, and never admits that his ailing has aught to do
with the grand passion. But there had been a sharp debate over the
proper ownership of a big gray squirrel at which they had shot their
arrows from strong hickory bows together, and, with this excuse for
fuel to the fire already smoldering, there soon came a great flame.
Neither would yield to one he knew in his heart addicted to winning,
villainously, the affections of the young woman, and so they fought.
Unfortunately for Grant, Napoleon was at least in a measure right when
he remarked that Providence always favored the heaviest battalions, and
equally unfortunate for him that Alf, as resolute as he, was just a
little heavier, was as tough of fiber at that stage of their young
careers, and was, in a general way, what a patron of the prize ring
would term the better man. Grant went home licked as thoroughly as any
country boy, not hyper-critical, could ask, and should have felt that
all was lost save honor. But he did not feel that way. He did not
consider honor at greater length than is generally done by any boy of
ten, on the way to eleven, but he did want vengeance. To lose his
siren and a portion of his blood--"-'twas from the nose," as Byron
says--together, was too much for his philosophy. He must have
vengeance! He was no lambkin, and he knew things. He had read the
Swiss Family Robinson. He resolved that on the morrow he would spear
his hated rival and successful adversary!