AMONG THE WOODPECKERS.
Twenty years ago, in one of the busiest streets in bustling Boston,
up three flights of stairs, sufficiently distant from the tumult of
trade to escape its confusion, and near enough to the sun to receive
the full benefit of its light, “John Woodfern, Designer and Engraver,”
plied his artistic trade, in the enjoyment of a large share of public
patronage. He was a man who held the foremost place in his profession,
renowned for his skill in fastening the fine points and delicate shades
of a drawing upon wooden blocks, whence are produced those pictorial
illustrations which often adorn, and sometimes disfigure, books,
periodicals, and papers. He was also a man of good business habits,
and his establishment was neatly arranged, and conducted in the most
orderly manner.
An Englishman by birth, he brought to this country, besides a clear
head and skilful hands, a love for the roast-beef and ale of Old
England, a warm heart, and a jovial temper, the latter somewhat
obscured by the characteristic fogs of gruffness and blunt speech,
without which no Briton would be content to leave his native land. He
was a large, handsome man of fifty, with light, curly hair, surrounding
a polished pate, in whose centre flourished a single tuft of hair; blue
eyes, and a long, flowing beard.
His establishment was divided into two sections--his own office at the
head of the stairs, and his work-room, from which he was only separated
by a partition, and which he could overlook, through the door, from his
seat.
The office contained a handsome book-case, a desk, and his own
work-table, where he did the finest work. Its walls were adorned with
fine pictures and specimens of his work. Over the desk was displayed,
on brackets, a polished champion cricket bat, ornamented with a silver
plate, on which glistened his name and the match in which it was won.
On his table were the usual implements of his craft--a small stand with
a padded leather cushion, a frame in which was fitted an eye-glass, a
fine assortment of “gravers,” and blocks of wood in various stages of
completion.
The work-room contained three tables, at which were seated three young
men, with their eyes screwed down to eye-glasses, diligently pecking
at drawings on wooden blocks. These young men, “woodpeckers” by trade,
were Woodferns by name, being sons of the proprietor, and, like their
father, all good fellows and skilful workmen. This room was plainly
furnished with three tables and a transfer press, and above them a long
shelf, on which were ranged a row of glass globes, filled with water,
used to concentrate the light in night work.
Mr. Woodfern sat at his table, busily at work putting the finishing
touches to a block, when unattended and unannounced, Miss Becky Sleeper
marched into his presence.
Mr. Woodfern lifted his eye from the glass, and politely turned in his
chair, with a nod to the visitor. The young Woodferns unscrewed their
eyes from the wooden sockets in which they were imbedded, and very
impolitely stared at the intruder.
“Good morning, sir,” said Becky, in her sweetest tones. “Will you be
kind enough to look at these drawings?”
Mr. Woodfern scowled. He had been pestered by an army of aspiring
draughts_men_, of both sexes; and the London fog was on him. He
answered shortly,--
“No, I don’t want any drawings. Good morning,” turned in his chair and
applied his eye to its artificial socket.
A wave of confusion rolled over Becky’s confident spirit. The gruff
voice and the abrupt dismissal had not entered into her calculations.
But she was not disposed to quit the field without a struggle, after so
long a journey; so, gulping down her chagrin, she said,--
“But you don’t understand. I’ve come a long way to get work. My friends
tell me I am competent, and I have specimens of drawing. You’ll surely
look at them.”
“I shall do nothing of the sort,” said Mr. Woodfern, gruffly, not
deigning to raise his eye. “I have all the draughtsmen I want; and I
never employ girls.”
“Why, you give Miss Alice Parks work--don’t you?”
Caught. Mr. John Woodfern, how will you answer that question?
“I have given her work; and a precious sight of trouble she has made
me.”
[Illustration: BECKY MAKES A HIT. Page 203.]
There was some comfort in that to Miss Becky’s jealous heart. Miss
Alice was not quite a paragon, after all.
“Once for all, I don’t want your drawings. I’ve no time to look at
them. Good morning.”
The tone was so chilling that a returning “good morning” trembled
on Becky’s lips. The tears sprang to her eyes. It seemed to her for
a moment that all was lost. But, remembering the friends she must
meet with the story of her defeat, remembering the captain patiently
waiting in the street for her return, she yet lingered, hoping that a
little reflection might produce a change in the temper of this gruff
proprietor, and gain her a hearing. Profound silence; eyes glued to
their sockets; not even the tools of the workmen broke the stillness,
for these woodpeckers tapped no hollow oak tree, but pecked at solid
boxwood, which emits no sound. Her eyes roved about the room until they
fastened on the cricket-bat above the desk. They glistened at the sight.
“O, what a splendid cricket-bat!” she cried.
“Is that yours, sir? Did you win it?”
Mr. Woodfern raised his head, with a faint show of interest.
“Yes, I won it. What do you know about cricket?”
“I know it’s just the most splendid game I ever played,” replied Becky,
with enthusiasm.
“You play cricket!” said Mr. Woodfern, in surprise.
“Yes, indeed; but it was long ago. I was a famous hand at it, too,
though I do say it. Please, sir, let me take it down. I won’t hurt it.”
“Certainly,” said Mr. Woodfern, rising from his chair. “Handle it as
much as you like.”
He took it from its place, put it in Becky’s hands, and resumed his
seat, watching the girl with a lively interest, for cricket was a
passion with him age could not smother. Becky took the bat and handled
it like a true cricketer, placing herself in graceful positions, to
display her knowledge of its use.
“Now, if we only had a ball!”
“If we had! We have,” said Mr. Woodfern, opening a drawer in his table,
and producing a cricket ball. “Now, what next?”
“Bowl me a ball, and you shall see,” replied Becky, placing herself
before an imaginary wicket.
The sight of a cricketer in position was enough to excite the
enthusiastic sportsman; and when Becky shouted, “Play!” without a
moment’s thought he bowled a swift ball. Becky struck quick and hard;
it flew across the room, into the work-shop, and struck a glass globe.
There was a crash, and the imprisoned water poured on to the head of
the youngest woodpecker in a miniature deluge. He sprang up, shouting,
“Help, help!”
“Gracious! what have I done?” faltered the terrified Becky.
Mr. Woodfern colored to the tuft of the oasis in the bald desert on
his head, but quietly rose, shut the door between the two rooms, and
resumed his seat.
“It’s of no consequence. Let me see your drawings.”
So out of the old life a second time had come her deliverance in time
of trouble. Not altogether wasted, after all.
Mr. John Woodfern took the proffered portfolio and placed it in his
lap. As he did so his eyes met Becky’s, and the comical situation in
which he had been placed overpowered him. He threw himself back in his
chair, and burst into a prolonged, loud and hearty peal of laughter.
Having thus effectually dissipated the fog he opened the portfolio, and
examined its contents.
“So, so; this is your work--is it? Very good, fine, excellent! You had
a good teacher, that’s evident; but you have talent, that’s still more
evident. Who is your teacher?”
“Harry Thompson, sir,” replied Becky.
“Harry Thompson of Harvard?” queried Mr. Woodfern.
“He was at Harvard, sir. He’s now at Cleverly--Cleverly, Maine; that’s
where I live,” said Becky.
“Indeed! It’s my old friend. He’s your teacher at cricket, too, I’ll be
bound. Why didn’t you tell me this before?”
“If you’ll be kind enough to remember, sir, you were very busy when I
came in. You didn’t give me a chance to tell you anything,” said Becky,
taking a mischievous pleasure in reminding the engraver of his brusque
behavior.
“Hem, hem; that’s so. I was busy, very busy, Miss--Miss--what’s your
name?”
“Rebecca Sleeper, sir. Harry calls me Becky.”
“Well, Miss Becky, I like your drawings; but the fact is you’ve had no
experience in drawing on wood.”
“But I could learn, sir,” said Becky, quickly. “If you only knew how
much need I have of money, you would give me a chance--I know you
would.”
At this moment the door opened, and a young lady made her appearance.
She was taller than Becky, but young and graceful, with a bright,
handsome face, lustrous black eyes, and a profusion of dark ringlets.
“Good morning, Miss Parks,” said Mr. Woodfern, courteously.
Becky started, and stared at the visitor--Harry’s paragon. It must be;
it could be no other.
“Good morning, Mr. Woodfern,” said Miss Parks, gayly. “It’s the day
after the fair, I know; but you will forgive me. I couldn’t finish them
in time.”
The young lady unfastened her reticule, and produced three blocks,
which she laid before the engraver.
“Forgive you?” said Mr. Woodfern. “I don’t know about that. Five
minutes more, and you would have been superceded by this young artist;”
and he pointed to Becky.
Miss Parks looked at Becky, and Becky looked at Miss Parks.
“Miss Parks,” said Mr. Woodfern, “this is Miss Rebecca Sleeper, of
Cleverly.”
A flush of surprise overspread the features of Miss Parks.
“Miss Rebecca Sleeper of Cleverly! Why, it must be Harry’s Becky. You
dear little thing! how glad I am to meet you!” and she advanced with
outstretched hands to Becky.
Becky met her advances with cordiality, though the appellation of “dear
little thing” from a stranger somewhat surprised her.
“Harry has told me all about you. His letters are full of praises
of you; and I know all about the adventure in the mill-dam, and the
burning of the mill. We must be good friends.”
So Harry wrote to her. She must be a very, very dear friend, then; too
dear for her peace of mind. The old jealous feeling crept into Becky’s
heart, so heavy that she could scarcely hold back her tears; but she
did, and answered nervously,--
“Yes; and I’ve heard a great deal about Miss Alice Parks. I’m glad I
met you. It will please Harry to know that I met his dear friend.”
Becky didn’t mean to emphasize the “dear” so strongly; but she noticed
it brought a flush to the face of Alice Parks. It was rather confusing,
and the two young ladies stood looking at each other in silence.
“Miss Sleeper wants work. She has brought me these sketches. Take a
look at them,” said Mr. Woodfern, handing the portfolio to Miss Parks.
The young lady took it, and, seating herself at the desk, immediately
became interested in the drawings. Just then the door of the work-room
opened, and Mr. George Woodfern entered the office. He was a tall,
handsome fellow, the image of his father. On his entrance, Miss Alice
Parks raised her head quickly.
“Good morning, George,” she said, “come and look at these drawings, and
confess I’ve found a rival at last.”
George Woodfern crossed the office, with a quick step and a blushing
face, and joined Miss Alice. The two put their heads together over the
drawings, with such evident pleasure in each other’s society, that had
Alice not been such a _dear_ friend of Harry’s, Becky would have made
a match on the spot. Their conference was long and earnest; and from
their conversation Becky was convinced that they were pleased with
her drawings. In the meantime Mr. Woodfern made himself agreeable to
Becky, showed her how drawings were reversed on wood, and gave her
many hints regarding “shading,” “filling in,” and the nice points of
wood engravings. The young couple at the desk at last finished their
examination.
“Well, Miss Alice, what is the verdict?” asked Mr. Woodfern.
“Employ the young lady, by all means; though I fear ‘Othello’s
occupation’s gone,’ as far as I am concerned. She can draw ever so much
better than poor I.”
Becky blushed with pleasure. So Harry’s friend was her friend too. Mr.
Woodfern took from his drawer the manuscript of two short stories and a
poem. He then selected three blocks of boxwood from a row on his table,
and placed the whole in Becky’s hands.
“Miss Sleeper,” he said, “on the recommendation of this talented young
lady, I shall give you a trial. There are two stories for children, and
a short ‘baby’ poem. The points to be illustrated are all marked. Take
them, consult your friend Harry Thompson, and if you send me three
satisfactory drawings within a fortnight, I will send you my check for
fifteen dollars. If not satisfactory, I pay nothing.”
Becky’s heart thrilled. How kind, how good of Mr. Woodfern! She
thanked him warmly enough, but the words seemed a long way off from
the thanksgiving that glowed in her heart. Mr. Woodfern turned away
abruptly, and entered the work room.
“Now come over here and let me give you a few hints from an experienced
hand. We shan’t want you any more, George.”
George Woodfern laughed, and in turn departed to the privacy of
the work-room; and the two young ladies were left to their own
deliberations.
All this time Captain Thompson was patiently sitting in a carriage at
the entrance, awaiting the return of his charge. On the arrival of the
train in Boston at one o’clock, he had taken a carriage and driven to
the engraver’s. He had been anxious to participate in the interview;
but Becky, fearing his quick temper might cause trouble, had prevailed
upon him to allow her to be the sole carver of her fortunes with the
wood carver. Thus far the peppery captain had enjoyed this, to him,
new sensation hugely. The bright, cheerful, happy demeanor of the
girl, her intelligent and witty conversation, her delight in the fresh
experience of the day, had made him really happy; and his warm heart
bubbled up through its rough exterior with desires to still further
gratify her wishes.
And so he waited patiently a long hour for her return. She came
bounding down the stairs, and leaped into the carriage, her face rosy,
her eyes bright with triumph.
“It’s a success, captain. I’ve conquered, and I’m carrying home lots of
work.”
“Of course you’ve conquered. I knew you would; and we’ve done it
without _their_--her--help, too,” said the captain, chuckling with
triumph. “Now let’s see--we’ve got two hours for dinner and a drive;
and then back to Cleverly.”
They drove to a hotel, had an excellent dinner, took the carriage
again, and Becky was shown the Boston sights, all of which were new
revelations to the country girl, whose delight made the old captain’s
heart glow and glow again.
In due time they took the train for Foxtown, and then Becky related her
adventure, in the course of which Miss Alice Parks appeared upon the
scene.
“She’s a dear friend of Harry’s--your Harry, captain. I shouldn’t
wonder if one of these days she should become his wife.”
Becky said this bravely. The captain could not know what a throb of
pain darted through Becky’s bosom at the thought.
“Become his wife! Nonsense! What are you thinking of, Becky?”
The captain looked fierce and angry, and Becky saw it.
“Well, all I know, he calls her his dear friend, and she calls him her
dear friend, and they write to each other; and that’s the way lovers
do--don’t they?”
The captain stared out of the window, moving uneasily in his seat,
snapping his teeth together very often, all of which Becky saw and took
advantage of. A wild scheme had crept into the girl’s head. Harry and
Harry’s mother had done much for her; it was time she should repay it.
The captain had a wilder scheme in his head, and was in exactly the
right mood to combat the proposed alliance.
“He marry this girl! I’d like to see him attempt it! I’d like to see
him attempt it!”
This came involuntarily from the captain’s mouth after a very long
silence.
“Why, captain,” said Becky, “she’s a splendid girl, and so smart with
her pencil! And if they love each other,”--here she gave a gulp,--“I’m
sure it’s only right that they should marry. And then Harry’s so good!
O, it would be wicked to prevent his happiness. You won’t--will you,
captain?”
The captain said nothing, but grew more and more uneasy; said nothing,
but thought, thought hard. What could he do? He had cast the boy off;
he was his own master. He had no power to accomplish the wish that was
in his mind.
“O, if you only knew how good and kind Harry has been to me, you would
never desire to break his heart.”
Here Becky broke down, and commenced sobbing. The captain started, put
his arm about Becky, and drew her head to his breast, still looking out
of the window, and saying nothing.
Becky’s weeping was of short duration; there was too much at stake;
and so, still lying on the captain’s breast, with his arm about her,
softly and gently she spoke of Harry; of his kindness to her; of
his brave deeds; of the love he had gained from all who knew him;
of his devotion to his mother; rehearsed incidents in his college
life; brought out of his boyhood history little scraps of goodness so
carefully treasured in her grateful heart. If she had been pleading
for Harry’s life, she could not have been more earnest and determined
in the recital of his virtues. And the captain sat there, listening,
saying nothing; and the little pleader babbled on, unaware that at the
captain’s heart the old obstinate roots were being plucked from their
bed; that the warmth of his new love was flowing in thawing out the
long-frozen channel of paternal affection.
The cars reached Foxtown, and still the captain said nothing. The
carriage was in waiting, and an hour’s ride took them to Cleverly. The
captain was silent all the way. Phil drove straight on to the Sleeper
house. It was twelve o’clock. There was a light in the sitting-room. At
the sound of wheels, Mrs. Thompson came to the door. The curtain was
drawn aside, and Becky saw Harry peering out into the darkness. She
jumped from the carriage.
“Won’t you come in, captain?” said Becky.
The captain shook his head.
“I shall come up to see you to-morrow, to thank you for being so kind
to-day. O, I’ve had a splendid time. Good night.”
She approached the carriage, and held out her hand. The captain grasped
it.
“I shall come up to-morrow, captain. Shall I come alone?”
Becky’s voice trembled. She had been trying hard for a triumph. She
feared she had failed.
“No, Becky, no. God bless you, child! Bring him with you; bring Harry
home!”
Phil Hague drove off down the hill at a lively rate, Uncle Ned being
started into a gallop, by an Irish howl, which might have been heard a
mile off.
“Bring Harry home!” Becky heard it; Mrs. Thompson heard it; Harry heard
it. She had triumphed, after all--this little girl, whom Mrs. Thompson
folded to her bosom, whom Harry clasped by the hand. Mother and son
might well be happy. Reconciliation at last. But for Becky, happiness
supreme. She had accomplished this, and hers was the hand commissioned
to bring Harry home.