Cynics and fools laugh at calf-love. Youth, which is wiser, treats it
more seriously. When the boy begins to think of a girl, instead of
girls, he displays the first budding signs of a real growing manhood.
The first passion may be but the enthusiasm of discovery. Sometimes it
is not. At times it dies, as fleeting enthusiasms do. Again it lives,
and becomes a blessing, a curse, or a memory. Who shall say that the
first half-sweet pang that strikes a boy's heart in the presence of the
dear first girl is any less strong, intoxicating, and real to him than
that which prompts him to take the full-grown woman to wife? With
factitious sincerity we quote, "The boy is father to the man," and then
refuse to believe that the qualities, emotions, and passions of the man
are inherited from this same boy,--are just the growth, the development,
of what was embryonic in him.
Nothing is more serious, more pleasant, and more diverting withal, than
a boy's brooding or exultation--one is the complement of the
other--over his first girl. As, to a great extent, a man is moulded by
the woman he marries, so to no less a degree is a boy's character turned
and shaped by the girl he adores. Either he descends to her level, or
she draws him up, unconsciously, perhaps, to her own plane. Girls are
missionaries who convert boys. Boys are mostly heathens. When a boy has
a girl, he remembers to put on his cuffs and collars, and he does n't
put his necktie into his pocket on the way to school.
In a boy's life, the having of a girl is the setting up of an ideal. It
is the new element, the higher something which abashes the unabashed,
and makes John, who caused Henry's nose to bleed, tremble when little
Mary stamps her foot. It is like an atheist's finding God, the sudden
recognition of a higher and purer force against which all that he knows
is powerless. Why does n't John bully Mary? It would be infinitely
easier than his former exploit with Henry. But he does n't. He blushes
in her presence, brings her the best apples, out of which heretofore he
has enjoined the boys not to "take a hog-bite," and, even though the
parental garden grow none, comes by flowers for her in some way, queer
boyish bouquets where dandelions press shoulders with spring-beauties,
daffodils, and roses,--strange democracy of flowerdom. He feels older
and stronger.
In Fred's case the object of adoration was no less a person than
Elizabeth Simpson, the minister's daughter. From early childhood they
had seen and known each other at school, and between them had sprung up
a warm childish friendship, apparently because their ways home lay along
the same route. In such companionship the years sped; but Fred was a
diffident boy, and he was seventeen and Elizabeth near the same before
he began to feel those promptings which made him blushingly offer to
carry her book for her as far as he went. She had hesitated, refused,
and then assented, as is the manner of her sex and years. It had become
a settled thing for them to walk home together, he bearing her burdens,
and doing for her any other little service that occurred to his boyish
sense of gallantry.
Without will of his own, and without returning the favour, he had grown
in the Rev. Mr. Simpson's esteem. This was due mostly to his guardian's
excellent work. In spite of his rebellion, training and environment had
brought him greatly under her control, and when she began to admonish
him about his lost condition spiritually she had been able to awaken a
sort of superstitious anxiety in the boy's breast. When Miss Prime
perceived that this had been accomplished, she went forthwith to her
pastor and unburdened her heart.
"Brother Simpson," said she, "I feel that the Lord has appointed me an
instrument in His hands for bringin' a soul into the kingdom." The
minister put the tips of his fingers together and sighed piously and
encouragingly. "I have been labourin' with Freddie in the sperrit of
Christian industry, an' I believe that I have finally brought him to a
realisin' sense of his sinfulness."
"H'm-m," said the minister. "Bless the Lord for this evidence of the
activity of His people. Go on, sister."
"Freddie has at last come to the conclusion that hell is his lot unless
he flees unto the mountain and seeks salvation."
"Bless the Lord for this."
"Now, Brother Simpson, I have done my part as fur as the Lord has showed
me, except to ask you to come and wrastle with that boy."
"Let not thy heart be troubled, Sister Prime, for I will come as you ask
me, and I will wrastle with that boy as Jacob did of old with the
angel."
"Oh, Brother Simpson, I knowed you 'd come. I know jest how you feel
about pore wanderin' souls, an' I 'm so glad to have yore strong arm and
yore wisdom a-helpin' me."
"I hope, my sister, that the Lord may smile upon my poor labours, and
permit us to snatch this boy as a brand from eternal burning."
"We shall have to labour in the sperrit, Brother Simpson."
"Yes, and with the understanding of the truth in our hearts and minds."
"I 'm shore I feel mighty uplifted by comin' here to-day. Do come up to
dinner Sunday, dear Brother Simpson, after preachin'."
"I will come, Sister Prime, I will come. I know by experience the worth
of the table which the Lord provides for you, and then at the same
season I may be able to sound this sinful boy as to his spiritual state
and to drop some seed into the ground which the Lord has mercifully
prepared for our harvest. Good-bye, sister, good-bye. I shall not
forget, Sunday after preaching."
In accordance with his promise, the Rev. Mr. Simpson began to labour
with Fred, with the result of driving him into a condition of dogged
revolt, which only Miss Prime's persistence finally overcame. When
revival time came round, as, sure as death it must come, Fred regularly
went to the mourners' bench, mourned his few days until he had worked
himself into the proper state, and then, somewhat too coldly, it is
true, for his anxious guardian, "got religion."
On the visit next after this which Mr. Simpson paid to Miss Prime, he
took occasion to say, "Ah, my sister, I am so glad that you pointed me
to that lost lamb of the house of Israel, and I am thanking the Maker
every day that He blessed my efforts to bring the straying one into the
fold. Ah, there is more joy over the one lamb that is found than over
the ninety and nine that went not astray!"
Mr. Simpson's parishioner acquiesced, but she had some doubts in her
mind as to whose efforts the Lord had blessed. She felt a little bit
selfish. She wanted to be the author of everything good that came to
Fred. But she did not argue with Mr. Simpson. There are some concessions
which one must make to one's pastor.
From this time on the preacher was Fred's friend, and plied him with
good advice in the usual friendly way; but the boy bore it well, for
Elizabeth smiled on him, and what boy would not bear a father's tongue
for a girl's eyes?
The girl was like her mother, dark and slender and gentle. She had none
of her father's bigness or bumptiousness. Her eyes were large and of a
shade that was neither black nor brown. Her hair was very decidedly
black. Her face was small, and round with the plumpness of youth, but
one instinctively felt, in looking at it, that its lines might easily
fall into thinness, even pitifulness, at the first touch of woman's
sorrow. She was not, nor did she look to be, a strong girl. But her very
weakness was the source of secret delight to the boy, for it made him
feel her dependence on him. When they were together and some girlish
fear made her cling to his arm, his heart swelled with pride and a
something else that he could not understand and could not have
described. Had any one told him that he was going through the
half-sweet, half-painful, timid, but gallant first stages of love, he
would have resented the imputation with blushes. His whole training
would have made him think of such a thing with terror. He had learned
never to speak of girls at home, for any reference to them by him was
sure to bring forth from Miss Prime an instant and strong rebuke.
"Freddie," was the exclamation that gave his first unsuspecting remarks
pause, "you 're a-gittin' too fresh: you 'd better be a-mindin' of yore
studies, instead o' thinkin' about girls. Girls ain't a-goin' to make
you pass yore examination, an', besides, you 're a-gettin' mannish; fur
boys o' yore age to be a-talkin' about girls is mannish, do you hear,
sir? You 're a-beginnin' to feel yore keepin' too strong. Don't let me
hear no more sich talk out o' you."
There never was a manly boy in the world whom the word "mannish," when
applied to him, did not crush. It is a horrid word, nasty and full of
ugly import. Fred was subdued by it, and so kept silence about his
female friends. Happy is the boy who dares at home to pour out his
heart about the girls he knows and likes, and thrice unhappy he who
through mistaken zeal on the part of misguided parents is compelled to
keep his thoughts in his heart and brood upon his little aproned
companions as upon a secret sin. Two things are thereby engendered,
stealth and unhealth. If Fred escaped certain youthful pitfalls, it was
because he was so repressed that he had learned to hide himself from
himself, his thoughts from the mind that produced them.
He was a boy strong and full of blood. The very discipline that had
given a gloomy cast to his mind had given strength and fortitude to his
body. He was austere, because austerity was all that he had ever known
or had a chance of knowing; but too often austerity is but the dam that
holds back the flood of potential passion. Not to know the power which
rages behind the barricade is to leave the structure weak for a hapless
day when, carrying all before it, the flood shall break its bonds and in
its fury ruin fair field and smiling mead. It was well for Fred Brent
that the awakening came when it did.
In the first days of June, when examinations are over, the annual
exhibition done, and the graduating class has marched away proud in the
possession of its diplomas, the minds of all concerned turn naturally
towards the old institution, the school picnic. On this occasion parents
join the teachers and pupils for a summer day's outing in the woods.
Great are the preparations for the festal day, and great the rejoicings
thereon. For these few brief hours old men and women lay aside their
cares and their dignity and become boys and girls again. Those who have
known sorrow--and who has not?--take to themselves a day of
forgetfulness. Great baskets are loaded to overflowing with the viands
dear to the picnicker's palate,--sandwiches whose corpulence would make
their sickly brothers of the railway restaurant wither with envy, pies
and pickles, cheese and crackers, cakes and jams galore. Old horses
that, save for this day, know only the market-cart or the Sunday chaise,
are hitched up to bear out the merry loads. Old waggons, whose wheels
have known no other decoration than the mud and clay of rutty roads, are
festooned gaily with cedar wreaths, oak leaves, or the gaudy
tissue-paper rosettes, and creak joyfully on their mission of lightness
and mirth. On foot, by horse, in waggon or cart, the crowds seek some
neighbouring grove, and there the day is given over to laughter, mirth,
and song. The children roll and tumble on the sward in the intoxication
of "swing-turn" and "ring-around-a-rosy." The young women, with many
blushes and shy glances, steal off to quiet nooks with their imploring
swains. Some of the elders, anxious to prove that they have not yet lost
all their youth and agility, indulge, rather awkwardly perhaps, in the
exhausting amusement of the jumping-rope. A few of the more staid walk
apart in conversation with some favourite pastor who does not decline to
take part in the innocent pleasures and crack ponderous jokes for the
edification of his followers. Perhaps some of the more daring are
engaged in one of the numerous singing plays, such as "Oh, la, Miss
Brown," or "Swing Candy, Two and Two," but these are generally frowned
upon: they are too much like dancing, and time has been when some too
adventurous church-member has been "churched" for engaging in one.
In such a merrymaking was the community which surrounded the high school
at Dexter engaged when the incident occurred which opened Fred's eyes
to his own state. Both he and Elizabeth had been in the prize ranks that
year, and their friends had turned out in full and made much of them.
Even Eliphalet Hodges was there, with old Bess festooned as gaily as the
other horses, and both Miss Prime and Mr. Simpson were in evidence. The
afternoon of the day was somewhat advanced, the dinner had been long
over, and the weariness of the people had cast something of a quietus
over the hilarity of their sports. They were sitting about in groups,
chatting and laughing, while the tireless children were scurrying about
in games of "tag," "catcher," and "hide-and-seek."
The grove where the festivities were being held was on a hill-side which
sloped gently to the bank of a small, narrow stream, usually dry in
summer; but now, still feeling the force of the spring freshets, and
swollen by the rain of the day before, it was rushing along at a rapid
rate. A fence divided the picnic-ground proper from the sharper slope of
the rivulet's bank. This fence the young people had been warned not to
pass, and so no danger was apprehended on account of the stream's
overflowing condition. But the youngsters at Dexter were no more
obedient than others of their age elsewhere. So when a scream arose from
several childish voices at the lower part of the hill, everybody knew
that some child had been disobeying, and, pell-mell, the picnickers
rushed in the direction of the branch.
When they reached the nearest point from which they could see the
stream, a terrifying sight met their eyes. A girl was struggling in the
shallow but swift water. She had evidently stepped on the sloping bank
and fallen in. Her young companions were running alongside the rivulet,
stretching out their hands helplessly to her, but the current was too
strong, and, try as she would, she could not keep her feet. A cry of
grief and despair went up from the girls on the bank, as she made one
final effort and then fell and was carried down by the current.
Men were leaping the fence now, but a boy who had seen the whole thing
from a neighbouring hillock was before them. Fred Brent came leaping
down the hill like a young gazelle. He had seen who the unfortunate girl
was,--Elizabeth,--and he had but one desire in his heart, to save her.
He reached the bank twenty yards ahead of any one else, and plunged into
the water just in front of her, for she was catching and slipping,
clinging and losing hold, but floating surely to her death. He struggled
up stream, reached and caught her by the dress. The water tugged at him
and tried to throw him over, but he stemmed it, and, lifting her up in
his arms, fought his way manfully to the bank. Up this he faltered,
slipping and sliding in the wet clay, and weak with his struggle against
the strong current. But his face was burning and his blood tingling as
he held the girl close to him till he gave her unconscious form into her
father's arms.
For the moment all was confusion, as was natural when a preacher's
daughter was so nearly drowned. The crowd clustered around and gave much
advice and some restoratives. Some unregenerate, with many apologies and
explanations concerning his possession, produced a flask, and part of
the whisky was forced down the girl's throat, while her hands and face
and feet were chafed. She opened her eyes at last, and a fervent "Thank
God!" burst from her father's lips and called forth a shower of Amens.
"I allus carry a little somethin' along, in case of emergencies,"
explained the owner of the flask as he returned it to his pocket, with a
not altogether happy look at its depleted contents.
As soon as Fred saw that Elizabeth was safe, he struck away for home,
unobserved, and without waiting to hear what the crowd were saying. He
heard people calling his name kindly and admiringly, but it only gave
wings to the feet that took him away from them. If he had thrown the
girl in instead of bringing her out, he could not have fled more swiftly
or determinedly away from the eyes of people. Tired and footsore,
drenched to the skin and chilled through, he finally reached home. He
was trembling, he was crying, but he did not know it, and had he known,
he could not have told why. He did not change his clothes, but crouched
down in a corner and hid his face in his hands. He dreaded seeing any
one or hearing any person speak his name. He felt painfully conscious of
a new self, which he thought must be apparent to other eyes.
The accident of the afternoon had cast a gloom over the merrymakings,
and, the picnic breaking up abruptly, sent the people scurrying home,
so that Miss Prime was at the house not far behind her charge.
"Freddie," she called to him as she entered the house, "Freddie, where
air you?" And then she found him. She led him out of the corner and
looked him over with a scrutinising eye. "Freddie Brent," she said
solemnly, "you 've jest ruined yore suit." He was glad. He wanted to be
scolded. "But," she went on, "I don't care ef you have." And here she
broke down. "You 're a-goin' to have another one, fur you 're a right
smart boy, that 's all I 've got to say." For a moment he wanted to lay
his head on her breast and give vent to the sob which was choking him.
But he had been taught neither tenderness nor confidence, so he choked
back the sob, though his throat felt dry and hot and strained. He stood
silent and embarrassed until Miss Prime recovered herself and continued:
"But la, child, you 'll take yore death o' cold. Git out o' them wet
things an' git into bed, while I make you some hot tea. Fur the life o'
me, I never did see sich carryin's-on."
The boy was not sorry to obey. He was glad to be alone. He drank the
warm tea and tried to go to sleep, but he could not. His mind was on
fire. His heart seemed as if it would burst from his bosom. Something
new had come to him. He began to understand, and blushed because he did
understand. It was less discovery than revelation. His forehead was hot.
His temples were throbbing. It was well that Miss Prime did not discover
it: she would have given him horehound to cure--thought!
From the moment that the boy held the form of the girl to his heart he
was changed, and she was changed to him. They could never be the same to
each other again. Manhood had come to him in a single instant, and he
saw in her womanhood. He began for the first time to really know
himself, and it frightened him and made him ashamed.
He drew the covers over his head and lay awake, startled, surprised at
what he knew himself and mankind to be.
To Fred Brent the awakening had come,--early, if we would be prudish;
not too early, if we would be truthful.