GUY’S HOME AND HENRY’S.
AS CAN well be imagined, Guy felt very sore after the affair of the
match-box. His whole soul rebelled against the petty tyranny and
injustice of his father, and while he was at school that afternoon his
mind dwelt so much upon it that he stood “zero” in every one of his
lessons, and failed so miserably in his philosophy that he narrowly
escaped the disgrace—and it was considered a lasting disgrace by the
boys belonging to the Brown Grammar School—of being kept after hours to
commit his task.
When four o’clock came Guy drew a long breath of relief, and chucked his
books under his desk so spitefully that he made a great deal of racket,
which caused the teacher to look sharply in his direction. Guy, knowing
that he was suspected, turned and stared at Tom Proctor, who sat next
behind him, as if to say, “_There_ is the guilty one,” and Tom gave the
accusation a flat denial by turning about and looking at the youth who
sat next behind _him_. This is a way that some school-boys have of doing
business, as you know. In a case like this a scholar can “carry tales”
and accuse a school-mate of breaking the rules without saying a word.
When school was dismissed Guy was the first one out of the gate. Some of
the Delta Club were going over to their grounds to engage in a practice
game of ball, and as Guy belonged to the first nine, of course he was
expected to accompany them; but he, knowing that he must first go home
and ask permission of his mother, which would most likely be refused,
replied that he had something else to do, and hurried off as fast as his
legs could carry him. Arriving at his father’s gate, he slackened his
pace and walked leisurely through the yard into the garden. He went
straight to the currant bush, behind which he had thrown his match-box,
and finding his treasure safe, put it into his pocket and returned to
the carriage-house. When he thought he could do so without being seen by
any one, he bounded up the stairs, entered his curiosity shop, and
noiselessly closing the door, locked himself in.
“Now then,” he exclaimed with a triumphant air, “if mother and Ned will
only let me alone for about an hour, I can enjoy myself. I haven’t seen
a minute’s peace since twelve o’clock. Father thought he was very sharp
when he ordered me to throw this box away,” he added, as he opened the
small tool-chest and deposited his recovered property therein, “but I am
a little sharper than he is. Whew! wouldn’t I get my jacket dusted
though, if he knew what I have done?”
As Guy said this, he unlocked a small compartment in the tool-chest and
took out a book bound in brown and gold, and bearing the title, “The Boy
Trappers of the Platte.” Closing the chest, and seating himself upon it,
he opened the book, and for two hours reveled in bear fights, adventures
with the Indians, and hunting and trapping scenes without number. For
once that day he was supremely happy. He forgot all his troubles, and
lived only among the imaginary characters and amid the imaginary scenes
presented to him on the printed page. Two or three times while he was
thus engaged, Ned came up, tried the door, and called to him; but Guy
only stopped long enough to flourish his fist in the air with a
significant gesture, as if he would have been glad of a chance to use it
on Ned’s head, and then went on with his reading, until the creaking of
the gate, and the sound of wheels on the carriage-way, told him that his
father had arrived.
“Dear me, how provoking!” exclaimed Guy, jumping quickly to his feet and
putting the book away in the tool-chest, “Just as I get to the most
interesting part of a chapter, I must be interrupted. I wish father had
stayed away ten minutes longer; or, better than that, I wish he was like
other fathers, and would let me take this book into the house and read
it openly and aboveboard, as I should like to do. He is so opposed to
works of fiction that I wonder he lets Ned read Robinson Crusoe. He
talks of going to the White Mountains this summer, and taking mother and
Ned with him, and leaving me at home to punish me for going in swimming
the other day. Don’t I hope he will do it, though? It wouldn’t be
punishment at all, if he only knew it. I’d have more fun than I have
seen for ten years. I’d read every book in Henry Stewart’s library.”
Having closed and locked the tool-chest, Guy went cautiously to the
window, and when he saw his father get out of his buggy and enter the
house, he slipped quietly out of the room and down the stairs. He passed
an uncomfortable quarter of an hour before the supper-bell rang,
strolling about the yard with his hands in his pockets, and scarcely
knowing what to do with himself. It seemed so hard to come back to earth
again after living for two hours among the exciting scenes which his
favorite author had created for his amusement.
Supper over, there was another hour to be passed in some way before the
gas was lighted. His father talked politics with the next-door neighbor;
Ned played graces with his mother; and wide-awake, restless Guy was as
usual left to himself. No one took the least notice of him. He must have
something to do—it wasn’t in him to remain long inactive—and as there
was a strong breeze blowing, he thought he would raise his kite. He
could not go into the street for that purpose, so he climbed to the top
of the barn; but his father quickly discovered him, and ordered him
down.
Then he tried it in the garden, but the trees were thick, and the kite’s
tail was always in the way. It caught in a cherry tree, and as Guy was
about to mount among the branches to disengage it, his father again
interfered. He wasn’t going to have his fine ox-hearts broken down for
the sake of all the kites in the world.
[Illustration: “For once that day, Guy was supremely happy.”]
By the aid of the step-ladder Guy finally released the kite, and made
one more attempt to raise it, this time by running along the
carriage-way; but by an unlucky step he left the point of his boot on
one of the flower-beds, and that set his mother’s tongue in motion. His
father heard it, and turned sharply upon him.
“Guy,” said he, “what in the world is the matter with you to-night? Put
that kite away, and go into the house.”
Guy’s under lip dropped down, and with mutterings not loud, but deep, he
prepared to obey.
His father’s quick eye noticed the drooping lip, and his quick ear
caught the muttering.
“Come here, sir,” said he angrily.
Guy approached, and his father, seizing his arm with a grip that brought
tears to his eyes, shook him until every tooth in his head rattled.
“What do you mean by going into the sulks when I tell you to do
anything?” he demanded. “Straighten out that face! Now, then,” he added
after a moment’s pause, during which Guy choked back his tears and
assumed as pleasant an expression as could be expected of a boy whose
arm was being squeezed by a strong man until it was black and blue, “go
into the house and stay there.”
The father could compel obedience, but his son was too much like himself
to be easily conquered. He could control his actions as long as he was
in sight, but he could not control his thoughts. Guy’s heart was filled
with hate.
“This is a fair sample of the manner in which I am treated every day of
my life,” he muttered under his breath as he stowed his kite away in its
accustomed place. “They’ll think of it and be sorry some day, for if I
once get away from here I’ll never come back. I never want to see any of
them again. I can’t please them, and there is no use trying. Nobody
cares for me, and the sooner I am out of the way the better.”
When Guy entered the sitting-room he found his mother there reading a
highly-seasoned novel by a popular sensational writer, and Ned deeply
interested in “Robinson Crusoe.” The piano was open and Guy walked to it
and sat down. There was a piece of music upon it, entitled “’Tis Home
Where’er the Heart Is.” As Guy ran his fingers over the keys he thought
of all that had happened that day, and told himself that if those words
were true his home was a long way from Norwall.
“That will do, Guy,” said his mother suddenly. “My head aches, and it is
not necessary that you should practice now.”
Guy began to get desperate. He couldn’t sit around all the evening and
do nothing—no healthy boy could. He went to the library, and knowing
that he was doing something that would certainly prove the occasion of
more fault-finding, took a book from some snug corner in which he had
hidden it, and sat down to read.
In a few minutes his father came in. He picked up his paper and was
about to seat himself in his easy chair when he caught sight of Guy and
stopped. The latter did not look up, but watched his father out of the
corner of his eye.
“Guy,” said Mr. Harris sharply.
“Sir!” said the boy.
“What have you there?”
“‘Cecil,’” was the reply.
“Cecil who? Cecil what?”
“That’s the name of the book.”
“Let me see it.”
Mr. Harris took the volume and ran his eye over the pages, while a look
of contempt settled on his face. Had he taken the trouble to read the
book he would have found that it was the history of a youth who was
turned out into the world at an early age by the death of his parents;
that it described the trials and temptations that fell to his lot, and
told how he made a man of himself at last. But Mr. Harris, like many
others, condemned without knowing what he was condemning.
Three words on the title-page told him all he cared to know about the
work. It was a “Book for Boys.” All books for boys were works of
fiction, and he never intended that Guy should read a work of fiction if
he could prevent it.
“Where did you get this?” demanded Mr. Harris.
“I borrowed it of Henry Stewart. His father bought it for him last week,
and he is a member of your church, too,” answered Guy, seizing the
opportunity to put in a home-thrust.
“I don’t care if he is. I have no objection to your associating with
Henry, for he is a good boy in some respects, although it is the
greatest wonder in the world to me that he hasn’t been ruined by his
father’s ignorance beyond all hope of redemption. I am surprised at
Brother Stewart—I am really. What’s that sticking out of your pocket?”
“It is a copy of the New York _Magazine_.”
“Let me see it.”
Guy handed out the paper, and as Mr. Harris slowly unfolded it the sneer
once more settled on his face. He handled the sheet with the tips of his
fingers, as if he feared that the touch might contaminate him.
“‘Nick Whiffles!’” said he, reading the title of one of the stories.
“Who is he? Who owns him?”
“I borrowed the paper of Henry Stewart. His father has taken it for
years, and says he couldn’t do without it.”
“I don’t care what his father says. His opinions have no weight with me.
Who’s Nick Whiffles?”
“He was a famous Indian-fighter and guide.”
“Oh, he was, was he? Well, you just guide him out of this house, and
never bring him or anybody like him here again. I won’t have such trash
under my roof. Guy, it does seem as if you were determined to ruin
yourself. Don’t you know that the reading of such tales as this unfits
you for anything like work? Don’t you know that after a while nothing
but this light reading will satisfy you?”
“No, sir, I don’t,” replied Guy boldly. “Henry Stewart told me that he
didn’t care a snap for history until he had read the ‘Black Knight.’
Through that story he became interested in the manners and customs of
the people who lived during the Middle Ages, and he wanted to know more
about them. He read everything on the subject that he could get his
hands on, and Professor Johnson says he is better posted in history than
half the teachers in the public schools.”
“And all through the reading of a novel?” exclaimed Mr. Harris. “I know
better. There’s not a word of truth in it. This bosh has a very
different effect upon you at any rate. You waste all your spare time
upon it, and the consequence is, you are getting to be a worthless,
disobedient boy.”
“But, father, I must have something to read.”
“Don’t I know that; and don’t I get you a new book every Christmas?
Where’s that volume entitled ‘Thoughts on Death; or, Lectures for Young
Men,’ that I bought for you three weeks ago? You haven’t looked into it,
I’ll warrant.”
Mr. Harris was wrong there. Guy _had_ looked into it, and he had tried
to read it, but it was written in such language that he could not
understand it. At the time his father gave him this book he had
presented Ned with a box of fine water-colors—the very thing Guy had
long wished for. Why had not Mr. Harris consulted the tastes and wishes
of the elder, as well as those of the younger son?
“Return that book and paper to their owner at once, and don’t bring
anything like them into this house again,” repeated Mr. Harris.
“May I visit with Henry a little while?” asked the boy.
“Well—I—y-es. You may stay there a quarter of an hour.”
“It’s a wonder,” thought Guy, as he picked up his cap and started for
Mr. Stewart’s house. “Why didn’t he tell me that home is the place for
me after dark? That’s the reply he generally makes.”
As Guy climbed over the fence that ran between his father’s yard and Mr.
Stewart’s he heard a great noise and hubbub. He listened and found that
the sounds came from the house he was about to visit.
As he drew nearer he saw that one of the window curtains was raised, and
that he could obtain a view of all that was going on in Mr. Stewart’s
back parlor. The occupants were engaged in a game of blind-man’s buff.
Mr. Stewart, his eyes covered with a handkerchief, and his hands spread
out before him, was advancing cautiously toward one side of the room,
evidently searching for Henry, who had squeezed himself into one corner,
with a chair in front of him. The other children were probably trying to
divert their father’s attention, for two of them were clinging to his
coat-tails, while the eldest daughter would now and then go up and pull
his whiskers or pat him on the back. Mrs. Stewart sat in a remote corner
sewing and smiling pleasantly, seemingly unmindful of the deafening
racket raised by the players.
“Humph!” said Guy, “it will be of no use for me to ask Henry to go with
me. I wouldn’t go myself if I had a home like this. How would my father
look with a handkerchief over his eyes, and Ned and me hanging to his
coat-tails? And wouldn’t mother have an awful headache though, if this
was going on in her house?”
It certainly was a pleasant scene that Guy looked in upon, and he stood
at the window watching the players until he began to be ashamed of
himself. Then he mounted the steps and knocked at the door.
Mrs. Stewart admitted him, and he entered the parlor just in time to see
Henry’s father pounce upon him and hold him fast.
“Aha! I’ve caught you, sir,” said Mr. Stewart, with a laugh that did
one’s heart good, “and now we had better stop, for we are arousing the
neighbors. Here’s Guy come in to see what’s the matter.”
“No, sir,” replied the visitor, “I just came over to return a book and
paper I borrowed of Henry.”
“Why, you haven’t read them, have you?” asked his friend. “I gave them
to you only yesterday.”
“I know it; but father told me to bring them back. He won’t permit me to
read them. He says they are nothing but trash.”
Henry elevated his eyebrows and looked at his father, who in turn looked
inquiringly at Guy.
“Does your father ever read the New York _Magazine_?” asked Mr. Stewart.
“No, _sir_!” replied Guy emphatically.
“Ah! that accounts for it. If he would take the trouble to look at it,
he might change his opinion of it. A paper that numbers ministers among
its contributors, that advocates temperance and reform, and shows up the
follies of the day in its stories, can’t be a very dangerous thing to
put into the hands of the youth of the land. Here is an article by a
minister in the paper we have been reading to-night. Take it over and
show it to your father.”
“I wouldn’t dare do it, sir,” returned Guy blushing. “He told me to
guide Nick Whiffles out of the house, and never guide him in again.”
“Oh, that’s where the shoe pinches, is it? Well, _I_ think Nick very
good in his place. Indeed, I confess to a great liking for the old
fellow.”
“He’s just splendid,” said Henry.
“All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy, you know,” continued Mr.
Stewart. “After you and Henry have sat for six long hours on your hard
desk at school, a game of ball or a sail on the lake does you a world of
good. If you should live a week or two on corn bread and bacon, or pork
and beans, you would be glad to have a piece of pie or cake, wouldn’t
you? The mind requires recreation and change as much as the body, and
where can you find it if it be not in a good story by some sprightly
author? Of course the thing can be carried to excess, and so can eating.
One can read himself into an unhealthy frame of mind as easily as he can
gorge himself into dyspepsia.”
When Mr. Stewart had said this much he stopped and took up his paper. It
wasn’t for him to criticise or find fault with the rules his neighbor
had made regarding his son’s reading.
Guy, having an object to accomplish before he returned home, and knowing
that time was precious, declined the chair offered him, and after taking
leave of the family, intimated to Henry that he had something particular
to say to him. The latter accompanied him to the fence, and Guy leaned
upon it, utterly at a loss how to broach the subject uppermost in his
mind.
------------------------------------------------------------------------