HAPS AND MISHAPS.
IT is frequently the case that trials, which are very hard to bear at
the time, prove, in the end, to be the source of great and permanent
benefit. The sequel will show that the wreck of the West Wind, which
was so galling to Charlie and John at the moment, was, in the result,
to exert a favorable influence upon their whole lives.
The spring was now well advanced, and there were so many things to
occupy Charlie’s attention that boat-building was altogether out of
the question. Indeed, for a time, he felt very little inclination to
meddle with it, and thought he never should again. There were sea-fowl
to shoot, and Charlie had now become as fond of gunning as John. The
currant bushes were beginning to start, the buds on the apple, pear,
and cherry trees in the garden, whose development he watched as a cat
would a mouse, were beginning to swell, and early peas and potatoes
were to be planted. The robins also returned, and began to repair
their last year’s nests, bringing another pair with them,--their
progeny of the previous summer.
Charlie was hoping and expecting that the swallows, who came in such
numbers to look at the island and the barn the summer before, would
again make their appearance; but, notwithstanding all these sources
of interest and occupation, and though he felt at the time of his
misfortune that it would be a long time, if ever, before he should
again think of undertaking boat-building, it was not a fortnight before
he found his thoughts running in the accustomed channel, and, as he
tugged at the oars, pulling the Twilight against the wind, he could
but think how much easier and pleasanter would have been the task of
steering the West Wind over the billows; and he actually found himself,
one day, in the sugar camp, looking at the pieces of the wreck, and
considering how they might be put together; but several other subjects
of absorbing interest now presented themselves in rapid succession,
which effectually prevented his cogitations from taking any practical
shape.
A baby, whose presence well nigh reconciled Charlie to the loss of the
boat, made its appearance. He was exceedingly fond of the little ones,
and was looking forward to the time when he could have the baby out
doors with him.
Mrs. Hadlock had come over to stay a while, and one day undertook
to put the baby in the cradle; but little Ben stoutly resisted this
infringement on his rights. He fought and screamed, declaring, as
plainly as gestures and attempts at language could, that the cradle
was his; that he had not done with it, and would not give it up. In
this emergency, Charlie bethought himself of the willow rods (sallies),
which the boys had helped him peel the spring before, and determined
to make the baby a cradle, which should altogether eclipse that of Sam
Atkins. The rods being thoroughly dry, he soaked them in water, when
they became tough and pliant. He stained part of them with the bright
colors he had procured in Boston the year before, some red, others
blue and green. He then wove his cradle, putting an ornamental fringe
round the rim, and also a canopy over it. The bottom was of pine,
but he made the rockers of mahogany that Joe Griffin had given him.
When the willow was first peeled, it was white as snow, but by lying
had acquired a yellowish tinge, and was somewhat soiled in working.
Charlie therefore put it under an empty hogshead, and smoked it with
brimstone, which removed all the yellow tinge, and the soil received
from the hands, making it as white as at first. When finished, it
excited the admiration of the household, none of whom, except Ben, had
ever seen any willow-work before.
“Well, Charlie,” said Mrs. Hadlock, “that beats the Indians, out and
out.”
“It will last a great deal longer than their work,” said he; “but I
don’t think I could ever make their porcupine-work.”
Ben, Jr., appreciated the new cradle as highly as the rest, instantly
clambered in, and laid claim to it, and was so outrageous, wishing
to appropriate both, though he could use but one at a time, that his
father gave him a sound whipping. He fled to Charlie for consolation,
who, to give satisfaction all round, made him a willow chair, and dyed
it all the colors of the rainbow.
Charlie now prepared to give a higher exhibition of his skill. He
selected some of the best willows of small size, and made several
beautiful work-baskets, of various sizes and colors. He then took some
of the longest rods, of the straightest grain, and with his knife split
the butt in four pieces, two or three inches in length; then took a
piece of hard wood (granadilla), made sharp at one end, and with
four scores in it; inserting the point in the split, he put the other
end against his breast, and pushed it through the whole length of the
rod, thus dividing it into four equal parts. He then put the quarters
on his thigh, and with his knife shaved off the heart-wood, leaving
the outside sap reduced to a thin, tough shaving, like cloth. This he
made up into skeins, and kept it to wind the rims and handles of his
baskets. He told them that a regular workman had a piece of bone or
ivory to split the rod with, and an instrument much like a spoke-shave
to shave it to a ribbon, but he made a piece of wood and a knife answer
his purpose.
Charlie’s West India wood was constantly coming into use, for one thing
or another, and Joe Griffin could not have given him a more acceptable
or useful present.
He also used his skeins of willow for winding the legs of the three
chairs he made, one for his mother, one for Hannah Murch, and one for
Mrs. Hadlock. The legs were made of stout willow, and wound with these
bands.
He presented work-baskets to his mother, Mrs. Rhines, and her
daughters, and Aunt Molly Bradish, and expressed his determination to
make some baskets the next winter to send over to the mill, that people
might see them.
What was his delight on going out one night, after supper, to get some
willows he had put to soak in the brook, to see a company of swallows
he disturbed fly off in the direction of the barn, with their bills
full of clay! Following them, he saw, with great joy, some of them fly
into the holes he had cut in the barn, while others deposited their
burdens beneath the eaves outside.
By that he knew that two kinds of swallows had come to take up their
abode, and were building their nests--barn-swallows and eave-swallows.
He was not long in getting to the house with the glad tidings, which
delighted his mother as much as himself.
“I think,” she said, “eave-swallows are the prettiest things in the
world, they look so cunning sticking their heads out of a little round
hole in their nest!”
“Yes, mother, and I’ve seen them two stories on Captain Rhines’s
barn--one nest right over the other.”
It seemed as if a kind Providence had determined to remunerate Charlie
for his disappointment in respect to the boat. He kept his goose, with
her goslings, in a large pen near the barn, while the wild gander was
let out every day to go where he liked. The great body of wild geese
were now gone; but a few stragglers from broken flocks still remained,
and were not considered worth the attention of gunners.
A brush fence ran across the island behind the barn, dividing the field
from the pasture. Great was Charlie’s surprise, when coming one day to
dinner, he saw the gander in conversation with a wild goose through
the fence. He could not fly over the fence, as one wing was mutilated,
therefore was trying to persuade the goose to fly over to him. The
goose, on the other hand, being lonely,--the rest of the flock probably
having been shot,--was desirous of company, but afraid to venture. The
gander would walk along one side of the fence, and the goose the other,
a little ways, and then stop and talk the matter over. Charlie ran and
made a hole in the fence, right abreast the back barn doors, while they
were down under the hill out of sight, and opened the barn doors that
led into the floor, then hid himself and watched them. They continued
walking along till they found the gap, when the gander instantly went
through, and joined the goose, making the most strenuous efforts to
entice her to follow him through the hole, and finally succeeded; he
evidently wished to coax her to the barn, but the goose held off; she
would venture a little way, and then go back, her head erect, turning
in every direction, and her eyes flashing like balls of fire. It seemed
as if the gander would fail in his efforts, and she appeared about to
rise and fly away.
At this juncture, Charlie, in his concealment, flung some corn around
the barn door: the gander now redoubled his efforts; he would run
ahead, pick up some corn, then run back and tell her how good it was.
The goose, evidently hungry, now approached slowly, and began to
pick the corn, a train of it extending into the floor; Charlie was
so excited he could hear his heart beat. He now crawled out of the
barn, and concealed himself outside, and the goose, following up the
scattered kernels, entered the floor, when Charlie slammed the door to.
He could hardly believe that he had a veritable wild goose unhurt; he
flew into the house, where they were all through dinner, and replied
to his mother’s question, of where he had been, by taking her and Ben
by the hand and dragging them to the barn, where they found the wild
goose on the collar beam, and the gander on the floor, vainly striving
to entice her down. After being chased from beam to beam, she buried
herself in the hay, when they caught her and clipped her wings.
The flax being done out, Sally, with a good smart girl to help her
(Sally Merrithew), had linen yarn to bleach to her heart’s content.
One forenoon, about eleven o’clock, Ben and Charlie were in the field;
Sally had spread some linen yarn on the grass to whiten, and gone in to
get dinner. All at once a terrible outcry arose from the house; Sally
was screaming, “Ben! Ben! get the gun;” the baby was bawling for dear
life, and Sailor barking in concert.
The cause of the outcry was soon manifest. A large fish-hawk was seen
sailing along in the direction of the eastern point, with two skeins of
Sally’s yarn in his claws, screaming with delight at the richness of
his prize.
“Why don’t you fire, Ben?” screamed Sally.
“It’s no use,” said Ben; “he’s out of range.”
“Well, get the axe and cut the tree down this minute.”
“I will, mother,” said Charlie, running to the wood-pile for the axe.
“Stop till after dinner,” said Ben, who had not the most distant idea
of cutting the tree down; however, he felt very sorry for Sally, and
like a prudent general, permitted her feelings to exhaust themselves.
“If I’ve got to cut that great pine down this warm day, I think I must
have a cup of tea.” He well knew the soothing effect of a cup of tea.
When they were seated at table, he said,--
“What a nice dinner this is, Sally! you do make the best bread, and
such nice butter!” Not a word about the fish-hawk. But as dinner was
most over, Ben began to unfold his purpose. “Sally,” said he, “do you
love that little creature?” pointing to the baby.
“How can you ask such a question?”
“Haven’t you taken a great deal of comfort in making his little
dresses? and wouldn’t you feel bad if some one should come and tear
down this house, break the furniture, and destroy all that we’ve
worked, scrubbed, and contrived so long to collect around us, for these
little ones?”
“Why, Ben, how you talk! Of course I should. But what makes you talk
so? Who’s going to hurt us?”
“Nobody, I hope; but suppose somebody had taken some little thing from
us,--an axe, a shovel, or a milk pan,--would you want their house torn
down over their heads for it?”
“No; I’d say the worst is their own.”
“But you want me to cut down that tree, and break that poor fish-hawk’s
nest to pieces, that she has built stick by stick, lugging them miles
through the air in her claws, just because she took two skeins of yarn
to line her nest with, it’s so much better than eel-grass, and which we
shall hardly miss; besides, she don’t know any better than to take what
she wants, wherever she can find it.”
At this appeal Sally cast down her eyes and colored; at length she
said,--
“You are right, Ben, I know; but it was so provoking, after I had
worked so hard to spin and scour that yarn, the first, too, that we
have ever had, of our own raising, to see it going off in the claws of
a fish-hawk!”
“Well,” continued Ben, “this fish-hawk came and built here the first
spring we lived here, and kind of put herself under our protection,
building her nest so near the house, where we pass under it every
day; they are harmless creatures, and never pull up corn, like the
crows or blue jays; nor carry off lambs, like the eagles; nor pick out
their eyes when they get mired or cast, as the ravens do. There’s a
noble disposition in a fish-hawk: they are industrious, work hard for
a living, and maintain their families by their own labor; they won’t
pick up a dead fish, or eel, or feed on a dead horse or cow, like an
eagle or carrion crow, but will have a live fish, that they have taken
fresh from the sea; they won’t be beholden to chance, nor anybody, for
their living, but earn it, as every honest person should, in the sweat
of their face. Once when I was a boy, just for fun, I put the eggs
of two fish-hawk’s nests into one. I was over here with father after
they were all hatched out, and there was the nest, heaping full, the
little hawks screaming, and the old ones springing to it, working like
good ones to bring up such a family. There were some great lazy eagles
sitting in the tops of the pines, and every once in the while, when the
hawks would get a good large flounder, they would give chase and take
it away from them. O, how mad I was! Two or three times I got up my gun
to shoot; but father wouldn’t let me, because he said that to shoot
an eagle was bad luck.” As he concluded, he looked at his watch, and
said, “We’ve been only an hour and a half at dinner; and what of it?”
he continued, putting his great brawny arms on the table, that creaked
under the weight. “This is the comfort of the farmer’s life--he is his
own employer. Now, if I was a sailor, the mate would come forward, and
sing out, ‘Turn to there, men;’ if I was a fisherman, and the fish
didn’t bite, there’d be my expenses going on; if I was a shipmaster, I
must hurry into port, and then hurry just as fast out, and if I made a
bad voyage or a long passage, the owners would look sour; but now, if
I am sick, or happen to feel lazy, the grain will grow, the cows give
milk, and the sheep make wool, all the same.”
It is evident Ben felt remarkably happy about this time, one reason
of which was, that he had determined to put Joe Griffin in the
Perseverance, who was going to fish a short distance from the shore.
Henry Griffin and Robert Yelf were going with him, and Uncle Isaac
before and after haying: thus Ben was going to have a good time
farming--the work he liked best.
“Sally,” said Mrs. Hadlock, “I wouldn’t worry about the yarn; it’s
nothing to what old Aunt Betty Prindle met with.”
“What was that, mother?”
“She had a shawl that had been her grandmother’s; a beautiful one
it was; came from foreign parts, and cost a sight in its day; but
having been worn for so many years, you know, it would naturally get
soiled. She had been wanting to wash it for a great many years, had
often threatened to, and indeed more than once set a time to do it;
but when the time came her heart failed her; even after the water was
hot, she was afraid to put it into the tub, for fear it would fade. I
think she would have done it once, but her darter Patience, who knew
it would fall to her when the old lady was done with it, discouraged
her. At last, one spring, just about this time of year (she lived, you
know, with her son Richard), she determined that, come what might,
she _would_ wash it. One morning she said to her granddarter, ‘Lois
Ann Prindle, do you go straight down to Aunt Olive Cobb’s and Peggy
Sylvester’s, over to Mrs. Joe Ransom’s, and the widder Tucker’s,
give my compliments, and ask them to come over and take a cup of tea
(_green_ tea, mind) with me this afternoon.’ They all came; and when
tea was over, she said, ‘You know, neighbors, I am an old parson, and
can’t, in the course of nature, expect to live many years. I do want
to see this shawl washed before I’m taken away; but our Patience has
always discouraged me; but she’s gone to Cape Porpoise to stay a
month, and I’m determined to have it in the tub before she comes back;
that is, if you think it will do; and I want you to pass your judgment
on’t.’”
“The old lady meant to have plenty of advice,” said Sally.
“That was so that Patience couldn’t put all the blame on her, in case
it faded,” replied Ben.
“The shawl was brought out,” said Mrs. Hadlock, “and laid across their
knees, when judgment was passed on it; every one but the widow Tucker
thought it would wash, and if it was their shawl, they should wash it;
but she said, ‘she knew it wouldn’t wash, for the Wildridge family,
in old York, had jest such a shawl, and they washed it, and it faded
dreadfully; but there,’ said she, looking out of the window, ‘comes
black Luce, Flour’s wife; she is a great washer and ironer, and knows
more about it than all of us.’ Luce was called in, and said, ‘if they
put a beef’s gall in the water, it would set the color, and it wouldn’t
fade a mite.’ ‘Then I’ll wash it, I declare to man I will, for Enoch
Paine’s going to kill an ox this week, and our Patience won’t be home
till long arter that.’
“Aunt Betty procured her beef’s gall, got her water hot, and put it in.
“‘Here it goes,’ said she, ‘hit or miss,’ dropping the shawl into the
tub. She washed and spread it out on the grass to dry, and every two
or three minutes ran out to look at it. At length it began to dry at
the edges, and she saw it wasn’t going to fade one mite. Down went her
flatirons to the fire. ‘Lois Ann, run right down to the neighbors you
went to before, tell them the shawl is drying beautifully. I am going
to iron it, and want them to come up and take tea to-night, and see it.
Tell Luce to come, too, and arter we’ve done, she shall have as good a
cup of green tea as ever she had in her life.’”
“She was a good old soul,” said Ben; “she didn’t forget old Luce.”
“Not she; but, as I was saying, she got her table out, and irons hot;
but just as she opened the door to bring in the shawl, she saw a
fish-hawk rising from the ground with it in his claws. Almost beside
herself, she screamed for Richard, who came running from the field; but
long enough before he could load the gun, the hawk was out of sight
behind a high hill back of the house; and when I heard Sally screaming
for Ben, it brought it right up.”
“Why couldn’t they have followed, seen where he went to, and cut the
tree down?” asked Charlie.
“Because, child, it was all thick woods. You couldn’t see, only right
up in the air, without climbing a tall tree, and before they could do
that he was out of sight.”
“Did the women come?”
“Yes; but instead of rejoicing with the poor old lady, they did their
best to console her. She didn’t live but a week after that. Some
thought the loss of the shawl, and thinking what Patience would say
when she came, shortened her days; but I don’t. She was very old, and
had been very feeble all the winter before.”
“Did they ever find it?”
“Yes; some men, who were clearing land two miles off, cut down a tree,
the next summer, that had a fish-hawk’s nest on it; and there was the
shawl, all rotten and covered with the lice that are always on young
fish-hawks.”
“The hawk is welcome to the yarn, mother.”
“That’s right, Sally; that is spoken like a child of mine, and a good,
thoughtful girl. If the Lord had told you, two years ago, that he would
give you all he has sent you in that time, by the way of the Ark, if
you would give a couple of skeins of yarn to a fish-hawk, you would
have been very glad to have done it. These are all his creatures, and
he careth for them, and feeds them all. The robins, in their nests,
open their little mouths for God to feed them. The Scripture says, ‘He
feedeth the ravens, and not even a sparrow is forgotten before God.’”