A BOY’S INFLUENCE.
“YOU silly boys! what are you doing?” exclaimed Kate, one afternoon, as
she found her brother and Ronald seated on a log behind the barn, busily
engaged in pricking Indian ink into their hands, with needles.
“You go away; we don’t want you here,” replied Otis, with rudeness,
still pricking away with his needle, while the red and blue—the blood
and ink—mingled and covered the spot upon which he was at work.
“There! it hurts, I know it does,” said Kate, as her brother contracted
his brows, and drew in his breath. “What ninnies you are to torture
yourselves in that way, just for the sake of having some nasty ink
pricked into your skin, where you never can get it out again!”
“I don’t believe it hurts any more than having your ears bored; do you,
Otis?” observed Ronald, remembering that Kate had lately submitted to
the last-named operation.
“No; and ’tisn’t any more foolish, either,” replied Otis.
“Why, how absurd!” exclaimed Kate. “Ladies have to get their ears bored,
to wear ear-rings, and besides, it doesn’t hurt hardly any to bore them.
I’m sure there’s no comparison between the two things.”
She did not stop to hear what answer might be made to this remark, and
perhaps it was well that she did not.
“It _does_ hurt, though!” exclaimed Otis, as soon as his sister was out
of hearing. “O, doesn’t it smart! Come, let’s stop, now, and finish it
some other time.”
“No, I’ve got mine almost done, and I’m going to finish it now,” replied
Ronald, who was possessed of more endurance than his comrade.
Ronald persevered, and in a few minutes, wiping off the blood and ink, a
rude resemblance to a star appeared in the red, inflamed flesh, between
his thumb and forefinger. He seemed quite proud of the achievement, and
going into the house, and extending his hand to Miss Lee, he accosted
her with—
“See there, Aunt Fanny!”
“And see that, too!” said Otis, exhibiting his mark. “Mine isn’t done
yet, you see. It was so sore I had to stop, but I’m going to finish it
some other time.”
“What put it into your heads to do that?” inquired Miss Lee.
“O, nothing,—only the other boys do it,” replied Ronald.
“Didn’t you ever see Oscar’s anchor?” inquired Otis.
“No, I didn’t know he had an anchor,” replied Miss Lee.
“He _has_ got a real handsome anchor on his arm, pricked in with Indian
ink,” continued Otis.
“He made it when he was at sea,—and he has got a star like mine on his
hand,” said Ronald.
“I have noticed the star,” said Miss Lee; “but what is the use of your
marking yourselves in that way? What do you do it for?”
“Why, it looks handsome,” replied Ronald, with some hesitation.
“I don’t think so—those black marks look ugly, to me,” replied Miss Lee;
“besides, you never can wash them out.”
“Why, that’s the beauty of it, Aunt Fanny,” replied Ronald, with one of
his roguish looks. “There wouldn’t be any fun in it if it washed out.”
“Perhaps you will think differently, some time or other,” said Miss Lee.
“But what hurt does it do?” inquired Otis.
“I don’t know that it does any harm,” replied Miss Lee; “but it always
seemed to me like a heathenish practice. Did you know that the old
pagans used to mark themselves in that way, in honor of their idols?”
“What, did they prick Indian ink into their hands, as we do?” inquired
Ronald.
“Sometimes they pricked the marks in,” replied Miss Lee, “and sometimes
they burnt and cut them into the flesh. If a man devoted himself to
Jupiter, he marked himself with a thunderbolt, on the palm of his hand,
or his wrist, or neck, or upon some other part of his body. If he chose
Mars for his god, then the mark was a helmet or spear. Soldiers and
slaves used sometimes to be marked in the same way, to show to what
commander, or to what master, they belonged. Some tribes of savages, at
the present day, are very fond of such ornaments, and tattoo their faces
all over, by pricking dyes into their skins. There are several allusions
to this custom in the Bible, and the Jews were forbidden to practise
it.”
[Illustration]
“It’s wicked, then, to make such marks, isn’t it?” inquired Otis.
“No,” replied Miss Lee, “so long as you do not make them in honor of any
false god, nor with any bad motive, there is no sin in the act. The
worst that can be said about it is, that it is a foolish custom, and a
relic of paganism and superstition.”
“I’m going to see if I can’t wash mine out, before it dries in,” said
Ronald, and he hurried off to the pump, followed by Otis.
For a few minutes the boys worked as hard to rub out their new ornaments
as they had labored, a little while before, to imprint them upon their
hands. But water, soap, and even sand, were all in vain. The stars shone
as brightly at the end as at the beginning of the effort. While thus
engaged, Oscar came along, and, on seeing what the boys were about,
indulged in a hearty laugh.
“Why, you little fools!” he exclaimed, “what are you trying to wash the
ink out for?”
“Because we don’t want it in,” replied Ronald.
“What did you prick it in for, then?” continued Oscar.
“Because we didn’t know any better, then,” said Ronald; “but Aunt Fanny
says the heathen prick ink into their hands, and I don’t want to be a
heathen.”
“Well, if that isn’t a great idea!” exclaimed Oscar, relapsing into
another hearty laugh. “I suppose you think I’m a heathen, then, don’t
you?” he continued. “Well, if I’m a heathen, I guess there are a good
many others around full as bad. I never heard any body say there was any
harm in pricking a little Indian ink into your hand, and I don’t believe
there is, if Aunt Fanny does say so.”
“She didn’t say there was any harm in it,” replied Ronald. “She said she
didn’t like it, because it was doing as the heathen did.”
“So we ‘do as the heathen do’ when we eat, but I shan’t give up eating
on that account,” observed Oscar.
“Nor I, either,” said Otis, who was very willing to be re-converted to
the tattooing process. “I mean to finish my star—what’s the use of
trying to wash it out?”
“Star! do you call that thing a star?” inquired Oscar, with a look of
contempt.
“But I haven’t finished it,” meekly interposed Otis.
“No, I shouldn’t think you had,” added Oscar. “It looks more like a
spider than a star. If I couldn’t make a better star than that with my
eyes shut, I’d put my head under a bushel basket.”
With this self-sufficient remark, Oscar walked off, and Ronald and Otis,
having come to the conclusion that their stars were beyond the reach of
soap and sand, also left the room. It happened that Mrs. Page and Miss
Lee were sitting in an adjoining room, and overheard the conversation
just related.
One afternoon, some time after this occurrence, as Oscar was sitting
with his Aunt Fanny, in her chamber, studying his lessons, a boy of
about his age came along, with a gun on his shoulder, and seeing Oscar
at the open window, called him, in a low voice—
“Come, Oscar; want to go over to Prescott’s?”
“No, I can’t go; I’ve got my lessons to learn,” replied Oscar.
“How long before you’ll be done?” inquired the boy, whose name was
Samuel Hapley, and who lived near by.
“It will take me nearly all the afternoon, I suppose,” replied Oscar.
“Then I’m off,” said the boy, resuming his course.
Oscar watched him somewhat wishfully for a minute or two, as he directed
his course through the fields, and then turned to his books. Sam Hapley
was the only boy near his own age in that part of the town; and it also
happened that he was the only boy in Highburg he had been cautioned
against. His aunts and Marcus knew that he could not well avoid forming
an acquaintance with Sam, and they did not forbid this; but they
earnestly advised Oscar to associate with him as little as possible, and
to beware of his evil influence. Sam’s father was intemperate. His
mother was sickly, discouraged and disconsolate. The children, of whom
Sam was the oldest, were neglected, their father being cross and severe
with all of them except the youngest, and their mother always attempting
to shield them from his displeasure, even when they had done wrong. The
farm wore an air of thriftlessness, and, to crown their misfortunes, it
was covered with mortgages.[2]
Footnote 2:
A mortgage is a pledge of property by a debtor to a creditor to secure
a debt. For instance, a man who owns a farm wishes to borrow a
thousand dollars, and to secure the lender from loss, he pledges his
farm to him. The farm is then said to be mortgaged. The borrower
cannot dispose of it, and the lender is, in effect, its real owner, to
the amount of his claim, until that claim is paid. If it should not be
paid when due, the lender, or mortgagee, as he is called, may sell the
farm, after a certain time, and thus get his money back. When an
intemperate man mortgages his property, there is little hope that he
will ever redeem it.
“You got rid of him pretty easily, that time,” said Miss Lee, as Sam
passed along.
“I know it; but I shouldn’t have gone if I had got my lessons,” replied
Oscar.
“It makes me real sad to see how that boy has changed, within ten
years,” continued Miss Lee.
“He was once a pretty, modest, gentle boy, and used to be quite a
favorite of mine. Now, the coarse features of vice are settling upon his
face, and he is said to be a very bad boy.”
“He swears like everything,” remarked Oscar.
“So I have heard,” added Aunt Fanny.
“Henry swears some, too,” continued Oscar, alluding to a brother of Sam,
about thirteen years old.
“Ah, I am sorry to hear that,” said his aunt. “But it isn’t very
strange, after all, with such an example before him. A boy of Sam’s age
exerts a great influence on his young brothers and sisters. The little
children look up to the large ones with a sort of fear and respect, and
copy their ways, and imitate their example, right or wrong. Did you ever
think how much influence of this kind you may be exerting?”
“I don’t know that I ever thought much about it,” replied Oscar.
“Here are three children in the family,” continued his aunt, “younger
than you. The fact that you are older and have seen more of the world
than they, while you are still a boy, gives you quite an influence over
their minds. You can increase or diminish that influence, according to
the manner in which you treat them; but you can’t wholly divest yourself
of it. You must exert an influence over them, good or ill, in spite of
yourself, and when you are not thinking of it. I saw an illustration of
this, a few days ago. Otis and Ronald noticed that you had a star
pricked into your hand, and what did they do but prick stars into
theirs, as soon as they could get the materials!”
“Oh yes, I noticed that,” said Oscar, laughing.
“That was a trifling thing,” resumed Aunt Fanny, “but it illustrates a
great truth. It shows how you are watched, and copied, and it ought to
put you on your guard. You can use this influence so as to assist us in
training the children to good habits, or, if you choose, you can do just
the opposite. You see there is quite a responsibility resting upon you.
If they see that you are studious, industrious and faithful, they will
feel an influence drawing them in the same direction; but if you exhibit
any bad trait, it would not be strange if they should try to pattern
after it.”
“I never thought much about that before, but I mean to look out for it
now,” said Oscar.
Nothing was said to Oscar in relation to his unguarded remarks to the
boys about tattooing, and he never knew that he was overheard by his
aunt. That incident, however, gave the turn to the conversation on this
occasion.
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