CHAPTER VI.

THE BIRCH.

The rivers of Maine, as a native observed to me, "olluz spread 'mselves

inter bulges." Mollychunkamug and her fellows are the bulges of the

Androscoggin; Moosehead, of the Kennebec. Sluggish streams do not need

such pauses. Peace is thrown away upon stolidity. The torrents of Maine

are hasty young heroes, galloping so hard when they gallop, and charging

with such rash enthusiasm when they charge, hurrying with such Achillean

ardor toward their eternity of ocean, that they would never know the

influence, in their heart of hearts, of blue cloudlessness, or the glory

of noonday, or the pageantries of sunset,--they would only tear and rive

and shatter carelessly. Nature, therefore, provides valleys for the

streams to bulge in, and entertain celestial reflections.

Nature, arranging lake-spots as educational episodes for the Maine

rivers, disposes them also with a view to utility. Mr. Killgrove and his

fellow-lumbermen treat lakes as log-puddles and raft-depots. Moosehead

is the most important of these, and keeps a steamboat for tugging rafts

and transporting raftsmen.

Moosehead also provides vessels far dearer to the heart of the

adventurous than anything driven by steam. Here, mayhap, will an

untravelled traveller make his first acquaintance with the birch-bark

canoe, and learn to call it by the affectionate diminutive, "Birch."

Earlier in life there was no love lost between him and whatever bore

that name. Even now, if the untravelled one's first acquaintance be not

distinguished by an unlovely ducking, so much the worse. The ducking

must come. Caution must be learnt by catastrophe. No one can ever know

how unstable a thing is a birch canoe, unless he has felt it slide away

from under his misplaced feet. Novices should take nude practice in

empty birches, lest they spill themselves and the load of full ones,--a

wondrous easy thing to do.

A birch canoe is the right thing in the right place. Maine's rivers are

violently impulsive and spasmodic in their running. Sometimes you have a

foamy rapid, sometimes a broad shoal, sometimes a barricade of boulders

with gleams of white water springing through or leaping over its rocks.

Your boat for voyaging here must be stout enough to buffet the rapid,

light enough to skim the shallow, agile enough to vault over, or lithe

enough to slip through, the barricade. Besides, sometimes the barricade

becomes a compact wall,--a baffler, unless boat and boatmen can

circumvent it,--unless the nautical carriage can itself be carried about

the obstacle,--can be picked up, shouldered, and made off with.

A birch meets all these demands. It lies, light as a leaf, on

whirlpooling surfaces. A tip of the paddle can turn it into the eddy

beside the breaker. A check of the setting-pole can hold it steadfast on

the brink of wreck. Where there is water enough to varnish the pebbles,

there it will glide. A birch thirty feet long, big enough for a trio and

their traps, weighs only seventy-five pounds. When the rapid passes into

a cataract, when the wall of rock across the stream is impregnable in

front, it can be taken in the flank by an amphibious birch. The

navigator lifts his canoe out of water, and bonnets himself with it. He

wears it on head and shoulders, around the impassable spot. Below the

rough water, he gets into his elongated chapeau and floats away. Without

such vessel, agile, elastic, imponderable, and transmutable,

Androscoggin, Kennebec, and Penobscot would be no thoro'fares for human

beings. Musquash might dabble, chips might drift, logs might turn

somersets along their lonely currents; but never voyager, gentle or

bold, could speed through brilliant perils, gladdening the wilderness

with shout and song.

Maine's rivers must have birch canoes; Maine's woods, of course,

therefore, provide birches. The white-birch, paper-birch, canoe-birch,

grows large in moist spots near the stream where it is needed. Seen by

the flicker of a campfire at night, they surround the intrusive

traveller like ghosts of giant sentinels. Once, Indian tribes with names

that "nobody can speak and nobody can spell" roamed these forests. A

stouter second growth of humanity has ousted them, save a few seedy ones

who gad about the land, and centre at Oldtown, their village near

Bangor. These aborigines are the birch-builders. They detect by the

river-side the tree barked with material for canoes. They strip it, and

fashion an artistic vessel, which civilization cannot better. Launched

in the fairy lightness of this, and speeding over foamy waters between

forest-solitudes, one discovers, as if he were the first to know it, the

truest poetry of pioneer-life.

Such poetry Iglesias had sung to me, until my life seemed incomplete

while I did not know the sentiment by touch, description, even from the

most impassioned witness, addressed to the most imaginative hearer, is

feeble. We both wanted to be in a birch: Iglesias, because he knew the

fresh, inspiring vivacity of such a voyage; I, because I divined it. We

both needed to be somewhere near the heart of New England's wildest

wilderness. We needed to see Katahdin,--the distinctest mountain to be

found on this side of the continent. Katahdin was known to Iglesias. He

had scuffled up its eastern land-slides with a squad of lumbermen. He

had birched it down to Lake Chesuncook in by-gone summers, to see

Katahdin distant. Now, in a birch we would slide down the Penobscot,

along its line of lakes, camp at Katahdin, climb it, and speed down the

river to tide-water.

That was the great object of all our voyage with its educating

preludes,--Katahdin and a breathless dash down the Penobscot. And while

we flashed along the gleam of the river, Iglesias fancied he might see

the visible, and hear the musical, and be stirred by the beautiful.

These, truly, are not far from the daily life of any seer, listener, and

perceiver; but there, perhaps, up in the strong wilderness, we might be

recreated to a more sensitive vitality. The Antaean treatment is needful

for terrestrials, unless they would dwindle. The diviner the power in

any artist-soul, the more distinctly is he commanded to get near the

divine without him. Fancies pale, that are not fed on facts. It is very

easy for any man to be a plagiarist from himself, and present his own

reminiscences half disguised, instead of new discoveries. Now, up by

Katahdin, there were new discoveries to be made; and that mountain would

sternly eye us, to know whether Iglesias were a copyist, or I a Cockney.

Katahdin was always in its place up in the woods. The Penobscot was

always buzzing along toward the calm reaches, where it takes the shadow

of the mountain. All we needed was the birch.

The birch thrust itself under our noses as we drove into Greenville. It

was mounted upon a coach that preceded us, and wabbled oddly along, like

a vast hat upon a dwarf. We talked with its owner, as he dismounted it.

He proved our very man. He and his amphibious canoe had just made the

trip we proposed, with a flotilla. Certain Bostonians had essayed

it,--vague Northmen, preceding our Columbus voyage.

Enter now upon the scene a new and important character, Cancut the

canoe-man. Mr. Cancut, owner and steerer of a birch, who now became our

"guide, philosopher, and friend," is as American as a birch, as the

Penobscot, or as Katahdin's self. Cancut was a jolly fatling,--almost

too fat, if he will pardon me, for sitting in the stern of the

imponderable canoe. Cancut, though for this summer boatman or bircher,

had other strings to his bow. He was taking variety now, after

employment more monotonous. Last summer, his services had been in

request throughout inhabited Maine, to "peddle gravestones and collect

bills." The Gravestone-Peddler is an institution of New England. His

wares are wanted, or will be wanted, by every one. Without

discriminating the bereaved households, he presents himself at any door,

with attractive drawings of his wares, and seduces people into paying

the late tribute to their great-grandfather, or laying up a monument for

themselves against the inevitable day of demand. His customers select

from his samples a tasteful "set of stones"; and next summer he drives

up and unloads the marble, with the names well spelt, and the cherub's

head artistically chiselled by the best workmen of Boston. Cancut told

us, as an instance of judicious economy, how, when he called once upon a

recent widow to ask what he could do in his line for her deceased

husband's tomb, she chose from his patterns neat head- and foot-stones

for the dear defunct, and then bargained with him to throw in a small

pair for her boy Johnny,--a poor, sick crittur, that would be wanting

his monument long before next summer.

This lugubrious business had failed to infect Mr. Cancut with

corresponding deportment. Undertakers are always sombre in dreary

mockery of woe. Sextons are solemncholy, if not solemn. I fear Cancut

was too cheerful for his trade, and therefore had abandoned it.

Such was our guide, the captain, steersman, and ballaster of our vessel.

We struck our bargain with him at once, and at once proceeded to make

preparations. Chiefly we prepared by stripping ourselves bare of

everything except "must-haves." A birch, besides three men, will carry

only the simplest baggage of a trio. Passengers who are constantly to

make portages will not encumber themselves with what-nots. Man must have

clothes for day and night, and must have provisions to keep his clothes

properly filled out. These two articles we took in compact form,

regretting even the necessity of guarding against a ducking by a change

of clothes. Our provision, that unrefined pork and hard tack, presently

to be converted into artist and friend, was packed with a few delicacies

in a firkin,--a commodious case, as we found.

A little steamer plies upon the lake, doing lumber-jobs, and not

disdaining the traveller's dollars. Upon this, one August morning, we

embarked ourselves and our frail birch, for our voyage to the upper end

of Moosehead. Iglesias, in a red shirt, became a bit of color in the

scene. I, in a red shirt, repeated the flame. Cancut, outweighing us

both together, in a broader red shirt, outglared us both. When we three

met, and our scarlet reflections commingled, there was one spot in the

world gorgeous as a conclave of cardinals, as a squad of British

grenadiers, as a Vermont maple-wood in autumn.

RIFLE-CLUBS.

A sense of the importance of rifle-practice is becoming very generally

prevalent. Rifle-clubs are organizing in our country-towns, and

target-practice by individuals is increasing to a degree which proves

incontestably the interest which is felt in the subject. The chief

obstacle to the immediate and extensive practical operation of this

interest lies in the difficulty of procuring serviceable guns, except at

such a cost as places them beyond the reach of the majority of those who

would be glad to make themselves familiar with their use. Except in

occasional instances, it is impossible to procure a trustworthy rifle

for a less price than forty or fifty dollars. We believe, however, that

the competition which has already become very active between rival

manufacturers will erelong effect a material reduction of price; and we

trust also that our legislators will perceive the necessity of adopting

a strict military organization of all the able-bodied men in the State,

and providing them with weapons, with whose use they should be

encouraged to make themselves familiar--apart from military drill and

instruction--by the institution of public shooting-matches for prizes.

The absolute necessity of stringent laws, in order to secure the

attainment of anything worthy the name of military education and

discipline, has been clearly proved by the experience of the drill-clubs

which sprang into existence in such numbers last year. To say, that, as

a general rule, the moral strength of the community is not sufficient to

enable a volunteer association to sustain for any great length of time

the severe and irksome details which are inseparable from the attainment

of thorough military discipline, is no more a reflection upon the class

to which the remark is applied than would be the equally true assertion

that their physical strength is not equal to the performance of the work

of an ordinary day-laborer. Under the pressure of necessity, both moral

and physical strength might be forced and kept up to the required

standard; but the mere conviction of expediency is not enough to secure

its development, unless enforced by such laws as will insure universal

and systematic action. A voluntary association for military instruction

may be commenced with a zeal which will carry its members for a time

through the daily routine of drilling; but it will not be long before

the ranks will begin to diminish, and the observance of discipline

become less strict; and if the officers attempt to enforce the laws by

which all have agreed to abide, those laws will speedily be rescinded by

the majority who find them galling, and the tie by which they are bound

together will prove a rope of sand.

With the return of the troops who are now acquiring military knowledge

in the best of all possible schools, we shall possess the necessary

material for executing whatever system may be decided upon as best for

the military education of the people; but meantime we may lay the

foundation for it, and take the most efficient means of securing

legislative action, by the immediate organization of rifle-clubs for

target-practice throughout the State. These clubs may be commenced very

informally by a simple agreement among those who are interested and are

provided, or will provide themselves, with weapons, to meet together at

stated intervals for target-practice, which should be conducted

according to the rules which have been found most effectual for securing

good marksmanship. The mere interest of competition will be sufficient

to insure private practice in the intervals; and if properly and

respectably conducted, the interest will increase till it becomes

general, and the target-ground will become a central object of

attraction.

We earnestly invite the attention not only of all who are impressed with

the necessity of inculcating a thorough practical knowledge of the use

of weapons, as a measure of national interest, but of all who are

interested in the subject of physical, and we may add, moral education,

to the field which is here opened, and which, if not improved, as it may

be, for noble and useful ends, will certainly be perverted for low and

immoral purposes.

The interest which is beginning to be awakened in rifle-practice is the

germ of a great movement, which it is the duty of all who have the

national welfare at heart to use their influence in guiding and

directing, as may easily be done, so that only good may result from it.

Let it be countenanced and encouraged by the men, in every community,

whose words and example give tone to public opinion, and it will become,

as it ought, a means of health-giving and generous rivalry, while it

infuses a sense of national power, which we, of all people on earth,

ought to derive from the consciousness that it is based upon the

physical ability of the people to maintain their own rights. If,

however, it is frowned upon and sneered at, as unworthy the attention of

a morally and intellectually cultivated people, we shall draw upon

ourselves the curse of creating a sin,--of poisoning at its source a

fountain whose elements in themselves are not only innocent, but

abounding in the best ingredients for the development of manly physical

and intellectual character.

We trust, however, that such a caution is unnecessary. If there are any

among us who, after the past year's experience, can look with doubt or

coldness upon such a movement as we have indicated, we should hardly

care to waste words in arguing the point. That such a feeling should

have heretofore existed is not, perhaps, surprising. The possibility of

such an emergency as has come upon us has seemed so improbable, not to

say impossible, that it has appeared like a waste of time and labor to

prepare for it; and the result has been, that we had come to look upon

military education with much the same feeling as that with which we

regard the pugilistic art, as of questionable, if not decidedly

disreputable character, and such as a nation of our respectability could

by no possibility have occasion for.

From this dream of security we have been unexpectedly and very

disagreeably awakened, by finding ourselves engaged in a war whose

magnitude we were at first slow to appreciate; and it was not till we

found ourselves ominously threatened by a foreign power, while still

engaged in a fearful struggle at home, that we seemed to be fully

aroused to the necessity of being at all times prepared for defence.

Then there came over us a universal consciousness of undeveloped

strength,--the feeling of a powerful man, who knows nothing of "the

noble art of self-defence," at finding himself suddenly confronted by a

professional boxer, who demands, with an ominous squaring of the

shoulders, what he meant by treading on his toes,--to which he, poor

man, instead of replying that it was so obviously unintentional that no

gentleman would think of demanding an apology, is fain, in order to

escape the impending blow, to answer by assuring the bully in the most

soothing terms that no insult was intended, that he never will do so

again, and hopes that the occasion may serve as a precedent for Mr.

Bully himself to avoid the corns of his neighbors for the future.

It is comparatively but few years since the success of Colonel Colt in

the application of the repeating principle to fire-arms was regarded as

a feat in which every American felt a national pride. It was such a vast

improvement upon anything which had previously existed, and the

importance of it was so obvious, that it became as much a matter of

necessity to the whole civilized world as iron-clad steamers have become

since the demonstration of their power which was given by the

performances of the Merrimack and the Monitor. And, indeed, the best

evidence of the universal acknowledgment of this fact is afforded by the

innumerable imitations and attempts at improvement which have since made

their appearance at home and abroad.

We have used Colt's 51-inch rifle, and also his rifled carbine, very

freely, and tested them thoroughly for range, precision, penetration,

and capacity for continued service, and for our own use in hunting are

entirely satisfied with the performance of this rifle, and should be at

a loss to imagine any possible demand of a hunter's weapon which it

would fail to meet.

An able and interesting article on "Rifled Guns" in the "Atlantic

Monthly" for October, 1859, has the following passage: "No

breech-loading gun is so trustworthy in its execution as a

muzzle-loader; for, in spite of all precautions, the bullets will go out

irregularly. We have cut out too many balls of Sharpe's rifle from the

target, which had entered sidewise, not to be certain on this point; and

we know of no other breech-loader so little likely to err in this

respect."

We cannot speak of Sharpe's rifle from our own experience, but from one

of the best riflemen of our acquaintance we have heard the same

report,--that the cones will occasionally turn and strike sidewise. We

do not believe, however, that this fault is a necessary consequence of

the peculiar method of loading; but, whatever may be the cause, with

Colt's rifle the evil does not exist. For the past year we have

practised with it at ranges of from fifty to six hundred yards, and have

fired something like two thousand rounds; and only three balls have

struck the target sidewise, two of which were ricochets, and the third

struck a limb of a bush a few feet in front of the target. In no other

instance has the shot failed to cut a perfectly true round hole, and

these exceptions would of course be equally applicable to any gun. With

the latest pattern of Colt's rifle we have never known an instance of a

premature discharge of either of the chambers; though, from the repeated

inquiries which have been made, it is obvious that such is the general

apprehension. In reply to the common assertion, that much of the

explosive force must be lost by escape of gas between the chamber and

the barrel, we simply state the fact that we have repeatedly shot

through nine inches of solid white cedar timber at forty yards. Finally,

at two hundred yards, we find no difficulty in making an average of five

inches from the centre, in ten successive shots, of which eight inches

is the extreme variation. This is good enough for any ordinary purposes

of hunting or military service,--for anything, in short, but gambling or

fancy work; and for our own use, against either man or beast, we should

ask no better weapon. But we should be very far from advocating its

general adoption in military service; and, indeed, our own experience

with it has brought the conviction that the repeating principle in any

form is decidedly objectionable in guns for the use of ordinary troops

of the line. We do not extend the objection to pistols in their proper

place, but speak now solely of rifles in the hands of infantry.

In action, the time of each soldier must of necessity be divided between

the processes of loading and firing; and it is better that these should

come in regular alternate succession than that a series of rapid shots

should be succeeded by the longer interval required for inserting a

number of charges. It would be hard to assign definitely the most

important reasons for this conviction, which are based upon, elements

that prevail so generally in the moral and physical characters of men,

and which we have so often seen developed in the excitement of hunting

large game, that we can readily appreciate the motives which have made

sagacious military men very shy of trusting miscellaneous bodies of

soldiers with a weapon whose possible advantages are more than

counterbalanced by the probable mischief that must ensue from the want

of such instinctive power of manipulation as could result only from

constant and long-continued familiarity, and which even then might be

paralyzed in very many instances by nervous excitement.

We would not, however, be understood as condemning breech-loading guns

for military service. On the contrary, we are firm in the conviction

that they are destined to supersede entirely every species of

muzzle-loaders, which will thenceforward be regarded only as curious

evidences of the difficulty of making an advance of a single step,

which, when taken, seems so simple that it appears incredible that it

was not thought of before. The ingenuity of thousands of our most

skilful men is now turned in this direction, and stimulated by a demand

which will obviously insure a fortune to the successful competitor. The

advantages of a breech-loading gun consist in the greater rapidity with

which it can be loaded and fired, and the avoidance of the exposure

incident to the motions of drawing the ramrod and ramming the cartridge.

We are well aware that rapid firing is in itself an evil, and that a

common complaint with officers is that the men will not take time enough

in aiming to insure efficiency; but granting this, it by no means

follows that the evil will be increased by the ability to load rapidly.

Its remedy lies in thorough discipline and practical knowledge of the

use of the gun; and the soldier will be more likely to take time for

aiming, if he knows he can be ready to repeat his shot almost instantly.

The contingencies of actual service demand the use of different kinds of

guns to suit the different circumstances which may arise. In rifle-pits,

against batteries, or for picking off artillerymen through the

embrasures of a fort, the telescope-rifle has established its reputation

beyond all question during the war in which we are now engaged. In

repeated instances the enemy's batteries have been effectually kept

silent by the aid of this weapon, till counter-works could be

established, which could by no possibility have been constructed but for

such assistance. During the siege of Yorktown, especially, the fact is

historical that the Confederates acquired such a dread of these weapons

that they forced their negroes to the work of serving the guns, which

they did not dare attempt themselves, and our men were reluctantly

compelled, in self-defence, to pick off the poor fellows who were

unwillingly opposed to them. In more than one instance after an

engagement, members of the "Andrew Sharp-shooters" have indicated

precisely the spot where their victims would be found, and the exact

position of the bullet-holes which had caused their death; for with the

telescope-rifle the question is not, whether an enemy shall be hit, but

what particular feature of his face, or which button of his coat shall

be the target. That this is no exaggeration may be easily proved by the

indisputable evidence of hundreds of targets, every shot in which may be

covered by the palm of the hand, though fired from a distance at which

no unassisted eye could possibly discern the object aimed at.

But the telescope-rifle is utterly useless, except for special service.

The great body of infantry comprised in an army must be provided with

guns whose general appearance and character admit of no essential

variation from the standard which experience has proved to be the best

for the wants of the service.

We have given our objections to the whole class of repeating guns in

what we have said of Colt's rifles; and we proceed to note the defects

of other breech-loading guns, some of which would constitute no ground

of objection to the sportsman, but are inadmissible in the soldier's

gun. It is, of course, essential that any breech-loading gun which is

offered for introduction in the army should be at least equal in range,

penetration, and precision, to the best muzzle-loader now in use. It

must be so simple in its construction and mode of operation that its

manipulation may readily become an instinctive action, requiring no

exercise of thought or judgment to guard against errors which might

effect a derangement,--for a large portion of any miscellaneous body of

men would be found incapable of exercising such judgment in the

excitement of action. The limbs and joints comprised in the arrangement

for introducing the charge at the breech must not only be so simple as

to avoid the danger of making mistakes in their use, but of such

strength as will bear the rough usage incident to field-service. They

must, of course, make a perfectly tight joint, and there must be no

possibility of their becoming clogged by fouling, so as to affect the

facility with which they are worked. And finally, it is vitally

important that no special ammunition be required, a failure in the

supply of which may render the weapon useless.

As this last objection would rule out the whole class of guns requiring

metallic cartridges, and as there are undeniable advantages connected

with their use, we deem it necessary to give our reasons for this

decision somewhat at length. The cartridges are made of copper and

filled with powder, and the ball being inserted in the end, they are

compressed about its base so as to render them perfectly water-tight.

The fulminating powder, being in the base of the cartridge, is exploded

by the blow of the hammer, which falls directly upon it. The advantages

are, that there is no escape of gas, and no liability of injury from

water; and experience has abundantly proved the excellence of the system

in the essential qualities of precision and force. The most obvious

objection to them is the one above alluded to. The cartridges must, of

necessity, be made by special machinery, and can be supplied only from

the manufactory. To this it is replied, that the same objection may be

urged against the use of percussion-caps. We grant it; and if it were

possible to dispense with them, it would be an obvious gain. But because

we must have caps, in spite of their disadvantages, it does not follow

that we should increase unnecessarily the equipments against which the

same objection exists in a much greater degree, owing to the more

intricate process of manufacture and the very much greater difficulty of

transportation. The additional weight for the soldier to carry, also, is

no trifle, and will not be overlooked by those who appreciate the

importance of every ounce that is saved. But apart from minor

objections, a fatal one lies in the fact that every cartridge-box filled

with this ammunition may be considered as a shell liable to explode by

concussion and spread destruction around it. The powder and fulminating

composition being always in contact in every cartridge, it is obvious

that a chance shot may explode the whole boxful; and we have proved by

experiment that this is not an imaginary danger.

Since the appearance of our previous article on "The Use of the Rifle,"

our attention has been called to several new inventions for

breech-loading, some of them exceedingly ingenious and curious, but only

one of which has at once commended itself as being so obviously and

distinctly an improvement as to induce a further test of its powers, and

has proved on trial so entirely efficient, and free from the faults

which seemed to be inseparable from the system, as to lead to the

belief, which we confidently express, that its general adoption as a

military weapon must be a necessary consequence of its becoming known.

As a full description and report of the trial of this gun has been

officially prepared by a commission appointed for the purpose, and will

probably be published, we shall only say of it here that its performance

is equal in all respects to that of the best muzzle-loader, and, while

possessing all the advantages, it is entirely free from any of the

objections which pertain in one form or another to every breech-loading

gun we have heretofore had an opportunity to inspect. In appearance it

is so nearly like the ordinary soldier's musket that the difference can

be perceived only on examination; and, indeed, it may be used as a

muzzle-loader either with a cartridge or with loose powder and ball. It

is so simple in its mode of operation that there is less danger of error

than with a muzzle-loader; yet the anatomical construction of the limbs

and joints secures a degree of strength equal to that of a solid mass of

iron. The force of the explosion causes so perfect a closing of the

joint as to prevent any possible escape of gas, yet the breech may be

removed by as simple a process as that of cocking the gun; and we have

in the course of experiment fired the gun three hundred times, and have

since seen it fired five hundred times, without once wiping or cleaning,

and the working of the joints was as easy and the shooting as good at

the last as at first.

It is a singular fact in the history of arms, that the successive

improvements in their construction have occurred at long intervals, and

have made but slow progress towards general adoption even when their

advantages were apparent. It was more than a century after muskets were

first used in war before they were introduced in the English army to the

exclusion of bows and arrows; more than fifty years passed after the

invention of flint-locks before they were substituted for match-locks;

and many years elapsed after the invention of the percussion-lock before

it came into general use.

It is probable that the introduction of breech-loading guns will be

proportionally slow. A distinguished English military writer says: "With

respect to the choice between muzzle-loaders and breech-loaders, I am

quite satisfied that the latter will eventually carry the day. The best

principles of construction may not yet have been discovered; but I have

no more doubt of their advantage over the muzzle-loaders than I have of

the superiority of the percussion--over flint-lock guns."

We coincide entirely in this opinion, and we have a very strong feeling

of confidence that the gun we have alluded to is destined to achieve the

consummation here predicted.

For clubs which propose to combine a military drill with

target-practice, it is of course essential that the guns should be of

uniform pattern. But in our country-towns, until some definite system of

military organization is established by law, it is not likely that

volunteer associations will be formed for anything more than the object

of perfecting themselves in marksmanship. Great numbers of able-bodied

men may be found in every community, who will be very ready to join

associations to meet at stated intervals for simple target-practice, but

who could not afford the time which would necessarily be required for

the attainment of anything like efficient discipline as soldiers. For

such associations it is not only unimportant that the arms should be of

uniform pattern, but a diversity is even desirable, as affording the

means of testing their comparative merits, and thus giving the members

the opportunity of learning from actual observation the governing

principles of the science of projectiles.

It is essential, however, to the attainment of any proper degree of

skill in the use of the rifle that it should be acquired systematically.

Experience has proved to the instructors at the Hythe School, that, "the

less practice the pupil has previously had with the rifle, the better

shot he is likely in a limited period to become; for, in shooting, bad

habits of any kind are difficult to eradicate, and such is the Hythe

system that it does not admit of being grafted upon any other. Those who

have been zealously engaged in maturing it have left nothing to chance;

they have ascertained by innumerable trials the best way in which every

minute portion of the task to be executed should be performed, and no

deviation, however slight, should be attempted from the directions laid

down. By rigid adherence to them, far more than average proficiency in

shooting is attainable without the expenditure of a single

ball-cartridge. Paradoxical as this may seem, it is nevertheless

strictly true. It is only, however, to be accomplished by a course of

aiming and position drill."[2]

We have seen too many instances of poor shooting by men who passed for

good riflemen, owing to ignorance of principles whose observance would

alone enable them to adapt their practice to varying circumstances, to

have any doubt of the important truth contained in the above extract;

and we would urge its careful consideration and a compliance with its

suggestions upon every association of riflemen.

With all the instruction which can be got from books and teachers,

however, it is only by constant practice that one can attain the degree

of skill which inspires entire confidence in his capacity to develop the

best powers of the rifle. It seems a very simple thing to bring the line

of sight upon the target, and to pull the trigger at the right moment;

but, in reality, it is what no man can do without continued practice,

and he who has attained the power will confirm the assertion that the

art of doing it is indescribable, and must be acquired by every man for

himself.

For the sake of first becoming familiar with the powers of the weapon,

we advise beginners to practise for a time with a rest. This should be a

bag of sand, or some equally inelastic substance, on which the gun can

repose firmly and steadily; and a little practice with such aid will

enable the shooter to realize the relation of the line of sight to the

trajectory under varying circumstances of wind and light, and thus to

proceed knowingly in his subsequent training. But we are unwilling to

give this advice without accompanying it with the caution not to

continue the practice till it becomes habitual. It is very difficult for

one who is accustomed to use a rest to feel the confidence which is

essential to success, when shooting from the shoulder; and no one is

deserving the name of a rifleman who requires such aid.

It is difficult for an inexperienced person to conceive of the effect of

even a light wind upon so small an object as a rifle-ball, when shot

from the gun. The difficulty arises from the impossibility of taking in

the idea of such rapid flight, or of the resistance produced by it, by

comparison with anything within the limits of our experience. We may

attain a conception of it, however, by trying to move a stick through

the water. Moving it slowly, the resistance is imperceptible; but as we

increase the velocity, we find the difficulty to increase very rapidly,

and if we try to strike a quick blow through the water, we find the

resistance so enormous that the effort is almost paralyzed.

Mathematically, the resistance increases in the ratio of the square of

the velocity; and although the air is of course more easily displaced

than water, the same rule applies to it, and the flight of a ball is so

inconceivably rapid that the resistance becomes enormous. The average

initial velocity of a cannon- or rifle-ball is sixteen hundred feet in a

second, and a twelve-pound round shot, moving at this rate, encounters

an atmospheric resistance of nearly two hundred pounds, or more than

sixteen times its own weight. Perhaps a clearer idea may be attained by

the statement of the fact, that, were it possible to remove this

resistance, or, in other words, to fire a ball in a vacuum, it would fly

ten miles in a second,--the same time it now requires to move sixteen

hundred feet. Bearing in mind this enormous resistance, it will be more

readily apparent that even a slight motion of the element through which

the ball is struggling must influence its course. For this reason it is

that the best time to shoot, as a general rule, is in the morning or

evening, when the air is most apt to be perfectly calm. It will often be

found, after making very satisfactory shots at sunrise, that by ten

o'clock, even on what would be called a calm day, it is impossible to

attain to anything like the accuracy with which the day's work was

begun; and, owing to the irregular motion of the air, the difficulty

cannot be overcome, except to a limited degree, by making allowance for

it.

It is well, however, to practise in all possible conditions of weather,

and not to be discouraged at finding unaccountable variations at

different times in the flight of balls. A few weeks' experience will at

least enable the learner to judge of the veracity of a class of stories

one often hears, of the feats of backwoodsmen. It is not long since we

were gravely assured by a quondam travelling acquaintance, who no doubt

believed it himself, that there were plenty of men in the South who

could shave off either ear of a squirrel with a rifle-ball at one

hundred yards, without doing him further injury. A short experience of

target-shooting will suffice to demonstrate the absurdity of all the

wonderful stories of this class which are told and often insisted on

with all the bigotry of ignorance. A somewhat extended acquaintance with

backwoodsmen has served only to convince us, that, while a practical

familiarity with the rifle is more general with them than with us, a

scientific knowledge of its principles is rare; and the best

target-shooting we have ever seen was in New England.

[Footnote 2: _Hand-Book for Hythe._ By Lieut. Hans Busk.]

TWO SUMMERS.

Last summer, when athwart the sky

Shone the immeasurable days,

We wandered slowly, you and I,

Adown these leafy forest-ways,

With laugh and song and sportive speech,

And mirthful tales of earlier years,

Though deep within the soul of each

Lay thoughts too sorrowful for tears,

Because--I marked it many a time--

Your feet grew slower day by day,

And where I did not fear to climb

You paused to find an easier way.

And all the while a boding fear

Pressed hard and heavy on my heart;

Yet still with words of hope and cheer

I bade the gathering grief depart,

Saying,--"When next these purple bells

And these red columbines return,--

When woods are full of piny smells,

And this faint fragrance of the fern,--

"When the wild white-weed's bright surprise

Looks up from all the strawberried plain,

Like thousands of astonished eyes,--

Dear child, you will be well again!"

Again the marvellous days are here;

Warm on my cheek the sunshine burns,

And fledged birds chirp, and far and near

Floats the strange sweetness of the ferns.

But down these ways I walk alone,

Tearless, companionless, and dumb,--

Or rest upon this way-side stone,

To wait for one who does not come.

Yet all is even as I foretold:

The summer shines on wave and wild,

The fern is fragrant as of old,

And you are well again, dear child!

MR. AXTELL.

PART II.

Katie (the doctor's name for her) said consolingly, as we went

up-stairs,--

"I am going to sleep in Miss Lettie's little dressing-room; the door is

close beside her bed. If you want me, you can speak,--I shall be sure to

hear"; and she lighted my footsteps to the door.

I went in hastily, for Katie was gone. The statuesque lady became

informed with life; she started violently, and said,--

"Who is it?"

"I beg pardon for the noise," I said; "how are you?"

"Thank you, a pain up here, Kate"; and she put her hand, so long giving

support to her chin, upon the top of her head.

"It isn't Kate"; and I came into full view.

She looked up at me.

"Why, you are--yes, I know--Miss Percival," she said.

"I am."

"Have you been here long?"

"Only since yesterday."

Why did she seem relieved at my reply?

"Do they think me ill enough to have a stranger come to me?"

"Almost as polite as the grum brother," I thought; but I said, "You

mustn't let me be a stranger to you. I came,--I wasn't sent for."

She made an effort to rise from her seat, but, unable, turned her eyes

toward the windows.

"What is it?" I asked.

"I thought I'd like to know what the weather looks like."

"Then let me lift the curtains"; and I drew aside the folds, but there

was nothing to be seen. The moon was not yet up; and even had it been,

there was slight chance for seeing it, as the sun had stayed behind

clouds all the day.

"Put them down, please; there's no light out there."

"The doctor left some medicine for you; will you take it?"

"No, I thank you. I hate medicines."

"So do I."

"Then pray tell me what you wish me to take it for."

"You mistake; it was the doctor's order, not mine."

"The very idea of asking that image of calm decision there to do

anything!--but then I must, I am nurse"; so I ventured, "Had you not

better go to bed?"

"After a little. Would you bathe my head? this pain distresses me, and I

don't want to dream, I'd rather stay awake."

As I stood beside her, gently applying the cooling remedy, trying to

stroke away the pain, she asked,--

"Did they tell you that my mother is dead?"

"Yes."

"She was my mother. Oh, why didn't I tell her? Why? why?" and great

spasms of torturesome pain drew her beautiful face. I didn't tell you

how beautiful she is. Well, it doesn't matter; you couldn't understand,

if I should try.

She turned suddenly, caught my dress in her hands, and asked,--

"Have you a mother, Miss Percival?" and before I could answer my sad

"No," she said, "Forgive me. I forgot for one moment"

My mother had been twenty years dead. What did she know about it? I,

three years old when she died, but just remembered her.

Katie came in, bringing "thoughts of me" condensed into aromatic

draughts of coffee, which she put upon the hearth, "to keep warm," she

said.

I asked her to bring some "sweet" to mix the powder in.

"I hate disguises," said Miss Axtell; "I'd rather have true bitters than

cover them just a little with sugars. Give it me, if I must take it."

"But you can't,--not _this_ powder."

"A glass of water, Kate, please"; and she actually took the bitter dose

of Dover in all its undisguised severity.

"There! isn't that a thousand times better than covering it all up in a

sweetness that one knows isn't true?"

She looked a little as if expecting an answer. I would have preferred

not saying my thought, and was waiting, when she asked,--

"Don't you think on the subject?"

"Yes; I think that I like the bitter better when it is concealed."

"You wouldn't, if you knew, if you had tried it, child."

"Oh, I have taken a Dover's-powder often, and I always bury it in

sirup."

She looked a little startled, odd look at me.

"Do you think I'm talking about that simple powder that I've been

taking?"

"Weren't you?"

"Come here, innocent little thing!" she said, and motioned me to a

footstool at her feet.

Her adjectives were both very unsuitable, when applied to me; but I was

nurse, and must yield to the whim of my patient.

"Kate, look after Mr. Axtell."

Poor Kate went out, more from the habit of obedience than apparently to

obey any such behest; but she went, nevertheless.

"I know who you are; I knew your mother," she said. "Never attempt to

cover up bitterness; it has its use in the world."

"Will you go to bed now? It's very late," I ventured.

She went on as though I had not spoken at all,--

"There's somebody dead down-stairs, there,--now,--this minute;--but

dead,--dead,--gone beyond my reach.--Child! child! do you know, do you

feel what I mean?"

"How can I? I haven't seen her; I never saw her."

"She's dead,--she's dead,--and I meant to--oh! I meant to do it before

she died. Why didn't something tell me? Things do come and speak to me

sometimes,--why not last night?"

I got anxious. Was this what the doctor meant by incoherent talking?

Away up the village-street I heard the bell striking for midnight.

"It is time you were asleep; please try and sleep."

My words did not stay her; she went on,--

"If it only had,--then,--at the last,--she might have

forgiven;--yes,--think, it might have been,--and it _is_ not,--no, it

_is not_!--and she lies dead, down-stairs, in the very room!--But are

you sure? Perhaps she isn't dead. Such things have been."

Oh! what should I do? I thought of Katie. "The next door," she said;

there were but two in the room; it must be this one, then. I opened it.

"No, this is a closet,--dresses are hanging there," I thought; "but

there is a door leading out from it." I looked back to the chair, where

Miss Axtell still sat; she was talking to herself, as if I had not left

the room. I could not venture to open this unknown door without a light

to flow into its darkness. I went back into the room and took up a lamp.

"What are you doing?" Miss Axtell stopped to ask; then, forgetting me,

she resumed her self-questioning.

I lighted the lamp and went into the closet. I said that there were

dresses hanging there. Among them my eyes singled out one; it was not

bright,--no, it was a grave, brown, plaid dress. I tried to call Kate.

My voice would not obey me. My tongue was still. I grasped the knob and

turned it; the door opened. Poor Katie! she was asleep. She started up,

bringing the larger half of a dream with her, I'm sure. "It's not so

dreadful. You have me left, father," she said, with her young face rosy,

and very sleepy. I went close to her, put my hand upon the cover, and

said,--

"You must call Mr. Axtell, Katie."

"For what? Is Miss Axtell worse?"

"I think so; she will not lie down."

"Do you think I might try to coax her?"--and Katie rubbed her heavy

eyelids, open too soon.

"If you think you can."

Miss Axtell had ceased to talk; she had fallen back into the old

absorbed state. Katie kneeled down beside her chair, and spoke.

"Miss Lettie!" she said.

Miss Lettie did not answer. Katie put out one finger only. I saw it

shake a bit, as she laid it upon Miss Lettie's hand. As when the doctor

touched her forehead, she came back to her proper self, and said,--

"What is it, Kate? Isn't it time you were asleep?"

"Don't you know that my mother is dead?" said poor motherless Katie.

"And so is mine," said Miss Axtell.

"And mine," added I.

"And is it for that that you don't sleep, Kate?"

"No, Ma'am; but it is because you won't try to sleep; and you told us

all, when my mother died, that"--and Katie stopped there.

"Why don't you go on?" I asked, in a low voice.

"I can't,--I don't remember the words; but you said, Miss Lettie, that

too much sorrow was wicked."

"And so it is; and mine is, if it keeps you awake. I will lie down."

The little maid so kindly, gently arranged the pillows, and made the

lady comfortable, that there was little left for me to do.

When she went back to bury the dream that I so suddenly drew out of the

balmy land, I had only to shade the light, stir the fire a little, and

then wait. From afar up the street came the stroke of one. Miss Axtell's

face was turned away from me. I could only fancy that her eyes were

closed. Once she put an arm over the pillow. I touched it. It burned

with fever-heat. Then all was still. I sat upon a lounge,

comfort-giving, related to the chair in style of covering. I fancied,

after a long quiet, that my patient was asleep. I kept myself awake by

examining this room that I was in. It was, like most of the other rooms,

a hexagon, with two windows looking eastward. An air of homeness was

over, and in, its every appointment. It seemed a room to sing in; _were_

songs ever heard there? I laid my head upon my hand, and listened to one

that Fancy tried to sing,--I, who never sing, in whose soul music rolls

and swells in great ocean-waves, that never in this world will break

against the shore of sound; and so I builded one, very wild and porous

and wavering, a style of iceberg shore, far out in the limitless,

waters, and listened to the echoes that came,--and, listening, must have

fallen into sleep.

I awoke with a chill feeling, as if the fire had gone down. A draught

seemed blowing upon me. I got up with a full sense of my position as

keeper of that fire, and went to it. The door into the hall was open. I

glanced at the bed; Miss Axtell was not there. The hall was dark. I

caught up the lamp and hurried out. I leaned over the balustrade and

looked down the stairway. Slowly going down I saw Miss Axtell. Was she a

somnambulist? Perhaps so. I must be cautious. I hastened after her,

moving as noiselessly as she. I took the precaution to leave the lamp in

the upper hall. She was leaning against the wall-side of the staircase.

Just as she reached the lower step, I put my arm around her. There was

no need; she was fully awake.

"Will you go back to sleep?" she asked of me, before I could find time

to make the same request of her.

"No,--I came here for you. Where are you going?"

"In there"; and she pointed to the room where I had seen the doctor and

Katie go,--where she who was dead lay.

"Oh, come back! please do! that is no place for you"; and I endeavored

to turn her steps.

"It is well that you say it. She's in there; perhaps she isn't dead.

Such things have been. It was sudden, you know. Let me go."

I held her with all the strength I had.

"Leave me to myself. I'm going to tell her,--to tell her _now_. She'll

hear me better than to-morrow; they'll have a fathom of earth over her

heart then: that will be deeper than all that love of Abraham which

covered up her heart from me."

What could I do? Despite my holding arms, she was gaining toward that

fatal door, and the light was very dim. I called Katie three times, Miss

Axtell still getting near to that I dreaded.

I heard a door open. I looked back, and saw Mr. Axtell coming from the

library. He came quickly along the hall, arrested his sister's progress,

and said gently, as twice he had spoken before,--

"Lettie, where are you going?"

"In there, Abraham."

"No, Lettie, you are sick; you must go back up-stairs."

"I will, when I have told her what I wish."

"Whom?"

"Mother."

What could Mr. Axtell have meant? He asked me to bring down the lamp; he

took it in his own hand, and, supporting his sister, moved on. Was he

going to take her in there. He did. I fled back to the library;

trembling in affright, I sank into the first chair, and, covering my

face with my hands, thought,--

"What terrible people these are! Why did I come here, where I was not

wanted?"

"Poor child!"

I started up at the words. Mr. Axtell left the door open.

"You think it strange that I let my sister follow out such a sick fancy,

I suppose."

"I think it is dreadful,--terrible."

"Oh, no, it is not. Why do you think so?"

"Talking to dead people!"

"Well?"

"They don't hear you."

"Perhaps not."

"You _know_ they _can't_."

"No, I do not."

"Then go and learn it. Will you go and listen in there?"

"I will not."

"Why?"

"Lettie wished to be alone."

"You're very strange people."

"We are."

He got up quickly, confusedly, crossed the room, and turned a picture

that was upon the sofa. I had not noticed it before. I glanced up at the

wall. The face was gone. The picture that be turned must have been that.

He came back and stood before me.

"Were you frightened when Lettie came down?" he asked.

"Yes; how could I help it?"

"Why didn't you turn the lock?"

"I was asleep when she went out."

"What awakened you?"

"The cold air from the hall."

"A careful nurse, you are!"

"I am not careful."

"No?"

He teased me, this man. I hate to be teased. And all this time, whilst

he stood questioning me, Miss Axtell was in that lone, silent room,

confessing to the dead. It was worse than the tower-confessional; and

besides, what had she done that was so bad? Nothing, I felt convinced.

Why would she do such a thing?

I think I must have spoken the last thought; for Mr. Axtell answered it

in his next words.

"Lettie is only working out a necessity of her own spirit. She is not

harming any living soul. I cannot see why you should look so white and

terrified about it. Have you tasted the coffee?"

I had not thought of it: I told him so.

"Did you give my sister what the doctor left for her?"

Honestly, I had forgotten that the powders were to be given every

half-hour, and I had offered only one.

"I don't think you have chosen your vocation wisely," he said, when I

had told him of my forgetfulness.

"It seems not."

He went out. Very gently he entered the place of the soulless one. I

heard a low, murmurous sound, with a deal of contentment in it. After a

few moments they came out. He asked me again to carry the lamp. I went

up before them. I couldn't go after; I was afraid of words, or I knew

not what, coming from that room.

Mr. Axtell gave the second powder, evidently afraid to trust me. Miss

Lettie seemed quite tranquil,--a change had come over her. Her brother

poured a cup of coffee and _told_ me to drink it. What right had he to

tell me to do anything? What right had I to notice it amid the scenes of

this night? but I did, and the coffee remained untasted.

"I cannot trust you alone," he said; and leaving me sitting there in

Miss Lettie's chair before the fire, he lay down upon the lounge and

went to sleep.

The half-hour went by; this time I would remember my duty. Miss Axtell

was awake still, but very quiet. Her face was scorched with fever, when

I gave her the third powder. I began to feel excessively sleepy; but to

fail the second time,--it would never answer. The coffee was the

alternative; I drank of it.

Again Miss Axtell asked that I would bathe her head. That, with the

half-hour powders, which quite forgot their sleep-bestowing

characteristic, was the only change until the day began to dawn.

Katie crept in with it, all in the little shivers March mornings bring.

She didn't see Mr. Axtell. She asked,--

"How has Miss Lettie been?"

"I haven't been asleep, I believe," answered Miss Axtell.

She called Katie to her, and gave some house-orders, in which I thought

I heard an allusion to breakfast, in connection with my name. I knew

nothing about the arrangements of this house, but ventured to follow

Katie out, and ask if there was any one to take my place, should I go

home. Finding that my longer stay was unneedful, I went. How lovely the

earth seemed on that morning, not long ago, and yet so long! Why could

not people live with quiet thoughts, and peaceful quietness of life, in

this little country-village, where there seemed nothing to wake up

torrents?

* * * * *

Sophie stood beside me, with a tempting little cup in her hand; upon the

table lay a breakfast,--for somebody destined, I was sure.

"I thought I'd waken you, so that you might not lose your night's

sleep," she said.

"Thank you. What time is it?"

"Look at what the sun says."

She put up the shade, and the sun came in from the west.

"So long? Have I slept?"

"So long, my dear"; and Sophie gave me a kiss.

Sophie was not demonstrative. I answered it with--

"What queer people you sent me to stay with!"

"You make a mistake, Anna; think a moment; you're dreaming; I did not

send you there at all."

"Well, what queer people I went to stay with!"

"How was Miss Axtell, when you came away?"

"Really, I don't know; better, I should think. But, Sophie, pray tell me

how it is that I should never have heard of them before."

"Partly because they have been away during the three years that you have

been in the habit of visiting us,--and partly because Mr. Axtell, and

his sister, too, I think, have a very decided way of avoiding us. What

induces Mr. Axtell to perform the office of sexton is more than any one

in the congregation can divine."

"I intend to find out, Sophie."

"How?"

"In some way,--how, I cannot tell."

"In the interim, take some breakfast, or you'll lose your curiosity in

hunger."

Aaron sent for Sophie just here, and, as usual, I was deserted for him.

I began to scheme a little. "If Miss Axtell had only been the sexton, I

could have found a thread; there must be one. Where shall I look for

it?"

"How did you manage with our surly Abraham last night? would he let you

stay?" asked Aaron, when I joined the family of two.

"He was not very surly; I managed him considerably better than I did his

beautiful sister," I said.

He proceeded to question me of the night-events. I told only of the

visit to the dead, leaving out the conversations preceding the event.

"An unwarrantable proceeding of Abraham's," said Aaron.

"And that room, so cold, as they always keep such rooms. I expect to

hear that Miss Axtell is much worse to-day," was Sophie's comment, when

I had told all that I thought it right to tell.

Aaron went away early in the afternoon, to visit some parishioners who

lived among the highlands, where the snows of winter had made it

difficult to go.

Sophie said, she would read to me. My piece of "knitting-work" was still

unfinished, and I, sitting near a window looking churchward, knitted,

whilst Sophie pushed back from her low, cool brow those bands of softly

purplish hair, and read to me something that strangely soothed my

militant spirit, lifted me out of my present self, carried me whither

breezes of charity stirred the foliage of the world, and opened sweet

flower-blooms on dark, unpromising trees. I had been wafted up to a

height where I thought I should forever keep in memory the view I saw,

and feel charity toward all erring mortals as long as life endured, when

a noise came to my ears. I knew it instantly, before I could catch my

dropping stitch and look out. It was the first stroke on hard Mother

Earth, the first knocking sound, that said, "We've come to ask one more

grave of you."

Sophie did not seem to have heard: she went on with her reading. I

looked out. Two men were in the church-yard: one held a measuring-line

in his hand, the other a spade. The one with the spade went on to mark

the hard winter-beaten turf,--the knotted grass he cut through. I saw

him describe the outline of a grave,--the other standing there, silently

looking on. When the grave was marked, the one wielding the spade looked

up at the silent looker-on, who bowed his head, as if to say, "It is

right." Then he began to strike deeper, to hit the stones under the sod.

"What is it?" asked Sophie, looking up, for now she heard.

"I think it's Mrs. Axtell's grave that is to be made," I said.

Sophie came to the window.

"It's a wonder he don't make it himself."

"Who make it?"

"Why, Abraham Axtell. Look now,--see him look at it. It would be very

like him. He's fond of such doleful things. He has a way of haunting the

Church-yard. Aaron sees him there sometimes on moonlight nights."

Even while she spoke, Mr. Axtell did take the spade from the man; and

striking down deeper, stronger than he, he rolled out stones, and the

yellow, hard earth, crusty with the frost not yet out of it.

"There! I thought he would. Just watch now, and see of how much use that

man is; he might as well be away," exclaimed Sophie.

We two watched the other two in yonder church-yard, until the pile of

earth grew so high that it half-concealed them. Two or three times the

man seemed to offer to take the spade from Mr. Axtell, but he kept it

and worked away. At last the excavation grew so deep that one must needs

go down into it to make it deeper. Would Mr. Axtell go? We watched to

see. Sophie said "Yes" to the question; I thought "No." There grew a

pause. Mr. Axtell stopped in his work, looked at the man, and must have

spoken; for he picked up his coat and walked away.

"I wonder what is coming now," said Sophie.

"Nothing," answered I; "for Mr. Axtell evidently is going."

"Time enough to finish to-morrow," she said.--"Where are you going,

Anna?"

"To ask after his sister," I answered, and hastened out, for I had seen

Mr. Axtell pick up the spade as if to go.

But he did not go; he stood leaning upon the spade, looking into the

open grave, forgetful of everything above the earth. I thought to

approach him unheard and unseen; but it was willed otherwise, for I

stepped upon some of the crispy earth thrown out, and set the stones to

rattling in a very rude sort of way. He turned quickly upon me.

"You have chosen a very sad place to meditate over," I said.

"Does it trouble you, if I have?" he asked, not changing his position.

"No, not in the least, Sir. I came to ask after Miss Axtell."

"Lettie is much worse, very ill indeed, to-day."

"I am very sorry to hear it. I ought not to have thought myself wise

enough to take care of her last night."

"Yes, you ought; you pleased her; she has asked for you several times

to-day,--only she calls you another name. I wish you wouldn't mind it,

or seem to notice it either."

"What is the name?"

"Never mind it now; perhaps you will not see her until she is sane, and

then she will give you only your own."

"I wish you would tell me."

The spade upon which Mr. Axtell leaned seemed suddenly to have failed to

do its duty, for it slid along the distance to the very edge of the

grave. Mr. Axtell regained his position and his strength, that had

failed only for the moment.

"No, you do not wish it," he said.

What had become of all my sweet charity-blossoms, that unfolded such a

little time ago, when Sophie was reading to me? Surely the time of

withering had not come so soon? An untimely frost must have withered

them all, for I answered,--

"You are dogmatical."

"No, I am not. I only see farther on than you."

"A pleasant way to say, 'You're blind.'"

"And if it is true?"

"To say it to one's self, I suppose, is the better way; for others

certainly will of you."

"A sensible conclusion. Who taught you it?"

"You, perhaps."

"Did I? Then my life has been of some little use."

"I saw you very usefully employed not long ago."

"Doing that?" and he pointed to the open place.

"Yes, the strangest occupation I ever saw a man engaged in."

"The man did it awkwardly."

"And you?"

"Better, as you can see."

"I'm no judge."

"Yes, you are."

I saw Aaron coming, driving slowly on. I knew that I must go in.

"Shall I come and stay with Miss Axtell to-night?" I asked.

"You do not look able."

"I am. I've not been long awake. I am quite restored."

He looked up at me. It was the very first time that I had seen him do

so.

"Do you wish to come?" he asked.

What a question! I couldn't answer. I thought of my tower-secret, which

I felt convinced was wrapped up in that large, sombre mansion, where his

dead mother (whom I had never seen) lay, and his beautiful sister was. I

had not answered him. He spoke again,--

"As if it could please you to come where death and suffering are! I will

find some one; if not, I can stay up."

"I will come, if you can trust me, after last night's errors."

"You look like one to be trusted."

"I am glad you think so. Are my services accepted?"

"Gratefully, if you'll promise one thing."

"Ask it."

"Sleep until I send for you."

"I can't promise."

"You'll try?"

"Perhaps"; and I went back to the parsonage.

Sophie had deserted the reading and the window to do something that she

imagined would please Aaron when he came home. It was nearly evening.

The sun was gone. I resumed my seat and work.

"You look gloomy, Anna,--what is it?" asked Aaron's evergreen voice, as

Aaron's self came into the room, somewhat the worse for mud and mountain

wear. "Was last night's watching too much for you?"

"Oh, no; I'm going again to-night."

"Going where?" Sophie was the questioner.

"To stay with Miss Axtell."

"I wouldn't, Anna; one night has made you pale," she said.

"You're a frightened little thing," I said. "You've Aaron's headachy

eyes of yesterday."

"Have you promised to go?" Aaron asked.

"I have. Mr. Axtell is to send for me in time."

No more was said on the subject. Aaron had learned many things in his

visit to the people's homes. I fancy that he gathered much material for

Sunday-sermons that afternoon. I could not help wishing that he knew all

of last night's teaching to me. An idle wish; how could he? What is

knowledge to one is but dry dust to another soul. The soils of the human

heart are as various as those of our planet, and therein as many and as

strange plants are grown. Why had I always thought mine to be adapted to

the aloe?

The evening was dull. I asked Aaron to lend me a sermon. He inquired,--

"What for?"

"To go to sleep over," I said.

"And are they so soporific?" he laughingly asked.

"It's a great while since I've read one. What have you been doing lately

in your profession? anything remarkable?"

He brought me one. It aroused me. The evening passed on. I finished the

sermon. Bedtime came in the parsonage, and no messenger from Mr. Axtell

for me.

Aaron offered to go. I said, "No, they were such strange people, I would

rather not." Chloe came in from the kitchen to say that "Kate, Miss

Axtell's girl, had come, and said, 'Miss Lettie was too ill for Miss

Percival to take care of her. Mr. Abraham couldn't leave her.'"

The funeral was to be on the morrow.

* * * * *

The morrow came. Early after breakfast I went to the house whereto I had

gone with the neighbor's boy two nights before. I met Mr. Axtell just

leaving. I inquired after his sister.

"A bad night," he said; "the doctor is here; are you come to stay?"

"If I can be of use."

He walked back with me, went to the sick-room, and left me there with

the doctor and Miss Axtell.

She didn't refuse medicines, it seemed; for Doctor Eaton was

administering something when I went in.

The same eager look flashed out of his eyes when she spoke to me. She

did not remember me,--she called me Mary. Common name it is, but the

change seemed to please this quaint M.D.

"Have you found out about the face?" he asked, when he had answered my

inquiries after his patient.

"I have not."

"It isn't there any longer. Somebody's taken it away."

"Ah!"

"Don't you care to know about it?"

"Yes, it was a pleasant face,--a prettiness of youth about it."

"Ask him,--do you hear, young lady?--ask him"; and giving me directions

for the morning, he left.

Curious old doctor,--what care should he have concerning it?

The opiate, if opiate it was, that Doctor Eaton gave Miss Axtell,

quickly worked its spell; for after he had gone, she scarcely noticed

me; she only moaned a little, and turned her head upon the pillow, as if

to ease the pain that made her face so flushed. The room was darkened;

the fire upon the hearth was almost out. It didn't seem the same room as

that in which I had heard my song so recently. I had nothing to do but

to sit and watch,--a sad, nerve-aching woman-work, at the best. In my

pocket I had put the bit of woman's wear that I had taken from the iron

bar in my tower. I longed to open the closet-door, and compare it with

the dress that I had seen hanging there. No opportunity came. Miss

Axtell was very drowsy, if not asleep. For full three hours not a

varying occurred. Where had every one gone? Was I forgotten, buried in

with this sick lady out of the world? Not quite; for I heard the

vitalizing charm of a footstep, followed, by the gentlest of knocks,

which I rejoicingly answered. It was the brother, come to look at his

sister. He walked quietly in, stood several moments looking at her face,

as she lay with half the repose of sleep over it, then came to me and

said,--

"She looks better."

"I am glad you think so," I replied; "she seems very ill to me. She

called me Mary, when I first came in; since then she hasn't noticed me."

"She called you Mary?" he said. "Are you Mary?"

"My name is Anna," I answered.

"Then you are not Mary?"

"Of course not; I am not two."

After a little while of silence, he said,--

"My mother's funeral will be this afternoon."

"Is there anything that I can do for you before the time?"

"Yes, if you will."

"I am ready."

"Wait here a little," he said, and went down.

Katie came up, her young rosy face delightful to behold in the half-way

gloom that filled the place.

"Mr. Abraham is waiting to see you in the library," she said. "I'll stay

till you come up."

In my short journey down, I marvelled much concerning what he might

want. As I entered the room, I saw no visible thing for hands to do.

Now, if it were but a hat to fold the winding badge of sorrow about, or

a pair of gloves to mend; but no,--he, this strange man, a sort of

barbaric gentleman, looked down at me as I went in. "The doctor was

right; somebody has taken the face down," I thought, as my glance went

up the wall.

"What is there for me to do?" I asked; for Mr. Axtell seemed to have

forgotten that he had intimated the possibility of such an event.

"Simply to look upon the face of my mother ere it goes forever away."

"Do you wish it?"

"Very much."

"I would rather not."

"As you will"; and he turned away proudly, with that high style of

curling pride that has a touch of soul in it.

"No, Mr. Axtell, it is not as I will; it is very much as I will not. I

can go in there, and look at the face you wish; but it will unfit me for

the duties of life for days to come. The face that I see there will

tenant this house forever, and not this only,--it will be seen wherever

I go."

"Can you not overcome it?"

"Oh, yes."

"Why not, then?"

"It takes such sweet revenge that my overcoming is the sorriest kind of

victory."

"It _is_ strange," he said.

"What, Sir?"

"I beg your pardon; I was thinking in words," he replied.

"I am sorry that I cannot do as you wish," I said, and resumed my

profession in the room above.

The day went on, never pausing one moment for the sorrow and the

suffering that another day had brought to this house in Redleaf.

Just before the funeral-bell began to toll, Mr. Axtell came again to the

sickroom door. There was no change. I told him so. Why did the man look

as if he had been crying? Was it because he had, I wonder?

He did not come in. Poor man! He was the only relative, the only one to

stand at the last beside the grave he opened yesterday. I could not help

it, I held out my hand to him as he stood there in the hall, I had no

words wherewith to convey sympathy. He looked at it very much as he

might have done at one of the waxen hands that belong to waxen figures

in a shop-window, without one ray of the meaning it was intended to

convey entering into his mind. I felt confused, uncomfortable. It seemed

to me, then, irreverent to his sorrow, that I, a stranger, should have

attempted the proffer of sympathy; but I must make him comprehend me.

"I wanted to say that I am sorry with you," I said.

"Will you say it the same way again?"

"How?" for this time it was I who did not comprehend.

He held out his hand. I fulfilled my original intention.

"I thank you," he said, and went down alone to his mother's funeral.

How do people ever live through funerals? The solemn tolling of the bell

went on. The village-people came, one by one. Aaron's voice it was that

was heard in the burial-service that came sounding in to me, sitting

close beside the bed whereon the sick one lay. There seemed a comfort in

getting near to her. At last--what a cycle of thought! time it was at

last--I heard the moving sound of many feet, and then I knew that they

were carrying her out, out of the house where she had lived, out of the

house wherein she had died, carrying her forth for burial,--forth to the

grave her only son had made for her; and I, little, shivering, cowardly

soul, hid my face in my hands, and let my tears fall,--not because I

knew this proud lady dead,--not because a fibre from my warm heart was

being drawn out to be knitted into that fathom-deep grave, for it never

would be one of _my_ graves,--but because this death and sorrow _were in

the world_, and I must live my life out in a world _with them_. The

funeral-bell stirred me. I looked out from the window, and saw the long

procession moving slowly on.

Katie startled me, coming in.

"The minister's wife is down-stairs; she wants to know if she may come

up," she said.

"She is my sister, Katie; yes, I think she may come."

I was so relieved to see Sophie; it was getting back to self again, out

of which I had gone in this house. I could not help expressing my

relief.

"There's no one down there to close the house and put away the sad

reminders," Sophie said, after asking about my patient. "Some one ought

to make it more cheerful down there before Mr. Axtell comes."

"Won't you, Sophie, since there's no one else?"

I could not yet go into the one room. Death had been too recently there.

"I cannot put away the feeling that I am not wanted; but it has no place

here, now at least, and I will go," she said.

So, with Katie to help, she went to throw an air of light into the rooms

below, to waft away the sombre shadows that clouded them, to let in a

little of the coming life that must still be lived. And I waited on,

up-stairs, and listened, counting each long, low peal of the bell, as it

shook out its solemn meaning into the March air, and lost itself in

quivering distances. They, the kindly hearts, who had come to perform

the last rite, must have moved very slowly on; for I counted out the

years that the one gone had lived, ere the bell stopped.

Then was silence. In that stillness they were gently lifting down the

once more little one,--for are not our dead all little ones, to be

watchfully thought of, to be tenderly cared for?--yes, lifting her

gently down into the cradle that God hath prepared, and set the sun to

rock, until His smile shall awaken, and His arms lift us out of it.

The opiate's power was past. Miss Axtell turned upon the pillow, and

asked Kate for a glass of water.

I carried it to her, lifted her head, and she drank of it without

opening her eyes. She asked for Abraham.

"He will be here soon," I replied.

"I thought it was Kate," she said, calling me my own name. "Have you

been here long?"

"Since morning."

"Is it afternoon?"

"Yes, three o'clock."

"Why doesn't Abraham come?"

"He was here not very long ago," I said, and asked her to take some

food, not wishing her to question me.

"Food!" she said, "what an odd word! Yes, so that you give it to me in

pleasant guise."

"What is pleasant to you to-day?"

"Something soft and cool."

What could I give her? It was very convenient having Sophie so near.

This must be Miss Axtell's self who had spoken. Delighted with the

change, I ran quickly down to beg of sister Sophie a little skill in

preparing some dish suitable to the illness up-stairs.

"I'll go and make something," she said.

And straightway taking off her hat and cloak, and tossing them just

where mine had gone two nights before, she followed willing Katie to

regions where I had not been, and I went back to find my patient

perfectly herself,--only oblivious of time. She asked me if the various

preludes to the sad event had been properly done. I answered that it was

over.

"And I was not to know it?"

I had heard that tone of voice, surely, somewhere else in life. Where

could it have been? I thought of my tower, and of that dress in there.

Was never to come chance of seeing it? It seemed quite probable, for the

lady asked to have the doors opened through.

"Through where?" I asked.

"All of them," she said.

I opened the two into the dressing-room; there was still another out of

that. Uncertain if she might mean it as well, I went back to ask.

"Yes," she said; and I opened it.

The first object that met my sight was the painting--the young girl's

face--that had been in the library. The hair was covered, as if one had

been trying effects of light and shade. I saw this instantly, and turned

away.

"I would like you to raise the shades in there," Miss Axtell said. "I

like the light that comes in through the distance, the afternoon light;

how much it sees upon the earth!"

Going in again, I drew up one, put the drapery of the curtains back, and

laid my hand upon the second, when the door from the hall opened,

admitting the owner of the place.

Mr. Axtell did not look window-ward. He did not see me. A stillness of

thought and being crept over me. I stood, with fingers clasped about the

curtain-cord, enduring conscious paralysis. And he? He laid his overcoat

across one chair; next to it was the one on which the portrait of the

young girl had been placed. In front of it Mr. Axtell kneeled down,

buried his face in his hands, and remained motionless. A second tower I

was imprisoned in, higher up than the first,--a well, deep with veins of

liquid soul, such as man nor patriarch hath ever builded, and I, a bit

of rock-moss, unable to reach out to the light. I heard Miss Axtell's

voice, and yet I could not move. She called, "Miss Percival!"--Mr.

Axtell did not lift his head; she called, "Abraham!"--then I moved. With

a slow swiftness of silence I passed by the kneeling figure, and should

have gained the door, had not Mr. Axtell risen up. His eyes were, for

the second time, upon me. A dark, thunderous look of anger clouded his

face. I stood still and looked at him. If he had evinced emotion at my

presence in any other mode, I could not have met his look.

"Your sister wished me to raise the shades in here," I said; "she likes

western light."

"Why not do it, then?"--the anger rolling sombrous as at the first,--he

asked.

I looked back. Noticing that only one of the shades was lifted,--

"I will leave it for you to do," I said; and with one involuntary glance

at the young, life-young face, painted there, I went.

"I thought I heard Abraham's footsteps in the hall," said Miss Axtell,

when I entered the room.

"You did," I replied. "He is come in."

The second time the sister called, "Abraham!"

"Yes, Lettie," he answered; but he did not come.

"What is the matter, Abraham?" she asked. "Why do you not come?"

"I'm coming, Lettie."

I thought of the "something soft and cool" that Sophie was making for

the invalid; and the thought took me up and carried me away before he

came in.

It was not destined that I should be long gone; for I met Katie bringing

up something, whose odor was not even a temperate one.

"How is this?" I asked of her; "did Mrs. Wilton send it?"

"Yes, Miss Percival."

"Where is she, Katie?"

"Gone home, she told me to tell you."

Why must Sophie run away? She fancies Aaron might not see the stars come

out, if she were not near to point their coming. I would not be so

simple, I think; but, whatever I thought, I took from rosy-faced Katie

the bowl of warm and fragrant gruel, and carried it in to Miss Axtell.

She took it, looked up smilingly at me, and said, "Something soft and

cool."

Mr. Axtell held it for her, whilst slowly she took the gruel.

Doctor Eaton came in.

"How is this?" he asked; "we shall take great skill and credit to our

individual self for this recovery. Now tell me, Miss Lettie, am I not

the very best physician in all Redleaf?"

"There being none other in the village, I'll permit you to quaff the

vain draught, so that you will season it with a little of my gruel; I

cannot fancy, even, where it came from," she said, playfully extending

to the doctor her spoon, half filled.

Doctor Eaton bent forward, and put his lips to the spoon she had not

meant him to touch.

Miss Axtell seemed surprised.

"Why did you do it?" she asked, with a little bit of childish petulance.

"Because I think that you have taken all of it that is good for you at

present. I made use of the speediest remedy; vital cases demand sure

means, you know, Miss Lettie."

Mr. Axtell held the bowl of gruel no longer. Doctor Eaton turned to me.

"Have you been here all day?" he asked.

"I have."

"Will you put your hat on and walk in the air? There's just time enough

for you to walk to the parsonage and come back, before dark."

Did Doctor Eaton know how to prescribe for cases which were not vital?

It so seemed; for he had given me my need this once. I put my hat on, as

he had recommended, and went out. The day was saying its soft, genial

farewells, that mingle so charmfully with the promise to come again,

that is repeated throughout the great city of Nature. Doctor Eaton

evidently intended to watch the effect of his dictation, for he joined

me, giving me voice-intimation of his presence.

"Have you asked him yet?" he said, coming to my side, and speaking in

his peculiar way, very much as if I were a little child, and he its

father.

"Please tell me what I am expected to do," I replied.

"To ask Abraham Axtell about that picture, Miss Percival. It will do him

good."

"I am afraid your prescriptions are not always the most agreeable," I

said.

"Maybe not; it seems quite possible; but bitters are good,--try them."

"I would rather not, Doctor Eaton."

"No? Then offer them to others. Abraham Axtell is one needing them."

"You are his physician."

"You think so?"

"No, I take the seeming."

"Unsafe road, young lady! don't take it,--take mine. Just ask Abraham

whose face that is, then come and tell me what he tells you."

"Breach of confidence, Doctor Eaton. I couldn't do it possibly."

"You'll tell me, though, depend upon it," he said, and was carried off

in great haste to repair a broken bone, and I saw him no more,

until--when?