HORACE
During that week before the Fourth of July the days passed with
incredible slowness. One afternoon, to beguile the time, I went over to
Horace Winslow's house.
Horace, from the standpoint of most of us, was entitled to
sympathy,--he was being "brought up" with so much care.
Not that any of us were neglected. School was our portion, Mr.
Colburn's and other improving but uncomfortable books were our fare
through nine months of the year. On Sundays we were duly despatched to
the school appropriate to that day. We each carried the traditional
cent for the contribution box. And, as in the story-books (which are
sometimes faithful transcripts from life), it was with difficulty that
we passed the traditional drug shop, which displayed the traditional
peppermint lozenges and "coltsfoot."
And, still in the traditional manner, the Tempter's voice was loud
sometimes in our ears,--so loud that we turned and entered Dr. Dibden's
shop, and spent that cent for a roll of lozenges, or a piece of
coltsfoot, or of "stick lickrish."
But if we did this thing, so did Horace Winslow. And if, occasionally,
we had to be sent from the dinner-table to remove a few burrs from our
coat collars, or to make another attempt with the hair-brush, so had
Horace. In such matters his experiences were not different from those
of the other boys in the neighborhood.
His mind was being improved,--that was all.
It had not injured his health to any extent. He presented, on that
afternoon, his usual round countenance, and red cheeks. A pleasing
plumpness was his most noticeable characteristic,--not the lean air of
the scholar.
I found him making a suitable home for his turtles, and I joined in
the work with enthusiasm. The turtles had been straying lately, and it
was clear that something had to be done. It is distressing, after you
have lavished any amount of attention on a turtle, and have tied him by
a long string so as to give him wide liberty, to find in the morning
that he has twisted and tangled the string amongst the grass, and then
departed, leaving one end of the string buried, as if in derision, in
the ground.
We set out to construct a turtle-proof pen from boards and shingles.
"I came pretty near losin' all the turtles," said Horace.
"Did they break the strings?" I asked.
"No,--only one of 'em. But Aunt said she didn't know but I'd have to
put 'em all back in the pond."
"What for?"
"'Cos I took one of 'em to bed with me night 'fore last."
"Which one?"
"That big one, with the yuller spots."
"Did she mind?"
"Who,--Aunt Cora? You bet she did! I put him in the bath-tub to give
him a swim in the mornin', an' I forgot him when I went to breakfast,
an' then right after breakfast I had to go down town to get a
yeast-cake, an' Aunt found him swimmin' round in the tub, an' she said
'twas horrid to have turtles in the tub, an' she wanted to know when I
put him there, an' so she found out I'd had him under the pillow all
night, an' she was awful mad! I thought she was goin' to lick me, but
she didn't. I didn't dare tell her I'd had another one up there the
night before,--the little black one. He's a jim-dandy,--the best turtle
I've got. His name is Pete."
I agreed that Pete was a very desirable turtle. And I put in a request.
"Tell me if your Aunt makes you put 'em back in the pond, will you?"
"She won't. She said I could keep 'em, but I can't bring 'em inside the
house. Gee! She's been awful cross lately, though. Last night again.
An' Uncle, too. We went in swimmin' out to Four Rocks,--I mean I did,
an' Ben Spauldin', an' Harry Fletcher, an'--"
"How'd you go?" I interrupted; "out the railroad?"
"No, we got a ride on Dole's wagon to the green, an' then went out the
middle road. While we were in the water, two fellers came along, an'
grabbed most of my clothes, an' Ben's, an' run up across the track,
an' chucked 'em into Mr. Harris' shanty, an' then run off laughin'; an'
I run up to get 'em, an' just as I got up on the road Aunt an' Uncle
came drivin' along with Mr. Benton, an' they were mad as hops 'cos I
didn't have anythin' on, an' Uncle was goin' to make me get into the
carriage an' get under a robe, till I told him my clothes were in the
shanty."
"What did he say?"
"He said I'd ought to have taken better care of my clothes, an' Aunt
said it was disgraceful runnin' round stark naked on the road, an' she
was mortified to death, an' I couldn't go in swimmin' any more if I
didn't behave, an'--oh, darn it all, is that two o'clock?"
It was certainly two. The North Church clock struck the hour
distinctly.
"I s'pose I'll have to go in, now," he announced sorrowfully.
I was about to ask the reason, when the voice of Mrs. Vincent, Horace's
aunt, came from behind the closed shutters of a window.
"Horace!"
"Oh, I don't want to come in now!"
"Horace!"
"Well, I don't, Aunt. Sam Edwards is here, and we've got to build this
turtle-pen."
"HORACE!"
"I can't leave Sam here all alone, Aunt. 'Twouldn't be polite."
"Horace, come in the house instantly. You may bring Samuel with you."
"Oh, he don't want to come."
"_Doesn't_ want to come, you mean. Wouldn't you like to hear me read to
Horace, Samuel?"
I was greatly interested in the turtles, but I was also fond of being
read to. Apparently I was going to lose the company of Horace, anyhow.
Moreover, I was afraid of Horace's aunt. So I meekly said:--
"Yes'm."
But Horace still raised objections.
"We can't leave the turtles like this Aunt,--they'll all get away."
"Horace, mind what I say this minute. You can make the turtles safe
enough. I will give you three minutes longer, and if you are not
indoors then, your uncle will punish you this evening."
We collected the wayward turtles and put them in a garden basket. A
few seconds later we presented ourselves before Mrs. Vincent, who
looked at us ominously over the top of a book. Horace sat down in one
stiff-backed chair, and I in another. He began to screw his face into
knots as soon as he saw the book.
It was unknown to me, and fifteen or twenty years were to elapse before
I should know its title. Then, one day, reading Guizot's "History of
France," I recognized a passage, and realized with what work we had
been regaled,--when we wished to build a turtle-pen.
"Oh, Aunt--"
"Horace, be quiet. Sit up straight in your chair. Put your hand down."
She looked Horace over critically, and then began to read.
"'The old parliamentarians were triumphant; at the same time as Abbé
Terray, Chancellor Maupeou was disgraced, and the judicial system
he had founded fell with him. Unpopular from the first, the Maupeou
Parliament had remained in the nation's eyes the image of absolute
power corrupted and corrupting. The suit between Beaumarchais and
Councillor Goëzman--'"
"Oh, Aunt, I don't want--"
"Horace, if you are not still this instant, I will put you to bed!"
Horace's articulations dissolved into snuffles and whines; we both
hitched and wriggled in our chairs, and the reading went on. We heard
what Chancellor Maupeou said to the Duke de La Vrillière, and what M.
Turgot wrote to Louis XVI,--if a process in which the brain took almost
no part can be called hearing. These personages were strangers to me,
but Horace greeted them as familiar enemies. I judged that he knew and
hated them of old time.
An hour passed, a long hot hour. M. de Malesherbes had gone the way of
Turgot, and Horace and I were reduced to a mere coma. Then the book was
closed, and we were told that we might return to our turtles.
We did so with profound joy, and Horace, seeing the Tiltons' cat
hurrying over the fence, remarked that she was Chancellor Maupeou, and
threw a green apple at her.