THE BOYS
While Nat takes a good long sleep, I will tell my little readers
something about the boys, among whom he found himself when he woke up.
To begin with our old friends. Franz was a tall lad, of sixteen now, a
regular German, big, blond, and bookish, also very domestic, amiable,
and musical. His uncle was fitting him for college, and his aunt for a
happy home of his own hereafter, because she carefully fostered in him
gentle manners, love of children, respect for women, old and young,
and helpful ways about the house. He was her right-hand man on all
occasions, steady, kind, and patient; and he loved his merry aunt like
a mother, for such she had tried to be to him.
Emil was quite different, being quick-tempered, restless, and
enterprising, bent on going to sea, for the blood of the old vikings
stirred in his veins, and could not be tamed. His uncle promised that
he should go when he was sixteen, and set him to studying navigation,
gave him stories of good and famous admirals and heroes to read, and
let him lead the life of a frog in river, pond, and brook, when lessons
were done. His room looked like the cabin of a man-of-war, for every
thing was nautical, military, and ship shape. Captain Kyd was his
delight, and his favorite amusement was to rig up like that piratical
gentleman, and roar out sanguinary sea-songs at the top of his voice.
He would dance nothing but sailors’ hornpipes, rolled in his gait,
and was as nautical in conversation as his uncle would permit. The
boys called him “Commodore,” and took great pride in his fleet, which
whitened the pond and suffered disasters that would have daunted any
commander but a sea-struck boy.
Demi was one of the children who show plainly the effect of intelligent
love and care, for soul and body worked harmoniously together. The
natural refinement which nothing but home influence can teach, gave
him sweet and simple manners: his mother had cherished an innocent and
loving heart in him; his father had watched over the physical growth
of his boy, and kept the little body straight and strong on wholesome
food and exercise and sleep, while Grandpa March cultivated the little
mind with the tender wisdom of a modern Pythagoras,--not tasking it
with long, hard lessons, parrot-learned, but helping it to unfold as
naturally and beautifully as sun and dew help roses bloom. He was not
a perfect child, by any means, but his faults were of the better sort;
and being early taught the secret of self-control, he was not left at
the mercy of appetites and passions, as some poor little mortals are,
and then punished for yielding to the temptations against which they
have no armor. A quiet, quaint boy was Demi, serious, yet cheery, quite
unconscious that he was unusually bright and beautiful, yet quick to
see and love intelligence or beauty in other children. Very fond of
books, and full of lively fancies, born of a strong imagination and a
spiritual nature, these traits made his parents anxious to balance them
with useful knowledge and healthful society, lest they should make him
one of those pale precocious children who amaze and delight a family
sometimes, and fade away like hot-house flowers, because the young
soul blooms too soon, and has not a hearty body to root it firmly in
the wholesome soil of this world.
So Demi was transplanted to Plumfield, and took so kindly to the life
there, that Meg and John and Grandpa felt satisfied that they had
done well. Mixing with other boys brought out the practical side of
him, roused his spirit, and brushed away the pretty cobwebs he was so
fond of spinning in that little brain of his. To be sure, he rather
shocked his mother when he came home, by banging doors, saying “by
George” emphatically, and demanding tall thick boots “that clumped like
papa’s.” But John rejoiced over him, laughed at his explosive remarks,
got the boots, and said contentedly, “He is doing well; so let him
clump. I want my son to be a manly boy, and this temporary roughness
won’t hurt him. We can polish him up by and by; and as for learning, he
will pick that up as pigeons do peas. So don’t hurry him.”
Daisy was as sunshiny and charming as ever, with all sorts of little
womanlinesses budding in her, for she was like her gentle mother, and
delighted in domestic things. She had a family of dolls, whom she
brought up in the most exemplary manner; she could not get on without
her little work-basket and bits of sewing, which she did so nicely,
that Demi frequently pulled out his handkerchief to display her neat
stitches, and Baby Josy had a flannel petticoat beautifully made by
Sister Daisy. She liked to quiddle about the china-closet, prepare the
salt-cellars, put the spoons straight on the table; and every day went
round the parlor with her brush, dusting chairs and tables. Demi called
her a “Betty,” but was very glad to have her keep his things in order,
lend him her nimble fingers in all sorts of work, and help him with
his lessons, for they kept abreast there, and had no thought of rivalry.
The love between them was as strong as ever; and no one could laugh
Demi out of his affectionate ways with Daisy. He fought her battles
valiantly, and never could understand why boys should be ashamed to
say “right out,” that they loved their sisters. Daisy adored her twin,
thought “my brother” the most remarkable boy in the world, and every
morning, in her little wrapper, trotted to tap at his door with a
motherly--“Get up, my dear, it’s ’most breakfast time; and here’s your
clean collar.”
Rob was an energetic morsel of a boy, who seemed to have discovered the
secret of perpetual motion, for he never was still. Fortunately, he was
not mischievous, nor very brave; so he kept out of trouble pretty well,
and vibrated between father and mother like an affectionate little
pendulum with a lively tick, for Rob was a chatterbox.
Teddy was too young to play a very important part in the affairs of
Plumfield, yet he had his little sphere, and filled it beautifully.
Every one felt the need of a pet at times, and Baby was always ready
to accommodate, for kissing and cuddling suited him excellently. Mrs.
Jo seldom stirred without him; so he had his little finger in all the
domestic pies, and every one found them all the better for it, for they
believed in babies at Plumfield.
Dick Brown, and Adolphus or Dolly Pettingill, were two eight-year-olds.
Dolly stuttered badly, but was gradually getting over it, for no one
was allowed to mock him and Mr. Bhaer tried to cure it, by making him
talk slowly. Dolly was a good little lad, quite uninteresting and
ordinary, but he flourished here, and went through his daily duties
and pleasures with placid content and propriety.
Dick Brown’s affliction was a crooked back, yet he bore his burden
so cheerfully, that Demi once asked in his queer way, “Do humps make
people good-natured? I’d like one if they do.” Dick was always merry,
and did his best to be like other boys, for a plucky spirit lived in
the feeble little body. When he first came, he was very sensitive about
his misfortune, but soon learned to forget it, for no one dared remind
him of it, after Mr. Bhaer had punished one boy for laughing at him.
“God don’t care; for my soul is straight if my back isn’t,” sobbed Dick
to his tormentor on that occasion; and, by cherishing this idea, the
Bhaers soon led him to believe that people also loved his soul, and did
not mind his body, except to pity and help him to bear it.
Playing menagerie once with the others, some one said, “What animal
will you be, Dick?”
“Oh, I’m the dromedary; don’t you see the hump on my back?” was the
laughing answer.
“So you are, my nice little one that don’t carry loads, but marches by
the elephant first in the procession,” said Demi, who was arranging the
spectacle.
“I hope others will be as kind to the poor dear as my boys have learned
to be,” said Mrs. Jo, quite satisfied with the success of her teaching,
as Dick ambled past her, looking like a very happy, but a very feeble
little dromedary, beside stout Stuffy, who did the elephant with
ponderous propriety.
Jack Ford was a sharp, rather a sly lad, who was sent to this school,
because it was cheap. Many men would have thought him a smart boy,
but Mr. Bhaer did not like his way of illustrating that Yankee word,
and thought his unboyish keenness and money-loving as much of an
affliction as Dolly’s stutter, or Dick’s hump.
Ned Barker was like a thousand other boys of fourteen, all legs,
blunder, and bluster. Indeed the family called him the “Blunderbuss,”
and always expected to see him tumble over the chairs, bump against the
tables, and knock down any small articles near him. He bragged a good
deal about what he could do, but seldom did any thing to prove it, was
not brave, and a little given to tale-telling. He was apt to bully the
small boys, and flatter the big ones, and without being at all bad, was
just the sort of fellow who could very easily be led astray.
George Cole had been spoilt by an over-indulgent mother, who stuffed
him with sweetmeats till he was sick, and then thought him too delicate
to study, so that at twelve years old, he was a pale, puffy boy, dull,
fretful, and lazy. A friend persuaded her to send him to Plumfield, and
there he soon got waked up, for sweet things were seldom allowed, much
exercise required, and study made so pleasant, that Stuffy was gently
lured along, till he quite amazed his anxious mamma by his improvement,
and convinced her that there was really something remarkable in
Plumfield air.
Billy Ward was what the Scotch tenderly call an “innocent,” for
though thirteen years old, he was like a child of six. He had been
an unusually intelligent boy, and his father had hurried him on too
fast, giving him all sorts of hard lessons, keeping him at his books
six hours a day, and expecting him to absorb knowledge as a Strasburg
goose does the food crammed down its throat. He thought he was doing
his duty, but he nearly killed the boy, for a fever gave the poor child
a sad holiday, and when he recovered, the over-tasked brain gave out,
and Billy’s mind was like a slate over which a sponge has passed,
leaving it blank.
It was a terrible lesson to his ambitious father; he could not bear
the sight of his promising child, changed to a feeble idiot, and he
sent him away to Plumfield, scarcely hoping that he could be helped,
but sure that he would be kindly treated. Quite docile and harmless
was Billy, and it was pitiful to see how hard he tried to learn, as
if groping dimly after the lost knowledge which had cost him so much.
Day after day, he pored over the alphabet, proudly said A and B, and
thought he knew them, but on the morrow they were gone, and all the
work was to be done over again. Mr. Bhaer had infinite patience with
him, and kept on in spite of the apparent hopelessness of the task, not
caring for book lessons, but trying gently to clear away the mists from
the darkened mind, and give it back intelligence enough to make the boy
less a burden and an affliction.
Mrs. Bhaer strengthened his health by every aid she could invent, and
the boys all pitied and were kind to him. He did not like their active
plays, but would sit for hours watching the doves, would dig holes for
Teddy till even that ardent grubber was satisfied, or follow Silas,
the man, from place to place seeing him work, for honest Si was very
good to him, and though he forgot his letters Billy remembered friendly
faces.
Tommy Bangs was the scapegrace of the school, and the most trying
little scapegrace that ever lived. As full of mischief as a monkey,
yet so good-hearted that one could not help forgiving his tricks; so
scatterbrained that words went by him like the wind, yet so penitent
for every misdeed, that it was impossible to keep sober when he
vowed tremendous vows of reformation, or proposed all sorts of queer
punishments to be inflicted upon himself. Mr. and Mrs. Bhaer lived in
a state of preparation for any mishap, from the breaking of Tommy’s
own neck, to the blowing up of the entire family with gunpowder; and
Nursey had a particular drawer in which she kept bandages, plasters,
and salves for his especial use, for Tommy was always being brought in
half dead; but nothing ever killed him, and he rose from every downfall
with redoubled vigor.
The first day he came, he chopped the top off one finger in the
hay-cutter, and during the week, fell from the shed roof, was chased
by an angry hen who tried to pick his eyes out because he examined her
chickens, got run away with, and had his ears boxed violently by Asia,
who caught him luxuriously skimming a pan of cream with half a stolen
pie. Undaunted, however, by any failures or rebuffs, this indomitable
youth went on amusing himself with all sorts of tricks till no one felt
safe. If he did not know his lessons, he always had some droll excuse
to offer, and as he was usually clever at his books, and as bright as a
button in composing answers when he did not know them, he got on pretty
well at school. But out of school,--Ye gods and little fishes! how
Tommy did carouse!
He wound fat Asia up in her own clothes line against the post, and left
her there to fume and scold for half an hour one busy Monday morning.
He dropped a hot cent down Mary Ann’s back as that pretty maid was
waiting at table one day when there were gentlemen to dinner, whereat
the poor girl upset the soup and rushed out of the room in dismay,
leaving the family to think that she had gone mad. He fixed a pail of
water up in a tree, with a bit of ribbon fastened to the handle, and
when Daisy, attracted by the gay streamer, tried to pull it down, she
got a douche bath that spoiled her clean frock and hurt her little
feelings very much. He put rough white pebbles in the sugar-bowl
when his grandmother came to tea, and the poor old lady wondered why
they didn’t melt in her cup, but was too polite to say anything. He
passed round snuff in church so that five of the boys sneezed with
such violence they had to go out. He dug paths in winter time, and
then privately watered them so that people should tumble down. He
drove poor Silas nearly wild by hanging his big boots in conspicuous
places, for his feet were enormous, and he was very much ashamed of
them. He persuaded confiding little Dolly to tie a thread to one of
his loose teeth, and leave the string hanging from his mouth when he
went to sleep, so that Tommy could pull it out without his feeling the
dreaded operation. But the tooth wouldn’t come at the first tweak, and
poor Dolly woke up in great anguish of spirit, and lost all faith in
Tommy from that day forth. The last prank had been to give the hens
bread soaked in rum, which made them tipsy and scandalized all the
other fowls, for the respectable old biddies went staggering about,
pecking and clucking in the most maudlin manner, while the family were
convulsed with laughter at their antics, till Daisy took pity on them
and shut them up in the hen-house to sleep off their intoxication.
These were the boys, and they lived together as happily as twelve lads
could, studying and playing, working and squabbling, fighting faults
and cultivating virtues in the good old-fashioned way. Boys at other
schools probably learned more from books, but less of that better
wisdom which makes good men. Latin, Greek, and mathematics were all
very well, but in Professor Bhaer’s opinion, self-knowledge, self-help,
and self-control were more important, and he tried to teach them
carefully. People shook their heads sometimes at his ideas, even while
they owned that the boys improved wonderfully in manners and morals.
But then, as Mrs. Jo said to Nat, it was an “odd school.”