IN THE WOODS.
"O, ma," said Horace, coming, into the house one morning glowing with
excitement, "mayn't I go in the woods with Peter Grant? He knows where
there's heaps of boxberries."
"And who is Peter Grant, my son?"
"He is a little boy with a bad temper," said aunt Louise, frowning
severely at Horace.--If she had had her way, I don't know but every
little boy in town would have been tied to a bed-post by a clothes-line.
As I have already said, aunt Louise was not remarkably fond of children,
and when they were naughty it was hard for her to forgive them.
She disliked little Peter; but she never stopped to think that he had a
cross and ignorant mother, who managed him so badly that he did not care
about trying to be good. Mrs. Grant seldom talked with him about God and
the Saviour; she never read to him from the Bible, nor told him to say
his prayers.
Mrs. Clifford answered Horace that she did not wish him to go into the
woods, and that was all that she thought it necessary to say.
Horace, at the time, had no idea of disobeying his mother; but not long
afterwards he happened to go into the kitchen, where his grandmother was
making beer.
"What do you make it of, grandma?" said he.
"Of molasses and warm water and yeast."
"But what gives the taste to it?"
"O, I put in spruce, or boxberry, or sarsaparilla."
"But see here, grandma: wouldn't you like to have me go in the woods
'someplace,' and dig roots for you?"
"Yes, indeed, my dear," said she innocently; "and if you should go, pray
get some wintergreen, by all means."
Horace's heart gave a wicked throb of delight. If some one wanted him to
go _after_ something, of course he _ought_ to go; for his mother had
often told him he must try to be useful. Strolling into the woods with
Peter Grant, just for fun, was very different from going in soberly to
dig up roots for grandma.
He thought of it all the way out to the gate. To be sure he might go and
ask his mother again, but "what was the use, when he knew certain sure
she'd be willing? Besides, wasn't the baby crying, so he mustn't go in
the room?"
These reasons sounded very well; but they could be picked in pieces, and
Horace knew it. It was only when the baby was asleep that he must keep
out of the chamber; and, as for being sure that his mother would let him
go into the woods, the truth was, he dared not ask her, for he knew she
would say, "No."
He found Peter Grant lounging near the school-house, scribbling his name
on the clean white paint under one of the windows.
Peter's black eyes twinkled.
"Going, ain't you, cap'n! dog and all? But where's your basket? Wait,
and I'll fetch one."
"There," said he, coming back again, "I got that out of the stable
there at the tavern; Billy Green is hostler: Billy knows me."
"Well, Peter, come ahead."
"I don't believe you know your way in these ere woods," returned Peter,
with an air of importance. "I'll go fust. It's a mighty long stretch,
'most up to Canada; but I could find _my_ way in the dark. I never got
lost anywheres yet!"
"Poh! nor I either," Horace was about to say; but remembering his
adventure in Cleveland, he drowned the words in a long whistle.
They kept on up the steep hill for some distance, and then struck off
into the forest. The straight pine trees stood up solemn and stiff.
Instead of tender leaves, they bristled all over with dark green
"needles." They had no blessings of birds' nests in their branches; yet
they gave out a pleasant odor, which the boys said was "nice."
"But they aren't so splendid, Peter, as our trees out west--don't begin!
_They_ grow so big you can't chop 'em down. I'll leave it to Pincher!"
"Chop 'em down? I reckon it can't be done!" replied Pincher--not in
words, but by a wag of his tail.
"Well, how _do_ you get 'em down then, cap'n?"
"We cut a place right 'round 'em: that's girdlin' the tree, and then,
ever so long after, it dies and drops down itself."
"O, my stars!" cried Peter, "I want to know!"
"No, you DON'T want to know, Peter, for I just told you! You may say, 'I
wonder,' if you like; that's what we say out west."
"Wait," said Peter. "I only said, '_I_ want to know what other trees
you have;' that's what I meant, but you _shet_ me right up."
"O, there's the butternut, and tree of heaven, and papaw, and 'simmon,
and a 'right smart sprinkle' of wood-trees."
"What's a 'simmon?"
"O, it looks like a little baked apple, all wrinkled up; but it's right
sweet. Ugh!" added Horace, making a wry face; "you better look out when
they're green: they pucker your mouth up a good deal worse'n
choke-cherries."
"What's a papaw?"
"A papaw? Well, it's a curious thing, not much account. The pigs eat it.
It tastes like a custard, right soft and mellow. Come, let's go to
work."
"Well, what's a tree of heaven?"
"O, Peter, for pity's sakes how do I know? It's a tree of heaven, I
suppose. It has pink hollyhocks growing on it. What makes you ask so
many questions?"
Upon that the boys went to work picking boxberry leaves, which grew at
the roots of the pine trees, among the soft moss and last year's cones.
Horace was very anxious to gather enough for some beer; but it was
strange how many it took to fill such "_enormous_ big baskets."
"Now," said Horace, "I move we look over yonder for some wintergreen.
You said you knew it by sight."
"Wintergreen? wintergreen?" echoed Peter: "O, yes, I know it well
enough. It spangles 'round. See, here's some; the girls make wreaths of
it."
It was _moneywort_; but Horace never doubted that Peter was telling the
truth, and supposed his grandmother would be delighted to see such
quantities of wintergreen.
After some time spent in gathering this, Horace happened to remember
that he wanted sarsaparilla.
"I reckon," thought he, "they'll be glad I came, if I carry home so many
things."
Peter knew they could find sarsaparilla, for there was not a root of any
sort which did not grow "in the pines;" of that he was sure. So they
struck still deeper into the woods, every step taking them farther from
home. Pincher followed, as happy as a dog can be; but, alas! never
dreaming that serious trouble was coming.
The boys dug up various roots with their jackknives; but they both knew
the taste of sarsaparilla, and could not be deceived.
"We hain't come to it yet," said Peter; "but it's round here somewheres,
I'll bet a dollar."
"I'm getting hungry," said Horace: "isn't it about time for the
dinner-bell to ring?"
"Pretty near," replied Peter, squinting his eyes and looking at the sky
as if there was a noon-mark up there, and he was the boy to find it.
"That bell will ring in fifteen minutes: you see if it don't."
But it did not, though it was high noon, certainly. Hours passed. Horace
remembered they were to have had salt codfish and cream gravy for
dinner. Aunt Madge had said so; also a roly-poly with foaming sauce. It
must now be long ago since the sugar and butter were beaten together for
that sauce. He wondered if there would be any pudding left. He was sure
he should like it cold, and a glass of water with ice in it.
O, how many times he could have gone to the barrel which stood by the
sink, and drunk such deep draughts of water, when he didn't care
anything about it! But now he was so thirsty, and there was not so much
as a teaspoonful of water to be found!
[Illustration: CAPTAIN HORACE LOST. Page 42.]
"I motion we go home," said Horace, for at least the tenth time.
"Well," replied Peter, sulkily, "ain't we striking a bee-line?"
"We've got turned round," said Horace: "Canada is over yonder, _I_
know."
"Pshaw! no, it ain't, no such a thing."
But they were really going the wrong way. The village bell had rung at
noon, as usual, but they were too far off to hear it. It was weary work
winding in and out, in and out, among the trees and stumps. With torn
clothes, bleeding hands, and tired feet, the poor boys pushed on.
"Of course we're right," said Peter, in a would-be brave tone: "don't
you remember that stump?"
"No, I don't, Peter Grant," replied Horace, who was losing his
patience: "I never was here before. Humph! I thought you could find your
way with your eyes shut."
"Turn and go t'other way, then," said Peter, adding a wicked word I
cannot repeat.
"I will," replied Horace, coolly: "if I'd known you used such swearing
words I never'd have come!"
"Hollo, there!" shouted Peter, a few moments after, "I'll keep with you,
and risk it, cap'n."
"Come on, then," returned Horace, who was glad of Peter's company just
now, little as he liked him. "Where's our baskets?" said he, stopping
short.
"Sure enough," cried Peter; "but we can't go back now."
They had not gone far when they were startled by a cry from Pincher, a
sharp cry of pain. He stood stock still, his brown eyes almost starting
from their sockets with agony and fear. It proved that he had stumbled
upon a fox-trap which was concealed under some dry twigs, and his right
fore-paw was caught fast.
Here was a dilemma. The boys tried with all their might to set poor
Pincher free; but it seemed as if they only made matters worse.
"What an old nuisance of a dog!" cried Peter; "just as we'd got to goin'
on the right road."
"Be still, Peter Grant! Hush your mouth! If you say a word against my
dog you'll catch it. Poor little Pincher!" said Horace, patting him
gently and laying his cheek down close to his face.
The suffering creature licked his hands, and said with his eloquent
eyes,--
"Dear little master, don't take it to heart. You didn't know I'd get
hurt! You've always been good to poor Pincher."
"I'd rather have given a dollar," said Horace; "O, Pincher! I wish 'twas
my foot; I tell you I do!"
They tried again, but the trap held the dog's paw like a vice.
"I'll tell you what," said Peter; "we'll leave the dog here, and go home
and get somebody to come."
"You just behave, Peter Grant," said Horace, looking very angry. "I
shouldn't want to be _your_ dog! Just you hold his foot still, and I'll
try again."
This time Horace examined the trap on all sides, and, being what is
called an ingenious boy, did actually succeed at last in getting little
Pincher's foot out.
"Whew! I didn't think you could," said Peter, admiringly.
"_You_ couldn't, Peter; you haven't sense enough."
The foot was terribly mangled, and Pincher had to be carried home in
arms.
"I should like to know, Peter, who set that trap. If my father was here,
he'd have him in the lock-up."
"Poh! it wasn't set for dogs," replied Peter, in an equally cross tone,
for both the boys were tired, hungry, and out of sorts. "Don't you know
nothin'? That's a bear-trap!"
"A bear-trap! Do you have bears up here?"
"O, yes, dear me, suz: hain't you seen none since you've been in the
State of Maine? I've ate 'em lots of times."
Peter had once eaten a piece of bear-steak, or it might have been
moose-meat, he was not sure which; but at any rate it had been brought
down from Moosehead Lake.
"Bears 'round here?" thought Horace, in a fright.
He quickened his pace. O, if he could only be sure it was the right
road! Perhaps they were walking straight into a den of bears. He hugged
little Pincher close in his arms, soothing him with pet names; for the
poor dog continued to moan.
"O, dear, dear!" cried Peter, "don't you feel awfully?"
"I don't stop to think of my feelings," replied Horace, shortly.
"Well, I wish we hadn't come--I do."
"So do I, Peter. I won't play 'hookey' again; but I'm not a-goin' to
cry."
"I'll never go anywheres with you any more as long as I live, Horace
Clifford!"
"Nobody wants you to, Pete Grant!"
Then they pushed on in dignified silence till Peter broke forth again
with wailing sobs.
"I dread to get home! O, dear, I'll have to take it, I tell you. I guess
you'd cry if you expected to be whipped."
Horace made no reply. He did not care about telling Peter that he too
had a terrible dread of reaching home, for there was something a great
deal worse than a whipping, and that was, a mother's sorrowful face.
"I shouldn't care if she'd whip me right hard," thought Horace; "but
she'll talk to me about God and the Bible, and O, she'll look so white!"
"Peter, you go on ahead," said he aloud.
"What for?"
"O, I want to rest a minute with Pincher."
It was some moments before Peter would go, and then he went grumbling.
As soon as he was out of sight, Horace threw himself on his knees and
prayed in low tones,--
"O God, I do want to be a good boy; and if I ever get out of this woods
I'll begin! Keep the bears off, please do, O God, and let us find the
way out, and forgive me. Amen."
Horace had never uttered a more sincere prayer in his life. Like many
older people, he waited till he was in sore need before he called upon
God; but when he had once opened his heart to him, it was wonderful how
much lighter it felt.
He rose to his feet and struggled on, saying to Pincher, "Poor fellow,
poor fellow, don't cry: we'll soon be home."
"Hollo there, cap'n!" shouted Peter: "we're comin' to a clearin'."
"Just as I expected," thought Horace: "why didn't I pray to God
before?"
[Illustration: IN THE WOODS.--Page 111.]