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The Young Marooners on the Florida Coast
The Young Marooners on the Florida Coast
INTRODUCTION
I have been asked to furnish an introduction for a new edition of "The Young Marooners." As an introduction is unnecessary, the writing of it must be to some extent perfunctory. The book is known in many lands and languages. It has survived its own success, and has entered into literature. It has become a classic. The young marooners themselves have reached middle age, and some of them have passed away, but their adventures are as fresh and as entertaining as ever.
Dr. Goulding's work possesses all the elements of enduring popularity. It has the strength and vigour of simplicity; its narrative flows continuously forward; its incidents are strange and thrilling, and underneath all is a moral purpose sanely put.
The author himself was surprised at the great popularity of his story, and has written a history of its origin as a preface. The internal evidence is that the book is not the result of literary ambition, but of a strong desire to instruct and amuse his own children, and the story is so deftly written that the instruction is a definite part of the narrative. The art here may be unconscious, but it is a very fine art nevertheless.
Dr. Goulding lived a busy life. He had the restless missionary spirit which he inherited from the Puritans of Dorchester, England, who established themselves in Dorchester, South Carolina, and in Dorchester, Georgia, before the Revolutionary War. Devoting his life to good works, he nevertheless found time to indulge his literary faculty; he also found time to indulge his taste for mechanical invention. He invented the first sewing-machine that was ever put in practical use in the South. His family were using this machine a year before the Howe patents were issued. In his journal of that date (1845) he writes: "Having satisfied myself about my machine, I laid it aside that I might attend to other and weightier duties." He applied for no patent.
"The Young Marooners" was begun in 1847, continued in a desultory way, and completed in 1850. Its first title was a quaint one, "Bobbins and Cruisers Company." It was afterward called "Robert and Harold; or, the Young Marooners." The history of the manuscript of the book is an interesting parallel to that of many other successful books. After having been positively declined in New York, it was for months left in Philadelphia, where one night, as the gentleman whose duty it was to pass judgment upon the material offered had begun in a listless way his task, he became so much absorbed in the story that he did not lay it down until long after midnight, and hastening to the publishers early next morning, insisted that it should be immediately put into print. Three editions were issued in the first year, and it was soon reprinted in England by Nisbet & Co., of London, followed by five other houses in England and Scotland at later dates.
Dr. Goulding was the author of "Little Josephine," published in Philadelphia (1848); "The Young Marooners" (1852); "Confederate Soldiers' Hymn-Book," a compilation (1863); "Marooner's Island," an independent sequel to "Young Marooners" (1868); "Frank Gordon; or, When I was Little Boy" (1869), and "The Woodruff Stories" (1870). With the exception of "Little Josephine" and the "Hymn-Book," they have all been republished abroad. Born near Midway, Liberty County, Georgia, September 28th, 1810, he died August 21st, 1881, and is buried in the little churchyard at Roswell, Georgia.
JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS.
THE HISTORY OF THIS BOOK
In a vine-covered piazza of the sunny South, a company of boys and girls used to gather round me, of a summer evening, to hear the varied story of my early years. As these boys and girls grew larger, I found it necessary to change my plan of instruction. There were many facts in nature which I wished to communicate, and many expedients in practical life, which I supposed might be useful. To give this information, in such shape as to insure its being remembered, required a story. The result has been a book; and that book is "The Young Marooners" – or, as my young folks call it, "Robert and Harold."
Their interest in the story has steadily increased from the beginning to the end; and sure am I, that if it excites one-half as much abroad, as it has excited at home, no author need ask for more.
The story, however, is not all a story; the fiction consists mostly in the putting together. With very few exceptions, the incidents are real occurrences; and whoever will visit the regions described, will see that the pictures correspond to nature. Possibly also, the visitor may meet even now, with a fearless Harold, an intelligent Robert, a womanly Mary, and a merry Frank.
Should my young readers ever go marooning, I trust their party may meet with fewer misfortunes and as happy a termination.
F. R. G.
CHAPTER I
THE COMPANY AND THEIR EMBARKATION
On Saturday, the 21st of August, 1830, a small but beautiful brig left the harbour of Charleston, South Carolina, bound for Tampa Bay, Florida. On board were nine passengers; Dr. Gordon, his three children, Robert, Mary, and Frank; his sister's son, Harold McIntosh, and four servants.
Dr. Gordon was a wealthy physician, who resided, during the winter, upon the seaboard of Georgia, and during the summer upon a farm in the mountains of that beautifully varied and thriving State. His wife was a Carolinian, from the neighbourhood of Charleston. Anna Gordon, his sister, married a Col. McIntosh, who, after residing for twelve years upon a plantation near the city of Montgomery, in Alabama, died, leaving his widow with three children, and an encumbered estate. Soon after her widowhood, Dr. Gordon paid her a visit, for the two-fold purpose of condolence and of aiding in the settlement of her affairs. She was so greatly pleased with the gentlemanly bearing and the decided intelligence of Robert, who on this occasion accompanied his father, that she requested the privilege of placing her son Harold under her brother's care, until some other arrangement could be made for his education. Dr. Gordon was equally prepossessed with the frank manners and manly aspect of his nephew, and it was with peculiar pleasure that he acceded to the request. Harold had been with his uncle about a month previous to the period at which this history begins.
Mrs. Gordon was a woman of warm affections and cultivated mind, but of feeble constitution. She had been the mother of five children; but, during the infancy of the last, her health exhibited so many signs of decay as to convince her husband that the only hope of saving her life was to seek for her, during the ensuing winter, a climate even more bland than that in which she had spent her girlhood.
Tampa Bay is a military post of the United States. Dr. Gordon had formerly visited it, and was so delighted with its soft Italian climate, and with the wild beauty of its shores, that he had even then purchased a choice lot in the vicinity of the fort, and ever after had looked forward, almost with hope, to the time when he might have some excuse for removing there. That time had now come. And doubting not that the restorative powers of the climate would exert a happy influence upon his wife's health, he left her with her relatives, while he went to Tampa for the purpose of preparing a dwelling suitable for her reception.
The accompanying party was larger than he had at first intended. Robert and Harold were to go of course; they were old enough to be his companions; and, moreover, Harold had been sent by his mother for the express purpose of enjoying that excellent home education which had been so happily exhibited in Robert. But on mature reflection there appeared to Dr. Gordon special reasons why he should also take his eldest daughter, Mary, who was about eleven years of age, and his second son, Frank, who was between seven and eight. The addition of these younger persons to the party, however, did not cause him any anxiety, or any addition to the number of his servants; for he and his wife, although wealthy by inheritance, and accustomed all their lives to the help of servants, had educated their children to be as independent as possible of unnecessary help. Indeed, Mary was qualified to be of great assistance; for though only eleven years of age, she was an excellent housekeeper, and during the indisposition of her mother had presided with remarkable ability at her father's table. Little Frank was too young to be useful, but he was an obedient, merry little fellow, a great pet with everybody, and promised, by his cheerful good nature, to add much to the enjoyment of the party; and as to the care which he needed, Mary had only to continue that motherly attention which she had been accustomed already to bestow.
To say a word or two more of the youths; Robert Gordon, now nearly fourteen years of age, had a great thirst for knowledge. Stimulated continually by the instructive conversation of his father, who spared no pains in his education, he drew rapidly from all the sources opened to him by books, society, and nature. His finely developed mind was decidedly of a philosophic cast. Partaking, however, of the delicate constitution of his mother, he was oftentimes averse to those athletic exercises which became his age, and by which he would have been fitted for a more vigorous and useful manhood.
Harold McIntosh, a half year older than his cousin, was, on the contrary, of a robust constitution and active habit, with but little inclination for books. Through the inattention of a father, who seemed to care more for manly daring than for intellectual culture, his education had been sadly neglected. The advantages afforded him had been of an exceedingly irregular character, and his only incentive to study had been the gratification of his mother, whom he tenderly loved. For years preceding the change of his abode, a large portion of his leisure time had been spent in visiting an old Indian of the neighbourhood, by the name of Torgah, and gleaning from him by conversation and practice, that knowledge of wood-craft, which nothing but an Indian's experience can furnish, and which usually possesses so romantic a charm for Southern and Western (perhaps we may say for American) boys.
The cousins had become very much attached. Each admired the other's excellencies, and envied the other's accomplishments; and the parents had good reason to hope that they would prove of decided benefit to each other by mutual example.
Preparing for a winter's residence at such a place as Tampa, where, with the exception of what was to be obtained at the fort, they would be far removed from all the comforts and appliances of civilized life, Dr. Gordon was careful to take with him everything which could be foreseen as needful. Among these may be mentioned the materials already framed for a small dwelling-house, kitchen, and stable; ample stores of provisions, poultry, goats (as being more convenient than cows), a pair of horses, a buggy, and wagon, a large and beautiful pleasure boat, books for reading, and for study, together with such furniture as habit had made necessary to comfort.
CHAPTER II
MOTHER CARY'S CHICKENS-FISHING FOR TROUT-SAW-FISH-FRANK AND THE SHARK-LOOMING-TOM STARBOARD-THE NAUTILUS-ARRIVAL AT TAMPA
Mary and Frank were affected with sea sickness shortly after entering the rough and rolling water on the bar, and having, in consequence, retired early to bed, they scarcely rose for six and thirty hours. Indeed, all the passengers, except Harold, suffered in turn this usual inconvenience of persons unaccustomed to the sea.
The only incident of interest that occurred during this part of the voyage, was a fright received by Mary and Frank. It was as follows: Having partially recovered from their indisposition, they were engaged with childish glee in fishing from the stern windows. Directly over head hung the jolly boat, and beneath them the water foamed and eddied round the rudder. Mary was fishing for Mother Cary's chickens-a species of "poultry" well known to those who go to sea. Her apparatus consisted of a strong thread, twenty or thirty yards long, having divers loops upon it, and baited at the end with a little tuft of red. She had not succeeded in taking any; but one, more daring than the rest, had become entangled in the thread, and Mary eagerly drew it towards her, exclaiming, "I have caught it! I have caught it!" Ere, however, she could bring it within arm's length, the struggling bird had escaped.
Frank had obtained a large fish-hook, which he tied to a piece of twine, and baited with some raw beef; and he was fishing, he said, for trout. A few minutes after Mary's adventure with the bird, he saw a great fish, twice as long as himself, having an enormous snout, set on both sides with a multitude of sharp teeth, following in the vessel's wake. He drew himself quickly into the window, exclaiming, "Look, sister, look!" The fish did not continue long to follow them. It seemed to have come on a voyage of curiosity, and having satisfied itself that this great swimming monster, the vessel, was neither whale nor kraken, it darted off and returned no more.
"I should not like to hook that fellow," said Frank, "for I am sure I could not draw him in."
"No," replied Mary, "and I should not like to have such an ugly fellow on board, if we could get him here."
"Ugh! what a long ugly nose he has," said Frank. "I wonder what he can do with such a nose, and with all those teeth on the outside of it-only see, sister, teeth on his NOSE!"
"I do not know," she answered, "but we can ask father when we go on deck."
"I think his nose must be long to smell things a great way off," conjectured Frank.
Thus they chatted until Mary called out, "See, Frank, there is a black piece of wood sticking out of the water. See how it floats after us! No, it cannot be a piece of wood, for it swims from side to side. It must be a fish. It is! Draw in your head, Frank."
Unsuccessful in his trout fishing, Frank had attached a red silk handkerchief to his line, and was amusing himself with letting it down so as to touch along the water. When Mary said "it is a fish," he espied an enormous creature, much larger than the sawfish, swimming almost under him, and looking up hungrily to the window where they were. A moment after it leaped directly towards them. Both screamed with terror, and Frank's wrist was jerked so violently, and pained him so much, that he was certain his hand had been bitten off. He was about to scream again; but looking down, he found his hand was safe, and the next moment saw the fish swimming away with the end of the handkerchief hanging from its mouth. The fish was a shark. It had been attracted probably by the smell of Frank's bait, and by the sight of the red silk. When he drew his handkerchief from the water, the fish leaped after it, and jerked the twine which had been wrapped around his wrist. From that time they ceased all fishing from the cabin windows.
The history of that fishing, however, was not yet ended. On the day following the company were much interested in watching a singular phenomenon, which is sometimes visible at sea, though seldom in a latitude so low as Florida. The looming of the land had been remarkably distinct and beautiful; at one time the land looked as if lifted far above the water; at another the shore was seen doubled, as if the water were a perfect reflector, and the land and its shadow were united at the base. But, on the present occasion, the shadow appeared in the wrong place-united to its substance, not at the base, but at the top. It was a most singular spectacle to behold trees growing topsy-turvy, from land in the sky.
The sailors, as well as passengers, looked on with a curiosity not unmixed with awe, and an old "salt" was heard to mutter, as he ominously shook his head,
"I never seed the likes of that but something was sure to come after. Yes," he continued, looking sullenly at Mary and Frank, "and yesterday, when I was at the starn, I saw a chicken flutter in a string."
"A chicken, Tom?" inquired the captain, looking at the little culprits. "Ah, have any of my young friends been troubling the sailor's pets?"
"No, sir," responded Frank, promptly and indignantly. "We did not trouble anybody's chickens. I only went to the coop, and pulled the old drake's tail; but I did that to make him look at the bread I brought him."
"I do not mean the chickens on board, but the chickens that fly around us-Mother Cary's chickens," said the captain, trying hard to smother down a laugh. "Don't you know that they all belong to the sailors; and that whoever troubles them is sure to bring trouble on the ship?"
"No, sir," Frank persisted, evidently convinced that the captain was trying to tease him. "I did not know that they belonged to anybody. I thought that they were all wild."
Mary, however, looked guilty. She knew well the sailor's superstition about the "chickens," but having had at that time nothing to do, she had been urged on by an irrepressible desire for fun, and until this moment had imagined that her fishing was unnoticed. She timidly answered,
"I did not catch it, sir; I only tangled it in the thread, and it got away before I touched it."
"Well, Tom," said the captain to the sailor, who seemed to be in doubt after Frank's defence whether to appear pleased or angry, "I think you will have to forgive the offence this time, especially as the sharks took it in hand so soon to revenge the insult, and ran away with the little fellow's handkerchief."
Old Tom smiled grimly at the allusion to the shark; for he had been sitting quietly in the jolly boat picking rope, and had witnessed the whole adventure.
The wind, which had continued favourable ever since they left Charleston, now gradually died away. The boatswain whistled often and shrilly to bring it back; but it was like "calling spirits from the vasty deep." The sails hung listlessly down, and moved only as the vessel rocked sluggishly upon the scarce undulating surface. The only circumstance which enlivened this scene was the appearance of a nautilus, or Portuguese man-of-war. Mary was the first to discern it. She fancied that it was a tiny toy boat, launched by some child on shore, and wafted by the wind to this distant point. It was certainly a toy vessel, though one of nature's workmanship; for there was the floating body corresponding to the hull, there the living passenger, there the sails spread or furled at will, and there the oars (Mary could see them move) by which the little adventurer paddled itself along.
The young people were very anxious to obtain it. Frank went first to old Tom Starboard (as the sailor was called who had scolded him and Mary, but who was now on excellent terms with both) to ask whether they might have the nautilus if they could catch it.
"Have the man-o'-war!" ejaculated the old man, opening wide his eyes, "who ever heered of sich a thing? O yes, have it, if you can get it; but how will you do that?"
"Brother Robert and cousin Harold will row after it and pick it up, if the captain will let them have his boat."
Tom chuckled at the idea, and said he doubted not the captain would let them have his boat, and be glad, too, to see the fun. Frank then went to the captain, and told him that old Tom had given him leave to have the man-of-war if he could get it; and that his brother and cousin would go out and pick it up, if the captain would let them have his boat. With a good-natured smile, he answered,
"You are perfectly welcome to the boat, my little man; but if your brother and cousin catch that little sailor out there, they will be much smarter than most folks."
"Can they not pick it up?"
"Easily enough, if it will wait till they come. But if they do not wish to be hurt, they had better take a basket or net for dipping it from the water."
Frank went finally to his father to obtain his consent, which after a moment's hesitation was granted, the doctor well knowing what the probable result would be, yet pleased to afford them any innocent amusement by which to enliven their voyage.
"Tom," said the captain, "lower away the jolly boat, and do you go with these young gentlemen. Row softly as you can, and give them the best chance for getting what they want."
The boat was soon alongside. Old Tom slid down by a rope, but Robert and Harold were let down more securely. They shoved off from the vessel's side, and glided so noiselessly along, that the water was scarcely rippled. Harold stood in the bow, and Robert amidships, one with a basket, and the other with a scoop net, ready to dip it from the water. A cat creeping upon a shy bird could not have been more stealthy in its approach. But somehow the little sensitive thing became aware of its danger, and ere the boat's prow had come within ten feet, it quickly drew in its many arms, and sank like lead beyond their sight.
"Umph!" said old Tom, with an expressive grunt, "I said you might have it, if you could catch it."
On the first day of September the voyagers approached some placid looking islands, tasselled above with lofty palmettoes, and varied beneath with every hue of green, from the soft colour of the mallow to the sombre tint of the cedar and the glossy green of the live oak. Between these islands the vessel passed, so near to one that they could see a herd of deer peeping at them through the thin growth of the bluff, and a flock of wild turkeys flying to a distant grove.
Beyond the islands lay, in perfect repose, the waters of that bay whose tranquil beauty has been a theme of admiration with every one whose privilege it has been to look upon it.
CHAPTER III
TAMPA BAY-BELLEVUE-UNLADING-A DANGEROUS CUT-HOW TO STOP A BLEEDING ARTERY-TOM STARBOARD AGAIN
Tampa Bay is a perfect gem of its kind. Running eastward from the gulf for twelve or fifteen miles, then turning suddenly to the North, it is so far sheltered from within, that, except in case of severe westerly gales, its waters are ever quiet and clear as crystal. Its beach is composed of sand and broken shells of such snowy whiteness as almost to dazzle the eye, and it slopes so gradually from the land, that, in many places, a child may wade for a great distance without danger. To those who bathe in its limpid waters it is a matter of curiosity to see below, the slow crawling of the conch, while the nimble crab scampers off in haste, and fish and prawn dart wantonly around. When the tide is down there is no turnpike in the world better fitted for a pleasure ride than that smooth hard beach, from which no dust can rise, and which is of course as level as a floor.
The spot on which Dr. Gordon proposed to build, was one commanding a view both of the distant fort and of the open sea, or rather of the green islands which guarded the mouth of the bay. It already contained a small house, with two rooms, erected by a white adventurer, and afterwards sold to an Indian chief of the better class. Dr. Gordon had been originally attracted by the picturesque beauty of its location, and, on closer inspection, still more interested by seeing on each side of the chief's door a large bell pepper, that, having grown for years untouched by frost, had attained the height of eight or ten feet, and was covered all the year round with magnificent bells of green and crimson. The old chief was dead, and the premises had been vacated for more than a year.
Early in the afternoon the brig anchored opposite this spot, to which Dr. Gordon had given the name of Bellevue. All hands were called to assist the ship carpenter and Sam (Dr. Gordon's negro carpenter), to build a pier head, or wharf, extending from the shore to the vessel; this occupied them till nightfall, and the work of unlading continued through a great part of the night, and past the middle of the next day.
The work was somewhat delayed by an untoward accident befalling one of the sailors, and threatening for a time to take his life. Peter, the brother of Sam, was standing on the gangway, with his ax on his shoulder, just as two of the sailors were coming out with a heavy box. Hearing behind him the noise of their trampling, he turned quickly around to see what it was, at the moment when the sailor, who was walking backwards, turned his head to see that the gangway was clear. By these two motions, quickly made, the head was brought towards the ax, and the ax towards the head, and the consequence was that the sailor's temple received a terrible gash. The blood gushed out in successive jets, proving that the cut vessel was an artery. Setting down the box with all speed, the assisting sailor seized the skin of the wounded temple and tried with both hands to bring the gaping lips together, so as to stop the bleeding. His effort was in vain. The blood gushed through his fingers, and ran down to his elbows. By this time the captain reached the spot, and seeing that an artery was cut, directed the sailor to press with his finger on the heart side of the wound. In a moment the jets ceased; for the arterial blood is driven by the heart towards the extremities, and therefore moves by jets as the heart beats, while the venous, or black blood, is on its way from the extremities to the heart; consequently, the pressure, which stops the flow from a wound in either vein or artery, must correspond to the direction in which the blood is flowing. [See note p. 16.]
While the sailor was thus stopping the blood by the pressure of his finger on the side from which the current came, the captain hastily prepared a ball of soft oakum, about the size of a small apple. This he laid upon the wound, and bound tightly to the head by means of a handkerchief. It is probable the flow might have been staunched had the compress been sufficiently tight, but for some reason the blood forced itself through all the impediments, saturated the tarred oakum, and trickled down the sailor's face. During this scene Dr. Gordon was at his house on the bluff. Hearing through a runner, dispatched by the captain, that a man was bleeding to death, he pointed to a quantity of cobwebs that hung in large festoons from the unceiled roof, and directed him to bring a handful of these to the vessel, remarking, that "nothing stopped blood more quickly than cobwebs."
The sailor was by this time looking pale and ready to faint. Dr. Gordon inquired of the captain what had been done, pronounced it all right, and declared that he should probably have tried the same plan, but further remarked,
"This artery in the temple is oftentimes exceedingly difficult to manage by pressure. You may stop for a time the bleeding of any artery by pressing with sufficient force upon the right place; or, if necessary to adopt so summary a mode, you may obliterate it altogether by burning with a hot iron. But in the present case I will show you an easier plan."
While speaking he had removed the bandages, and taken out his lancet; and, to the captain's amazement, in uttering the last words, he cut the bleeding artery in two, saying, "Now bring me some cold water."
The captain was almost disposed to stay the doctor's arm, supposing that he was about to make a fatal mistake; but when he saw the jets of blood instantly diminish, he exclaimed, "What new wonder is this! Here I have been trying for half an hour to staunch the blood by closing the wound, while you have done it in a moment, by making the wound greater."
"It is one of the secrets of the art," responded the doctor, "but a secret which I will explain by the fact, that severed arteries always contract and close more or less perfectly; whereas, if they should be only split or partly cut, the same contraction will keep the orifice open and bleeding. I advise you never to try it, except when you know the artery to be small, or when every other expedient has failed. But here comes the bucket. See what a fine styptic cold water is."
He washed the wound till it was thoroughly cooled; after which he brought its lips together by a few stitches made with a bent needle, and putting on the cobwebs and bandage, pronounced the operation complete.
"Live and larn!" muttered old Tom Starboard, as he turned away from this scene of surgery. "I knew it took a smart man to manage a ship; but I'll be hanged if there a'n't smart people in this world besides sailors."
The main arteries in a man's limbs are deeply buried and lie in the same general direction with the inner seams of his coat sleeves and of his pantaloons. When one of them is cut-which may be known by the light red blood flowing in jets, as above described-all the bandages in the world will be insufficient to staunch it, except imperfectly, and for a time, it must be tied or cauterized. If any one knows the position of the wounded artery, the best bandage for effecting a temporary stoppage of the blood, is the tourniquet, which is made to press like a big strong finger directly upon it on the side from which the blood is flowing. A good substitute for the tourniquet may be extemporized out of a handkerchief or other strong bandage, and a piece of corn-cob two inches long, or a suitable piece of wood or stone. This last is to be placed so as to press directly over the artery; and the bandage to be made very tight by means of a stick run through it so as to twist it up with great power.
CHAPTER IV
CONFUSION-HOUSEKEEPING IN A HURRY-FIRST NIGHT ON SHORE-COMPANY TO DINNER-"BLUE EYED MARY" – ROBERT AT PRAYER-MEETING-DANGER OF DESCENDING AN OLD WELL-RECOVERING A KNIFE DROPPED IN A WELL
It is scarcely possible, for one who has not tried it, to conceive the utter confusion which ensues on removing, in a hurry, one's goods and chattels to a place too small for their accommodation. Oh! the wilderness of boxes, baskets, bundles, heaped in disorder everywhere! and the perfect bewilderment into which one is thrown, when attempting the simplest act of household duty.
"Judy," said Mary to the cook, the evening that they landed, and while the servants were hurrying to bring under shelter the packages which Dr. Gordon was unwilling to leave exposed to the night air, "Judy, the sun is only about an hour high. Make haste and get some tea ready for supper. Father says you need not cookanything, we can get along on cheese and crackers."
Well, surely, it sounded like a trifle to order only a little tea. Mary thought so, and so did Judy, – it could be got ready in a minute. But just at that moment of unreadiness, there were some difficulties in the way which neither cook nor housekeeper anticipated. To have tea for supper ordinarily requires that one should have fire and water, and a tea kettle and a tea pot, and the tea itself, and cups and saucers and spoons, and sugar and milk, and a sugar pot and milk pot, besides a number of other things. But how these things are to be brought together, in their proper relation, and in a hurry, when they are all thrown promiscuously in a heap, is a question more easily asked than answered.
The simple order to prepare a little tea threw poor Judy into a fluster. "Yes, misses," she mechanically replied, "but wey I gwine fin' de tea?"
Mary was about to say, "In the sideboard of course," knowing that at home it was always kept there, when suddenly she recollected that the present sideboard was a new one, packed with table and bed clothes, and moreover that it was nailed up fast in a long box. Then, where was the tea? O, now she recalled the fact that the tea for immediate use was corked up in a tin can and stowed away together with the teapot and cups, saucers, spoons and other concomitants, in a certain green box. But where was the green box? She and Judy peered among the confused piles, and at last spied it under another box, on which was a large basket that was covered with a pile of bedding.
Judy obtained the tea and tea-pot and kettle, but until that moment had neglected to order a fire; so she went to the front door to look for her husband.
"Peter!" she called. Peter was nowhere about the house. She saw him below the bluff on his way to the landing. So, running a little nearer, and raising her voice to a high musical pitch, she sung out, "Petah-h! OH-H! Petah! Oh! PEE-tah!"
Peter came, and learning what was wanted, went to the landing for his ax, and having brought her a stick of green oak wood on his shoulder, sallied out once more to find some kindling.
While he was on this business, Judy prepared to get some water. "Wey my bucket?" she inquired, looking around. "Who tek my bucket? I sho' somebody moob um; fuh I put um right down yuh, under my new calabash."1
But nobody had disturbed it. Judy had set it, half full of water, on the ground outside the door, in the snuggest place she could find; but a thirsty goat had found it, and another thirsty goat had fought for it, and between the two, it had been upset, and rolled into a corner where it lay concealed by a bundle. By the time Judy got another supply of water ready it was growing dark. Peter had not made the fire because he was not certain where she preferred to have it built; so he waited, like a good, obedient husband, until she should direct him.
In the meantime, Mary was in trouble too. Where was the loaf sugar to be placed in cracking it, and what should she use for a hammer? Then the candle box must be opened, and candles and candle-sticks brought together, and some place contrived for placing them after they were lighted.
But perseverance conquers all things. Tea was made, sugar was cracked, and candles were both lighted and put in position. Bed-time came soon after, and weary enough with their labour, they all laid down to enjoy their first sleep at Bellevue. Mary and Frank occupied a pallet spread behind a pile of boxes in one room, while their father and the older boys lay upon cloaks, and whatever else they could convert into a temporary mattress, in the other; and the servants tumbled themselves upon a pile of their own clothing, which they had thrown under a shelter erected beside the house.
Early the next morning, two convenient shelters were hastily constructed, and the two rooms of the house were so far relieved of their confused contents, as to allow space for sitting, and almost for walking about. But ere this was half accomplished, Mary, whose sense of order and propriety was very keen, was destined to be thrown into quite an embarrassing situation.
Major Burke, the commandant of Fort Brooke, was a cousin of Mrs. Gordon, and an old college friend of the Doctor, and hearing by the captain of the brig of the arrival of the new comers, he rode over in the forenoon of the next day to see them. Mary's mind associated so indissolubly the idea of company, with the stately etiquette of Charleston and Savannah, that the sight of a well-dressed stranger approaching their door, threw her almost into a fever.
"Oh! father," she cried, as soon as she could beckon him out of the back door, "what shall we do?"
"Do?" he answered, laughing. "Why, nothing at all. What can we do?"
"But is he not going to dine with us?" enquired she.
"I presume so," he replied. "I am sure I shall ask him; but what of that?"
"What, father, dine with us?" she remonstrated, "when our only table unboxed is no bigger than a light stand, and we have scarcely room for that!"
"Yes," he said, "we will do the best we can for him now, and hope to do better some other time. Perhaps you will feel less disturbed when you realize that he is your cousin and a soldier. Come, let me make you acquainted with him."
Mary was naturally a neat girl, and although her hands were soiled with labour, she was soon ready to obey her father's invitation. Slipping into the back room, by a low window, she washed her hands and face, and brushed into order the ringlets that clustered around her usually sunny face, and then came modestly into the apartment where the two gentlemen were sitting.
"John, this is my eldest daughter, Mary," said the Doctor, as she approached; "and Mary this is your cousin, Major Burke, of whom you have heard your mother and me so often speak."
The two cousins shook hands very cordially, and appeared to be mutually pleased.
"She is my housekeeper for the present," her father continued, "and has been in some trouble" (here Mary looked reproachfully at him), "that she could not give you a more fitting reception."
"Ah, indeed," said the Major, with a merry twinkle of his eye, "I suspect that when my little cousin learns how often we soldiers are glad to sit on the bare ground, and to feed, Indian fashion, on Indian fare, she will feel little trouble about giving us entertainment."
Mary's embarrassment was now wholly dispelled. Her cousin was fully apprised of their crowded and confused condition, and was ready to partake with good humour of whatever they could hastily prepare.
The dinner passed off far more agreeably than she supposed possible. By her father's direction, a dining table was unboxed and spread under the boughs of a magnificent live oak, and Judy, having ascertained where the stores were to be found, gave them not only a dinner, but a dessert to boot, which they all enjoyed with evident relish. Ah! – black and ugly as she was, that Judy was a jewel.
The Major had come thus hastily upon them for the purpose of insisting that the whole family should occupy quarters at the Fort as his guests, until the new house, intended for their future reception, should be completed. To this Dr. Gordon objected that his presence was necessary for the progression of the work, but promised that at the earliest period when he could be spared for a few days, he would accept the invitation and bring the young people with him.
The visitor did not take his leave until the shades of evening warned him of the lapse of time. Mary had become much more interested, in consequence of her first distress and the pleasant termination, than she possibly could have been without these experiences; and as the whole family stood at the front door, watching his rapidly diminishing figure, she perpetrated a blunder which gave rise to much merriment.
Her father had remarked, "It will be long after dark before he can reach the Fort."
Mary rejoined, "Yes, sir, but," looking with an abstracted air, first at the table where they had enjoyed their pleasant repast, then at the darkening form of the soldier, and finally at the full moon which began to pour its silver radiance over the bay, "it will make no difference tonight, for it will be blue-eyed Mary."
All turned their eyes upon her in perplexity, to gather from her countenance the interpretation of her language; but Mary was still looking quietly at the moon. Harold thought the girl had become suddenly deranged.
Robert, who had observed her abstraction of mind, and who suspected the truth, began to laugh. Her father turned to her and asked, with a tone so divided between the ludicrous and the grave, that it was hard to tell which predominated, "What do you mean by 'blue-eyed Mary'?"
"Did I say blue-eyed Mary?" she exclaimed, reddening from her temples to her finger ends, and then giving way to a fit of laughter so hearty and so prolonged, that she could scarcely reply, "I meant moonlight."2
There was no resisting the impulse, all laughed with her, and long afterwards did it furnish a theme for merriment. Robert, however, was disposed to be so wicked on the occasion, that his father deemed it necessary to stop his teasing, by turning the laugh against him.
"It is certainly," said he, "the most ridiculous thing I have witnessed since Robert's queer prank at the prayer-meeting."
As soon as the word "prayer-meeting" was uttered, Robert's countenance fell.
"What is it, uncle?" inquired Harold.
"O, do tell it, father," begged Mary, clapping her hands with delight.
"About a year since," said Dr. Gordon, "I attended a prayer-meeting in the city of Charleston, where thirty or forty intelligent people were assembled at the house of their pastor. It was night. Robert occupied a chair near the table, beside which the minister officiated, and where he could be seen by every person in the room: Not long after the minister's address began, Robert's head was seen to nod; and every once in a while his nods were so expressive, apparently, of assent to the remarks made, as to bring a smile upon the face of more than one of the company. But he was not content with nodding. Soon his head fell back upon the chair, and he snored most musically, with his mouth wide open. It was then nearly time for another prayer, and I was very much in hopes that when we moved to kneel, he would be awakened by the noise. But no such good fortune was in store for me. He slept through the whole prayer; and then, to make the scene as ridiculous as possible, he awoke as the people were in the act of rising, and, supposing they were about to kneel, he deliberately knelt down beside his chair, and kept that position until he was seen by every person present. There was a slight pause in the services, I think the clergyman himself was somewhat disconcerted, and afraid to trust his voice. Poor Robert soon suspected his mistake. He peeped cautiously around, then arose and took his seat with a very silly look. I am glad it happened. He has never gone to sleep in meeting since."
And from that time forth Mary never heard Robert allude to her moonlight; indeed he was so much cut down by this story, that for a day or two he was more than usually quiet. At last, however, an incident occurred which restored to him the ascendancy he had hitherto held over his cousin, by illustrating the importance of possessing a proper store of sound, practical knowledge.
The two had gone to examine an old well, near the house, and were speculating upon the possibility of cleansing it from its trash and other impurities, so as to be fit for use, when Harold's knife slipped from his hand and fell down the well. It did not fall into the water, but was caught by a half decayed board that floated on its surface.
"I cannot afford to lose that knife," said Harold, looking around for something to aid his descent, "I must go down after it."
"You had better be careful how you do that," interposed Robert, "it may not be safe."
"What," asked Harold, "are you afraid of the well's caving?"
"Not so much of its caving," replied Robert, "as of the bad air that may have collected at the bottom."
Harold snuffed at the well's mouth to detect such ill odours as might be there, and said, "I perceive no smell."
"You mistake my meaning," remarked Robert. "In all old wells, vaults and places under ground, there is apt to collect a kind of air or gas, like that which comes from burning charcoal, that will quickly suffocate any one who breathes it. Many a person has lost his life by going into such a place without testing it beforehand."
"Can you tell whether there is any of it here?" asked Harold.
"Very easily, with a little fire," answered Robert. "AIR THAT WILL NOT SUPPORT FLAME, WILL NOT SUPPORT LIFE."
They stuck a splinter of rich pine in the cleft end of a pole, and, lighting it by a match, let it softly down the well. To Harold's astonishment the flame was extinguished as suddenly as if it had been dipped in water, before it had gone half way to the bottom.
"Stop, let us try that experiment again," said he.
They tried it repeatedly, and with the same result, except that the heavy poisonous air below being stirred by the pole, had become somewhat mingled with the pure air above, and the flame was not extinguished quite so suddenly as at first; it burnt more and more dimly as it descended, and then went out.
"I do believe there is something there," said he at last, "and I certainly shall not go down, as I intended. But how am I to get my knife?"
"By using father's magnet, which is a strong one," replied Robert. "Let us go and ask him for it."
On relating the circumstances to Dr. Gordon, he said, "You have made a most fortunate escape, Harold. Had you descended that well, filled as it is with carbonic acid gas, you would have become suddenly sick and faint, and would probably have fallen senseless before you could have called for help. Make it a rule never to descend such a place without first trying the purity of its air, as you did just now."
"But can we not get that bad air out?" asked Harold.
"Yes, by various means, and some of them very easy," replied his uncle. "One is by exploding gunpowder as far down as possible; another is by lowering down and drawing up many times a thickly leaved bush, so as to pump out the foul air, or at least to mix it largely with the pure. But your knife can be obtained without all that trouble. Robert, can you not put him upon a plan?"
"I have already mentioned it, and we have come to ask if you will not let us have your magnet," replied Robert. "But," continued he smilingly, "I do not think that we shall have any need this time for the looking-glass."
Harold looked from one to the other for an explanation, and his uncle said:
"Last year Robert dropped his knife down a well, as you did, and proposed to recover it by means of a strong magnet tied to a string. But the well was deep and very dark, and after fishing a long time in vain, he came to me for help. I made him bring a large looking-glass from the house, and by means of it reflected such a body of sun-light down the well that we could plainly see his knife at the bottom, stowed away in a corner. The magnet was strong enough to bring it safely to the top. You also may try the experiment."
With thanks, Harold took the offered magnet, tied it to a string, and soon recovered his knife.
CHAPTER V
RILEY-A THUNDERSTORM-ASCERTAINING THE DISTANCE OF OBJECTS BY SOUND-SECURITY AGAINST LIGHTNING-MEANS OF RECOVERING LIFE FROM APPARENT DEATH BY LIGHTNING
A few days after this incident another visitor was seen coming from Fort Brooke. This person was not a horseman, but some one in a boat, who seemed even from a distance to possess singular dexterity in the use of the paddle. His boat glided over the smooth surface of the bay as if propelled less by his exertions than by his will. Dr. Gordon viewed him through the spy glass, and soon decided him to be an Indian, who was probably bringing something to sell.
It so turned out. He was a half-breed, by the name of Riley, who frequently visited the fort with venison and turkeys to sell, and who on the present occasion brought with him in addition a fine green turtle. Major Burke, conceiving that his friends at Bellevue would prize these delicacies more than they at the fort, to whom they were no longer rarities, had directed the Indian to bring them, with his compliments, to Dr. Gordon.
Riley was a fine looking fellow, of about thirty years of age-tall, keen-eyed, straight as an arrow, and with a pleasing open countenance. He brought a note from the fort, recommending him for honesty and faithfulness.
Dr. Gordon was so much pleased with his general appearance, that he engaged him to return the following week with another supply of game, and prepared to remain several days, in case he should be needed in raising the timbers of the new house.
Toward the close of the week, the weather gave indications of a change. A heavy looking cloud rose slowly from the west, and came towards them, muttering and growling in great anger. It was a tropical thunderstorm. The distant growls were soon converted into peals. The flashes increased rapidly in number and intensity, and became terrific. Mary and Frank nestled close to their father; and even stout-hearted Harold looked grave, as though he did not feel quite so comfortable as usual.
"That flash was uncommonly keen," Robert remarked, with an unsteady voice. "Do you not think, father, it was very near?"
Instead of replying, his father appeared to be busy counting; and when the crash of thunder was heard, jarring their ears, and making the earth quiver, he replied,
"Not very. Certainly not within a mile."
"But, uncle, can you calculate the distance of the lightning?" Harold asked.
"Unquestionably, or I should not have spoken with so much confidence. Robert imagined, as most people do, that a flash is near in proportion to its brightness; but that is no criterion. You must calculate its distance by the time which elapses between the flash and the report. Sound travels at the rate of about a mile in five seconds. Should any of you like to calculate the distance of the next flash, put your finger on your pulse, and count the number of beats before you hear the thunder."
An opportunity soon occurred. A vivid flash was followed after a few seconds by a roll, and then by a peal of thunder. All were busy counting their pulses. Mary ceased when she heard the first roll, exclaiming "Five!" The others held on until they heard the loud report, and said "Seven." Dr. Gordon reported only six beats of his own pulse, remarking,
"That flash discharged itself just one mile distant. Our pulses are quicker than seconds; and yours quicker than mine. Sound will travel a mile during six beats of a person of my age, and during seven of persons of yours."
"But, father," argued Mary, "I surely heard the thunder rolling when I said five."
"So did I," he answered; "and that proves that although the lightning discharged itself upon the earth at the distance of a mile, it commenced to flow from a point nearer overhead."
The young people were so deeply interested in these calculations, that they felt less keenly than they could have imagined possible the discomfort of the storm. This was Dr. Gordon's intention. But at last Mary and Frank winced so uneasily, when flashes of unusual brightness appeared, that their father remarked, "It is a weakness, my children, to be afraid of lightning that is seen and of thunder that is heard-they are spent and gone. Persons never see the flash that kills them-it does its work before they can see, hear, or feel."
At this instant came a flash so keen, that it seemed to blaze into their very eyes, and almost simultaneously came a report like the discharge of a cannon. Dr. Gordon's lecture was in vain; all except him and Harold started to their feet. Frank ran screaming to his father. Mary rushed to a pile of bedding, and covered herself with the bed-clothing. Robert looked at Mary's refuge, with a manifest desire to seek a place beside her. Harold fixed his eye upon his uncle, with a glance of keen inquiry.
"This is becoming serious," said the Doctor anxiously. "Something on the premises has been struck. Stay here, children, while I look after the servants. Your safest place is in the middle of the room, as far as possible from the chimney and walls, along which the lightning passes."
While giving these directions, at the same time that he seized his hat, cloak, and umbrella, William rushed in to say that the horses had been struck down and killed. They were stabled under a shelter erected near a tall palmetto-a tree so seldom struck by lightning, as to be regarded by the Indians as exempt from danger. The fluid had descended the trunk, tearing a great hole in the ground, and jarring down a part of the loose enclosure.
"Call all hands!" said the Doctor. "Throw off the shelter instantly, to let the rain pour upon them; and bring also your buckets and pails."
On his going out, the children crowded to the door, to see, if possible, the damage that was done; but he waved them all back, with the information that during a thunder storm an open door or window is one of the most dangerous places about a house. They quickly retired; Mary and Frank going to the bed, Robert taking a chair to the middle of the room, and drawing up his feet from the floor. Harold's remark was characteristic. "I wish uncle would let me help with the horses. I am sure that that is the safest place in this neighbourhood; for I never saw lightning strike twice on the same spot."
One of the horses was speedily revived by the falling rain. He staggered to his feet, then moved painfully away, smelling at his hoofs, to ascertain what ailed them. The other continued for an hour or more, to all appearance, dead. The servants dipped buckets and pails full of water from pools made by the rain, and poured them upon the lifeless body, until it was perfectly drenched. They had given up all hope of a restoration. William's eyes looked watery (for he was the coachman) and he heaved a sorrowful sigh over his brute companion. "Poor Tom!" he said, "what will Jerry do now for a mate?" Another half hour passed without any sign of returning life; and even William would have ceased his efforts, had it not been for his master's decided "Pour on water! Keep pouring!"
At last there appeared a slight twitching in one of the legs. Poor Tom was not dead after all. William gave a "Hurra boys! he's coming to," in which the others joined with unfeigned delight. "Now, William," said his master, "do you and Sam take the strips of blanket that you rub with, and see if you cannot start his blood to flowing more rapidly. Tom will soon open his eyes."
Two of the servants continued to pour on water, the others to rub violently the head, neck, legs and body. The reviving brute moved first one foreleg, then the other, while the hinder legs were yet paralysed. Then he opened his eyes, raised his head, and made an effort to turn himself. As soon as he was able to swallow, Dr. Gordon ordered a drench of camphorated spirit, and left him with directions to the servants. "Listen all of you. I have shown you how to treat a horse struck down by lightning. Do you treat a person in the same way. Pour on water by the bucket full, until he gives some signs of life; then rub him hard, and give him some heating drink. Don't give up trying for half a day."
The storm passed over. Tom and Jerry were once more united under the skilful management of William, who frequently boasted that "they were the toughest creatures in creation, even lightning could not kill them."
CHAPTER VI
THE ONLY WAY TO STUDY-TAKING COLD-RILEY'S FAMILY-THE HARE LIP-FISHING FOR SHEEPHEAD-FRANK CHOKED WITH A FISH BONE-HIS RELIEF-HIS STORY OF THE SHEEP'S HEAD AND DUMPLINGS-"TILL THE WARFARE IS OVER"
Dr. Gordon began to feel dissatisfied that his children were losing so much valuable time from study; for the house was yet loaded with baggage which could be put nowhere else, and their time was broken up by unavoidable interruptions. Until a more favourable opportunity, therefore, he required only that they should devote one hour every day to faithful study, and that they should spend the rest of their time as usefully as possible.
His theory of education embraced two very simple, but very efficacious principles. First, to excite in his children the desire of acquiring knowledge; and, secondly, to train them to give their undivided attention to the subject in hand. This last, he said, was the only way to study; and he told them, in illustration, the story of Sir Isaac Newton, who, on being asked by a friend, in view of his prodigious achievements, what was the difference, so far as he was conscious, between his mind and those of ordinary people, answered simply in the power of concentration.
Harold had been greatly discouraged at finding himself so far behind his cousins in the art of study, but by following the advice of his uncle, he soon experienced a great and an encouraging change. At first, it is true, he could scarcely give his whole mind to any study more than five minutes at a time, without a sense of weariness; but he persevered, and day by day his powers increased so manifestly that he used frequently to say to himself, "concentration is everything-everything in study."
But Dr. Gordon's instructions were by no means confined to books and the school-room; he used every favourable opportunity to give information on points that promised to be useful.
"Mary," said he one day, to his daughter, who was sitting absorbed in study, beside a window through which the sea breeze was pouring freshly upon her head and shoulders, and who had, in consequence, began to exhibit symptoms of a cold, "Mary, my daughter, remove your seat. Do you not know that to allow a current of air like that to blow upon a part of your person, is almost sure to produce sickness?"
"I know it, father," she replied, "and I intended some time since to change my seat, but the sum is so hard that I forgot all about the wind."
"I am glad to see you capable of such fixedness of mind," said he, "but I will take this opportunity to say to you, and to the rest, that there are two seasons, especially, when you should be on your guard against these dangerous currents of air, – one is when you are asleep, and the other is when your mind is absorbed in thought. At these times the pores of the skin are more than usually open, as may be seen by the flow of perspiration; and a current of cool air, at such a time, especially if partial, is almost certain to give cold."
"But how can we be on our guard, father," asked Mary with a smile, "when we are too far gone in sleep or in thought, to know what we are about!"
"We must take the precaution beforehand," he replied. "Make it a rule never to sleep nor to study in a partial current of air; and also remember that the first moment you perceive the tingling sensation of an incipient cold, you must obey the warning which kind nature gives you or else must bear the consequences."
Mary's cold was pretty severe. For days she suffered from cough and pain. But that day's lecture on currents of air, followed by so impressive an illustration, was probably more useful than her lesson in arithmetic; certainly it was longer remembered and more frequently acted upon.
True to his promise, Riley appeared at the appointed time with his supply of game. He said, however, that he should remain only a few days, because he had left his young wife sick. It interested Mary not a little to perceive that a savage could feel and act so much like a civilized being; and she was trying to think of something complimentary to say upon this occasion, when he threw her all aback, by adding, that this was his youngest and favourite wife.
"What! have you two wives?" she exclaimed in horror.
"Yes, only two, now; one dead."
Her mind was sadly changed at this evidence of heathenism; but ere the day was over she received a still more impressive proof.
Dr. Gordon perceiving that he looked sad whenever an allusion was made to his home, he asked him if his wife was seriously sick, to which he answered, No.
"When I go home, last week," said he, "my squaw had a fine boy, big and fat. My heart glad. But I look and see a big hole in his mouth, from here to here," pointing from the lip to the nose.
"That is what we call a hare lip," said Dr. Gordon, "it is not uncommon."
"I sorry very much," continued Riley. "Child too ugly."
"But it can be easily cured," observed Dr. Gordon.
Riley looked at him inquiringly, and Dr. Gordon added, "O, yes, it can be easily cured. If you will bring your child here, any time, I will stop that hole in half an hour; and there will be no sign of it left, except a little scar, like a cut."
The Indian shook his head mournfully, "Can't bring him. Too late now."
"O, the child is dead?" inquired the Doctor. "I am sorry."
"Dead now," replied Riley. "I look at him one day, two day, tree day. Child too ugly. I throw him in the water."
"What!" exclaimed Dr. Gordon, suddenly remembering that it was the practice of the Indians to destroy all their deformed children. "You did not drown it?"
"Child ugly too much," answered Riley, with a softened tone of voice. "Child good for nothing. I throw him in the water."
Dr. Gordon was not only shocked, as any man of feeling would have been, under the circumstances, but he felt as a Christian, whose heart moved with compassion towards his dark skinned brother. He uttered not one word of rebuke or of condemnation; his time for speaking to the purpose had not yet come; and he carefully avoided everything in word and look which should widen the space which naturally exists between the white man and the Indian, the Christian and the pagan.
Poor Mary! She no sooner heard this confession, than she sidled away from her interesting savage, until wholly beyond his reach, and could scarcely look at him during his stay that week, without feelings akin to fear. An Indian, she learned, was an Indian after all.
While Riley was there the boys often borrowed his boat, and Harold tried to imitate his dexterity in the use of the paddle. They soon became great friends. On one of their excursions for fish, they went, by his direction, around a point of land where the head of a fallen live oak lay in the water, and its partially decayed limbs were encrusted with barnacles and young oysters. There they soon caught a large supply of very fine fish of various sorts, particularly of the sheephead, – a delicious fish, shaped somewhat like the perch, only stouter and rounder, beautifully marked with broad alternate bands of black and white around the body, and varying in weight from half a pound to ten or fifteen pounds.
No one was more delighted than Frank, with the result of the excursion; for he was fond, as a cat, of everything in the shape of fish. But, it is said, there is no rose without its thorn; and so he found in the present case. He was enjoying, rather voraciously, the luxury of his favourite food, when a disorderly bone lodged crossways in the narrow part of his throat, and gave him excessive pain. Frank was a polite boy. Avoiding, as far as possible, disturbing the others by his misfortune, he slipped quietly from the table, and tried every means to relieve himself. But it was not until he had applied to his father, and, under his direction, swallowed a piece of hard bread, that he was able to resume his place.3
Being not quite so humble as he was polite, however, he began to condemn the fish instead of himself for his accident. His father told him he had no right to say one word against the fish, which was remarkably free from bones, and was just preparing to give him a gentle lecture on gormandizing, when Frank, foreseeing what was to come, was adroit enough to seize a moment's pause in the conversation, and to divert the subject, by asking with a very droll air,
"I wonder, father, if these sheephead are of the same kind with that one that butted the dumplings?"
"I do not know what dumplings you mean," said his father.
"O, did you never hear the story of the sheep's head and the dumplings? Well, brother Robert can tell you all about it."
"No, no," returned his father, who saw through the little fellow's stratagem. "No, no, Frank, it is your own story, and you must go through with it."
This was a trial, for Frank had never in his life made so long an extempore speech in the presence of the assembled family, as he had now imposed upon himself. But, in the desperation of the moment, he mustered courage, and thus spoke,
"There was once an old woman that left her little boy to mind a pot that had in it a sheep's head and some dumplings boiling for dinner, while she went to a neighbour's house to attend some sort of preaching. The little boy did not seem to have much sense; and had never minded a pot before; so when he saw the water boiling over, and the sheep's head and the dumplings bobbing about in every direction, he became frightened and ran for his mother, bawling at the top of his voice, 'Mammy! the dumplings! run!' She saw him coming in among the people, and tried to stop his bawling by shaking her head and winking her eyes at him; but he would not stop. He crowded right up to her, saying, 'Mammy, you needn't to wink nor to blink, for the sheep's head is butting all the dumplings out of the pot!'"
Throughout this story Frank did not make a balk or a blunder. He kept straight on, as if brimful of fun, and uttered the last sentence with such an affectation of grave terror, as produced a universal laugh.
His father had tried hard to keep up his dignity for the intended lecture, but it also gave way, and he contented himself with saying,
"Well, master Frank, I see you are at your old tricks again. And since you show such an aptitude for putting people into good humour, there will be reason to think you are in fault, if you ever put them out. Harold, has your aunt ever told you how Frank once kissed himself out of a scrape with her?"
Harold said she had not, and his uncle went on,
"It was when he was between three and four years of age. His mother had taken him on a visit to a friend of hers in the neighbourhood of Charleston, and he was allowed to sit at the dinner table with the ladies. But he became so disorderly and perverse that his mother, after an ineffectual reprimand or two, ordered him to go up stairs, meaning to her room above. The language was indefinite, and Frank interpreted it to suit his own pleasure. He went up stairs, it is true, but only half way, where he seated himself so as to look at the table and the company, and then began to drum with his feet and to talk loud enough to be heard,
"'H-m-n-h! This is a very good place. I love these nice stairs. I'd rather be here than anywhere else in the world. I don't want any of that old dinner!'
"This was very rude language, and more especially when used in a house where he was a guest. His mother was so much mortified that as soon as dinner was over she took him to her room, gave him a sound strapping, and put him in a corner, where he was to stay, until he promised to be a good boy. Then she lay down on her bed as if to take a nap, but in reality to meditate what course to pursue towards her rude little child.
"Frank, you know, is fond of singing. There was a wild religious melody which he had learnt about that time, and which he was constantly singing. It had a short chorus at the end of every line, and a long chorus at the end of each verse, running this way,
"'Children of the heavenly King,
Till the warfare is over, Hallelujah,
As ye journey sweetly sing,
Till the warfare is over, Hallelujah.'
I forget the long chorus.
"Well, your aunt had not been upon the bed more than a few minutes, before Frank quietly slipped from his corner and stole close to the bedside to make friends. But his mother would not notice him. He bent over and gave her a kiss. Still she looked displeased. He tried another kiss, but she turned away her face. This was a damper. Frank was disheartened, but not in despair. He leaned over the bed, making a long reach, to try the effect of a third kiss.
"'There, Frank,' said his mother, in a displeased tone, 'that is enough. You need not kiss me any more.'
"'Yes, mother,' said he, leaning far over, and taking hold of her, 'I mean to kiss you till the warfare is over, Hallelujah.'
"I need not say that, from that moment, the warfare was over, and Frank behaved himself well through the remainder of the visit.