University of California Berkeley Gift of THE HEARST CORPORATION m * K' pfci m OUR YOUNG FOLKS AN ILLUSTRATED MAGAZINE FOR BOYS AND GIRLS. EDITED BY J. T. TROWBRIDGE AND LUCY LARCOM. VOL. V. BOSTON : FIELDS, OSGOOD, & CO., 124 TREMONT STREET. 1869. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1869, by FIELDS, OSGOOD, & CO., in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. UNIVERSITY PRESS : WELCH, BIGKLOW, & Co., CAMBRIDGE. CONTENTS. Page About Humming-Birds T. M. Brewer 578 After Pickerel Gaston Fay 396 Among the Glass-Makers J. T. Trowbridge ... 26, 77 Apostle of Lake Superior, The J. H. A. Bone 605 Beautiful Gate, The Helen Wall Pierson .... 52 Canary Islands and Canary Birds .... James Parian 309 Candy- Making Mrs. Jane G. Austin . . . 302, 388 Carl . . Lily Nelson 296 Carl's Christmas Carol M. W. McLain 807 Cat's Diary, The Mrs. A.M.Diaz .... 88 Chased by a Pirate David A . Wasson . . . -747 Day on Carysfort Reef, A Elizabeth C. Agassiz 536 December Charade (Farewell) Mrs. A.M.Diaz 843 Discovery of the Madeira Islands .... James Parton 583 Diverting History of Little Whiskey, The . . . Harriet Beecher Stowe . . .58 Doctor Isaac I. Hayes 57 Dr. Trotty E. Stuart Phelps 327 Doll's Regatta, The A unt Fanny 772 Dream of the Little Boy who would not eat his Crusts . Mrs. A. M. Diaz 628 Dunie and the Ice Sophie May 99 Excitement at Kettleville, The : A-Dialogue . . F^pes Sargent 261 Few Words about the Crow, A T. M. B 412 First New England Thanksgiving, The . . . J. H. A . Bone . . . .722 Gardening for Girls A uthor of " Six Htmdred Dollars a Year " 235. 3i8, 368, 481, 554, 592 Ghosts of the Mines, The Maj^or Traverse .... 657 Glass Cutting and Ornamenting J. T. Trowbridge 147 Going up in a Balloon Junius Henri Browne . . . 521 Golden-Rod and Asters . . . . . . Author of '" Seven Little Sisters" . 703 Great Pilgrimage, The J. H. A. Bone 669 Hannibal at the Altar Elijah Kellogg 188 Hot Buckwheat Cakes H. L. Palmer 798 How a Ship is modelled and launched . . . J. T. Trowbridge .... 833 How Battles are fought Major Traverse . . . . 813 How Ships are built J. T. Trowbridge .... 760 How Spotty was tried for her Life Ella Williams 681 How to do it Edward Everett Hale 190, 253, 459, 544, 664, 790 In the Happy Valley Atdhor of '"John Halifax, Gentleman" 444 Kitty; A Fairy Tale of Nowadays .... Aunt Fanny 45 Last Voyage of Rene Menard J. H. A. Bone 400 Lawrence among the Coal-Mines . . . . J. T. Trowbridge .... 509 Lawrence among the Iron-Men J. T. Trowbridge . . . . 617 Lawrence at a Coal- Shaft J- T. Trowbridge .... 357 Lawrence in a Coal-Mine J. T. Trowbridge .... 434 Lawrence's Journey J. T. Trowbridge ... 289 Le Bceuf Gras Author of" John Halifax, Gentleman" 825 Little Barbara Georgians M. Craik . . . 731 Little Esther G. Howard 157 Lost at Sea Georgiana M. Craik .... 602 Lost Children, The : A Juvenile Play in Five Acts . Caroline H. Jervey .... 112 Navigation and Discovery before Columbus . . James Parton .... 104, 450 Sixty-Two Little Tadpoles Author of '" Seven Little Sisters" . 336 Spray Sprite, The Celia Thaxter 377 Story of a Bad Boy, The . . . .-.** Thomas Bailey A Idrich i, 65, 137, 205, 273, 345. 4 2 5. 497. 5 6 9> 6 4i> 7*3. 7 8 S Story of the Golden Christmas-Tree, The . . .. Mrs. A. M. Diaz 12 Strange Dish of Fruits, A ...... Major Traverse .... 529 Swan Story, The Helen C. Weeks 653 IV Contents. Terrible Cape Bojador, The . Violets, The Water-Lilies White Giant, The .... Who first used the Mariner's Compass William Henry Letters, The World we live on, The . Wrecks and Wreckers . James Part OH A nnie Moore Arithor of" Seven Little Sisters Elsie Teller James Parton . . . , Mrs. A . M. Diaz 167, 249, 282, 469, 687 Elizabeth C. Agassiz 38, 162, 217, 382, 694, 751 Major Traverse .... 226 739 243 470 184 176 POETRY. At Croquet L.G.W. 5 8 3 At Queen Maude's Banquet Lucy Larcom 260 Autumn Days ......... Marian Douglas ..... 705 Berrying Song Lucy Larcom 563 Bird's Good-Night Song to the Flowers, The . . Mrs. A . M. Diaz .... 98 Bobolink and Canary Mrs. A. M. Wells . . . . 410 Christmas-Tide A. W. Bellaiu 706 Cinderella Mrs. A. M. Wells .... 332 Going to Sleep Mary N. Prescott 520 Honor's Dream Harriet Prescott Spofford . . 42 In the Cottage . Lily Nelson 477 Johnny Tearful George Cooper 832 Lady Moon ......... Lord Houghton ..... 491 Lilies of the Valley Mary B. C. S lade .... 288 Little Culprit, The Kate Putnam Osgood . . . .183 Little Nannie Lucy Larcom 338 Little Sweet-Pea R. S. P. 615 Lost Willie C. A. Barry 103 Morning-Glory H. H. Morning Sunbeam, A A. Q. G 197 Mud Pies George Cooper 750 My Heroine : A True Story Author of 1 ' John Halifax, Gentleman" 10 Red Riding-Hood Lucy Larcom 127 Rivulet, The ........ Lucy Larcom ..... 418 Sissy's Ride in the Moon Annette Bishop 730 Summer 's Done ........ Lily Nelson ..... 652 Swing Away Lucy Larcom 633 Taken at his Word . . R. S. P 759 Three in a Bed George Cooper .... 146, 706 Tom Twist William A lien Butler ... 244 Under the Palm-Trees Julia C. R. Dorr 367 Unsociable Colt, The Edgar Fawcett 450 Utopia Ed-ward Wiebi 128 What will become of me? Marian Douglas .... 224 Why? L. G. W. 663 Music. Berrying Song F. Boott 563 Come with me 126 Home: Trio 119 Lady Moon F. Boott 491 Little Nannie F. Boott 338 Rivulet, The F. Boott 418 Swing Away . . F. Boott 633 Three in a Bed F. Boott 706 Utopia German Air 128 ROUND THE EVENING LAMP . . . .61, 130, 198, 267, 340, 419, 493, 565, 635, 708, 779, 850 OUR LETTER Box 63, 133, 201, 269, 342, 423, 495, 567, 639, 710, 782, 853 OUR YOUNG FOLKS. An Illustrated Magazine FOR BOYS AND GIRLS. VOL. V. JANUARY, 1869. No. I. THE STORY OF A BAD BOY. CHAPTER I. IN WHICH I INTRODUCE MYSELF. HIS is the story of a bad boy. Well, not such a very bad, but a pretty bad boy ; and I ought to know, for I am, or rather I was, that boy myself. Lest the title should mislead the reader, I hasten to assure him here that I have no dark confessions to make. I call my story the story of a bad boy, partly to distinguish myself from those faultless young gentlemen who generally figure in narratives of this kind, and partly be cause I really was not a cherub. I may truth fully say I was an amiable, impulsive lad, blessed with fine digestive powers, and no hypocrite. I did n't want to be an angel and with the an gels stand ; I did n't think the missionary tracts presented to me by the Rev. Wibird Hawkins were half so nice as Robinson Crusoe ; and I didn't send my little pocket-money to the na tives of the Feejee Islands, but spent it roy ally in peppermint-drops and taffy candy. In short, I was a real human boy, such as you may meet anywhere in New England, and no more like the impossible boy in a story-book than a sound orange is like one that has been sucked dry. But let us begin at the beginning. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1868, by FIELDS, OSGOOD, & Co., in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. VOL. V. NO. I. I 2 The Story of a Bad Boy. [January, Whenever a new scholar came to our school, I used to confront him at recess with the following words : " My name 's Tom Bailey ; what 's your name ?" If the name struck me favorably, I shook hands with the new pupil cordially ; but, if it did n't, I would turn on my heel, for I was particular on this point. Such names as Higgins, Wiggins, and Spriggins were deadly affronts to my ear ; while Langdon, Wallace, Blake, and the like, were pass words to my confidence and esteem. Ah me ! some of those dear fellows are rather elderly boys by this time, lawyers, merchants, sea-captains, soldiers, authors, what not ? Phil Adams (a special good name that Adams) is consul at Shanghai, where I picture him to myself with his head closely shaved, he never had too much hair, and a long pigtail hanging down behind. He is married, I hear ; and I hope he and she that was Miss Wang Wang are very happy together, sitting cross-legged over their diminutive cups of tea in a sky-blue tower hung with bells. It is so I think of him ; to me he is henceforth a jewelled mandarin, talking nothing but broken China. Whitcomb is a judge, sedate and wise, with spectacles balanced on the bridge of that remarkable nose which, in former days, was so plentifully sprinkled with freckles that the boys christened him Pepper Whitcomb. Just to think of little Pepper Whitcomb being a judge ! What would he do to me now, I wonder, if I were to sing out " Pep per ! " some day in court ? Fred Langdon is in California, in the native-wine business, he used to make the best licorice-water / ever tasted ! Binny Wallace sleeps in the Old South Burying-Ground ; and Jack Harris, too, is dead, Harris, who commanded us boys, of old, in the famous snow-ball battles of Slatter's Hill. Was it yesterday I saw him at the head of his regi ment on its way to join the shattered Army of the Potomac ? Not yester day, but five years ago. It was at the battle of the Seven Pines. Gallant Jack Harris, that never drew rein until he had dashed into the Rebel battery ! So they found him lying across the enemy's guns. How we have parted, and wandered, and married, and died ! I wonder what has become of all the boys who went to the Temple Grammar School at Rivermouth when I was a youngster ? " All, all are gone, the old familiar faces ! " It is with no ungentle hand I summon them back, for a moment, from that Past which has .closed upon them and upon me. How pleasantly they live again in my memory ! Happy, magical Past, in whose fairy atmosphere even Conway, mine ancient foe, stands forth transfigured, with a sort of dreamy glory encircling his bright red hair ! With the old school formula I commence these sketches of my boyhood. My name is Tom Bailey ; what is yours, gentle reader ? I take for granted it is neither Wiggins nor Spriggins, and that we shall get on famously together in the pages of this magazine, and be capital friends forever. 1869.] The Story of a Bad Boy. CHAPTER II. IN WHICH I ENTERTAIN PECULIAR VIEWS. I WAS born at Rivermouth, but, before I had a chance to become very well acquainted with that pretty New England town, my parents removed to New Orleans, where my father invested his money so securely in the banking business that he was never able to get any of it out again. But of this here after. I was only eighteen months old at the time of the removal, and it did n't make much difference to me where I was, because I was so small ; but several years later, when my father proposed to take me North to be educated, I had my own peculiar views on the subject. I instantly kicked over the little negro boy who happened to be standing by me at the moment, and, stamping my foot violently on the floor of the piazza, declared that I would not be taken away to live among a lot of Yankees ! You see I was what is called " a Northern man with Southern principles." I had no recollection of New England ; my earliest memories were con nected with the South, with Aunt Chloe, my old negro nurse, and with the great ill-kept garden in the centre of which stood our house, a white washed stone house it was, with wide verandas, shut out from the street by lines of orange and magnolia trees. I knew I was born at the North, but hoped nobody would find it out. I looked upon the misfortune as some thing so shrouded by time and distance that maybe nobody remembered it I never told my schoolmates I was a Yankee, because they talked about the 4 The Story of a Bad Boy. [January, Yankees in such a scornful way it made me feel that it was quite a disgrace not to be born in Louisiana, or at least in one of the Border States. And this impression was strengthened by Aunt Chloe, who said, " dar was n't no gen- tl'men in de Norf no way," and on one occasion terrified me beyond meas ure by declaring that, " if any of dem mean whites tried to git her away from marster, she was jes' gwine to knock 'em on de head wid a gourd ! " The way this poor creature's eyes flashed, and the tragic air with which she struck at an imaginary " mean white," are among the most vivid things in my memory of those days. To be frank, my idea of the North was about as accurate as that enter tained by the well-educated Englishman of the present day concerning America. I supposed the inhabitants were divided into two classes, Indians and white people ; that the Indians occasionally dashed down on New York, and scalped any woman or child (giving the preference to chil dren) whom they caught lingering in the outskirts after nightfall ; that the white men were either hunters or schoolmasters, and that it was winter pretty much all the year round. The prevailing style of architecture I took to be log cabins. With this delightful picture of Northern civilization in my eye, the reader will easily understand my terror at the bare thought of being transported to Rivermouth to school, and possibly will forgive me for kicking over little black Sam, and otherwise misconducting myself, when my father announced his determination to me. As for kicking little Sam, I always did that, more or less gently, when anything went wrong with me. My father was greatly perplexed and troubled by this unusually violent outbreak, and especially by the real consternation which he saw written in every line of my countenance. As little black Sam picked himself up, my father took my hand in his and led me thoughtfully to the library. I can see him now as he leaned back in the bamboo chair and questioned me. He appeared strangely agitated on learning the nature of my objec tions to going North, and proceeded at once to knock down all my pine-log houses, and scatter all the Indian tribes with which I had populated the greater portion of the Eastern and Middle States. " Who on earth, Tom, has filled your brain with such silly stories ? " asked my father, wiping the tears from his eyes. " Aunt Chloe, sir ; she told me." "And you really thought your grandfather wore a blanket embroidered with beads, and ornamented his leggins with the scalps of his enemies ? " " Well, sir, I did n't think that exactly." " Did n't think that exactly ? Tom, you will be the death of me." He hid his face in his handkerchief, and, when he looked up, he seemed to have been suffering acutely. I was deeply moved myself, though I did not clearly understand what I had said or done to cause him to feel so badly. Perhaps I had hurt his feelings by thinking it even possible that Grandfather Nutter was an Indian warrior. My father devoted that evening and several subsequent evenings to giving 1869.] The Story of a Bad Boy. 5 me a clear and succinct account of New England ; its early struggles, its progress, and its present condition, faint and confused glimmerings of all which I had obtained at school, where history had never been a favorite pur suit of mine. I was no longer unwilling to go North ; on the contrary, the proposed journey to a new world full of wonders kept me awake nights. I promised myself all sorts of fun and adventures, though I was not entirely at rest in my mind touching the savages, and secretly resolved to go on board the ship the journey was to be made by sea with a certain little brass pistol in my trousers-pocket, in case of any difficulty with the tribes when we landed at Boston. I could n't get the Indian out of my head. Only a short time previously the Cherokees or was it the Camanches ? had been removed from their hunting-grounds in Arkansas ; and in the wilds of the southwest the red men were still a source of terror to the border settlers. " Trouble with the In dians " was the staple news from Florida published in the New Orleans papers. We were constantly hearing of travellers bejng attacked and mur dered in the interior of that State. If these things were done in Florida, why not in Massachusetts ? Yet long before the sailing day arrived I was eager to be off. My impa tience was increased by the fact that my father had purchased for me a fine little Mustang pony, and shipped it to Rivermouth a fortnight previous to the date set for our own departure, for both my parents were to accompany me. This pony (which nearly kicked me out of bed one night in a dream), and my father's promise that he and my mother would come to Rivermouth every other summer, completely resigned me to the situation. The pony's name was Gitana, which is the Spanish for gypsy ; so I always called her she was a lady pony Gypsy. At length the time came to leave the vine-covered mansion among the orange-trees, to say good by to little black Sam (I am convinced he was heartily glad to get rid of me), and to part with simple Aunt Chloe, who, in the confusion of her grief, kissed an eyelash into my eye, and then buried her face in the bright bandanna turban which she had mounted that morning in honor of our departure. I fancy them standing by the open garden gate ; the tears are rolling down Aunt Chloe's cheeks ; Sam's six front teeth are glistening like pearls ; I wave my hand to him manfully, then I call out " good by " in a muffled voice to Aunt Chloe ; they and the old home fade away. I am never to see them again 1 CHAPTER III. ON BOARD THE TYPHOON. I DO not remember much about the voyage to Boston, for after the first few hours at sea I was dreadfully unwell. The name of our ship was the " A No. I, fast-sailing packet Typhoon." 6 The Story of a Bad Boy. [January, I learned afterwards that she sailed fast only in the newspaper advertise ments. My father owned one quarter of the Typhoon, and that is why we happened to go in her. I tried to guess which quarter of the ship he owned, and finally concluded it must be the hind quarter, the cabin, in which we had the cosiest of state-rooms, with one round window in the roof and two shelves or boxes nailed up against the wall to sleep in. There was a good deal of confusion on deck while we were getting under way. The captain shouted orders (to which nobody seemed to pay any attention) through a battered tin trumpet, and grew so red in the face that he reminded me of a scooped-out pumpkin with a lighted candle inside. He swore right and left at the sailors without the slightest regard for their feel ings. They did n't mind it a bit, however, but went on singing, " Heave ho ! With the rum below. And hurrah for the Spanish Main O ! " I will not be positive about " the Spanish Main," but it was hurrah for some thing O. I considered them very jolly fellows, and so indeed they were. One weather-beaten tar in particular struck my fancy, a thick-set jovial man, about fifty years of age, with twinkling blue eyes and a fringe of gray hair circling his head like a cfown. As he took off his tarpaulin I observed that the top of his head was quite smooth and flat, as if somebody had sat down on him when he was very young. There was something noticeably hearty in this man's bronzed face, a heart iness that seemed to extend to his loosely knotted neckerchief. But what completely won my good-will was a picture of enviable loveliness painted on his left arm. It was the head of a woman with the body of a fish. Her flow ing hair was of livid green, and she held a pink comb in one hand. I never saw anything so beautiful. I determined to know that man. I think I would have given my brass pistol to have had such a picture painted on my arm. While I stood admiring this work of art, a fat, wheezy steam-tug, with the word AJAX in staring black letters on the paddle-box, came puffing up alongside the Typhoon. It was ridiculously small and conceited, compared with our stately ship. I speculated as to what it was going to do. In a few minutes we were lashed to the little monster, which gave a snort and a shriek, and commenced backing us out trom the levee (wharf) with the greatest ease. I once saw an ant running away with a piece of cheese eight or ten times larger than itself. I could not help thinking of it, when I found the chubby, smoky-nosed tug-boat towing the Typhoon out into the Mississippi River. In the middle of the stream we swung round, the current caught us, and away we flew like a great winged bird. Only it did n't seem as if we were moving. The shore, with the countless steamboats, the tangled rigging of the ships, and the long lines of warehouses, appeared to be gliding away from us. It was grand sport to stand on the quarter-deck and watch all this. Be fore long there was nothing to be seen on either side but stretches of low 1869.] The Story of a Bad Boy. 7 swampy land, covered with stunted cypress-trees, from which drooped deli cate streamers of Spanish moss, a fine place for alligators and congo snakes. Here and there we passed a yellow sand-bar, and here and there a snag lifted its nose out of the water like a shark. "This is your last chance, to see the city, Tom," said my father, as we swept round a bend of the river. I turned and looked. New Orleans was just a colorless mass of some thing in the sunset, and the dome of the St. Charles Hotel, upon which the sun shimmered for a moment, was no bigger than the top of old Aunt Chloe's thimble. What do I remember next ? the gray sky and the fretful blue waters of the Gulf. The steam-tug had long since let slip her hawsers, and gone pant ing away with a derisive scream, as much as to say, " I 've done my duty, now look out for yourself, old Typhoon ! " The ship seemed quite proud of being left to take care of itself, and, with its huge white sails bulged out, strutted off like a vain turkey. I had been standing by my father near the wheel-house all this while, observing things with that nicety of perception which belongs only to children ; but now the dew began falling, and we went below to have supper. The fresh fruit and milk, and the slices of cold chicken, looked rery nice ; yet somehow I had no appetite. There was a general smell of tar about everything. Then the ship gave sudden lurches that made it a matter of un certainty whether one was going to put his fork to his mouth or into his ey. The tumblers and wineglasses, stuck in a rack over the table, kept clinking and clinking ; and the cabin lamp, suspended by four gilt chains from the ceiling, swayed to and fro crazily. Now the floor seemed to rise, and now it seemed to sink under one's feet like a feather-bed. There were not more than a dozen passengers on board, including our selves ; and all of these, excepting a bald-headed old gentleman, a retired sea-captain, disappeared into their state-rooms at an early hour of the evening. After supper was cleared away, my father and the elderly gentleman, whose name was Captain Truck, played at checkers ; and I amused myself for a while by watching the trouble they had in keeping the men in the proper places. Just at the most exciting point of the game, the ship would careen, and down would go the white checkers pell-mell among the black. Then my father laughed, but Captain Truck would grow very angry, and vow that he would have won the game in a move or two more, if the confounded old chicken-coop that 's what he called the ship had n't lurched. "I I think I will go to bed now, please," I said, laying my hand on my father's knee, and feeling exceedingly queer. It was high time, for the Typhoon was plunging about in the most alarm ing fashion. I was speedily tucked away in the upper berth, where I felt a trifle more easy at first. My clothes were placed on a narrow shelf at my feet, and it was a great comfort to me to know that my pistol was so handy, for I made no doubt we should fall in with Pirates before many hours. This 8 The Story of a Bad Boy. [January, is the last thing I remember with any distinctness. At midnight, as I was afterwards told, we were struck by a gale which never left us until we came in sight of the Massachusetts coast. For days and days I had no sensible idea of what was going on around me. That we were being hurled somewhere upside-down, and that I did n't like it, was about all I knew. I have, indeed, a vague impression that my father used to climb up to the berth and call me his " Ancient Mariner," bid ding me cheer up. But the Ancient Mariner was far from cheering up, if I recollect rightly ; and I don't believe that venerable navigator would have cared much if it had been announced to him, through a speaking-trumpet, that " a low, black, suspicious craft, with raking masts, was rapidly bearing down upon us ! " In fact, one morning, I thought that such was the case, for bang ! went the big cannon I had noticed in the bow of the ship when we came on board, and which had suggested to me the idea about pirates. Bang ! went the gun again in a few seconds. I made a feeble effort to get at my trousers-pocket ! But the Typhoon was only saluting Cape Cod, the first land sighted by vessels approaching the coast from a southerly direction. The vessel had ceased to roll, and my sea-sickness passed away as rapidly as it came. I was all right now, " only a little shaky in my timbers and a little blue about the gills," as Captain Truck remarked to my mother, who, like myself, had been confined to the state-room during the passage. At Cape Cod the wind parted company with us without saying so much as " Excuse me " ; so we were nearly two days in making the run which in favorable weather is usually accomplished in seven hours. That's what the pilot said. I was able to go about the ship now, and I lost no time in cultivating the acquaintance of the sailor with the green-haired lady on his arm. I found him in the forecastle, a sort of cellar in the front part of the vessel. He was an agreeable sailor, as I had expected, and we became the best of friends in five minutes. He had been all over the world two or three times, and knew no end of stories. According to his own account, he must have been shipwrecked at least twice a year ever since his birth. He had served under Decatur when that gallant officer peppered the Algerines and made them promise not to sell their prisoners of war into slavery ; he had worked a gun at the bom bardment of Vera Cruz in the Mexican War, and he had been on Alexander Selkirk's island more than once. There were very few things he had n't done in a seafaring way. " I suppose, sir," I remarked, " that your name is n't Typhoon ? " " Why, Lord love ye, lad, my name 's Benjamin Watson, of Nantucket. But I 'm a true-blue Typhooner," he added, which increased my respect for him ; I don't know why, and I did n't know then whether Typhoon was the name of a vegetable or a profession. Not wishing to be outdone in frankness, I disclosed to him that my name was Tom Bailey, upon which he said he was very glad to hear it. i86 9 .j The Story of a Bad Boy. When we got more intimate, I discovered that Sailor Ben, as he wished me to call him, was a perfect walking picture-book. He had two anchors, a star, and a frigate in full sail on his right arm ; a pair of lovely blue hands clasped on his breast, and I Ve no doubt that other parts of his body were illustrated in the same agreeable manner. I imagine he was fond of draw ings, and took this means of gratifying his artistic taste. It was certainly very ingenious and convenient. A portfolio might be misplaced, or dropped overboard ; but Sailor Ben had his pictures wherever he went, just as that eminent person in the poem " With rings on her fingers and bells on her toes" was accompanied by music on all occasions. The two hands on his breast, he informed me, constituted a tribute to the memory of a dead messmate from whom he had parted years ago, and surely a more touching tribute was never engraved on a tombstone. This caused me to think of my parting with old Aunt Chloe, and I told him I should take it as a great favor indeed if he would paint a pink hand and a black hand on my chest. He said the colors were pricked into the skin with needles, io My Heroine. [January, and that the operation was somewhat painful. I assured him, in an off-hand manner, that I did n't mind pain, and begged him to set to work at once. The simple-hearted fellow, who was probably not a little vain of his skill, took me into the forecastle, and was on the point of complying with my request, when my father happened to look down the gangway, a circum stance that rather interfered with the decorative art. I did n't have another opportunity of conferring alone with Sailor Ben, for the next morning, bright and early, we came in sight of the cupola of the Boston State House. T. B. Aldrich. MY HEROINE. A TRUE STORY. I KNEW a little maid, as sweet As any seven years' child you '11 meet In mansion grand or village street, However charming they be : She '11 never know of this my verse When I her simple tale rehearse ; A cottage girl, made baby-nurse Unto another baby. Till then how constant she at school ! Her tiny hands of work how full ! And never careless, never dull, As little scholars may be. Her absence questioned, with cheek red And gentle lifting of the head, " Ma'am, I could not be spared," she said " I had to mind my baby." Her baby ; oft along the lane She 'd carry it with such sweet pain On summer holidays, full fain To let both work and play be : But, at the school hour told to start, She 'd turn with sad divided heart 'Twixt scholar's wish and mother's part, " I cannot leave my baby ! " OUR YOUNG FOLKS. An Illustrated Magazine FOR BOYS AND GIRLS. VOL. V. FEBRUARY, 1869. No. II. THE STORY OF A BAD BOY. CHAPTER IV. RIVERMOUTH. T was a beautiful May morning when the Ty phoon hauled up at Long Wharf. Whether the Indians were not early risers, or whether they were away just then on a war-path, I could n't determine ; but they did not appear in any great force, in fact, did not appear at all. In the remarkable geography which I never hurt myself with studying at Isfew Orleans, was a picture representing the landing of the Pil grim Fathers at Plymouth. The Pilgrim Fa thers, in rather odd hats and coats, are seen approaching the savages ; the savages, in no coats or hats to speak of, are evidently unde cided whether to shake hands with the Pilgrim Fathers or to make one grand rush and scalp the entire party. Now this scene had so stamped itself on my mind, that, in spite of all my father had said, I was prepared for some such greeting from the aborigines. Neverthe less, I was not sorry to have my expectations unfulfilled. By the way, speaking of the Pil grim Fathers, I often used to wonder why there was no mention made of the Pilgrim Mothers. While our trunks were being hoisted from the hold of the ship, I mounted on the roof of the cabin, and took a critical Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1869, by FIELDS, OSGOOD, & Co., in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District ef Massachusetts. VOL. V. NO. II. 5 66 The Story of a Bad Boy. [February, view of Boston. As we came up the harbor, I had noticed that the houses were huddled together on an immense hill, at the top of which was a large building, the State House, towering proudly above the rest, like an amiable mother-hen surrounded by her brood of many-colored chickens. A closer inspection did not impress me very favorably. The city was not nearly so imposing as New Orleans, which stretches out for miles and miles, in the shape of a crescent, along the banks of the majestic river. I soon grew tired of looking at the masses of houses, rising above one an other in irregular tiers, and was glad my father did not propose to remain long in Boston. As I leaned over the rail in this mood, a measly-looking little boy with no shoes said that if I would come down on the wharf he 'd lick me for two cents, not an exorbitant price. But I didn't go down. I climbed into the rigging, and stared at him. This, as I was rejoiced to ob serve, so exasperated him that he stood on his head on a pile of boards, in order to pacify himself. The first train for Rivermouth left at noon. After a late breakfast on board the Typhoon, our trunks were piled upon a baggage-wagon, and our- -selves stowed away in a coach, which must have turned at least one hundred corners before it set us down at the railway station. 1869.] The Story of a Bad Boy. 67 In less time than it takes to tell it, we were shooting across the country at a fearful rate, now clattering over a bridge, now screaming through a tun nel ; here we cut a nourishing village in two, like a knife, and here we dived into the shadow of a pine forest. Before a fellow could tell where he was, he was somewhere else. Sometimes we glided along the edge of the ocean, and could see the sails of ships twinkling like bits of silver against the horizon ; sometimes we dashed across rocky pasture-lands where stupid-eyed cattle were loafing. It was fun to scare the lazy-looking cows that lay round in groups under the newly budded trees near the railroad track. Whenever we approached a village, the engineer sounded his bell, and slackened the speed of the train ; but we did not pause at any of the little brown stations on the route (they looked just like overgrown black-walnut clocks), though at every one of them a man popped out as if he were worked by machinery, and waved a red flag, and appeared as though he would like to have us stop. But we were an express train, and made no stoppages, excepting once or twice to give the engine a drink. It is strange how the memory clings to some things. It is over twenty years since I took that first ride to Rivermouth, and yet, oddly enough, I remember as if it were yesterday, that, as we passed slowly through the village of Hampton, we saw two boys fighting behind a red barn. There was also a shaggy yellow dog, who looked as if he had commenced to unravel, barking himself all up into a knot with excitement. We had only a hurried glimpse of the battle, long enough, however, to see that the combatants were equally matched and very much in earnest. I am ashamed to say how many times since I have speculated as to which boy got licked. Maybe both the small rascals are dead now (not in consequence of the set-to, let us hope), or maybe they are married, and have pugnacious urchins of their own ; yet to this day I sometimes find myself wondering how that fight turned out. We had been riding perhaps two hours and a half, when we shot by a tall factory with a chimney resembling a church steeple ; then the locomotive gave a scream, the engineer rung his bell, and we plunged into the twilight of a long wooden building, open at both ends. Here we stopped, and the conductor, thrusting his head in at the car door, cried out, " Passengers for Rivermouth ! " At last we had reached our journey's end. On the platform my father shook hands with a straight, brisk old gentleman whose face was very serene and rosy. He had on a white hat and a long swallow-tailed coat, the collar of which came clear up above his ears. He did n't look unlike a Pilgrim Father. This, of course, was Grandfather Nutter, at whose house I was born. My mother kissed him a great many times ; and I was glad to see him myself, though I naturally did not feel very intimate with a person whom I had not seen since I was eighteen months old. While we were getting into the double-seated wagon which Grandfather Nutter had provided, I took the opportunity of asking after the health of the pony. The pony had arrived all right ten days before, and was in the stable at home, quite anxious to see me. 68 The Story of a Bad Boy. [February, As we drove through the quiet old town, I thought Rivermouth the pretti est place in the world ; and I think so still. The streets are long and wide, shaded by gigantic American elms, whose drooping branches, interlacing here and there, span the avenues with arches graceful enough to be the handi work of fairies. Many of the houses have small flower-gardens in front, gay with china-asters, and are substantially built, with massive chimney-stacks and protruding eaves. A beautiful river goes rippling by the town, and, after turning and twisting among a lot of tiny islands, empties itself into the sea. The harbor is so fine that the largest ships can sail directly up to the wharves and drop anchor. Only they don't. Years ago it was a famous sea port. Princely fortunes were made in the West India trade ; and in 1812, when we were at war with Great Britain, any number of privateers were fitted out at Rivermouth to prey upon the merchant vessels of the enemy. Certain people grew suddenly and mysteriously rich. A great many of " the first families " of to-day do not care to trace their pedigree back to the time when their grandsires owned shares in the Matilda Jane, twenty-four guns. Well, well ! Few ships come to Rivermouth now. Commerce drifted into other ports. The phantom fleet sailed off one day, and never came back again. The crazy old warehouses are empty ; and barnacles and eel-grass cling to the piles of the crumbling wharfs, where the sunshine lies lovingly, bringing out the faint spicy odor that haunts the place, the ghost of the old dead West India trade ! During our ride from the station, I was struck, of course, only by the gen eral neatness of the houses and the beauty of the elm-trees lining the streets. I describe Rivermouth now as I came to know it afterwards. Rivermouth is a very ancient town. In my day there existed a tradition among the boys that it was here Christopher Columbus made his first land ing on this continent. I remember having the exact spot pointed out to me by Pepper Whitcomb ! One thing is certain, Captain John Smith, who after wards, according to the legend, married Pocahontas, whereby he got Pow- hatan for a father-in-law, explored the river in 1614, and was much charmed by the beauty of Rivermouth, which at that time was covered with wild strawberry-vines. Rivermouth figures prominently in all the colonial histories. It was loyal to the English king as long as loyalty was a virtue, and then turned round and helped to thrash His Majesty with a readiness truly touching. When ever there is any fighting to be done, the Rivermouth men are on the alert. Such has been their character for two hundred and fifty years. Who can tell how many of the brave fellows lie under the walls of Quebec, in the trenches at Bunker Hill, in the dark woods of Chancellors ville ? Outside the town is a mossy graveyard in which there have been no interments these four gen erations. Here you can read on quaintly sculptured tombstones the names of doughty naval captains and bold horsemen whose bodies lie else where. 1869.] The Story of a Bad Boy. 69 " Their bones are dust, And their good swords rust : Their souls are with the saints, I trust." * Every other house in the place has its tradition more or less grim and entertaining. If ghosts could nourish anywhere, there are certain streets in Rivermouth that would be full of them. I don't know of a town with so many old houses. Let us linger, for a moment, in front of the one which the Oldest Inhabitant is always sure to point out to the curious stranger. It is a square wooden edifice, with gambrel roof and deep-set window- frames. Over the windows and doors there used to be heavy carvings, oak-leaves and acorns, and angels' heads with wings spreading from the ears, oddly jumbled together ; but these ornaments and other outward signs of grandeur have long since disappeared. A peculiar interest attaches itself to this house, not because of its age, for it has not been standing quite a cen tury ; nor on account of its architecture, which is not striking, but because of the illustrious men who at various periods have occupied its spacious chambers. In 1770 it was an aristocratic hotel. At the left side of the entrance stood a high post, from which swung the sign of the Earl of Halifax. The land lord was a stanch royalist, that is to say, he believed in the king ; and when the overtaxed colonies determined to throw off the British yoke, the adherents to the Crown held private meetings in one of the back rooms of the tavern. This irritated the rebels, as they were called ; and one night they made an attack on the Earl of Halifax, tore down the signboard, broke in the window-sashes, and gave the landlord hardly time to make himself in visible over a fence in the rear. For several months the shattered tavern remained deserted. At last the exiled innkeeper, on promising to do better, was allowed to return ; a new sign, bearing the name of William Pitt, the friend of America, swung proudly from the door-post, and the patriots were appeased. Here it was that the mail-coach from Boston twice a week, for many a year, set down its load of travellers and gossip. For some of the details in this sketch, I am indebted to a recently published chronicle of those times. It is 1782. The French fleet is lying in the harbor of Rivermouth, and eight of the principal officers, in white uniforms trimmed with gold-lace, have taken up their quarters at the sign of the William Pitt. Who is this young and handsome officer now entering the door of the tavern ? It is no less a personage than the Marquis Lafayette, who has come all the way from Providence to visit the French gentlemen boarding there. What a gallant- looking cavalier he is, with his quick eyes and coal-black hair ! Forty years later he visited the spot again ; his locks were gray and his step was feeble, but his heart held its young love for Liberty. Who is this finely dressed traveller alighting from his coach-and-four, attended by servants in livery ? Do you know that sounding name, written * Altered from Coleridge. /o The Story of a Bad Boy. [February, in big valorous letters on the Declaration of Independence, written as if by the hand of a giant ? Can you not see it now ? This is he. Three young men, with their valet, are standing on the door-step of the William Pitt, bowing politely, and inquiring in the most courteous terms in the world if they can be accommodated. It is the time of the French Rev olution, and these are three sons of the Duke of Orleans, Louis Philippe and his two brothers. Louis Philippe never forgot his visit to Rivermouth. Years afterwards, when he was seated on the throne of France, he asked an American lady, who chanced to be at his court, if the pleasant old mansion were still standing. But a greater and a better man than the king of the French has honored this roof. Here, in 1789, came George Washington, the President of the United States, to pay his final complimentary visit to the State dignitaries. The wainscoted chamber where he slept, and the dining-hall where he enter tained his guests, have a certain dignity and sanctity which even the present Irish tenants cannot wholly destroy. During the period of my reign at Rivermouth, an ancient lady, Dame Joce- lyn by name, lived in one of the upper rooms of this notable building. She was a dashing young belle at the time of Washington's first visit to the town, and must have been exceedingly coquettish and pretty, judging from a cer tain portrait on ivory still in the possession of the family. According to Dame Jocelyn, George Washington flirted with her just a little bit, in what a stately and highly finished manner can be imagined. There was a mirror with a deep filigreed frame hanging over the mantel-piece in this room. The glass was cracked and the quicksilver rubbed off or discolored in many places. When it reflected your face you had the singular pleasure of not recognizing yourself. It gave your features the appearance of having been run through a mince-meat machine. But what rendered the looking-glass a thing of enchantment to me was a faded green feather, tipped with scarlet, which drooped from the top of the tarnished gilt mouldings. This feather Washington took from the plume of his three-cornered hat, and presented with his own hand to the worshipful Mistress Jocelyn the day he left River- mouth forever. I wish I could describe the mincing genteel air, and the ill- concealed self-complacency, with which the dear old lady related the incident. Many a Saturday afternoon have I climbed up the rickety staircase to that dingy room, which always had a flavor of snuff about it, to sit on a stiff- backed chair and listen for hours together to Dame Jocelyn's stories of the olden time. How she would prattle ! She was bedridden, poor creature ! and had not been out of the chamber for fourteen years. Meanwhile the 1869.] The Story of a Bad Boy. 71 world had shot ahead of Dame Jocelyn. The changes that had taken place under her very nose were unknown to this faded, crooning old gentlewoman, whom the eighteenth century had neglected to take away with the rest of its odd traps. She had no patience with new-fangled notions. The old ways and the old times were good enough for her. She had never seen a steam- engine, though she had heard " the dratted thing " screech in the distance. In her day, when gentlefolk travelled, they went in their own coaches. She did n't see how respectable people could bring themselves down to " riding in a car with rag-tag and bobtail and Lord-knows-who." Poor old aristo crat ! the landlord charged her no rent for the room, and the neighbors took turns in supplying her with meals. Towards the close of her life, she lived to be ninety-nine, she grew very fretful and capricious about her food. If she didn't chance to fancy what was sent her, she had no hesitation in send ing it back to the giver with " Miss Jocelyn's respectful compliments." But I have been gossiping too long, and yet not too long if I have im pressed upon the reader an idea of what a rusty, delightful old town it was to which I had come to spend the next three or four years of my boyhood. A drive of twenty minutes from the station brought us to the door-step of Grandfather Nutter's house. What kind of house it was, and what sort of people lived in it, shall be told in another chapter. CHAPTER V. THE NUTTER HOUSE AND THE NUTTER FAMILY. THE Nutter House, all the more prominent dwellings in Rivermouth are named after somebody ; for instance, there is the Walford House, the Venner House, the Trefethern House, etc., though it by no means fol lows that they are inhabited by the people whose names they bear, the Nutter House, to resume, has been in our family nearly a hundred years, and is an honor to the builder (an ancestor of ours, I believe), supposing durability to be a merit. If our ancestor was a carpenter, he knew his trade. I wish I knew mine as well. Such timber and such workmanship don't often come together in houses built nowadays. Imagine a low-studded structure, with a wide hall running through the middle. At your right hand, as you enter, stands a tall black mahogany clock, looking like an Egyptian mummy set up on end. On each side of the hall are doors (whose knobs, it must be confessed, do not turn very easily), opening into large rooms wainscoted and rich in wood-carvings about the mantel-pieces and cornices. The walls are covered with pictured paper, rep resenting landscapes and sea- views. In the parlor, for example, this en livening figure is repeated all over the room : A group of English peasants, wearing Italian hats, are dancing on a lawn that abruptly resolves itself into a sea-beach, upon which stands a flabby fisherman (nationality unknown), quietly hauling in what appears to be a small whale, and totally regardless of the dreadful naval combat going on just beyond the end of his fishing-rod. The Story of a Bad Boy. [February, On the other side of the ships is the main-land again, with the same peas ants dancing. Our ancestors were very worthy people, but their wall-papers were abominable. There are neither grates nor stoves in these quaint chambers, but splendid open chimney-places, with room enough for the corpulent back-log to turn over comfortably on the polished andirons. A wide staircase leads from the hall to the second story, which is arranged much like the first. Over this is the garret. I need n't tell a New England boy what a museum of curiosities is the garret of a well-regulated New England house of fifty or sixty years' standing. Here meet together, as if by some preconcerted arrangement, all the broken-down chairs of the household, all the spavined tables, all the seedy hats, all the intoxicated-looking boots, all the split walking-sticks that have retired from business, " weary with the march of life." The pots, the pans, the trunks, the bottles, who may hope to make an inventory of the numberless odds and ends collected in this bewildering lumber-room ? But what a place it is to sit of an afternoon with the rain pattering on the roof! what a place in which to read Gulliver's Travels, or the famous adventures of Rinaldo Rinaldini ! My grandfather's house stood a little back from the main street, in the shadow of two handsome elms, whose overgrown boughs would dash them selves against the gables whenever the wind blew hard. In the rear was a pleasant garden, covering perhaps a quarter of an acre, full of purple-plum- trees and gooseberry-bushes. These trees were old settlers, and are all dead now, excepting one, which bears a plum as big as an egg. This tree, as I 1869.] The Story of a Bad Boy. 73 have said, is still standing, and a more beautiful tree to tumble out of never grew anywhere. In the northwestern corner of the garden were the stables and carriage house, opening upon a narrow lane. You may imagine that I made an early visit to that locality to inspect Gypsy. Indeed, I paid her a visit every half-hour during the first day of my arrival. At the twenty-fourth visit, she trod on my foot rather heavily, as a reminder, probably, that I was earing out my welcome. She was a knowing little pony, that Gypsy, and I shall have much to say of her in the course of these pages. Gypsy's quarters were very nice, but nothing among my new surroundings gave me more satisfaction than the cosey sleeping apartment that had been )repared for myself. It was the hall room over the front door. I had never had a chamber all to myself before, and this one, about twice the size of our state-room on board the Typhoon, was a marvel of neatness and comfort. Pretty chintz curtains hung at the window, and a patch quilt f more colors than were in Jacob's coat covered the little truckle-bed. The pattern of the wall-paper left nothing to be desired in that line. On a gray jackground were small bunches of leaves, unlike any that ever grew in this world ; and on every other bunch perched a yellow-bird, pitted with crimson spots, as if it had just recovered from a severe attack of the small-pox. That no such bird ever existed did not detract from my admiration of each one. There were two hundred and sixty-eight of these birds in all, not counting hose split in two where the paper was badly joined. I counted them once when I was laid up with a fine black eye, and, falling asleep immediately dreamed that the whole flock suddenly took wing and flew out of the window. "rom that time I was never able to regard them as merely inanimate ob- ects. A wash-stand in the corner, a chest of carved mahogany drawers, a look- ng-glass in a filigreed frame, and a high-backed chair studded with brass nails like a coflin, constituted the furniture. Over the head of the bed were wo oak shelves, holding perhaps a dozen books, among which were Theo dore, or The Peruvians ; Robinson Crusoe ; an odd volume of Tristram Shandy ; Baxter's Saints' Rest ; and a fine English edition of the Arabian lights, with six hundred wood-cuts by Harvey. Shall I ever forget the hour when I first overhauled these books ? I do not allude especially to Baxter's Saints' Rest, which is far from being a lively work for the young, but to the Arabian Nights, and particularly to Robin- >on Crusoe. The thrill that ran into my fingers' ends then has not run out ret. Many a time did I steal up to this nest of a room, and, taking the dog's- eared volume from its shelf, glide off into an enchanted realm, where there were no lessons to get and no boys to smash my kite. In a lidless trunk in ;he garret I subsequently unearthed another motley collection of novels and romances, embracing the adventures of Baron Trenck, Jack Sheppard, Don Quixote, Gil Bias, and Charlotte Temple, all of which I fed upon like a Dookworm. I never come across a copy of any of those works without feeling a certain tenderness for the yellow-haired little rascal who used to lean above the 74 The Story of a Bad Boy. [February, magic pages hour after hour, religiously believing every word he read, and no more doubting the reality of Sinbad the Sailor, or the Knight of the Sorrow ful Countenance, than he did the existence of his own grandfather. Against the wall at the foot of the bed hung a single-barrel shot-gun, placed there by Grandfather Nutter, who knew what a boy loved, if ever a grandfather did. As the trigger of the gun had been accidentally twisted off, it was not, perhaps, the most dangerous weapon that could be placed in the hands of youth. In this maimed condition its " bump of destructiveness " was much less than that of my small brass pocket-pistol, which I at once proceeded to suspend from one of the nails supporting the fowling-piece, for my vagaries concerning the red man had been entirely dispelled. Having introduced the reader to the Nutter House, a presentation to the Nutter family naturally follows. The family consisted of my grandfather ; his sister, Miss Abigail Nutter ; and Kitty Collins, the maid-of-all-work. Grandfather Nutter was a hale, cheery old gentleman, as straight and as bald as an arrow. He had been a sailor in early life ; that is to say, at the age of ten he fled from the multiplication-table, and ran away to sea. A sin gle voyage satisfied him. There never was but one of our family who didrft run away to sea, and this one died at his birth. My grandfather had also been a soldier, a captain of militia in 1812. If I owe the British nation anything, I owe thanks to that particular British soldier who put a musket- ball into the fleshy part of Captain Nutter's leg, causing that noble warrior a slight permanent limp, but offsetting the injury by furnishing him with the material for a story which the old gentleman was never weary of telling and I never weary of listening to. The story, in brief, was as follows : At the breaking out of the war, an English frigate lay for several days off the coast near Rivermouth. A strong fort defended the harbor, and a regiment of minute-men, scattered at various points along-shore, stood ready to repel the boats, should the enemy try to effect a landing. Captain Nutter had charge of a slight earthwork just outside the mouth of the river. Late one thick night the sound of oars was heard ; the sentinel tried to fire off his gun at half-cock, and could n't, when Captain Nutter sprung upon the parapet in the pitch darkness, and shouted, " Boat ahoy ! " A musket-shot immediately embedded itself in the calf of his leg. The Captain tumbled into the fort, and the boat, which had probably come in search of water, pulled back to the frigate. This was my grandfather's only exploit during the war. That his prompt and bold conduct was instrumental in teaching the enemy the hopelessness of attempting to conquer such a people was among the firm beliefs of my boyhood. At the time I came to Rivermouth, my grandfather had retired from active pursuits, and was living at ease on his money, invested principally in ship ping. He had been a widower many years ; a maiden sister, the aforesaid Miss Abigail, managing his household. Miss Abigail also managed her brother, and her brother's servant, and the visitor at her brother's gate, not in a tyrannical spirit, but from a philanthropic desire to be useful to every- 1869.] The Story of a Bad Boy. 75 body. In person she was tall and angular ; she had a gray complexion, gray eyes, gray eyebrows, and generally wore a gray dress. Her strongest weak point was a belief in the efficacy of " hot drops " as a cure for all known diseases. If there were ever two people who seemed to dislike each other, Miss Abi gail and Kitty Collins were those people. If ever two people really loved each other, Miss Abigail and Kitty Collins were those people also. They were always either skirmishing or having a cup of tea lovingly together. Miss Abigail was very fond of me, and so was Kitty ; and in the course of their disagreements each let me into the private history of the other. Accord ing to Kitty, it was not originally my grandfather's intention to have Miss Abigail at the head of his domestic establishment. She had swooped down on him (Kitty's own words), with a band-box in one hand and a faded blue cotton umbrella, still in existence, in the other. Clad in this singular garb, I do not remember that Kitty alluded to any additional peculiarity of dress, Miss Abigail had made her appearance at the door of the Nutter House on the morning of my grandmother's funeral. The small amount of baggage which the lady brought with her would have led the superficial observer to infer that Miss Abigail's visit was limited to a few days. I run ahead of my story in saying she remained seventeen years ! How much longer she would have remained can never be definitely known now, as she died at the expiration of that period. Whether or not my grandfather was quite pleased by this unlooked-for addition to his family is a problem. He was very kind always to Miss Abi gail, and seldom opposed her ; though I think she must have tried his patience sometimes, especially when she interfered with Kitty. Kitty Collins, or Mrs. Catherine, as she preferred to be called, was de scended in a direct line from an extensive family of kings who formerly ruled over Ireland. In consequence of various calamities, among which the fail ure of the potato-crop may be mentioned, Miss Kitty Collins, in company with several hundred of her countrymen and countrywomen, also de scended from kings, came over to America in an emigrant ship, in the year eighteen hundred and something. I don't know what freak of fortune caused the royal exile to turn up at Rivermouth ; but turn up she did, a few months after arriving in this country, and was hired by my grandmother to do " general housework " for the sum of four shillings and sixpence a week. Kitty had been living about seven years in my grandfather's family when she unburdened her heart of a secret which had been weighing upon it all that time. It may be said of people, as it is said of nations, " Happy are they that have no history." Kitty had a history, and a pathetic one, I think. On board the emigrant ship that brought her to America, she became acquainted with a sailor, who, being touched by Kitty's forlorn condition, was very good to her. Long before the end of the voyage, which had been tedious and perilous, she was heart-broken at the thought of separating from her kindly protector ; but they were not to part just yet, for the sailor returned Kitty's affection, and the two were married on their arrival at port. 76 The Story of a Bad Boy. [February, Kitty's husband she would never mention his name, but kept it -locked in her bosom like some precious relic had a considerable sum of money when the crew were paid off; and the young couple for Kitty was young then lived very happily in a lodging-house on South Street, near the docks. This was in New York. The days flew by like hours, and the stocking in which the little bride kept the funds shrunk and shrunk, until at last there were only three or four dol lars left in the toe of it. Then Kitty was troubled ; for she knew her sailor would have to go to sea again unless he could get employment on shore- This he endeavored to do, but not with much success. One morning as usual he kissed her good day, and set out in search of work. " Kissed me good by, and called me his little Irish lass," sobbed Kitty, tell ing the story, " kissed me good by, and, Heaven help me ! I never set eye on him nor on the likes of him again ! " He never came back. Day after day dragged on, night after night, and then the weary weeks. What had become of him ? Had he been murdered ? had he fallen into the docks ? had he deserted her? No ! she could not believe that ; he was too brave and tender and true. She could n't believe that. He was dead, dead, or he 'd come back to her. Meanwhile the landlord of the lodging-house turned Kitty into the streets, now that " her man " was gone, and the payment of the rent doubtful. She got a place as a servant. The family she lived with shortly moved to Boston, and she accompanied them ; then they went abroad, but Kitty would not leave America. Somehow she drifted to Rivermouth, and for seven long years never gave speech to her sorrow, until the kindness of strangers, who had become friends to her, unsealed the heroic lips. Kitty's story, you may be sure, made my grandparents treat her more kindly than ever. In time she grew to be regarded less as a servant than as a friend in the home circle, sharing its joys and sorrows, a faithful nurse, a willing slave, a happy spirit in spite of all. I fancy I hear her singing over her work in the kitchen, pausing from time to time to make some witty reply to Miss Abigail, for Kitty, like all her race, had a vein of unconscious humor. Her bright honest face comes to me out from the past, the light and life of the Nutter House when I was a boy at Rivermouth. T. B. Aldrich. OUR YOUNG FOLKS. An Illustrated Magazine FOR BOYS AND GIRLS. VOL. V. MARCH, 1869. No. III. dropping off into a doze homesickness at intervals THE STORY OF A BAD BOY. CHAPTER VI. LIGHTS AND SHADOWS. HE first shadow that fell upon me in my new home was caused by the return of my parents to New Orleans. Their visit was cut short by business which required my father's presence in Natchez, where he was establishing a branch of the banking-house. When they had gone, a sense of loneliness such as I had never dreamed of filled my young breast. I crept away to the stable, and, throwing my arms about Gypsy's neck, sobbed aloud. She too had come from the sunny South, and was now a stranger in a strange land. The little mare seemed to real ize our situation, and gave me all the sympathy I could ask, repeatedly rubbing her soft nose over my face and lapping up my salt tears with evident relish. When night came, I felt still more lonesome. My grandfather sat in his arm-chair the greater part of the evening, reading the " Rivermouth Barnacle," the local newspaper. There was no gas in those days, and the Captain read by the aid of a small block-tin lamp, which he held in one hand. I observed that he had a habit of every three or four minutes, and I forgot my in watching him. Two or three times, to my Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1869, by FIELDS, OSGOOD, & Co., in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. VOL. V. NO. III. 10 138 The Story of a Bad Boy. [March, vast amusement, he scorched the edges of the newspaper with the wick of the lamp ; and at about half past eight o'clock I had the satisfaction I am sorry to confess it was a satisfaction of seeing the " Rivermouth Barna cle " in flames. My grandfather leisurely extinguished the fire with his hands, and Miss Abigail, who sat near a low table, knitting by the light of an astral lamp, did not even look up. She was quite used to this catastrophe. There was little or no conversation during the evening. In fact, I do not remember that any one spoke at all, excepting once, when the Captain re marked, in a meditative manner, that my parents " must have reached New York by this time " ; at which supposition I nearly strangled myself in attempting to intercept a sob. The monotonous " click click " of Miss Abigail's needles made me nervous after a while, and finally drove me out of the sitting-room into the kitchen, where Kitty caused me to laugh by saying Miss Abigail thought that what I needed was " a good dose of hot-drops," a remedy she was forever ready to administer in all emergencies. If a boy broke his leg, or lost his mother, I believe Miss Abigail would have given him hot-drops. Kitty laid herself out to be entertaining. She told me several funny Irish stories, and described some of the odd people living in the town ; but, in the midst of her comicalities, the tears would involuntarily ooze out of my eyes, though I was not a lad much addicted to weeping. Then Kitty would put her arms around me, and tell me not to mind it, that it was n't as if I had been left alone in a foreign land with no one to care for me, like a poor girl whom she had once known. I brightened up before long, and told Kitty all about the Typhoon and the old seaman, whose name I tried in vain to recall, and was obliged to fall back on plain Sailor Ben. I was glad when ten o'clock came, the bedtime for young folks, and old folks too, at the Nutter House. Alone in the hall-chamber I had my cry out, once for all, moistening the pillow to such an extent that I was obliged to turn it over to find a dry spot to go to sleep on. My grandfather wisely concluded to put me to school at once. If I had been permitted to go mooning about the house and stables I should have kept my discontent alive for months. The next morning, accordingly, he took me by the hand, and we set forth for the academy, which was located at the further end of the town. The Temple School was a two-story brick building, standing in the centre of a great square piece of land, surrounded by a high picket fence. There were three or four sickly trees, but no grass, in this enclosure, which had been worn smooth and hard by the tread of multitudinous feet. I noticed here and there small holes scooped in the ground, indicating that it was the season for marbles. A better playground for base-ball could n't have been devised. On reaching the school-house door, the Captain inquired for Mr. Grim- shaw. The boy who answered our knock ushered us into a side-room, and in a few minutes during which my eye took in forty-two caps hung on forty-two wooden pegs Mr. Grimshaw made his appearance. He was a 1 869.] The Story of a Bad Boy. 1 39 slender man, with white, fragile hands, and eyes that glanced half a dozen different ways at once, a habit probably acquired from watching the boys. After a brief consultation, my grandfather patted me on the head and left me in charge of this gentleman, who seated himself in front of me and pro ceeded to sound the depth, or, more properly speaking, the shallowness, of my attainments. I suspect my historical information rather startled him. I recollect I gave him to understand that Richard III. was the last king of England. This ordeal over, Mr. Grimshaw rose and bade me follow him. A door opened, and I stood in the blaze of forty-two pairs of upturned eyes. I was a cool hand for my age, but I lacked the boldness to face this battery with out wincing. In a sort of dazed way I stumbled after Mr. Grimshaw down a narrow aisle between two rows of desks, and shyly took the seat pointed out to me. The faint buzz that had floated over the school-room at our entrance died away, and the interrupted lessons were resumed. By degrees I recovered my coolness, and ventured to look around me. The owners of the forty-two caps were seated at small green desks like the one assigned to me. The desks were arranged in six rows, with spaces between just wide enough to prevent the boys' whispering. A blackboard set into the wall extended clear across the end of the room ; on a raised platform near the door stood the master's table ; and directly in front of this was a recitation-bench capable of seating fifteen or twenty pupils. A pair of globes, tattooed with dragons and winged horses, occupied a shelf between two windows, which were so high from the floor that nothing but a giraffe could have looked out of them. Having possessed myself of these details, I scrutinized my new acquaint ances with unconcealed curiosity, instinctively selecting my friends and pick ing out my enemies, and in only two cases did I mistake my man. A sallow boy with bright red hair, sitting in the fourth row, shook his fist at me furtively several times during the morning. I had a presentiment I should have trouble with that boy some day, a presentiment subsequently realized. On my left was a chubby little fellow with a great many freckles (this was Pepper Whitcomb), who made some mysterious motions to me. I did n't understand them, but, as they were clearly of a pacific nature, I winked my eye at him. This appeared to be satisfactory, for he then went on with his studies. At recess he gave me the core of his apple, though there were sev eral applicants for it. Presently a boy in a loose olive-green jacket with two rows of brass but tons held up a folded paper behind his slate, intimating that it was intended for me. The paper was passed skilfully from desk to desk until it reached my hands. On opening the scrap, I found that it contained a small piece of molasses candy in an extremely humid state. This was certainly kind. I nodded my acknowledgments and hastily slipped the delicacy into my mouth. In a second I felt my tongue grow red-hot with cayenne pepper. My face must have assumed a comical expression, for the boy in the olive- 140 The Story of a Bad Boy. [March, green jacket gave an hysterical laugh, for which he was instantly punished by Mr. Grimshaw. I swallowed the fiery candy, though it brought the water to my eyes, and managed to look so unconcerned that I was the only pupil in the form who escaped questioning as to the cause of Marden's misdemeanor. C. Harden was his name. At recess several of the scholars came to my desk and shook hands with me, Mr. Grimshaw having previously introduced me to Phil Adams, charg ing him to see that I got into no trouble. My new acquaintances suggested that we should adjourn to the playground. We were no sooner out of doors than the boy with the red hair thrust his way through the crowd and placed himself at my side. " I say, youngster, if you ire comin' to this school you 've got to toe the mark." I did n't see any mark to toe, and did n't understand what he meant ; but I replied politely, that, if it was the custom of the school, I should be happy to toe the mark if he would point it out to me. " I don't want any of your sarse," said the boy, scowling. " Look here, Con way ! " cried a clear voice from the other side of the play ground, " you let young Bailey alone. He 's a stranger here, and might be afraid of you, and thrash you. Why do you always throw yourself in the way of getting thrashed ? " I turned to the speaker, who by this time had reached the spot where we stood. Conway slunk off, favoring me with a parting scowl of defiance. I gave my hand to the boy who had befriended me, his name was Jack Har ris, and thanked him for his good-will. " I tell you what it is, Bailey," he said, returning my pressure good- naturedly, " you '11 have to fight Conway before the quarter ends, or you '11 have no rest. That fellow is always hankering after a licking, and of course you '11 give him one by and by ; but what 's the use of hurrying up an un pleasant job ? Let 's have some base-ball. By the way, Bailey, you were a good kid not to let on to Grimshaw about that candy. Charley Marden would have caught it twice as heavy. He 's sorry he played the joke on you, and told me to tell you so. Hallo, Blake ! where are the bats ? " This was addressed to a handsome, frank-looking lad of about my own age, who was engaged just then in cutting his initials on the bark of a tree near the school-house. Blake shut up his penknife and went off to get the bats. During the game which ensued I made the acquaintance of Charley Mar- den, Binny Wallace, Pepper Whitcomb, Harry Blake, and Fred Langdon. These boys, none of them more than a year or two older than I (Binny Wal lace was younger), were ever after my chosen comrades. Phil Adams and Jack Harris were considerably our seniors, and, though they always treated us " kids " very kindly, they generally went with another set. Of course, before long I knew all the Temple boys more or less intimately, but the five I have named were my constant companions. My first day at the Temple Grammar School was on the whole satisfac- 1869.] The Story of a Bad Boy. 141 tory. I had made several warm friends and only two permanent enemies, Conway and his echo, Seth Rodgers ; for these two always went together, like a deranged stomach and a headache. Before the end of the week I had my studies well in hand. I was a little ashamed at finding myself at the foot of the various classes, and secretly de termined to deserve promotion. The school was an admirable one. I might make this part of my story more entertaining by picturing Mr. Grimshaw as a tyrant with a red nose and a large stick ; but, unfortunately for the purposes of sensational narrative, Mr. Grimshaw was a quiet, kind-hearted gentleman. Though a rigid disciplinarian, he had a keen sense of justice, was a good reader of character, and the boys respected him. There were two other teachers, a French tutor, and a writing-master, who visited the school twice a week. On Wednesdays and Saturdays we were dismissed at noon, and these half-holidays were the brightest epochs of my existence. Daily contact with boys who had not been brought up as gently as I worked an immediate, and, in some respects, a beneficial change in my char acter. I had the nonsense taken out of me, as the saying is, some of the nonsense, at least. I became more manly and self-reliant. I discovered that the world was not created exclusively on my account. In New Orleans I labored under the delusion that it was. Having neither brother nor sister to give up to at home, and being, moreover, the largest pupil at school there, my will had seldom been opposed. At Rivermouth matters were different, and I was not long in adapting myself to the altered circumstances. Of course I got many severe rubs, often unconsciously given ; but I had the sense to see that I was all the better for them. My social relations with my new schoolfellows were the pleasantest possi ble. There was always some exciting excursion on foot, a ramble through the pine woods, a visit to the Devil's Pulpit, a high cliff in the neighborhood, or a surreptitious row on the river, involving an exploration of a group of diminutive islands, upon one of which we pitched a tent and played we were the Spanish sailors who got wrecked there years ago. But the endless pine forest that skirted the town was our favorite haunt. There was a great green pond hidden somewhere in its depths, inhabited by a monstrous colony of turtles. Harry Blake, who had an eccentric passion for carving his name on everything, never let a captured turtle slip though his fingers without leaving his mark engraved on its shell. He must have lettered about two thousand from first to last. We used to call them Harry Blake's sheep. These tur tles were of a discontented and migratory turn of mind, and we frequently encountered two or three of them on the cross-roads several miles from their ancestral mud. Unspeakable was our delight whenever we discovered one soberly walking off with Harry Blake's initials ! I 've no doubt there are, at this moment, fat ancient turtles wandering about that gummy woodland with H. B. neatly cut on their venerable backs. It soon became a custom among my playmates to make our barn their ren dezvous. Gypsy proved a strong attraction. Captain Nutter bought me a 142 The Story of a Bad Boy. [March, little two-wheeled cart, which she drew quite nicely, after kicking out the dasher and breaking the shafts once or twice. With our lunch-baskets and fishing-tackle stowed away under the seat, we used to start off early in the afternoon for the sea-shore, where there were countless marvels in the shape of shells, mosses, and kelp. Gypsy enjoyed the sport as keenly as any of us, even going so far, one day, as to trot down the beach into the sea where we were bathing. As she took the cart with her, our provisions were not much improved. I shall never forget how squash-pie tastes after being soused in the Atlantic Ocean. Soda-crackers dipped in salt water are palatable, but not squash-pie. There was a good deal of wet weather during those first six weeks at Riv- ermouth, and we set ourselves at work to find some in-door amusement for our half-holidays. If was all very well for Amadis de Gaul and Don Quixote not to mind the rain ; they had iron overcoats, and were not, from all we can learn, subject to croup and the guidance of their grandfathers. Our case was different. " Now, boys, what shall we do ? " I asked, addressing a thoughtful con clave of seven, assembled in our barn one dismal rainy afternoon. " Let 's have a theatre," suggested Binny Wallace. The very thing ! But where ? The loft of the stable was ready to burst with hay provided for Gypsy, but the long room over the carriage-house was unoccupied. The place of all places ! My managerial eye saw at a glance its capabilities for a theatre. I had been to the play a great many times in New Orleans, and was wise in matters pertaining to the drama. So here, in due time, was set up some extraordinary scenery of my own painting. The curtain, I recollect, though it worked smoothly enough on other occasions, invariably hitched during the performances ; and it often required the united energies of the Prince of Denmark, the King, and the Grave-digger, with an occasional hand from " the fair Ophelia " (Pepper Whitcomb in a low-necked dress), to hoist that bit of green cambric. The theatre, however, was a success, as far as it went I retired from the business with no fewer than fifteen hundred pins, after deducting the head less, the pointless, and the crooked pins with which our doorkeeper frequently got " stuck." From first to last we took in a great deal of this counterfeit money. The price of admission to the " Rivermouth Theatre " was twenty pins. I played all the principal parts myself, not that I was a finer actor than the other boys, but because I owned the establishment. At the tenth representation, my dramatic career was brought to a close by an unfortunate circumstance. We were playing the drama of " William Tell, the Hero of Switzerland." Of course I was William Tell, in spite of Fred Langdon, who wanted to act that character himself. I would n't let him, so he withdrew from the company, taking the only bow and arrow we had. I made a cross-bow out of a piece of whalebone, and did very well without him. We had reached that exciting scene where Gessler, the Austrian tyrant, commands Tell to shoot the apple from his son's head. Pepper Whitcomb, who played all the juvenile and women parts, was my son. To guard against i86 9 .] The Story of a Bad Boy, mischance, a piece of pasteboard was fastened by a handkerchief over the up per portion of Whitcomb's face, while the arrow to be used was sewed up in a strip of flannel. I was a capital marksman, and the big apple, only two yards distant, turned its russet cheek fairly towards me. I can see poor little Pepper now, as he stood without flinching, waiting for me to perform my great feat. I raised the cross-bow amid the breathless silence of the crowded audience, consisting of seven boys and three girls, exclusive of Kitty Collins, who insisted on paying her way in with a clothes pin. I raised the cross-bow, I repeat. Twang ! went the whipcord ; but, alas ! instead of hitting the apple, the arrow flew right into Pepper Whit- comb's mouth, which happened to be open at the time, and destroyed my aim. I shall never be able to banish that awful moment from my memory. Pep per's roar, expressive of astonishment, indignation, and pain, is still ringing in my ears. I looked upon him as a corpse, and, glancing not far into the dreary future, pictured myself led forth to execution in the presence of the very same spectators then assembled. Luckily poor Pepper was not seriously hurt ; but Grandfather Nutter, appearing in the midst of the confusion (attracted by the howls of young 144 The Story of a Bad Boy. [March, Tell), issued an injunction against all theatricals thereafter, and the place was closed ; not, however, without a farewell speech from me, in which I said that this would have been the proudest moment of my life if I had n't hit Pepper Whitcomb in the mouth. Whereupon the audience (assisted, I am glad to state, by Pepper) cried " Hear ! hear ! " I then attributed the acci dent to Pepper himself, whose mouth, being open at the instant I fired, acted upon the arrow much after the fashion of a whirlpool, and drew in the fatal shaft. I was about to explain how a comparatively small maelstrom could suck in the largest ship, when the curtain fell of its own accord, amid the shouts of the audience. This was my last appearance on any stage. It was some time, though, be fore I heard the end of the William Tell business. Malicious little boys who had n't been allowed to buy tickets to my theatre used to cry out after me in the street, - " ' Who killed Cock Robin ? ' ' I,' said the sparrer, 'With my bow and arrer, I killed Cock Robin 1 ' " The sarcasm of this verse was more than I could stand. And it made Pep per Whitcomb pretty mad to be called Cock Robin, I can tell you ! So the days glided on, with fewer clouds and more sunshine than fall to the lot of most boys. Conway was certainly a cloud. Within school-bounds he seldom ventured to be aggressive ; but whenever we met about town he never failed to brush against me, or pull my cap over my eyes, or drive me distracted by inquiring after my family in New Orleans, always alluding to them as highly respectable colored people. Jack Harris was right when he said Conway would give me no rest until I fought him. I felt it was ordained ages before our birth that we should meet on this planet and fight. With the view of not running counter to destiny, I quietly prepared myself for the impending conflict. The scene of my dra matic triumphs was turned into a gymnasium for this purpose, though I did not openly avow the fact to the boys. By persistently standing on my head, raising heavy weights, and going hand over hand up a ladder, I developed my muscle until my little body was as tough as a hickory knot and as supple as tripe. I also took occasional lessons in the noble art of self-defence, un der the tuition of Phil Adams. I brooded over the matter until the idea of fighting Conway became a part of me. I fought him in imagination during school-hours ; I dreamed of fighting with him at night, when he would suddenly expand into a giant twelve feet high, and then as suddenly shrink into a pygmy so small that I could n't hit him. In this latter shape he would get into my hair, or pop into my waistcoat-pocket, treating me with as little ceremony as the Lili- putians showed Captain Lemuel Gulliver, all of which was not pleasant, to be sure. On the whole, Conway was a cloud. And then I had a cloud at home. It was not Grandfather Nutter, nor Miss Abigail, nor Kitty Collins, though they all helped to compose it. It was a 1869.] The Story of a Bad Boy. 145 vague, funereal, impalpable something which no amount of gymnastic train ing would enable me to knock over. It was Sunday. If ever I have a boy to bring up in the way he should go, I intend to make Sunday a cheerful day to him. Sunday was not a cheerful day at the Nutter House. You shall judge for yourself. It is Sunday morning. I should premise by saying that the deep gloom which has settled over everything set in like a heavy fog early on Saturday evening. At seven o'clock my grandfather comes smilelessly down stairs. He is dressed in black, and looks as if he had lost all his friends during the night. Miss Abigail, also in black, looks as if she were prepared to bury them, and not indisposed to enjoy the ceremony. Even Kitty Collins has caught the contagious gloom, as I perceive when she brings in the coffee-urn, a sol emn and sculpturesque urn at any time, but monumental now, and sets it down in front of Miss Abigail. Miss Abigail gazes at the urn as if it held the ashes of her ancestors, instead of a generous quantity of fine old Java coffee. The meal progresses in silence. Our parlor is by no means thrown open every day. It is open this June morning, and is pervaded by a strong smell of centre-table. The furniture of the room, and the little China ornaments on the mantel-piece, have a con strained, unfamiliar look. My grandfather sits in a mahogany chair, reading a large Bible covered with green baize. Miss Abigail occupies one end of the sofa, and has her hands crossed stiffly in her lap. I sit in the corner, crushed. Robinson Crusoe and Gil Bias are in close confinement. Baron Trenck, who managed to escape from the fortress of Glatz, can't for the life of him get out of our sitting-room closet. Even the " Rivermouth Bar nacle " is suppressed until Monday. Genial converse, harmless books, smiles, lightsome hearts, all are banished. If I want to read anything, I can read Baxter's Saints' Rest. I would die first. So I sit there kicking my heels, thinking about New Orleans, and watching a morbid blue-bottle fly that attempts to commit suicide by butting his head against the window- pane. Listen! no, yes, it is it is the robins singing in the garden, the grateful, joyous robins singing away like mad, just as if it was n't Sunday. Their audacity tickles me. My grandfather looks up, and inquires in a sepulchral voice if I am ready for Sabbath-school. It is time to go. I like the Sabbath-school ; there are bright young faces there, at all events. When I get out into the sunshine alone, I draw a long breath ; I would turn a somersault up against Neighbor Penhallow's newly painted fence if I had n't my best trousers on, so glad am I to escape from the oppressive atmosphere of the Nutter House. Sabbath-school over, I go to meeting, joining my grandfather, who does n't appear to be any relation to me this day, and Miss Abigail, in the porch. Our minister holds out very little hope to any of us of being saved. Con vinced that I am a lost creature, in common with the human family, I return home behind my guardians at a snail's pace. We have a dead cold dinner. I saw it laid out yesterday. 146 Three in a Bed? [March, There is a long interval between this repast and the second service, and a still longer interval between the beginning and the end of that service ; for the Rev. Wibird Hawkins's sermons are none of the shortest, whatever else they may be. After meeting, my grandfather and I take a walk. We visit appropri ately enough a neighboring graveyard. I am by this time in a condition of mind to become a willing inmate of the place. The usual evening prayer- meeting is postponed for some reason. At half past eight I go to bed. This is the way Sunday was observed in the Nutter House, and pretty generally throughout the town, twenty years ago. People who were pros perous and natural and happy on Saturday became the most rueful of human beings in the brief space of twelve hours. I don't think there was any hypoc risy in this. It was merely the old Puritan austerity cropping out once a week. Many of these people were pure Christians every day in the seven, excepting the seventh. Then they were decorous and solemn to the verge of moroseness. I should not like to be misunderstood on this point. Sunday is a blessed day, and therefore it should not be made a gloomy one. It is the Lord's day, and I do believe that cheerful hearts and faces are not unpleasant in His sight. " O day of rest ! How beautiful, how fair, How welcome to the weary and the old ! Day of the Lord ! and truce to earthly cares ! Day of the Lord, as all our days should be ! Ah, why will man by his austerities Shut out the blessed sunshine and the light, And make of thee a dungeon of despair ! " T. B. Aldrich. THREE IN A BED." GAY little velvet coats, One, two, three ! Any home happier Could there be ? Topsey and Johnny And sleepy Ned, Purring so cosily, Three in a bed ! Woe to the stupid mouse Prowling about ! Old Mother Pussy Is on the lookout. Little cats, big cats, All must be fed, In the sky-parlor, Three in a bed ! Mother's a gypsy puss, Often she moves, Thinking much travel Her children improves. High-minded family, Very well bred ; No falling out, you see ! Three in a bed I George Cooper. OUR YOUNG FOLKS. An Illustrated Magazine FOR BOYS AND GIRLS. VOL. V. APRIL, 1869. No. IV. THE STORY OF A BAD BOY. CHAPTER VII. ONE MEMORABLE NIGHT. WO months had elapsed since my arrival at River- mouth, when the approach of an important cele bration produced the greatest excitement among the juvenile population of the town. There was very little hard study done in the Temple Grammar School the week preceding the Fourth of July. For my part, my heart and brain were so full of fire-crackers, Roman-candles, rock ets, pin-wheels, squibs, and gunpowder in various seductive forms, that I wonder I did n't explode under Mr. Grimshaw's very nose. I could n't do a sum to save me ; I could n't tell, for love or money, whether Tallahassee was the capital of Tennessee or of Florida; the present and the pluperfect tenses were inextricably mixed in my memory, and I did n't know a verb from an ad jective when I met one. This was not alone my condition, but that of every boy in the school. Mr. Grimshaw considerately made allowances for our temporary distraction, and sought to fix our interest on the lessons by connecting them directly or indirectly with the coming Event. The class in arithmetic, for instance, was , re quested to state how many boxes of fire-crackers, each box measuring sixteen inches square, could be stored in a room of such and such dimensions. He gave us the Declaration of Independence for Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1869, by FIELDS, OSGOOD, & Co., in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. VOL. V. NO. IV. 15 206 The Story of a Bad Boy. [April, a parsing exercise, and in geography confined his questions almost exclu sively to localities rendered famous in the Revolutionary war. " What did the people of Boston do with the tea on board the English vessels ? " asked our wily instructor. " Threw it into the river ! " shrieked the boys, with an impetuosity that made Mr. Grimshaw smile in spite of himself. One luckless urchin said, " Chucked it," for which happy expression he was kept in at recess. Notwithstanding these clever stratagems, there was not much solid work done by anybody. The trail of the serpent (an inexpensive but dangerous fire-toy) was over us all. We went round deformed by quantities of Chinese crackers artlessly concealed in our trousers-pockets ; and if a boy whipped out his handkerchief without proper precaution, he was sure to let off two or three torpedoes. Even Mr. Grimshaw was made a sort of accessory to the universal demor alization. In calling the school to order, he always rapped on the table with a heavy ruler. Under the green baize table-cloth, on the exact spot where he usually struck, a certain boy, whose name I withhold, placed a fat tor pedo. The result was a loud explosion, which caused Mr. Grimshaw to look queer. Charley Marden was at the water-pail, at the time, and directed gen eral attention to himself by strangling for several seconds and then squirting a slender thread of water over the blackboard. Mr. Grimshaw fixed his eyes reproachfully on Charley, but said nothing. The real culprit (it was n't Charley Marden, but the boy whose name I with hold) instantly regretted his badness, and after school confessed the whole thing to Mr. Grimshaw, who heaped coals of fire upon the nameless boy's head by giving him five cents for the Fourth of July. If Mr. Grimshaw had caned this unknown youth, the punishment would not have been half so severe. On the last day of June, the Captain received a letter from my father, en closing five dollars " for my son Tom," which enabled that young gentleman to make regal preparations for the celebration of our national independence. A portion of this money, two dollars, I hastened to invest in fireworks ; the balance I put by for contingencies. In placing the fund in my possession, the Captain imposed one condition that dampened my ardor considerably, I was to buy no gunpowder. I might have all the snapping-crackers and tor pedoes I wanted ; but gunpowder was out of the question. I thought this rather hard, for all my young friends were provided with pistols of various sizes. Pepper Whitcomb had a horse-pistol nearly as large as himself, and Jack Harris, though he to be sure was a big boy, was going to have a real old-fashioned flint-lock musket. However, I did n't mean to let this drawback destroy my happiness. I had one charge of powder stowed away in the little brass pistol which I brought from New Orleans, and was bound to make a noise in the world once, if I never did again. It was a custom observed from time immemorial for the towns-boys to have a bonfire on the Square on the midnight before the Fourth. I did n't ask the Captain's leave to attend this ceremony, for I had a general idea 1869.] The Story of a Bad Boy. 207 that he would n't give it. If the Captain, I reasoned, does n't forbid me, I break no orders by going. Now this was a specious line of argument, and the mishaps that befell me in consequence of adopting it were richly deserved. On the evening of the 3d I retired to bed very early, in order to disarm suspicion. I did n't sleep a wink, waiting for eleven o'clock to come round ; and I thought it never would come round, as I lay counting from time to time the slow strokes of the ponderous bell in the steeple of the Old North Church. At length the laggard hour arrived. While the clock was striking I jumped out of bed and began dressing. My grandfather and Miss Abigail were heavy sleepers, and I might have stolen down stairs and out at the front door undetected ; but such a common place proceeding did not suit my adventurous disposition. I fastened one end of a rope (it was a few yards cut from Kitty Collins's clothes-line) to the bedpost nearest the window, and cautiously climbed out on the wide pedi ment over the hall door. I had neglected to knot the rope ; the result was, that, the moment I swung clear of the pediment, I descended like a flash of lightning, and warmed both my hands smartly. The rope moreover was four or five feet too short ; so I got a fall that would have proved serious had I not tumbled into the middle of one of the big rose-bushes growing on either side of the steps. I scrambled out of that without delay, and was congratulating myself on my good luck, when I saw by the light of the setting moon the form of a man leaning over the garden gate. It was one of the town watch, who had prob ably been observing my operations with curiosity. Seeing no chance of es cape, I put a bold face on the matter and walked directly up to him. " What on airth air you a doin' ? " asked the man, grasping the collar of my jacket. " I live here, sir, if you please," I replied, " and am going to the bonfire. I did n't want to wake up the old folks, that 's all." The man cocked his eye at me in the most amiable manner, and released his hold. " Boys is boys," he muttered. He did n't attempt to stop me as I slipped through the gate. Once beyond his clutches, I took to my heels and soon reached the Square, where I found forty or fifty fellows assembled, engaged in building a pyramid of tar-barrels. The palms of my hands still tingled so that I could n't join in the sport. I stood in the doorway of the Nautalis Bank, watching the workers, among whom I recognized lots of my schoolmates. They looked like a legion of imps, coming and going in the twilight, busy in raising some infernal edifice. What a Babel of voices it was, everybody directing everybody else, and everybody doing everything wrong ! When all was prepared, somebody applied a match to the sombre pile. A fiery tongue thrust itself out here and there, then suddenly the whole fabric burst into flames, blazing and crackling beautifully. This was a signal for the boys to join hands and dance around the burning barrels, which they did 2O8 The Story of a Bad Boy. [April, shouting like mad creatures. When the fire had burnt down a little, fresh staves were brought and heaped on the pyre. In the excitement of the mo ment I forgot my tingling palms, and found myself in the thick of the carousal. Before we were half ready, our combustible material was expended, and a disheartening kind of darkness settled down upon us. The boys collected together here and there in knots, consulting as to what should be done. It yet lacked four or five hours of daybreak, and none of us were in the humor to return to bed. I approached one of the groups standing near the town- pump, and discovered in the uncertain light of the dying brands the figures of Jack Harris, Phil Adams, Harry Blake, and Pepper Whitcomb, their faces streaked with perspiration and tar, and their whole appearance suggestive of New Zealand chiefs. " Hullo ! here 's Tom Bailey ! " shouted Pepper Whitcomb ; " he '11 join in!" Of course he would. The sting had gone out of my hands, and I was ripe for anything, none the less ripe for not knowing what was on the tapis. After whispering together for a moment, the boys motioned me to follow them. We glided out from the crowd and silently wended our way through a neighboring alley, at the head of which stood a tumble-down old barn, owned by one Ezra Wingate. In former days this was the stable of the mail-coach that ran between Rivermouth and Boston. When the railroad superseded that primitive mode of travel, the lumbering vehicle was rolled into the barn, and there it stayed. The stage-driver, after prophesying the immediate downfall of the nation, died of grief and apoplexy, and the old coach followed in his wake as fast as it could by quietly dropping to pieces. The barn had the reputation of being haunted, and I think we all kept very close together when we found ourselves standing in the black shadow cast by the tall gable. Here, in a low voice, Jack Harris laid bare his plan, which was to burn the ancient stage-coach. " The old trundle-cart is n't worth twenty-five cents," said Jack Harris, " and Ezra Wingate ought to thank us for getting the rubbish out of the way. But if any fellow here does n't want to have a hand in it, let him cut and run, and keep a quiet tongue in his head ever after." With this he pulled out the staples that held the rusty padlock, and the big barn-door swung slowly open. The interior of the stable was pitch-dark, of course. As we made a movement to enter, a sudden scrambling, and the sound of heavy bodies leaping in all directions, caused us to start back in terror. " Rats ! " cried Phil Adams. " Bats ! " exclaimed Harry Blake. " Cats ! " suggested Jack Harris. Who 's afraid ? " Well, the truth is, we were all afraid ; and if the pole of the stage had not been lying close to the threshold, I don't believe anything on earth would have induced us to cross it. We seized hold of the pole-straps and succeed- 1869.] The Story of a Bad Boy. 209 ed with great trouble in dragging the coach out. The two fore wheels had rusted to the axle-tree, and refused to revolve. It was the merest skeleton of a coach. The cushions had long since been removed, and the leather hangings had crumbled away from the worm-eaten frame. A load of ghosts and a span of phantom horses to drag them would have made the ghastly thing complete. Luckily for our undertaking, the stable stood at the top of a very steep hill. With three boys to push behind, and two in front to steer, we started the old coach on its last trip with little or no difficulty. Our-speed increased every moment, and, the fore wheels becoming unlocked as we arrived at the foot of the declivity, we charged upon the crowd like a regiment of cavalry, scattering the people right and left. Before reaching the bonfire, to which some one had added several bushels of shavings, Jack Harris and Phil Ad ams, who were steering, dropped on the ground, and allowed the vehicle to pass over them, which it did without injuring them ; but the boys who were clinging for dear life to the trunk-rack behind fell over the prostrate steers men, and there we all lay in a heap, two or three of us quite picturesque with the nose-bleed. The coach, with an intuitive perception of what was expected of it, plunged into the centre of the kindling shavings, and stopped. The flames sprung up and clung to the rotten woodwork, which burned like tinder. At this moment a figure was seen leaping wildly from the inside of the blazing coach. The figure made three bounds towards us, and tripped over Harry Blake. It was Pepper Whitcomb, with his hair somewhat singed, and his eyebrows completely scorched off ! Pepper had slyly ensconced himself on the back seat before we started, in tending to have a neat little ride down hill, and a laugh at us afterwards. But the laugh, as it happened, was on our side, or would have been, if half a dozen watchmen had not suddenly pounced down upon us, as we lay scram bling on the ground, weak with our mirth over Pepper's misfortune. We were collared and marched off before we well knew what had happened. The abrupt transition from the noise and light of the Square to the silent, gloomy brick room in the rear of the Meat Market seemed like the work of enchantment. We stared at each other aghast. * " Well," remarked Jack Harris, with a sickly smile, " this is a go ! " " No go, I should say," whimpered Harry Blake, glancing at the bare brick walls and the heavy iron-plated door. " Never say die," muttered Phil Adams, dolefully. The bridewell was a small, low-studded chamber built up against the rear end of the Meat Market, and approached from the Square by a narrow pas sage-way. A portion of the room was partitioned off into eight cells, num bered, each capable of holding two persons. The cells were full at the time, as we presently discovered by seeing several hideous faces leering out at us through the gratings of the doors. A smoky oil-lamp in a lantern suspended from the ceiling threw a flicker ing light over the apartment, which contained no furniture excepting a couple 2IO The Story of a Bad Boy. [April, of stout wooden benches. It was a dismal place by night, and only little less dismal by day, for the tall houses surrounding " the lock-up " prevented the faintest ray of sunshine from penetrating the ventilator over the door, a long narrow window opening inward and propped up by a piece of lath. As we seated ourselves in a row on one of the benches, I imagine that our aspect was anything but cheerful. Adams and Harris looked very anxious, and Harry Blake, whose nose had just stopped bleeding, was mournfully carving his name, by sheer force of habit, on the prison-bench. I don't think I ever saw a more " wrecked " expression on any human countenance than Pepper Whitcomb's presented. His look of natural astonishment at finding himself incarcerated in a jail was considerably heightened by his lack of eyebrows. As for me, it was only by thinking how the late Baron Trenck would have conducted himself under similar circumstances that I was able to restrain my tears. None of us were inclined to conversation. A deep silence, broken now and then by a startling snore from the cells, reigned throughout the chamber. By and by, Pepper Whitcomb glanced nervously towards Phil Adams and said, " Phil, do you think they will hang us ? " "Hang your grandmother!" returned Adams, impatiently; "what I'm afraid of is that they '11 keep us locked up until the Fourth is over." " You ain't smart ef they do ! " cried a voice from one of the cells. It was a deep bass voice that sent a chill through me. " Who are you ? " said Jack Harris, addressing the cells in general ; for the echoing qualities of the room made it difficult to locate the voice. " That don't matter," replied the speaker, putting his face close up to the gratings of No. 3, " but ef I was a youngster like you, free an' easy outside there, with no bracelets * on, this spot would n't hold me long." " That 's so ! " chimed several of the prison-birds, wagging their heads behind the iron lattices. " Hush ! " whispered Jack Harris, rising from his seat and walking on tip toe to the door of cell No. 3. " What would you do ? " " Do ? Why, I 'd pile them 'ere benches up agin that 'ere door, an' crawl out of that 'ere winder in no time. That 's my adwice." " And wery good adwice it is, Jim," said the occupant of No. 5, approv ingly. Jack Harris seemed to be of the same opinion, for he hastily placed the benches one on the top of another under the ventilator, and, climbing up on the highest bench, peeped out into the passage-way. " If any gent happens to have a ninepence about him," said the man in cell No. 3, "there's a sufferin' family here as could make use of it. Smallest favors gratefully received, an' no questions axed." This appeal touched a new silver quarter of a dollar in my trousers-pock et ; I fished out the coin from a mass of fireworks, and gave it to the pris oner. He appeared to be such a good-natured fellow that I ventured to ask what he had done to get into jail. * Handcuffs. 1869.] The Story of a Bad Boy. 21 1 " Intirely innocent. I was clapped in here by a rascally nevew as wishes to enjoy my wealth afore I 'm dead." " Your name, sir ? " I inquired, with a view of reporting the outrage to my grandfather and having the injured person reinstated in society. " Git out, you insolent young reptyle ! " shouted the man, in a passion. I retreated precipitately, amid a roar of laughter from the other cells. " Can't you keep still ? " exclaimed Harris, withdrawing his head from the window. A portly watchman usually sat on a stool outside the door day and night ; but on this particular occasion, his services being required elsewhere, the bridewell had been left to guard itself. " All clear," whispered Jack Harris, as he vanished through the aperture and dropped gently on the ground outside. We all followed him expedi- tiously, Pepper Whitcomb and myself getting stuck in the window for a moment in our frantic efforts not to be last. " Now, boys, everybody for himself ! " CHAPTER VIII. THE ADVENTURES OF A FOURTH. THE sun cast a broad column of quivering gold across the river at the foot of our street, just as I reached the doorstep of the Nutter House. Kitty Collins, with her dress tucked about her so that she looked as if she had on a pair of calico trousers, was washing off the sidewalk. " Arrah, you bad boy ! " cried Kitty, leaning on the mop-handle, " the Capen has jist been askin' for you. He 's gone up town, now. It 's a nate thing you done with my clothes-line, and it 's me you may thank for gettin' it out of the way before the Capen come down." The kind creature had hauled in the rope, and my escapade had not been discovered by the family ; but I knew very well that the burning of the stage coach, and the arrest of the boys concerned in the mischief, were sure to reach my grandfather's ears sooner or later. " Well, Thomas," said the old gentleman, an hour or so afterwards, beaming upon me benevolently across the breakfast-table, " you did n't wait to be called this morning." " No, sir," I replied, growing very warm, " I took a little run up town to see what was going on." I did n't say anything about the little run I took home again ! " They had quite a time on the Square last night," remarked Captain Nut ter, looking up from the " Rivermouth Barnacle," which was always placed beside his coffee-cup at breakfast. I felt that my hair was preparing to stand on end. " Quite a time," continued my grandfather. " Some boys broke into Ezra Wingate's barn and carried off the old stage-coach. The young ras cals ! I do believe they 'd burn up the whole town if they had their way." 212 The Story of a Bad Boy. [April, With this he resumed the paper. After a long silence he exclaimed, " Hullo ! " upon which I nearly fell off the chair. " * Miscreants unknown,' " read my grandfather, following the paragraph with his forefinger ; " l escaped from the bridewell, leaving no clew to their identity, except the letter H, cut on one of the benches.' * Five dollars reward offered for the apprehension of the perpetrators.' Sho ! I hope Wingate will catch them." I don't see how I continued to live, for on hearing this the breath went entirely out of my body. I beat a retreat from the room as soon as I could, and flew to the stable with a misty intention of mounting Gypsy and escap ing from the place. I was pondering what steps to take, when Jack Harris and Charley Marden entered the yard. " I say," said Harris, as blithe as a lark, " has old Wingate been here ? " " Been here ? " I cried. " I should hope not ! " " The whole thing 's out, you know," said Harris, pulling Gypsy's forelock over her eyes and blowing playfully into her nostrils. " You don't mean it ! " I gasped. " Yes, I do, and we 're to pay Wingate three dollars apiece. He '11 make rather a good spec out of it." " But how did he discover that we were the the miscreants ? " I asked, quoting mechanically from the " Rivermouth Barnacle." " Why, he saw us take the old ark, confound him ! He 's been trying to sell it any time these ten years. Now he has sold it to us. When he found that we had slipped out of the Meat Market, he went right off and wrote the advertisement offering five dollars reward ; though he knew well enough who had taken the coach, for he came round to my father's house before the paper was printed to talk the matter over. Was n't the governor mad, though ! But it 's all settled, I tell you. We 're to pay Wingate fifteen dollars for the old go-cart, which he wanted to sell the other day for seventy-five cents, and could n't. It's a downright swindle. But the funny part of it is to come." " O, there 's a funny part to it, is there ? " I remarked bitterly. " Yes. The moment Bill Conway saw the advertisement, he knew it was Harry Blake who cut that letter H on the bench ; so off he rushes up to Wingate kind of him, was n't it ? and claims the reward. * Too late, young man,' says old Wingate, ' the culprits has been discovered.' You see Sly-boots had n't any intention of paying that five dollars." Jack Harris's statement lifted a weight from my bosom. The article in the " Rivermouth Barnacle " had placed the affair before me in a new light I had thoughtlessly committed a grave offence. Though the property in question was valueless, we were clearly wrong in destroying it. At the same time Mr. Wingate had tacitly sanctioned the act by not preventing it when he might easily have done so. He had allowed his property to be destroyed in order that he might realize a large profit. Without waiting to hear more, I went straight to Captain Nutter, and, lay ing my remaining three dollars on his knee, confessed my share in the pre vious night's transaction. 1869.] The Story of a Bad Boy. 213 The Captain heard me through in profound silence, pocketed the bank notes, and walked off without speaking a word. He had punished me in his own whimsical fashion at the breakfast-table, for, at the very moment he was harrowing up my soul by reading the extracts from the " Ri vermouth Bar nacle," he not only knew all about the bonfire, but had paid Ezra Wingate his three dollars. Such was the duplicity of that aged impostor ! I think Captain Nutter was justified in retaining my pocket-money, as ad ditional punishment, though the possession of it later in the day would have got me out of a difficult position, as the reader will see further on. I returned with a light heart and a large piece of punk to my friends in the stable-yard, where we celebrated the termination of our trouble by setting off two packs of fire-crackers in an empty wine-cask. They made a prodigious racket, but failed somehow to fully express my feelings. The little brass pis tol in my bedroom suddenly occurred to me. It had been loaded I don't know how many months, long before I left New Orleans, and now was the time, if ever, to fire it off. Muskets, blunderbusses, and pistols were bang ing away lively all over town, and the smell of gunpowder, floating on the air, set me wild to add something respectable to the universal din. When the pistol was produced, Jack Harris examined the rusty cap and prophesied that it would not explode. " Never mind," said I, " let 's try it." I had fired the pistol once, secretly, in New Orleans, and, remembering the noise it gave birth to on that occasion, I shut both eyes tight as I pulled the trigger. The hammer clicked on the cap with a dull, dead sound. Then Harris tried it ; then Charley Marden ; then I took it again, and after three or four trials was on the point of giving it up as a bad job, when the obsti nate thing went off with a tremendous explosion, nearly jerking my arm from the socket. The smoke cleared away, and there I stood with the stock of the pistol clutched convulsively in my hand, the barrel, lock, trigger, and ramrod having vanished into thin air. " Are you hurt ? " cried the boys, in one breath. " N no," I replied, dubiously, for the concussion had bewildered me a little. When I realized the nature of the calamity, my grief was excessive. I can't imagine what led me to do so ridiculous a thing, but I gravely buried the remains of my beloved pistol in our back garden, and erected over the mound a slate tablet to the effect that "Mr. Barker, formerly of new Orleans, was Killed accidentally on the Fourth of July, 18 in the 2nd year of his Age." * Binny Wallace, arriving on the spot just after the disas ter, and Charley Marden (who enjoyed the obsequies immensely), acted with me as chief mourners. I, for my part, was a very sincere one. As I turned away in a disconsolate mood from the garden, Charley Marden remarked that he should n't be surprised if the pistol-but took root and grew into a mahogany-tree or something. He said he once plant ed an old musket-stock, and shortly afterwards a lot of shoots sprung up ! This inscription is copied from a triangular-shaped piece of slate, still preserved in the garret of the Nutter House, together with the pistol-but itself, which was subsequently dug up for a post-mor tem examination. 214 The Story of a Bad Boy. [April, Jack Harris laughed ; but neither I nor Binny Wallace saw Charley's wicked joke. We were now joined by Pepper Whitcomb, Fred Langdon, and several other desperate characters, on their way to the Square, which was always a busy place when public festivities were going on. Feeling that I was still in disgrace with the Captain, I thought it politic to ask his consent before accompanying the boys. He gave it with some hesitation, advising me to be careful not to get in front of the firearms. Once he put his fingers mechan ically into his vest-pocket and half drew forth some dollar-bills, then slowly thrust them back again as his sense of justice overcame his genial disposition. I guess it cut the old gentleman to the heart to be obliged to keep me out of my pocket-money. I know it did me. However, as I was passing through the hall, Miss Abigail, with a very severe cast of countenance, slipped a bran-new quarter into my hand. We had silver currency in those days, thank Heaven ! Great were the bustle and confusion on the Square. By the way, I don't know why they called this large open space a square, unless because it was an oval, an oval formed by the confluence of half a dozen streets, now thronged by crowds of smartly dressed towns-people and country folks ; for Rivermouth on the Fourth was the centre of attraction to the inhabitants of the neighboring villages. On one side of the Square were twenty or thirty booths arranged in a semi circle, gay with little flags, and seductive with lemonade, ginger-beer, and seed-cakes. Here and there were tables at which could be purchased the smaller sort of fireworks, such as pin-wheels, serpents, double-headers, and punk warranted not to go out. Many of the adjacent houses made a pretty display of bunting, and across each of the streets opening on the Square was an arch of spruce and evergreen, blossoming all over with patriotic mottoes and paper roses. It was a noisy, merry, bewildering scene as we came upon the ground. The incessant rattle of small arms, the booming of the twelve-pounder firing on the Mill Dam, and the silvery clangor of the church-bells ringing simul taneously, not to mention an ambitious brass-band that was blowing itself to pieces on a balcony, were enough to drive one distracted. We amused ourselves for an hour or two, darting in and out among the crowd and set ting off our crackers. At one o'clock the Hon. Hezekiah Elkins mounted a platform in the middle of the Square and delivered an oration, to which his fellow-citizens did n't pay much attention, having all they could do to dodge the squibs that were set loose upon them by mischievous boys stationed on the surrounding house-tops. Our little party, which had picked up recruits here and there, not being swayed by eloquence, withdrew to a booth on the outskirts of the crowd, where we regaled ourselves with root-beer at two cents a glass. I recollect being much struck by the placard surmounting this tent : ROOT BEER SOLD HERE. 1869.] The Story of a Bad Boy. 215 It seemed to me the perfection of pith and poetry. What could be more terse ? Not a word to spare, and yet everything fully expressed. Rhyme and rhythm faultless. It was a delightful poet who made those verses. As for the beer itself, that, I think, must have been made from the root of all evil ! A single glass of it insured an uninterrupted pain for twenty-four hours. The influence of my liberality working on Charley Harden, for it was I who paid for the beer, he presently invited us all to take an ice-cream with him at Pettingil's saloon. Pettingil was the Delmonico of Rivermouth. He furnished ices and confectionery for aristocratic balls and parties, and did n't disdain to officiate as leader of the orchestra at the same ; for Pettingil played on the violin, as Pepper Whitcomb described it, " like Old Scratch." Pettingil's confectionery store was on the corner of Willow and High Streets. The saloon, separated from the shop by a flight of three steps lead ing to a door hung with faded red drapery, had about it an air of mystery and seclusion quite delightful. Four windows, also draped, faced the side- street, affording an unobstructed view of Marm Hatch's back yard, where a number of inexplicable garments on a clothes-line were always to be seen careering in the wind. There was a lull just then in the ice-cream business, it being dinner-time, and we found the saloon unoccupied. When we had seated ourselves around the largest marble-topped table, Charley Harden in a manly voice ordered twelve sixpenny ice-creams, " strawberry and verneller mixed." It was a magnificent sight, those twelve chilly glasses entering the room on a waiter, the red and white custard rising from each glass like a church- steeple, and the spoon-handle shooting up from the apex like a spire. I doubt if a person of the nicest palate could have distinguished, with his eyes shut, which was the vanilla and which the strawberry ; but, if I could at this moment obtain a cream tasting as that did, I would give five dollars for a very small quantity. We fell to with a will, and so evenly balanced were our capabilities that we finished our creams together, the spoons clinking in the glasses like one spoon. " Let 's have some more ! " cried Charley Harden, with the air of Aladdin ordering up a fresh hogshead of pearls and rubies. " Tom Bailey, tell Pet tingil to send in another round." Could I credit my ears ? I looked at him to see if he were in earnest. He meant it. In a moment more I was leaning over the counter giving direc tions for a second supply. Thinking it would make no difference to such a gorgeous young sybarite as Harden, I took the liberty of ordering nine- penny creams this time. On returning to the saloon, what was my horror at finding it empty ! There were the twelve cloudy glasses, standing in a circle on the sticky marble slab, and not a boy to be seen. A pair of hands letting go their hold on the window-sill outside explained matters. I had been made a victim. I could n't stay and face Pettingil, whose peppery temper was well known among the boys. I hadn't a cent in the world to appease him. What 216 The Story of a Bad Boy. [April, should I do ? I heard the clink of approaching glasses, the ninepenny creams. I rushed to the nearest window. It was only five feet to the ground. I threw myself out as if I had been an old hat. Landing on my feet, I fled breathlessly down High Street, through Wil low, and was turning into Brierwood Place when the sound of several voices, calling to me in distress, stopped my progress. " Look out, you fool ! the mine ! the mine ! " yelled the warning voices. Several men and boys were standing at the head of the street, making in sane gestures to me to avoid something. But I saw no mine, only in the middle of the road in front of me was a common flour-barrel, which, as I gazed at it, suddenly rose into the air with a terrific explosion. I felt myself thrown violently off my feet. I remember nothing else, excepting that, as I went up, I caught a momentary glimpse of Ezra Wingate leering though his shop window like an avenging spirit. For an account of what followed, I am indebted to hearsay, for I was in sensible when the people picked me up and carried me home on a shutter borrowed from the proprietor of Pettingil's saloon. I was supposed to be killed, but happily (happily for me, at least) I was merely stunned. I lay in a semi-unconscious state until eight o'clock that night, when I attempted to speak. Miss Abigail, who watched by the bedside, put her ear down to my lips and was saluted with these remarkable words : 'Root Beer Sold Here ! T.B.Aldrich. OUR YOUNG FOLKS. An Illustrated Magazine FOR BOYS AND GIRLS. VOL. V. MAY, 1869. No. V. THE STORY OF A BAD BOY. CHAPTER IX. I BECOME AN R. M. C. N the course of ten days I recovered sufficiently from my injuries to attend school, where, for a little while, I was looked upon as a hero, on account of having been blown up. What don't we make a hero of? The distraction which prevailed in the classes the week preceding the Fourth had subsided, and nothing remained to indicate the recent festivities, excepting a no ticeable want of eyebrows on the part of Pepper Whitcomb and myself. In August we had two weeks' vacation. It was about this time that I became a member of the Rivermouth Centipedes, a secret society composed of twelve of the Temple Grammar School boys. This was an honor to which I had long aspired, but, being a new boy, I was not admitted to the fraternity until my character had fully developed itself. It was a very select society, the object of which I never fathomed, though I was an ac tive member of the body during the remainder of my residence at Rivermouth, and at onetime held the onerous position of F. C., First Cen tipede. Each of the elect wore a copper cent (some occult association being established between a cent apiece and a centipede ! ) suspended by a string round his neck. The medals were worn next the skin, and it was while bathing one day at Grave Point, with Jack Harris and Fred Langdon, that Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1869, by FIELDS, OSGOOD, & Co., in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. VOL. V. NO. V. 20 274 The Story of a Bad Boy. [May, I had my curiosity roused to the highest pitch by a sight of these singular emblems. As soon as I ascertained the existence of a boys' club, of course I was ready to die to join it. And eventually I was allowed to join. The initiation ceremony took place in Fred Langdon's barn, where I was submitted to a series of trials not calculated to soothe the nerves of a timor ous boy. Before being led to the Grotto of Enchantment, such was the modest title given to the loft over my friend's wood-house, my hands were securely pinioned, and my eyes covered with a thick silk handkerchief. At the head of the stairs, I was told in an unrecognizable, husky voice, that it was not yet too late to retreat if I felt myself physically too weak to undergo the necessary tortures. I replied that I was not too weak, in a tone which I intended to be resolute, but which, in spite of me, seemed to come from the pit of my stomach. " It is well ! " said the husky voice. I did not feel so sure about that ; but, having made up my mind to be a Centipede, a Centipede I was bound to be. Other boys had passed through the ordeal and lived, why should not I ? A prolonged silence followed this preliminary examination, and I was won dering what would come next, when a pistol fired off close by my ear deaf ened me for a moment. The unknown voice then directed me to take ten steps forward and stop at the word halt. I took ten steps, and halted. " Stricken mortal," said a second husky voice, more husky, if possible, than the first, "if you had advanced another inch, you would have disappeared down an abyss three thousand feet deep ! " I naturally shrunk back at this friendly piece of information. A prick from some two-pronged instrument, evidently a pitchfork, gently checked my retreat. I was then conducted to the brink of several other precipices, and ordered to step over many dangerous chasms, where the result would have been instant death if I had committed the least mistake. I have neglected to say that my movements were accompanied by dismal groans from various parts of the grotto. Finally, I was led up a steep plank to what appeared to me an incalculable height. Here I stood breathless while the by-laws were read aloud. A more extraordinary code of laws never came from the brain of man. The penalties attached to the abject being who should reveal any of the secrets of the society were enough to make the blood run cold. A second pistol- shot was heard, the something I stood on sunk with a crash beneath my feet, and I fell two miles, as nearly as I could compute it. At the same instant the handkerchief was whisked from my eyes, and I found myself standing in an empty hogshead surrounded by twelve masked figures fantastically dressed. One of the conspirators was really appalling with a tin sauce pan on his head, and a tiger-skin sleigh-robe thrown over his shoulders. I scarcely need say that there were no vestiges to be seen of the fearful gulfs over which I had passed so cautiously. My ascent had been to the top of the hogshead, and my descent to the bottom thereof. Holding one another by the hand, and chanting a low dirge, the Mystic Twelve revolved about 1869.] The Story of a Bad Boy. 275 me. This concluded the ceremony. With a merry shout the boys threw off their masks, and I was declared a regularly installed member of the R. M. C. I afterwards had a good deal of sport out of the club, for these initiations, as you may imagine, were sometimes very comical spectacles, especially when the aspirant for centipedal honors happened to be of a timid disposi tion. If he showed the slightest terror, he was certain to be tricked unmer cifully. One of our subsequent devices a humble invention of my own was to request the candidate to put out his tongue, whereupon the First Centipede would say, in a low tone, as if not intended for the ear of the vic tim, " Diabolus, fetch me the red-hot iron ! " The expedition with which that tongue would disappear was simply ridiculous. Our meetings were held in various barns, at no stated periods, but as circumstances suggested. Any member had a right to call a meeting. Each boy who failed to report himself was fined one cent. Whenever a member had reasons for thinking that another member would be unable to attend, he called a meeting. For instance, immediately on learning the death of Harry Blake's great-grandfather, I issued a call. By these simple and in genious measures we kept our treasury in a flourishing condition, sometimes having on hand as much as a dollar and a quarter. I have said that the society had no especial object. It is true, there was a tacit understanding among us that the Centipedes were to stand by one another on all occasions, though I don't remember that they did ; but further than this we had no purpose, unless it was to accomplish as a body the same 276 The Story of a Bad Boy. [May, amount of mischief which we were sure to do as individuals. To mystify the staid and slow-going Rivermouthians was our frequent pleasure. Several of our pranks won us such a reputation among the townsfolk, that we were credited with having a large finger in whatever went amiss in the place. One morning about a week after my admission into the secret order, the quiet citizens awoke to find that the sign-boards of all the principal streets had changed places during the night. People who went trustfully to sleep in Currant Square opened their eyes in Honeysuckle Terrace. Jones's Avenue at the north end had suddenly become Walnut Street, and Peanut Street was nowhere to be found. Confusion reigned. The town authorities took the matter in hand without delay, and six of the Temple Grammar School boys were summoned to appear before Justice Clapham. Having tearfully disclaimed to my grandfather all knowledge of the transac tion, I disappeared from the family circle, and was not apprehended until late in the afternoon, when the Captain dragged me ignominiously from the hay-mow and conducted me, more dead than alive, to the office of Justice Clapham. Here I encountered five other pallid culprits, who had been fished out of divers coal-bins, garrets, and chicken-coops, to answer the demands of the outraged laws. (Charley Marden had hidden himself in a pile of gravel behind his father's house, and looked like a recently exhumed mummy.) There was not a particle of evidence against us ; and, indeed, we were wholly innocent of the offence. The trick, as was afterwards proved, had been played by a party of soldiers stationed at the fort in the harbor. We were indebted for our arrest to Master Conway, who had slyly dropped a hint, within the hearing of Selectman Mudge, to the effect that "young Bai ley and his five cronies could tell something about them signs." When he was called upon to make good his assertion, he was considerably more terri fied than the Centipedes, though they wefe ready to sink into their shoes. At our next meeting, it was unanimously resolved that Conway's animos ity should not be quietly submitted to. He had sought to inform against us ' in the stage-coach business ; he had volunteered to carry Pettingil's " little bill " for twenty-four ice-creams to Charley Marden's father ; and now he had caused us to be arraigned before Justice Clapham on a charge equally groundless and painful. After much noisy discussion a plan of retaliation was agreed upon. There was a certain slim, mild apothecary in the town, by the name of Meeks. It was generally given out that Mr. Meeks had a vague desire to get married, but, being a shy and timorous youth, lacked the moral courage to do so. It was also well known that the Widow Conway had not buried her heart with the late lamented. As to her shyness, that was not so clear. Indeed, her attentions to Mr. Meeks, whose mother she might have been, were of a nature not to be misunderstood, and were not misunderstood by any one but Mr. Meeks himself. The widow carried on a dress-making establishment at her residence on the corner opposite Meeks's drug-store, and kept a wary eye on all the young ladies from Miss Dorothy Gibb's Female Institute who patronized the 1869.] The Story of a Bad Boy. 277 shop for soda-water, acid-drops, and slate-pencils. In the afternoon the widow was usually seen seated, smartly dressed, at her window up stairs, casting destructive glances across the street, the artificial roses in her cap and her whole languishing manner saying as plainly as a label on a prescrip tion, " To be Ta.ken Immediately ! " But Mr. Meeks did n't take. The lady's fondness, and the gentleman's blindness, were topics ably handled at every sewing-circle in the town. It was through these two luck less individuals that we proposed to strike a deadly blow at the common enemy. To kill less than three birds with one stone, did not suit our san guinary purpose. We disliked the widow not so much for her sentimental ity as for being the mother of Bill Conway ; we disliked Mr. Meeks, not be cause he was insipid, like his own sirups, but because the widow loved him ; Bill Conway we hated for himself. Late one dark Saturday night in September, we carried our plan into effect. On the following morning, as the orderly citizens wended their way to church past the widow's abode, their sober faces relaxed at beholding over her front door the well-known gilt Mortar and Pestle which usually stood on the top of a pole on the opposite corner ; while the passers on that side of the street were equally amused and scandalized at seeing a placard bearing the following announcement tacked to the druggist's window-shutters : a The naughty cleverness of the joke (which I should be sorry to defend) was recognized at once. It spread like wildfire over the town, and, though the mortar and the placard were speedily removed, our triumph was com plete. The whole community was on the broad grin, and our participation in the affair seemingly unsuspected. It was those wicked soldiers at the Fort ! CHAPTER X. I FIGHT CONWAY. THERE was one person, however, who cherished a strong suspicion that the Centipedes had had a hand in the business ; and that person was Conway. His red hair seemed to change to a livelier red, and his sallow cheeks to a deeper sallow, as we glanced at him stealthily over the tops of our slates the next day in school. He knew we were watching him, and made sundry mouths and scowled in the most threatening way over his sums. Conway had an accomplishment peculiarly his own, that of throwing his thumbs out of joint at will. Sometimes while absorbed in study, or on becoming nervous at recitation, he performed the feat unconsciously. Throughout this entire morning, his thumbs were observed to be in a chronic state of dislocation, indicating great mental agitation on the part 278 The Story of a Bad Boy. [May, of the owner. We fully expected an outbreak from him at recess ; but the intermission passed off tranquilly, somewhat to our disappointment. At the close of the afternoon session, it happened that Binny Wallace and myself, having got swamped in our Latin exercise, were detained in school for the purpose of refreshing our memories with a page of Mr. An drews 1 ^ perplexingly irregular verbs. Binny Wallace, finishing his task first, was dismissed. I followed shortly after, and, on stepping into the play-ground, saw my little friend plastered, as it were, up against the fence, and Conway standing in front of him ready to deliver a blow on the up turned, unprotected face, whose gentleness would have stayed any arm but a coward's. Seth Rodgers, with both hands in his pockets, was leaning against the pump lazily enjoying the sport; but on seeing me sweep across the yard, whirling my strap of books in the air like a sling, he called out lustily, " Lay low, Conway ! here 's young Bailey ! " Conway turned just in time to catch on his shoulder the blow intended for his head. He reached forward one of his long arms he had arms like a windmill, that boy and, grasping me by the hair, tore out quite a respecta ble handful. The tears flew to my eyes, but they were not tears of pain ; they were merely the involuntary tribute which nature paid to the departed tresses. In a second my little jacket lay on the ground, and I stood on guard, rest ing lightly on my right leg and keeping my eye fixed steadily on Conway's, in all of which I was faithfully following the instructions of Phil Adams, whose father subscribed to a sporting journal. Conway also threw himself into a defensive attitude, and there we were, glaring at each other, motionless, neither of us disposed to risk an attack, but both on the alert to resist one. There is no telling how long we might have remained in that absurd position, had we not been interrupted. It was a custom with the larger pupils to return to the play-ground after school, and play base-ball until sundown. The town authorities had prohib ited ball-playing on the Square, and, there being no other available place, the boys fell back perforce on the school-yard. Just at this crisis, a dozen or so of the Templars entered the gate, and, seeing at a glance the belligerent status of Conway and myself, dropped bat and ball, and rushed to the spot where we stood. " Is it a fight ? " asked Phil Adams, who saw by our freshness that we had not yet got to work. " Yes, it 's a fight," I answered, " unless Conway will ask Wallace's par don, promise never to hector me in future, and put back my hair ! " This last condition was rather a staggerer. " I sha' n't do nothing of the sort," said Conway, sulkily. " Then the thing must go on," said Adams, with dignity. " Rodgers, as I understand it, is your second, Conway ? Bailey, come here. What 's the row about ? " " He was thrashing Binny Wallace." 1869.] The Story of a Bad Boy. 279 " No, I was n't," interrupted Conway ; " but I was going to, because he knows who put Meeks's mortar aver our door. And I know well enough who did it ; it was that sneaking little mulatter ! " pointing at me. u O, by George ! " I cried, reddening at the insult. " Cool is the word," said Adams, as he bound a handkerchief round my head, and carefully tucked away the long straggling locks that offered a tempting advantage to the enemy. " Who ever heard of a fellow with such a head of hair going into action ! " muttered Phil, twitching the handker chief to ascertain if it were securely tied. He then loosened my gallowses (braces), and buckled them tightly above my hips. "Now, then, bantam, never say die ! " Conway regarded these business-like preparations with evident misgiving, for he called Rodgers to his side, and had himself arrayed in a similar man ner, though his hair was cropped so close that you could n't have taken hold of it with a pair of tweezers. " Is your man ready ? " asked Phil Adams, addressing Rodgers. " Ready ! " " Keep your back to the gate, Tom," whispered Phil in my ear, " and you '11 have the sun in his eyes." Behold us once more face to face, like David and the Philistine. Look at us as long as you may ; for this is all you shall see of the combat. Ac cording to my thinking, the hospital teaches a better lesson than the battle field. I will tell you about my black eye, and my swollen lip, if you will ; but not a word of the fight. You '11 get no description of it from me, simply because I think it would prove very poor reading, and not because I consider my revolt against Con- way's tyranny unjustifiable. I had borne Conway's persecutions for many months with lamb-like pa tience. I might have shielded myself by appealing to Mr. Grimshaw ; but no boy in the Temple Grammar School could do that without losing caste. Whether this was just or not, does n't matter a pin, since it was so, a tra ditionary law of the place. The personal inconvenience I suffered from my tormentor was nothing to the pain he inflicted on me indirectly by his per sistent cruelty to little Binny Wallace. I should have lacked the spirit of a hen if I had not resented it finally. I am glad that I faced Conway, and asked no favors, and got rid of him forever. I am glad that Phil Adams taught me to box, and I say to all youngsters : Learn to box, to ride, to pull an oar, and to swim. The occasion may come round, when a decent proficiency in one or the rest of these accomplishments will be of service to you. In one of the best books * ever written for boys are these words : " Learn to box, then, as you learn to play cricket and football. Not one of you will be the worse, but very much the better, for learning to box well. Should you never have to use it in earnest, there 's no exercise in the world so good for the temper, and for the muscles of the back and legs. * "Tom Brown's School Days at Rugby." 280 The Story of a Bad Boy. [May " As for fighting, keep out of it, if you can, by all means. When the tim< comes, if ever it should, that you have to say * Yes ' or * No ' to a challeng( to fight, say * No ' if you can, only take care you make it plain to yourself why you say 'No.' It's a proof of the highest courage, if done from true Christian motives. It 's quite right and justifiable, if done from a simple aversion to physical pain and danger. But don't say * No ' because you feai a licking and say or think it 's because you fear God, for that 's neithei Christian nor honest. And if you do fight, fight it out ; and don't give ir while you can stand and see." And don't give in when you can't ! say I. For I could stand very little and see not at all (having pummelled the school-pump for the last twenty seconds), when Conway retired from the field. As Phil Adams stepped uj to shake hands with me, he received a telling blow in the stomach ; for al the fight was not out of me yet, and I mistook him for a new adversary. Convinced of my error, I accepted his congratulations, with those of the other boys, blandly and blindly. I remember that Binny Wallace wanted t( give me his silver pencil-case. The gentle soul had stood throughout the contest with his face turned to the fence, suffering untold agony. A good wash at the pump, and a cold key applied to my eye, refreshed me amazingly. Escorted by two or three of the schoolfellows, I walked home through the pleasant autumn twilight, battered but triumphant. As I wenl along, my cap cocked on one side to keep the chilly air from my eye, I fell that I was not only following my nose, but following it so closely, that I was in some danger of treading on it. I seemed to have nose enough for the whole party. My left cheek, also, was puffed out like a dumpling. I could n'1 help saying to myself, " If this is victory, how about that other fellow ? >; " Tom," said Harry Blake, hesitating. "Well?" " Did you see Mr. Grimshaw looking out of the recitation-room window just as we left the yard ? " " No ; was he, though ? " "I am sure of it." , " Then he must have seen all the row." " Should n't wonder." " No, he did n't," broke in Adams, " or he would have stopped it short metre ; but I guess he saw you pitching into the pump, which you did uncommonly strong, and of course he smelt mischief directly." " Well, it can't be helped now," I reflected. " As the monkey said when he fell out of the cocoanut-tree," added Charley Marden, trying to make me laugh. It was early candle-light when we reached the house. Miss Abigail, open ing the front door, started back at my hilarious appearance. I tried to smile upon her sweetly, but the smile, rippling over my swollen cheek, and dying away like a spent wave on my nose, produced an expression of which Miss Abigail declared she had never seen the like excepting on the face of a Chinese idol. 1869.] The Story of a Bad Boy. 281 She hustled me unceremoniously into the presence of my grandfather in the sitting-room. Captain Nutter, as the recognized professional warrior of our family, could not consistently take me to task for fighting Conway ; nor was he disposed to do so ; for the Captain was well aware of the long-con tinued provocation I had endured. " Ah, you rascal ! " cried the old gentleman, after hearing my story, "just like me when I was young, always in one kind of trouble or another. I believe it runs in the family." " I think," said Miss Abigail, without the faintest expression on her coun tenance, " that a table-spoonful of hot-dro " The Captain interrupted Miss Abigail peremptorily, directing her to make a shade out of card-board and black silk, to tie over my eye. Miss Abigail must have been possessed with the idea that I had taken up pugilism as a profession, for she turned out no fewer than six of these blinders. " They '11 be handy to have in the house," says Miss Abigail, grimly. Of course, so great a breach of discipline was not to be passed over by Mr. Grimshaw. He had, as we suspected, witnessed the closing scene of the fight from the school-room window, and the next morning, after prayers, I was not wholly unprepared when Master Conway and myself were called up to the desk for examination. Conway, with a piece of court-plaster in the shape of a Maltese cross on his right cheek, and I with the silk patch over my left eye, caused a general titter through the room. " Silence ! " said Mr. Grimshaw, sharply. As the reader is already familiar with the leading points in the case of Bailey 'versus Conway, I shall not report the trial further than to say that Adams, Marden, and several other* pupils testified to the fact that Conway had imposed on me ever since my first day at the Temple School. Their evidence also went to show that Conway was a quarrelsome character gen erally. Bad for Conway. Seth Rodgers, on the part of his friend, proved that I had struck the first blow. That was bad for me. " If you please, sir," said Binny Wallace, holding up his hand for permis sion to speak, " Bailey did n't fight on his own account ; he fought on my account, and, if you please, sir, I am the boy to be blamed, for I was the cause of the trouble." This drew out the story of Conway's harsh treatment of the smaller boys. As Binny related the wrongs of his playfellows, saying very little of his own grievances, I noticed that Mr. Grimshaw's hand, unknown to himself perhaps, rested lightly from time to time on Wallace's sunny hair. The examination finished, Mr. Grimshaw leaned on the desk thoughtfully for a moment, and then said : " Every boy in this school knows that it is against the rules to fight. If one boy maltreats another, within school-bounds, or within school-hours, that is a matter for me to settle. The case should be laid before me. I disap prove of tale-bearing, I never encourage it in the slightest degree ; but when one pupil systematically persecutes a schoolmate, it is the duty of some head- boy to inform me. No pupil has a right to take the law into his own hands. 282 The William Henry Letters. [May, If there is any fighting to be done, I am the proper person to do it. I dis approve of boys' fighting ; it is unnecessary and unchristian. In the pres ent instance, I consider every large boy in this school at fault ; but as the offence is one of omission, rather than commission, my punishment must rest only on the two boys convicted of misdemeanor. Conway loses his recess for a month, and Bailey has a page added to his Latin lessons for the next four recitations. I now request Bailey and Conway to shake hands in the presence of the school, and acknowledge their regret at what has occurred." Conway and I approached each other slowly and cautiously, as if we were bent upon another hostile collision. We clasped hands in the tamest man ner imaginable, and Conway mumbled, " I 'm sorry I fought with you." " I think you are," I replied, dryly, " and I 'm sorry I had to thrash you." " You can go to your seats," said Mr. Grimshaw, turning his face aside to hide a smile. I am sure my apology was a very good one. I never had any more trouble with Conway. He and his shadow, Seth Rodgers, gave me a wide berth for many months. Nor was Binny Wallace subjected to further molestation. Miss Abigail's sanitary stores, including a bottle of opodeldoc, were never called into requisition. The six black silk patches, with their elastic strings, are still dangling from a beam in the garret of the Nutter House, waiting for me to get into fresh difficulties. T. B. Aldrich. THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS. ELEVENTH PACKET. Georgianna's Letter to William Henry. MY DEAR BROTHER BILLY, - Kitty is n't drowned. I Ve got ever so many new dolls. My grand mother went to town, not the same day my kitty did that, but the next day, and she brought me home a new doll, and that same day she went there my father went to Boston, and he brought me home a very big one, no, not very, but quite big,. and Aunt Phebe went a visiting to somebody's house that very day and she brought me home a doll, and while she was gone away Hannah Jane dressed over one of Matilda's old ones new, and none of the folks knew that the others were going to give me a doll, and then Uncle J. said that if it was the family custom to give Georgianna a doll, he would give Geor- gianna a doll, and he went to the field and catched the colt, and tackled him up into the riding wagon on purpose, and then he started off to town, and when he rode up to our back door there was a great dolly, the biggest one :,il^^ OUR YOUNG FOLKS. An Illustrated Magazine FOR BOYS AND GIRLS. VOL. V. JUNE, 1869. No. VI. THE STORY OF A BAD BOY. CHAPTER XI. ALL ABOUT GYPSY. HIS record of my life at Ri vermouth would be strangely incomplete did I not devote an entire chapter to Gypsy. I had other pets, of course ; for what healthy boy could long exist without numerous friends in the animal kingdom ? I had two white mice that were forever gnawing their way out of a pasteboard chateau, and crawling over my face when I lay asleep. I used to keep the pink-eyed little beggars in my bedroom, greatly to the annoyance of Miss Abigail, who was constantly fancying that one of the mice had secreted itself somewhere about her person. I also owned a dog, a terrier, who managed in some inscrutable way to pick a quarrel with the moon, and on bright nights kept up such a ki-yi-ing in our back garden, that we were finally forced to dispose of him at private sale. He was purchased by Mr. Oxford, the butcher. I protested against the arrangement, and ever afterwards, when we had sausages from Mr. Oxford's shop, I made believe I de tected in them certain evidences that Cato had been foully dealt with. Of birds I had no end, robins, purple-martins, wrens, bulfinches, bob olinks, ringdoves, and pigeons. At one time I took solid comfort in the Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1869, by FIELDS, OSGOOD, & Co., in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. VOL. V. NO. VI. 25 346 The Story of a Bad Boy. [June, iniquitous society of a dissipated old parrot, who talked so terribly, that the Rev. Wibird Hawkins, happening to get a sample of Poll's vituperative pow ers, pronounced him " a benighted heathen," and advised the Captain to get rid of him. A brace of turtles supplanted the parrot in my affections ; the turtles gave way to rabbits ; and the rabbits in turn yielded to the superior charms of a small monkey, which the Captain bought of a sailor lately from the coast of Africa. But Gypsy was the prime favorite, in spite of many rivals. I never grew weary of her. She was the most knowing little thing in the world. Her proper sphere in life and the one to which she ultimately attained was the sawdust arena of a travelling circus. There was nothing short of the three R's, reading, 'riting, and 'rithmetic, that Gypsy couldn't be taught. The gift of speech was not hers, but the faculty of thought was. She com bined the wisdom of the serpent with the harmlessness of the dove. My little friend, to be sure, was not exempt from certain graceful weak nesses, inseparable, perhaps, from the female character. She was very pretty, and she knew it. She was also passionately fond of dress, by which I mean her best harness. When she had this on, her curvetings and pran- cings were laughable, though in ordinary tackle she went along demurely enough. There was something in the enamelled leather and the silver- washed mountings that chimed with her artistic sense. To have her mane braided, and a rose or a pansy stuck into her forelock, was to make her too conceited for anything. She had another trait not rare among her sex. She liked the attentions of young gentlemen, while the society of girls bored her. She would drag them, sulkily, in the cart ; but as for permitting one of them in the saddle, the idea was preposterous. Once when Pepper Whitcomb's sister, in spite of our remonstrances, ventured to mount her, Gypsy gave a little indignant neigh, and tossed the gentle Emma heels over head in no time. But with any of the boys the mare was as docile as a lamb. Her treatment of the several members of the family was comical. For the Captain she entertained a wholesome respect, and was always on her good behavior when he was around. As to Miss Abigail, Gypsy simply laughed at her, literally laughed, contracting her upper lip and displaying all her snow-white teeth, as if something about Miss Abigail struck her, Gypsy, as being extremely ridiculous. Kitty Collins, for some reason or another, was afraid of the pony, or pre tended to be. The sagacious little animal knew it, of course, and frequently, when Kitty was hanging out clothes near the stable, the mare, being loose in the yard, would make short plunges at her. Once Gypsy seized the basket of clothes-pins with her teeth, and rising on her hind legs, pawing the air with her fore feet, followed Kitty clear up to the scullery steps. That part of the yard was shut off from the rest by a gate ; but no gate was proof against Gypsy's ingenuity. She could let down bars, lift up latches, draw bolts, and turn all sorts of buttons. This accomplishment rendered it hazardous for Miss Abigail or Kitty to leave any eatables on the 1869.] The Story of a Bad Boy. 347 kitchen table near the window. On one occasion Gypsy put in her head and lapped up six custard pies that had been placed by the casement to cool. An account of my young lady's various pranks would fill a thick volume. A favorite trick of hers, on being requested to " walk like Miss Abigail," was to assume a little skittish gait so true to nature that Miss Abigail herself was obliged to admit the cleverness of the imitation. The idea of putting Gypsy through a systematic course of instruction was suggested to me by a visit to the circus which gave an annual performance in Rivermouth. This show embraced, among its attractions, a number of trained Shetland ponies, and I determined that Gypsy should likewise have the benefit of a liberal education. I succeeded in teaching her to waltz, to fire a pistol by tugging at a string tied to the trigger, to lie down dead, to wink one eye, and to execute many other feats of a difficult nature. She took to her studies admirably, and enjoyed the whole thing as much as anybody. The monkey was a perpetual marvel to Gypsy. They became bosom- friends in an incredibly brief period, and were never easy out of each oth er's sight. Prince Zany that 's what Pepper Whitcomb and I christened him one day, much to the disgust of the monkey, who bit a piece out of Pep per's nose resided in the stable, and went to roost every night on the pony's back, where I usually found him in the morning. Whenever I rode out, I was obliged to secure his Highness the Prince with a stout cord to the fence, he chattering all the time like a madman. One afternoon as I was cantering through the crowded part of the town, I noticed that the people in the street stopped, stared at me, and fell to laugh- 348 The Story of a Bad Boy. [June, ing. I turned round in the saddle, and there was Zany, with a great burdock leaf in his paw, perched up behind me on the crupper, as solemn as a judge. After a few months, poor Zany sickened mysteriously, and died. The dark thought occurred to me then, and comes back to me now with redoub led force, that Miss Abigail must have given him some hot-drops. Zany left a large circle of sorrowing friends, if not relatives. Gypsy, I think, never entirely recovered from the shock occasioned by his early demise. She be came fonder of me, though ; and one of her cunningest demonstrations was to escape from the stable-yard, and trot up to the door of the Temple Gram mar School, where I would discover her at recess patiently waiting for me, with her fore feet on the second step, and wisps of straw standing out all over her. I should fail if I tried to tell you how dear the pony was to me. Even hard, unloving men become attached to the horses they take care of; so I, who was neither unloving nor hard, grew to love every glossy hair of the pretty little creature that depended on me for her soft straw bed and her daily modicum of oats. In my prayer at night I never forgot to mention Gypsy with the rest of the family, generally setting forth her claims first. Whatever relates to Gypsy belongs properly to this narrative ; therefore I offer no apology for rescuing from oblivion, and boldly printing here, a short composition which I wrote in the early part of my first quarter at the Temple Grammar School. It is my maiden effort in a difficult art, and is, perhaps, lacking in those graces of thought and style which are reached only after the severest practice. Every Wednesday morning, on entering school, each pupil was expected to lay his exercise on Mr. Grimshaw's desk ; the subject was usually select ed by Mr. Grimshaw himself, the Monday previous. With a humor charac teristic of him, our teacher had instituted two prizes, one for the best and the other for the worst composition of the month. The first prize consisted of a penknife, or a pencil-case, or some such article dear to the heart of youth ; the second prize entitled the winner to wear for an hour or two a sort of conical paper cap, on the front of which was written, in tall letters, this mod est admission : I AM A DUNCE ! The competitor who took prize No. 2 was n't generally an object of envy. My pulse beat high with pride and expectation that Wednesday morning, as I laid my essay, neatly folded, on the master's table. I firmly decline to say which prize I won. It is no small-author vanity that induces me to publish this stray leaf of natural history. I lay it before our young folks^not for their admiration, but for their criticism. Let each reader take his lead-pencil and remorselessly correct the orthography, the capitalization, and the punctuation of the essay. I shall not feel a bit hurt at seeing my treatise cut all to pieces ; though I think highly of the production, not on account of its literary excellence, which I candidly admit is not overpowering, but because it was written years and years ago about Gypsy, by a little fellow who, when I strive to re call him, appears to me like a reduced ghost of my present self ; but here 's the composition to speak for itself; 1869.] The Story of a Bad Boy. 349 I am confident that any reader who has ever had pets, birds or animals, will forgive me for this brief digression. CHAPTER XII. WINTER AT RIVERMOUTH. " I GUESS we 're going to have a regular old-fashioned snow-storm," said Captain Nutter, one bleak December morning, casting a peculiarly nautical glance skyward. The Captain was always hazarding prophecies about the weather, which somehow never turned out according to his prognostications. The vanes on the church steeple^ seemed to take fiendish pleasure in humiliating the dear old gentleman. If he said it was going to be a clear day, a dense sea- fog was pretty certain to set in before noon. Once he caused a protracted drought by assuring us every morning, for six consecutive weeks, that it would rain in a few hours. But, sure enough, that afternoon it began snowing. Now I had not seen a snow-storm since I was eighteen months old, and 3 SO The Story of a Bad Boy. [June, of course remembered nothing about it. A boy familiar from his infancy with the rigors of our New England winters can form no idea of the impres sion made on me by this natural phenomenon. My delight and surprise were as boundless as if the heavy gray sky had let down a shower of pond- lilies and white roses, instead of snow-flakes. It happened to be a half-holi day, so I had nothing to do but watch the feathery crystals whirling hither and thither through the air. I stood by the sitting-room window gazing at the wonder until twilight shut out the novel scene. Several inches of snow had already fallen. The rose-bushes at the door drooped with the weight of their magical blossoms, and the two posts that held the garden gate were transformed into stately Turks, with white tur bans, guarding the entrance to the Nutter House. The storm increased at sundown, and continued with unabated violence through the night. The next morning, when I jumped out of bed, the sun was shining brightly, the cloudless heavens wore the tender azure of June, and the whole earth lay muffled up to the eyes, as it were, in a thick mantle of milk-white down. It was a very deep snow. The Oldest Inhabitant (what would become of a New England town or village without its oldest inhabitant ? ) overhauled his almanacs, and pronounced it the deepest snow we had had for twenty years. It could n't have been much deeper without smothering us all. Our street was a sight to be seen, or, rather, it was a sight not to be seen ; for very little street was visible. One huge drift completely banked up our front door and half covered my bedroom window. There was no school that day, for all the thoroughfares were impassable. By twelve o'clock, however, the great snow-ploughs, each drawn by four yokes of oxen, broke a wagon-path through the principal streets ; but the foot-passengers had a hard time of it floundering in the arctic drifts. The Captain and I cut a tunnel, three feet wide and six feet high, from our front door to the sidewalk opposite. It was a beautiful cavern, with its walls and roof inlaid with mother-of-pearl and diamonds. I am sure the ice palace of the Russian Empress, in Cowper's poem, was not a more superb piece of architecture. The thermometer began falling shortly before sunset, and we had the bit terest cold night I ever experienced. This brought out the Oldest Inhabi tant again the next day, and what a gay old boy he was for deciding every thing ! Our tunnel was turned into solid ice. A crust thick enough to bear men and horses had formed over the snow everywhere, and the air was alive with merry sleigh-bells. Icy stalactites, a yard long, hung from the eaves of the houses, and the Turkish sentinels at the gate looked as if they intended never to be relieved from duty. So the winter set in cold and glittering. Everything out of doors was sheathed in silver mail. To quote from Charley Harden, it was "cold enough to freeze the tail off a brass monkey," an observation which seemed to me extremely happy, though I knew little or nothing concerning the endurance of brass monkeys, having never seen one. 1869.] The Story of a Bad Boy. 351 I had looked forward to the advent of the season with grave apprehen sions, nerving myself to meet dreary nights and monotonous days ; but sum mer itself was not more jolly than winter at Rivermouth. Snow-balling at school, skating on the Mill Dam, coasting by moonlight, long rides behind Gypsy in a brand-new little sleigh built expressly for her, were sports no less exhilarating than those which belonged to the sunny months. And then Thanksgiving ! The nose of Memory why should n't Memory have a nose ? dilates with pleasure over the rich perfume of Miss Abigail's forty mince-pies, each one more delightful than the other, like the Sultan's forty wives. Christmas was another red-letter day, though it was not so generally observed in New England as it is now. The great wood fire in the tiled chimney-place made our sitting-room very cheerful of winter nights. When the north wind howled about the eaves, and the sharp sleet rattled against the window-panes, it was nice to be so warmly sheltered from the storm. A dish of apples and a pitcher of chilly cider were always served during the evening. The Captain had a funny way of leaning back in the chair, and eating his apple with his eyes closed. Sometimes I played dominos with him, and sometimes Miss Abigail read aloud to us, pronouncing " to " toe, and sounding all the eds. In a former chapter I alluded to Miss Abigail's managing propensities. She had effected many changes in the Nutter House before I came there to live ; but there was one thing against which she had long contended without being able to overcome. This was the Captain's pipe. On first taking com mand of the household, she prohibited smoking in the sitting-room, where it had been the old gentleman's custom to take a whiff or two of the fragrant weed after meals. The edict went forth, and so did the pipe. An excel lent move, no doubt ; but then the house was his, and if he saw fit to keep a tub of tobacco burning in the middle of the parlor floor, he had a perfect right to do so. However, he humored her in this as in other matters, and smoked by stealth, like a guilty creature, in the barn, or about the gardens. That was practicable in summer, but in winter the Captain was hard put to it. When he could n't stand it longer, he retreated to his bedroom and bar ricaded the door. Such was the position of affairs at the time of which I write. One morning, a few days after the great snow, as Miss Abigail was dust ing the chronometer in the hall, she beheld Captain Nutter slowly descend ing the staircase, with a long clay pipe in his mouth. Miss Abigail could hardly credit her own eyes. " Dan'el ! " she gasped, retiring heavily on the hat-rack. The tone of reproach with which this word was uttered failed to produce the slightest effect on the Captain, who merely removed the pipe from his lips for an instant, and blew a cloud into the chilly air. The thermometer stood at two degrees below zero in our hall. " Dan'el ! " cried Miss Abigail, hysterically, " Dan'el, don't come near me ! " Whereupon she fainted away ; for the smell of tobacco-smoke always made her deadly sick. 352 The Story of a Bad Boy. [June, Kitty Collins rushed from the kitchen with a basin of water, and set to work bathing Miss Abigail's temples and chafing her hands. I thought my grandfather rather cruel, as he stood there with a half-smile on his counte nance, complacently watching Miss Abigail's sufferings. When she was " brought to," the Captain sat down beside her, and, with a lovely twinkle in his eye, said softly : " Abigail, my dear, there ivasrft any tobacco in that pipe ! It was a new pipe. I fetched it down for Tom to blow soap-bubbles with." At these words Kitty Collins hurried away, her features working strange ly. Several minutes later I came upon her in the scullery with the greater portion of a crash towel stuffed into her mouth. " Miss Abygil smelt the terbacca with her oi ! " cried Kitty, partially removing the cloth, and then immediately stopping herself up again. The Captain's joke furnished us that is, Kitty and me with mirth for many a day ; as to Miss Abigail, I think she never wholly pardoned him. After this, Captain Nutter gradually gave up smoking, which is an untidy, injurious, disgraceful, and highly pleasant habit. A boy's life in a secluded New England town in winter does not afford many points for illustration. Of course he gets his ears or toes frost-bitten ; of course he smashes his sled against another boy's ; of course he bangs his head on the ice ; and he 's a lad of no enterprise whatever, if he does n't manage to skate into an eel-hole, and be brought home half drowned. All these things happened to me ; but, as they lack novelty, I pass them over, to tell you about the famous snow-fort which we built on Slatter's Hill. I CHAPTER XIII. THE SNOW FORT ON SLATTER'S HILL. THE memory of man, even that of the Oldest Inhabitant, runneth not back to the time when there did not exist a feud between the North End and the South End boys of Rivermouth. The origin of the feud is involved in mystery ; it is impossible to say which party was the first aggressor in the far-off ante-revolutionary ages ; but the fact remains that the youngsters of those antipodal sections enter tained a mortal hatred for each other, and that this hatred had been handed down from generation to generation, like Miles Standish's punch-bowl. I know not what laws, natural or unnatural, regulated the warmth of the quarrel ; but at some seasons it raged more violently than at others. This winter, both parties were unusually lively and antagonistic. Great was the wrath of the South-Enders, when they discovered that the North-Enders had thrown up a fort on the crown of Slatter's Hill. Slatter's Hill, or No-man's-land, as it was generally called, was a rise of ground covering, perhaps, an acre and a quarter, situated on an imaginary line, marking the boundary between the two districts. An immense stratum of granite, which here and there thrust out a wrinkled boulder, prevented the 1869.] The Story of a Bad Boy. 353 site from being used for building purposes. The street ran on either side of the hill, from one part of which a quantity of rock had been removed to form the underpinning of the new jail. This excavation made the approach from that point all but impossible, especially when the ragged ledges were a- glitter with ice. You see what a spot it was for a snow-fort. One evening twenty or thirty of the North-Enders quietly took posses sion of Slatter's Hill, and threw up a strong line of breastworks, something after this shape : The rear of the intrenchment, being protected by the quarry, was left open. The walls were four feet high, and twenty-two inches thick, strength ened at the angles by stakes driven firmly into the ground. Fancy the rage of the South-Enders the next day, when they spied our snowy citadel, with Jack Harris's red silk pocket-handkerchief floating defi antly from the flag- staff ! In less than an hour it was known all over town, in military circles at least, that the " Puddle-dockers " and the " River- rats " (these were the de risive sub-titles bestowed on our South-End foes) intended to attack the fort that Saturday afternoon. At two o'clock all the fighting boys of the Temple Grammar School, and as many recruits as we could muster, lay behind the walls of Fort Slatter, with three hundred compact snow-balls piled up in pyramids, awaiting the approach of the enemy. The enemy was not slow in making his approach, fifty strong, headed by one Mat Ames. Our forces were under the com mand of General J. Harris. Before the action commenced, a meeting was arranged between the rival commanders, who drew up and signed certain rules and regulations respect ing the conduct of the battle. As it was impossible for the North-Enders to occupy the fort permanently, it was stipulated that the South-Enders should assault it only on Wednesday and Saturday afternoons between the hours of two and six. For them to take possession of the place at any other time was not to constitute a capture, but on the contrary was to be considered a dishonorable and cowardly act. The North-Enders, on the other hand, agreed to give up the fort whenever ten of the storming party succeeded in obtaining at one time a footing on the parapet, and were able to hold the same for the space of two minutes. Both sides were to abstain from putting pebbles into their snow-balls, nor was it permissible to use frozen ammuni tion. A snow-ball soaked in water and left out to cool was a projectile which in previous years had been resorted to with disastrous results. These preliminaries settled, the commanders retired to their respective corps. The interview had taken place on the hillside between the opposing lines. 354 The Story of a Bad Boy. [June, General Harris divided his men into two bodies : the first comprised the most skilful marksmen, or gunners ; the second, the reserve force, was com posed of the strongest boys, whose duty it was to repel the scaling parties, and to make occasional sallies for the purpose of capturing prisoners, who were bound by the articles of treaty to faithfully serve under our flag until they were exchanged at the close of the day. The repellers were called light infantry ; but when they carried on opera tions beyond the fort they became cavalry. It was also their duty, when not otherwise engaged, to manufacture snow-balls. The General's staff con sisted of five Templars (I among the number, with the rank of Major), who carried the General's orders and looked after the wounded. General Mat Ames, a veteran commander, was no less wide-awake in the disposition of his army. Five companies, each numbering but six men, in or der not to present too big a target to our sharpshooters, were to charge the fort from different points, their advance being covered by a heavy fire from the gunners posted in the rear. Each sealer was provided with only two rounds of ammunition, which were not to be used until he had mounted the breastwork and could deliver his shots on our heads. The following cut represents the interior of the fort just previous to the assault. Nothing on earth could represent the state of things after the first volley. a. Flagstaff. b. General Harris and Viis Staff. c. Ammunition. d. Hospital. g g. The quarry. e e. Reserve corps. f f. Gunners in position. The enemy was posted thus : V a a. a. The five attacking columns. * C b b. Artillery. c. General Ames's headquarters. The thrilling moment had now arrived. If I had been going into a real engagement I could not have been more deeply impressed by the solemnity of the occasion. The fort opened fire first, a single ball from the dexterous hand of Gen- 1869.] The Story of a Bad Boy. 355 eral Harris taking General Ames in the very pit of his stomach. A cheer went up from Fort Slatter. In an instant the air was thick with flying mis siles, in the midst of which we dimly descried the storming parties sweep ing up the hill, shoulder to shoulder. The shouts of the leaders, and the snow-balls bursting like shells about our ears, made it very lively. Not more than a dozen of the enemy succeeded in reaching the crest of the hill ; five of these clambered upon the icy walls, where they were in stantly grabbed by the legs and jerked into the fort. The rest retired con fused and blinded by our well-directed fire. When General Harris (with his right eye bunged up) said, " Soldiers, I am proud of you ! " my heart swelled in my bosom. The victory, however, had not been without its price. Six North-Enders, having rushed out to harass the discomfited enemy, were gallantly cut off by General Ames and captured. Among these were Lieutenant P. Whit- comb (who had no business to join in the charge, being weak in the knees), and Captain Fred Langdon, of General Harris's staff. Whitcomb was one of the most notable shots on our side, though he was not much to boast of in a rough-and-tumble fight, owing to the weakness before mentioned. General Ames put him among the gunners, and we were quickly made aware of the loss we had sustained, by receiving a frequent artful ball which seemed to light with unerring instinct on any nose that was the least bit exposed. I have known one of Pepper's snow-balls, fired point-blank, to turn a corner and hit a boy who considered himself absolutely safe. But we had no time for vain regrets. The battle raged. Already there were two bad cases of black eye, and one of nose-bleed, in the hospital. It was glorious excitement, those pell-mell onslaughts and hand-to-hand struggles. Twice we were within an ace of being driven from our strong hold, when General Harris and his staff leaped recklessly upon the ramparts and hurled the besiegers heels over head down hill. At sunset, the garrison of Fort Slatter was still unconquered, and the South-Enders, in a solid phalanx, marched off whistling " Yankee Doodle," while we cheered and jeered them until they were out of hearing. General Ames remained behind to effect an exchange of prisoners. We held thirteen of his men, and he eleven of ours. General Ames proposed to call it an even thing, since many of his eleven prisoners were officers, while nearly all our thirteen captives were privates. A dispute arising on this point, the two noble generals came to fisticuffs, and in the fracas our brave commander got his remaining well eye badly damaged. This didn't pre vent him from writing a general order the next day, on a slate, in which he complimented the troops on their heroic behavior. On the following Wednesday the siege was renewed. I forget whether it was on that afternoon or the next that we lost Fort Slatter ; but lose it we did, with much valuable ammunition and several men. After a series of des perate assaults, we forced General Ames to capitulate ; and he, in turn, made the place too hot to hold us. So from day to day the tide of battle surged to and fro, sometimes favoring our arms, and sometimes those of the enemy. 356 The Story of a Bad Boy. [June, General Ames handled his men with great skill ; his deadliest foe could not deny that. Once he outgeneralled our commander in the following man ner: He massed his gunners on our left and opened a brisk fire, under cover of which a single company (six men) advanced on that angle of the fort. Our reserves on the right rushed over to defend the threatened point. Meanwhile, four companies of the enemy's sealers made a detour round the foot of the hill, and dashed into Fort Slatter without opposition. At the same moment General Ames's gunners closed in on our left, and there we were between two fires. Of course we had to vacate the fort. A cloud rested on General Harris's military reputation until his superior tactics en abled him to dispossess the enemy. As the winter wore on, the war-spirit waxed fiercer and fiercer. At length the provision against using heavy substances in the snow-balls was disre garded. A ball stuck full of sand-bird shot came tearing into Fort Slatter. In retaliation, General Harris ordered a broadside of shells ; i. e. snow-balls containing marbles. After this, both sides never failed to freeze their am munition. It was no longer child's play to march up to the walls of Fort Slatter, nor was the position of the besieged less perilous. At every assault three or four boys on each side were disabled. It was not an infrequent occurrence for the combatants to hold up a flag of truce while they removed some in sensible comrade. Matters grew worse and worse. Seven North-Enders had been seriously wounded, and a dozen South-Enders were reported on the sick list. The selectmen of the town awoke to the fact of what was going on, and detailed a posse of police to prevent further disturbance. The boys at the foot of the hill, South-Enders as it happened, finding themselves assailed in the rear and on the flank, turned round and attempted to beat off the watchmen. In this they were sustained by numerous volunteers from the fort, who looked upon the interference as tyrannical. The watch were determined fellows, and charged the boys valiantly, driv ing them all into the fort, where we made common cause, fighting side by side like the best of friends. In vain the four guardians of the peace rushed up the hill, flourishing their clubs and calling upon us to surrender. They could not get within ten yards of the fort, our fire was so destructive. In one of the onsets a man named Mugridge, more valorous than his peers, threw himself upon the parapet, when he was seized by twenty pairs of hands, and dragged inside the breastwork, where fifteen boys sat down on him to keep him quiet. Perceiving that it was impossible with their small number to dislodge us, the watch sent for reinforcements. Their call was responded to, not only by the whole constabulary force (eight men), but by a numerous body of citi zens, who had become alarmed at the prospect of a riot. This formidable array brought us to our senses : we began to think that maybe discretion was the better part of valor. General Harris and General Ames, with their respective staffs, held a council of war in the hospital, and a backward move- 1869.] Lawrence at a Coal-Shaft. 357 ment was decided on. So, after one grand farewell volley, we fled, sliding, jumping, rolling, tumbling down the quarry at the rear of the fort, and escaped without losing a man. But we lost Fort Slatter forever. Those battle-scarred ramparts were razed to the ground, and humiliating ashes sprinkled over the historic spot, near which a solitary lynx-eyed policeman was seen prowling from time to time during the rest of the winter. The event passed into a legend, and afterwards, when later instances of pluck and endurance were spoken of, the boys would say, " By golly ! you ought to have been at the fights on Slatter's Hill ! " T. B. Aldrich. LAWRENCE AT A COAL-SHAFT. ON their way to the coal-shaft, Lawrence and his new friend passed a lit tle white box of a house, which Mr. Clarence said was the superintend ent's office, and proposed that they should look in. The interior consisted of one room, divided by a counter, on one side of which sat a young man reading a newspaper. Lawrence and Mr. Clarence, with the little dog Muff, advanced from the other side. " Here," said Mr. Clarence, " is where the miners walk up and get their pay." He rapped on the counter with his cane. " How are you, Mr. Super intendent ? " The young man looked up pleasantly enough ; and Mr. Clarence proceed ed to introduce himself and his companion, with liberal allusions to their dis tinguished uncles, which made the more modest Lawrence grin and blush. " We shall take it as a favor if you will grant us facilities for visiting the mines," said the fluent-tongued Mr. Clarence. "It won't be safe for you to go into the mines without a guide, and I have no person to send with you," replied the superintendent, politely, but decid edly. Upon which Lawrence was for retiring at once. But Mr. Clarence said, leaning upon the counter very much at his ease, " Of course ; I understand all about that ; and we have no wish to take up your valuable time. Tharik you, very kind, I am sure," though Lawrence could n't see how the superintendent had shown himself so very kind, or why they should thank him. " Perhaps, however," said Mr. Clarence, " as my friend here is in terested in the coal formation, you might show us some specimens with out much trouble to yourself." " O certainly." The superintendent laid aside his newspaper, and got up from his chair. " Here is something quite pretty," said he, opening a drawer 358 Lawrence at a Coal-Shaft. [June, and placing on the counter a piece of slate rock, bearing a beautiful impres sion of a fern-leaf. Lawrence's enthusiasm over it seemed to please him ; and he continued to lay out his treasures, until he came to one which he pronounced " very remarkable." This was a broad, thin slab of slate, which proved to be a perfect cast of a portion of the leaves of a strange tree, which must have been two or three feet in diameter, at least. All the minute seams in the bark, together with little bud-like spots occurring at regular intervals between parallel lines half an inch apart, were stamped with wonderful delicacy and distinctness in the slaty mould. " How where did these come from ? " cried Lawrence, examining the specimens with astonishment and admiration. " The coal, you know," said the voluble Mr. Clarence, " is supposed to be the result of immense, rank growths of fern-trees, and other plants, which absorbed the surplus carbon of the atmosphere during the carboniferous period. Carbon, you know, is the principal thing in coal, the French say charbon, which means both carbon and coal, and the carboniferous era is that in which our coal deposits were made. That was nobody knows how many thousands of years ago, millions, it may be ; and the trunks and leaves that made these impressions in the stones you are handling grew and decayed long before ever man appeared on the globe." Lawrence knew as much as that before ; but now, with the impressions before his eyes, distinct as if they had been taken but yesterday, the fact came home to his mind with startling force. " Those forests," continued Mr. Clarence, " must have grown mostly in the water, and have sunk down in great beds of fallen trunks and matted leaves, and there decayed ; and occasionally layers of mud or clay must have washed in over them ; and now and then, at longer intervals, the ground sinking, I suppose, great beds of sand and pebbles washed in. The vegetable mat ters changed to coal, while the mud hardened into slate, and the sand and pebbles into rocks. The mud, of course, would often take impressions of the leaves and bark, and retain them, as it hardened, even after the leaves and bark themselves had changed to coal." " See what you make of these," said the superintendent, smiling, as he handed out more specimens. " These are fossil roots," said Mr. Clarence. " You find them generally in the fire clay under the coal veins ; don't you ? Ah, this," he said, seizing a beautiful slender, jointed stem of stone, " this is a fossil reed ! Something like it grows in Mexico, at this day." " I believe you are right," said the superintendent. " That was fifteen feet long, when we first found it. But it has been broken, and I have given away pieces of it." " Oh ! if I could only have a piece ! " exclaimed Lawrence. " I '11 give you a piece," said the superintendent, and picked out from the pile a small fragment of the reed, which had been previously broken off. Then, seeing how delighted the boy was, he selected a piece of slate that had a fine imprint of a leaf on it, and gave it to him. OUR YOUNG FOLKS. An Illustrated Magazine FOR BOYS AND GIRLS. VOL. V. JULY, 1869. No. VII. THE STORY OF A BAD BOY. CHAPTER XIV. THE CRUISE OF THE DOLPHIN. T was spring again. The snow had faded away like a dream, and we were awakened, so to speak, by the sudden chirping of robins in our back garden. Marvellous transformation of snow-drifts into lilacs, wondrous miracle of the unfolding leaf! We read in the Holy Book how our Saviour, at the marriage-feast, changed the water into wine ; we pause and wonder ; but every hour a greater miracle is wrought at our very feet, if we have but eyes to see it. I had now been a year at Rivermouth. If you do not know what sort of a boy I was, it is not because I have n't been frank with you. Of my progress at school I say little ; for this is a story, pure and simple, and not a treatise on education. Behold me, however, well up in most of the classes. I have worn my Latin grammar into tatters, and am in the first book of Virgil. I interlard my conversation at home with easy quotations from that poet, and im press Captain Nutter with a lofty notion of my learning. I am likewise translating Les Aventures de Te'le'maque from the French, and shall tackle Blair's Lectures the next term. I am ashamed of my crude composition about The Horse, and can do better now. Sometimes my head almost aches with the variety Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1869, by FIELDS, OSGOOD, & Co., in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. VOL. V. NO. VII. 30 - 426 The Story of a Bad Boy. [July, of my knowledge. I consider Mr. Grimshaw the greatest scholar that ever lived, and I don't know which I would rather be, a learned man like him, or a circus-rider. My thoughts revert to this particular spring more frequently than to any other period of my boyhood, for it was marked by an event that left an indel ible impression on my memory. As I pen these pages, I feel that I am writing of something which happened yesterday, so vividly it all comes back to me. Every Rivermouth boy looks upon the sea as being in some way mixed up with his destiny. While he is yet a baby lying in his cradle, he hears the dull, far-off boom of the breakers ; when he is older, he wanders by the sandy shore, watching the waves that come plunging up the beach like white- maned sea-horses, as Thoreau calls them ; his eye follows the lessening sail as it fades into the blue horizon, and he burns for the time when he shall stand on the quarter-deck of his own ship, and go sailing proudly across that mysterious waste of waters. Then the town itself is full of hints and flavors of the sea. The gables and roofs of the houses facing eastward are covered with red rust, like the flukes of old anchors ; a salty smell pervades the air, and dense gray fogs, the very breath of Ocean, periodically creep up into the quiet streets and en velop everything. The terrific storms that lash the coast ; the kelp and spars, and sometimes the bodies of drowned men, tossed on shore by the scornful waves ; the shipyards, the wharves, and the tawny fleet of fishing- smacks yearly fitted out at Rivermouth, these things, and a hundred other, feed the imagination and fill the brain of every healthy boy with dreams of adventure. He learns to swim almost as soon as he can walk ; he draws in with his mother's milk the art of handling an oar : he is born a sailor, what ever he may turn out to be afterwards. To own the whole or a portion of a row-boat is his earliest ambition. No wonder that I, born to this life, and coming back to it with freshest sympa thies, should have caught the prevailing infection. No wonder I longed to buy a part of the trim little sail-boat Dolphin, which chanced just then to be in the market. This was in the latter part of May. Three shares, at five or six dollars each, I forget which, had already been taken by Phil Adams, Fred Langdon, and Binny Wallace. The fourth and remaining share hung fire. Unless a purchaser could be found for this, the bargain was to fall through. I am afraid I required but slight urging to join in the investment. I had four dollars and fifty cents on hand, and the treasurer of the Centipedes ad vanced me the balance, receiving my silver pencil-case as ample security. It was a proud moment when I stood on the wharf with my partners, inspect ing the Dolphin, moored at the foot of a very slippery flight of steps. She was painted white with a green stripe outside, and on the stern a yellow dol phin, with its scarlet mouth wide open, stared with a surprised expression at its own reflection in the water. The boat was a great bargain. I whirled my cap in the air, and ran to the stairs leading down from the 1869.] The Story of a Bad Boy. 427 wharf, when a hand was laid gently on my shoulder. I turned, and faced Captain Nutter. I never saw such an old sharp-eye as he was in those days. I knew he would n't be angry with me for buying a row-boat ; but I also knew that the little bowsprit suggesting a jib, and the tapering mast ready for its few square yards of canvas, were trifles not likely to meet his approval. As far as rowing on the river, among the wharves, was concerned, the Cap tain had long since withdrawn his decided objections, having convinced him self, by going out with me several times, that I could manage a pair of sculls as well as anybody. I was right in my surmises. He commanded me, in the most emphatic terms, never to go out in the Dolphin without leaving the mast in the boat- house. This curtailed my anticipated sport, but the pleasure of having a pull whenever I wanted it remained. I never disobeyed the Captain's orders touching the sail, though I sometimes extended my row beyond the points he had indicated. The river was dangerous for sail-boats. Squalls, without the slightest warning, were of frequent occurrence ; scarcely a year passed that six or seven persons were not drowned under the very windows of the town, and these, oddly enough, were generally sea-captains, who either did not under stand the river, or lacked the skill to handle a small craft. A knowledge of such disasters, one of which I witnessed, consoled me somewhat when I saw Phil Adams skimming over the water in a spanking breeze with every stitch of canvas set. There were few better yachtsmen than Phil Adams. He usually went sailing alone, for both Fred Langdon and Binny Wallace were under the same restrictions I was. Not long after the purchase of the boat, we planned an excursion to Sand- peep Island, the last of the islands in the harbor. We proposed to start early in the morning, and return with the tide in the moonlight. Our only difficulty was to obtain a whole day's exemption from school, the customary half-holiday not being long enough for our picnic. Somehow, we could n't work it ; but fortune arranged it for us. I may say here, that, whatever else I did, I never played truant (" hookey " we called it) in my life. One afternoon the four owners- of the Dolphin exchanged significant glances when Mr. Grimshaw announced from the desk that there would be no school the following day, he having just received intelligence of the death of his uncle in Boston. I was sincerely attached to Mr. Grimshaw, but I am afraid that the death of his uncle did not affect me as it ought to have done. We were up before sunrise the next morning, in order to take advan tage of the flood tide, which waits for no man. Our preparations for the cruise were made the previous evening. In the way of eatables and drink ables, we had stored in the stern of the Dolphin a generous bag of hard tack (for the chowder), a piece of pork to fry the cunners in, three gigantic apple-pies (bought at Pettingil's), half a dozen lemons, and a keg of spring- water, the last-named article we slung over the side, to keep it cool, as soon as we got under way. The crockery and the bricks for our camp- 428 The Story of a Bad Boy. [July, stove we placed in the bows with the groceries, which included sugar, pep per, salt, and a bottle of pickles. Phil Adams contributed to the outfit a small tent of unbleached cotton cloth, under which we intended to take our nooning. ' We unshipped the mast, threw in an extra oar, and were ready to embark. I do not believe that Christopher Columbus, when he started on his rather successful voyage of discovery, felt half the responsibility and importance that weighed upon me as I sat on the middle seat of the Dolphin, with my oar resting in the row-lock. I wonder if Christopher Columbus quietly slipped out of the house without letting his estimable family know what he was up to ? Charley Harden, whose father had promised to cane him if he ever stepped foot on sail or row boat, came down to the wharf in a sour-grape humor, to see us off. Nothing would tempt him to go out on the river in such a crazy clam-shell of a boat. He pretended that he did not expect to behold us alive again, and tried to throw a wet blanket over the expedition. " Guess you '11 have a squally time of it," said Charley, casting off the painter. " I '11 drop in at old Newbury's " (Newbury was the parish under taker) " and leave word, as I go along ! " " Bosh ! " muttered Phil Adams, sticking the boat-hook into the string- piece of the wharf, and sending the Dolphin half a dozen yards towards the current. How calm and lovely the river was ! Not a ripple stirred on the glassy surface, broken only by the sharp cutwater of our tiny craft. The sun, as round and red as an August moon, was by this time peering above the water- line. The town had drifted behind us, and we were entering among the group of islands. Sometimes we could almost touch with our boat-hook the shelving banks on either side. As we neared the mouth of the harbor, a little breeze now and then wrinkled the blue water, shook the spangles from the foliage, and gently lifted the spiral mist-wreaths that still clung along shore. The measured dip of our oars and the drowsy twitterings of the birds seemed to mingle with, rather than break, the enchanted silence that reigned about us. The scent of the new clover comes back to me now, as I recall that deli cious morning when we floated away in a fairy boat down a river like a dream ! The sun was well up when the nose of the Dolphin nestled against the snow-white bosom of Sandpeep Island. This island, as I have said before, was the last of the cluster, one side of it being washed by the sea. We landed on the river side, the sloping sands and quiet water affording us a good place to moor the boat. It took us an hour or two to transport our stores to the spot selected for the encampment. Having pitched our tent, using the five oars to support the canvas, we got out our lines, and went down the rocks seaward to fish. It was early for cunners, but we were lucky enough to catch as nice a mess as ever you saw. A cod for the chowder was not so easily secured. At last 1869.] The Story of a Bad Boy. 429 Binny Wallace hauled in a plump little fellow crusted all over with flaky silver. To skin the fish, build our fireplace, and cook the dinner kept us busy the next two hours. The fresh air and the exercise had given us the appe tites of wolves, and we were about famished by the time the savory mixture was ready for our clam-shell saucers. I shall not insult the rising generation on the seaboard by telling them how delectable is a chowder compounded and eaten in this Robinson Crusoe fashion. As for the boys who live inland, and know naught of such marine feasts, my heart is full of pity for them. What wasted lives ! Not to know the delights of a clam-bake, not to love chowder, to be ignorant of lob- scouse ! How happy we were, we four, sitting cross-legged in the crisp salt grass, with the invigorating sea-breeze blowing gratefully through our hair ! What a joyous thing was life, and how far off seemed death, death, that lurks in all pleasant places, and was so near ! The banquet finished, Phil Adams drew forth from his pocket a handful of sweet-fern cigars ; but as none of the party could indulge without imminent risk of becoming sick, we all, on one pretext or another, declined, and Phil smoked by himself. The wind had freshened by this, and we found it comfortable to put on the jackets which had been thrown aside in the heat of the day. We strolled along the beach and gathered large quantities of the fairy-woven Iceland moss, which, at certain seasons, is washed to these shores ; then we played at ducks and drakes, and then, the sun being sufficiently low, we went in bathing. Before our bath was ended a slight change had come over the sky and sea ; fleecy-white clouds scudded here and there, and a muffled moan from the breakers caught our ears from time to time. While we were dress ing, a few hurried drops of rain came lisping down, and we adjourned to the tent to await the passing of the squall. " We 're all right, anyhow," said Phil Adams. "It won't be much of a blow, and we '11 be as snug as a bug in a rug, here in the tent, particularly if we have that lemonade which some of you fellows were going to make." By an oversight, the lemons had been left in the boat. Binny Wallace volunteered to go for them. " Put an extra stone on the painter, Binny," said Adams, calling after him ; " it would be awkward to have the Dolphin give us the slip and return to port minus her passengers." " That it would," answered Binny, scrambling down the rocks. Sandpeep Island is diamond-shaped, one point running out into the sea, and the other looking towards the town. Our tent was on the river-side. Though the Dolphin was also on the same side, it lay out of sight by the beach at the farther extremity of the island. Binny Wallace had been absent five or six minutes, when we heard him calling our several names in tones that indicated distress or surprise, we could not tell which. Our first thought was, " The boat has broken adrift ! " 430 The Story of a Bad Boy. [July, We sprung to our feet and hastened down to the beach. On turning the bluff which hid the mooring-place from our view, we found the conjecture correct. Not only was the Dolphin afloat, but poor little Binny Wallace was standing in the bows with his arms stretched helplessly towards us, drifting out to sea ! " Head the boat in shore ! " shouted Phil Adams. Wallace ran to the tiller ; but the slight cockle-shell merely swung round and drifted broadside on. O, if we had but left a single scull in the Dol phin ! " Can you swim it ? " cried Adams, desperately, using his hand as a speak ing-trumpet, for the distance between the boat and the island widened mo mently. Binny Wallace looked down at the sea, which was covered with white caps, and made a despairing gesture. He knew, and we knew, that the stoutest swimmer could not live forty seconds in those angry waters. A wild, insane light came into Phil Adams's eyes, as he stood knee-deep in boiling surf, and for an instant I think he meditated plunging into the ocean after the receding boat. The sky darkened, and an ugly look stole rapidly over the broken surface of the sea. Binny Wallace half rose from his seat in the stern, and waved his hand to us in token of farewell. In spite of the distance, increasing every instant, we could see his face plainly. The anxious expression it wore at first had passed. It was pale and meek now, and I love to think there was a kind of 1869.] The Story of a Bad Boy. 431 halo about it, like that which painters place around the forehead of a saint. So he drifted away. The sky grew darker and darker. It was only by straining our eyes through the unnatural twilight that we could keep the Dolphin in sight. The figure of Binny Wallace was no longer visible, for the boat itself had dwindled to a mere white dot on the black water. Now we lost it, and our hearts stopped throbbing ; and now the speck appeared again, for an instant, on the crest of a high wave. Finally, it went out like a spark, and we saw it no more. Then we gazed at each other, and dared not speak. Absorbed in following the course of the boat, we had scarcely noticed the huddled inky clouds that sagged down all around us. From these threaten ing masses, seamed at intervals with pale lightning, there now burst a heavy peal of thunder that shook the ground under our feet. A sudden squall struck the sea, ploughing deep white furrows into it, and at the same instant a single piercing shriek rose above the tempest, the frightened cry of a gull swooping over the island. How it startled us ! It was impossible to keep our footing on the beach any longer. The wind and the breakers would have swept us into the ocean if we had not clung to each other with the desperation of drowning men. Taking advantage of a momentary lull, we crawled up the sands on our hands and knees, and, paus ing in the lee of the granite ledge to gain breath, returned to the camp, where we found that the gale had snapped all the fastenings of the tent but one. Held by this, the puffed-out canvas swayed in the wind like a balloon. It was a task of some difficulty to secure it, which we did by beating down the canvas with the oars. After several trials, we succeeded in setting up the tent on the leeward side of the ledge. Blinded by the vivid flashes of lightning, and drenched by the rain, which fell in torrents, we crept, half dead with fear and anguish, un der our flimsy shelter. Neither the anguish nor the fear was on our own account, for we were comparatively safe, but for poor little Binny Wallace, driven out to sea in the merciless gale. We shuddered to think of him in that frail shell, drifting on and on to his grave, the sky rent with lightning over his head, and the green abysses yawning beneath him. We fell to cry ing, the three of us, and cried I know not how long. Meanwhile the storm raged with augmented fury. We were obliged to hold on to the ropes of the tent to prevent it blowing away. The spray from the river leaped several yards up the rocks and clutched at us malignantly. The very island trembled with the concussions of the sea beating upon it, and at times I fancied that it had broken loose from its foundation, and was floating off with us. The breakers, streaked with angry phosphorus, were fearful to look at. The wind rose higher and higher, cutting long slits in the tent, through which the rain poured incessantly. To complete the sum of our miseries, the night was at hand. It came down suddenly, at last, like a curtain, shut ting in Sandpeep Island from all the world. 432 The Story of a Bad Boy. [July, It was a dirty night, as the sailors say. The darkness was something that could be felt as well as seen, it pressed down upon one with a cold, clammy touch. Gazing into the hollow blackness, all sorts of imaginable shapes seemed to start forth from vacancy, brilliant colors, stars, prisms, and dancing lights. What boy, lying awake at night, has not amused or ter rified himself by peopling the spaces round his bed with these phenomena of his own eyes ? " I say," whispered Fred Langdon, at length, clutching my hand, " don't you see things out there in the dark ? " " Yes, yes, Binny Wallace's face ! " I added to my own nervousness by making this avowal ; though for the last ten minutes I had seen little besides that star-pale face with its angelic hair and brows. First a slim yellow circle, like the nimbus round the moon, took shape and grew sharp against the darkness ; then this faded gradually, and there was the Face, wearing the same sad, sweet look it wore when he waved his hand to us across the awful water. This optical illusion kept re peating itself. " And I, too," said Adams. " I see it every now and then, outside there. What would n't I give if it really was poor little Wallace looking in at us ! O boys, how shall we dare to go back to the town without him ? I Ve wished a hundred times, since we Ve been sitting here, that I was in his place, alive or dead ! " We dreaded the approach of morning as much as we longed for it. The morning would tell us all. Was it possible for the Dolphin to outride such a storm ? There was a light-house on Mackerel Reef, which lay directly in the course the boat had taken, when it disappeared. If the Dolphin had caught on this reef, perhaps Binny Wallace was safe. Perhaps his cries had been heard by the keeper of the light. The man owned a life-boat, and had rescued several people. Who could tell ? Such were the questions we asked ourselves again and again, as we lay in each other's arms waiting for daybreak. What an endless night it was ! I have known months that did not seem so long. Our position was irksome rather than perilous ; for the day was certain to bring us relief from the town, where our prolonged absence, together with the storm, had no doubt excited the liveliest alarm for our safety. But the cold, the darkness, and the suspense were hard to bear. Our soaked jackets had chilled us to the bone. To keep warm, we lay huddled together so closely that we could hear our hearts beat above the tumult of sea and sky. We used to laugh at Fred Langdon for always carrying in his pocket a small vial of essence of peppermint or sassafras, a few drops of which, sprin kled on a lump of loaf-sugar, he seemed to consider a great luxury. I don't know what would have become of us at this crisis, if it had n't been for that omnipresent bottle of hot stuff. We poured the stinging liquid over our sugar, which had kept dry in a sardine-box, and warmed ourself with fre quent doses. 1869.] The Story of a Bad Boy. 433 After four or five hours the rain ceased, the wind died away to a moan, and the sea no longer raging like a maniac sobbed and sobbed with a pite ous human voice all along the coast. And well it might, after that night's work. Twelve sail of the Gloucester fishing fleet had gone down with every soul on board, just outside of Whale's-back light. Think of the wide grief that follows in the wake of one wreck ; then think of the despairing women who wrung their hands and wept, the next morning, in the streets of Glou cester, Marblehead, and Newcastle ! Though our strength was nearly spent, we were too cold to sleep. Once I sunk into a troubled doze, when I seemed to hear Charley Marden's part ing words, only it was the Sea that said them. After that I threw off the drowsiness whenever it threatened to overcome me. Fred Langdon was the earliest to discover a filmy, luminous streak in the sky, the first glimmering of sunrise. " Look, it is nearly daybreak ! " While we were following the direction of his finger, a sound of distant oars fell on our ears. We listened breathlessly, and as the dip of the blades became more audi ble, we discerned two foggy lights, like will-o'-the-wisps, floating on the river. Running down to the water's edge, we hailed the boats with all our might. The call was heard, for the oars rested a moment in the row-locks, and then pulled in towards the island. It was two boats from the town, in the foremost of which we could now make out the figures of Captain Nutter and Binny Wallace's father. We shrunk back on seeing him. "Thank God!" cried Mr. Wallace, fervently, as he leaped from the wherry without waiting for the bow to touch the beach. But when he saw only three boys standing on the sands, his eye wandered restlessly about in quest of the fourth ; then a deadly pallor overspread his features. Our story was soon told. A solemn silence fell upon the crowd of rough boatmen gathered round, interrupted only by a stifled sob from one poor old man, who stood apart from the rest. The sea was still running too high for any small boat to venture out ; so it was arranged that the wherry should take us back to town, leaving the yawl, with a picked crew, to hug the island until daybreak, and then set forth in search of the Dolphin. Though it was barely sunrise when we reached town, there were a great many people assembled at the landing, eager for intelligence from miss ing boats. Two picnic parties had started down river the day before, just previous to the gale, and nothing had been heard of them. It turned out that the pleasure-seekers saw their danger in time, and ran ashore on one of the least exposed islands, where they passed the night. Shortly after, our own arrival they appeared off Rivermouth, much to the joy of their friends, in two shattered, dismasted boats. 434 Lawrence in a Coal-Mine. [July, The excitement over, I was in a forlorn state, physically and mentally. Captain Nutter put me to bed between hot blankets, and sent Kitty Collins for the doctor. I was wandering in my mind, and fancied myself still on Sandpeep Island : now I gave orders to Wallace how to manage the boat, and now I cried because the rain was pouring in on me through the holes in the tent. Towards evening a high fever set in, and it was many days before my grandfather deemed it prudent to tell me that the Dolphin had been found, floating keel upwards, four miles southeast of Mackerel Reef. Poor little Binny Wallace ! How strange it seemed, when I went to school again, to see that empty seat in the fifth row ! How gloomy the play ground was, lacking the sunshine of his gentle, sensitive face ! One day a folded sheet slipped from my algebra ; it was the last note he ever wrote me. I could n't read it for the tears. What a pang shot across my heart the afternoon it was whispered through the town that a body had been washed ashore at Grave Point, the place where we bathed. We bathed there no more ! How well I remember the funeral, and what a piteous sight it was afterwards to see his familiar name on a small headstone in the Old South Burying Ground ! Poor little Binny Wallace ! Always the same to me. The rest of us have grown up into hard, worldly men, fighting the fight of life ; but you are for ever young, and gentle, and pure ; a part of my own childhood that time can not wither \ always a little boy, always poor little Binny Wallace ! T. B. Aldrich. LAWRENCE IN A COAL-MINE. DOWN, down went the car, steadily, but by no means so fast as when it bore no freight of human lives. Lawrence held tight to his little lamp with one hand, and to the brace with the other, while he tried to get some idea of the depth of the shaft, by reflecting that, if the partitions were taken out, Bunker Hill Monument would have made a very good plug for it. " Are you afraid ? " said Owen, laughing. " A terrible accident happened in a shaft near here the other day " ; and a shadow passed over his face at the recollection. " A crowd of men were going into the mines one morn ing. They did n't like to wait, so seventeen of 'em piled on to one car at once. The rope broke, and they fell two hundred feet. Fourteen got killed, and the other three got maimed for life." " That's a cheerful story to tell, when we are half-way down a shaft," said Mr. Clarence. " I thought you said there were iron dogs to fall into these notches in the guides, and hold the car, if the rope should break," said Lawrence. OUR YOUNG FOLKS. An Illustrated Magazine FOR BOYS AND GIRLS. VOL. V. AUGUST, 1869. No. VIII. THE STORY OF A BAD BOY. CHAPTER XV. AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE TURNS UP. YEAR had stolen by since the death of Binny Wallace, a year of which I have nothing im portant to record. The loss of our little playmate threw a shad ow over our young lives for many and many a month. The Dolphin rose and fell with the tide at the foot of the slippery steps, unused, the rest of the summer. At the close of No vember we hauled her sadly into the boat- house for the winter; but when spring came round we launched the Dolphin again, and often went down to the wharf and looked at her lying in the tangled eel-grass, without much inclination to take a row. The associations connected with the boat were too painful as yet ; but time, which wears the sharp edge from everything, softened this feeling, and one afternoon we brought out the cobwebbed oars. The ice once broken, brief trips along the wharves we seldom cared to go out into the river now became one of our chief amuse ments. Meanwhile Gypsy was not forgotten. Every clear morning I was in the saddle before breakfast, and there are few roads or lanes within ten miles of Rivermouth that have not borne the print of her vagrant hoof. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1869, by FIELDS, OSGOOD, & Co., in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. VOL. v. NO. viii. 35 498 The Story of a Bad Boy. [August, I studied like a good fellow this quarter, carrying off a couple of first prizes. The Captain expressed his gratification by presenting me with a new silver dollar. If a dollar in his eyes was smaller than a cart-wheel, it wasn't so very much smaller. I redeemed my pencil-case from the treasurer of the Centipedes, and felt that I was getting on in the world. It was at this time I was greatly cast down by a letter from my father say ing that he should be unable to visit Rivermouth until the following year. With that letter came another to Captain Nutter, which he did not read aloud to the family, as usual. It was on business, he said, folding it up in his wal let. He received several of these business letters from time to time, and I noticed that they always made him silent and moody. The fact is, my father's banking-house was not thriving. The unlooked- for failure of a firm largely indebted to him had crippled "the house." When the Captain imparted this information to me, I did n't trouble myself over the matter. I supposed if I supposed anything that all grown-up people had more or less money, when they wanted it. Whether they inher ited it, or whether government supplied them, was not clear to me. A loose idea that my father had a private gold-mine somewhere or other relieved me of all uneasiness. I was not far from right. Every man has within himself a gold-mine whose riches are limited only by his own industry. It is true, it sometimes happens that industry does not avail, if a man lacks that something which, for want of a better name, we call Luck. My father was a person of untir ing energy and ability ; but he had no luck. To use a Rivermouth saying, he was always catching sculpins when every one else with the same bait was catching mackerel. It was more than two years since I had seen my parents. I felt that I could not bear a longer separation. Every letter from New Orleans we got two or three a month gave me a fit of homesickness ; and when it was definitely settled that my father and mother were to remain in the South another twelvemonth, I resolved to go to them. Since Binny Wallace's death, Pepper Whitcomb had been my fidus Achates; we occupied desks near each other at school, and were always together in play hours. We shared our pocket-money and our secrets, those amazing secrets which boys have. We met in lonely places by stealth, and parted like conspirators ; we couldn't buy a jackknife or build a kite without throwing an air of mystery and guilt over the transaction. I naturally hastened to lay my New Orleans project before Pepper Whit- comb, having dragged him for that purpose to a secluded spot in the dark pine woods outside the town. Pepper listened to me with a gravity which he will not be able to surpass when he becomes Chief Justice, and strongly advised me to go. " The summer vacation," said Pepper, " lasts six weeks ; that will give you a fortnight to spend in New Orleans, allowing two weeks each way for the journey." I wrung his hand and begged him to accompany me, offering to defray all 1869.] The Story of a Bad Boy. 499 the expenses. I was n't anything, if I was n't princely, in those days. After considerable urging, he consented to go on terms so liberal. The whole thing was arranged ; there was nothing to do now but to advise Captain Nutter of my plan. The possibility that he might oppose the tour never entered my head. I was therefore totally unprepared for the vigorous negative which met my proposal. I was deeply mortified, moreover, for there was Pepper Whit- comb on the wharf, at the foot of the street, waiting for me to come and let him know what day we were to start. " Go to New Orleans ? Go to Jericho ! " exclaimed Captain Nutter. " You 'd look pretty, you two, philandering off, like the babes in the wood, twenty-five hundred miles, ' with all the world before you where to choose ' ! " And the Captain's features, which had worn an indignant air as he began the sentence, relaxed into a broad smile. Whether it was at the felicity of his own quotation, or at the mental picture he drew of Pepper and myself on our travels, I could n't tell, and I did n't care. I was heart-broken. I felt a trifle sheepish, too, about facing my chum after all the dazzling inducements I had held out to him. My grandfather, seeing that I took the matter seriously, pointed out the difficulties of such a journey and the great expense involved. He entered into the details of my father's money troubles, and succeeded in making it plain to me that my wishes, under the circumstances, were somewhat unrea sonable. It was in no cheerful mood that I joined Pepper at the end of the wharf. I found that young gentleman leaning against the bulkhead gazing intently towards the islands in the harbor. He had formed a telescope of his hands, and was so occupied with his observations as to be oblivious of- my approach. " Hullo ! " cried Pepper, dropping his hands. " Look there ! is n't that a bark coming up the Narrows ? " " Where ? " " Just at the left of Fishcrate Island. Don't you see the foremast peeping above the old derrick ? " Sure enough it was a vessel of considerable size, slowly beating up to town. In a few moments more the other two masts were visible above the green hillocks. " Fore-topmasts blown away," said Pepper. " Putting in for repairs, I guess." As the bark lazily crept from behind the last of the islands, she let go her anchors and swung round with the tide. Then the gleeful chant of the sailors at the capstan came to us pleasantly across the water The vessel lay within three quarters of a mile of us, and we could plainly see the men at the davits lowering the starboard long-boat. It no sooner touched the stream than a dozen of the crew scrambled like mice over the side of the merchantman. In a neglected seaport like Ri vermouth the arrival of a large ship is an 5