Chapter II
Boyishness
Two or three days after Wallace arrived at Franconia, he and Phonny formed a plan to go and take a ride on horseback. They invited Stuyvesant to go with them, but Stuyvesant said that Beechnut was going to plow that day, and had promised to teach him to drive oxen. He said that he should like better to learn to drive oxen than to take a ride on horseback.
There was another reason which influenced Stuyvesant in making this decision, and that was, that he had observed that there were only two horses in the stable, and although he knew that Beechnut could easily obtain another from some of the neighbors, still he thought that this would make some trouble, and he was always very considerate about making trouble. This was rather remarkable in Stuyvesant, for he was a city boy, and city boys are apt to be very inconsiderate.
So Wallace and Phonny concluded to go by themselves. They mounted their horses and rode together out through the great gate.
“Now,” said Phonny, when they were fairly on the way, “we will have a good time. This is just what I like. I would rather have a good ride on horseback than any thing else. I wish that they would let me go alone sometimes.”
“Won’t they?” asked Wallace.
“No, not very often,” said Phonny.
“Do you know what the reason is?” asked Wallace.
“I suppose because they think that I am not old enough,” replied Phonny, “but I am.”
“I don’t think that that is the reason,” said Wallace. “Stuyvesant is not quite so old as you are, and yet I shall let
him
go and ride alone whenever he pleases.”
“What
is
the reason then?” asked Phonny.
“Because you are not
man
enough I suppose,” said Wallace. “You might be more manly, without being any older, and then people would put more trust in you, and you would have a great many more pleasures.”
Phonny was rather surprised to hear his cousin Wallace speak thus. He had thought that he
was
manly – very manly; but it was evident that his cousin considered him boyish.
“I do not know,” continued Wallace, “but that you are as manly as other boys of your years.”
“Except Stuyvesant,” said Phonny.
“Yes, except Stuyvesant,” said Wallace, “I think that he is rather remarkable. I do not think that you are
very
boyish, – but you are growing up quite fast and you are getting to be pretty large. It is time for you to begin to evince some degree of the carefulness, and considerateness, and sense of responsibility, that belong to men.
“There are two kinds of boyishness,” continued Wallace. “One kind is very harmless.”
“What kind is that?” asked Phonny.
“Why if a boy continues,” said Wallace, “when he is quite old, to take pleasure in amusements which generally please only young children, that is boyishness of a harmless kind. For example, suppose we should see a boy, eighteen years old, playing marbles a great deal, we should say that he was boyish. So if
you
were to have a rattle or any other such little toy for a plaything, and should spend a great deal of time in playing with it, we should say that it was very boyish or childish. Still that kind of boyishness does little harm, and we should not probably do any thing about it, but should leave you to outgrow it in your own time.”
“What kind of boyishness do you mean then, that is not harmless?” asked Phonny.
“I mean that kind of want of consideration, by which boys when young, are always getting themselves and others into difficulty and trouble, for the sake of some present and momentary pleasure. They see the pleasure and they grasp at it. They do not see the consequences, and so they neglect them. The result is, they get into difficulty and do mischief. Other people lose confidence in them, and so they have to be restricted and watched, and subjected to limits and bounds, when if they were a little more considerate and manly, they might enjoy a much greater liberty, and many more pleasures.”
“I don’t think that I do so,” said Phonny.
“No,” rejoined Wallace, “I don’t think that you do; that is I don’t think that you do so more than other boys of your age. But to show you exactly what I mean, I will give you some cases. Perhaps they are true and perhaps they are imaginary. It makes no difference which they are.
“Once there was a boy,” continued Wallace, “who came down early one winter morning, and after warming himself a moment by the sitting-room fire, he went out in the kitchen. It happened to be ironing day, and the girl was engaged in ironing at a great table by the kitchen fire. We will call the girl’s name Dorothy.
“The boy seeing Dorothy at this work, wished to iron something, himself. So Dorothy gave him a flat-iron and also something to iron.”
“What was it that she gave him to iron?” said Phonny.
“A towel,” said Wallace.
“Well,” said Phonny, “go on.”
“The boy took the flat-iron and went to work,” continued Wallace. “Presently, however, he thought he would go out into the shed and see if the snow had blown in, during the night. He found that it had, and so he stopped to play with the drift a few minutes. At last he came back into the kitchen, and he found, when he came in, that Dorothy had finished ironing his towel and had put it away. He began to complain of her for doing this, and then, in order to punish her, as he said, he took two of her flat-irons and ran off with them, and put them into the snow drift.”
“Yes,” said Phonny, “that was me. But then I only did it for fun.”
“Was the fun for yourself or for Dorothy?” asked Wallace.
“Why, for me,” said Phonny.
“And it made only trouble for Dorothy,” said Wallace.
“Yes,” said Phonny, “I suppose it did.”
“That is the kind of boyishness I mean,” said Wallace, “getting fun for yourself at other people’s expense; and so making them dislike you, and feel sorry when they see you coming, and glad when you go away.”
Phonny was silent. He saw the folly of such a course of proceeding, and had nothing to say.
“There is another case,” said Wallace. “Once I knew a boy, and his name was – I’ll call him Johnny.”
“What was his other name?” asked Phonny.
“No matter for that, now,” said Wallace. “He went out into the barn, and he wanted something to do, and so the boy who lived there, gave him a certain corner to take charge of, and keep in order.”
“What was that boy’s name?” asked Phonny.
“Why, I will call him Hazelnut,” said Wallace.
“Ah!” exclaimed Phonny, “now I know you are going to tell some story about me and Beechnut.” Here Phonny threw back his head and laughed aloud. He repeated the words Johnny and Hazelnut, and then laughed again, until he made the woods ring with his merriment.
Wallace smiled, and went on with his story.
“Hazelnut gave him the charge of a corner of the barn where some harnesses were kept, and Johnny’s duty was to keep them in order there. One day Hazelnut came home and found that Johnny had taken out the long reins from the harness, and had fastened them to the branches of two trees in the back yard, to make a swing, and then he had loaded the swing with so many children, as to break it down.”
“Yes,” said Phonny, “that was me too; but I did not think that the reins would break.”
“I know it,” said Wallace. “You did not think. That is the nature of the kind of boyishness that I am speaking of. The boy does not
think
. Men, generally, before they do any new or unusual thing, stop to consider what the results and consequences of it are going to be; but boys go on headlong, and find out what the consequences are when they come.”
While Wallace and Phonny had been conversing thus, they had been riding through a wood which extended along a mountain glen. Just at this time they came to a place where a cart path branched off from the main road, toward the right. Phonny proposed to go into this path to see where it would lead. Wallace had no objection to this plan, and so they turned their horses and went in.
The cart path led them by a winding way through the woods for a short distance, along a little dell, and then it descended into a ravine, at the bottom of which there was a foaming torrent tumbling over a very rocky bed. The path by this time became quite a road, though it was a very wild and stony road. It kept near the bank of the brook, continually ascending, until at last it turned suddenly away from the brook, and went up diagonally upon the side of a hill. There were openings in the woods on the lower side of the road, through which Wallace got occasional glimpses of the distant valleys. Wallace was very much interested in these prospects, but Phonny’s attention was wholly occupied as he went along, in looking over all the logs, and rocks, and hollow trees, in search of squirrels.
At last, at a certain turn of the road, the riders came suddenly upon a pair of bars which appeared before them, – directly across the road.
“Well,” said Wallace, “here we are, what shall we do now?”
“It is nothing but a pair of bars,” said Phonny. “I can jump off and take them down.”
“No,” said Wallace, “I think we may as well turn about here, and go back. We have come far enough on this road.”
Just then Phonny pointed off under the trees of the forest, upon one side, and said in a very eager voice,
“See there!”
“What is it?” said Wallace.
“A trap,” said Phonny. “It is a squirrel trap! and it is sprung! There’s a squirrel in it, I’ve no doubt. Let me get off and see.”
“Well,” said Wallace, “give me the bridle of your horse.”
So Phonny threw the bridle over his horse’s head and gave it to Wallace. He then dismounted – sliding down the side of the horse safely to the ground.
As soon as he found himself safely down, he threw his riding-stick upon the grass, and ran off toward the trap.
The trap was placed upon a small stone by the side of a larger one. It was in a very snug and sheltered place, almost out of view. In fact it probably would not have been observed by any ordinary passer-by.
Phonny ran up to the trap, and took hold of it. He lifted it up very cautiously. He shook it as well as he could, and then listened. He thought that he could hear or feel some slight motion within. He became very much excited.
He put the trap down upon the high rock, and began opening up the lid a little, very gently.
The trap was of the kind called by the boys a box-trap. It is in the form of a box, and the back part runs up high, to a point. The lid of the box has a string fastened to it, which string is carried up, over the high point, and thence down, and is fastened to an apparatus connected with the spindle.
The spindle is a slender rod of wood which passes through the end of the box into the interior. About half of the spindle is within the box and half without. There is a small notch in the outer part of the spindle, and another in the end of the box, a short distance above the spindle. There is a small bar of wood, with both ends sharpened, and made of such a length as just to reach from the notch in the end of the box, to the notch in the spindle. This bar is the apparatus to which the end of the string is fastened, as before described.
When the trap is to be set, the bar is fitted to the notches in such a manner as to catch in them, and then the weight of the lid, being sustained by the string, the lid is held up so that the squirrel can go in. The front of the box is attached to the lid, and rises with it, so that when the lid is raised a little the squirrel can creep directly in. The bait, which is generally a part of an ear of corn, is fastened to the end of the spindle, which is within the trap. The squirrel sees the bait, and creeps in to get it. He begins to nibble upon the corn. The ear is tied so firmly to the spindle that he can not get it away. In gnawing upon it to get off the corn, he finally disengages the end of the spindle from the bar, by working the lower end of the bar out of its notch; this lets the string up, and of course the lid comes down, and the squirrel is shut in, a captive.
When the lid first comes down, it makes so loud a noise as to terrify the poor captive very much. He runs this way and that, around the interior of the box, wondering what has happened, and why he can not get out as he came in. He has no more appetite for the corn, but is in great distress at his sudden and unaccountable captivity.
After trying in vain on all sides to escape, by forcing his way, and finding that the box is too strong for him in every part, he finally concludes to gnaw out. He accordingly selects the part of the box where there is the widest crack, and where consequently the brightest light shines through. He selects this place, partly because he supposes that the box is thinnest there, and partly because he likes to work in the light.
1
1
To prevent the squirrels that are caught from gnawing out, the boys sometimes line the inside of their traps with tin.
There was a squirrel in the trap which Phonny had found. It was a large and handsome gray squirrel. He had been taken that morning. About an hour after the trap sprung upon him, he had begun to gnaw out, and he had got about half through the boards in the corner when Phonny found him. When Phonny shook the trap the squirrel clung to the bottom of it by his claws, so that Phonny did not shake him about much.
When Phonny had put the trap upon the great stone, he thought that he would lift up the lid a little way, and peep in. This is a very dangerous operation, for a squirrel will squeeze out through a very small aperture, and many a boy has lost a squirrel by the very means that he was taking to decide whether he had got one.
Phonny was aware of this danger, and so he was very careful. He raised the lid but very little, and looked under with the utmost caution. He saw two little round and very brilliant eyes peeping out at him.
“Yes, Wallace,” said he. “Yes, yes, here he is. I see his eyes.”
Wallace sat very composedly upon his horse, holding Phonny’s bridle, while Phonny was uttering these exclamations, without appearing to share the enthusiasm which Phonny felt, at all.
“He is here, Wallace,” said Phonny. “He is, truly.”
“I do not doubt it,” said Wallace, “but what are we to do about it?”
“Why – why – what would you do?” asked Phonny.
“I suppose that the best thing that we could do,” said Wallace, “is to ride along.”
“And leave the squirrel?” said Phonny, in a tone of surprise.
“Yes,” said Wallace. “I don’t see any thing else that we can do.”
“Why, he will gnaw out,” said Phonny. “He will gnaw out in half an hour. He has gnawed half through the board already. Espy ought to have tinned his trap.” So saying, Phonny stooped down and peeped into the trap again, through the crack under the lid.
“Who is Espy?” asked Wallace.
“Espy Ransom,” said Phonny. “He lives down by the mill. He is always setting traps for squirrels. I suppose that this road goes down to the mill, and that he came up here and set his trap. But it won’t do to leave the squirrel here,” continued Phonny, looking at Wallace in a very earnest manner. “It never will do in the world.”
“What shall we do, then?” asked Wallace.
“Couldn’t we carry him down to Espy?” said Phonny.
“I don’t think that we have any right to carry him away. It is not our squirrel, and it may be that it is not Espy’s.”
Phonny seemed perplexed. After a moment’s pause he added, “Couldn’t we go down and tell Espy that there is a squirrel in his trap?”
“Yes,” said Wallace, “that we can do.”
Phonny stooped down and peeped into the trap again.
“The rogue,” said he. “The moment that I am gone, he will go to gnawing again, I suppose, and so get out and run away. What a little fool he is.”
“Do you think he is a fool for trying to gnaw out of that trap?” asked Wallace.
“Why no,” – said Phonny, “but I wish he wouldn’t do it. We will go down quick and tell Espy.”
So Phonny came back to the place where Wallace had remained in the road, holding the horses. Phonny let down the bars, and Wallace went through with the horses. Phonny immediately put the bars up again, took the bridle of his own horse from Wallace’s hands, threw it up over the horse’s head, and then by the help of a large log which lay by the side of the road, he mounted. He did all this in a hurried manner, and ended with saying:
“Now, Cousin Wallace, let’s push on. I don’t think it’s more than half a mile to the mill.”
Chapter III
The Plowing
While Wallace and Phonny were taking their ride, as described in the last chapter, Stuyvesant and Beechnut were plowing.
Beechnut told Stuyvesant that he was ready to yoke up, as he called it, as soon as the horses had gone.
“Well,” said Stuyvesant, “I will come. I have got to go up to my room a minute first.”
So Stuyvesant went up to his room, feeling in his pockets as he ascended the stairs, to find the keys of his trunk. When he reached his room, he kneeled down before his trunk and unlocked it.
He raised the lid and began to take out the things. He took them out very carefully, and laid them in order upon a table which was near the trunk. There were clothes of various kinds, some books, and several parcels, put up neatly in paper. Stuyvesant stopped at one of these parcels, which seemed to be of an irregular shape, and began to feel of what it contained through the paper.
“What is this?” said he to himself. “I wonder what it can be. Oh, I remember now, it is my watch-compass.”
What Stuyvesant called his watch-compass, was a small pocket-compass made in the form of a watch. It was in a very pretty brass case, about as large as a lady’s watch, and it had a little handle at the side, to fasten a watch-ribbon to. Stuyvesant’s uncle had given him this compass a great many years before. Stuyvesant had kept it very carefully in his drawer at home, intending when he should go into the country to take it with him, supposing that it would be useful to him in the woods. His sister had given him a black ribbon to fasten to the handle. The ribbon was long enough to go round Stuyvesant’s neck, while the compass was in his waistcoat pocket.
Stuyvesant untied the string, which was around the paper that contained his compass, and took it off. He then wound up this string into a neat sort of coil, somewhat in the manner in which fishing-lines are put up when for sale in shops. He put this coil of twine, together with the paper, upon the table. He looked at the compass a moment to see which was north in his chamber, and then putting the compass itself in his pocket, he passed the ribbon round his neck, and afterward went on taking the things out of his trunk.
When he came pretty near to the bottom of his trunk, he said to himself,
“Ah! here it is.”
At the same moment he took out a garment, which seemed to be a sort of frock. It was made of brown linen. He laid it aside upon a chair, and then began to put the things back into his trunk again. He laid them all in very carefully, each in its own place. When all were in, he shut down the lid of the trunk, locked it, and put the key in his pocket. Then he took the frock from the chair, and opening it, put it on.
It was made somewhat like a cartman’s frock. Stuyvesant had had it made by the seamstress at his mother’s house, in New York, before he came away. He was a very neat and tidy boy about his dress, and always felt uncomfortable if his clothes were soiled or torn. He concluded, therefore, that if he had a good, strong, serviceable frock to put on over his other clothes, it would be very convenient for him at Franconia.
As soon as his frock was on, he hastened down stairs and went out to the barn in search of Beechnut. He found him yoking up the cattle.
“Why, Stuyvesant,” said Beechnut, when he saw him, “that is a capital frock that you have got. How much did it cost?”
“I don’t know,” said Stuyvesant; “Mary made it for me.”
“Who is Mary?” asked Beechnut.
“She is the seamstress,” said Stuyvesant. “She lives at our house in New York.”
“Do you have a seamstress there all the time?” said Beechnut.
“Yes,” said Stuyvesant.
“And her name is Mary,” said Beechnut.
“Yes,” said Stuyvesant.
“Well, I wish she would take it into her head to make me such a frock as that,” said Beechnut.
During this conversation, Beechnut had been busily employed in yoking up the oxen. Stuyvesant looked on, watching the operations carefully, in order to see how the work of yoking up was done. He wished to see whether the process was such that he could learn to yoke up oxen himself; or whether any thing that was required was beyond his strength.
“Can
boys
yoke up cattle?” said Stuyvesant at length.
“It takes a pretty stout boy,” said Beechnut.
“Could a boy as stout as I am do it?” asked Stuyvesant.
“It would be rather hard work for you,” said Beechnut, “the yoke is pretty heavy.”
The yoke was indeed quite heavy, and it was necessary to lift it – one end at a time – over the necks of the oxen. Stuyvesant observed that the oxen were fastened to the yoke, by means of bows shaped like the letter U. These bows were passed up under the necks of the oxen. The ends of them came up through the yokes and were fastened there by little pegs, which Beechnut called keys. There was a ring in the middle of the yoke on the under side to fasten the chain to, by which the cattle were to draw.
When the oxen were yoked, Beechnut drove them to the corner of the yard, where there was a drag with a plow upon it. Beechnut put an axe also upon the drag.
“What do you want an axe for,” asked Stuyvesant, “in going to plow?”
“We always take an axe,” said Beechnut, “when we go away to work. We are pretty sure to want it for something or other.”
Beechnut then gave Stuyvesant a goad stick, and told him that he might drive. Stuyvesant had observed very attentively what Beechnut had done in driving, and the gestures which he had made, and the calls which he had used, in speaking to the oxen, and though he had never attempted to drive such a team before, he succeeded quite well. His success, however, was partly owing to the sagacity of the oxen, who knew very well where they were to go and what they were to do.
At length, after passing through one or two pairs of bars, they came to the field.
“Which is the easiest,” said Stuyvesant, “to drive the team or hold the plow?”
“That depends,” said Beechnut, “upon whether your capacity consists most in your strength or your skill.”
“Why so?” asked Stuyvesant.
“Because,” said Beechnut, “it requires more skill to drive, than to hold the plow, and more strength to hold the plow, than to drive. I think, therefore, that you had better drive, for as between you and I, it is I that have the most strength, and you that have the most skill.”
Stuyvesant laughed.
“Why you
ought
to have the most skill,” said Beechnut – “coming from such a great city.”
Beechnut took the plow off from the drag, and laid the drag on one side. He then attached the cattle to the plow. They were standing, when they did this, in the middle of one side of the field.
“Now,” said Beechnut, “we are going first straight through the middle of the field. Do you see that elm-tree, the other side of the fence?”
“I see a large tree,” said Stuyvesant.
“It is an elm,” said Beechnut.
“There is a great bird upon the top of it,” said Stuyvesant.
“Yes,” said Beechnut, “it is a crow. Now you must keep the oxen headed directly for that tree. Go as straight as you can, and I shall try to keep the plow straight behind you. The thing is to make a straight furrow.”
When all was ready, Stuyvesant gave the word to his oxen to move on, and they began to draw. Stuyvesant went on, keeping his eye alternately upon the oxen and upon the tree. He had some curiosity to look round and see how Beechnut was getting along with the furrow, but he recollected that his business was to drive, and so he gave his whole attention to his driving, in order that he might go as straight as possible across the field.
The crow flew away when he had got half across the field. He had a strong desire to know where she was going to fly to, but he did not look round to follow her in her flight. He went steadily on attending to his driving.
When he was about two thirds across the field, he saw a stump at a short distance before him, with a small hornet’s nest upon one side of it. His course would lead him, he saw, very near this nest. His first impulse was to stop the oxen and tell Beechnut about the hornet’s nest. He did in fact hesitate a moment, but he was instantly reassured by hearing Beechnut call out to him from behind, saying,
“Never mind the hornet’s nest, Stuyvesant. Drive the oxen right on. I don’t think the hornets will sting them.”
Stuyvesant perceived by this, that Beechnut thought only of the oxen, when he saw a hornet’s nest, and he concluded to follow his example in this respect. So he drove steadily on.
When they got to the end of the field the oxen stopped. Beechnut and Stuyvesant then looked round to see the furrow. It was very respectably straight.
“You have done very well,” said he, “and you will find it easier now, for one of the oxen will walk in the furrow, and that will guide him.”
So Stuyvesant brought the team around and then went back, one of the oxen in returning walking in the furrow which had been made before. In this manner they went back to the place from which they had first started.
“There,” said Beechnut, “now we have got our work well laid out. But before we plow any more, we must destroy that hornet’s nest, or else when we come to plow by that stump, the hornets will sting the oxen. I’ll go and get some straw. You may stay here and watch the oxen while I am gone.”
In a short time Beechnut came back, bringing his arms full of hay. He walked directly toward that part of the field where the hornet’s nest was, calling Stuyvesant to follow him. Stuyvesant did so. When he got near to the stump, he put the hay down upon the ground. He then advanced cautiously to the stump with a part of the hay in his arms This hay he put down at the foot of the stump, directly under the hornet’s nest, extending a portion of it outward so as to form a sort of train. He then went back and took up the remaining portion of the hay and held it in his hands.
“Now, Stuyvesant,” said Beechnut, “light a match and set fire to the train.”
Beechnut had previously given Stuyvesant a small paper containing a number of matches.
“How shall I light it?” asked Stuyvesant.
“Rub it upon a stone,” said Beechnut. “Find one that has been lying in the sun,” continued Beechnut, “and then the match will catch quicker, because the stone will be warm and dry.”
So Stuyvesant lighted a match by rubbing it upon a smooth stone which was lying upon the ground near by. He then cautiously approached the end of the train and set it on fire.
Beechnut then came up immediately with the hay that he had in his hands, and placed it over and around the hornet’s nest, so as to envelop it entirely. He and Stuyvesant then retreated together to a safe distance, and there stood to watch the result.
A very dense white smoke immediately began to come up through the hay. Presently the flame burst out, and in a few minutes the whole mass of the hay was in a bright blaze. Stuyvesant looked very earnestly to see if he could see any hornets, but he could not. At last, however, when the fire was burnt nearly down, he saw two. They were flying about the stump, apparently in great perplexity and distress. Stuyvesant pitied them, but as he did not see what he could do to help them, he told them that he thought they had better go and find some more hornets and build another nest somewhere. Then he and Beechnut went back to the plow.
Stuyvesant had quite a desire to try and hold the plow, after he had been driving the team about an hour, but he thought it was best not to ask. In fact he knew himself that it was best for him to learn one thing at a time. So he went on with his driving.
When it was about a quarter before twelve, Beechnut said that it was time to go in. So he unhooked the chain from the yoke, and leaving the plow, the drag, the axe and the chain in the field, he let the oxen go. They immediately ran off into a copse of trees and bushes, which bordered the road on one side.
“Why, Beechnut!” said Stuyvesant, “the oxen are running away.”
“No,” said Beechnut, “they are only going down to drink. There is a brook down there where they go to drink when they are at work in this field.”
Oxen appear to possess mental qualifications of a certain kind in a very high degree. They are especially remarkable for their sagacity in finding good places to drink in the fields and pastures where they feed or are employed at work, and for their good memory in recollecting where they are. An ox may be kept away from a particular field or pasture quite a long time, and yet know exactly where to go to find water to drink when he is admitted to it again.
Stuyvesant looked at the oxen as they went down the path, and then proposed to follow them.
“Let us go and see,” said he.
So he and Beechnut walked along after the oxen. They found a narrow, but very pretty road, or rather path, overhung with trees and bushes, which led down to the water. The road terminated at a broad and shallow place in the stream, where the sand was yellow and the water very clear. The oxen went out into the water, and then put their heads down to drink. Presently they stopped, first one and then the other, and stood a moment considering whether they wanted any more. Finding that they did not, they turned round in the water, and then came slowly out to the land. They walked up the bank, and finally emerging from the wood at the place where they had entered it, they went toward home.
When they reached the house the cattle went straight through the yard, toward the barn. Beechnut and Stuyvesant followed them. Beechnut was going to get them some hay. Stuyvesant went in with Beechnut and stood below on the barn floor, while Beechnut went up the ladder to pitch the hay down.
During all the time that Beechnut and Stuyvesant had been coming up from the field, conversation had been going on between them, about various subjects c