“Peter Bonnicastle!” she repeated almost mechanically,
and continued standing as if dazed.

She stood with her back toward me, and I could only guess
at her expression, or the strangely curious interest of the scene,
by its reflection in Mr. Bradford's face. He sat uneasily in his
chair, and pressed the head of his cane against his chin, as if
he were using a mechanical appliance to keep his mouth shut.
He knew the woman before him, and was determined to be
wise. Subsequently I learned the reason of it all—of his
silence at the time, of his reticence for months and even years
afterward, and of what sometimes seemed to me and to my
father like coolness and neglect.

The silence was oppressive, and my father, remembering
the importance which Mr. Bradford had attached to the fact,
and moved by a newly awakened pride, said: “I am one of
many Peters, they tell me, the first of whom settled in Roxbury.

“Roxbury?” and she took one or two steps toward him.
“You are sure?”

“Perfectly sure,” responded my father.

She made no explanation, but started for the door, dropping
a little bow as she turned away. Mr. Bradford was on his feet
in a moment, and, opening the door for her, accompanied her
into the street. I watched them from the window. They
paused just far enough from the driver of the chaise to be beyond
his hearing, and conversed for several minutes. I could
not doubt that Mr. Bradford was giving her his impression of
us. Then he helped her into the chaise, and the little gray-haired
driver, gathering up his reins, and giving a great pull at
the head of the black horse, which seemed fastened to a
particularly strong tuft of grass, turned up the street and drove
off, tossing and jolting in the way he came.

There was a strong, serious, excited expression on Mr.
Bradford's face as he came in. “My friend,” said he, taking
my father's hand, “this is a curious affair. I cannot explain
it to you, and the probabilities are that I shall have less to do
with and for you than I supposed I might have. Be sure,

[figure description] Page 034.[end figure description]

however, that I shall always be interested in your prosperity;
and never hesitate to come to me if you are in serious trouble.
And now let me ask you never to mention my name to Mrs.
Sanderson, with praise; never tell her if I render you a
service. I know the lady, and I think it quite likely that you
will hear from her in a few days. In the mean time you will
be busy in making your family comfortable in your new home.”
Then he spoke a cheerful word to my mother, and bade us all
a good-morning, only looking kindly at me instead of bestowing
upon me the coveted and expected kiss.

When he was gone, my father and mother looked at each
other with a significant glance, and I waited to hear what they
would say. If I have said little about my mother, it is because
she had very little to say for herself. She was a weary, worn
woman, who had parted with her vitality in the bearing and
rearing of her children and in hard and constant care and work.
Life had gone wrong with her. She had a profound respect for
practical gifts, and her husband did not possess them. She
had long since ceased to hope for anything good in life, and her
face had taken on a sad, dejected expression, which it never
lost under any circumstances. To my father's abounding hopefulness
she always opposed her obstinate hopelessness. This
was partly a matter of temperament, as well as a result of
disappointment. I learned early that she had very little faith
in me, or rather in any natural gifts of mine that in the future
might retrieve the fortunes of the family. I had too many of
the characteristics of my father.

I see the two now as they sat thinking and talking over the
events and acquaintances of the evening and the morning as
plainly as I saw them then—my father with his blue eyes all
alight, and his cheeks touched with the flush of excitement, and
my mother with her distrustful face, depreciating and questioning
everything. She liked Mr. Bradford. Mr. Bradford was a
gentleman; but what had gentlemen to do with them? It was
all very well to talk about family, but what was family good for
without money? Mr. Bradford had his own affairs to attend to,

[figure description] Page 035.[end figure description]

and we should see precious little more of him! As for Mrs.
Sanderson, she did not like her at all. Poor people would get
very little consideration from an old woman whose hand was
too good to be given to a stranger who happened to be her
tenant.

I have wondered often how my father maintained his courage
and faith with such a drag upon them as my mother's morbid
sadness imposed, but in truth they were proof against every depressing
influence. Out of every suggestion of possible good
fortune he built castles that filled his imagination with almost a
childish delight. He believed that something good was soon
to come out of it all, and he was really bright and warm in the
smile of that Providence which had manifested itself to him in
these new acquaintances. I pinned my faith to my father's
sleeve, and believed as fully and as far as he did. There was
a rare sympathy between us. The great sweet boy that he was
and the little boy that I was, were one in a charming communion.
Oh God! that he should be gone and I here! He has
been in heaven long enough to have won his freedom, and I am
sure we shall kiss when we meet again!

Before the week closed, the gray-haired old servant of Mrs.
Sanderson knocked at the door, and brought a little note. It
was from his mistress, and read thus, for I copy from the faded
document itself:—

“The Mansion, Bradford.
“Mr. Peter Bonnicastle:—

“I should like to see you here next Monday morning, in regard to some
repairs about The Mansion. Come early, and if your little boy Arthur is
well enough you may bring him.

The note was read aloud, and it conveyed to my mind instantaneously
a fact which I did not mention, but which filled
me with strange excitement and pleasure. I remembered that
my name was not once mentioned while Mrs. Sanderson was in
the house. She had learned it therefore from Mr. Bradford,

[figure description] Page 036.[end figure description]

while talking at the door. Mr. Bradford liked me, I knew, and
he had spoken well of me to her. What would come of it all?
So, with the same visionary hopefulness that characterized my
father, I plunged into a sea of dreams on which I floated over
depths paved with treasure, and under skies bright with promise,
until Monday morning dawned. When the early breakfast was
finished, and my father with unusual fervor of feeling had commended
his family and himself to the keeping and the blessing
of heaven, we started forth, he and I, hand in hand, with as
cheerful anticipations as if we were going to a feast.

p587-044 CHAPTER II. I VISIT AN OGRESS AND A GIANT IN THEIR ENCHANTED CASTLE.

[figure description] Page 037.[end figure description]

“The Mansion” of Mrs. Sanderson was a long half-mile
away from us, situated upon the hill that overlooked the little
city. It appeared grand in the distance, and commanded the
most charming view of town, meadow and river imaginable.
We passed Mr. Bradford's house on the way—a plain, rich, unpretending
dwelling—and received from him a hearty good-morning,
with kind inquiries for my mother, as he stood in his
open doorway, enjoying the fresh morning air. At the window
sat a smiling little woman, and, by her side, looking out at me,
stood the prettiest little girl I had ever seen. Her raven-black
hair was freshly curled, and shone like her raven-black eyes;
and both helped to make the simple frock in which she was
dressed seem marvelously white. I have pitied my poor little
self many times in thinking how far removed from me in condition
the petted child seemed that morning, and how unworthy
I felt, in my homely clothes, to touch her dainty hand, or even
to speak to her. I was fascinated by the vision, but glad to
get out of her sight.

On arriving at The Mansion, my father and I walked to
the great front-door. There were sleeping lions at the side
and there was a rampant lion on the knocker which my father
was about to attack when the door swung noiselessly upon its
hinges, and we were met upon the threshold by the mistress
herself. She looked smaller than ever, shorn of her street
costume and her bonnet; and her lips were so thin and her
face seemed so full of pain that I wondered whether it were
her head or her teeth that ached.

[figure description] Page 038.[end figure description]

“The repairs that I wish to talk about are at the rear of the
house,” she said, blocking the way, and with a nod directing
my father to that locality. There was no show of courtesy in
her words or manner. My father turned away, responding to
her bidding, and still maintaining his hold upon my hand.

“Arthur,” said she, “come in here.”

I looked up questioningly into my father's face, and saw that
it was clouded. He relinquished my hand, and said: “Go
with the lady.”

She took me into a little library, and, pointing me to a chair,
said: “Sit there until I come back. Don't stir, or touch
anything.”

I felt, when she left me, as if there were enough of force in
her command to paralyze me for a thousand years. I hardly
dared to breathe. Still my young eyes were active, and were
quickly engaged in taking an inventory of the apartment,
and of such rooms as I could look into through the open
doors. I was conscious at once that I was looking upon
nothing that was new. Everything was faded and dark and
old, except those things that care could keep bright. The
large brass andirons in the fireplace, and the silver candlesticks
on the mantel-tree were as brilliant as when they were new.
So perfect was the order of the apartment—so evidently had
every article of furniture and every little ornament been adjusted
to its place and its relations—that, after the first ten
minutes of my observation, I could have detected any change
as quickly as Mrs. Sanderson herself.

Through a considerable passage, with an open door at either
end, I saw on the wall of the long dining-room a painted portrait
of a lad, older than I and very handsome. I longed to
go nearer to it, but the prohibition withheld me. In truth, I
forgot all else about me in my curiosity concerning it—forgot
even where I was—yet I failed at last to carry away any impression
of it that my memory could recall at will.

It may have been half an hour—it may have been an hour—
that Mrs. Sanderson was out of the room, engaged with my

[figure description] Page 039.[end figure description]

father. It seemed a long time that I had been left when she
returned.

“Have you moved, or touched anything?” she inquired.

“No, ma'am.”

“Are you tired?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“What would you like to do?”

“I should like to go neare to the picture of the beautiful
little boy in that room,” I answered, pointing to it.

She crossed the room at once and closed the door. Then she
came back to me and said with a voice that trembled: “You
must not see that picture, and you must never ask me anything
about it.”

“Then,” I said, “I should like to go out where my father
is at work.”

“Your father is busy. He is at work for me, and I do not
wish to have him disturbed,” she responded.

“Then I should like a book,” I said.

She went to a little case of shelves on the opposite side of the
room, and took down one book after another, and looked, not
at the contents, but at the fly-leaf of each, where the name of
the owner is usually inscribed. At last she found one that
apparently suited her, and came and sat down by me, holding
it in her lap. She looked at me curiously, and then said:
“What do you expect to make of yourself, boy? What do
you expect to be?”

“A man,” I answered.

“Do you? That is a great deal to expect.”

“Is it harder to be a man than it is to be a woman?” I
inquired.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because it is,” she replied almost snappishly.

“A woman isn't so large,” I responded, as if that statement
might contain a helpful suggestion.

She smiled faintly, and then her face grew stern and sad; and

[figure description] Page 040.[end figure description]

she seemed to look at something far off. At length she turned
to me and said: “You are sure you will never be a drunkard?”

“Never,” I replied.

“Nor a gambler?”

“I don't know what a gambler is.”

“Do you think you could ever become a disobedient, ungrateful
wretch, child?” she continued.

I do not know where my responding words or my impulse to
utter them came from: probably from some romantic passage
that I had read, coupled with the conversations I had recently
heard in my home; but I rose upon my feet, and with real
feeling, though with abundant mock-heroism in the seeming, I
said: “Madame, I am a Bonnicastle!”

She did not smile, as I do, recalling the incident, but she
patted me on the head with the first show of affectionate regard.
She let her hand rest there while her eyes looked far
off again; and I knew she was thinking of things with which
I could have no part.

“Do you think you could love me, Arthur?” she said, looking
me in the eyes.

“I don't know,” I replied, “but I think I could love anybody
who loved me.”

“That's true, that's true,” she said sadly; and then she
added: “Would you like to live here with me?”

“I don't think I would,” I answered frankly.

“Why?”

“Because it is so still, and everything is so nice, and my
father and mother would not be here, and I should have nobody
to play with,” I replied.

“But you would have a large room, and plenty to eat and
good clothes to wear,” she said, looking down upon my humble
garments.

“Should I have this house when you get through with it?”
I inquired.

“Then you would like it without me in it, would you?” she
said, with a smile which she could not repress.

[figure description] Page 041.[end figure description]

“I should think it would be a very good house for a man to
live in,” I replied, evading her question.

“But you would be alone.”

“Oh no!” I said, “I should have a wife and children.”

“Humph!” she exclaimed, giving her head a little toss and
mine a little rap as she removed her hand, “you will be a
man, I guess, fast enough!”

She sat a moment in silence, looking at me, and then she
handed me the book she held, and went out of the room again
to see my father at his work. It was a book full of rude pictures
and uninteresting text, and its attractions had long been
exhausted when she returned, flushed and nervous. I learned
afterwards that she had had a long argument with my father
about the proper way of executing the job she had given him.

My father had presumed upon his knowledge of his craft to
suggest that her way of doing the work was not the right way;
and she had insisted that the work must be done in her way or
not done at all. Those who worked for her were to obey her will.
She assumed all knowledge of everything relating to herself and
her possessions, and permitted neither argument nor opposition;
and when my father convinced her reason that she had
erred, she was only fixed thereby in her error. I knew that
something had gone wrong, and I longed to see my father, but
I did not dare to say anything about it.

How the morning wore away I do not remember. She led
me in a dreary ramble through the rooms of the large old
house, and we had a good deal of idle talk that led to nothing.
She chilled and repressed me. I felt that I was not myself,—
that her will overshadowed me. She called nothing out of me
that interested her. I remember thinking how different she
was from Mr. Bradford, whose presence made me feel that I
was in a large place, and stirred me to think and talk.

At noon the dinner-bell rang, and she bade me go with her
to the dining-room. I told her my father had brought dinner
for me, and I would like to eat with him. I longed to get
out of her presence, but she insisted that I must eat with her

[figure description] Page 042.[end figure description]

and there was no escape. As we entered the dining-room,
I looked at once for my picture, but it was gone. In its
place was a square area of unfaded wall, where it had hung
for many years. I knew it had been removed because I
wished to see it and was curious in regard to it. The spot
where it hung had a fascination for me, and many times my
eyes went up to it, as if that which had so strangely vanished
might as strangely reappear.

“Keep your eyes at home,” said my snappish little hostess,
who had placed me, not at her side, but vis à vis; so afterward,
when they were not glued to my plate, or were not watching
the movements of the old man-servant whom I had previously
seen driving his mistress's chaise, they were fixed on her.

I could not but feel that “Jenks,” as she called him, disliked
me. I was an intruder, and had no right to be at
Madame's table. When he handed me anything at the lady's
bidding, he bent down toward me, and uttered something
between growling and muttering. I had no doubt then that
he would have torn me limb from limb if he could. I found
afterward that growling and muttering were the habit of his
life. In the stable he growled and muttered at the horse. In
the garden, he growled and muttered at the weeds. Blacking
his mistress's shoes, he growled and muttered, and turned them
over and over, as if he were determining whether to begin to
eat them at the toe or the heel. If he sharpened the lady's
carving-knife, he growled as if he were sharpening his own
teeth. I suppose she had become used to it, and did not
notice it; but he impressed me at first as a savage monster.

I was conscious during the dinner, to which, notwithstanding
all the disturbing and depressing influences, I did full
justice, that I was closely observed by my hostess; for she
freely undertook to criticise my habits, and to lay down rules
for my conduct at the table. After every remark, Jenks
growled and muttered a hoarse response.

Toward the close of the meal there was a long silence,
and I became very much absorbed in my thoughts and fancies.

[figure description] Page 043.[end figure description]

My hostess observed that something new had entered my
mind—for her apprehensions were very quick—and said
abruptly: “Boy, what are you thinking about?”

I blushed and replied that I would rather not tell.

“Tell me at once,” she commanded.

I obeyed with great reluctance, but her expectant eye was
upon me, and there was no escape.

“I was thinking,” I said, “that I was confined in an
enchanted castle where a little ogress lived with a gray-headed
giant. One day she invited me to dinner, and she spoke very
cross to me, and the gray-headed giant growled always when
he came near me, as if he wanted to eat me; but I couldn't
stir from my seat to get away from him. Then I heard
a voice outside of the castle walls that sounded like my father's,
only it was a great way off, and it said:


`Come, little boy, to me,
On the back of a bumble-bee.'
Then I tried to get out of my chair, but I couldn't. So I
clapped my hands three times, and said: `Castle, castle, Bonnicastle!
' and the little ogress flew out of the window on a
broomstick, and I jumped up and seized the carving-knife and
slew the gray-headed giant, and pitched him down cellar
with the fork. Then the doors flew open, and I went out to
see my father, and he took me home in a gold chaise with a
black horse as big as an elephant.”

I could not tell whether amazement or amusement prevailed
in the expression of the face of my little hostess, as I proceeded
with the revelation of my fancies. I think her first impression
was that I was insane, or that my recent fall had in some
way injured my brain, or possibly that fever was coming on,
for she said, with real concern in her voice: “Child, are you
sure you are quite well?”

“Very well, I thank you, ma'am,” I replied, after the
formula in which I had been patiently instructed.

Jenks growled and muttered, but as I looked into his face

[figure description] Page 044.[end figure description]

I was sure I caught the slightest twinkle in his little gray eyes.
At any rate, I lost all fear of him from that moment.

“Jenks,” said the lady, “take this boy to his father, and tell
him I think he had better send him home. If it is necessary,
you can go with him.”

As I rose from the table, I remembered the directions my
mother had given me in the morning, and my tongue being
relieved from its spell of silence, I went around to Mrs.
Sanderson, and thanked her for her invitation, and formally
gave her my hand, to take leave of her. I am sure the lady
was surprised not only by the courtesy, but by the manner in
which it was rendered; for she detained my hand, and said,
in a voice quite low and almost tender in its tone: “You do
not think me a real ogress, do you?”

“Oh no!” I replied, “I think you are a good woman,
only you are not very much like my mother. You don't seem
used to little boys: you never had any, perhaps?”

Jenks overheard me, pausing in his work of clearing the
table, and growled.

“Jenks, go out,” said Mrs. Sanderson, and he retired to the
kitchen, muttering as he went.

As I uttered my question, I looked involuntarily at the vacant
spot upon the wall, and although she said nothing as I turned
back to her, I saw that her face was full of pain.

“I beg your pardon,” I said, in simplicity and earnestness.
My quick sense of what was passing in her mind evidently
touched her, for she put her arm around me, and drew me close
to her side. I had unconsciously uncovered an old fountain of
bitterness, and as she held me she said, “Would you like to
kiss an old lady?”

I laughed, and said, “Yes, if she would like to kiss a boy.”

She strained me to her breast. I knew that my fresh, boyish
lips were sweet to hers, and I knew afterwards that they were
the first she had pressed for a quarter of a century. It seemed
a long time that she permitted her head to rest upon my shoulder,
for it quite embarrassed me. She released me at length,

"Jenks," said the lady, "take this boy to his father." [figure description] Illustration page. Image of a boy and an old woman at dining table. The butler ,an older man, stands between them. The lady is frowning.[end figure description]

[figure description] Blank Page.[end figure description]

[figure description] Page 045.[end figure description]

for Jenks began to fumble at the door, to announce that he
was about to enter. Before he opened it, she said quickly:
“I shall see you again; I am going to have a talk with your
father.”

During the closing passages of our interview, my feelings towards
Mrs. Sanderson had undergone a most unexpected change.
My heart was full of pity for her, and I was conscious that for
some reason which I did not know she had a special regard for
me. When a strong nature grows tender, it possesses the most
fascinating influence in the world. When a powerful will bends
to a child, and undertakes to win that which it cannot command,
there are very few natures that can withstand it. I do
not care to ask how much of art there may have been in Mrs.
Sanderson's caresses, but she undoubtedly saw that there was
nothing to be made of me without them. Whether she felt
little or much, she was determined to win me to her will; and
from that moment to this, I have felt her influence upon my
life. She had a way of assuming superiority to everybody—of
appearing to be wiser than everybody else, of finding everybody's
weak point, and exposing it, that made her seem to be one
whose word was always to be taken, and whose opinion was
always to have precedence. It was in this way, in my subsequent
intercourse with her, that she exposed to me the weaknesses of
my parents, and undermined my confidence in my friends, and
showed me how my loves were misplaced, and almost absorbed
me into herself. On the day of my visit to her, she studied me
very thoroughly, and learned the secret of managing me. I
think she harmed me, and that but for the corrective influences
to which I was subsequently exposed, she would well-nigh
have ruined me. It is a curse to any child to have his whole
personality absorbed by a foreign will,—to take love, law and
life from one who renders all with design, in the accomplishment
of a purpose. She could not destroy my love for my
father and mother, but she made me half ashamed of them.
She discovered in some way my admiration of Mr. Bradford,
and managed in her own way to modify it. Thus it was

[figure description] Page 046.[end figure description]

with every acquaintance, until, at last, she made herself to me
the pivotal point on which the world around her turned.

As I left her, Jenks took me by the hand, and led me out,
with the low rumble in his throat and the mangled words between
his teeth which were intended to indicate to Mrs. Sanderson
that he did not approve of boys at all. As soon, however,
as the door was placed between us and the lady, the
rumble in his throat was changed to a chuckle. Jenks was not
given to words, but he was helplessly and hopelessly under
Mrs. Sanderson's thumb, and all his growling and muttering
were a pretence. He would not have dared to utter an opinion
in her presence, or express a wish. He had comprehended
my story of the ogress and the giant, and as it bore rather
harder upon the ogress than it did upon the giant, he was in
great good humor.

He squeezed my hand and shook me around in what he intended
to be an affectionate and approving way, and then gave
me a large russet apple, which he drew from a closet in the
carriage-house. Not until he had placed several walls between
himself and his mistress did he venture to speak.

“Well, you've said it, little fellow, that's a fact.”

“Said what?” I inquired.

“You've called the old woman an ogress, he! he! he! and
that's just what she is, he! he! he! How did you dare to do
such a thing?”

“She made me,” I answered. “I did not wish to tell the
story.”

“That's what she always does,” said Jenks. “She always
makes people do what they don't want to do. Don't you ever
tell her what I say, but the fact is I'm going to leave. She'll
wake up some morning and call Jenks, and Jenks won't come!
Jenks won't be here! Jenks will be far, far away!”

His last phrase was intended undoubtedly to act upon my
boyish imagination, and I asked him with some concern whither
he would go.

“I shall plough the sea,” said Jenks. “You will find no

[figure description] Page 047.[end figure description]

Jenks here and no russet apple when you come again. I shall
be on the billow. Now mind you don't tell her”—tossing a
nod toward the house over his left shoulder—“for that would
spoil it all.”

I promised him that I would hold the matter a profound secret,
although I was conscious that I was not quite loyal to my
new friend in keeping from her the intelligence that her servant
was about to leave The Mansion for a career upon the ocean.

“Here's your boy,” said Jenks, leading me at last to my
father. “Mrs. Sanderson thinks you had better send him
home, and says I can go with him if he cannot find the way
alone.”

“I'm very much obliged to Mrs. Sanderson,” said my father
with a flush on his face, “but I will take care of my boy myself.
He will go home when I do.”

Jenks chuckled again. He was delighted with anything that
crossed the will of his mistress. As he turned away, I said:
“Good-by, Mr. Jenks, I hope you won't be very sea-sick.”

This was quite too much for the little old man. He had
made a small boy believe that he was going away, and that he
was going to sea; and he returned to the house so much delighted
with himself that he chuckled all the way, and even
kicked at a stray chicken that intercepted his progress.

During the remainder of the day I amused myself with watching
my father at his work. I was anxious to tell him of all that
had happened in the house, but he bade me wait until his work
was done. I had been accustomed to watch my father's face,
and to detect upon it the expression of all his moods and feelings;
and I knew that afternoon that he was passing through a
great trial. Once during the afternoon Jenks came out of
the house with another apple; and while he kept one eye
on the windows he beckoned to me and I went to him. Placing
the apple in my hand, he said: “Far, far away, on the
billow! Good-by.” Not expecting to meet him again, I was
much inclined to sadness, but as he did not seem to be very
much depressed, I spared my sympathy, and heartily bade him

[figure description] Page 048.[end figure description]

“good luck.” So the stupid old servant had had his practice
upon the boy, and was happy in the lie that he had passed
upon him.

There are boys who seem to be a source of temptation to
every man and woman who comes in contact with them. The
temptation to impress them, or to excite them to free and
characteristic expression, seems quite irresistible. Everybody
tries to make them believe something, or to make them
say something. I seemed to be one of them. Everybody
tried either to make me talk and give expression to my
fancies, or to make me believe things that they knew to be false.
They practiced upon my credulity, my sympathy, and my imagination
for amusement. Even my parents smiled upon my
efforts at invention, until I found that they were more interested
in my lies than in my truth. The consequence of it all was a
disposition to represent every occurrence of my life in false
colors. The simplest incident became an interesting adventure;
the most common-place act, a heroic achievement. With
a conscience so tender that the smallest theft would have made
me utterly wretched, I could lie by the hour without compunction.
My father and mother had no idea of the injury they
were doing me, and whenever they realized, as they sometimes
did, that they could not depend upon my word, they were sadly
puzzled.

When my father finished his work for the day, and with my
hand in his I set out for home, it may readily be imagined that
I had a good deal to tell. I not only told of all that I had
seen, but I represented as actual all that had been suggested.
Such wonderful rooms and dismal passages and marvelous pictures
and services of silver and gold and expansive mirrors as
I had seen! Such viands as I had tasted—such fruit as I had
eaten! And my honest father received all the marvels with
hardly a question, and, after him, my mother and the children.
I remember few of the particulars, except that the picture of
the boy came and went upon the wall of the dining-room as if
by magic, and that Mrs. Sanderson wished to have me live with

[figure description] Page 049.[end figure description]

her that I might become her heir. The last statement my
father examined with some care. Indeed, I was obliged to tell
exactly what was said on the subject, and he learned that, while
the lady wished me to live with her, the matter of inheritance
had not been suggested by anybody but myself.

p587-059 CHAPTER III. I GO TO THE BIRD'S NEST TO LIVE, AND THE GIANT PERSISTS IN HIS PLANS FOR A SEA-VOYAGE.

[figure description] Page 050.[end figure description]

My father worked for Mrs. Sanderson during the week, but he
came home every night with a graver face, and, on the closing
evening of the week, it all came out. It was impossible for him
to cover from my mother and his family for any length of time
anything which gave him either satisfaction or sorrow.

I remember how he walked the room that night, and swung
his arms, and in an excitement that was full of indignation and
self-pity declared that he could not work for Mrs. Sanderson
another week. “I should become an absolute idiot if I were
to work for her a month,” I heard him say.

And then my mother told him that she never expected anything
good from Mrs. Sanderson—that it had turned out very
much as she anticipated—though for the life of her she could
not imagine what difference it made to my father whether he
did his work in one way or another, so long as it pleased Mrs.
Sanderson, and he got his money for his labor. I did not at all
realize what an effect this talk would have upon my father then,
but now I wonder that with his sensitive spirit he did not upbraid
my mother, or die. In her mind it was only another instance
of my father's incompetency for business, to which incompetency
she attributed mainly the rigors of her lot.

Mrs. Sanderson was no better pleased with my father than
he was with her. If he had not left her at the end of his first
week, she would have managed to dismiss him as soon as she
had secured her will concerning myself. On Monday morning
I was dispatched to The Mansion with a note from my father

[figure description] Page 051.[end figure description]

which informed Mrs. Sanderson that she was at liberty to suit
herself with other service.

Mrs. Sanderson read the note, put her lips very tightly together,
and then called Jenks.

“Jenks,” said she, “put the horse before the chaise, change
your clothes, and drive to the door.”

Jenks disappeared to execute her commands, and, in the
meantime, Mrs. Sanderson busied herself with preparations.
First she brought out sundry pots of jam and jelly, and then
two or three remnants of stuffs that could be made into clothing
for children, and a basket of apples. When the chaise arrived
at the door, she told Jenks to tie his horse and bestow the
articles she had provided in the box. When this task was completed
she mounted the vehicle, and bade me get in at her side.
Then Jenks took his seat, and at Mrs. Sanderson's command
drove directly to my father's house.

When we arrived, my father had gone out; and after expressing
her regret that she could not see him, she sat down by my
mother, and demonstrated her knowledge of human nature by
winning her confidence entirely. She even commiserated her
on the impracticable character of her husband, and then she
left with her the wages of his labor and the gifts she had
brought. My mother declared after the little lady went away
that she had never been so pleasantly disappointed as she had
been in Mrs. Sanderson! She was just, she was generous, she
was everything that was sweet and kind and good. All this my
father heard when he arrived, and to it all he made no reply.
He was too kind to carry anger, and too poor to spurn a freely
offered gift, that brought comfort to those whom he loved.

Mrs. Sanderson was a woman of business, and at night she
came again. I knew my father dreaded meeting her, as he
always dreaded meeting with a strong and unreasonable will.
He had a way of avoiding such a will whenever it was possible,
and of sacrificing everything unimportant to save a collision
with it. There was an insult to his manhood in the mere existence
and exercise of such a will, while actual subjection to it

[figure description] Page 052.[end figure description]

was the extreme of torture. But sometimes the exercise of
such a will drove him into a corner; and when it did, the
shrinking, peaceable man became a lion. He had seen how
easily my mother had been conquered, and, although Mrs.
Sanderson's gifts were in his house, he determined that whatever
might be her business, she should be dealt with frankly
and firmly.

I was watching at the window when the little lady alighted
at the gate. As she walked up the passage from the street,
Jenks exchanged some signals with me. He pointed to the
east and then toward the sea, with gestures, which meant that
long before the dawning of the morrow's sun Mrs. Sanderson's
aged servant would cease to be a resident of Bradford, and would
be tossing “on the billow.” I did not have much opportunity
to carry on this kind of commerce with Jenks, for Mrs. Sanderson's
conversation had special reference to myself.

I think my father was a good deal surprised to find the lady
agreeable and gracious. She alluded to his note as something
which had disappointed her, but, as she presumed to know her
own business and to do it in her own way, she supposed that
other people knew their own business also, and she was quite
willing to accord to them such privileges as she claimed
for herself. She was glad there was work enough to be done
in Bradford, and she did not doubt that my father would get
employment. Indeed, as he was a stranger, she would take the
liberty of commending him to her friends as a good workman.
It did not follow, she said, that because he could not get along
with her he could not get along with others. My father was
very silent and permitted her to do the talking. He knew that
she had come with some object to accomplish, and he waited
for its revelation.

She looked at me, at last, and called me to her side. She
put her arm around me, and said, addressing my father: “I
suppose Arthur told you what a pleasant day we had together.”

“Yes, and I hope he thanked you for your kindness to him,”
my father answered.

[figure description] Page 053.[end figure description]

“Oh, yes, he was very polite and wonderfully quiet for a
boy,” she responded.

My mother volunteered to express the hope that I had not
given the lady any trouble.

“I never permit boys to trouble me,” was the curt response.

There was something in this that angered my father—something
in the tone adopted toward my mother, and something
that seemed so cruel in the utterance itself. My father believed
in the rights of boys, and when she said this, he remarked
with more than his usual incisiveness that he had noticed
that those boys who had not been permitted to trouble
anybody when they were young, were quite in the habit, when
they ceased to be boys, of giving a great deal of trouble. He
did not know that he had touched Mrs. Sanderson at a very
tender point, but she winced painfully, and then went directly
to business.

“Mr. Bonnicastle,” said she, “I am living alone, as you
know. It is not necessary to tell you much about myself, but
I am alone, and with none to care for but myself. Although I
am somewhat in years, I come of a long-lived race, and am
quite well. I believe it is rational to expect to live for a considerable
time yet, and though I have much to occupy my mind
it would be pleasant to me to help somebody along. You
have a large family, whose fortunes you would be glad to advance,
and, although you and I do not agree very well, I hope
you will permit me to assist you in accomplishing your wish.”

She paused to see how the proposition was received, and was
apparently satisfied that fortune had favored her, though my
father said nothing.

“I want this boy,” she resumed, drawing me more closely to
her. “I want to see him growing up and becoming a man under
my provisions for his support and education. It is not possible
for you to do for him what I can do. It will interest me
to watch him from year to year, it will bring a little young blood
into my lonely old house occasionally, and in one way and
another it will do us all good.”

[figure description] Page 054.[end figure description]

My father looked very serious. He loved me as he loved
his life. His great ambition was to give me the education
which circumstances had denied to him. Here was the opportunity,
brought to his door, yet he hesitated to accept it. After
thinking for a moment, he said gravely: “Mrs. Sanderson, God
has placed this boy in my hands to train for Himself, and I cannot
surrender the control of his life to anybody. Temporarily
I can give him into the hands of teachers, conditionally I can
place him in your hands, but I cannot place him in any hands
beyond my immediate recall. I can never surrender my right
to his love and his obedience, or count him an alien from my
heart and home. If, understanding my feeling in this matter,
you find it in your heart to do for him what I cannot, why, you
have the means, and I am sure God will bless you for employing
them to this end.”

“I may win all the love and all the society from him I can?”
said Mrs. Sanderson, interrogatively.

“I do not think it would be a happy or a healthy thing for
the child to spend much time in your house, deprived of young
society,” my father replied. “If you should do for him what
you suggest, I trust that the boy and that all of us would make
such expressions of our gratitude as would be most agreeable
to yourself; but I must choose his teachers, and my home, however
humble, must never cease to be regarded by him as his
home. I must say this at the risk of appearing ungrateful,
Mrs. Sanderson.”

The little lady had the great good sense to know when she
had met with an answer, and the adroitness to appear satisfied
with it. She was one of those rare persons who, seeing a rock
in the way, recognize it at once, and, without relinquishing their
purpose for an instant, either seek to go around it or to arrive
at their purpose from some other direction. She had concluded,
for reasons of her own, to make me so far as possible her
possession. She had had already a sufficient trial of her power
to show her something of what she could do with me, and she

[figure description] Page 055.[end figure description]

calculated with considerable certainty that she could manage
my father in some way.

“Very well: he shall not come to me now, and shall never
come unless I can make my home pleasant to him,” she said.
“In the meantime, you will satisfy yourself in regard to a desirable
school for him, and we will leave all other questions for
time to determine.”

Neither my father nor my mother had anything to oppose to
this, and my patroness saw at once that her first point was
gained. Somehow all had been settled without trouble. Every
obstacle had been taken out of the way, and the lady seemed
more than satisfied.

“When you are ready to talk decisively about the boy, you
will come to my house, and we will conclude matters,” she
said, as she rose to take her leave.

I noticed that she did not recognize the existence of my
little brothers and older sisters, and something subtler than
reason told me that she was courteous to my father and mother
only so far as was necessary for the accomplishment of her purposes.
I was half afraid of her, yet I could not help admiring
her. She kissed me at parting, but she made no demonstration
of responsive courtesy to my parents, who advanced in a cordial
way to show their sense of her kindness.

In the evening, my father called upon Mr. Bradford and
made a full exposure of the difficulty he had had with Mrs. Sanderson,
and the propositions she had made respecting myself;
and as he reported his conversation and conclusions on his return
to my mother, I was made acquainted with them. Mr.
Bradford had advised that the lady's offer concerning me should
be accepted. He had reasons for this which he told my father
he did not feel at liberty to give, but there were enough that
lay upon the surface to decide the matter. There was nothing
humiliating in it, for it was no deed of charity. A great good
could be secured for me by granting to the lady what she regarded
in her own heart as a favor. She never had been greatly
given to deeds of benevolence, and this was the first notable

[figure description] Page 056.[end figure description]

act in her history that looked like one. He advised, however,
that my father hold my destiny in his own hands, and keep me
as much as possible away from Bradford, never permitting me
to be long at a time under Mrs. Sanderson's roof and immediate
personal influence. “When the youngster gets older,” Mr.
Bradford said, “he will manage all this matter for himself, better
than we can manage it for him.”

Then Mr. Bradford told him about a famous family school in
a country village some thirty miles away, which, from the name
of the teacher, Mr. Bird, had been named by the pupils “The
Bird's Nest.” Everybody in the region knew about The Bird's
Nest; and multitudinous were the stories told about Mr. and
Mrs. Bird; and very dear to all the boys, many of whom had
grown to be men, were the house and the pair who presided
over it. Mr. Bradford drew a picture of this school which
quite fascinated my father, and did much—everything indeed—
to reconcile him to the separation which my removal thither
would make necessary. I was naturally very deeply interested
in all that related to the school, and, graceless as the fact may
seem, I should have been ready on the instant to part with all
that made my home, in order to taste the new, strange life it
would bring me. I had many questions to ask, but quickly arrived
at the end of my father's knowledge; and then my imagination
ran wildly on until the images of The Bird's Nest and
of Mr. and Mrs. Bird and Hillsborough, the village that made
a tree for the nest, were as distinctly in my mind as if I had
known them all my life.

The interview which Mrs. Sanderson had asked of my father
was granted at an early day, and the lady acceded without a
word to the proposition to send me to The Bird's Nest. She
had heard only good reports of the school, she said, and was
apparently delighted with my father's decision. Indeed, I suspect
she was quite as anxious to get me away from my father
and my home associations as he was to keep me out of The
Mansion and away from her. She was left to make her own
arrangements for my outfit, and also for my admission to the

[figure description] Page 057.[end figure description]

school, though my father stipulated for the privilege of accompanying
me to the new home.

One pleasant morning, some weeks afterward, she sent for
me to visit her at The Mansion. She was very sweet and
motherly; and when I returned to my home I went clad in a
suit of garments that made me the subject of curiosity and
envy among my brothers and mates, and with the news that in
one week I must be ready to go to Hillsborough. During all
that week my father was very tender toward me, as toward
some great treasure set apart to absence. He not only did not
seek for work, but declined or deferred that which came. It
was impossible for me to know then the heart-hunger which he
anticipated, but I know it now. I do not doubt that, in his
usual way, he wove around me many a romance, and reached
forward into all the possibilities of my lot. He was always as
visionary as a child, though I do not know that he was more
childlike in this respect than in others.

My mother was full of the gloomiest forebodings. She felt
as if Hillsborough would prove to be an unhealthy place; she
did not doubt that there was something wrong about Mr. and
Mrs. Bird, if only we could know what it was; and for her part
there was something in the name which the boys had given the
school that was fearfully suggestive of hunger. She should
always think of me, she said, as a bird with its mouth open,
crying for something to eat. More than all, she presumed that
Mr. Bird permitted his boys to swim without care, and she
would not be surprised to learn that the oldest of them carried
guns and pistols and took the little boys with them.

Poor, dear mother! Most fearful and unhappy while living,
and most tenderly mourned and reverend in memory! why did
you persist in seeing darkness where others saw light, and in
making every cup bitter with the apprehension of evil? Why
were you forever on the watch that no freak of untoward fortune
should catch you unaware? Why did you treat the Providence
you devoutly tried to trust as if you supposed he meant
to trick you, if he found you for a moment off your guard? Oh,

[figure description] Page 058.[end figure description]

the twin charms of hopefulness and trustfulness! What power
have they to strengthen weary feet, to sweeten sleep, to make
the earth green and the heavens blue, to cheat misfortune of
its bitterness and to quench even the poison of death itself!

It was arranged that my father should take me to Hillsborough
in Mrs. Sanderson's chaise—the same vehicle in which
I had first seen the lady herself. My little trunk was to be attached
by straps to the axletree, and so ride beneath us. Taking
leave of my home was a serious business, notwithstanding
my anticipations of pleasure. My mother said that it was not
at all likely we should ever meet again; and I parted with her
at last in a passion of tears. The children were weeping too,
from sympathy rather than from any special or well-comprehended
sorrow, and I heartily wished myself away, and out of
sight.

Jenks brought the horse to us, and, after he had assisted
my father in fastening the trunk, took me apart from the
group that had gathered around the chaise, and said in a confidential
way that he made an attempt on the previous night to
leave. He had got as far as the window from which he intended
to let himself down, but finding it dark and rather cloudy
he had concluded to defer his departure until a lighter and
clearer night. “A storm, a dark storm, is awful on the ocean,
you know,” said Jenks, “but I shall go. You will not see me
here when you come again. Don't say anything about it, but
the old woman is going to be surprised, once in her life. She
will call Jenks, and Jenks won't come. He will be far, far
away on the billow.”

“Good-by,” I said; “I hope I'll see you again somewhere,
but I don't think you ought to leave Mrs. Sanderson.”

“Oh, I shall leave,” said Jenks. “The world is large and
Mrs. Sanderson is—is—quite small. Let her call Jenks once,
and see what it is to have him far, far away. Her time will
come.” And he shook his head, and pressed his lips together,
and ground the gravel under his feet, as if nothing less than
an earthquake could shake his determination. The case seemed

[figure description] Page 059.[end figure description]

quite hopeless to me, and I remember that the unpleasant possibility
suggested itself that I might be summoned to The Mansion
to take Jenks's place.

At the close of our little interview, he drew a long paper box
from his pocket, and gave it to me with the injunction not to
open it until I had gone half way to Hillsborough. I accordingly
placed it in the boot of the chaise, to wait its appointed
time.

Jenks rode with us as far as The Mansion, spending the
time in instructing my father just where, under the shoulder
of the old black horse, he could make a whip the most effective
without betraying the marks to Mrs. Sanderson, and, when we
drove up to the door, disappeared at once around the corner
of the house. I went in to take leave of the lady, and found
her in the little library, awaiting me. Before her, on the table,
were a Barlow pocket-knife, a boy's playing-ball, a copy of
the New Testament, and a Spanish twenty-five cent piece.

“There,” she said, “young man, put all those in your
pockets, and see that you don't lose them. I want you to write
me a letter once a month, and, when you write, begin your letters
with `Dear Aunt.”'

The sudden accession to my boyish wealth almost drove me
wild. I had received my first knife and my first silver. I impulsively
threw my arms around the neck of my benefactress,
and told her I should never, never forget her, and should
never do anything that would give her trouble.

“See that you don't!” was the sharp response.

As I bade her good-by, I was gratified by the look of pride
which she bestowed on me, but she did not accompany me to
the door, or speak a word to my father. So, at last, we were gone,
and fairly on the way. I revealed to my father the treasures I
had received, and only at a later day was I able to interpret the
look of pain that accompanied his congratulations. I was indebted
to a stranger, who was trying to win my heart, for possessions
which his poverty forbade him to bestow upon me.

Of the delights of that drive over the open country I can

[figure description] Page 060.[end figure description]

give no idea. We climbed long hills; we rode by the side of
cool, dashing streams; we paused under the shadow of wayside
trees; we caught sight of a thousand forms of frolic life
on the fences, in the forests, and in the depths of crystal pools;
we saw men at work in the fields, and I wondered if they did not
envy us; we met strange people on the road, who looked at
us with curious interest; a black fox dashed across our way,
and, giving us a scared look, scampered into the cover and was
gone; bobolinks sprang up in the long grass on wings tangled
with music, and sailed away and caught on fences to steady
themselves; squirrels took long races before us on the road-side
rails; and far up through the trees and above the hills white-winged
clouds with breasts of downy brown floated against a sky
of deepest blue. Never again this side of heaven do I expect
to experience such perfect pleasure as I enjoyed that day—a
delight in all forms and phases of nature, sharpened by the
expectations of new companionships and of a strange new life
that would open before I should sleep again.

The half-way stage of our journey was reached before noon,
and I was quite as anxious to see the gift which Jenks had
placed in my hands at parting as to taste the luncheon which
my mother had provided. Accordingly, when my repast was
taken from the basket and spread before me, I first opened the
paper box. I cannot say that I was not disappointed;
but the souvenir was one of which only I could understand
the significance, and that fact gave it a rare charm. It consisted
of a piece of a wooden shingle labeled in pencil
“Atlantick Oshun,” in the middle of which was a little ship,
standing at an angle of forty-five degrees to the plane of
the shingle, with a mast and a sail of wood, and a figure
at the bow, also of wood, intended doubtless to represent
Jenks himself, looking off upon the boundless waste. The
utmost point of explanation to which my father could urge me
was the statement that some time something would happen at
The Mansion which would explain all. So I carefully put the
“Atlantick Oshun” into its box, in which I preserved it for

[figure description] Page 061.[end figure description]

many months, answering all inquiries concerning it with the
tantalizing statement that it was “a secret.”

Toward the close of the afternoon, we came in sight of
Hillsborough, with its two churches, and its cluster of embowered
white houses. It was perched, like many New England
villages, upon the top of the highest hill in the region, and we
entered at last upon the long acclivity that led to it. Halfway
up the hill, we saw before us a light, open wagon drawn by
two gray horses, and bearing a gentleman and lady who were
quietly chatting and laughing together. As we drew near to
them, they suddenly stopped, and the gentleman, handing the
reins to his companion, rose upon his feet, drew a rifle to his
eye and discharged it at some object in the fields. In an
instant, a little dog bounced out of the wagon, and, striking
rather heavily upon the ground, rolled over and over three
or four times, and then, gaining his feet, went for the game.
Our own horse had stopped, and, as wild as the little dog, I
leaped from the chaise, and started to follow. When I came
up with the dog, he was making the most extravagant plunges
at a wounded woodchuck, who squatted, chattering and showing
his teeth. I seized the nearest weapon in the shape of a
cudgel that I could find, dispatched the poor creature, and bore
him in triumph to the gentleman, the little dog barking and
snapping at the game all the way.

“Well done, my lad! I have seen boys who were afraid of
woodchucks. Toss him into the ravine: he is good for
nothing,” said the man of the rifle.

Then he looked around, and, bowing to my father, told him
that as he was fond of shooting he had undertaken to rid the
farms around him of the animals that gave their owners so
much trouble. “It is hard upon the woodchucks,” he added,
“but kind to the farmers.” This was apparently said to defend
himself from the suspicion of being engaged in cruel and
wanton sport.

At the sound of his voice, the tired and reeking horse which
my father drove whinnied, then started on, and, coming to the

[figure description] Page 062.[end figure description]

back of the other carriage, placed his nose close to the gentleman's
shoulder. The lady looked around and smiled, while
the man placed his hand caressingly upon the animal's head.
“Animals are all very fond of me,” said he. “I don't understand
it: I suppose they do.”

There was something exceedingly winning and hearty in the
gentleman's voice, and I did not wonder that all the animals
liked him.

“Can you tell me,” inquired my father, “where The Bird's
Nest is?”

“Oh, yes, I'm going there. Indeed, I'm the old Bird himself.”

“Tut! who takes care of the nest?” said the lady with a
smile.

“And this is the Mother Bird—Mrs. Bird,” said the gentleman.

Mrs. Bird bowed to us both, and, beckoning to me, pointed
to her side. It was an invitation to leave my father, and take
a seat with her. The little dog, who had been helped into his
master's wagon, saw me coming, and mounted into his lap,
determined that he would shut that place from the intruder. I
accepted the invitation, and, with the lady's arm around me,
we started on.

“Now I am going to guess,” said Mr. Bird. “I guess your
name is Arthur Bonnicastle, that the man behind us is your
father, that you are coming to The Bird's Nest to live, that
you are intending to be a good boy, and that you are going to
be very happy.”

“You've guessed right the first time,” I responded laughing.

“And I can always guess when a boy has done right and
when he has done wrong,” said Mr. Bird. “There's a little
spot in his eye—ah, yes! you have it!—that tells the whole
story,” and he looked down pleasantly into my face.

At this moment one of his horses discovered a young calf by
the roadside, and, throwing back his ears, gave it chase. I
had never seen so funny a performance. The horse, in genuine
frolic, dragged his less playful mate and the wagon through the

[figure description] Page 063.[end figure description]

gutter and over rocks for many rods, entirely unrestrained by
his driver until the scared object of the chase slipped between
two bars at the roadside, and ran wildly off into the field. At
this the horse shook his head in a comical way and went
quietly back into the road.

“That horse is laughing all over,” said Mr. Bird. “He
thinks it was an excellent joke. I presume he will think of it,
and laugh again when he gets at his oats.”

“Do you really think that horses laugh, Mr. Bird?” I inquired.

“Laugh? Bless you, yes,” he replied. “All animals laugh
when they are pleased. Gyp”—and he turned his eyes upon
the little dog in his lap—“are you happy?”

Gyp looked up into his master's face, and wagged his tail.

“Don't you see `yes' in his eye, and a smile in the wag of
his tail?” said Mr. Bird. “If I had asked you the same
question you would have answered with your tongue, and
smiled with your mouth. That's all the difference. These
creatures understand us a great deal better than we understand
them. Why, I never drive these horses when I am
finely dressed for fear they will be ashamed of their old harness.”

Then turning to the little dog again, he said: “Gyp, get
down.” Gyp immediately jumped down, and curled up at his
feet. “Gyp, come up here,” said he, and Gyp mounted
quickly to his old seat. “Don't you see that this dog understands
the English language?” said Mr. Bird; “and don't you
see that we are not so bright as a dog, if we cannot learn his?
Why, I know the note of every bird, and every insect, and
every animal on all these hills, and I know their ways and
habits. What is more, they know I understand them, and you
will hear how they call me and sing to me at The Bird's Nest.”

So I had received my first lesson from my new teacher, and
little did he appreciate the impression it had made upon me.
It gave me a sympathy with animal life and an interest in its
habits which have lasted until this hour. It gave me, too, an

[figure description] Page 064.[end figure description]

insight into him. He had a strong sympathy in the life of a
boy, for his own sake. Every new boy was a new study that
he entered upon, not from any sense of duty, or from any
scheme of policy, but with a hearty interest excited by the boy
himself. He was as much interested in the animal play of a
boy as he had been in the play of the horse. He watched a
group of boys with the same hearty amusement that held him
while witnessing the frolic of kittens and lambs. Indeed, he
often played with them; and in this sympathy, freely manifested,
he held the springs of his wonderful power over them.

We soon arrived at The Bird's Nest, and all the horses were
passed into other hands. My little trunk was loosed, and
carried to a room I had not seen, and in a straggling way we
entered the house.

Before we alighted, I took a hurried outside view of my
future home. On the whole, “The Bird's Nest” would have
been a good name for it if a man by any other name had presided
over it. It had its individual and characteristic beauty,
because it had been shaped to a special purpose; but it seemed
to have been brought together at different times, and from wide
distances. There was a central old house, and a hexagonal
addition, and a tower, and a long piazza that tied everything
together. It certainly looked grand among the humble houses
of the village; though I presume that a professional architect
would not have taken the highest pleasure in it. As Mr. Bird
stepped out of his wagon upon the piazza, and took off his hat, I
had an opportunity to see him and to fix my impressions of his
appearance. He was a tall, handsome, strongly-built man, a
little past middle life, with a certain fullness of habit that comes
of good health and a happy temperament. His eye was blue,
his forehead high, and his whole face bright and beaming with
good-nature. His companion was a woman above the medium
size, with eyes the same color of his own, into whose plainly-parted
hair the frost had crept, and upon whose honest face
and goodly figure hung that ineffable grace which we try to
characterize by the word “motherly.”

[figure description] Page 065.[end figure description]

I heard the shouts of boys at play upon the green, for it was
after school hours, and met half-a-dozen little fellows on the
piazza, who looked at me with pleasant interest as “the new
boy;” and then we entered a parlor with curious angles, and
furniture that betrayed thorough occupation and usage. There
were thrifty plants and beautiful flowers in the bay-window, for
plants and flowers came as readily within the circle of Mr.
Bird's sympathies as birds and boys. There was evidently an
uncovered stairway near one of the doors, for we heard two or
three boys running down the steps with a little more noise than
was quite agreeable. Immediately Gyp ran to the door where
the noise was manifested, and barked with all his might.

“Gyp is one of my assistants in the school,” said Mr. Bird,
in explanation, “especially in the matter of preserving order.
A boy never runs down-stairs noisily without receiving a scolding
from him. He is getting a little old now and sensitive, and
I am afraid has not quite consideration enough for the youngsters.”

I laughed at the idea of having a dog for a teacher, but with
my new notions of Gyp's capacity I was quite ready to believe
what Mr. Bird told me about him.

My father found himself very much at home with Mr. and
Mrs. Bird, and was evidently delighted with them, and with my
prospects under their roof and care. We had supper in the
great dining-room with forty hungry but orderly boys, a pleasant
evening with music afterward, and an early bed. I was
permitted to sleep with my father that night, and he was permitted
to take me upon his arm, and pillow my slumbers there,
while he prayed for me and secretly poured out his love upon
me.

Before we went to sleep my father said a few words to me,
but those words were new and made a deep impression.

“My little boy,” he said, “you have my life in your hands.
If you grow up into a true, good man, I shall be happy, although
I may continue poor. I have always worked hard, and
I am willing to work even harder than ever, if it is all right

[figure description] Page 066.[end figure description]

with you; but if you disappoint me and turn out badly, you
will kill me. I am living now, and expect always to live, in
and for my children. I have no ambitious projects for myself.
Providence has opened a way for you which I did not anticipate.
Do all you can to please the woman who has undertaken
to do so much for you, but do not forget your father and
mother, and remember always that it is not possible for anybody
to love you and care for you as we do. If you have any
troubles, come to me with them, and if you are tempted to do
wrong pray for help to do right. You will have many struggles
and trials—everybody has them—but you can do what you
will, and become what you wish to become.”

The resolutions that night formed—a thousand times shaken
and a thousand times renewed—became the determining and
fruitful forces of my life.

The next morning, when the old black horse and chaise were
brought to the door, and my father, full of tender pain, took
leave of me, and disappeared at last at the foot of the hill, and
I felt that I was wholly separated from my home, I cried as if
I had been sure that I had left that home forever. The passion
wasted itself in Mrs. Bird's motherly arms, and then, with
words of cheer and diversions that occupied my mind, she cut
me adrift, to find my own soundings in the new social life of
the school.

Of the first few days of school-life there is not much to be
said. They passed pleasantly enough. The aim of my teachers
at first was not to push me into study, but to make me
happy, to teach me the ways of my new life, and to give me an
opportunity to imbibe the spirit of the school. My apprehensions
were out in every direction. I learned by watching
others my own deficiencies; and my appetite for study grew
by a natural process. I could not be content, at last, until I
had become one with the rest in work and in acquirements.

There lies before me now a package of my letters, made
sacred by my father's interest in and perusal and preservation
of them; and, although I have no intention to burden these

[figure description] Page 067.[end figure description]

pages with their crudenesses and puerilities, I cannot resist the
temptation to reproduce the first which I wrote at The Bird's
Nest, and sent home. I shall spare to the reader its wretched
orthography, and reproduce it entire, in the hope that he will
at least enjoy its unconscious humor.

“The Bird's Nest.
“Dear precious father:—

“I have lost my ball. I don't know where in the world it can be. It
seemed to get away from me in a curious style. Mr. Bird is very kind,
and I like him very much. I am sorry to say I have lost my Barlow knife
too. Mr. Bird says a Barlow knife is a very good thing. I don't quite
think I have lost the twenty-five cent piece. I have not seen it since yesterday
morning, and I think I shall find it. Henry Hulm, who is my
chum, and a very smart boy, I can tell you, thinks the money will be found.
Mr. Bird says there must be a hole in the top of my pocket. I don't know
what to do. I am afraid Aunt Sanderson will be cross about it. Mr.
Bird thinks I ought to give my knife to the boy that will find the money,
and the money to the boy that will find the knife, but I don't see as I
should make much in that way, do you? I love Mrs. Bird very much.
Miss Butler is the dearest young lady I ever knew. Mrs. Bird kisses us all
when we go to bed, and it seems real good. I have put the testament in
the bottom of my trunk, under all the things. I shall keep that if possible.
If Mrs. Sanderson finds out that I have lost the things, I wish you would
explain it and tell her the testament is safe. Miss Butler has dark eyebrows
and wears a belt. Mr. Bird has killed another woodchuck. I wonder
if you left the key of my trunk. It seems to be gone. We have real
good times, playing ball and taking walks. I have walked out with Miss
Butler. I wish mother could see her hair, and I am your son with ever so
much love to you and mother and all,

p587-077 CHAPTER IV. IN WHICH THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE IS NOT PERMITTED TO RUN AT ALL.

[figure description] Page 068.[end figure description]

The first night which I spent in The Bird's Nest, after my
father left me, was passed alone, though my room opened into
another that was occupied by two boys. On the following day
Mr. Bird asked me if I had met with any boy whom I would
like for a room-mate; and I told him at once that Henry
Hulm was the boy I wanted. He smiled at my selection, and
asked for the reason of it; and he smiled more warmly still
when I told him I thought he was handsome, and seemed
lonely and sad. The lad was at least two years older than I,
but among all the boys he had been my first and supreme
attraction. He was my opposite in every particular. Quiet,
studious, keeping much by himself, and bearing in his dark
face and eyes a look of patient self-repression, he enlisted at
once my curiosity, my sympathy and my admiration.

Henry was called into our consultation, and Mr. Bird informed
him of my choice. The boy smiled gratefully, for he
had been shunned by the ruder fellows for the same qualities
which had attracted me. As the room I occupied was better
than his, his trunk was moved into mine; and while we
remained in the school we continued our relations and kept
the same apartment. If I had any distinct motive of curiosity
in selecting him he never gratified it. He kept his history covered,
and very rarely alluded, in any way, to his home or his
family.

The one possession which he seemed to prize more highly
than any other was an ivory miniature portrait of his mother,
which, many a time during our life together, I saw him take

[figure description] Page 069.[end figure description]

from his trunk and press to his lips. I soon learned to respect
his reticence on topics which were quite at home on my own lips.
I suspect I did talking enough for two boys. Indeed, I threw
my whole life open to him, with such embellishments as my
imagination suggested. He seemed interested in my talk, and
was apparently pleased with me. I brought a new element
into his life, and we became constant companions when out of
school, as well as when we were in our room.

We were always wakened in the morning by a “whoop” and
“halloo” that ran from room to room over the whole establishment.
A little bell started it somewhere; and the first boy
who heard it gave his call, which was taken up by the rest and
borne on from bed to bed until the whole brood was in full cry.
Thus the school called itself. It was the voices of merry and
wide-awake boys that roused the drowsy ones; and very rarely
did a dull and sulky face show itself in the breakfast-room.

This morning call was the key to all the affairs of the day
and to the policy of the school. Self-direction and self-government—
these were the most important of all the lessons
learned at The Bird's Nest. Our school was a little community
brought together for common objects—the pursuit of useful
learning, the acquisition of courteous manners, and the practice
of those duties which relate to good citizenship. The only
laws of the school were those which were planted in the conscience,
reason, and sense of propriety of the pupils. The
ingenuity with which these were developed and appealed to has
been, from that day to this, the subject of my unbounded admiration.
The boys were made to feel that the school was
their own, and that they were responsible for its good order.
Mr. Bird was only the biggest and best boy, and the accepted
president of the establishment. The responsibility of the boys
was not a thing of theory only. It was deeply realized in the
conscience and conduct of the school. However careless and
refractory a new boy might be, he soon learned that he had a
whole school to deal with, and that he was not a match for the
public opinion. He might evade the master's or a teacher's

[figure description] Page 070.[end figure description]

will, but he could not evade the eyes or the sentiments of the
little fellows around him.

On the first Friday evening of my term, I entered as a
charmed and thoroughly happy element into one of the social
institutions of the school. On every Friday evening, after the
hard labor of the week was over, it was the custom of the
school to hold what was called a “reception.” Teachers and
pupils made the best toilet they could, and spent the evening
in the parlors, dancing, and listening to music, and socially
receiving the towns-people and such strangers as might happen
to be in the village. The piano that furnished the music was
the first I had ever heard, and at least half of my first reception-evening
was spent by its side, in watching the skillful and
handsome fingers that flew over its mysterious keys. I had
always been taught that dancing was only indulged in by wicked
people; but there were dear Mr. and Mrs. Bird looking on;
there was precious Miss Butler without her belt, leading little
fellows like myself through the mazes of the figures; there were
twenty innocent and happy boys on the floor, their eyes sparkling
with excitement; there were fine ladies who had come to
see their boys, and village maidens simply clad and as fresh as
roses; and I could not make out that there was anything wicked
about it.

It was the theory of Mr. Bird that the more the boys could
be brought into daily familiar association with good and gracious
women the better it would be for them. Accordingly he
had no men among his teachers, and as his school was the
social center of the village, and all around him were interested
in his objects, there were always ladies and young women at
the receptions who devoted themselves to the happiness of the
boys. Little lads of less than ten summers found no difficulty
in securing partners who were old enough to be their mothers
and grandmothers; and as I look back upon the patient and
hearty efforts of these women, week after week and year after
year, to make the boys happy and manly and courteous, it enhances
my respect for womanhood, and for the wisdom which

[figure description] Page 071.[end figure description]

laid all its plans to secure these attentions and this influence
for us. I never saw a sheepish-looking boy or a sheepish-acting
boy who had lived a year at The Bird's Nest. Through the
influence of the young women engaged as teachers and of those
who came as sympathetic visitors, the boys never failed to become
courteous, self-respectful, and fearless in society.

Miss Butler, the principal teacher, who readily understood
my admiration of her, undertook early in the evening to get me
upon the floor; but it was all too new to me, and I begged to
be permitted for one evening to look on and do nothing. She
did not urge me; so I played the part of an observer. One
of the first incidents of the evening that attracted my attention
was the entrance in great haste of a good-natured, rollicking boy,
whose name I had learned from the fellows to be Jack Linton.
Jack had been fishing and had come home late. His toilet
had been hurried, and he came blundering into the room with
his laughing face flushed, his neck-tie awry, and his heavy boots
on.

Mr. Bird, who saw everything, beckoned Jack to his side.
“Jack,” said he, “you are a very rugged boy.”

“Am I?” And Jack laughed.

“Yes, it is astonishing what an amount of exercise you require,”
said Mr. Bird.

“Is it?” And Jack laughed again.

“Yes, I see you have your rough boots on for another walk.
Suppose you walk around Robin Hood's Barn, and report
yourself in a light, clean pair of shoes, as soon as you return.”

Jack laughed again, but he made rather sorry work of it;
and then he went out. “Robin Hood's Barn” was the name
given to a lonely building a mile distant, to which Mr. Bird was
in the habit of sending boys whose surplus vitality happened to
lead them into boisterousness or mischief. Gyp, who had been
an attentive listener to the conversation, and apparently understood
every word of it, followed Jack to the door, and, having
dismissed him into the pleasant moonlight, gave one or two
light yelps and went back into the drawing-room.

[figure description] Page 072.[end figure description]

Jack was a brisk walker and a lively runner, and before an
hour had elapsed was in the drawing-room again, looking as
good-natured as if nothing unusual had occurred. I looked at
his feet and saw that they were irreproachably incased in light,
shining shoes, and that his neck-tie had been readjusted. He
came directly to Mr. Bird and said: “I have had a very pleasant
walk, Mr. Bird.”

“Ah! I'm delighted,” responded the master, smiling; and
then added:

“Did you meet anybody?”

“Yes, sir; I met a cow.”

“What did you say to her?”

“I said `How do you do, ma'am? How's your calf?”'

“What did she say?” asked Mr. Bird very much amused.

“She said the calf was very well, and would be tough enough
for the boys in about two weeks,” replied Jack, with a loud
laugh.

Mr. Bird enjoyed the sally quite as much as the boys who
had gathered round him, and added:

“We all know who will want the largest piece, Jack. Now
go to your dancing.”

In a minute afterward, Jack was on the floor with a matronly-looking
lady to whom he related the events of the evening
without the slightest sense of annoyance or disgrace. But
that was the last time he ever attended a reception in his rough
boots.

The evening was filled with life and gayety and freedom.
To my unaccustomed eyes it was a scene of enchantment. I
wished my father could see it. I would have given anything
and everything I had to give could he have looked in upon it.
I was sure there was nothing wrong in such amusement. I
could not imagine how a boy could be made worse by such
happiness, and I never discovered that he was. Indeed, I can
trace a thousand good and refining influences to those evenings.
They were the shining goals of every week's race with
my youthful competitors; and while they were accounted

[figure description] Page 073.[end figure description]

simply as pleasures by us, they were regarded by the master and
the teachers as among the choicest means of education. The
manners of the school were shaped by them; and I know that
hundreds of boys attribute to them their release from the bondage
of bashfulness, under which many a man suffers while in
the presence of women during all his life.

I repeat that I have never discovered that a boy was made
worse by his experiences and exercises during those precious
evenings; and I have often thought how sad a thing it is for a
child to learn that he has been deceived or misinformed by his
parents with relation to a practice so charged with innocent
enjoyment. I enter here no plea for dancing beyond a faithful
record of its effect upon the occupants of The Bird's Nest.
I suppose the amusement may be liable to abuse: most good
things are; and I do not know why this should be an exception.
This, however, I am sure it is legitimate to say: that
the sin of abuse, be it great or little, is venial compared with
that which presents to the conscience as a sin in itself that
which is not a sin in itself, and thus charges an innocent amusement
with the flavor of guilt, and drives the young, in their
exuberant life and love of harmonious play, beyond the pale
of Christian sympathy.

As I recall the events of the occasion I find it impossible to
analyze the feeling that one figure among the dancers begot in
me. Whenever Miss Butler was on the floor I saw only her.
Her dark eyes, her heavy shining hair, the inexpressible ease of
her motions, her sunny smile,—that combination of graces
and manners which makes what we call womanliness,—fascinated
me, and inspired me with just as much love as it is possible
for a boy to entertain. I am sure no girl of my own age
could have felt toward her as I did. I should have been
angry with any boy who felt toward her thus, and equally
angry with any boy who did not admire her as much, or who
should doubt, or undertake to cheapen, her charms. How can
I question that it was the dawn within me of the grand passion—
an apprehension of personal and spiritual fitness for

[figure description] Page 074.[end figure description]

companionship? Pure as childhood, inspired by personal loveliness,
clothing its object with all angelic perfections, this boy-love
for a woman has always been to me the subject of pathetic
admiration, and has proved that the sweetest realm of love is
untained by any breath of sense.

There was a blind sort of wish within me for possession,
even at this early age, and I amused the lady by giving utterance
to my feelings. Wearied with the dancing, she took my
hand and led me to a retired seat, where we had a delightful
chat.

“I think you were born too soon,” I said to her, still clinging
to her hand, and looking my admiration.

“Oh! if I had been born later,” she replied, “I should not
be here. I should be a little girl somewhere.”

“I don't think I should love you if you were a little girl,” I
responded.

“Then perhaps you were not born soon enough,” she suggested.

“But if I had been born sooner I shouldn't be here now,”
I said.

“That's true,” said the lady, “and that would be very bad,
wouldn't it?”

“Yes, ever so bad,” I said. “I wouldn't miss being here
with you for a hundred dollars.”

The mode in which I had undertaken to measure the pleasure
of her society amused Miss Butler very much; and as I felt
that the sum had not impressed her sufficiently, I added fifty
to it. At this she laughed heartily, and said I was a strange
boy, a statement which I received as pleasant flattery.

“Did you ever hear of the princess who was put to sleep for
a hundred years and kept young and beautiful through it all?”
I inquired.

“Yes.”

“Well, I wish Mr. Bird were an enchanter, and would put
you to sleep until I get to be a man,” I said.

“But then I couldn't see you for ten years,” she replied.

[figure description] Page 075.[end figure description]

“Oh dear!” I exclaimed, “it seems to be all wrong.”

“Well, my boy, there are a great many things in the world
that seem to be all wrong. It is wrong for you to talk such
nonsense to me, and it is wrong for me to let you do it, and we
will not do wrong in this way any more. But I like you, and
we will be good friends always.”

Thus saying, my love dismissed me, and went back among
the boys; but little did she know how sharp a pang she left in
my heart. The forbidden subject was never mentioned again,
and like other boys under similar circumstances, I survived.

There was one boy besides myself who enacted the part of
an observer during that evening. He was a new boy, who had
entered the school only a few days before myself. He was from
the city, and looked with hearty contempt upon the whole
entertainment. He had made no friends during the fortnight
which had passed since he became an occupant of The Bird's
Nest. His haughty and supercilious ways, his habit of finding
fault with the school and everything connected with it, his
overbearing treatment of the younger boys, and his idle habits
had brought upon him the dislike of all the fellows. His name
was Frank Andrews, though for some reason we never called
him by his first name. He gave us all to understand that he was
a gentleman's son, that he was rich, and, particularly, that he
was in the habit of doing what pleased him and nothing else.

He was dressed better than any of the other boys, and
carried a watch, the chain of which he took no pains to conceal.
During all the evening he stood here and there about
the rooms, his arms folded, looking on with his critical eyes and
cynical smile. Nobody took notice of him, and he seemed
to be rather proud of his isolation. I do not know why he
should have spoken to me, for he was my senior, but toward
the close of the evening he came up to me and said in his
patronizing way:

“Well, little chap, how do you like it?”

“Oh! I think it's beautiful,” I replied.

“Do you! That's because you're green,” said Andrews.

[figure description] Page 076.[end figure description]

“Is it!” I responded, imitating his tone. “Then they're
all green—Mr. Bird and all.”

“There's where you're right, little chap,” said he. “They
are all green—Mr. Bird and all.”

“Miss Butler isn't green,” I asserted stoutly.

“Oh! isn't she?” exclaimed Andrews, with a degree of
sarcasm in his tone that quite exasperated me. “Oh, no! Miss
Butler isn't green of course,” he continued, as he saw my face
reddening. “She's a duck—so she is! so she is! and if you
are a good little boy you shall waddle around with her some
time, so you shall!”

I was so angry that I am sure I should have struck him if
we had been out of doors, regardless of his superior size and
age. I turned sharply on my heel, and, retiring to a corner
of the room, glared at him savagely, to his very great amusement.

It was at this moment that the bell rang for bed; and receiving,
one after another, the kisses of Mr. and Mrs. Bird, and
bidding the guests a good-night, some of whom were departing
while others remained, we went to our rooms.