CHAPTER VI.
A LITERARY ENTERPRISE.
WHISTLER soon found that his visit to Brookdale was not quite “spoilt,” as he feared it was, by the accident that had happened to him. His injured finger was somewhat troublesome, it is true, especially at night, when it received many unfortunate knocks, which often awoke him from a sound sleep. It also prevented his joining in the rough and active sports of which boys are generally so fond; and, as he had but one hand to work with, he found, moreover, that he could render but little assistance to Clinton, in his regular duties. But there was another and a pleasanter side to the account. The wound pained him but slightly, and his health was not at all affected by it. He could walk and ride as much as he pleased; and then, when Clinton could not accompany him in his excursions, he never failed to find sources of amusement about the house, or in the shop or the barn. The doctor called occasionally to look after the finger, and always reported that it was doing well, never omitting to praise Whistler for the good care he took of it.
One stormy day, about a week after the accident, as Whistler was sitting in the house, deeply engaged with a book, the lively “Clack! clack!” of the flail struck up, and, taking his cap and book, he ran out to the barn. He found Clinton in the back part of the barn, engaged in threshing rye. The grain, tied up in bundles, was piled on each side of him as high as the flooring above. The process of threshing hardly need be described; and yet, as possibly some young city reader may never have witnessed it, I will say that a quantity of straw is laid upon the barn floor, and the heads of it are beat by the flail until all the grain is shaken out of it. The flail is made of hard wood, in two pieces, united by leather, or some other flexible material, which allows the shorter piece to play freely, something like the lash of a whip. When the grain is all threshed out, the straw is removed, and tied up in bundles. The grain is then shovelled up, and passed through a coarse sieve, and is ready to be stored away.
“Have you found a piece, Willie?” inquired Clinton, as his cousin entered the barn.
“No, I can’t find one that suits me,” replied Whistler.
“Well, I’ve thought of another plan, and a better one still,” continued Clinton; “and that is, that you write a dialogue for us.”
“I write a dialogue! That’s a pretty joke!—ha! ha! ha!” replied Whistler, with a merry laugh.
“Yes,—why not?” inquired Clinton. “You write compositions, and you have got plenty of time now, while your finger is sore. Come, you’ll try, won’t you?”
“O, no; I couldn’t do anything if I should try,” replied Whistler. “If I had only known it before I left home, I could have got a copy of the dialogue the boys spoke at our last exhibition. It was a real funny piece; better than any in this book. One of these will do, though, if we can’t find something better.”
“But we must have something better,” said Clinton, with earnestness, laying down his flail. “If you won’t write one yourself, you’ll help me do it, won’t you?”
“Yes, I’ll agree to do what I can; but I’m afraid I shan’t help you much,” replied Whistler.
“If we put our heads together, I think we can get up something that will answer,” said Clinton. “As soon as I’ve threshed this lot I’ll go into the house with you, and see if we can’t make a beginning.”
The church and Sabbath-school which Clinton attended were making preparation for a social festive gathering, to be held in a grove; and among the entertainments proposed were to be declamations by several of the young people. Clinton and Whistler had both been invited to take part in these exercises, and they had also been requested to select a dialogue for two or three smaller boys, and to see that they were properly drilled in their parts. They felt that quite a serious responsibility had been laid upon them; and for a day or two it had been the subject of much consultation. Clinton had at length made a selection for himself, and Whistler had concluded to repeat the piece which he spoke at his school exhibition a few weeks before. The dialogue, however, was yet to be determined on; and, as they had less than two weeks for preparation, it naturally gave them some uneasiness, especially as they had thus far been unable to find a suitable piece.
After Clinton had finished threshing the lot of grain which he had begun, he went up to his bedroom, with Whistler, and opening the little desk upon the table, they sat down, and tried to agree upon some plan, or subject, for the dialogue. They did not accomplish much, however, beyond making a few pen flourishes, and thoroughly overhauling the contents of the desk, which contained, among other things, a few of Clinton’s compositions, in which Whistler was much interested. The fact was, neither of them had any idea to propose, and the longer they sat there the farther their attention wandered from the subject in hand, until, at last, the call to dinner interrupted their fruitless consultation.
The boys had no better success in the afternoon with their literary enterprise, and Clinton’s ardor began to cool off a little; for, to tell the truth, the ardor was pretty much all on his side. They retired to bed early in the evening, intending to have “a good talk” before it was time to go to sleep. While thus engaged, telling stories to each other, Whistler related an incident that once occurred in the school he attended.
“There!” exclaimed Clinton, as soon as he had finished, “why can’t we bring that into our dialogue? It would be a complete subject, wouldn’t it? We might change it a little, if we wanted to, to make it tell better in a dialogue, but it wouldn’t be very bad if we took it just as it is. What do you say to that idea, Willie?”
“I don’t know; perhaps we might make something out of it,” replied Whistler. “If we could only get it up equal to the original, it would make some fun, I can tell you.”
“We’ll try, at any rate,” said Clinton.
And they did try, the next day,—yes, and several days following. The result was, by their joint efforts, Whistler’s story was “done” into dialogue, with some slight changes to give it more effect. The old and very reasonable adage, that “Two heads are better than one,” proved true in this case, as they made a better dialogue, together, than either could have written alone. They seemed aware of this, and even Whistler came to feel quite a lively interest in the literary bantling. As the reader may like to know something of this production, I will give the substance of it, or, rather, the story on which it was founded.
A group of boys were playing in a school-room, a little while before school time, when a trifling dispute arose between two of them—John and Benjamin. One gave the other the lie, and, both being of hot temperament, it was “a word and a blow.” They clinched, fell, and rolled together on the floor, and were pummeling each other well, when suddenly the teacher walked into the room. Taking the pugilists by the collar, he lifted them upon their feet, and sent the other boys to their seats. On inquiring into the origin of the quarrel, he found that they were about equally guilty. Accordingly, he reproved them both sharply for their fault.
“If you must fight,” he said, “why don’t you do it in a decent and gentlemanly way, and not act like a couple of bullies? I’ll show you how it should be done. Here, John, take this stick (handing him the familiar ratan), and now give Benjamin one dozen smart cuts with it across his back. And don’t you lift a finger, Benjamin, unless you want me to take you in hand.”
John seemed as much astonished as pleased, as he took the rod and began to pay on the blows; while his antagonist received them without a word or cry, but with a sullen and dogged look. After he had completed the dozen, the teacher told Benjamin to take the ratan, and bestow the same favor upon John’s back. Both faces changed at this unexpected turn in affairs, and Benjamin laid on his dozen with a heartiness that showed he fully entered into the spirit of this part of the arrangement.
This operation finished, the teacher asked each of them if he was satisfied, and received an affirmative answer.
“Well, then,” said the teacher, “if you are both satisfied, your quarrel is made up, and you may complete the reconciliation by shaking hands, and giving each other the kiss of peace.”
There was a general titter among the scholars at these words, which the teacher promptly suppressed. Seeing that the two culprits hesitated, he repeated the order; but they did not move.
“Well,” he continued, “I see your feelings are hardly mollified, yet,—I shall have to see what I can do;” and he took the rod, and advanced towards them.
The boys, blushing to their temples, barely extended their hands, and brought their faces together, followed by an explosion of laughter from the whole school, which the teacher sternly silenced.
“That won’t do,” said the teacher; “it was too cold and mechanical,—there was no soul in it. You can do better than that; now, try again.”
After a little more coaxing (the ratan still impending over their heads), the culprits concluded to comply, and went through the ceremony in a much more cordial manner. There was a new burst of laughter from all hands, in which the teacher himself joined, this time; and the two offenders retreated to their seats, with faces as red as peonies, not knowing whether to laugh or cry.
Such was the story upon which the dialogue was founded. In dramatizing it, however, Clinton and Whistler had found it necessary to make some slight changes.
The boys made three copies of the dialogue—one for each of the principal characters. It was decided that Clinton should take the part of schoolmaster, and the two belligerents were to be represented by two smaller boys. These boys had agreed to meet Clinton and Whistler on Saturday afternoon, to study and rehearse their parts. The place of rendezvous was a charming little dell, in a grove behind the schoolhouse, which was well known to all the children in town by the name of “Spouting Hollow,” from the circumstance that it was occasionally used by the young orators as a place of rehearsal.
The boys had not yet shown their dialogue to any one. Clinton had thought of getting his father to read it, but no opportunity had presented itself as yet. On Friday evening, after tea, Mr. Davenport took a chair from the house, and seated himself just outside of the front door to enjoy the cool air, for the day had been quite sultry. Annie, with her little chair, soon seated herself by his side and engaged his attention, and it was some little time before Clinton could get a chance to broach the subject which was upon his mind.
“Ah! have you finished the dialogue, so soon?” inquired Mr. Davenport, when Clinton alluded to it.
“Yes, sir, it’s all done, and we’re going down to Spouting Hollow, to-morrow afternoon, to rehearse it,” replied Clinton.
“Well, you have been pretty smart, and I hope you have done your best, too,” said his father, in a tone that seemed to imply some slight misgivings.
“We think we have done pretty well,” remarked Whistler. “At any rate, we’ve made a better dialogue than I thought we could.”
“Ah! I’m glad to hear that,” replied Mr. Davenport; “what is the subject of it?”
“Perhaps you would like to read it,” said Clinton, with some reluctance, slowly drawing the manuscript from his jacket pocket.
“Yes, I will read it, if you wish,” replied his father.
Mr. Davenport took the paper, and commenced reading it, for it was not yet dark. The boys walked back and forth, around the house, both feeling something of that indefinite dread which the modest literary aspirant always experiences when his performances are submitted to superior wisdom and judgment.
“How long it takes him to read it!” at length whispered Clinton, after they had returned several times to the doorway, and found him still absorbed with the dialogue.
After a few minutes’ absence they again returned, and Mr. Davenport had commenced reading it anew.
“He’s reading it over again,—you may know he doesn’t like it,” whispered Clinton, when they were beyond his hearing; and the hearts of both sank within them.
The next time they approached the doorway, Mr. Davenport had finished reading the paper, but seemed to be so absorbed in thought that he did not notice the boys. They turned to go away again, when he suddenly called to them, and they went back, feeling like a couple of culprits.
“I was thinking,” he said, “of deferring my judgment of this dialogue for an hour or so, until I could collect my thoughts a little better; but, as I see you are in considerable suspense, I won’t ask you to wait any longer. And, to begin, I think you have executed your task very well indeed, in a literary point of view. The dialogue is natural and sprightly, and the whole arrangement is very good, and does you much credit. And yet, I can’t say I am wholly pleased with the piece. Like many other authors, I think you have been unfortunate in the choice of a subject. Whose idea was it,—who suggested the plot?”
“It was my idea,” replied Clinton; “Willie told me the story, and I thought it would make a good subject for a dialogue.”
“Ah! it is founded on fact, is it?” inquired Mr. Davenport.
“Yes, sir; it is almost word for word what happened in our school, once,” replied Whistler.
“Well, I will tell you plainly what my objections are,” continued Mr. Davenport. “They are of a purely moral nature, and perhaps you will not feel their force so much as I do. In the first place, I don’t like the fighting scene. I think it is so brutal and wicked for boys to maul each other in that way, that I would not encourage it, even by imitating it in sport. Besides, children are great imitators, and it wouldn’t be strange if some little fellows, after seeing your dialogue represented, should try to play off a fight on their own hook; and perhaps they might get in earnest before they were through with it. And then, again, seeing a sham fight, like yours, might strengthen a taste which too many boys have for witnessing real battles, in which bloody noses and torn clothing are the prizes. I presume you didn’t think of these things; but don’t you see there is some force in them?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Clinton.
“But they represent such things at the theatres,” suggested Whistler.
“I know they do, Willie,” said his uncle; “but, in my opinion, the theatre is a very poor school of morality.”
“And we read about such things in books, too,” added Clinton, gathering courage from his cousin’s objection to his father’s position.
“A written description of a fight, or any other species of wrong-doing, is a very different thing from the same affair acted out by living performers,” replied Mr. Davenport. “Still, such scenes ought to be introduced very sparingly and very cautiously into books, in my opinion.”
“Is there anything else in the dialogue that you don’t approve?” inquired Clinton.
“Yes,” replied his father; “but I suppose I must blame Willie’s teacher for the other faults, rather than you. I don’t think he took a very wise or proper course to settle the dispute between the two boys. I should say that the mutual flogging must have deepened their hatred of each other, and encouraged their fighting propensities. Then I do not like the forced reconciliation; it could only make deceivers and hypocrites of them. Exposing them to the ridicule of the whole school was another bad thing about the affair. In fact, I should think that the whole scene must have had a bad effect, not only on the culprits, but upon all who witnessed it; and for that reason I should not like to see it represented in a dialogue.”
“Well, then,” said Clinton, in a desponding tone, “we shall have to give up the dialogue, for we haven’t time to write another, even if we knew we could write a better one.”
“I hope you are not going to allow one failure to discourage you,” replied his father. “I do not find any fault with this, except with the subject; and I do not see why you cannot write another as good as this, that shall be free from all objectionable matter.”
Here the conversation ceased, and Mr. Davenport went into the house. His decision in regard to the dialogue had not been announced without the greatest pain, as he well knew how sore a disappointment and how deep a mortification it would carry with it. There was no honest and proper course, however, but to express his opinion freely and fully; and he accordingly did so, in as kind a way as he could.
“I almost wish we hadn’t shown it to father,” said Clinton, when they were alone. “I don’t believe anybody else would think there was any harm in it.”
“Well, as for my part,” said Whistler, “I’m glad we did show it to him; for if there’s anything out of the way in it, I should much rather know it now, than not find it out until after it was spoken.”
This manly remark had a decided effect on Clinton, who, in the bitterness of his disappointment, had uttered a sentiment which, to do him justice, we must say did not come from his heart.
“I suppose it’s all for the best,” he said; “but what shall we tell the boys, when they meet, to-morrow, to learn their parts?”
“We can tell them that our dialogue did not suit us, and we’re going to write another,” replied Whistler.
“Another?—how can we do that?” inquired Clinton.
“Why, you don’t mean to give it up, do you?” inquired Whistler. “I don’t, at any rate. We’ve promised the boys an original dialogue, and I, for one, shan’t back out without trying at least once more. We’ve got over a week to do it in, and it didn’t take us three days to write that.”
“Yes,—but the subject?” suggested Clinton.
“Ah, that’s the stick!” said Whistler. “Don’t you think your father could tell us of something to write about?”
“You might ask him,” said Clinton, who seemed determined that if another dialogue was written, his cousin should shoulder the burden.
Willie did ask his uncle, who was much pleased to learn that the boys had concluded to try again. He talked with them during the evening in regard to the matter, and suggested several plans and subjects, one of which struck them very favorably, and they at once concluded to adopt it.
Early the next morning the boys went to work upon their new dialogue; and so earnestly did they labor, that, to their own astonishment, it was finished when the dinner hour arrived. It was much shorter, however, than the first one, and was also simpler in its construction. Mr. Davenport read and approved it; and in the afternoon the nymphs of Spouting Hollow—if that classic retreat was honored by such inhabitants—had the pleasure of listening to its first rehearsal.
