CHAPTER VIII.
THE FOREST PICNIC.
THE long looked for twenty-fourth of August, the day appointed for the picnic, at length arrived. At Mr. Davenport’s the whole family were stirring before daylight had fairly appeared; for there was much to be done, and it was necessary to start for the scene of festivities at an early hour. A heavy mist hung over the village, at sunrise, but it soon melted away, and the weather was all that could have been desired.
Fanny, who was to carry the family to the picnic, was furnished with an extra allowance of oats; the pigs and poultry also received rations sufficient to last them till night; and the oxen and cows were turned into the pasture, to shift for themselves. After breakfast, the family dressed themselves in their best suits; the horse was harnessed into a large, open wagon; sundry cakes, and pies, and loaves of bread, were stowed away in the bottom of the cart; and then, locking up the house, all hands seated themselves in the vehicle, and they drove off towards the Cross Roads. The place of rendezvous for the party was the vestry of the church at the Cross Roads. This was the only church within a dozen miles of Brookdale, the few scattered families in that village not being able to sustain public worship among themselves. So the church at the Cross Roads was their church, although many of them lived four or five miles distant from it.
When Mr. Davenport’s family arrived at the vestry, they found that the people were nearly all assembled, and were about to start for the grove, which was a mile distant. There was a singular collection of vehicles around the church,—chaises, carryalls, wagons, hay-carts, &c.,—some of which were neatly trimmed with green boughs. The word was given to get ready, the various teams were loaded up, and the motley procession started, escorted by several young men on horseback, and the rear brought up by a large company on foot. Their route, most of the way, lay through a noble forest; for the road was not a public highway, but was little more than a path, being used chiefly for the teaming of wood. In many places it was quite rough, narrow and steep, and the carriages were obliged to proceed slowly; but it was free from dust, and was, withal, a very pleasant and romantic road. Several men and children had gone on ahead to open the gates, or, perhaps, to have the satisfaction of being first on the ground. The principal manager of the arrangements, who was mounted on a handsome horse, also rode in advance of the procession, to see that the way was cleared.
The grove selected for the picnic was at a place called “The Falls,” about a mile from the village, in a southwesterly direction. At this point the river becomes a miniature cataract, the current being narrowed, and the descent quite abrupt. The bed of the stream is rocky, and the waters, as they dance and tumble along their course, seem full of the spirit of frolic. There are fine groves on each bank, extending almost into the water.
The party reached the picnic ground in good order. The horses were removed from the wagons and carriages, and hitched in shady places, on the skirts of the woods. The young people were informed that they would have two hours to ramble about and amuse themselves, while their parents were looking after the provisions, arranging the tables, and gossiping with their acquaintances. Clinton, Whistler and Annie, soon fell in with Ella and her two cousins, and the six concluded to take a walk together in the woods.
“What a charming place this is for a picnic!” exclaimed Ella; “we haven’t anything that will compare with it around Boston,—have we, Willie?”
“No, I never saw such groves as these around Boston, although we have some pretty good places for picnics,” replied Whistler.
“Your brother Oscar used to like to come over here,” said Clinton, addressing Ella; “he has rambled all over these woods many a time.”
“And so has Jerry; they used to come over here together, gunning,” added Emily.
“Do you know that we expect Oscar home again pretty soon?” inquired Ella, addressing Clinton in a low tone.
“Yes, Willie told me,” he replied.
“He is going to live with our Aunt Page, in Vermont; we think it will be a real good place for him,” added Ella.
“I’m glad of it, and I hope he will do well,” said Clinton.
“He says he means to,” replied Ella; “he wrote mother a beautiful letter, just before I left home. I wish you could read it; it doesn’t seem like him, at all.”
“I wish I could see him once more. Perhaps I shall, when I go to Boston next month,” said Clinton.
The boy of whom they were speaking was Ella’s oldest brother. He was at this time about fifteen years old. He had been a wayward boy, and had caused the family much trouble and sorrow. He had been disobedient and disrespectful to his parents, and rough and domineering towards the other children. He chose for his associates boys who were, to say the least, no better than himself, and fell into indolent habits, neglecting his studies at school, and shirking, as far as he could, the various little services which he was expected to perform at home. At length his misconduct became so troublesome, that it was thought best to remove him from his city associates and temptations. Accordingly, he went to reside with his uncle in Brookdale, where he spent several months. This, however, did not reform him; but, instead of correcting his evil habits, he exerted a bad influence on his new acquaintances. This was especially true of his cousin Jerry, who was sadly contaminated by his example; and even Clinton, with all his good habits and principles, did not wholly escape the moral contagion. But at length his career in that place was brought to a close by an act that entitled him to a cell in the county prison, and his father was obliged to take him home, to save him from the consequences of his crime. He then made a short voyage to sea; but, not fancying that mode of life, he again became a loiterer about the streets of Boston, fell into bad company, was arrested for stealing, and, after a public trial, was sent to the Reform School; and there he remained at the time this conversation took place.[1]
The two hours allotted to the young folks for sports and rambles were improved in various ways. Some strolled through the woods and fields, in quest of flowers or berries; some sailed chip boats on the river, or waded in its clear waters, or tried to catch imaginary fish with worms impaled upon pin hooks; some amused themselves with a swing which had been suspended from the limb of a lofty oak; others played “I spy!” “hide and seek,” “tag,” and similar games; and others, reclining on the grass under the trees, talked and sang, and watched the movements of those around them. Clinton and Whistler, who felt some responsibility for a portion of the entertainment that was to be provided, did not remain long with the Prestons, but hunted up the boys who were to take part in the declamations, and assisted in making the necessary preparations for this part of the exercises.
At length the clear notes of a horn rang through the woods for several minutes. This was the signal for the company to assemble, and it was promptly obeyed. The “Log Cabin,” as it was called, was the place of gathering. This was a long, low, and rude structure, the walls being of logs, laid one upon another, and the roof thatched with bark. There were several square holes in the sides, which let in the light, and an opening at one end, which served as a door. A pole was fastened to the gable over the door, from which floated an American flag. This log house was erected for the accommodation of picnic parties, by the young men of the neighborhood, several years previous.
The inside of the log house was as rude as the exterior. The end opposite the entrance had a raised platform, but the rest of the building had no floor except the native turf. On each side there was a rough bench, the length of the cabin, which furnished the only seats for the company. The interior was prettily decorated with hemlock and spruce boughs, which were arranged in the form of an alcove and canopy, on the platform, producing a very pleasing effect.
When the people had all assembled in this forest hall, the pastor commenced the exercises by supplicating the divine blessing upon their festivities. He also addressed the company in a familiar manner, and then called upon the children for a song, which was given in a spirited style. After one or two speeches, and another song, the declamatory exercises were introduced by Clinton, who gave an extract from one of Webster’s orations, in a creditable manner. Several misses and boys then recited poems, or declaimed pieces, Whistler being one of the number. Last of all came the following original dialogue, the joint production of Clinton and Whistler, which we feel bound to copy in full:
THE RIVAL SPEAKERS.
SCENE—The platform of a school-room.—CHARACTERS—THOMAS TROTTER, a large boy, with a “big voice,” and SAMUEL SLY, a small boy, whose vocal organ is pitched on a high key.
[Thomas enters, and makes his bow to the audience, followed by Samuel, who goes through the same ceremony, a little in his rear.]
TOM [turning partially round.]—What do you want here?
SAM.—I want to speak my piece, to be sure.
TOM.—Well, you will please to wait until I get through; it’s my turn now.
SAM.—No, ’tain’t your turn, either, my learned friend; excuse me for contradicting, but if I don’t stick out for my rights, nobody else will. My turn came before that fellow’s who said “his voice was still for war;” but I couldn’t think how my speech began, then, and he got the start of me.
TOM.—Very well; if you were not ready when your turn came, that’s your fault, and not mine. Go to your seat, and don’t bother me any more.
SAM.—Well, that’s cool, I declare,—as cool as a load of ice in February. Can’t you ask some other favor, Mr. Trotter?
TOM.—Yes; hold your tongue.
SAM.—Can’t do that; I’m bound to get off my speech, first. You see it’s running over, like a bottle of beer, and I can’t keep it in. So here goes:
“My name is Norval; on the Grampian Hills.
My father feeds—”
TOM [interrupting him, commences his piece in a loud tone.]—“Friends, Romans, countrymen!”
SAM.—Greeks, Irishmen and fellow-sojers!
TOM.—“Lend me your ears.”
SAM.—Don’t you do it; he’s got ears enough of his own.
TOM.—“I come to bury Cæsar, not to praise him.”
SAM [mimicking his gestures.]—I come to speak my piece, and I’ll do it, Cæsar or no Cæsar. “My name is Norval—”
TOM [advancing towards him in a threatening attitude.]—Sam Sly, if you don’t stop your fooling I’ll put you off the stage.
SAM [retreating.]—Don’t, don’t you touch me, Tom; you’ll joggle my piece all out of me again.
TOM.—Well, then, keep still until I get through.
[Turns to the audience.]
“Friends, Romans, countrymen! lend me your ears;
I come to bury Cæsar, not to praise him.”
SAM.—I say, Tommy, what are you bla-a-a-a-r-ting about; have you lost your calf?
TOM.—“The evil that men do lives after them,
The good is oft interred with their bones;
So let it be with Cæsar.”
[He is again brought to a stand by Sam, who is standing behind him, mimicking his gestures in a ludicrous manner.]
Now, Sam, I tell you to stop your monkey shines; if you don’t, I’ll make you!
SAM.—You stop spouting about Cæsar, then, and let me have my say. You needn’t think you can cheat me out of my rights because you wear higher heeled shoes than I do.
TOM.—I can tell you one thing, sir,—nothing but your size saves you from a good flogging.
SAM.—Well, that is a queer coincidence, for I can tell you that nothing but your size saves you from a good dose of Solomon’s grand panacea. [To the audience.] I don’t know what can be done with such a long-legged fellow,—he’s too big to be whipped, and he isn’t big enough to behave himself. Now, all keep still, and let me begin again: “My name is Norval—”
TOM.—“I come to bury Cæsar—”
SAM.—I thought you’d buried him once, good deeds, bones and all; how many more times are you going to do it?
TOM.—Sam, I’m a peaceable fellow; but, if you go much further, I won’t be responsible for the consequences.
SAM.—I’m for piece, too; but it’s my piece, and not your long rigmarole about Cæsar, that I go in for. As I said before, “My name is—”
TOM.—“The noble Brutus
Hath told you Cæsar was ambitious;
If it were so, it were a grievous fault,
And grievously hath Cæsar answered it.”
SAM [in a loud whisper.]—I say, Tom, did you know you had got a hole in your unwhisperables?
TOM.—“Here, under leave of Brutus, and the rest.
(For Brutus is an honorable man,—
So are they all, all honorable men,)
Come I to speak in Cæsar’s funeral.”
SAM.—This isn’t Cæsar’s funeral,—it’s the exhibition of the Spankertown Academy, and it’s my turn to officiate, so get out with Cæsar,—“My name is Nor—”
TOM.—“He was my friend, faithful and just to me;
But Brutus says he was ambitious;
And Brutus is an honorable man.”
SAM.—Brutus be hanged; who cares for what he said? Come, you’ve sputtered enough; now give me a chance to say something. “My name is—”
TOM.—Come, Sammy, don’t interrupt me again, that’s a clever fellow. Let me finish my piece, and then you shall have the whole platform to yourself.
SAM.—You’re very kind, Mr. Trotter,—altogether too kind! Your generosity reminds me of an Irish gentleman, who couldn’t live peaceably with his wife, and so they agreed to divide the house between them. “Biddy,” says he, “ye’ll jist be after taking the outside of the house, and I’ll kape the inside.”
TOM [to the audience.]—Ladies and gentlemen, you see it is useless for me to attempt to proceed, and I trust you will excuse me from performing my part. [Bows, and withdraws.]
SAM.—Yes, I hope you will excuse him, ladies and gentlemen. The fact is, he means well enough; but, between you and me, he doesn’t know a wheelwright from a right wheel. I’m sorry to say, his education has been sadly neglected, as you all perceive. He hasn’t enjoyed the advantages that I have for learning good manners. And, then, did you ever hear such a ridiculous spouter! He might make a very decent town crier, or auctioneer, or something of that sort,—but, to think of Tommy Trotter pretending to be an orator, and delivering a funeral oration over Cæsar! O my! it’s enough to make a cat laugh! And, now, ladies and gentlemen, as the interruption has ceased, I will proceed with my part:
“My name is Norval; on the Grampian Hills
My father feeds his flocks——”
And—and—and—[aside, to a boy near him]—what is it?—[to the audience]—“feeds his flocks”—and—and—and—there! I’ll be blowed if I haven’t got dead stuck, a’ready! Just as I expected, that lubber that came to bury Cæsar has bullied all the ideas out of my head! [Beats an inglorious retreat, with his hands over his face.]
How the hearts of the young authors beat, as, concealed from the audience, behind the spruce boughs on the stage, they watched the progress of the piece, and trembled lest, after all their pains, it should prove a failure! But their anxiety was needless. The lads who took the parts acquitted themselves admirably, and the whole assembly seemed to join heartily in the applause which followed its conclusion.
After a few more addresses from gentlemen present, the assembly was dismissed for one hour. The older people scattered themselves over the grounds, in little groups, while the children, pleased with the successful issue of their part in the entertainment, made the woods ring with their merry voices, as they bounded through the grove. Clinton and Whistler received many congratulations for the success of their dialogue and the excellence of their speaking. Among those whose commendation was most hearty, was young Mr. Walker, whom they had not seen, till now, since the memorable morning when his passion so completely overmastered him. The sight of him stirred up the sense of injury which was still rankling in Clinton’s heart, and he tried to avoid him. Mr. Walker, however, was now as calm as a summer’s day, and seemed to have entirely forgotten the character of that interview. Familiarly slapping the boy on the back, he said:
“Clinty, they say you composed that dialogue; is that a fact?”
“Willie and I wrote it, together,” replied Clinton.
“Well, it was a capital hit; every body says so. Your speaking was good, too; you’ve covered yourselves with glory, both of you,” said Mr. Walker.
The boys, somewhat abashed by praise from such a source, looked confused, and made no reply.
“By the way,” continued Mr. Walker, putting a hand on the shoulder of each of the boys, and drawing them aside from other groups that were near, “you mustn’t think anything of what I said the other day. I was a little excited, you know, and I suppose I said rather more than I ought to. I have been sorry for it ever since, and I don’t want you to think I meant it all.”
“We can see, now, that we did wrong,” said Whistler, perceiving that his cousin was at a loss what to say; “but, the fact is, we didn’t think much about it at the time. We didn’t mean any harm; that’s all the excuse we can give.”
“No, we didn’t mean any harm, and we both felt bad enough when we found how Dick cheated us,” added Clinton.
“Well, we won’t say anything more about that,” remarked Mr. Walker; “it can’t be helped, now, and I rather think we shall catch Dick, after all. If we do, he will have to sweat, that’s certain. He won’t get off with less than three or four years in the state’s prison.”
Mr. Walker passed along to other groups, but his few words to the boys had changed their feelings towards him very materially. Their resentment had melted away before his apology, and they felt relieved from a heavy burden of censure. Still, it must not be supposed that all traces of that outburst of passion were thus easily removed. No apology can sink so deep into the heart as an angry word or an unjust reproach. The scar remains after the wound is healed.
Another blast from the horn rang through the woods and summoned the people to the feast, which had been spread upon a long table under the trees, near the cabin. There was a bountiful supply of provisions, which had been contributed by the various families; and the company, standing around the tables, demolished the substantials and delicacies in a way that evinced the sharpness of their appetites and the excellence of the repast.
The dinner was followed by several speeches, stories, anecdotes and songs, and then the people dispersed, to amuse themselves in their own way. Clinton proposed a blueberry party; and his parents, Whistler, Annie, the Preston children, and several others, entered into the arrangement. A short walk through the woods, by a path well known to Clinton, brought them to several acres of cleared land, which was literally covered with blueberries, of a large size, and in full perfection. To the regret of all, they had no vessels to fill; but they picked as many as they could eat, and each broke off a few branches from the well-laden bushes, to carry back to the grove, as specimens of the generous yield of the blueberry pasture.
No hour was set for the breaking up of the picnic; but, as the sun dropped down towards the west, one load after another started for home, those who lived most distant being generally the first to leave. Mr. Davenport and his family withdrew at an early hour, as they not only had a long ride before them, but had many things to attend to after they got home. The tongues of the young folks ran glibly enough as they jogged along through the solitary roads, and all the scenes and enjoyments of the day passed in vivid review before them. The sixth and last mile of their homeward journey was half completed before they showed any signs of having “talked themselves out;” and then the conversation suddenly came to a stand, and they rode in silence for several minutes. Clinton, who had talked more than any of the others, seemed all at once absorbed in his own thoughts. He was thinking of the dialogue, and was about to ask his father something about it, when it occurred to him that he had already said full enough on that subject, and would perhaps be laughed at if he alluded to it again. After a few moments’ silence, however, he got the better of his modesty, and again broached the all but threadbare topic.
“Father,” he said, “there is one thing I don’t exactly understand. You didn’t like our first dialogue because the characters behaved so bad. Now, I don’t see why you didn’t object to this other piece, for the same reason. Tom and Sam didn’t come to blows, to be sure, but they quarrelled bad enough.”
“I wonder that you did not think of that, sooner,” said Mr. Davenport.
“I did; I told Willie, before you read it, that you would object to it on that account; but, as you didn’t find any fault with it, I thought I wouldn’t,” replied Clinton.
“Until you were sure you should not have to write another dialogue?” suggested his father, with a smile.
“O, we couldn’t have done that, any way,” said Clinton.
“Well,” continued his father, “I think I can clear myself of all suspicions of inconsistency. And, in the first place, you must remember that I did not say it was best to exclude all exhibitions of bad temper or character from a book or a dialogue. There are some faults that may be very properly exhibited in this way. But there are certain gross forms of evil which it is not wise to portray too minutely. For instance, it would be painful to see the sins of murder, or drunkenness, or lewdness, or profaneness, or fighting, acted out in a dialogue; and, besides, the effect would be immoral. But, if you want to show off the folly of vanity, pertness, ill manners, jealousy, ignorance, or any similar fault, by giving an example, I have no objection to it, if it is only done judiciously. Now, in regard to your dialogue, Tom behaved as well as almost any boy would under the same circumstances. Sam was the rogue; and he, I take it, was only a harmless personification of a pert, self-conceited, but witty young blockhead, who, in the sequel, gets abundantly punished for his impudence. Isn’t that the character you intended to portray?”
“Yes, sir, I suppose it is,” replied Clinton.
“And do you see, now, why I didn’t object to the dialogue?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Clinton.
They had now reached their home, and Mr. Davenport took care of the horse, while the boys went after the cows and oxen.
