CHAPTER III.
A MORNING’S WORK.
CLINTON’S chamber, which Whistler was to share during his stay in Brookdale, was one of the most curious rooms in the house. It was in the second story, on the west side of the house,—the side represented as nearest to the spectator in the engraving on page 30. It had two windows, one on the west, and the other—a luthern, or dormer window,—looking towards the south. The room was of pretty good size, but was low studded, the pitch of the roof bringing the ceiling so far down, on the sides, that a boy twelve years old could not stand up straight under it. This made it seem like a garret to Whistler, who had always slept in a large, airy chamber; but the walls were plastered and papered, and the room was in all other respects comfortably finished. It had a neat and cosy air, however, which, in spite of its low ceiling, won rapidly upon the city boy’s regards. The tastes and habits of its occupant were reflected in nearly every article. The bed, chairs and table, were such as you might find in almost any boy’s chamber; but the extras that you do not find in every body’s room were quite numerous.
The first thing that attracted Whistler’s notice was a neat little box upon the table, made of maple. On turning over the top, it was transformed into a portable writing-desk, and was found to be supplied with pens, ink and paper. This, Clinton informed him, was a birthday present from his father, who made it. A small book-rack, with three shelves, was fastened to the wall, and held Clinton’s little library. The books were mostly of a juvenile order, and among them were several that Whistler had sent to him in former years. The rack itself was of Clinton’s own workmanship, and was very neatly made. Upon the upper shelf, which held no books, there was another specimen of his handiwork, in the shape of a full-rigged schooner, with sails spread and flag flying. Brought up in an inland town, and never having seen the salt water but once or twice, Clinton knew but little about vessels. And yet he had built quite a respectable schooner; although, to the more experienced eye of Whistler, the model was not of the most approved clipper style. The name, “Dolphin,” was painted on the stern.
A number of engravings, of various degrees of merit, were attached by pins to the walls of Clinton’s room. Pasted upon the wall, around the looking-glass, there was a whole constellation of small pictures, which evidently had once figured in newspapers and handbills. The windows were furnished with paper curtains, which, judging from the quantity of pulleys, fish-bone rings, cords, and other rigging attached, were evidently put up by Clinton with an eye rather to ingenuity than simplicity of arrangement.
Such was the room to which Clinton introduced his cousin, when the family retired at night. After glancing at the various objects I have described, Whistler noticed a slate and several school books upon the table, and inquired:
“When do you study your lessons, Clinton? Have you got to get one this evening?”
“No,” he replied; “I’m going to have a vacation now. Father thinks I had better suspend my studies while you are here, so that I may have as much time to spend with you as possible. I am going to arrange my work, too, so that it won’t take so much of my time.”
“You needn’t do that,” said Whistler; “I can help you some about your work, and I’d rather do it than not. I can drive the cows home, and help weed the beds, and hoe the corn, and do lots of other things.”
“Well, you can help me some, if you want to,” replied Clinton. And the boys continued to lay their plans, and talk over matters of mutual interest, for an hour after they had got into bed, when sleep began to steal over their senses, and their pleasant schemes melted imperceptibly into airy dreams.
Early the next morning, before the sun was up, a rap on the chamber door aroused the boys, and was instantly obeyed; for it was the signal to arise, from Clinton’s mother. Having hastily dressed themselves, they proceeded to the barn-yard, where they found Mr. Davenport engaged in milking the cows. A vacant stool, an empty bucket, and a gentle-looking cow, were awaiting Clinton’s movements and without any delay he seated himself by the side of “Daisy,” and the milky stream began to flow. There were two other cows, “Princess” and “Nelly.” As Whistler could be of no service, he stood looking on, discussing the merits of the several cows with his uncle and cousin. He found that each of the animals had its own private character. Nelly was a red and white cow, with a gentle, motherly look. She evinced much attachment for Daisy, who, indeed, was her daughter, and resembled her in appearance and disposition. Daisy, however, was the tamest of the three, and a trifle handsomer than her mother. She would follow any of the family, and eat a turnip or an ear of corn out of their hands. Princess was dark-colored, and gave the most milk; but, as is apt to be the case with those bearing royal names, she was selfish, stubborn and mischievous. One curious thing about her was, that she always wanted to be milked first; and if the preference was given to one of the other cows, she showed her indignation very plainly. If any little attention was manifested towards the others, such as carding or stroking them, she would seem very jealous, and try to interrupt their enjoyment.
As the conversation was proceeding, Daisy showed some signs of uneasiness, upon which Mr. Preston said, in a pleasant tone:
“Mind your milking, Clinty, and postpone your stories until you get through. You haven’t learned yet to milk well and talk at the same time.”
Milking is an operation that ought to be done rapidly and without interruption, to be thoroughly and properly performed. Conversation is very apt to distract the attention of the milker, and thus interfere with his work, as it did in the case of Clinton.
The milking was soon completed, and the boys, as they drove the cows to pasture, talked as fast as they pleased. When they returned, breakfast was upon the table, and the morning air had so sharpened their appetites that they were prepared to do full justice to the ample meal.
“Now,” said Clinton, as they went out after breakfast, “work is the first thing in the order of the day. I must attend to the fowls, and then I have got to weed a piece of ground, and after that I shall be at your service.”
“I’ll help you do the weeding, and I’ll see you do the feeding,” said Whistler, laughing at his impromptu rhyme.
“Your kindness is exceeding,—come, let us be proceeding,” quickly replied Clinton, taking up the rhyme.
“Good!” exclaimed Whistler. “Between us both we might make quite a decent song.”
“That’s the song I like to hear,” said Clinton, as a hen, flying down from the box in which she had just deposited an egg, set up a noisy “Cut-cut-cut-cut-ca-dah-cut!” with the accent very strongly upon the last syllable but one.
“I suppose that’s what you call ‘The Lay of the Last Minstrel,’” observed Whistler.
“Yes,” replied Clinton; “and if it isn’t good poetry, it is good poultry, which comes near enough to it.”
A flock of turkeys, which were at large, spying Clinton with his familiar peck measure, now approached the boys, pompously marching like a file of soldiers,—a solemn-looking gobbler taking the lead. A few handfulls of corn scattered among them, gave them plenty of business, and Clinton then turned his attention to the hens, which at this season of the year were confined within their own quarters, in consequence of their scratching propensity. Having fed them, and given them a dish of fresh water, he was ready to commence work in the garden. Whistler wanted a hoe, too; and he was provided with one, and set himself to work by the side of his cousin.
“I shouldn’t think there were many weeds here,” said Whistler, after hoeing a few minutes. “I can’t find hardly anything but grass.”
“I should say that was enough,” replied Clinton. “This witch-grass is about the worst stuff that ever got into a garden.”
“Do you call this witch-grass?” inquired his cousin.
“Yes, that’s one name for it,” replied Clinton. “Some people call it piper-grass. Just feel of the roots, and see how tough they are.”
“Why, they’re almost like wire!” said Whistler.
“I never saw anything like it to grow,” continued Clinton. “I’ve cleaned out every spear of it from this ground three times this summer, and yet see how it has grown. It is almost impossible to kill it. The roots will grow right through a potato, or a chip, or almost anything that happens to be in the way. I left a handful on the fence-rail last spring, and the first thing I knew it had taken root in the wood, and was growing finely. Father says that when he was a boy they used to say that the only way to kill it was to dry it, and then put it in your pipe and smoke it, and be very careful of the ashes.”
“Does it bother you so every year?” inquired Whistler.
“No,” replied his cousin; “this is the first time we have had any in this piece of ground, and nobody knows how it came here. I suppose a few seeds got scattered here somehow or other. Before the ground is planted again, it will have to be dug all over with a ten-tined fork. That will clear it out, if anything will.”
“If father was here now,” said Whistler, “how he would moralize over this witch-grass! I can imagine just how he would talk. He’d say, ‘That’s right, boys!—pull away! This witch-grass has all got to come out, at some rate or other. It’s an abominable pest, isn’t it? Well, it’s just like a bad habit in a man’s mind.—It’s no trouble at all to get it started; but if he ever wants to get rid of it, what a time he’ll have of it! Why, he’ll have to be raked fore and aft with the ten-tined fork of tribulation, and then he won’t be sure that he has got all the plaguy roots out.’”
The half-serious, half-comic air with which this was said, and the amusing imitation which Whistler gave of his father’s manner, proved too much for Clinton’s gravity, and he indulged in a hearty laugh, in spite of the excellent moral so queerly brought to his mind. It was not Whistler’s design, however, to make sport of his father. He had merely given as faithful an imitation as he could of what his father might have said, could he have looked in upon the boys just at that moment. Mr. Davenport, when in the company of his children, lost no opportunity of drawing lessons of instruction from the natural world, and from the daily events that happened around them; and this habit had so impressed itself upon Whistler’s mind, that he often found himself instinctively imitating his example.
The boys, who were now some distance apart, worked on in silence a short time, when suddenly Whistler gave a vigorous stroke with his hoe, and then said, as if talking to himself:
“There, old fellow,—you’re fixed now!”
“What is that?” inquired Clinton.
“A toad.”
“Did you kill him?”
“Not exactly. I only cut off his jumpers. Just look here, and see how smooth I took off his hind legs.”
Clinton took a look at the poor victim, which was struggling in its agony, and, shaking his head, said, seriously:
“That is too bad!”
“What is too bad?” inquired Whistler, with some surprise.
“Why, to torture a poor thing in that way. I’d put him out of his misery, if I were you.”
Whistler felt the mild rebuke, and, having found a large stone, he gave the poor reptile his death-blow with far less satisfaction than he experienced when he cut him in halves with his hoe. He was not at heart a cruel boy, but he was thoughtless,—a fault which is the excuse (and a very poor one it is) for a great deal of suffering inflicted upon dumb creatures. Having dispatched the toad, he resumed his hoe, saying, in a half-apologetic tone:
“I never could bear toads;—they say they are poisonous.”
“I don’t believe that,” said Clinton; “I never heard of any body being poisoned by a toad. Besides, they are very useful in a garden,—didn’t you know it?”
“Useful? no, indeed! I thought they ate up the things,” replied his cousin.
“They eat up the grubs, and worms, and bugs, and such things,” replied Clinton; “but they don’t hurt the crops. They are good friends to the farmer, and I’m always careful never to hurt them.”
“I didn’t know that; I thought they had no business here,” said Whistler. “I’ve always been in the habit of pelting them, just as I would a snake, wherever I found them; and that’s the way all the boys serve them where I live.”
“You ask my father about them when we go home, and see if he doesn’t tell you they are useful,” remarked Clinton, who thought his cousin was not entirely satisfied on this point.
“O, I suppose you are right; only it is something I never heard of before,” replied Whistler.
“I’ve tamed toads, before now, so that they would eat out of my hand,” resumed Clinton.
“You have?”
“Yes; it is easy enough to tame them. If they find you don’t disturb them they’ll come out from their hiding-places, and hop around you, and follow you, especially if you give them something to eat. Did you ever see them eat?”
“No; I never did.”
“Well, you ought to; for it’s a curious sight. When they get within reach of a slug or a fly, they dart their tongue out as quick as lightning, and seize it. The tongue is very long, and red; and it moves so quick that people sometimes think they are spitting fire, when they are only feeding.”
“I’ve heard that toads spit fire,” said Whistler.
“That’s only one of the old prejudices against them,” replied Clinton. “They don’t spit fire any more than I do; but I can tell you of one strange habit that they do indulge in.”
“What is that?”
“They swallow their own skins.”
“How can they do that?” inquired Whistler, with a look of incredulity.
“They shed their skins, like snakes, at certain times; but, instead of leaving their old coat where they happen to take it off, they always swallow it.”
“How do you know that?—did you ever see them do it?”
“No; but father has a book that says so. Besides, I never found a toad’s skin, although there are plenty of toads about here.”
“Perhaps they bury their cast-off skins,” suggested Whistler, who, now that several of his illusions in regard to toads were dispelled, was disinclined to allow them the credit of doing anything remarkable.
“If I were going to guess,” replied Clinton, “I should think that they might hide them in some way. But the book I spoke of was written by a great naturalist, and I suppose he knew what he was writing about. In fact, I don’t know that they shed their skins at all, only from what I have heard and read about it.”
“Well, poor toady, I’m sorry that I killed you; but I didn’t know any better,” said Whistler, as he tossed away the remains of his victim with his hoe, and resumed his work.
About two hours before the sun reached the meridian the boys finished weeding the piece of ground, and Clinton’s work for the day was accomplished.