CHAPTER IV.
AN AFTERNOON EXCURSION.
THE boys, after completing their work, amused themselves in various ways until dinner time. They proposed going over to Mr. Preston’s in the afternoon; and as soon as dinner was dispatched, they were on their way. The distance was about three quarters of a mile; but it was the nearest house to Mr. Davenport’s. A walk of less than fifteen minutes brought them to a large, old-fashioned farm-house, shaded by a great elm tree. Three girls were just coming from the house, each with a small basket or tin pail in her hand. Ella and Emily were among them, and the first-named introduced the youngest to Whistler as her cousin Harriet. Harriet was between ten and eleven years old. She and Emily were the only children of the family now at home. The youngest of the flock—sweet little Mary—fell sick and died about six months previous to the time of which I am writing. A month or two before that sad event, the oldest of the children, Jerry, took it into his head that he could find a better place than home, and suddenly disappeared one Sunday, while the family were at church. For a long time nothing was heard from him; but at length he wrote to them, from a foreign port, stating that he had gone to sea, and was bound on a long voyage.
It appeared that the girls were about starting on a strawberry excursion when the boys arrived; and the latter having been invited to join them, they all set out together. Strawberries grow wild in that part of the country. Ella and Whistler, to whom this fruit was known only as a dear-bought luxury, thought it must be fine to eat the berries fresh from the vines, with no fear of coming to the bottom of the box, and no two-shillings-per-quart drawback upon the indulgence. They sauntered along in advance of the others, looking on every side for the red and luscious fruit; but they found none; for it was a long walk to the strawberry patch. In going to it, they had to pass through a swamp, near the upper end of the pond, the entrance to which did not look very inviting to Ella.
“O, dear! I never can go through that horrid place!” she exclaimed. “I should be frightened out of my wits!”
“O, no, you won’t,” said Clinton. “There’s a good path all the way through, and nothing will hurt you. You follow right behind me, and I’ll help you over the bad places.”
Ella still stood in doubt, while Whistler in his eagerness was following the faint track, forgetful of his companions. Emily and Harriet assured their cousin that they had often crossed the swamp; and, with a little further encouragement from Clinton, she set forward,—not, however, without some misgivings. In some places the ground was very wet; and they had to step upon stones, logs, stumps, etc., which had been used for this purpose for years. Two or three brooks also crossed their track, over which old logs had been thrown to serve as bridges. In many places a thick growth of bushes, often armed with sharp thorns, stretched across the path, making it difficult for them to force their way through. Ella, however, was the only one who evinced any fear; and, but for Clinton’s constant encouragement and aid, she would have concluded that the strawberries were not worth the risk and trouble of getting them.
“Are there any snakes here?” she inquired, a new terror bursting on her mind.
“None of any consequence,” replied Clinton. “There may be a few water-snakes: but they won’t harm any body.”
“It makes no difference what they are, if they are only snakes,—I’m as afraid of one kind as of another,” said Ella, who had a city girl’s dread of everything of the serpent kind.
“O, no; you wouldn’t be afraid of a water-snake. They are just as harmless as toads,” said Clinton.
“I’m afraid of toads, too,—and I can’t help it,” replied Ella.
“If you should live in the country a little while you wouldn’t mind such things,” said Emily.
“Yes, I should,” replied her cousin. “I always had a perfect antipathy to snakes, and toads, and spiders, and all such creatures. I know they won’t hurt me; but I can’t help hating them.”
Seeing how little headway they made against her prejudices, Clinton and Emily dropped the subject. They were not yet out of the swamp, however; and soon another terror arose in the mind of the timid city girl.
“I shall get poisoned here!—I know I shall!” she said, in a tone of mingled alarm and resignation, as though she would have added, “You may do what you please with me,—I’m resigned.”
“There’s no danger of that,” replied Clinton, with a laugh. “You keep close to me, and I will look out for you.”
“Are there any poisonous plants in this swamp?” inquired Whistler, who had heard Ella’s remark.
“Yes, there’s plenty of poison ivy,” replied Clinton.
“O, yes; I see some now!” said Whistler, who was still at the head of the little party. “That’s poison ivy, isn’t it?” he continued, pointing to a luxuriant vine that was twining around the trunk of a dead tree.
“No, that isn’t it; that’s the other kind of ivy, or woodbine, or creeper, as we call it,” replied Clinton.
“What is the difference?” inquired Whistler.
“A good deal of difference;—one is poisonous and the other isn’t,” said Clinton.
“I know that; but how do you tell one from the other?”
“You see the leaves grow in clusters?”
“Yes; there are five of them. Each leaf looks as if it were made up of five little ones.”
“Well, the leaves of the poison ivy have only three in a cluster; and that is the way I tell the difference between them. When the leaves grow in threes, look out; but when they are in fives, there’s no danger.”
“I must try to remember that,” said Whistler, repeating to himself the last remark of Clinton. “Let me see,—how can I fix that in my mind, so that I shall know ‘which is which,’ as they say? Now, I have it! If the leaf has five fingers, like my hand, I can handle it; if it hasn’t, I must not touch it.”
This process, in Whistler’s mind, was not a mere boyish whim. It was founded on a law planted deep in our mental natures,—the law of the association of ideas. It is difficult to remember a number or figure standing by itself; and the matter becomes still worse when two numbers are to be borne in mind, and distinguished from each other, as in this instance. But, by associating the number in the mind with some particular object, event or word, we have a clew to it, which will seldom fail us; and if the word, event or object, bears any resemblance to the number, it is all the better. Thus you see that Whistler was quite a philosopher in this matter, although he did not know it. By making the act of handling depend upon the fancied resemblance of the leaf to his hand, he would never be at a loss to tell whether it was the three or five-lobed leaf that he was to avoid.
“There’s a three-leaved one!—that’s a poison ivy, isn’t it?” exclaimed Whistler, a few moments after, pointing to a vine that looked very much like the other, except in the number of its leaflets.
“Yes, that’s one of them,—don’t touch it!” said Clinton, as Whistler approached it.
“I shan’t look at it,” said Ella, turning her head in an opposite direction.
“It won’t hurt you if you don’t touch it,—you needn’t be afraid to look at it,” remarked Clinton.
“I’ve a great mind to touch it, just to see how it would operate,” said Whistler, going still nearer to the vine.
“Why, William Davenport!—you silly boy!” exclaimed Ella, with a look of astonishment.
“No! don’t touch it, Willie! You’ll be sorry if you do,” said Clinton. “It will make your face and eyes swell up, so that you won’t know yourself; and it won’t feel very comfortable, either.”
“But it doesn’t poison every body, does it?” inquired Whistler.
“No; some people can handle it without being hurt,” said Clinton; “but I wouldn’t risk it, if I were you. If you get poisoned once, you’ll be more liable to it next time; and so the danger will keep increasing, every time you come in contact with it.”
“Is there any dogwood about here?” inquired Whistler, turning away from the ivy.
“Yes; there’s a little, I believe,” said Clinton.
“That is awful stuff! I’ve heard that you can’t look at it without getting poisoned,” said Ella.
“I don’t believe that story,” replied Clinton. “I’ve looked at it myself without being poisoned. Sometimes people who have been poisoned a good many times, get to be so susceptible that they can’t go near ivy or dogwood without being infected, even if they don’t touch it; and I suppose that accounts for the notion that dogwood will poison you if you only look at it.”
“What sort of a thing is dogwood? What does it look like?” inquired Whistler.
“It is a very pretty shrub,” replied his cousin. “It grows almost large enough to be called a tree, and has smooth and glossy branches and leaves. It thrives only in wet places, I believe; but it is not near so common as the poison ivy.”
There are one or two other facts relating to these plants, which Clinton did not know, but which may be of some advantage to my readers when they ramble through the woods and swamps. These two shrubs, known in common language as “poison ivy” and “poison dogwood,” both belong to the sumach family, and are the only plants in our New England woods that are poisonous to the touch. Neither of them bears a conspicuous blossom or fruit; so that if the young botanist should chance to discover a strange plant with a beautiful and prominent flower, he may be sure that it will not harm him to pluck it. An unknown plant should never be eaten, however; as many species of the vegetable kingdom, which may be handled with impunity, are poisonous if taken into the stomach.
Our party had now emerged from the swamp, and were ascending to higher land. They soon came to the strawberry patch, but did not find the berries quite so plenty as they anticipated, other pickers having been there before them. Clinton proposed going further, and Whistler fell in with the suggestion; but the girls preferred to stop and glean the few berries that were left, rather than to seek new fields. The boys, however, concluded to extend their tramp to the hills, about a mile distant, leaving the girls to look out for themselves. Their course lay through a succession of fields and pastures, gradually ascending, until they reached the base of the high hills shown in the upper part of the map of Brookdale. These hills were thickly wooded, many of the trees being of majestic size and great beauty. They were chiefly pines, and the ground beneath was cushioned with the brown foliage of former years, while the air was full of the balmy odor that distills from this noble tree. Now and then a decayed stump, which their united arms could scarcely encircle, showed where some giant of the woods had fallen; but, in the main, this hill-side forest was as nature made it.
The boys found it a slippery and toilsome path up the hill; but, once on the top of “Bald Peak,” as the eminence was called, they were rewarded for their pains by the extensive prospect that met their eyes. The spot was very rocky, and, as its name implied, was destitute of trees. The view took in a wide range of country, dotted with houses and cultivated fields.
“There!” exclaimed Clinton, as they seated themselves upon a mossy stone,—“have you got anything in Boston that beats this?”
“I don’t know,—we have some pretty good views in Boston,” replied his cousin.
“From the top of the State House?” inquired Clinton.
“Yes, that’s one of the places,” said Whistler; “but we have a pretty distant prospect from our house,—fully equal to this, I should say.”
“How far can you see?” continued Clinton.
“Well, I can’t say exactly,” replied Whistler, with the utmost soberness; “but I believe we can see about ninety-five million miles, in the day time, and considerably further in a clear evening.”
“I’ll knock under,—I don’t think even Bald Peak can beat that,” replied Clinton, with a laugh.
After resting themselves, the boys, suddenly remembering that they had started in quest of strawberries, concluded to go down to the foot of the hill on the side opposite to the one they ascended, where Clinton thought they should find some berries. They had not proceeded far, when the sharp crack of a musket was heard not far off.
“Halloo! somebody’s gunning about here! I wonder who it can be?” said Clinton.
“Are there many houses over this way?” inquired Whistler.
“No; there isn’t one nearer than our house,” replied Clinton. “There isn’t a road within two or three miles either, except a logging-road through the woods.”
“Then it must be somebody from Brookdale,” observed Whistler.
“I suppose so,” added his cousin.
They soon reached a clearing in the woods, and discovered a rough-looking man concealed behind the prostrate trunk of a large tree, getting ready to fire at a pair of rabbits, which were nibbling the herbage at a short distance from him. The timid creatures apparently heard the boys’ footsteps, for they suddenly fled, before the man noticed that any one else was near. When he turned about and saw the boys, he looked surprised, and a scowl settled upon his face.
“What did you scare my game for?” he inquired, in a surly tone, addressing Clinton.
The latter seemed somewhat alarmed, and replied that it was entirely accidental. The appearance of the man was far from prepossessing, leaving out of the account his cross looks, and the solitary place in which they encountered him. His face was coarse and unshaven, and his hair looked as if it was not on good terms with the comb. He wore a loose blouse, or frock, and a queer slouched cap, and his feet were without stockings. After giving the boys a searching look, he said, addressing Clinton:
“Do you know me?”
“Yes, sir,” he replied.
“Who is this boy?” continued the man, pointing to Whistler.
“He is a cousin of mine, from Boston,” replied Clinton.
“What are you here after?” inquired the gunner.
“Partly to take a walk, and partly to get some strawberries,” said Clinton.
The man now got up, and the boys noticed—what had before escaped their attention—that he was quite lame. Using his gun to help support his body, he hobbled a little ways, and then turned back toward the boys, and said, in a kinder tone than before:
“Clinton, I want you to do me a little favor, if you will.”
“I will, with pleasure,” replied Clinton.
“I met with an accident this morning,” continued the gunner. “I’m taking a tramp after game, you see. I started last week, and am on my way to Moosehead Lake, all alone. I camp out nights, and have got a booth over yonder, where I slept last night. But this morning, as bad luck would have it, I fell from a tree and sprained my ankle, and it’s just as much as ever I can do, now, to hobble about. I’m afraid I shall be laid up here two or three days, if I don’t do something for it. If I could only get a little rum, or balm of Gilead, or pain-killer, or something of that sort, to bathe it with, I should be right down glad.”
“I guess mother has got something that would be good for your ankle,” said Clinton, anticipating the man’s request. “I’ll ask her, and if she has, I’ll bring it over to-morrow forenoon.”
“Couldn’t you get it yourself, without saying anything to her about it?” inquired the sportsman.
“No, I don’t think I could,—I don’t know anything about her medicines,” replied Clinton. “But if she has got anything that is good for a sprain, she would send you some, I’m certain of that.”
“But I don’t want her nor any body else to know that I’m here,” said the man.
Clinton did not know what to say to this. After a brief pause, in which the sportsman seemed in deep thought, he continued:
“The case is just this: I’m owing old Ben Brown a little money, and I can’t pay it now; but Ben is such an ugly old dog, that if he should hear that I’m around here, it would be just like him to have a writ out after me, or do some other rascally thing. You mustn’t tell a single soul that you saw me here. If you do, it might get to him. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir; I’ll keep dark,” replied Clinton.
“You promise, on your word of honor, that you won’t say a word about me?” continued the man.
“Well, I believe your character is pretty good, and I suppose I can trust you,” said the man; “but if you should betray me, all I have got to say is, look out for Dick Sneider!”
The savage tone with which this last sentence was uttered, startled the boys somewhat; but they made no reply. The man then bound Whistler to secrecy by a similar promise. The boys, who had seated themselves on the log, now arose to depart, Clinton observing as he did so:
“I’m sorry that I can’t bring you something for your sprain, Mr. Sneider; but I don’t see how I can, unless you will let me ask mother.”
“Never mind that. I’ll give my ankle a good bathing in cold water to-night, and I guess I shall be able to travel in a day or two.”
The sun was getting low, and the boys now started for home, at a brisk pace. Their adventure supplied a topic of conversation most of the way; but, in reply to Whistler’s numerous questions, Clinton could give no very definite information in regard to the man they had so unexpectedly encountered. All that he knew about Sneider was, that he once kept a disreputable shop at the Cross Road, where he sold intoxicating liquor, in violation of law; that his establishment was finally broken up, and himself sent to jail; and that he had the name of being a desperate fellow.
On their way the boys passed through the pasture in which the cows were kept. They found Daisy, Nelly and Princess, quietly awaiting their coming at the gateway; and, having taken down the bars, they drove, or rather followed, the sober and dignified animals to their home.
