Part 4

"We cut a place right 'round 'em: that's girdlin' the tree and then, ever so long after, it dies and drops down itself."

"O, my stars!" cried Peter. "I want to know!"

"No, you _don't_ want to know, Peter, for I just told you! You may say 'I wonder,' if you like: that's what we say out West."

"Wait," said Peter. "I only said, 'I want to know what other trees you have;' that's what I meant, but you _shet_ me right up."

"O, there's the butternut and the tree of heaven and papaw, and 'simmon, and a 'right smart sprinkle' of wood-trees."

"What's a 'simmon?"

"O, it looks like a little baked apple, all wrinkled up; but it's right sweet. Ugh!" added Horace, making a wry face; "you better look out when they're green: they pucker your mouth up a good deal worse'n choke cherries."

"What's a papaw?"

"A papaw? Well, it's a curious thing, not much account. The pigs eat it. It tastes like a custard, right soft and mellow. Come, let's go to work."

"Well, what's a tree of heaven?"

"O, Peter, for pity's sakes how do I know? It's a tree of heaven, I suppose. It has pink hollyhocks growing on it. What makes you ask so many questions?"

Upon that the boys went to work picking boxberry leaves, which grew at the roots of the pine trees, among the soft moss and last year's cones. Horace was very anxious to gather enough for some beer; but it was strange how many it took to fill such "_enormous_ big baskets."

"Now," said Horace, "I move we look over yonder for some wintergreen. You said you knew it by sight."

"Wintergreen? wintergreen?" echoed Peter; "O, yes, I know it well enough. It spangles 'round. See, here's some; the girls make wreaths of it."

It was _moneywort_; but Horace never doubted that Peter was telling the truth, and supposed his grandmother would be delighted to see such quantities of wintergreen.

After some time spent in gathering this, Horace happened to remember that he wanted sarsaparilla.

"I reckon," thought he, "they'll be glad I came, if I carry home so many things."

Peter knew they could find sarsaparilla, for there was not a root of any sort which did not grow "in the pines;" of that he was sure. So they struck still deeper into the woods, every step taking them farther from home. Pincher followed, as happy as a dog can be; but, alas! never dreaming that serious trouble was coming.

The boys dug up various roots with their jackknives; but they both knew the taste of sarsaparilla and could not be deceived.

"We hain't come to it yet," said Peter; "but it's round here somewheres, I'll bet a dollar."

"I'm getting hungry," said Horace: "isn't it about time for the dinner-bell to ring?"

"Pretty near," replied Peter, squinting his eyes and looking at the sky as if there was a noon-mark up there, and he was the boy to find it. "That bell will ring in fifteen minutes: you see if it don't."

But it did not, though it was high noon, certainly. Hours passed. Horace remembered they were to have had salt cod-fish and cream gravy for dinner. Aunt Madge had said so; also a roly-poly with foaming sauce. It must now be long ago since the sugar and butter were beaten together for that sauce. He wondered if there would be any pudding left. He was sure he should like it cold, and a glass of water with ice in it.

O, how many times he could have gone to the barrel which stood by the sink, and drunk such deep draughts of water, when he didn't care anything about it! But now he was so thirsty, and there was not so much as a teaspoonful of water to be found!

"I motion we go home," said Horace, for at least the tenth time.

"Well," replied Peter, sulkily, "ain't we striking a bee-line?"

"We've got turned round," said Horace: "Canada is over yonder, _I_ know."

"Pshaw! no, it ain't, no such a thing."

But they were really going the wrong way. The village bell had rung at noon, as usual, but they were too far off to hear it. It was weary work winding in and out, in and out, among the trees and stumps. With torn clothes, bleeding hands, and tired feet, the poor boys pushed on.

"Of course we're right," said Peter, in a would-be brave tone: "don't you remember that stump?"

"No, I don't, Peter Grant," replied Horace, who was losing his patience: "I never was here before. Humph! I thought you could find your way with your eyes shut."

"Turn and go t'other way, then," said Peter, adding a wicked word I cannot repeat.

"I will," replied Horace, coolly: "if I'd known you used such swearing words I never'd have come!"

"Hollo, there!" shouted Peter, a few moments after, "I'll keep with you, and risk it, cap'n."

"Come on, then," returned Horace, who was glad of Peter's company just now, little as he liked him. "Where's our baskets?" said he, stopping short.

"Sure enough," cried Peter; "but we can't go back now."

They had not gone far when they were startled by a cry from Pincher, a sharp cry of pain. He stood stock still, his brown eyes almost starting from their sockets with agony and fear. It proved that he had stumbled upon a fox-trap which was concealed under some dry twigs, and his right fore-paw was caught fast.

Here was a dilemma. The boys tried with all their might to set poor Pincher free; but it seemed as if they only made matters worse.

"What an old nuisance of a dog!" cried Peter; "just as we'd got to goin' on the right road."

"Be still, Peter Grant! Hush your mouth! If you say a word against my dog you'll catch it. Poor little Pincher!" said Horace, patting him gently and laying his cheek down close to his face.

The suffering creature licked his hands, and said with his eloquent eyes,----

"Dear little master, don't take it to heart! You didn't know I'd get hurt! You've always been good to poor Pincher."

"I'd rather have given a dollar," said Horace; "O, Pincher! I wish 'twas my foot; I tell you I do!"

They tried again, but the trap held the dog's paw like a vice.

"I'll tell you what," said Peter; "we'll leave the dog here, and go home and get somebody to come."

"You just behave, Peter Grant;" said Horace, looking very angry. "I shouldn't want to be _your_ dog! Just you hold his foot still, and I'll try again."

This time Horace examined the trap on all sides, and, being what is called an ingenious boy, did actually succeed at last in getting little Pincher's foot out.

"Whew! I didn't think you could," said Peter, admiringly.

"_You_ couldn't, Peter; you haven't sense enough."

The foot was terribly mangled, and Pincher had to be carried home in arms.

"I should like to know, Peter, who set that trap. If my father was here, he'd have him in the lock-up."

"Poh! it wasn't set for dogs," replied Peter in an equally cross tone, for both the boys were tired, hungry and out of sorts. "Don't you know nothin'? That's a bear-trap!"

"A bear-trap! Do you have bears up here?"

"O, yes, dear me, suz! Hain't you seen none since you've been in the State of Maine? I've ate 'em lots of times."

Peter had once eaten a piece of bear-steak, or it might have been moose-meat, he was not sure which; but at any rate it had been brought down from Moosehead Lake.

"Bears 'round here?" thought Horace, in a fright.

He quickened his pace. O, if he could only be sure it was the right road! Perhaps they were walking straight into a den of bears. He hugged little Pincher close in his arms, soothing him with pet names, for the poor dog continued to moan.

"O, dear, dear!" cried Peter, "don't you feel awfully?"

"I don't stop to think of my feelings," replied Horace, shortly.

"Well, I wish we hadn't come--I do."

"So do I, Peter. I won't play 'hookey' again; but I'm not a-goin' to cry."

"I'll never go anywheres with you any more as long as I live, Horace Clifford!"

"Nobody wants you to, Pete Grant!"

Then they pushed on in dignified silence, till Peter broke forth again with wailing sobs.

"I dread to get home! O, dear, I'll have to take it, I tell you. I guess you'd cry if you expected to be whipped."

Horace made no reply. He did not care about telling Peter that he too had a terrible dread of reaching home, for there was something a great deal worse than a whipping, and that was a mother's sorrowful face.

"I shouldn't care if she'd whip me right hard," thought Horace; "but she'll talk to me about God and the Bible and O, she'll look so white!"

"Peter, you go on ahead," said he aloud.

"What for?"

"O, I want to rest a minute with Pincher."

It was some moments before Peter would go, and then he went grumbling. As soon as he was out of sight, Horace threw himself on his knees and prayed in low tones,--

"O, God, I do want to be a good boy; and if I ever get out of this woods I'll begin! Keep the bears off, please do, O God, and let us find the way out, and forgive me. Amen."

Horace had never uttered a more sincere prayer in his life. Like many older people, he waited till he was in sore need before he called upon God; but when he had once opened his heart to Him, it was wonderful how much lighter it felt.

He rose to his feet and struggled on, saying to Pincher, "Poor fellow, poor fellow, don't cry: we'll soon be home."

"Hollo there, cap'n!" shouted Peter, "we're comin' to a clearin'."

"Just as I expected," thought Horace: "why didn't I pray to God before?"

*CHAPTER VIII*

*CAPTAIN CLIFFORD*

When Horace entered the yard, holding the poor dog in his arms, he felt wretched indeed. At that moment all the sulkiness and self-will were crushed out of his little heart. It seemed to him that never, never had there lived upon the earth another boy so wicked as himself.

He forgot the excuses he had been making up about going into the woods because his grandmother wanted him to: he scorned to add falsehood to disobedience, and was more than willing to take his full share of blame.

"If ma would whip me like everything," thought the boy, "I know I'd feel better."

It was a long, winding path from the gate. The grounds looked very beautiful in the golden light of the afternoon sun. The pink clover-patch nodded with a thousand heads, and sprinkled the air with sweetness.

Everything was very quiet: no one was on the piazza, no one at the windows. The blinds were all shut, and you could fancy that the house had closed its many eyes and dropped asleep. There was an awe about such perfect silence. "Where could Grace be, and those two dancing girls, Susie and Prudy?"

He stole along to the back door, and lifted the latch. His grandmother stopped with a bowl of gruel in her hand, and said, "O Horace!" That was all; but she could say no more for tears. She set down the bowl, and went up to him, trying to speak; but the words trembled on her lips unspoken.

"O, grandma!" said Horace, setting little Pincher down on a chair, and clutching the skirt of her dress, "I've been right bad: I'm sorry--I tell you I am."

His grandmother had never heard him speak in such humble tones before.

"O, Horace!" she sobbed again, this time clasping him close to her heart, and kissing him with a yearning fondness she had hardly ever shown since he was a little toddling baby. "My darling, darling boy!"

Horace thought by her manner they must all have been sadly frightened about him.

"I got lost in the woods, grandma; but it didn't hurt me any, only Pincher got his foot caught."

"Lost in the woods?" repeated she. "Grace thought you went home to dinner with Willy Snow."

So it seemed they had not worried about him at all: then what was grandma crying about?

"Don't go upstairs, dear," said she, as he brushed past her and laid his hand on the latch of the chamber door.

"But I want to see ma."

"Wait a little," said Mrs. Parlin, with a fresh burst of tears.

"Why, what _is_ the matter, grandma; and where's Grace, and Susie, and Prudy?"

"Grace is with your mother, and the other children are at Aunt Martha's. But if you've been in the woods all day, Horace, you must be very hungry."

"You've forgot Pincher, grandma."

The boy would not taste food till the dog's foot had been bandaged, though all the while his grandmother was doing up the wound, it seemed to Horace that she must be thinking of something else, or she would pity Pincher a great deal more.

The cold dinner which she set out on the table was very tempting, and he ate heartily; but after every mouthful he kept asking, "What could be the matter? Was baby worse? Had anybody took sick?"

But his grandmother stood by the stove stirring gruel, and would answer him nothing but, "I'll let you know very soon."

She wanted the little boy to be rested and refreshed by food before she told him a very painful thing. Then she took him upstairs with her into her own chamber, which was quite shady with grape-vines, and so still that you could only hear the buzzing of two or three flies.

She had brought a hot bowl of gruel on a little waiter. She placed the waiter on the top of her wash-stand, and seated herself on the bed, drawing Horace down beside her.

"My dear little grandson," said she, stroking his bright hair, "God has been very good to you always, always. He loves you better than you can even think."

"Yes, grandma," answered Horace, bewildered.

"He is your dear father in heaven," she added, slowly. "He wants you to love him with all your heart, for now--you have no other father!"

Horace sprang up from the bed, his eyes wild with fear and surprise, yet having no idea what she meant.

"Why, my father's captain in the army! He's down South!"

"But have you never thought, dear, that he might be shot?"

"No, I never," cried Horace, running to the window and back again in great excitement. "Mr. Evans said they'd put him in colonel. He was coming home in six months. He couldn't be shot."

"My dear little boy!"

"But O, grandma, is he killed? Say quick!"

His grandmother took out of her pocket a Boston Journal, and having put on her spectacles, pointed with a trembling finger to the list of "killed." One of the first names was "Captain Henry S. Clifford."

"O, Horace!" said Grace, opening the door softly, "I just thought I heard you. Ma wants you to come to her."

Without speaking, Horace gave his hand to his sister, and went with her while their grandmother followed, carrying the bowl of gruel.

At the door of Mrs. Clifford's room they met Aunt Louise coming out. The sight of Horace and Grace walking tearfully, hand in hand, was very touching to her.

"You dear little fatherless children," she whispered, throwing her arms around them both, and dropping tears and kisses on their faces.

"O, I can't, I can't bear it," cried Grace; "my own dear papa, that I love best of anyone in the world!"

Horace ran to his mother, and throwing himself on the bed beside her, buried his face in the pillows.

"O, ma! I reckon 'tisn't true. It's another Captain Clifford."

His mother lay so very white and still that Horace drew away when he had touched her; there was something awful in the coldness of her face. Her beautiful brown eyes shone bright and tearless; but there were dark hollows under them, deep enough to hold many tears, if the time should ever come when she might shed them.

"O, little Horace," whispered she, "mother's little Horace!"

"Darling mamma!" responded the boy, kissing her pale lips and smoothing the hair away from her cheeks with his small fingers, which meant to move gently, but did not know how. And then the young childish heart, with its little load of grief, was pressed close to the larger one, whose deep, deep sorrow only God could heal.

They are wrong who say that little children cannot receive lasting impressions. There are some hours of joy or agony which they never forget. This was such an hour for Horace. He could almost feel again on his forehead the warm good-by kiss of his father; he could almost hear again the words:--

"Always obey your mother, my son, and remember that God sees all you do."

Ah, he had not obeyed, he had not remembered!

And that dear father would never kiss him, never speak to him again! He had not thought before what a long word _Never_ was.

O, it was dreadful to shut his eyes and fancy him lying so cold and still on that bloody battlefield! Would all this awful thing be true to-morrow morning, when he waked up?

"O, mamma," sobbed the desolate child, "I and Grace will take care of you! Just forgive me, ma, and I'll be the best kind of a boy. I will, I will!"

Grandma had already led Grace away into the green chamber, where Aunt Madge sat with the baby. The poor little girl would not be comforted.

"O, grandma," she cried, "if we could know who it was that shot pa, our mayor would hang him! I do wish I could die, grandma. I don't want to keep living and living in this great world without my father!"

*CHAPTER IX*

*THE BLUE BOOK*

Days passed, but there was the same hush upon the house. Everybody moved about softly, and spoke in low tones. Horace was not told that he must go to school, but he knew Aunt Louise thought his shoes made a great deal of noise, and just now he wanted to please even her. More than that, it was very pleasant to see the boys; and while he was playing games he forgot his sorrow, and forgot his mother's sad face. There was one thing, however, which he could not do; he had not the heart to be captain and drill his company, just now.

"Horace," said Grace, as they were sitting on the piazza steps one morning, "I heard ma tell grandma yesterday, you'd been a better boy this week than you had been before since--since--pa went away."

"Did she?" cried Horace, eagerly; "where was she when she said it? What did grandma say? Did Aunt Madge hear her?"

"Yes, Aunt Madge heard her, and she said she always knew Horace would be a good boy if he would only think."

"Well, I _do_ think," replied Horace, looking very much pleased; "I think about all the time."

"But then, Horace, you know how you've acted some days!"

"Well, I don't care. Aunt Madge says 'tisn't so easy for boys to be good."

Grace opened her round blue eyes in wonder.

"Why, Horace, I have to make my own bed, and sweep and dust my room, and take care of my drawers. Only think of that; and Prudy always 'round into things, you know! Then I have to sew, O, so much! I reckon you wouldn't find it very easy being a girl."

"Poh! don't I have to feed the chickens, and bring in the eggs, and go for the cows? And when we lived home--"

Here Horace broke down; he could not think of home without remembering his father.

Grace burst into tears. The word "home" had called up a beautiful picture of her father and mother sitting on the sofa in the library, Horace and Pincher lying on the floor, the door open from the balcony, and the moon filling the room with a soft light; her father had a smile on his face, and was holding her hand.

Ah! Grace, and Horace, and their mother would see many such pictures of memory.

"Well, sister," said Horace, speaking quite slowly, and looking down at the grass, "what do I do that's bad?"

"Why, Horace, I shouldn't think you'd ask! Blowing gunpowder, and running off into the woods, and 'most killing Pincher, and going trouting down to the 'crick' with your best clothes on, and disobeying your ma, and--"

"Sayin' bad words," added Horace, "but I stopped that this morning."

"What do you mean, Horace?"

"O, I said over all the bad things I could think of; not the swearin' words, you know, but 'shucks,' and 'gallus,' and 'bully,' and 'by hokey,' and 'by George;' and it's the last time."

"O, I'm so glad, Horace!" cried Grace, clapping her hands and laughing; "and you won't blow any more powder?"

Horace shook his head.

"Nor run off again? Why, you'll be like Ally Glover, and you know I'm trying to be like little Eva."

"I don't want to be like Ally Glover," replied Horace, making a wry face; "he's lame, and besides, he's too dreadful good."

"Why, Horace," said his sister solemnly; "anybody can't be too good; 'tisn't possible."

"Well, then, he's just like a girl--that's what! I'm not going to be 'characteristic' any more, but I don't want to be like a girl neither. Look here, Grace, it's school time. Now don't you 'let on' to ma, or anybody, that I'm going to be better."

Grace promised, but she wondered why Horace should not wish his mother to know he was trying to be good, when it would make her so happy.

"He's afraid he'll give it up," thought she; "but I won't let him."

She sat on the piazza steps a long while after he had gone. At last a bright idea flashed across her mind, and of course she dropped her work and clapped her hands, though she was quite alone.

"I'll make a merit-book like Miss All'n's, and put down black marks for him when he's naughty."

When Horace came home that night, he was charmed with the plan, for he was really in earnest. His kind sister made the book very neatly, and sewed it into a cover of glossy blue paper. She thought they would try it four weeks; so she had put in twenty-eight pages, each page standing for one day.

"Now," said she, "when you say one bad word I'll put down 'one B.W.' for short; but when you say two bad words, 'twill be 'two B.W.,' you know. When you blow gunpowder, that'll be 'B.G.'--no, 'B.G.P.,' for gunpowder is two words."

"And when I run off, 'twill be 'R.O.'"

"Or 'R.A.,'" said Grace, "for 'ran away.'

"And 'T.' for 'troutin','" said Horace, who was getting very much interested; "and--and--'P.A.L.' for 'plaguing Aunt Louise,' and 'C.' for 'characteristic,' and 'L.T.' for 'losing things.'"

"O, dear, dear, Horace, the book won't begin to hold it! We mustn't put down those little things."

"But, Grace, you know I shan't do 'em any more."

Grace shook her head and sighed. "We won't put down all those little things," repeated she; "we'll have 'D.' for 'disobedience,' and 'B.W.,' and--O! one thing I forgot--'F.' for 'falsehood.'"

"Well, you won't get any F's out of me, by hokey," said Horace, snapping his fingers.

"Why, there it is, 'one B.W.' so quick!" cried Grace, holding up both hands and laughing.

Horace opened his mouth in surprise, and then clapped his hands over it in dismay. It was not a very fortunate beginning.

"Look here, Grace," said he, making a wry face; "I move that we call that no 'count, and commence new to-morrow!"

So Grace waited till next day before she dated the merit book.

All this while Pincher's foot was growing no better. Aunt Louise said you could almost see the poor dog 'dwindle, peak, and pine.'

"But it's only his hurt," said Grace; "'tisn't a sickness."

"I reckon," returned Horace sadly, "it isn't a _wellness_, neither."

"Why not send for Mrs. Duffy?" suggested Aunt Madge. "If anyone can help the poor creature, it is she."

Mrs. Duffy was the village washerwoman, and a capital nurse. It was an anxious moment for little Horace when she unwrapped the crushed paw, Pincher moaning all the while in a way that went to the heart.

"Wull," said Mrs. Duffy, who spoke with a brogue, "it's a bad-looking fut; but I've some intment here that'll do no harrum, and it may hulp the poor craycher."

She put the salve on some clean linen cloths, and bound up the wound, bidding them all be very careful that the dog "didn't stir his fut."

"O, but he don't want to stir!" said Horace. "He just lies down by the stove all day."

Mrs. Duffy shook her head, and said, "He was a pooty craycher; 'twas more the pities that he ever went off in the wuds."

Horace hung his head. O, if he could have blotted out that day of disobedience!

"Wasn't it a real rebel, _heathen_ man," cried Prudy, "to put the trap where Pincher sticked his foot in it?"

Pincher grew worse and worse. He refused his food, and lay in a basket with a cushion in it, by the kitchen stove, where he might have been a little in the way, though not even Aunt Louise ever said so.