Part 5

My first attempt was to _swop_ it away; but as none of the boys had such a knife as I wanted, this could not be done. I next called my younger brother Dick to me, and asked him if he did not want a _present_? He, of course, answered in the affirmative. Thereupon, after showing him my knife, how well it was _sharpened up_, etc., and making him promise to carry my books to and from the school-house during the remainder of the summer, I made him a _present_ of the knife. He was exceedingly delighted with this acquisition to his personal property, and immediately ran into the yard to find something to whittle. I looked through the window to watch his success. He first picked up a decayed mullen stalk, and attempted to cut off the end; but, instead of _cutting_ it off, the pressure of his knife _broke_ it off close by his hand. He next picked up the end of an ox-goad, and tugged away at it, turning his head sidewise, and twisting his tongue and mouth into all manner of shapes, but _not a shaving could he raise_! He then found a piece of pine shingle, which he succeeded in splitting lengthwise, but could neither _sharpen_ nor _round_ it. Just then, two of his playmates coming along with a ball, Dick put his knife into his pocket, and went to join them in a game of “_one-old-cat_.” I thought to myself, as I was almost bursting with laughter, “I was _very_ fortunate in getting rid of _that_ knife at any rate.” On the following morning, father went to get his shaving apparatus, and, of course, discovered his ruined hone. However, as soon as I saw him start for the sideboard drawer, I started for the wood-house chamber, where I lay concealed until school-time. I went to school with the determination not to go home at noon, and supposed that by night the hone business would all be got along with. But my hopes were again doomed to disappointment; for when father came home in the evening, he asked me if I had “been using his hone?” Now, as I had been taught that, let consequences be what they might, I must never tell a _lie_; true to _such_ instructions, I promptly answered—“Yes, sir.” “For what purpose?” he inquired. “To sharpen my knife,” I answered. “Well,” said he, “as you are so fond of sharpening knives, go get the case-knife your mother lends you, and sharpen that.” Accordingly, I got the case-knife, and he got the hone, and I went to _honing_, and he went to reading the newspapers. Now, the case-knife was a good deal like my Barlow knife; the more you _sharpened_ it, the _duller_ it grew. After rubbing it about half an hour, being somewhat tired, I took it to father, and told him “it would not come sharp.” “Oh, well,” said he, “you have not honed it long enough; it is a knife, and, of course, can be sharpened. Try it again.” So at it I went once more; and, after rubbing it until my mouth was dry as a cotton-bag, and my arm almost exhausted, I took it again to father, and, with tears in my eyes, told him “it would _not be sharpened_.” “Well, my son,” said he, “when I questioned you about the hone, you promptly told me the truth; for this I commend you, and I have made you hone the case-knife as a punishment for spoiling my hone. Now the next time you want a razor-hone to sharpen a Barlow knife upon, you must ask for it.” I made divers promises on the subject, and fully resolved, in my own mind, that I never would use his hone again without permission.

On the following Sunday morning I put on my best suit to attend church; and, after I had got down into the parlor, I unconsciously thrust my hand into my coat pocket, and great was my surprise when I drew from it my _Barlow knife_. “Dick,” said I, “did you put _your_ knife into my pocket?” “That’s not _my_ knife,” said Dick. “Don’t you want it?” I asked. “No!” he answered. “Why not?” I inquired. “Because it will not _cut any_,” rejoined Dick; “and I shall not carry your books this summer for _such_ a knife as that,” and thereupon he hopped out of the room. The next day, while up in the orchard, back of the school-house, I contrived to have it slip out of my pocket, and satisfied my conscience by telling myself that I had lost it. More than a week had I passed in the enjoyment of this quiet, pleasing consciousness of having lost my knife, when, one morning as I was going to school, Bill Williams ran up to me, saying, “Bob, here’s your knife: I found it under the big sweet apple-tree.” “Botheration take the knife,” I thought, as I put it into my pocket. After school was out at night, I went up the road some distance from the school-house, to a _sand-pit_, from which the neighbors occasionally got a load of _scrubbing-sand_. Here I dug a hole as deep as I could, threw in my knife, buried it up, and went away, rejoicing in the belief that I should never see it again.

About two weeks after this, Peleg Bunce, my father’s hired man, was sent, by mother, to get a load of scrubbing-sand; and when I came home from school Peleg said to me, “Robert, here’s your knife,” at the same time reaching it to me. “My knife!” I exclaimed, in a manner and with feelings compounded of sanity and insanity. “_Divil_ burn the knife,” I whispered to myself, not wishing to speak a bad word distinctly. Peleg found it in the sand-pit; and he knew it was mine, for he once borrowed it of me to make a _bow-pin_ for old _Brin_—but returned it, of course, without accomplishing his object. Once more I put it in my pocket, and began to reflect how I should ever get entirely rid of it. At last, a plan occurred to me, which I conceived to be faultless. There was a _pond_ near my father’s house, at the outlet of which stood a large blast furnace. I determined to _drown_ my knife. Accordingly, lest its own weight should not be sufficient to keep it at the bottom, and to make “assurance doubly sure,” I got from the barn a piece of halter with which I tied a pretty good sized stone to my knife, and threw it into the furnace-pond. And great was my joy to see it turn and turn around until it sank out of my sight. Soon as it had fairly disappeared, I fetched a heavy sigh of mingled joy and suspense—then turned home with a light and happy heart. Sweet was my rest that night, and pleasant were my dreams. Week after week passed away, and my old knife likewise passed into oblivion.

One bright and beautiful morning in October, old Russell Case and his two sons came down from the mountain on which they lived, to fish in the pond; and as they were notorious fishermen, they generally had quite a company of boys to watch their operations. As it was not yet school-time, Bill Williams and myself went to see them draw their seine. They took a good sweep into the pond with their boat, then came on shore and commenced hauling in. We were all anxiously watching for the fish, and nearly the whole of them had been emptied on the beach, when Bill Williams exclaimed, “Why, Bob, _there’s your knife_!” And sure enough, on hauling in the last joint of the seine, what should be hanging to it but my knife with the string and stone attached to it! Perfectly astounded at this discovery, I could almost have prayed that the waters might rise and overwhelm seine, fishermen and all! However, the thing was easily explained; for the piece of halter which I used happened to have been made of _hemp_, and the _knife_ not being as heavy as the string, while the stone lay on the bottom, _that_ was elevated some inches from it, and so the fishermen caught it.

Once more, with a heavy heart, I put that old knife in my pocket. A deep feeling of disappointment and melancholy took possession of my mind, and long and seriously did I ponder upon the best means of ridding myself of this tantalizing treasure. In vain had I endeavored to _give it away_—in vain, to lose it—in vain, to drown it. Light, at last, seemed to dawn through the gloom that had gathered upon me, and my resolution was soon taken. I repaired one evening to the furnace—went into the top-house, and there waited until they began to put in their hourly supply of coal and ore. I then thrust my knife into the box of ore which I thought the _filler_ would put in first. I did not wish to throw it directly into the top myself, for this would seem like doing an evil deed, and such a one I did not wish to do. Strongly and quickly did my heart beat as I watched the baskets of coal disappear; and, finally, my whole frame shook with agitation when I saw the filler take the box of ore which contained my knife, and toss its contents into the furnace! A long-drawn sigh gave vent to the conflicting emotions which had agitated my mind, and I turned homeward with a feeling of deep, almost overwhelming satisfaction and delight, that my eyes had certainly beheld, for the last time, my old BARLOW KNIFE!

GERTRUDE.

BY MISS A. D. WOODBRIDGE,

STOCKBRIDGE, MASS.

List to the passers by! They’re hastening on, the young, the beautiful, To scenes of pleasure. To the thronged _soirée_, The brilliant party, or the festive dance, The crowded theatre, or op’ra sweet. In each will wand’ring glances oft be turned In search of her, the gifted, lovely, young, And far-famed Gertrude.—She’s at home to-night. Look! who’d not be “a glove upon that hand,”[7] On which her brow reposes? Th’ other rests Upon the page she’s reading. Ah! that sheet Was filled, no doubt, by one she fondly loves; For, see! it meets her lip.—She rises now! Grace! thou’rt a name for her! She moves not like A being of the earth. We almost feel ’Tis sacrilege to gaze upon that face Where thought, emotion, beauty, love, all strive For the expression. Hark! she touches now The strings of her guitar, and wakes that voice, Whose tones thrill o’er the spirit:—

“He’s away! he’s away! he’s away! Yet I know he is constant and true, Still my path is illumed by love’s ray, Which though absent, brings him to my view. Yet ’tis darkness, compared with the beam Which his presence flings over me still; When with Ernest, why should I not deem That the world contains nothing of ill?

“He’s away! he’s away! he’s away! Yet his voice will soon fall on mine ear. Its tones will tempt bliss here to stay, And e’en happiness linger to hear. When with Ernest, why should I not lose All thoughts of the world and its hum? And his smile above fame ever choose? He will come! he will come! he will come!”

Her song is done! Footsteps approach.—She starts! the door is oped. It must be—’tis her lover!—But enough.

SODUS BAY.

Calm in thy pure and summer beauty yet, As when of old my childhood’s glances met This bright expanse, fair bay! I see thee still— The laughing ripple’s curl, the wood-crowned hill, The deep green shore rising in graceful sweep, The wide smooth waters in their sun-bright sleep, Scorning the change wrought by each passing year, In loveliness unfading, still are here. Lovely thou art, sweet bay!—when first the beam Of morning glances on the silvery stream Which seeks thy bosom—when the south winds break Thy water’s glassy slumber, and awake A thousand sparkling eddies—when the sky At noon gleams blue and distant from on high— When winds are hushed in peace, the flagging sail Wooing in vain from Heaven the wished-for gale— Or at bright eve, when the rich sunset’s pride Has gemmed with shining gold their glancing tide— No fairer spot, I ween, the radiant sun In his broad path of light has looked upon; And the pale moon in all her midnight round No place of holier loveliness has found. Nature is here in wildness. Yonder isles, Upon whose wooded verge the sunlight smiles To meet the glittering wave, know scarce a tread, Save of the lonely huntsman. Yet ’tis said, One hero on their shore has found a grave. He died in fight the death that fits the brave, And sleeps unheeded there:—the mound which swells So greenly near, his place of burial tells. Peaceful thou art—the tempests wild that sweep The lake, are powerless to disturb thy sleep. Thou hear’st the voices of thy parent main, Speaking in thunders;—but their warning strain Wakes no stern echo here—in safety still The fisherman may guide his bark at will, And smile to hear the billows’ angry roar, Chafing in rage upon the neighboring shore. Farewell! I found, and leave thee, calm and bright, And changeless still!—and thus, when starless night Has closed on eyes which loved to look on thee, Wilt thou smile on—then, too, as quietly Yon towering banks will look into thy face On their unbroken shade. Thou in the embrace Of this wide shore as sweetly shalt repose— As brightly gleam at evening’s fervid close. Thou hast no part in fleeting years that tell Of human ills! My native shore—farewell! E. F. E.

MARY WALLACE.

A JUVENILE STORY.

“Now for a story!” said Henry Jackson, as he put the last piece to a dissected map, which lay on the table before him; “Grandmother, do you remember you promised to give us one of your best to-night, if I could put this new map together; and see, here it is, every bit in its place—all right!”

“Not quite so fast,” said George Gray, an intelligent youth of fourteen, who, with his sister Ann, was spending Christmas-week with his cousins in town; “not quite so fast, Henry; see, here is a part of the Hudson spliced on to the Connecticut; and New York and New Haven have fairly changed places!”

“What of that!” returned Henry, biting his lips with vexation, as he saw his mistake; “I don’t care for that!”

“Never say you _don’t care_,” said the grandmother, laying her book and spectacles, at once, aside, “never allow yourself to say, I don’t care; for, besides being generally a falsehood, it always shows a bad disposition; and no good ever came of it.”

“But George needn’t feel so smart because he’s a little quicker and more forward than I am,” replied the boy. “I guess, if I lived out of town, I could learn to put dissected maps together, too; why he’s nothing to do, from morning till night, but to study out puzzles!”

“I think,” said Ann, with true womanly spirit taking the aggrieved side, “I think our George _ought_ to know something about it, for he was a whole evening, only last week, putting together the dissected picture uncle William gave me; and I am sure it plagued him just twice as much as this map has you, cousin Henry; but I do not think he meant to be unkind to you, either; and I don’t know why he should, you are always so kind to us: and I’m sure you’re full as forward, and quick to learn any thing as he is; and you know you are about my age, almost two years younger than George.”

“You are a good girl, cousin Ann—and I love you,” said Henry, wiping the tears from his brightening eyes; “you always have such a way to put one in good humor, and reconcile every thing. Now, George, give me your hand; I will acknowledge I was wrong in getting vexed with you, and speaking as I did, especially now you are visiting me; and I ought to do every thing to make your time pass pleasantly. I was wrong, too, in saying I did not care; for I _did_ care. Grandmother, I hope _you_ will forgive me?”

“With all my heart, my child,” said the good woman, folding her arms round the affectionate boy; “God grant you may always be as ready to acknowledge your faults!”

“And now brother is sorry for doing wrong, and has made it all up with cousin George, you _will_ tell us a story, won’t you, dear grandmother?” said Helen, a child of seven years, who was leaning over the arm of Mrs. Gray’s chair.

“And do tell one pitty long,” said little Mary, a lisping infant of three years, laying her curly head in her grandmother’s lap.

“Now that peace is restored, my children,” said Mrs. Gray, looking fondly upon each one of the little flock that gathered round her, “I will tell you a story of one from whom we are all descended.”

“Was her name Gray?” asked Ann, eagerly.

“Not at the period to which our story refers; though afterwards it became so.”

“We are in haste for you to begin,” said Henry, hurrying books, maps, and pictures, without any order, into a table drawer.

“Don’t be impatient, child—old folks never like to be hurried,” said Mrs. Gray; “and I’ve a good will not to tell you any story at all, just for huddling up your things in such a slovenly manner.”

“Forgive poor Henry once again,” said the good-natured Ann, “and I will put them all nice;” and she took the things all out of the drawer, and placed the books neatly in the book-case, and laid the maps and pictures into a portfolio; and when she had done she said, “Now, grandmother, are you not ready?”

“Not quite yet,” said Mrs. Gray, with an affectionate smile; “you, my dear Ann, are such a neat little girl, I’m sure you will be willing to wait till Sally has swept the hearth and replenished the fire.”

“Replenished is among my definitions,” said little Helen; “but I didn’t know that it had any thing to do with making a fire.”

“Making a fire!” repeated George; “didn’t I tell you only yesterday, that we cannot _make_ fire, but only kindle it?”

“Yes, you did tell me so, to be sure; but I didn’t believe you. I guess if you had been here the other night when the Universalist Chapel was burnt, you would think somebody could make a fire—and a pretty large one, too.”

“Can you tell me the meaning of the word replenish?” asked Mrs. Gray.

“Why, replenish means—it means—to fill up, I believe; but I don’t see as that has anything to do with fire, after all.”

“Why if we add wood to the fire, and so fill up, or nearly fill up, the fireplace, may it not be called replenishing? You commence the critic early, child,” said the grandmother; but she was far from being angry with little Helen for her remarks; “for it is right and proper for children to inquire, and understand, and learn all they can.”

“But, grandmother,” said George, “I have placed your chair in the warmest corner—the fire _is_ replenished, if Miss Helen will allow me to say so—the hearth is swept—Sally has got her knitting, and is going to sit down with us—and we are all ready, and impatient to hear you.”

“I wish father and mother would be out at a party every night,” said little Helen, as the circle of happy and inquisitive children took their respective seats, and drew around Mrs. Gray; “for you, dear grandmother, always sit with us when they are out; and so do brother, and cousin Ann, and George—and we have such happy times!”

The good lady drew the youngest child to her arms; and, taking the hand of Helen, who had drawn her little chair very close to her grandmother, thus began:

“It was a cold night in December, 1664. The winter wind was howling among the bare forest-trees, and whistling through the heavy and open casements of a few small houses, which stood in the midst of the wilderness, upon a spot then mostly known as the Plantations. It was Sabbath evening. The family belonging to one of the most comfortable looking houses rose up slowly from their usual evening devotions, and drew round a large and blazing fire. The snow and hail beat furiously against the one window of the room, and for some minutes no one spoke: and then they heard a low groan as of one in the agonies of death; and this was followed by a faint screech and a moan of distress.

“‘The Indians! the Indians!’ cried a boy about six years old, and he hid his little head in his mother’s lap.

“‘Nobody shall hurt my boy!’ said the father, patting his head, ‘nobody shall harm thee, child;’ and he rose up, and putting on a broad-brimmed hat turned up at the sides, and taking an iron-headed cane, he began to unfasten the door.

“‘Thou wilt not, Simon Gray,’ said the wife, laying a hand on his arm, ‘thou wilt not open our dwelling to the enemy?’

“‘Thy fears are natural, Rebecca,’ said the husband, turning with momentary hesitation, ‘for verily, hath the cunning enemy been as a snake in the grass to the Lord’s people.’

“‘Look forth from the window, first, then,’ said the wife; ‘hast thou lived so long in the wilderness and not learned that the wicked one is full of snares?’ But a succession of low groans, apparently near the house, overcame his fears; and hastily unfastening and throwing open the narrow door, he said, ‘Farewell, Rebecca—the arm of the Lord is forever with his children!’

“‘Forsake me not, Simon,’ said Mrs. Gray, lifting the little boy to her arms, ‘I will go with thee;’ but he had already passed the threshold and thrown open the gate that led from the little enclosure around their dwelling. He paused; listened again; and passed into the street. The cries were repeated, but not so loud or so frequently as they had been. He paused again and looked around, but still saw nothing but the thick falling snow, which beat so heavily as to obscure almost everything; besides, it was very dark.

“Who was it, grandmother?” whispered Helen, “who was it?”

“Hush, sister!” said Henry, “she was just going to tell.”

“Again,” resumed Mrs. Gray, “again he heard the same low cry; and just as his wife came up, he stumbled upon a human figure crouched at the foot of a very large snow-bank. It proved to be an Indian woman, almost perished with cold and hunger.

“‘The Lord be praised! and bless thee, Simon Gray!’ said Rebecca, as she assisted her husband to lift the poor creature from the earth; ‘the Lord be magnified!’

“‘Leave Namoina, take de baby!’ said the poor creature in broken English, and she pointed to a dark heap at a little distance; but at the instant William had reached the spot, and, as his mother came up, he uncovered the face of a sleeping infant. The little creature was wrapped in a thick covering of blankets, and was sleeping as peacefully amid the snow as if it was lying in its own mother’s bosom.

“Rebecca knelt beside the little one, and blessed God that she had been the instrument of saving its life. The falling snow, and the cold wind blowing upon the child’s face, awoke it; and as it opened its eyes it looked up in the face of Rebecca, who was kneeling beside it with a lantern in her hand, and smiled, and lifted up its little arms.

“‘The Lord has sent thee to me,’ said Mrs. Gray, while her heart was filled with tenderness. ‘The Lord has sent thee to me, to lie in my bosom and be unto me instead of my own little buried Rebecca!’