We and the World: A Book for Boys. Part I

“The bee, a more adventurous colonist than man.”
W.C. Bryant.

“Some silent laws our hearts will make,
Which they shall long obey;
We for the year to come may take
Our temper from to-day.”—Wordsworth.

“You know what an Apiary is, Isaac, of course?”

I was sitting in the bee-master’s cottage, opposite to him, in an arm-chair, which was the counterpart of his own, both of them having circular backs, diamond-shaped seats, and chintz cushions with frills. It was the summer following that in which Jem and I had tried to see how badly we could behave; this uncivilized phase had abated: Jem used to ride about a great deal with my father, and I had become intimate with Isaac Irvine.

“You know what an Apiary is, Isaac?” said I.

“A what, sir?”

“An A-P-I-A-R-Y.”

“To be sure, sir, to be sure,” said Isaac. “An appyary” (so he was pleased to pronounce it), “I should be familiar with the name, sir, from my bee-book, but I never calls my own stock anything but the beehives. Beehives is a good, straightforward sort of a name, sir, and it serves my turn.”

“Ah, but you see we haven’t come to the B’s yet,” said I, alluding to what I was thinking of.

“Does your father think of keeping ’em, sir?” said Isaac, alluding to what he was thinking of.

“Oh, he means to have them bound, I believe,” was my reply.

The bee-master now betrayed his bewilderment, and we had a hearty laugh when we discovered that he had been talking about bees whilst I had been talking about the weekly numbers of the Penny Cyclopædia, which had not as yet reached the letter B, but in which I had found an article on Master Isaac’s craft, under the word Apiary, which had greatly interested me, and ought, I thought, to be interesting to the bee-keeper. Still thinking of this I said,

“Do you ever take your bees away from home, Isaac?”

“They’re on the moors now, sir,” said Isaac.

“Are they?” I exclaimed. “Then you’re like the Egyptians, and like the French, and the Piedmontese; only you didn’t take them in a barge.”

“Why, no, sir. The canal don’t go nigh-hand of the moors at all.”

“The Egyptians,” said I, leaning back into the capacious arms of my chair, and epitomizing what I had read, “who live in Lower Egypt put all their beehives into boats and take them on the river to Upper Egypt. Right up at that end of the Nile the flowers come out earliest, and the bees get all the good out of them there, and then the boats are moved lower down to where the same kind of flowers are only just beginning to blossom, and the bees get all the good out of them there, and so on, and on, and on, till they’ve travelled right through Egypt, with all the hives piled up, and come back in the boats to where they started from.”

“And every hive a mighty different weight to what it was when they did start, I’ll warrant,” said Master Isaac enthusiastically. “Did you find all that in those penny numbers, Master Jack?”

“Yes, and oh, lots more, Isaac! About lots of things and lots of countries.”

“Scholarship’s a fine thing,” said the bee-master, “and seeing foreign parts is a fine thing, and many’s the time I’ve wished for both. I suppose that’s the same Egypt that’s in the Bible, sir?”

“Yes,” said I, “and the same river Nile that Moses was put on in the ark of bulrushes.”

“There’s no countries I’d like to see better than them Bible countries,” said Master Isaac, “and I’ve wished it more ever since that gentleman was here that gave that lecture in the school, with the Holy Land magic-lantern. He’d been there himself, and he explained all the slides. They were grand, some of ’em, when you got ’em straight and steady for a bit. They’re an awkward thing to manage, is slides, sir, and the school-master he wasn’t much good at ’em, he said, and that young scoundrel Bob Furniss and another lad got in a hole below the platform and pulled the sheet. But when you did get ’em, right side up, and the light as it should be, they were grand! There was one they called the Wailing Place of the Jews, with every stone standing out as fair as the flags on this floor. John Binder, the mason, was at my elbow when that came on, and he clapped his hands, and says he, ‘Well, yon beats all!’ But the one for my choice, sir, was the Garden of Gethsemane by moonlight. I’d only gone to the penny places, for I’m a good size and can look over most folks’ heads, but I thought I must see that a bit nearer, cost what it might. So I found a shilling, and I says to the young fellow at the door (it was the pupil-teacher), ‘I must go a bit nearer to yon.’ And he says, ‘You’re not going into the reserved seats, Isaac?’ So I says, ‘Don’t put yourself about, my lad, I shan’t interfere with the quality; but if half a day’s wage ’ll bring me nearer to the Garden of Gethsemane, I’m bound to go.’ And I went. I didn’t intrude myself on nobody, though one gentleman was for making room for me at once, and twice over he offered me a seat beside him. But I knew my manners, and I said, ‘Thank you, sir, I can see as I stand.’ And I did see right well, and kicked Bob Furniss too, which was good for all parties. But I’d like to see the very places themselves, Master Jack.”

“So should I,” said I; “but I should like to go farther, all round the world, I think. Do you know, Isaac, you wouldn’t believe what curious beasts there are in other countries, and what wonderful people and places! Why, we’ve only got to ATH—No. 135—now; it leaves off at Athanagilde, a captain of the Spanish Goths—he’s nobody, but there are such apes in that number! The Mono—there’s a picture of him, just like a man with a tail and horrid feet, who used to sit with the negro women when they were at work, and play with bits of paper; and a Quata, who used to be sent to the tavern for wine, and when the children pelted him he put down the wine and threw stones at them. And there are pictures in all the numbers, of birds and ant-eaters and antelopes, and I don’t know what. The Mono and the Quata live in the West Indies, I think. You see, I think the A’s are rather good numbers; very likely, for there’s America, and Asia, and Africa, and Arabia, and Abyssinia, and there’ll be Australia before we come to the B’s. Oh, Isaac! I do wish I could go round the world!”

I sighed, and the bee-master sighed also, with a profundity that made his chair creak, well-seasoned as it was. Then he said, “But I’ll say this, Master Jack, next to going to such places the reading about ’em must come. A penny a week’s a penny a week to a poor man, but I reckon I shall have to make shift to take in those numbers myself.”

Isaac did not take them in, however, for I used to take ours down to his cottage, and read them aloud to him instead. He liked this much better than if he had had to read to himself—he said he could understand reading better when he heard it than when he saw it. For my own part I enjoyed it very much, and I fancy I read rather well, it being a point on which Mrs. Wood expended much trouble with us.

“Listen, Isaac,” said I on my next visit; “this is what I meant about the barge”—and resting the Penny Number on the arm of my chair, I read aloud to the attentive bee-master—“‘Goldsmith describes from his own observation a kind of floating apiary in some parts of France and Piedmont. They have on board of one barge, he says, threescore or a hundred beehives——’”

“That’s an appy-ary if ye like, sir!” ejaculated Master Isaac, interrupting his pipe and me to make way for the observation.

“Somebody saw ‘a convoy of four thousand hives——’ on the Nile,” said I.

The bee-master gave a resigned sigh. “Go on, Master Jack,” said he.

“‘—well defended from the inclemency of an accidental storm,’” I proceeded; “‘and with these the owners float quietly down the stream; one beehive yields the proprietor a considerable income. Why, he adds, a method similar to this has never been adopted in England, where we have more gentle rivers and more flowery banks than in any other part of the world, I know not; certainly it might be turned to advantage, and yield the possessor a secure, though perhaps a moderate, income.’”

I was very fond of the canal which ran near us (and was, for that matter, a parish boundary): and the barges, with their cargoes, were always interesting to me; but a bargeful of bees seemed something quite out of the common. I thought I should rather like to float down a gentle river between flowery banks, surrounded by beehives on which I could rely to furnish me with a secure though moderate income; and I said so.

“So should I, sir,” said the bee-master. “And I should uncommon like to ha’ seen the one beehive that brought in a considerable income. Honey must have been very dear in those parts, Master Jack. However, it’s in the book, so I suppose it’s right enough.”

I made no defence of the veracity of the Cyclopædia, for I was thinking of something else, of which, after a few moments, I spoke.

“Isaac, you don’t stay with your bees on the moors. Do you ever go to see them?”

“To be sure I do, Master Jack, nigh every Sunday through the season. I start after I get back from morning church, and I come home in the dark, or by moonlight. My missus goes to church in the afternoons, and for that bit she locks up the house.”

“Oh, I wish you’d take me the next time!” said I.

“To be sure I will, and too glad sir, if you’re allowed to go.”

That was the difficulty, and I knew it. No one who has not lived in a household of old-fashioned middle-class country folk of our type has any notion how difficult it is for anybody to do anything unusual therein. In such a well-fitted but unelastic establishment the dinner-hour, the carriage horses, hot water, bedtime, candles, the post, the wash-day, and an extra blanket, from being the ministers of one’s comfort, become the stern arbiters of one’s fate. Spring cleaning—which is something like what it would be to build, paint, and furnish a house, and to “do it at home”—takes place as naturally as the season it celebrates; but if you want the front door kept open after the usual hour for drawing the bolts and hanging the robbers’ bell, it’s odds if the master of the house has not an apoplectic fit, and if servants of twelve and fourteen years’ standing do not give warning.

And what is difficult on week-days is on Sundays next door to impossible, for obvious reasons.

But one’s parents, though they have their little ways like other people, are, as a rule—oh, my heart! made sadder and wiser by the world’s rough experiences, bear witness!—very indulgent; and after a good many ups and downs, and some compromising and coaxing, I got my way.

On one point my mother was firm, and I feared this would be an insuperable difficulty. I must go twice to church, as our Sunday custom was—a custom which she saw no good reason for me to break. It is easy to smile at her punctiliousness on this score; but after all these years, and on the whole, I think she was right. An unexpected compromise came to my rescue, however: Isaac Irvine’s bees were in the parish of Cripple Charlie’s father, within a stone’s throw (by the bee-master’s strong arm) of the church itself, which was a small minster among the moors. Here I promised faithfully to attend Evening Prayer, for which we should be in time; and I started, by Isaac Irvine’s side, on my first real “expedition” on the first Sunday in August, with my mother’s blessing and a threepenny-bit with a hole in it, “in case of a collection.”

We dined before we started, I with the rest, and Isaac in our kitchen; but I had no great appetite—I was too much excited—and I willingly accepted some large sandwiches made with thick slices of home-made bread and liberal layers of home-made potted meat, “in case I should feel hungry” before I got there.

It pains me to think how distressed my mother was because I insisted on carrying the sandwiches in a red and orange spotted handkerchief, which I had purchased with my own pocket-money, and to which I was deeply attached, partly from the bombastic nature of the pattern, and partly because it was big enough for any grown-up man. “It made me look like a tramping sailor,” she said. I did not tell her that this was precisely the effect at which I aimed, though it was the case; but I coaxed her into permitting it, and I abstained from passing a certain knowing little ash stick through the knot, and hoisting the bundle over my left shoulder, till I was well out of the grounds.

My efforts to spare her feelings on this point, however, proved vain. She ran to the landing-window to watch me out of sight, and had a full view of my figure as I swaggered with a business-like gait by Isaac’s side up the first long hill, having set my hat on the back of my head with an affectation of profuse heat, my right hand in the bee-master’s coat-pocket for support, and my left holding the stick and bundle at an angle as showy and sailor-like as I could assume.

“And they’ll just meet the Ebenezer folk coming out of chapel, ma’am!” said our housemaid over my mother’s shoulder, by way of consolation.

Our journey was up-hill, for which I was quite prepared. The blue and purple outline of the moors formed the horizon line visible from our gardens, whose mistiness or clearness was prophetic of the coming weather, and over which the wind was supposed to blow with uncommon “healthfulness.” I had been there once to blow away the whooping-cough, and I could remember that the sandy road wound up and up, but I did not appreciate till that Sunday how tiring a steady ascent of nearly five miles may be.

We were within sight of the church and within hearing of the bells, when we reached a wayside trough, whose brimming measure was for ever overflowed by as bright a rill as ever trickled down a hill-side.

“It’s only the first peal,” said Master Isaac, seating himself on the sandy bank, and wiping his brows.

My well-accustomed ears confirmed his statement. The bells moved too slowly for either the second or the third peal, and we had twenty minutes at our disposal.

It was then that I knew (for the first but not the last time) what refreshment for the weary a spotted handkerchief may hold. The bee-master and I divided the sandwiches, and washed them down with handfuls of the running rill, so fresh, so cold, so limpid, that (like the saints and martyrs of a faith) it would convert any one to water-drinking who did not reflect on the commoner and less shining streams which come to us through lead pipes and in evil communication with sewers.

We were cool and tidy by the time that the little “Tom Tinkler” bell began to “hurry up.”

“You’re coming, aren’t you?” said I, checked at the churchyard gate by an instinct of some hesitation on Isaac’s part.

“Well, I suppose I am, sir,” said the bee-master, and in he came.

The thick walls, the stained windows, and the stone floor, which was below the level of the churchyard, made the church very cool. Master Isaac and I seated ourselves so that we had a good view within, and could also catch a peep through the open porch of the sunlit country outside. Charlie’s father was in his place when we got in; his threadbare coat was covered by the white linen of his office, and I do not think it would have been possible even to my levity to have felt anything but a respectful awe of him in church.

The cares of this life are not as a rule improving to the countenance. No one who watches faces can have failed to observe that more beauty is marred and youth curtailed by vulgar worry than by almost any other disfigurement. In the less educated classes, where self-control is not very habitual, and where interests beyond petty and personal ones are rare, the soft brows and tender lips of girlhood are too often puckered and hardened by mean anxieties, even where these do not affect the girls personally, but only imitatively, and as the daily interests of their station in life. In such cases the discontented, careworn look is by no means a certain indication of corresponding suffering, but there are too many others in which tempers that should have been generous, and faces that should have been noble, and aims that should have been high, are blurred and blunted by the real weight of real everyday care.

There are yet others; in which the spirit is too strong for mortal accidents to pull it down—minds that the narrowest career cannot vulgarize—faces to which care but adds a look of pathos—souls which keep their aims and faiths apart from the fluctuations of “the things that are seen.” The personal influence of natures of this type is generally very large, and it was very large in the case of Cripple Charlie’s father, and made him a sort of Prophet, Priest, and King over a rough and scattered population, with whom the shy, scholarly poor gentleman had not otherwise much in common.

It was his personal influence, I am sure, which made the congregation so devout! There is one rule which, I believe, applies to all congregations, of every denomination, and any kind of ritual, and that is, that the enthusiasm of the congregation is in direct proportion to the enthusiasm of the minister; not merely to his personal worth, nor even to his popularity, for people who rather dislike a clergyman, and disapprove of his service, will say a louder Amen at his giving of thanks if his own feelings have a touch of fire, than they would to that of a more perfunctory parson whom they liked better. As is the heartiness of the priest, so is the heartiness of the people—with such strictness that one is disposed almost to credit some of it to actual magnetism. Response is no empty word in public worship.

It was no empty word on this occasion. From the ancient clerk (who kept a life-interest in what were now the duties of a choir) to some gaping farm-lads at my back, everybody said and sang to the utmost of his ability. I may add that Isaac and I involuntarily displayed a zeal which was in excess of our Sunday customs; and if my tongue moved glibly enough with the choir, the bee-master found many an elderly parishioner besides himself and the clerk who “took” both prayer and praise at such independent paces as suited their individual scholarship, spectacles, and notions of reverence.

It crowned my satisfaction when I found that there was to be a collection. The hymn to which the churchwardens moved about, gathering the pence, whose numbers and noisiness seemed in keeping with the rest of the service, was a well-known one to us all. It was the favourite evening hymn of the district. I knew every syllable of it, for Jem and I always sang hymns (and invariably this one) with my dear mother, on Sunday evening after supper. When we were good, we liked it, and, picking one favourite after another, we often sang nearly through the hymn-book. When we were naughty, we displayed a good deal of skill in making derisive faces behind my mother’s back, as she sat at the piano, without betraying ourselves, and in getting our tongues out and in again during the natural pauses and convolutions of the tune. But these occasional fits of boyish profanity did not hinder me from having an equally boyish fund of reverence and enthusiasm at the bottom of my heart, and it was with proud and pleasurable emotions that I heard the old clerk give forth the familiar first lines,

“Soon shall the evening star with silver ray
Shed its mild lustre o’er this sacred day,”

and got my threepenny-bit ready between my finger and thumb.

Away went the organ, which was played by the vicar’s eldest daughter—away went the vicar’s second daughter, who “led the singing” from the vicarage pew with a voice like a bird—away went the choir, which, in spite of surplices, could not be cured of waiting half a beat for her—and away went the congregation—young men and maidens, old men and children—in one broad tide of somewhat irregular harmony. Isaac did not know the words as well as I did, so I lent him my hymn-book; one result of which was, that the print being small, and the sense of a hymn being in his view a far more important matter than the sound of it, he preached rather than sang—in an unequal cadence which was perturbing to my more musical ear—the familiar lines,

“Still let each awful truth our thoughts engage,
That shines revealed on inspiration’s page;
Nor those blest hours in vain amusement waste
Which all who lavish shall lament at last.”

During the next verse my devotions were a little distracted by the gradual approach of a churchwarden for my threepenny-bit, which was hot with three verses of expectant fingering. Then, to my relief, he took it, and the bee-master’s contribution, and I felt calmer, and listened to the little prelude which it was always the custom for the organist to play before the final verse of a hymn. It was also the custom to sing the last verse as loudly as possible, though this is by no means invariably appropriate. It fitted the present occasion fairly enough. From where I stood I could see the bellows-blower (the magnetic current of enthusiasm flowed even to the back of the organ) nerve himself to prodigious pumping—Charlie’s sister drew out all the stops—the vicar passed from the prayer-desk to the pulpit with the rapt look of a man who walks in a prophetic dream—we pulled ourselves together, Master Isaac brought the hymn book close to his glasses, and when the tantalizing prelude was past we burst forth with a volume which merged all discrepancies. As far as I am able to judge of my own performance, I fear I bawled (I’m sure the boy behind me did),

“Father of Heaven, in Whom our hopes confide,
Whose power defends us, and Whose precepts guide,
In life our Guardian, and in death our Friend,
Glory supreme be Thine till time shall end!”

The sermon was short, and when the service was over Master Isaac and I spent a delightful afternoon with his bees among the heather. The “evening star” had come out when we had some tea in the village inn, and we walked home by moonlight. There was neither wind nor sun, but the air was almost oppressively pure. The moonshine had taken the colour out of the sandy road and the heather, and had painted black shadows by every boulder, and most things looked asleep except the rill that went on running. Only we and the rabbits, and the night moths and the beetles, seemed to be stirring. An occasional bat appeared and vanished like a spectral illusion, and I saw one owl flap across the moor with level wings against the moon.

“Oh, I have enjoyed it!” was all I could say when I parted from the bee-master.

“And so have I, Master Jack,” was his reply, and he hesitated as if he had something more to say, and then he said it. “I never enjoyed it as much, and you can thank your mother, sir, with old Isaac’s duty, for sending us to church. I’m sure I don’t know why I never went before when I was up yonder, for I always took notice of the bells. I reckon I thought I hadn’t time, but you can say, with my respects, sir, that please God I shan’t miss again.”

I believe he never did; and Cripple Charlie’s father came to look on him as half a parishioner.

I was glad I had not shirked Evening Prayer myself, though (my sex and age considered) it was not to be expected that I should comfort my mother’s heart by confessing as much. Let me confess it now, and confess also that if it was the first time, it was not the last that I have had cause to realize—oh women, for our sakes remember it!—into what light and gentle hands God lays the reins that guide men’s better selves.

The most remarkable event of the day happened at the end of it. Whilst Isaac was feeling the weight of one of his hives, and just after I lost chase of a very peculiar-looking beetle, from his squeezing himself away from me under a boulder, I had caught sight of a bit of white heather, and then bethought me of gathering a nosegay (to include this rarity) of moor flowers and grasses for Mrs. Wood. So when we reached the lane on our way home, I bade Isaac good-night, and said I would just run in by the back way into the farm (we never called it the Academy) and leave the flowers, that the school-mistress might put them in water. Mary Anne was in the kitchen.

“Where’s Mrs. Wood?” said I, when she had got over that silly squeak women always give when you come suddenly on them.

“Dear, dear, Master Jack! what a turn you did give me! I thought it was the tramp.”

“What tramp?” said I.

“Why, a great lanky man that came skulking here a bit since, and asked for the missus. She was down the garden, and I’ve half a notion he went after her. I wish you’d go and look for her, Master Jack, and fetch her in. It’s as damp as dear knows what, and she takes no more care of herself than a baby. And I’d be glad to know that man was off the place. There’s wall-fruit and lots of things about, a low fellow like that might pick up.”

My ears felt a little hot at this allusion to low fellows and garden thieving, and I hurried off to do Mary Anne’s bidding without further parley. There was a cloud over the moon as I ran down the back garden, but when I was nearly at the end the moon burst forth again, so that I could see. And this is what I saw:—

First, a white thing lying on the ground, and it was the widow’s cap, and then Mrs. Wood herself, with a gaunt lanky-looking man, such as Mary Anne had described. Her head came nearly to his shoulder, as I was well able to judge, for he was holding it in his hands and had laid his own upon it, as if it were a natural resting-place. And his hair coming against the darker part of hers, I could see that his was grey all over. Up to this point I had been too much stupefied to move, and I had just become conscious that I ought to go, when the white cap lying in the moonlight seemed to catch his eye as it had caught mine; and he set his heel on it with a vehemence that made me anxious to be off. I could not resist one look back as I left the garden, if only to make sure that I had not been dreaming. No, they were there still, and he was lifting the coil of her hair, which I suppose had come down when the cap was pulled off, and it took the full stretch of his arm to do so, before it fell heavily from his fingers.

When I presented myself to my mother with the bunch of flowers still in my hand, she said, “Did my Jack get these for Mother?”

I shook my head. “No, Mother. For Mrs. Wood.”

“You might have called at the farm as you passed,” said she.

“I did!” said I.

“Couldn’t you see Mrs. Wood, love?”

“Yes, I saw her, but she’d got the tramp with her.”

“What tramp?” asked my mother in a horror-struck voice, which seemed quite natural to me, for I had been brought up to rank tramps in the same “dangerous class” with mad dogs, stray bulls, drunken men, and other things which it is undesirable to meet.

“The great lanky one,” I explained, quoting from Mary Anne.

“What was he doing with Mrs. Wood?” asked my mother anxiously.

I had not yet recovered from my own bewilderment, and was reckless of the shock inflicted by my reply.

“Pooring her head, and kissing it.”

“To each his sufferings; all are men
Condemned alike to groan.
The tender for another’s pain—”
Gray.

Not even the miser’s funeral had produced in the neighbourhood anything like the excitement which followed that Sunday evening. At first my mother—her mind filled by the simplest form of the problem, namely, that Mrs. Wood was in the hands of a tramp—wished my father to take the blunderbuss in his hand and step down to the farm. He had “pish”ed and “pshaw”ed about the blunderbuss, and was beginning to say more, when I was dismissed to bed, where I wandered back over the moors in uneasy dreams, and woke with the horror of a tramp’s hand upon my shoulder. After suffering the terrors of night for some time, and finding myself no braver with my head under the bedclothes than above them, I began conscientiously to try my mother’s family recipe for “bad dreams and being afraid in the dark.” This was to “say over” the Benedicite correctly, which (if by a rare chance one were still awake at the end) was to be followed by a succession of the hymns one knew by heart. It required an effort to begin, and to really try, but the children of such mothers as ours are taught to make efforts, and once fairly started, and holding on as a duty, it certainly did tend to divert the mind from burglars and ghosts, to get the beasts, creeping things, and fowls of the air into their right places in the chorus of benedictions. That Jem never could discriminate between the “Dews and Frosts” and “Frost and Cold” verses needs no telling. I have often finished and still been frightened and had to fall back upon the hymns, but this night I began to dream pleasanter dreams of Charlie’s father and the bee-master before I got to the holy and humble men of heart.

I slept long then, and Mother would not let me be awakened. When I did open my eyes Jem was sitting at the end of the bed, dying to tell me the news.

“Jack! you have waked, haven’t you? I see your eyes. Don’t shut ’em again. What do you think? Mrs. Wood’s husband has come home!”

I never knew the ins and outs of the story very exactly. At the time that what did become generally known was fresh in people’s minds Jem and I were not by way of being admitted to “grown-up” conversations; and though Mrs. Wood’s husband and I became intimate friends, I neither wished nor dared to ask him more about his past than he chose to tell, for I knew enough to know that it must be a most intolerable pain to recall it.

What we had all heard of the story was this. Mr. Wood had been a head clerk in a house of business. A great forgery was committed against his employers, and he was accused. He was tried, condemned, and sentenced to fourteen years’ penal servitude, which, in those days, meant transportation abroad. For some little time the jury had not been unanimous. One man doubted the prisoner’s guilt—the man we afterwards knew as the old miser of Walnut-tree Farm. But he was over-persuaded at last, and Mr. Wood was convicted and sentenced. He had spent ten years of his penal servitude in Bermuda when a man lying in Maidstone Jail under sentence of death for murder, confessed (amongst other crimes of which he disburdened his conscience) that it was he, and not the man who had been condemned, who had committed the forgery. Investigation confirmed the truth of this statement, and Mr. Wood was “pardoned” and brought home.

He had just come. He was the tramp.

In this life the old miser never knew that his first judgment had been the just one, but the doubt which seems always to have haunted him—whether he had not helped to condemn the innocent—was the reason of his bequest to the convict’s wife, and explained much of the mysterious wording of the will.

It was a tragic tale, and gave a terrible interest to the gaunt, white-haired, shattered-looking man who was the hero of it. It had one point of special awe for me, and I used to watch him in church and think of it, till I am ashamed to say that I forgot even when to stand up and sit down. He had served ten years of his sentence. Ten years! Ten times three hundred and sixty-five days! All the days of the years of my life. The weight of that undeserved punishment had fallen on him the year that I was born, and all that long, long time of home with Mother and Father and Jem—all the haymaking summers and snowballing winters—whilst Jem and I had never been away from home, and had had so much fun, and nothing very horrid that I could call to mind except the mumps—he had been an exile working in chains. I remember rousing up with a start from the realization of this one Sunday to find myself still standing in the middle of the Litany. My mother was behaving too well herself to find me out, and though Jem was giggling he dared not move, because he was kneeling next my father, whose back was turned to me. I knelt down, and started to hear the parson say—“show Thy pity upon all prisoners and captives!” And then I knew what it is to wish when it is too late. For I did so wish I had really prayed for prisoners and captives every Sunday, because then I should have prayed for that poor man nearly all the long time he had been so miserable; for we began to go to church very early, and one learns to pray easier and sooner than one learns anything else.

All this had happened in the holidays, but when they were over school opened as before, and with additional scholars; for sympathy was wide and warm with the school-mistress. Strangely enough, both partners in the firm which had prosecuted Mr. Wood were dead. Their successors offered him employment, but he could not face the old associations. I believe he found it so hard to face any one, that this was the reason of his staying at home for a time and helping in the school. I don’t think we boys made him uncomfortable as grown-up strangers seemed to do, and he was particularly fond of Cripple Charlie.

This brought me into contact with him, for Charlie and I were great friends. He was as well pleased to be read to out of the Penny Numbers as the bee-master, and he was interested in things of which Isaac Irvine was completely ignorant.

Our school was a day-school, but Charlie had been received by Mrs. Wood as a boarder. His poor back could not have borne to be jolted to and from the moors every day. So he lived at Walnut-tree Farm, and now and then his father would come down in a light cart, lent by one of the parishioners, and take Charlie home from Saturday to Monday, and then bring him back again.

The sisters came to see him too, by turns, sometimes walking and sometimes riding a rough-coated pony, who was well content to be tied to a gate, and eat some of the grass that overgrew the lane. And often Charlie came to us, especially in haytime, for haycocks seem very comfortable (for people whose backs hurt) to lean against; and we could cover his legs with hay too, as he liked them to be hidden. There is no need to say how tender my mother was to him, and my father used to look at him half puzzledly and half pitifully, and always spoke to him in quite a different tone of voice to the one he used with other boys.

Jem gave Charlie the best puppy out of the curly brown spaniel lot; but he didn’t really like being with him, though he was sorry for him, and he could not bear seeing his poor legs.

“They make me feel horrid,” Jem said. “And even when they’re covered up, I know they’re there.”

“You’re a chip of the old block, Jem,” said my father, “I’d give a guinea to a hospital any day sooner than see a patient. I’m as sorry as can be for the poor lad, but he turns me queer, though I feel ashamed of it. I like things sound. Your mother’s different; she likes ’em better for being sick and sorry, and I suppose Jack takes after her.”

My father was wrong about me. Pity for Charlie was not half of the tie between us. When he was talking, or listening to the penny numbers, I never thought about his legs or his back, and I don’t now understand how anybody could.

He read and remembered far more than I did, and he was even wilder about strange countries. He had as adventurous a spirit as any lad in the school, cramped up as it was in that misshapen body. I knew he’d have liked to go round the world as well as I, and he often laughed and said—“What’s more, Jack, if I’d the money I would. People are very kind to poor wretches like me all over the world. I should never want a helping hand, and the only difference between us would be, that I should be carried on board ship by some kind-hearted blue-jacket, and you’d have to scramble for yourself.”

He was very anxious to know Isaac Irvine, and when I brought the bee-master to see him, they seemed to hold friendly converse with their looks even before either of them spoke. It was a bad day with Charlie, but he set his lips against the pain, and raised himself on one arm to stare out of his big brown eyes at the old man, who met them with as steady a gaze out of his. Then Charlie lowered himself again, and said in a tone of voice by which I knew he was pleased, “I’m so glad you’ve come to see me, old Isaac. It’s very kind of you. Jack says you know a lot about live things, and that you like the numbers we like in the Penny Cyclopædia. I wanted to see you, for I think you and I are much in the same boat; you’re old, and I’m crippled, and we’re both too poor to travel. But Jack’s to go, and when he’s gone, you and I’ll follow him on the map.”

“God willing, sir,” said the bee-master; and when he said that, I knew how sorry he felt for poor Charlie, for when he was moved he always said very short things, and generally something religious.

And for all Charlie’s whims and fancies, and in all his pain and fretfulness, and through fits of silence and sensitiveness, he had never a better friend than Isaac Irvine. Indeed the bee-master was one of those men (to be found in all ranks) whose delicate tenderness might not be guessed from the size and roughness of the outer man.

Our neighbours were all very kind to Mr. Wood, in their own way, but they were a little impatient of his slowness to be sociable, and had, I think, a sort of feeling that the ex-convict ought not only to enjoy evening parties more than other people, but to be just a little more grateful for being invited.

However, one must have a strong and sensitive imagination to cultivate wide sympathies when one lives a quiet, methodical life in the place where one’s father and grandfather lived out quiet methodical lives before one; and I do not think we were an imaginative race.

The school-master (as we used to call him) had seen and suffered so much more of life than we, that I do not think he resented the clumsiness of our sympathy; but now I look back I fancy that he must have felt as if he wanted years of peace and quiet in which to try and forget the years of suffering. Old Isaac said one day, “I reckon the master feels as if he wanted to sit down and say to hisself over and over again, ‘I’m a free man, I’m a free man, I’m a free man,’ till he can fair trust himself to believe it.”

Isaac was probably right, and perhaps evening parties, though they are meant for treats, are not the best places to sit down and feel free in, particularly when there are a lot of strange people who have heard a dreadful story about you, and want to see what you look like after it.

During the summer holidays Jem and I were out the whole day long. When we came in I was ready for the Penny Numbers, but Jem always fell asleep, even if he did not go to bed at once. My father did just the same. I think their feeling about houses was of a perfectly primitive kind. They looked upon them as comfortable shelter for sleeping and eating, but not at all as places in which to pursue any occupation. Life, for them, was lived out-of-doors.

I know now how dull this must have made the evenings for my mother, and that it was very selfish of me to wait till my father was asleep (for fear he should say “no”), and then to ask her leave to take the Penny Numbers down to the farm and sit with Cripple Charlie.

Now and then she would go too, and chat with Mrs. Wood, whilst the school-master and I were turning the terrestrial globe by Charlie’s sofa; but as a rule Charlie and I were alone, and the Woods went round the homestead together, and came home hand in hand, through the garden, and we laughed to think how we had taken him for a tramp.

And sometimes on a summer’s evening, when we talked and read aloud to each other across a quaint oak table that had been the miser’s, of far-away lands and strange birds of gorgeous plumage, the school-master sat silent in the arm-chair by the open lattice, resting his white head against the mullion that the ivy was creeping up, and listened to the blackbirds and thrushes as their songs dropped by odd notes into silence, and gazed at the near fields and trees, and the little homestead with its hayricks on the hill, when the grass was apple-green in the gold mist of sunset: and went on gazing when that had faded into fog, and the hedgerow elms were black against the sky, as if the eye could not be filled with seeing, nor the ear with hearing!

“Who, doomed to go in company with Pain,
Turns his necessity to glorious gain.”
Wordsworth.

“Jack,” said Charlie, “listen!”

He was reading bits out of the numbers to me, whilst I was rigging a miniature yacht to sail on the dam; and Mrs. Wood’s husband was making a plan of something at another table, and occasionally giving me advice about my masts and sails. “It’s about the South American forests,” said Charlie. “‘There every tree has a character of its own; each has its peculiar foliage, and probably also a tint unlike that of the trees which surround it. Gigantic vegetables of the most different families intermix their branches; five-leaved bignonias grow by the side of bonduc-trees; cassias shed their yellow blossoms upon the rich fronds of arborescent ferns; myrtles and eugenias, with their thousand arms, contrast with the elegant simplicity of palms; and among the airy foliage of the mimosa the ceropia elevates its giant leaves and heavy candelabra-shaped branches. Of some trees the trunk is perfectly smooth, of others it is defended by enormous spines, and the whole are often apparently sustained by the slanting stems of a huge wild fig-tree. With us, the oak, the chestnut, and the beech seem as if they bore no flowers, so small are they and so little distinguishable except by naturalists; but in the forests of South America it is often the most gigantic trees that produce the most brilliant flowers; cassias hang down their pendants of golden blossoms, vochisias unfold their singular bunches; corollas, longer than those of our foxglove, sometimes yellow or sometimes purple, load the arborescent bignonias; while the chorisias are covered, as it were, with lilies, only their colours are richer and more varied; grasses also appear in form of bamboos, as the most graceful of trees; bauhinias, bignonias, and aroideous plants cling round the trees like enormous cables; orchideous plants and bromelias overrun their limbs, or fasten themselves to them when prostrated by the storm, and make even their dead remains become verdant with leaves and flowers not their own.’”

Though he could read very well, Charlie had, so far, rather stumbled through the long names in this description, but he finished off with fluency, not to say enthusiasm. “‘Such are the ancient forests, flourishing in a damp and fertile soil, and clothed with perpetual green.’”

I was half-way through a profound sigh when I caught the school-master’s eye, who had paused in his plan-making and was listening with his head upon his hand.

“What a groan!” he exclaimed. “What’s the matter?”

“It sounds so splendid!” I answered, “and I’m so afraid I shall never see it. I told Father last night I should like to be a sailor, but he only said ‘Stuff and nonsense,’ and that there was a better berth waiting for me in Uncle Henry’s office than any of the Queen’s ships would provide for me; and Mother begged me never to talk of it any more, if I didn’t want to break her heart”—and I sighed again.

The school-master had a long smooth face, which looked longer from melancholy, and he turned it and his arms over the back of the chair, and looked at me with the watchful listening look his eyes always had; but I am not sure if he was really paying much attention to me, for he talked (as he often did) as if he were talking to himself.

“I wanted to be a soldier,” he said, “and my father wouldn’t let me. I often used to wish I had run away and enlisted, when I was with Quarter-master McCulloch, of the Engineers (he’d risen from the ranks and was younger than me), in Bermuda.”

“Bermuda! That’s not very far from South America, is it?” said I, looking across to the big map of the world. “Is it very beautiful, too?”

The school-master’s eyes contracted as if he were short-sighted, or looking at something inside his own head. But he smiled as he answered—

“The poet says,

‘A pleasing land of drowsy-head it is,
Of dreams that wave before the half-shut eye;
And of gay castles in the clouds that pass,
For ever flushing round a summer sky.’”

“But are there any curious beasts and plants and that sort of thing?” I asked.

“I believe there were no native animals originally,” said the school-master. “I mean inland ones. But the fowls of the air and the fishes of the sea are of all lovely forms and colours. And such corals and sponges, and sea-anemones, blooming like flowers in the transparent pools of the warm blue water that washes the coral reefs and fills the little creeks and bays!”

I gasped—and he went on. “The commonest trees, I think, are palms and cedars. Lots of the old houses were built of cedar, and I’ve heard of old cedar furniture to be picked up here and there, as some people buy old oak out of English farm-houses. It is very durable and deliriously scented. People used to make cedar bonfires when the small-pox was about, to keep away infection. The gardens will grow anything, and plots of land are divided by oleander hedges of many colours.”

“Oh—h!” ejaculated I, in long-drawn notes of admiration. The school-master’s eyes twinkled.

“Not only,” continued he, “do very gaudy lobsters and quaint cray-fish and crabs with lanky legs dispute your attention on the shore with the shell-fish of the loveliest hues; there is no lack of remarkable creatures indoors. Monstrous spiders, whose bite is very unpleasant, drop from the roof; tarantulas and scorpions get into your boots, and cockroaches, hideous to behold and disgusting to smell, invade every place from your bed to your store-cupboard. If you possess anything, from food and clothing to books and boxes, the ants will find it and devour it, and if you possess a garden the mosquitoes will find you and devour you.”

“Oh—h!” I exclaimed once more, but this time in a different tone.

Mr. Wood laughed heartily. “Tropical loveliness has its drawbacks, Jack. Perhaps some day when your clothes are moulded, and your brain feels mouldy too with damp heat, and you can neither work in the sun nor be at peace in the shade, you may wish you were sitting on a stool in your uncle’s office, undisturbed by venomous insects, and cool in a November fog.”

I laughed too, but I shook my head.

“No. I shan’t mind the insects if I can get there. Charlie, were those wonderful ants old Isaac said you’d been reading about, Bermuda ants?”

I did not catch Charlie’s muttered reply, and when I looked round I saw that his face was buried in the red cushions, and that he was (what Jem used to call) “in one of his tempers.”

I don’t exactly know how it was. I don’t think Charlie was jealous or really cross, but he used to take fits of fancying he was in the way, and out of it all (from being a cripple), if we seemed to be very busy without him, especially about such things as planning adventures. I knew what was the matter directly, but I’m afraid my consolation was rather clumsy.

“Don’t be cross, Charlie,” I said; “I thought you were listening too, and if it’s because you think you won’t be able to go, I don’t believe there’s really a bit more chance of my going, though my legs are all right.”

“Don’t bother about me,” said Charlie; “but I wish you’d put these numbers down, they’re in my way.” And he turned pettishly over.

Before I could move, the school-master had taken the papers, and was standing over Charlie’s couch, with his right hand against the wall, at the level of his head, and his left arm hanging by his side; and I suppose it was his attitude which made me notice, before he began to speak, what a splendid figure he had, and how strong he looked. He spoke in an odd, abrupt sort of voice, very different from the way he had been talking to me, but he looked down at Charlie so intensely, that I think he felt it through the cushions, and lifted his head.

“When your father has been bringing you down here, or at any time when you have been out amongst other people, have you ever overheard them saying, ‘Poor chap! it’s a sad thing,’ and things of that kind, as if they were sorry for you?”

Cripple Charlie’s face flushed scarlet, and my own cheeks burned, as I looked daggers at the school-master, for what seemed a brutal insensibility to the lame boy’s feelings. He did not condescend, however, to meet my eyes. His own were still fixed steadily on Charlie’s, and he went on.

“I’ve heard it. My ears are quick, and for many a Sunday after I came I caught the whispers behind me as I went up the aisle, ‘Poor man!’ ‘Poor gentleman!’ ‘He looks bad, too!’ One morning an old woman, in a big black bonnet, said, ‘Poor soul!’ so close to me, that I looked down, and met her withered eyes, full of tears—for me!—and I said, ‘Thank you, mother,’ and she fingered the sleeve of my coat with her trembling hand (the veins were standing out on it like ropes), and said, ‘I’ve knowed trouble myself, my dear. The Lord bless yours to you!’”

“It must have been Betty Johnson,” I interpolated; but the school-master did not even look at me.

“You and I,” he said, bending nearer to Cripple Charlie, “have had our share of this life’s pain so dealt out to us that any one can see and pity us. My boy, take a fellow-sufferer’s word for it, it is wise and good not to shrink from the seeing and pitying. The weight of the cross spreads itself and becomes lighter if one learns to suffer with others as well as with oneself, to take pity and to give it. And as one learns to be pained with the pains of others, one learns to be happy in their happiness and comforted by their sympathy, and then no man’s life can be quite empty of pleasure. I don’t know if my troubles have been lighter or heavier ones than yours——”

The school-master stopped short, and turned his head so that his face was almost hidden against his hand upon the wall. Charlie’s big eyes were full of tears, and I am sure I distinctly felt my ears poke forwards on my head with anxious curiosity to catch what Mr. Wood would tell us about that dreadful time of which he had never spoken.

“When I was your age,” he said bluntly, “I was unusually lithe and active and strong for mine. When I was half as old again, I was stronger than any man I knew, and had many a boyish triumph out of my strength, because I was slender and graceful, and this concealed my powers. I had all the energies and ambitions natural to unusual vigour and manly skill. I wanted to be a soldier, but it was not to be, and I spent my youth at a desk in a house of business. I adapted myself, but none the less I chafed whenever I heard of manly exploits, and of the delights and dangers that came of seeing the world. I used to think I could bear anything to cross the seas and see foreign climes. I did cross the Atlantic at last—a convict in a convict ship (God help any man who knows what that is!), and I spent the ten best years of my manhood at the hulks working in chains. You’ve never lost freedom, my lad, so you have never felt what it is not to be able to believe you’ve got it back. You don’t know what it is to turn nervous at the responsibility of being your own master for a whole day, or to wake in a dainty room, with the birds singing at the open window, and to shut your eyes quickly and pray to go on dreaming a bit, because you feel sure you’re really in your hammock in the hulks.”

The school-master lifted his other hand above his head, and pressed both on it, as if he were in pain. What Charlie was doing I don’t know, but I felt so miserable I could not help crying, and had to hunt for my pocket-handkerchief under the table. It was full of acorns, and by the time I had emptied it and dried my eyes, Mr. Wood was lifting Charlie in his arms, and arranging his cushions.

“Oh, thank you!” Charlie said, as he leant back; “how comfortable you have made me!”

“I have been sick-nurse, amongst other trades. For some months I was a hospital warder.”

“Was that when——” Charlie began, and then he stopped short, and said, “Oh, I beg your pardon!”

“Yes; it was when I was a convict,” said the school-master. “No offence, my boy. If I preach I must try to practise. Jack’s eyes are dropping out of his head to hear more of Bermuda, and you and I will put our whims and moods on one side, and we’ll all tell travellers’ tales together.”

Cripple Charlie kept on saying “Thank you,” and I know he was very sorry not to be able to think of anything more to say, for he told me so. He wanted to have thanked him better, because he knew that Mr. Wood had talked about his having been a convict, when he did not like to talk about it, just to show Charlie that he knew what pain, and not being able to do what you want, feel like, and that Charlie ought not to fancy he was neglected.

And that was the beginning of all the stories the school-master used to tell us, and of the natural history lessons he gave us, and of his teaching me to stuff birds, and do all kinds of things.

We used to say to him, “You’re better than the Penny Numbers, for you’re quite as interesting, and we’re sure you’re true.” And the odd thing was that he made Charlie much more contented, because he started him with so many collections, whilst he made me only more and more anxious to see the world.

“Much would have more, and lost all.”—English Proverb.

“Learn you to an ill habit, and ye’ll ca’t custom.”
Scotch Proverb.

The lane was full of colour that autumn, the first autumn of the convict’s return. The leaves turned early, and fell late, and made the hedges gayer than when the dog-roses were out; for not only were the leaves of all kinds brighter than many flowers, but the berries (from the holly and mountain-ash to the hips and haws) were so thick-set, and so red and shining, that, as my dear mother said, “they looked almost artificial.”

I remember it well, because of two things. First, that Jem got five of the largest hips we had ever seen off a leafless dog-rose branch which stuck far out of the hedge, and picked the little green coronets off, so that they were smooth and glossy, and egg-shaped, and crimson on one side and yellow on the other; and then he got an empty chaffinch’s nest close by and put the five hips into it, and took it home, and persuaded Alice our new parlourmaid that it was a robin redbreast’s nest with eggs in it. And she believed it, for she came from London and knew no better.

The second thing I remember that autumn by, is that everybody expected a hard winter because of the berries being so fine, and the hard winter never came, and the birds ate worms and grubs and left most of the hedge fruits where they were.

November was bright and mild, and the morning frosts only made the berries all the glossier when the sun came out. We had one or two snow-storms in December, and then we all said, “Now it’s coming!” but the snow melted away and left no bones behind. In January the snow lay longer, and left big bones on the moors, and Jem and I made a slide to school on the pack track, and towards the end of the month the mill-dam froze hard, and we had slides fifteen yards long, and skating; and Winter seemed to have come back in good earnest to fetch his bones away.

Jem was great fun in frosty weather; Charlie and I used to die of laughing at him. I think cold made him pugnacious; he seemed always ready for a row, and was constantly in one. The January frost came in our Christmas holidays, so Jem had lots of time on his hands; he spent almost all of it out of doors, and he devoted a good deal of it to fighting with the rough lads of the village. There was a standing subject of quarrel, which is a great thing for either tribes or individuals who have a turn that way. A pond at the corner of the lower paddock was fed by a stream which also fed the mill-dam; and the mill-dam was close by, though, as it happened, not on my father’s property. Old custom made the mill-dam the winter resort of all the village sliders and skaters, and my father displayed a good deal of toleration when those who could not find room for a new slide, or wished to practise their “outer edge” in a quiet spot, came climbing over the wall (there was no real thoroughfare) and invaded our pond.

Perhaps it is because gratitude is a fatiguing virtue, or perhaps it is because self-esteem has no practical limits, that favours are seldom regarded as such for long. They are either depreciated, or claimed as rights; very often both. And what is common in all classes is almost universal amongst the uneducated. You have only to make a system of giving your cast-off clothes to some shivering family, and you will not have to wait long for an eloquent essay on their shabbiness, or for an outburst of sincere indignation if you venture to reserve a warm jacket for a needy relative. Prescriptive rights, in short, grow faster than pumpkins, which is amongst the many warnings life affords us to be just as well as generous. Thence it had come about that the young roughs of the village regarded our pond to all winter intents and purposes as theirs, and my father as only so far and so objectionably concerned in the matter that he gave John Binder a yearly job in patching up the wall which it took them three months’ trouble to kick a breach in.

Our neighbours were what is called “very independent” folk. In the grown-up people this was modified by the fact that no one who has to earn his own livelihood can be quite independent of other people; if he would live he must let live, and throw a little civility into the bargain. But boys of an age when their parents found meals and hobnailed boots for them whether they behaved well or ill, were able to display independence in its roughest form. And when the boys of our neighbourhood were rough, they were very rough indeed.

The village boys had their Christmas holidays about the same time that we had ours, which left them as much spare time for sliding and skating as we had, but they had their dinner at twelve o’clock, whilst we had ours at one, so that any young roughs who wished to damage our pond were just comfortably beginning their mischief as Jem and I were saying grace before meat, and the thought of it took away our appetites again and again.

That winter they were particularly aggravating. The December frost was a very imperfect one, and the mill-dam never bore properly, so the boys swarmed over our pond, which was shallow and safe. Very few of them could even hobble on skates, and those few carried the art no farther than by cutting up the slides. But thaw came on, so that there was no sliding, and then the young roughs amused themselves with stamping holes in the soft ice with their hobnailed heels. When word came to us that they were taking the stones off our wall and pitching them down on to the soft ice below, to act as skaters’ stumbling-blocks for the rest of that hard winter which we expected, Jem’s indignation was not greater than mine. My father was not at home, and indeed, when we had complained before, he rather snubbed us, and said that we could not want the whole of the pond to ourselves, and that he had always lived quietly with his neighbours and we must learn to do the same, and so forth. No action at all calculated to assuage our thirst for revenge was likely to be taken by him, so Jem and I held a council by Charlie’s sofa, and it was a council of war. At the end we all three solemnly shook hands, and Charlie was left to write and despatch brief notes of summons to our more distant school-mates, whilst Jem and I tucked up our trousers, wound our comforters sternly round our throats, and went forth in different directions to gather the rest.

(Having lately been reading about the Highlanders, who used to send round a fiery cross when the clans were called to battle, I should have liked to do so in this instance; but as some of the Academy boys were no greater readers than Jem, they might not have known what it meant, so we abandoned the notion.)

There was not an Academy boy worth speaking of who was in time for dinner the following day; and several of them brought brothers or cousins to the fray. By half-past twelve we had crept down the field that was on the other side of our wall, and had hidden ourselves in various corners of a cattle-shed, where a big cart and some sail-cloth and a turnip heap provided us with ambush. By and by certain familiar whoops and hullohs announced that the enemy was coming. One or two bigger boys made for the dam (which I confess was a relief to us), but our own particular foes advanced with a rush upon the wall.

“They hevn’t coomed yet, hev they?” we heard the sexton’s son say, as he peeped over at our pond.

“Noa,” was the reply. “It’s not gone one yet.”

“It’s gone one by t’ church. I yeard it as we was coming up t’ lane.”

“T’ church clock’s always hafe-an-hour fasst, thee knows.”

“It isn’t!”

“It is.”

“T’ church clock’s t’ one to go by, anyhow,” the sexton’s son maintained.

His friend guffawed aloud.

“And it’s a reight ’un to go by too, my sakes! when thee feyther shifts t’ time back’ards and for’ards every Sunday morning to suit hissen.”

“To suit hissen! To suit t’ ringers, ye mean!” said the sexton’s son.

“What’s thou to do wi’ t’ ringers?” was the reply, enforced apparently by a punch in the back, and the two lads came cuffing and struggling up the field, much to my alarm, but fortunately they were too busy to notice us.

Meanwhile, the rest had not been idle at the wall. Jem had climbed on the cart, and peeping through a brick hole he could see that they had with some difficulty disengaged a very heavy stone. As we were turning our heads to watch the two lads fighting near our hiding-place, we heard the stone strike with a heavy thud upon the rotten ice below, and it was echoed by a groan of satisfaction from above.

(“Ready!” I whispered.)

“You’ll break somebody’s nose when it’s frosted in,” cried Bob Furniss, in a tone of sincere gratification.

“Eh, Tim Binder! there’ll be a rare job for thee feyther next spring, fettling up this wall, by t’ time we’ve done wi’ it.”

“Let me come,” we heard Tim say. “Thou can’t handle a stone. Let me come. Th’ ice is as soft as loppered milk, and i’ ten minutes, I’ll fill yon bit they’re so chuff of skating on, as thick wi’ stones as a quarry.”

(“Now!” I said.)

Our foes considerably outnumbered us, but I think they were at a disadvantage. They had worked off a good deal of their steam, and ours was at explosion point. We took them by surprise and in the rear. They had had some hard exercise, and we were panting to begin. As a matter of fact those who could get away ran away. We caught all we could, and punched and pummelled and rolled them in the snow to our hearts’ content.

Jem never was much of a talker, and I never knew him speak when he was fighting; but three several times on this occasion, I heard him say very stiffly and distinctly (he was on the top of Tim Binder), “I’ll fettle thee! I’ll fettle thee! I’ll fettle thee!”

The battle was over, the victory was ours, but the campaign was not ended, and thenceforward the disadvantages would be for us. Even real warfare is complicated when men fight with men less civilized than themselves; and we had learnt before now that when we snowballed each other or snowballed the rougher “lot” of village boys, we did so under different conditions. We had our own code of honour and fairness, but Bob Furniss was not above putting a stone into a snowball if he owed a grudge.

So when we heard a rumour that the bigger “roughs” were going to join the younger ones, and lie in wait to “pay us off” the first day we came down to the ice, I cannot say we felt comfortable, though we resolved to be courageous. Meanwhile, the thaw continued, which suspended operations, and gave time, which is good for healing; and Christmas came, and we and our foes met and mingled in the mummeries of the season, and wished each other Happy New Years, and said nothing about the pond.

How my father came to hear of the matter we did not know at the time, but one morning he summoned Jem and me, and bade us tell him all about it. I was always rather afraid of my father, and I should have made out a very stammering story, but Jem flushed up like a turkey-cock, and gave our version of the business very straightforwardly. The other side of the tale my father had evidently heard, and we fancied he must have heard also of the intended attack on us, for it never took place, and we knew of interviews which he had with John Binder and others of our neighbours; and when the frost came in January, we found that the stones had been taken out of the pond, and my father gave us a sharp lecture against being quarrelsome and giving ourselves airs, and it ended with—“The pond is mine. I wish you to remember it, because it makes it your duty to be hospitable and civil to the boys I allow to go on it. And I have very decidedly warned them and their parents to remember it, because if my permission for fair amusement is abused to damage and trespass, I shall withdraw the favour and prosecute intruders. But the day I shut up my pond from my neighbours, I shall forbid you and Jack to go on it again unless the fault is more entirely on one side than it’s likely to be when boys squabble.”

My father waved our dismissal, but I hesitated.