A Blundering Boy: A Humorous Story

MUNRO.

A BLUNDERING BOY.

Chapter I.

The Story Opened.

William, baptized William, but always called Will, was a boy who had a habit of committing blunders—a habit which, as will be seen, occasionally led him into deep disgrace. When a mere boy, his blunders were of little consequence; but when older they assumed a more serious form. Most of them arose from want of care, as he did everything without considering what the end might be. Doubtless, he ought to have been reproved for this; but as he was only a boy, and as many of his blunders partook of the ludicrous, his parents laughed at him, but seldom took pains to correct him.

Will’s father owned a highly cultivated farm, near one of the great lakes, and was a man of means. He indulged freely in dignified language, in illustrated magazines and weeklies, in frequent pleasure trips by land and water, and in gilded agricultural machines, fragile and complicated, but quite as useful as ornamental.

Will’s mother was an amiable lady, who accompanied her husband on every alternate pleasure trip, and who, by the help of an able housekeeper and a fire-proof cook, spread a table that excited the admiration or envy of all who knew her, the housekeeper, or the cook.

Such were Will’s father and mother, who generally, as he was their only child, suffered him to have his own way, took notice of all his sayings and doings, and occasionally jotted them down in a disused diary. But he was not the kind of boy to be spoiled by such usage; on the contrary he was a very good boy.

He was an athletic little fellow, able to undergo great fatigue, and endowed with so much perseverance and hope that he would fish all day for trout, and return at dusk with nothing but a few expiring mud-pouts and two or three forlorn fish worms. He was known to all the villagers, respected by all his school fellows, and was involved in all their troubles. But his school fellows did not regard him as a hero; in their expeditions he was seldom chosen leader; in their trials by jury he was frequently a juryman—in time of need the entire jury—but only occasionally the judge.

Will attended school regularly and learned his lessons carefully, whether he understood them or not. His appetite for learning was keen, but his appetite for sport was insatiable; no boy, on being set loose from school, was more demonstrative than he.

When old enough to be out with his father, he followed him constantly. About the whole farm there was not a hole into which he had not fallen, not a stone of any size over which he had not stumbled, and no danger of any kind, from animals or machines, from which he had not narrowly escaped. He was often carried bruised, wet and tearful into the presence of his terrified mother, who vowed that he should never again leave her sight. But as soon as his wounds were dressed and his wet, muddy, and sometimes blood-stained garments were changed, he would slip away, to invite new dangers and contend with old ones. Even when sitting quiet in the house, learning his lessons, his ink-bottle would unaccountably pour its contents over his books, his papers, or on the carpet. Yet Will’s father declared that the boy was neither awkward nor stupid, but only inconsiderate and headlong. In proportion as he grew older, Mr. Lawrence hoped that he would grow wiser, and less headlong.

Having thus touched upon Will’s characteristics, it is now in order to begin at the beginning, when he was a small boy.

One day, when the boy had arrived at the age of seven years, a strolling and struggling newspaper genius was invited to spend the afternoon and evening at the farm-house. At the supper table this gentleman interested himself particularly in the boy, and the mother, pleased with this attention, began to enlarge upon her darling’s talents and cleverness, till, warming with maternal pride, she became quite eloquent.

What do you suppose he did the other day? she asked.

Will’s face suddenly became red. His mother did not notice this, but the newspaper genius did; and while he answered politely, he muttered to himself, Hanged somebody’s cat, I should infer from his looks.

Why, he— began the mother, when she was suddenly interrupted by Will’s saying, Please don’t tell, mother!

This remark, of course, drew the attention of all three to the boy, and they saw that he appeared ill at ease, and that his face was painfully flushed.

Mrs. Lawrence looked surprised. Why, Will, she said, I’m sure its greatly to your credit. Then turning to the guest: Mr. Sargent, the other day he gave his papa the boundaries of every country and continent on the globe; and he did it all from memory, not looking once at a map! Mr. Sargent was a polite man; he now expressed the liveliest astonishment.

Oh! burst from Will’s lips, followed by a sigh of relief, "Is that what you wanted to tell?"

What did you suppose your mamma intended to tell me? basely inquired the newspaper man, quickly recovering from his astonishment.

Will hesitated, but finally answered, I thought it was about the fire-crackers.

The guest’s curiosity was awakened. What about the fire-crackers? he inquired, so courteously that no one could take offence.

Oh, he had a bad time with them; that’s all; said Mrs. Lawrence, coming to the rescue.

But Will, who was plainly dissatisfied with his mother’s version of the affair, explained, with an effort that proved him to be a hero, I had some fire-crackers, and they set the chip yard on fire, and nearly burnt up a cow in the cow-house!

Having thus eased his conscience, he relapsed into silence. But it was evident that his nerves were quite unstrung; the visitor was therefore not taken wholly unawares when Will, in passing him the preserves, spilt them on his pants.

With a sigh of resignation the unfortunate took the mishap as a joke, and asked, as they rose from the table, if Will would bring out some of his toys.

Get out the gun you made yourself, Mr. Lawrence suggested.

The boy left the room but soon came in with a rude weapon—which boys would call a squirt-gun, but which Mr. and Mrs. Lawrence, from ignorance or flattery, called a gun. But time is precious to some people; perhaps they called it a gun to save breath.

The errant newspaper man took up the squirt-gun, to examine it at his convenience, but lo! another mishap! The infernal machine, or whatever one may call it, had discharged a black and muddy fluid over his spotless shirt front.

Another involuntary Oh! broke from poor Will’s lips. It must be the poison we had for the red currant bugs! he groaned. I thought I had squirted every drop out of the gun, but—

This is an extraordinary little gun, I’ve no doubt, said the unhappy man, in a pet, but I don’t wish to experiment with it at present. I should prefer to see some harmless toy, such as a wooden top or a horse-hair watch-chain. It is always dangerous for me to meddle with guns, anyway.

For once, the newspaper man’s suavity had failed him.

But Mrs. Lawrence, in her heart, thought that a judgment had overtaken him for ferreting out Will’s secret.

The owner of the gun took it and gladly left the room. He did not return with his wooden tops, but climbed up on the roof of the stable, where he whiled away the rest of the evening with his new jack-knife and a piece of cedar. He did not cut his fingers very badly, however.

The distressed parents were placed in a very embarrassing situation, but the sufferer’s equanimity soon returned, and the conversation again flowed on smoothly.

When the visitor took leave, it is to be hoped that he took with him a due appreciation of Will’s talents and cleverness.

Next morning Mr. Lawrence called his son and addressed him thus: My son, you are a very heedless boy. Reflect on the sad results of your heedlessness, and endeavor to use the faculty of reason before you act in any matter. Think of the annoyance you gave us last night! You ought never to interrupt your mother, for you may be sure that she would never tell a stranger anything to your discredit. Will you bear this in mind?

Yes, sir, muttered the boy, trying to understand the meaning of the big words. But, anxiously, will he be scolded and whipped, as Jim was when he got his clothes spoiled?

Are you speaking of the gentleman who passed the evening with us?

Yes, sir.

Then don’t grieve about that, for his parents will not harm him, Mr. Lawrence replied with a smile.

A short time after this occurrence, Will informed his father that a muskrat had built itself a home by a stream which ran through their farm.

Should you like to catch it in a trap? Mr. Lawrence asked.

The boy, of course, said yes. Immediately the fond father bought a strong little trap and presented it to the would-be trapper. The trap cost ninety cents; a wandering tin-peddler might perhaps be generous enough to give Will fifteen cents for the pelt of the muskrat. In that event everybody would be satisfied. But the home of the muskrat would be made desolate.

Mrs. Lawrence beheld this trap with horror, and not without reason, for, within the next two hours, Will contrived to imprison in it several of his fingers.

After repeated warnings from his parents, the young hero set out for the stream, trap in hand. Having successfully achieved the feat of setting it, he returned and gave his father the particulars.

I fear that some more historical animal than a muskrat will come to an untimely end in that trap, Mr. Lawrence said dolorously.

His words were prophetic.

In the morning, full of hope, Will hurried to the home of the muskrat. Beyond a doubt, the trap held an animal. But it was neither a musk nor any other kind of rat; it was a beautiful little greyhound, fast in the jaws of the trap, and stone dead.

Will’s tears flowed freely at this pitiable sight, and fear was added to his grief, when, in the greyhound, he recognized the constant companion of Senator Murdock.

Poor little Pet! How often you have played with me! the trapper said, in the interval of his sobs. Oh, what shall I do, and what will Mr. Murdock say to me!

Just as the boy spoke, the Senator was approaching in his search of the dog.

Ah, my little man, he said, as he drew near the sorrowing trapper, can you tell me where to look for Pet? I’ve lost him this morning, and I thought you could help me to find him, if any one could. We live so near that you and Pet are always together. Why, what is the matter? he asked, seeing that the boy was crying bitterly.

Oh, sir! was all Will could say.

But the Senator was now beside him, and, taking in the matter at a glance, he exclaimed angrily, "What is this I see? Have you, whom I always considered a moral little boy, have you entrapped my dog! I am amazed! Poor Pet! Poor little dog!"

"I didn’t mean to catch him, Will pleaded, and I am very sorry."

Well, I shall not blame you, the Senator said slowly. Your father ought not to let you set traps so recklessly, and I lay the blame upon him.

Don’t blame my father, for it is my own fault, Will replied, ready, at all times, to defend his father. I will never do it again, Mr. Murdock; indeed I won’t.

Hardly, seeing that the poor beast is dead. But help me to get it out of trap, and I shall take it home and bury it.

Then the two, man and boy, legislator and trapper, fell to work, and soon liberated the dog from his prison.

If the Senator could have known what danger his white and dainty fingers were incurring, that is, how narrowly they escaped being pinched, he would have kept them away from that trap. In fact, considering the state of excitement into which any mishap threw Will, it is strange that they were not cruelly mangled. But they escaped without a scratch.

Mr. Lawrence was deeply grieved when he heard the ignominious fate of the Senator’s dog. Probably he felt that he himself was blamable.

But the affair was soon all but forgotten by Will, because, at his age, such misdemeanors are generally forgotten as soon as the offender repents of them and is pardoned by the sufferers.

This chapter, like all the others, is intended to serve a purpose; yet, lest the reader should fancy that we are writing for the entertainment of juveniles, we shall relate but two more incidents of Will’s childhood.

Chapter II.

Will’s Lucky Blunder.

Some two years after this incident, when Will’s parents announced one fair morning that he was to accompany them on a trip to the city, many miles distant, far from being in the mood to remember his father’s injunctions, he was in the humor to commit the most atrocious blunders.

He was full of eagerness to be off, and his beaming face bespoke his joy. At his tender age, all the help he could give was of little moment; but yet, in his eagerness to get ready for the journey, he threw the household into such confusion that he and his harassed parents barely reached the platform in time for the train.

The day was fair, and the prospect from the car window delightful. The scent of new mown hay (it was the month of June) rendered the trip as pleasant as an eastern ruler’s dream. (The deeds of eastern rulers, however, should not always be provocative of pleasant dreams.)

It was morally impossible for Will to sit still in his seat. For once the good little boy was regardless of his parents’ wishes; and in spite of mamma’s entreaties and papa’s commands, he persisted in thrusting his head out of the window.

How fortunate it is that wrong doing inevitably leads to punishment! On this occasion, however, the boy’s punishment was so long delayed that the sanguinary sword of justice seemed to be rusted fast in its sheath. But that sword was drawn at last.

After riding for ten minutes with his head far out of the car, with an involuntary oh he abruptly drew it in, but—hatless.

The boy’s gestures of excitement and his parents’ evident vexation attracted every one’s attention. Truly, the parents suffered equally with the child. It is always thus.

I’d put my present for Henry in it, and now it’s gone! groaned Will, unmindful of the fact that every one in the car could hear him.

It serves you right, little boy, observed a pious but melancholy looking old lady, who occupied an adjacent seat. Now you’ll have to ride bareheaded, she muttered. That’s what comes from disobeying your parents!

For shame! whispered a humane, but characteristically lank, Down-easterner to this meddlesome dame. Just you let the poor little fellow alone.

Then, noticing Will’s sad condition, he began to search his pockets. Will saw this and guessed what was coming, for he had often remarked that that movement on the part of those interested in him was usually followed by the bestowal of sweetmeats or other good gifts.

It may here be boldly stated that our hero was not above eating candy, which he divined was what was coming.

Will was not mistaken in this instance, for his humane friend soon approached him and put something round and hard into his hand, saying, Don’t fret, little man; here’s a bull’s-eye for you.

Quietly as this kind action was done, it did not escape the old lady’s sharp eyes, and she thus gave vent to her indignation: "O dear, what are we coming to! Here’s a man rewarding, actually rewarding, a boy for being wicked!"

However, neither Will nor his parents overheard her virtuous comments. Will was wholly engrossed with his bull’s-eye, which was about the size of a ten-year-old boy’s marble. Though originally white and striped with red bands, it was now more or less discoloured and very sticky.

Will slipped the bull’s-eye into his mouth, but immediately spat it out.

All covered with dirt and sweat, and as hard as an iron button, he muttered. It was kind of the man to give it to me, but I can’t eat it.

But what should he do with it? Clearly, the floor would be the best place for it; and so, while his father’s attention was engaged with a cartoon, and his mother’s with a wayside chapel, he stooped and laid it softly on the floor, unseen and unheard.

Then he chuckled, admiring his great sagacity, not knowing that an ordinary bull’s-eye may be dropped in almost any part of a railway carriage in motion without arresting attention.

Would that a novelist who regularly anticipates were here! How he might expatiate! Beginning thus, he might go on exhausting ink-bottles and filling pages at pleasure:—

Ah! little could Will dream, little could any one present dream, what destiny had in store for that bull’s-eye! How different was its fate from that which the benevolent gentleman supposed it would be!

But it is cowardly and wicked in a writer to anticipate.

The kind hearted Yankee left the car soon after giving Will the bull’s-eye, so that he was not a witness of what was to happen.

The rejected bull’s-eye, set in motion by the car, gradually made its way into the middle of the passage between the two rows of seats, here it stopped. If noticed by any person, it was not coveted, but was suffered to lie there in peace.

Yes, there it lay; its locomotion arrested; its wanderings brought to a close.

But hist! who enters?

It is the Student of Human Nature.

A gaunt yet spiritual-looking man opens the door, and slowly and pompously, he marches towards the other end of the car.

His air, his gait, his costume, even to his boots, his cane—all were peculiar.

His object in life was to rove hither and thither, studying that grand theme, Human Nature. Although above conversing with his fellow creatures, excepting when obliged to do so, his delight was to find some quiet spot from which he might form opinions of them without being disturbed. Whether he makes this employment pay by writing treatises on the subject, is a question which only he himself can answer. What he pretends to comprehend may be, and doubtless is, a noble science; but in his hands it is only a mockery.

Only two or three persons in the railway carriage knew the man or his employment, but his demeanor could not fail strongly to impress the looker-on.

His intention, on this occasion, was to take a seat in some dark corner, from which he might observe the occupants of the car. With stately tread he approached that bull’s-eye, placed his foot on it in such a way that it rolled, and with a crash the student fell headlong, with anything but studied grace.

He was on his feet again before assistance could be offered—this, however, was not remarkable, as nearly every one present was convulsed by laughter—and, after glancing malignantly at the cause of his fall, he scowled horribly on two or three of the loudest laughers, and then tore his handkerchief out of his pocket. Too late! A flow of blood was streaming fast from his nose, which organ had apparently been bruised in his fall.

A boy with the nosebleed is an object alike of laughter and pity; but a man with a bleeding nostril! Certainly his situation is ignominious. And the situation of the student on this occasion was more than ordinarily ludicrous.

How blind and wilful, how paradoxical men are! What a favorable opportunity now offered for observing the various emotions depicted on the faces of those people! Some were expressing their feelings by their rapidly-working features; others by their waggish gesticulations; still others by half suppressed interjections. While some looked merely amused, others looked awe-struck: only two persons seemed sympathetic. The more solemn passengers looked on with dignified serenity; but a smile of savage delight, indicative of innate depravity or blasted hopes and bitterness of heart, played over the wan faces of certain jaded and woebegone book agents. A few paid no attention whatever, while a great many made praiseworthy endeavors to keep their facial muscles from twitching.

But the Student of Human Nature left this vast mine unexplored, and hurried out of the car, hiding his bleeding nose in his handkerchief.

The now notable bull’s-eye was still in sight, and it was plain to all that it had caused the mishap. The old lady looked at it intently, and was heard to mutter that she knew no good would come from rewarding the boy for his wickedness.

A tender-hearted person is severely punished when his own wrong-doing subjects another to pain or annoyance. Now Will was tender-hearted: he lay nestled in a corner of his seat, almost hidden from the occupants of the car, doing penance by heaving dolorous sighs and shedding a few remorseful tears.

His father and mother seemed ill at ease. Presently the former stooped over him with awful solemnity, and whispered, Oh, Will! why did you drop that on the floor, when you could just as well have thrown it out of the window! Your blunders are sufficiently bad when they affect yourself alone; but they are lamentable when their results are disastrous to others. You are old enough now to behave like a little gentleman; promise me that you will be a good boy.

On the instant Will ceased both to heave sighs and to shed tears, and he earnestly promised to do better for the future.

In his way, Mr. Lawrence was a philosopher. He knew that any boy on being addressed in such terms and forgiven, instantly dries his tears, breaks into smiles, and promises to do great things. He reflected on this, and spoke as he did because he did not wish his son’s eyes to be red and swollen with crying when he should reach his destination.

Soon after the train slowed into the station at which they were to alight. The good old lady softened so far as to bid the bareheaded boy good-bye as he stumbled out of the car. The first thing to be done was to buy him a hat, since his parents had not been so provident as to take along an extra one. This was managed by leaving him and his father at the depot, while Mrs. Lawrence went to the nearest hat store. The good soul also bought some sugar-plums to replace the present which Will had lost.

As soon as the novelty of Will’s new hat had worn off, so far, at least, as to allow it to remain quietly on his head, he and his mother went to spend the rest of the day at the house of a relative, while Mr. Lawrence made his way to a law office.

About nightfall the three returned to the depot, took passage by the cars, and were soon on their way homeward.

It was still early in the evening, but the family party did not expect to reach home till past midnight.

Will was thinking—not of his latest blunders, but of some second-hand presents that he had received from his cousin, Henry. Mr. Lawrence, who was accustomed to travel, seemed inclined to fall asleep—in fact, they had not proceeded far on their way when a gentle snoring evinced that he was indeed asleep. Will fancied that his mother also seemed tired and drowsy, and he hastily concluded that his parents would have to depend upon him to be awakened when the train reached their station.

This thought kept the boy on the alert, and he took pride in the confidence thus placed in him. To him, however, the time passed much more slowly than when going to the city in the morning. This was only to be expected. Then, the sun was shining bright, the car was full of people, and his parents were wide-awake and in a humor to talk to him; now, it was night,—calm and starlit, but night,—the three were almost entirely alone in the car, and his parents were tired, sleepy, and silent.

Nevertheless, much as he wished to keep awake, he at last fell into a doze, from which he was aroused by the train’s coming to a stop and the brakesman’s shouting out the name of a station. The name seemed familiar, and Will, rubbing his eyes and yawning, at once began to reason, aloud: Our station! I must wake pa and ma, or the train will go on.

Both were awakened without delay.

What! is this our station already? Mr. Lawrence asked, with some surprise. You must be mistaken, Will—or have I really been asleep?

Yes, sir, you have been asleep: and this is our station.

Then there’s no time to be lost, I suppose; and Mr. Lawrence snatched up his valise and started towards the door, followed by his wife and son.

I almost wish we had stayed at Aunt Eleanor’s, he muttered, as he helped them off the train. "But I must attend to that business in the morning; and, fortunately, our house is not far from the depot."

They stepped out on the platform and the train was off on the instant. Mr. Lawrence went into the ticket-office, to speak to the night operator, and, to his consternation, found that instead of being his own village, he was at another, full twenty miles away.

His first act was to rush outside and make a vain attempt to signal the engineer to stop the train. Too late! It had already left the station, and was moving faster and faster.

That hope blasted, the unhappy man did not know what course to take, and he strode up and down the platform like a mad man; while his wife and son stood meekly by, the one filled with deep displeasure, the other with agonizing grief and despair.

Presently Mr. Lawrence halted before the boy, with these words: "Oh, Will! How could you have made such a blunder? I fail to trace a striking resemblance between the name of this place and that of our own. You, who know so much about geography, you to be so grossly ignorant respecting your own county! In an hour from this time we should have been at home.—Never mind, Will, he added in softer tones. Come, don’t cry; I suppose you, too, were asleep."

Yes, I must have been asleep, Will acknowledged.

The writer does not entertain much respect for Mr. Lawrence, because he was a man who alternately checked and indulged his son. But, on the whole, he was a discreet and affectionate parent—at all events, Will loved and honored him.

I say, Mr. Lawrence cried to a man with a lantern, I say, when will the next train going west be due?

Next train for you, sir? In just three hours, was the cheering answer.

Then my business is ruined! groaned the unhappy man.

However, this fretfulness at length wore away, and the three resigned themselves to wait, as patiently as might be, for the arrival of the next train. Mrs. Lawrence went into the waiting room, while Mr. Lawrence and Will spent most of the time out on the platform, gazing at the stars and the signals along the railway-track.

After Mr. Lawrence had talked himself hoarse about the signs of the zodiac, the perfection of signals used on the railways, and the stupendous power of steam, he determined to improve the remaining time by reasoning with his son on the sin of carelessness. Will—whose ears were ringing with such terms as spherical bodies, solar immensity, eternal revolutions, average momentum, preternatural velocity, lunar cycles, semaphorical warnings, and planetary systems—sighed on this change in the conversation, for he loved sonorous phraseology, but listened humbly. After a long lecture, in which he touched upon various matters not pertinent to his subject, Mr. Lawrence made a dark allusion to his ruined business, and then wound up with these words:

Will, if you continue in your present course, I am afraid your end will be as terrible as your uncle Dick’s.

What became of Uncle Dick, pa? eagerly inquired the boy, thinking that the subject would again be changed.

Poor boy! he felt his guilt, but he winced under his father’s polysyllabic reprimands.

Listen, Will, said Mr. Lawrence, and I will give you a short account of your uncle. Uncle Dick, my brother, was an eccentric man; good-natured, but credulous, and always making blunders. In that particular, he was not unlike you; but his blunders were far more serious in their results than yours. Early in life he made a large fortune by lucky speculations. One day he drew all his money from the banks and collected all that he could from his debtors—for what purpose I never knew; for, no sooner did he get his wealth into his own hands, than both he and it vanished, and nothing has since been seen or heard of either. Some suppose that he was robbed and murdered in the approved way; others, that he left the country, to return unawares at some future time; while a few unprincipled barbarians maintain that he has lost his mind. I, myself, think that by some great blunder, or unlucky speculation, he lost all his wealth, and prefers to stay away till he can return worth as much as, or more than, he was before. Poor Dick! his fate is wrapped in awful mystery.

Mr. Lawrence considered himself an apt story-teller, and delighted in his own narratives. But Will, to whom this story was new and almost unintelligible, strove to discern even the faintest resemblance between Uncle Dick’s doings and his own.

I do not often speak of my poor brother, Mr. Lawrence said sadly, but I think of him and dream of him, always. But, Will, I know you are good and sincere in your heart of heart; this misfortune was only a blunder; and so let us think no more of the matter.

Gentle reader, observe that the mournful story of Will’s uncle is told on the thirty-first page. Observe this carefully, as in the future you may wish to read it again.

At that instant, news that nearly made Will a hero was flashed along the wires.

Voices, loud and eager, were heard in the office. Mr. Lawrence went in to make inquiries, and learned that an accident had happened to the train from which he had been so abruptly hurried by his son.

The car in which they had been riding had broken loose, been hurled down an embankment, and wrecked. Only two or three men were in the car at the time, and they, being awake, had sprung nimbly and saved themselves, though almost by a miracle. A few persons in another car were jolted and disconcerted, but no one was hurt. The train was thrown into disorder, and part of the track torn up; so that the railway would not be passable for a few hours.

It was evident to Mr. Lawrence that, had he been in the car with his wife and child at the time of the accident, they must have suffered a cruel death, or else have escaped horribly mangled. Suppose that they had not been asleep, he would still have met with great difficulty in saving them before the doomed car went to destruction.

They owed their preservation then, first, to Divine Providence; secondly, to Will’s blunder.

Mr. and Mrs. Lawrence were not slow to acknowledge this, and the boy perceived that, at last, his worth was appreciated.

In process of time the night wore away; the road was repaired; and father, mother, and son, pursuing their journey, reached home early in the morning.

Mr. Lawrence’s business was not ruined, after all; for the man whom he wished to see was also detained by the accident, but finally made his appearance; and the business, which was really of importance, was soon concluded.

The three slept peacefully and soundly afterwards, for the occurrences of the last twenty-four hours had exhausted them.

From that time forward Mr. Lawrence generally passed by Will’s blunders without rebuke; for he had determined not to reprove the boy again, unless it should be a vital necessity.

In this way it chanced that Will’s childish blunder happened for the best, after all.

Whereas these two chapters are merely expletive,—that is, are as useful as the word it in the following verse:

For the deck it was their field of fame,—

it would be better to say no more about this blunder of Will’s, but commence the story proper.

Chapter III.

Will’s Native Village.

Another period in Will’s life has come. He is no longer a little boy, but an agile, robust, crop-headed youngster of fourteen. He has by no means outgrown the errors of his childhood: on the contrary, they stick to him more closely than ever; and to speak of Will without referring to them is—well, is merely a matter of courtesy. His parents have given up all hope of his ever ceasing to make blunders—in fact, they have come to expect nothing but blunders from him. They are no longer surprised at whatever he does, or at whatever happens to him; they would be more surprised to see him live without making blunders than at whatever might befall; and remembering how fortunate was his blunder on the train a few years before, they no longer find fault with him.

It would be foolish, however, to detail all the minor adventures through which he passed—foolish and tiresome to the reader. Still, it must not be taken for granted that all Will’s troubles rose from blunders, as many of them rose from such mishaps as might happen to any boy.

In order to make the incidents related in this story perfectly intelligible, it will be necessary to give a rambling description of the neighborhood in which they took place.

Mr. Lawrence’s farm was a short distance out of a busy and flourishing village, built on one of the great lakes of America. His home, as well as a few cottages belonging to him, was within the limits of this village. His farm was highly cultivated and full stocked, and a railway ran through it and then on through the village. To these natural advantages add that Mr. Lawrence was an intelligent man and practical farmer, knowing how to improve his opportunities, and it will be seen that he was well situated.

As for the village itself, it contained the ordinary number of inhabitants and hotels. Here lived the most skilful dentist in the state; but so modest was he that what was formerly a barrister’s office (this will define the size of the apartment) served him admirably for a dentistry; while an upper room in the same building, artistically fitted up, served him for a photographic gallery. Here lived the most expert ball-player out of New York. But his business was not to play ball;—rather, he did not follow it as a profession;—he kept a Yankee notions store, with a hanging aquarium in the window, and brewed soda-water and ice-cream. In this gentleman’s salon many a rustic indulged with his first dish of ice cream, eating it at the rate of two exceedingly small spoonfuls a minute. His actions and the expression of his countenance declared that it was monotonous, cold, and doubtful enjoyment; but the village papers, the expert ball-player, and public opinion, told him that it is an extraordinary delicacy, and he tried hard to believe so. The rustic would sometimes bring along his sweetheart. Then he ate his ice cream still more slowly; but probably it tasted better. Two newspapers (so-called) were printed here, and the villagers could tell you that each one had been the pecuniary ruin of six or seven editors. These ex-editors still lived in the neighborhood,—some as bookkeepers, others as insurance agents,—a warning to all right-minded men to soar higher (or lower) than the editorship of a village newspaper. But no one heeded the warning, and no sooner did an editor become insolvent or entangled in a libel suit than somebody else was ready to assume the arduous duty of conducting the publication. So long as the new editor had means, excelled in bombast and calumny, was sound in his political creed and could make vigorous attacks on his contemporary, who supported the doctrines of the other party, all went well for a time; but sooner or later the end came and then one more ex-editor was thrown upon the people of the village.

The principal buildings were the bank, the churches, the town-hall, the livery stable, the fulling-mill, the chair-factory, the fork-factory, the Columbia foundry, the hotels, and several private residences. The village had also its harbor, where vessels plying their trade on the lakes might worry through the roughest gale that the most talented writer of nautical romances ever conjured up.

But there was nothing remarkable respecting either its site, its size, the regularity or magnificence of its buildings, its commercial importance, or its antiquity. Further, it was not known to history.

A very large stream, or small river, flowed through the village, emptying into the lake. (To be still more accurate: the people of this particular village customarily called it "the river; while the base and envious inhabitants of the neighboring villages—through which flowed no such stream—took special pains to call it a creek.") Several mills of different kinds bordered this river, adding to the credit and vigor of the place. About three miles up from its mouth there was a large and natural waterfall, a favorite resort of the villagers and country people. The current above these falls was not very swift, but it would be perilous indeed to be swept over them. Shrubs, and at intervals, trees; gay little boat-houses, where the ground sloped gradually to the water’s edge; in the background commodious, ornamental, and pretentious dwelling houses, habitations, or villas;—such dotted the right bank of the river above the falls, presenting a fine appearance from the left bank.

This stream affording good fishing, sportsmen often came to it from a distance. But they generally lost more in cuticle, clothing, and valuables, than they gained in fish, sport, or glory; and it was remarked that they never returned after the third time.

There were many considerations why the water below the falls was not the principal play-ground of the juveniles. Being within the village, swimming was out of the question; on account of sundry sunken logs and other obstructions, they could not paddle about secure and tranquil on the crazy old rafts and scows; and lastly, almost the whole stretch of water below the falls lay open to the mothers’ watchful eyes, and the boys