The Three Brides, Love in a Cottage, and Other Tales Part 46

"O, yes," replied young Mr. Trotter; "that's one uv the reg'lar exercises--lickin' me. 'Arter I've licked Trotter,' sez the master, 'I'll hear the 'rithmetic cla.s.s.' But, mother, to change the subject, as the criminal said, when he found the judge was getting personal, is there enny arrand I can do for you?"

"Yes," grumbled the widow; "only you're so eternal slow about every thing you undertake--go get a pitcher of water, and be four years about it, will ye?"

Bob Trotter took the pitcher, and wended his way in the direction of the street pump; but he hadn't got far when he encountered his friend, Joe Buffer, the mate of a vessel, issuing from his house, dragging a heavy sea chest after him.

"Come Bob," said Joe, "bear a hand, and help us down to Long Wharf with this."

"Well, so I would," answered Bob, "only you see mother sent me arter a pitcher o' water."

"What do you care about your mother--she don't care for you? Come along."

"Well," said Bob, "first let me hide the pitcher where I can find it again."

With these words he stowed away his earthenware under a flight of stone steps, and accompanied his friend aboard his s.h.i.+p. The pilot was urging the captain to cast off, and take advantage of the tide and wind, but the latter was awaiting the arrival of a boy who had s.h.i.+pped the day before, wis.h.i.+ng no good to his eyes for the delay he had occasioned.

At last he turned to Bob, and said,--

"What do you say, youngster, to s.h.i.+pping with me? I'll treat you well, and give you ten dollars a month."

"I should like to go," said Bob, hesitatingly. "But my mother----"

"Hang your mother!" interrupted the captain. "She'll be glad to get rid of you. Come--will you go?"

"I hain't got no clothes."

"Here's a chestfull. That other chap was just your size; they'll fit you to a T."

"I'll go."

"Cast off that line there!" shouted the captain; and the s.h.i.+p fell off with the tide, and was soon standing down the bay with a fair wind, and every st.i.tch of canvas set. She was bound for the northwest coast, _via_ Canton, and back again, which was then called the "double voyage," and usually occupied about four years.

In the mean while, the non-appearance of Bob seriously alarmed his mother. A night pa.s.sed, and the town crier was called into requisition a week, when she gave him up, had a note read for her in meeting, and went into mourning.

Just four years after these occurrences the s.h.i.+p returned to port, and Bob and his friend were paid off. The wages of the widow's son amounted to just four hundred and eighty dollars, and he found, on squaring his accounts with the captain, that his advances had amounted to the odd tens, and four hundred dollars clear were the fruits of his long cruise.

As he walked in the direction of his mother's house, in company with Joe, he scanned with a curious eye the houses, the shops, and the people that he pa.s.sed. Nothing appeared changed; the same signs indicated an unchanging hospitality on the part of the same landlords, the same lumpers were standing at the same corners--it seemed as if he had been gone only a day. With the old sights and sounds, Bob's old feelings revived, and he almost dreaded to see, debouching from some alley, a detachment of boys sent by his ancient enemy, the schoolmaster, to know why he had been playing truant, and to carry him back to receive the customary walloping.

When he was quite near home, he said,--

"Joe, I wonder if any body's found that old pitcher."

He stooped down, thrust his arm under the stone steps, and withdrew the identical piece of earthenware he had deposited there just four years ago.

Having rinsed and filled it at the pump, he walked into his mother's house, and found her seated in her accustomed arm chair. She looked at him for a minute, recognized him, screamed, and exclaimed,--

"Why, Bob! where _have_ you been? What have you been doing?"

"Gettin' that pitcher o' water," answered Bob, setting it upon the table. "I always obey orders--you told me to be four years about it, and I was."

THE DEACON'S HORSE.

As you turn a corner of the road, pa.s.sing the base of a huge hill of granite all overgrown with ivy and scrub oak, the deacon's house comes full in sight. It is a quaint old edifice of wood, whose architecture proclaims it as belonging to the ante-revolutionary period. Innocent of paint, its dingy s.h.i.+ngles and moss-grown roof a.s.similated with the gray tint of the old stone fences and the granite boulders that rise from the surrounding pasture land. The upper story projects over the lower one, and in the huge double door that gives entrance to the hall there are traces of Indian bullets and tomahawks, reminiscences of that period when it was used as a blockhouse and served as a fortalice to protect the inhabitants of the surrounding district, who fled hither for protection from the vengeful steel and lead of the aborigines. On one side of the mansion is an extensive apple orchard of great antiquity, through which runs a living stream, whose babble in the summer solstice, mingled with the hum of insects, is the most refres.h.i.+ng sound to which the ear can listen. On the other side is one of those old-fas.h.i.+oned wells, whose "old oaken bucket" rises to the action of a "sweep." Two immemorial elm trees, in a green old age, shadow the trim shaven lawn in front. Opposite the house, on the other side of the road, is a vast barn, whose open doors, in the latter part of July, afford a glimpse of a compact ma.s.s of English hay, destined for the sustenance of the cattle in the dreary months of winter. We must not forget the huge wood pile, suggestive of a cheerful fireside in the long winter evenings.

But where is the deacon's horse? Last year, and for the past twenty years preceding, you could hardly pa.s.s of a summer evening, without noticing an old gray quietly feeding by the roadside, lazily brus.h.i.+ng off, with his long switch tail, the hungry flies that fastened on his flanks. The landscape is nothing without the old horse. The deacon reared him on the homestead. When a yearling he used to come regularly to the back door and there receive crusts of bread, crumbs of cake, and other delicacies, the free gifts of the children to their pet. He was the most wonderful colt that ever was--as docile as the house dog.

When stray poultry trespa.s.sed on the grounds, he would lay his little ears back, and putting his nose close to the ground, curling up his lips and showing his white teeth, drive the marauders from the premises with such a "scare," that they would refrain from their incursions for a week to come. But he was incapable of injuring a living thing.

When old enough for use, he submitted to the discipline of bit and bridle without a single opposing effort. And what a fine figure he made in harness! How smartly he trotted off to church carrying the whole family behind him in a Dearborn wagon! How proud was his carriage when he bore the deacon on his back!

The old man once made a long journey on horseback, to visit a brother who lived in the northern part of New England. A great portion of the way there was only a bridle path to follow through the woods, and this was frequently obstructed by fallen trees. When the impediment was merely a bare trunk, the gallant gray cleared it gayly at a flying leap; when the tree was enc.u.mbered with branches, he clambered over it like a wild cat. Once the deacon was obliged to dismount, and crawl on his hands and knees through the dense branches; the sagacious horse imitated his example, and worked his way through like a panther.

But age came upon the good gray. His sight began to fail--his knees to falter. His teeth were entirely worn away.

After a bitter struggle the deacon concluded to replace him by a younger horse. Life had become a burden to the old family servant, of which it was a mercy to relieve him. Yet, even then, the deacon was reluctant to give a positive order for his execution.

One day he called his eldest son to him.

"Abijah," said he, "I'm going over to W., to get that colt I was speaking about. While I am gone I want you to _dispose_ of the poor old gray. I shouldn't like to sell him to any body that would abuse him."

He could say no more--but Abijah understood him. When his father had gone, he went into the meadow, and dug a deep pit, beside which he placed the sods at first removed by the spade. He then carefully loaded his rifle and called to the old gray. The poor animal, who was accustomed to obey the voice of every member of the family, feebly neighed and tottered to the brink of the pit. The young man threw a handkerchief over the horse's eyes, and placing the muzzle of the rifle to his ear, fired. The poor old horse fell, without a groan, into the grave which had been prepared for him. With streaming eyes, Abijah threw the earth over the remains of his playmate, and then carefully replaced the sod.

When the deacon returned with his fine new horse, he manifested no elation at his purchase, nor, though he perceived that the stall was empty, did he trust himself to make any inquiries respecting the old gray. Only the family noticed, that in the course of the afternoon, in wandering through the meadow, he came upon the new-made grave, and though the sods had been carefully replaced, he evidently noticed traces of the spade, and suspected the cause, for he tried the soil with his foot, and was also observed to pa.s.s the back of his hand across his eyes. But he never alluded to his old servant.

If there be men who can smile at the grief of a family for the loss of an animal who has been long endeared to them by service and a.s.sociation, be a.s.sured that their hearts are not in the right place; and that they are individuals who would exhibit a like callousness to the loss of human friends.

THE CONTRABANDISTA.

A TALE OF THE PACIFIC COAST.

Night was setting in--a clear, starlight night--as a small armed brig was working her way into a little bay upon the western coast of Mexico. She was a trim-built craft, and not too deeply laden to conceal the symmetry of her dark and exquisitely-modelled hull. The cleanness of her run, the elegance of her lines, the rake of her slender masts, and the cut of her sails, showed her, at a glance, to be a Baltimore-built clipper--at the time of which we speak--some years ago--the fastest thing upon the ocean. She was working to windward against a light breeze, and hence was unable to exhibit any thing of her qualities, though a seaman's eye would have decided at a glance that she could sail like a witch. The Zanthe, for that was the name inscribed in gilt letters on her stern and sideboards, might have been a dangerous customer in a brush, for her armament consisted of ten bra.s.s eighteens, and her crew of sixty picked seamen--an abundance of men to work the brig, and serve her batteries with satisfaction and credit.

Not to keep the reader any longer in suspense with regard to her character and purpose, we will inform him that the Zanthe was a smuggler, and for some years had been engaged in the illegal game of defrauding the revenue of the Mexican republic. She was commanded by a Scotchman named Morris, and her first mate was a Yankee, answering to the hail of Pardon G. Simpkins, as gallant a fellow and as good a seaman as ever trod a plank. It was her custom to land contraband goods at different points upon the coast where lighters were kept concealed, and where the merchandise was taken charge of by the sh.o.r.e-gang, a numerous and well-appointed body of picked men, mounted and armed to the teeth, and provided with a large number of mules for transporting the goods into the interior. The merchandise, lightered off from the brig, was hidden in the _chaparral_, if it came on sh.o.r.e before the mule trains were ready, and it was piled up with combustibles, in such a manner that, should the _vigilantes_ surprise them in sufficient numbers to effect a seizure, and overcome resistance, a match thrown among the booty secured its destruction in a few moments. A smoke by day and a fire by night, upon the sh.o.r.e, was the signal for the brig to approach and come to anchor.

The Zanthe, as we before said, slowly worked her way to her anchorage.

One by one, her white sails, on which the last flush of the sunset fires had just faded, were all furled, and, her anchors dropped, she swung round with the tide, and rode in safety. A Bengola light was displayed for a moment from the foretop, and answered by another from the sh.o.r.e.

"All right, cap'n," said the mate, walking aft to where Morris was standing, near the wheel. "The critters have seen us, and that are firework means that there aint no vigilantes round abeout. I spose we shall hev the lighters along side airly in the mornin'."

"Yes," said the captain. "I wonder whether Don Martinez is with the sh.o.r.e gang."

"Not knowin', can't say," replied the mate. "Most likely he is, howsomdever--'cause our cargo is vallable, and he'd be likely to look after it."