Читать книгу A Blundering Boy - Bruce Weston Munro - Страница 8

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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 did not feel inclined to jeopard their lives within sight of those mothers. To some fastidious youths the water, perhaps, was too dirty, or “roily.”

Above the falls, however, all was different. On the upper part of the river no one ever molested the youngsters, unless they did something atrocious; here they might swim and paddle up and down the river as much as they pleased; for, in general, the banks were high, and bushes, rank grass and reeds and other screens intervened, shutting them off from outsiders.

The river was wide and deep at the falls, but above them it grew narrow and shallow little by little. Five miles up it was a mere brook. Throughout this long stretch the water was so clear that the most fastidious did not hesitate even to drink it; and there were secluded places that as swimming-places could not be equalled. At the falls the water was so deep as easily to float over any log or brush-wood that might come into the river from its banks, its source, or other streams.

One particular spot—a clump of evergreens, where forget-me-nots sprang up in all their beauty, and where Nature was seen at her best—was held sacred to lovers. But there were many parts of the river to which the boys stoutly maintained their claim and of which no one was so hard-hearted as to dispossess them. And oh! crowning joy! there was an island in the river!

At this the reader may think that we are trifling with his feelings; imposing on his credulity;—he may even refuse to believe in the existence of so extraordinary a river. Never mind. But if the reader wishes to enjoy these pages he will refuse to listen to the dictates of reason, and look on this story as an orthodox romance.

In winter there was another attraction, that of skating, the danger of which was a continual source of uneasiness to parents whose youth, agility, and frolicsomeness had long before given place to gray hairs, clumsiness, and sober-mindedness.

As the proprietors of the land along the river were generous-hearted men, the river was free to all people, and was an actual paradise for boys and picnickers.

Although further remarks might be made about this river, it is not necessary to make them here. It is sufficient to add that as the reader proceeds, he will observe how admirably this river is adapted to the exigencies of the story.

This was the state of affairs in Will’s boyhood. But, alas! all has changed since that time. A foreign aristocrat has bought up all the land along the river, which he has fenced in, stocked with fish and beautified—perhaps, disfigured—with sundry little wharfs, capes, bays, stretches of “pebbly beach,” and floating islands. In conspicuous places notices may be seen, beginning with “No Trespassing” and winding up with the amount of the fine imposed on all persons “caught lurking within the limits.” Consequently, the urchins of to-day, despoiled of this haunt, have to content themselves with damaging the notices and slinging stones at the swans that sail gracefully up and down the river.

There were also smaller streams in the neighborhood, one being in Mr. Lawrence’s farm.

To the left of the village stood an extensive grove, swarming with squirrels, birds, insects, and, of course, mosquitoes. In this grove the heroes of this story whiled away many a happy hour; and when not on the river they might generally be found here.

The lake also was a favorite resort, and on its broad surface they sailed or rowed hither and thither; always getting wet, often narrowly escaping death. Sometimes their joyous hearts were elated with a ride on a tug; but when hard pressed they made almost anything serve them for a boat. As naturally as a duck takes to water, Will and his associates took to making little ships, which excited the admiration of all beholders—sometimes on account of their beauty, but generally on account of their liability to float stern foremost, with the masts at an angle of twenty degrees.

Then there was the school-house—a fanciful, yet imposing edifice, the grained and polished jambs of whose mullioned windows had suffered from the ravages rather of jack-knives than of time—built in a retired quarter of the village, and to the boys’ entire satisfaction, quite close to the river.

If Will wished to go to the wharf he could walk thither in less than half-an-hour; to the depot in ten minutes; to the school—well, in from twenty to forty minutes. To Mrs. Lawrence’s delight, it was nearly two miles from their house to the falls. She had not the heart to forbid Will’s going thither, but she fondly hoped that the distance would not permit him to go very often; for, according to her view of the matter, water and danger are synonymous.

But what are two miles to a boy, when a waterfall, a limpid and gleaming river, boats, crazy rafts, plenty of fish, and other boys, are the attractions? In fact, the time was never known, not even to that venerable personage, “the oldest inhabitant,” in which a boy might not be seen about those falls.

It is not strange that the youth of this village were happy, when Nature had done so much for them.