Caleb in the Country

A dense smoke soon began to pour out of the top of the chimney. The fire roared up through the hollow, and it caught outside too, under the bark, and soon enveloped the whole tree in smoke, sparks, and flame. Large pieces of the blazing bark detached themselves, from time to time, from the side of the tree, and came down, crackling and sparkling to the ground; and the opening below where Caleb had crammed in his fuel, soon glowed like the mouth of a furnace.

Near the top of the tree was an old branch, or rather the stump of an old branch, decayed and blackened, reaching out a little way, like an arm. This was soon enveloped in smoke; and, as Caleb was watching it, as it appeared and disappeared in the wreaths, he thought he saw something move. He looked again, intently. It was a squirrel,—half suffocated in the smoke, and struggling to hold on. Caleb immediately called out to Raymond as loud as he could call,

“Raymond, Raymond, come here, quick: here is a poor squirrel burning up.”

Raymond dropped his axe, and ran,—bounding over the logs, and hummocks; but before he reached the place, the squirrel, unable to hold on any longer, and half stifled with the smoke and scorching heat, dropped from his hold to the ground. Raymond came up at the moment, and seized him; he brought him to where Caleb was sitting,—Caleb himself eagerly coming forward to see.

“Is it dead?” said Caleb.

“Pretty much,” said Raymond. The squirrel lay gasping helplessly in Raymond's hands. “Here, put him in my cap,” said Caleb; “that will make a good bed for him, and perhaps he will come to life again.”

Raymond examined him pretty carefully, and he did not seem to be burnt. He said he thought he must have been suffocated by breathing the smoke and hot air. Raymond then went back to his work, and Caleb sat upon the log, watching alternately the squirrel and the burning tree.

In a few minutes a great flame flashed out at the top of the tree: and finally, after about half an hour, the whole trunk, being all in a blaze, from top to bottom, began slowly to bend and bend over.

“Raymond,” shouted Caleb,—“Raymond, look;—it is going to fall!”

The tall trunk moved at first slowly, but soon more and more rapidly, and finally came down to the ground with a crash.

The crash startled the little squirrel, so that he almost regained his feet; and Caleb was afraid that he was going to run away. But he laid over again upon his side, and was soon quiet again as before.

Not long after this, Raymond finished his work, and prepared to go home. He proposed to Caleb that they should leave the squirrel there, upon the log; but Caleb was very desirous to carry him home, because, he said, he could tame him, and give him to Mary Anna. So Raymond asked how they should contrive to carry him. Caleb wanted to carry him home in his cap; but Raymond said that he would take cold by riding home bare-headed. “However,” said Raymond, “Perhaps I can contrive something.” So he went after another piece of birch bark from the tree, about six inches wide, and two feet long, and rolled it over, bringing the two ends together, so as to make a sort of round box,—only it was without top or bottom. To keep it in shape he tied a string round it.

“But how are you going to keep him in?” asked Caleb.

Raymond said nothing, but he took a handkerchief out of his jacket pocket, and spread it out upon the ground, and put his birch bark box upon it. He then laid the squirrel gently in upon the handkerchief, which thus served for a bottom. Next he drew the corners of the handkerchief up over the top, and tied the opposite pairs of ends together. Thus the handkerchief served for top, bottom, and handle.

They soon reached the place where they had left the cart; they got into it and rode on. Caleb held the squirrel in his lap, and of course, as there was nothing but the thin handkerchief for a bottom to the box, Caleb felt the weight of the squirrel, pressing soft and warm upon his knees. The squirrel lay very still until they got very near home, and then Caleb began to feel a creeping sensation, as if he was beginning to move. Caleb was highly delighted to perceive these signs of returning life; he held his knees perfectly still, that he might not disturb him, crying out, however, to Raymond,

“He's moving, Raymond; he's moving, he's moving.”

CHAPTER XI.

MARY ANNA

Caleb and Raymond reached home about the middle of the afternoon: and while Raymond went into the yard to leave the cart and turn out the cattle, Caleb pressed eagerly into the house, to shew his prize. Mary Anna, or Marianne, as they generally called her, came to meet him to see what he had got in his hand.

“Is that my birch bark?” said she.

“There! I forgot your birch bark,” said Caleb.—“But I have got something here a great deal better.” And so saying he put his handkerchief down, and began very eagerly to untie the knots.

When he had got two of the ends untied, and was at work upon the other two, out leaped the squirrel, and ran across the room. Mary Anna, startled by the sudden appearance of the animal, ran off to the door, and Caleb called out in great distress, “O dear! O dear! What shall I do? He'll get away. Shut the door, Mary Anna,—shut the door, quick! call Raymond; call Raymond.”

Mary Anna, at first, retreated outside of the door, and stood there a moment, peeping in. Finding, however, that the squirrel remained very quiet in a corner of the room, she returned softly, and went round, and shut all the doors and windows, and then Caleb went and called Raymond.

The squirrel had by no means yet got over his accident, and he allowed himself to be easily retaken and secured. Raymond contrived to fasten him into a box, so as to keep him safe, until next morning; and by that time they thought, if he should then seem likely to get well, they could determine what it was best to do with him.

While Caleb was coming home, there had been a strange mixture of delight and uneasiness in his feelings. The delight was occasioned by the possession of the squirrel. That was obvious enough. The uneasiness he did not think about very distinctly, and did not notice what the cause of it was. Boys very often feel a sort of uneasiness of mind,—they do not know exactly how or why,—and they have this feeling mingling sometimes strangely with their very enjoyment, in their hours of gaiety and glee. Now the real reason of this unquiet state of mind, in Caleb's case, was that his conscience had been disturbed by his feelings of vexation and impatience, towards Raymond, for not leaving his work, to come and kindle his fire. He had not yielded to these feelings. He had restrained them, and had stood still, and spoken respectfully to Raymond, all the time. In fact, he was hardly aware that he had done any thing wrong, at all. But still, for a moment, selfish passions had had possession of his heart, and whenever they get possession, even if they are kept in subjection, so as not to lead to any bad actions or words, and even if they are soon driven away by new thoughts, as Caleb's were, by the sight of his blazing fire,—still, they always leave more or less of misery behind.

So Caleb, as he was going home, had his heart filled with delight at the thoughts of the squirrel resting warmly in his lap; and he was also a prey, in some degree, to a gnawing uneasiness, which he could not understand, but which was really caused by a sting which sin had left there.

And yet Caleb came home with an idea that he had been a very good boy. So, after they had got tired of looking at the squirrel, and Mary Anna had taken her seat at her work by the window, with her little work-table before her, Caleb came up to her, and kneeling upon her cricket, and putting his arms in her lap, he said,

“Well, Aunt Marianne, I have been a good boy all day to-day, and so I want you to make me a picture-book, this evening.”

Marianne had a way of making picture-books that pleased children very much. The way was this: she used to save all the old, worn-out picture books, and loose pictures, she could find, and put them carefully in one of her drawers, up stairs. Then she would make a small blank book, of white paper, and sew it through the back. Then she would cut out pictures enough from her old stores to fill the book, leaving the colours blank, because they were to be covered with some pretty-coloured paper, for a title. Then she would paste the pictures in. And here, when Mary Anna first began to make such books, an unexpected difficulty arose. For, when paper is wet, it swells; and then, when it dries again, though it shrinks a little, and does not shrink back quite into its original dimensions,—that is, quite to the length and breadth that it had at first. Now, when Mary Anna pasted her pictures in the pages of the book, that part of the leaf which was under the picture was wet by the paste, and so it swelled, while the other part remained dry. And when the picture came to dry, it did not shrink quite back again. It remained swelled a little; and this caused the page to look warped or puckered, so that the leaves did not lie smooth together.

At length she found out a way to remedy this difficulty entirely; and this was, to wet the whole of the leaf, as well as that part that the picture was pasted to, and that made it all swell alike. The way she managed the operation was this:

After sewing the book, she would cut out a piece of morocco paper, or blue paper, or gilt paper, and sometimes a piece of morocco itself, just the size of the book when open, for the cover. Then, after spreading out a large newspaper upon the table, so as to keep the table clean, she would lay down the cover with the handsome side down, and then spread the paste over the other side, very carefully, with a brush which she made from the end of a quill. Then she would put the back edge of the book down upon this cover, and lay it over, first on one side, and then on the other, and pat it down well with a towel; and that would make the cover stick to the outside leaves of the book, and cover up and hide the great stitches in the back, by which the leaves had been sewed together. Then she would take the book before her, and begin at the beginning. First, she would lay down the cover and put upon it a piece of tin, made to fill papers with, to keep it down smooth. Then she would lay the next leaf down upon the tin. The leaf was to have the title-page upon it, and so there were to be no pictures pasted to it. She would, therefore, lay this down upon the tin, and then, with one of her large paint brushes, dipped in the water, she would wet it all over, patting it afterwards with a towel, to take up all the superfluous water. Then she would take up the tin, and put the title-leaf down upon the cover, and put the tin over it to keep it down smooth. The next leaf would be for pictures, and, after pasting pictures upon it, on both sides, she would lay it down upon the tin, and with her brush she would wet all those parts which had not been pasted. Then patting it with a dry towel, or soft cloth, to dry it as much as possible, she would put it under the tin. In this way she would go on regularly, through the book, pasting pictures upon all the pages, and wetting with her brush all those parts of the paper which had not been wet by the paste, and putting the tin over the leaves as fast as she finished them, to keep them all smooth. Then, when she had got through, she would put the whole away between two boards, to dry; the weight of the paper board being sufficient to keep the leaves all smooth. The next morning when she came to look at her book, she generally found it nearly dry; and then she would put some heavy weight upon the upper board, to press it harder. When it was perfectly dry, she took out the book, and pared off the edges, all around, with a sharp knife and a rule. Then she would get her paint-box, and colour all the pictures beautifully, and make borders about them, in bright colours, and print a handsome title-page with her pen, and write the name of the boy in it whom she meant to give it to.

So Caleb, when he came and told Mary Anna, what a good boy he had been, meant to have her make such a book as this.

“But sometimes boys are mistaken in thinking they have been good boys. I should want to ask Raymond.”

“He would say so, I know,” said Caleb; “for I certainly did not trouble him at all, all the day.”

“Suppose you run and ask him.”

“Well,” said Caleb; and away he ran.

“But stop,” said Mary Anna; “you must not ask him by a leading question.”

“What is that?” said Caleb.

“Don't you know?” said Mary Anna.

“No,” said Caleb.

“O, that is very important for boys to know; for they very often ask leading questions, when they ought not to. Now, if you go and say, 'Raymond, haven't I been a good boy to-day?' that way of asking the question shews that you want him to say, 'Yes, you have.' It is called a leading question, because it leads Raymond to answer in a particular way. Now, if I should go and ask him thus, 'Has Caleb been a good boy to-day?' with the emphasis on has, it would be a leading question the other way. It would sound as if I wanted him to say you had not been a good boy.”

“How must I ask him, then?” said Caleb.

“Why you can say, 'Raymond, Aunt Marianne wants to know what sort of a boy I have been to-day,' that way of putting the question would not lead him one way or the other.”

“Why, he might know,” said Caleb, “that I should want him to say I have been good.”

“Yes, but not from the form of the question. The question would not lead him.”

While Mary Anna was saying this, Caleb was standing with his hand upon the latch of the door, ready to go; and when she had finished what she was saying, he started off to find Raymond.

As he passed across the yard, he heard the sound of voices before the house. It was Dwight and David coming home from school. In a minute they appeared in view, by the great elm. Dwight had a long slender pole in his hands, which he was waving in the air, and David had a small piece of wood, and a knife. He sat down under the elm, and began to shave the wood with the knife.

Caleb ran to tell them about his squirrel; but before he got there, Dwight, seeing him, began to wave his pole in the air, and shout, and then said, “See what a noble flag-staff we have got.”

“Is that your flag-staff?” said Caleb.

“Yes. John Davis gave it to us. He got it out of his father's shop. We are going to set it up out at the end of our mole.”

“Yes,” said David, “and I am going to make a truck on the top, to haul up the flag by. Marianne is going to make us a flag.”

“A truck?” said Caleb, enquiringly.

“Yes,” said David, “a little wheel to put a string over to hoist it by.”

Caleb looked upon the pole, and upon David's work, for a minute in silence, and then said,

“I have got something better than a flag-staff.”

“What?” asked Dwight.

“A squirrel.”

“A squirrel!” said David in surprise.

“Yes,” said Caleb, “a grey squirrel.”

“Where is he?” said David, looking up eagerly, from his work.

“In the back-room,” said Caleb. “Raymond put him in a box.—Come, and I will shew him to you.”

Down went Dwight's pole, in a moment; David, too, shut his knife, and put it in his pocket, and off they went to see the squirrel.

The little nut-cracker was frightened at seeing so many eyes peeping in upon him from every crevice and opening in his box. He looked much brighter and better than he did when he was put into the box, and Caleb thought he would get entirely well.

“O, I wish I had him,” said Dwight.

“I am going to keep him in a cage,” said Caleb.

“I wish he was mine,” said Dwight. “Why can't you give him to me, Caleb?”

“O, no,” said Caleb, “I want to keep him.”

“You don't know how to take care of him,” said Dwight. “Come, you give him to me, and I will give you my flag-staff.”

“No,” said Caleb, “I don't want any flag-staff. I want to keep the squirrel.”

“See, see,” said David, “he is creeping along.”

“O,” said Dwight, “I wish he was mine.”

“There, he is curling up in the corner.”

“Would you give him to me for my top?” said Dwight, very eagerly.

“He's going to eat that kernel of corn,” said David.

“I should think you might give him to me,” said Dwight, pettishly, “for that top; the top is worth a great deal the most.”

After a few minutes, Dwight finding that there was no prospect of inducing Caleb to sell him the squirrel, desisted from his attempts; and then, after a moment's pause, he said,

“I don't think it is your squirrel, after all, Caleb.”

“Whose is it then?”

“Raymond's. He saved it. The poor thing would have been burnt up, if he had not run and caught it up.”

“No, he wouldn't,” said Caleb, “I was just going to get him myself.”

Dwight, having decided in his own mind that the squirrel was Raymond's, ran off to find Raymond, with the design of asking him to give the squirrel to him. But Raymond said the squirrel was Caleb's.

“But you caught him,” said Dwight.

“Yes, but I caught him for Caleb, not for myself.”

“And you fixed the box to bring him home in,” said Dwight.

“I know it, but I only did it to please Caleb. The squirrel is his altogether.”

So Dwight had to return disappointed.

When Caleb came in, Mary Anna was putting up her work, and arranging her things neatly in her drawer.

“Well, Caleb,” said she, “and what did Raymond say?”

“O, he said it was mine,” replied Caleb.

“What was yours?” said Mary Anna.

“The squirrel.”

“The squirrel!” repeated Mary Anna; “you went to ask him what sort of a boy you had been.”

“O!” said Caleb—“there!—I forgot all about that. I'll run and ask him now.”

“No,—stop,” said Mary Anna; “it is time for supper now; and besides, I will take your word for it; you are a pretty honest boy. You say you was a pleasant boy all day.”

“Yes,” said Caleb, “I was.” He had forgotten his feelings of ill-humour, when Raymond would not come and light his fire.

“And you think I ought to make you a picture book for a reward.”

“Yes,” said Caleb, “I wish you would.”

“But I cannot tell how pleasant in mind you have been all day, unless I know what you have had to try you.”

“To try me?” asked Caleb.

“Yes, I want to know what troubles, or difficulties, or disappointments you had to bear, and did bear patiently and pleasantly.”

Caleb looked a little perplexed.

“You know, Caleb,” she continued, “there is no merit in being pleasant unless things go wrong.”

“Isn't there?” said Caleb.

“Why, no,” said Mary Anna, as she shut up her work-table drawer, “is there?”

“Why no,” said Caleb, smiling; for he could not help smiling, while yet he was a little disappointed at finding all his fancied goodness melted away.

“Now, did you have a good time in the woods to-day?”

“Yes,” said Caleb.

“Did Raymond take good care of you?”

“Yes,” said he.

“And did you have a good dinner?”

“Yes; and a noble great fire,” said Caleb.

“You little rogue, then!” said Mary Anna, laughing, and stabbing at his sides with her finger; “here you have been having a beautiful time in the woods, amusing yourself all day, and had every thing to please you; and now you come to me to pay you for not having been impatient and fretful! You little rogue!”

Caleb turned, and ran laughing away, Mary Anna after him, and pointing at him with her finger. Caleb made his escape into the front entry, and hid behind the door. Mary Anna pretended to have lost sight of him, and not to know where he was; and she went about, saying,

“Where is that little rogue? He came to get away one of my picture-books for nothing. He wanted to be paid for bearing happiness patiently. The rogue! I'll pinch him if I can only find him.”

So saying, Mary Anna went and sat down to supper, and soon after Caleb came and took his seat too; Mary Anna roguishly shaking her finger at him all the time. He had to hold his hand over his mouth to keep from laughing aloud.

Perhaps some of the readers of this book may smile at Caleb's idea of his merit in having been a pleasant boy all day, when he felt vexed and unsubmissive in the only case which brought him any trial; but it is so with almost all children, and some grown persons too. A great deal of the goodness upon which we all pride ourselves, is only the quiescence of bad propensities in the absence of temptation and trial.

CHAPTER XII.

THE WALK

Outside of the window in Madam Rachel's bedroom, where the children used to sit and talk with her just before going to bed, there was a little platform, with a plain roof over it, supported by small square posts, altogether forming a sort of portico. Below this window there were two doors, opening from the middle out each way, so that when the window was raised, and the doors were opened, a person could walk in and out. There were seats in the portico, and there was a wild grape-vine growing upon a plain trellis, on each side. In front of the portico was one of the broad walks of the garden, for on this side the garden extended up to the house. At least there was no fence between, though there was a small plot of green grass next to the house; and next to that came the trees and flowers.

One pleasant evening Dwight and Caleb were playing on this grass, waiting for Madam Rachel to come and call them in to the sofa. It was about eight o'clock, but it was not dark. The western sky still looked bright; for though the sun had gone down, so that it could no longer shine upon the trees and houses, it still shone upon the clouds and atmosphere above, and made them look bright.

Presently Madam Rachel came, and stood at the window.

“Where's David?” said she.

“Out in the garden,” said Dwight, “and mother,” he continued, “I wish you would walk in the garden to-night.”

At first, Madam Rachel said she thought she could not very well that evening, for she had a difficult text to talk about; but the boys promised to walk along quietly, and to be very sober and attentive; and so she went and put on her garden bonnet, and came out.

The garden was not large, it extended back to some high rocky precipices, where the boys used sometimes to climb up for play.

“I am afraid,” said Madam Rachel, as she sauntered along the walk, the children around her, “that you will not like the verse that I am going to talk with you about this evening, very well, when you first hear it.”

“What is it mother?” said Dwight.

“'And you hath he quickened, who were dead in trespasses and sins.'”

“What does quickened mean?” asked David.

“Made alive, or brought to life. Quick means alive, sometimes; as for instance, the quick and the dead, means the living and the dead. And so we say, 'cut to the quick,' that is, cut to the living flesh, where it can feel.”

“Once I read in a fable,” said David, “of a horse being stung to the quick.”

“What, by a hornet?” said Dwight.

“No,” said David, “by something the ass said.”

“O, yes,” said Madam Rachel, “that means it hurt his feelings. If a bee should sting any body so that the sting should only go into the skin, it would not hurt much; but if it should go in deep, so as to give great pain, we should say it stung to the quick, that is, to the part which has life and feeling. So I suppose that something that the ass said, hurt the horse's feelings.”

“What was it, David, that the ass said?” asked Dwight.

“Why—he said, I believe that the horse was proud, or something like that.”

“No matter about that fable now,” said their mother; “you understand the meaning of the verse. It was written to good men; it says that God gave them life and feeling, when they were dead in trespasses and sins. But I must first tell you what dead means.”

“O, we know what 'dead' means, well enough,” said Dwight.

“Perhaps not exactly what it means here,” said Madam Rachel.

“Dead means here insensible.”

“But I don't know what insensible means,” said Caleb.

“I will explain it to you,” said she. “Once there were two boys who quarreled in the recess at school; and the teacher decided that for their punishment they should be publicly reproved before all the scholars. So, after school, they were required to stand up in their places, and listen to the reprimand. While they were standing, and the teacher was telling them that they had done very wrong,—had indulged bad passions, and displeased God, and destroyed their own happiness, and brought disgrace upon the school,—one of them stood up with a bold and careless air, while the teacher was speaking, and afterwards when he took his seat, looked round to the other scholars, and laughed. The other boy hung his head, and looked very much ashamed; and as the teacher had finished what he was saying, he sunk into his seat, put his head down upon his desk before him, and burst into tears. Now, the first one was insensible, or as it is called in this text, dead to all sense of shame. The other was alive to it. You understand now?”