Chapter I: Part 1

A
NEW STORY BOOK
FOR CHILDREN.

BY

FANNY FERN.

NEW YORK:
MASON BROTHERS, 7 MERCER STREET;
BOSTON: MASON & HAMLIN;
PHILADELPHIA: J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO.
1864.

Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1864, by

MASON BROTHERS,

In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States for the
Southern District of New York.

JOHN F. TROW,
PRINTER AND STEREOTYPER,
50 Green Street.

THIS BOOK

IS

AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED

TO

=“Little Effie.”=

CONTENTS.

PAGE
A STORY ABOUT MYSELF, 7

GRANDPAPA’S BALD HEAD, 27

JOHN BROWN, 32

THE PLOUGHBOY POET, 56

OLD HICKORY, 68

THE DEAF AND DUMB FRENCH BOY, 76

THE THREE GIFTED SISTERS, 82

THE KIND WORD, 103

THE CORSICAN AND THE CREOLE, 106

TWO QUARRELSOME OLD MEN, 128

THE LITTLE PRINCES, 131

OLD DOCTOR JOHNSON, 146

THE LITTLE LORD, 157

THE POLICEMAN, 165

LITTLE ADRIAN, 173

THE PEDDLER’S SON, 186

JEMMY LAWTON, 193

HOW A GREAT LORD EDUCATED HIS SON, 200

THE BOY WALTER SCOTT, 206

AUNT MAGGIE, 224

A FUNERAL I SAW, 231

WATCHES, 234

OLD ZACHARIAH, 239

LITTLE GERTRUDE, 244

THE FAITHFUL DOG, 249

A QUESTION ANSWERED, 258

THE NURSE’S DAY OUT, 262

SWEET SIXTEEN, 266

SITTING FOR MY PORTRAIT, 268

ABOUT A JOURNEY I TOOK, 270

WHEN I WAS YOUNG, 283

A NURSERY THOUGHT, 287

THE USE OF GRANDMOTHERS, 289

THE INVENTOR OF THE LOCOMOTIVE, 291

TO MY LITTLE FRIENDS, 303

BABY EFFIE, 305

A STORY ABOUT MYSELF.

Nobody could be more astonished than I, to find myself famous. I never dreamed of it, when I sat in a small room, at the top of the house where I lodged, scribbling over a sheet of coarse foolscap with _noms de plume_, out of which I was to choose one for my first article—which article I never thought of preserving, any more than the succeeding ones, supposing my meagre pecuniary remuneration the only reward I was to hope for. I think the reason I selected the name “Fern,” was because, when a child, and walking with my mother in the country, she always used to pluck a leaf of it, to place in her bosom, for its sweet odor; and that gloomy morning, when I almost despaired of earning bread for my children, I had been thinking of her, and wishing she were living, that I might lay my head upon her bosom and tell her all my sorrows; and then memory carried me back, I scarce knew how, to those childish days, when I ran before her in the woods, to pluck the sweet fern she loved; and then I said to myself, my name shall be “Fanny Fern”—little dreaming anybody would ever know or care anything about it.

I loved my mother;—everybody did. She had the kindest heart and sweetest voice in the world; and if there was any person in the circle of her acquaintance who was particularly disagreeable to her, for that person would she be sure to do a service, the first opportunity.

In a spare room in our house was an old armchair, and in it lay a large Bible. I often used to see my mother go into that room, sighing as she closed the door; and, young as I was, I had learned to watch for her coming out; for the sweet, calm, holy look her features wore, fascinated me like a spell. _Now_ I know how it was! now, that the baptism of a woman’s lot has been mine also; and often, when blinded by the waves of trouble which have dashed over my head, have I thought of the open Bible in the old armchair, its pages wet with tears, which no human eye saw fall, wiped away by no human hand, but precious in _His_ eyes as the seed of the husbandman, from which He garners the golden harvest sheaves.

Thus my mother was unselfish—ever with a gentle word for all; thus she looked upon life’s trials, as does the long-absent traveler upon the wayside discomforts of the journey, when the beacon light gleams from the window of the dear old home in sight. Thank God! she has reached it; and yet—and yet—the weary hours of desolation, my heart has ached for her human voice; in which I have sat with folded hands, while memory upbraided me with her patience, her fortitude, her Christ-like forbearance, her sweet, unmurmuring acceptance of the thorns in her life-path, for His sake, who wore the thorny crown.

Weeping, I remembered her gentle touch upon my arm, as I gave way to some impetuous burst of feeling, at the defection of some playmate, or friend, on whose unswerving friendship my childish heart had rested as on a rock. I saw her eyes, pitiful, imploring, sometimes tearful; for well she saw, as a mother’s prophet-eyes alone may see, her child’s future. She knew the passionate nature, that would be lacerated and probed to the quick, ere the Healer came with His heavenly balm. She knew that love’s silken cord could guide me, where the voice of severity never could drive; and so she let my hot, angry tears fall, and when the storm was spent, upon the dark cloud she painted the bow of promise, and _to those only_ “_who overcome_,” she told me, was “given to eat of the tree of life.” Alas! and alas! that her child should be a child still!

If there is any poetry in my nature, from my mother I inherited it. She had the most intense enjoyment of the beauty of nature. From the lowliest field-blossom, to the most gorgeous sunset, nothing escaped her observant eye. I well remember, before the dark days came upon me, a visit I received from her in my lovely country home. It was one of those beautiful mornings when the smile of God seems to irradiate every living thing; to rest on the hilltops, to linger in the valleys, to sweeten the herbage for the unconscious cattle, and exhilarate even the bright-winged insects who flutter in the sunbeams; a morning in which simply to live were a blessing, for which humanity could find no adequate voice of thanks.

From out the dusty, noisy city, my mother had come to enjoy it. I had just placed my sleeping babe in its cradle, when I heard her footstep upon the nursery stairs. Stooping to kiss its rosy cheek, she seated herself at my window. The bright-winged orioles were darting through the green foliage, the grass waved in the meadow, starting up the little ground-bird to make its short, quick, circling flights; the contented cattle were browsing in the fields, or bowing their meek heads to the little brook, to drink; brown farmhouses nestled peacefully under the overshadowing trees, and far off in the distance stretched the hills, piled up against the clear blue sky, over which the fleecy clouds sailed leisurely, as if they too enjoyed all this wealth of beauty. My mother sat at the window, the soft summer wind gently lifting the brown curls from her temples;—then slowly—musically, as she laid her hand upon mine, while her whole face glowed, as did that of Moses when he came down from the mount, she said, “O Lord! how manifold are thy works! in wisdom hast thou made them all; the earth is full of thy riches. Who coverest thyself with light as with a garment: who stretchest out the heavens like a curtain: who walkest upon the wings of the wind. Every beast of the forest is thine; and the cattle upon a thousand hills. The world is thine, and the fullness thereof. I will sing praise unto God while I have my being.” When my mother ceased to speak, and relapsed again into silence, seemingly unconscious of my presence, I did not disturb her; for I knew that her soul was face to face with Him who hears the voiceless prayer, and needs not the bended knee.

My mother was eminently social, and particularly fond of the society of young people; so much so, indeed, that my young companions were always disappointed when she was absent from our little gatherings. Her winning, motherly ways, her warm welcome, her appreciation and toleration of exuberant young life, was as delightful as rare. I will not speak of the broken-hearted whom she drew to her bosom, of the needy to whom she ministered, of the thousand little rills of benevolence with which she fertilized so many hearts and homes; they are written, not in a perishable book of remembrance like mine, but in one which shall endure when the earth shall be rolled up like a scroll.

Had my mother’s time not been so constantly engrossed by a fast-increasing family, had she found time for literary pursuits, I am confident she would have distinguished herself. Her hurried letters, written with one foot upon the cradle, give ample evidence of this. She _talked poetry unconsciously_! The many gifted men to whom her hospitality was extended, and who were her warm personal friends, know this.

A part of every year my mother spent in the country. One summer, while I was yet a child, we were located in a very lovely spot near Boston. Connected with the church where my mother worshiped, was a female prayer meeting, held alternately at the houses of its different members. One warm summer afternoon, my mother passed through the garden where I was playing, and asked me if I would like to go too. I said yes, because I liked to walk with my mother anywhere; so we sauntered along the grassy path under the trees, till we came to a small, wooden house, half hidden by a tall hedge of lilacs. Then my mother led me through the low doorway, and up a pair of clean wooden stairs, into an old-fashioned raftered chamber, through whose open window the bees were humming in and out, and the scent of flowers, and song of birds, came pleasantly enough to my childish senses. Taking off my sunbonnet, and brushing back my curls, she seated me on a low stool at her feet, while one of the old ladies commenced reading the Bible aloud. All this time I was looking around curiously, as a child will, at the old-fashioned paper on the walls, with its pink shepherdesses and green dogs; at the old-fashioned fireplace, with its pitcher of asparagus branches, dotted with little red berries; at the high-post bedstead, with its rainbow-colored patchwork quilt, of all conceivable shapes and sizes; at its high-backed, stiff-looking chairs, with straw seats; at its china parrot on the mantel, and its framed sampler on the wall, with the inevitable tombstone and weeping willow, and afflicted female, handkerchief in hand.

After the tremulous old lady had done reading, they asked my mother to pray. I knelt with the rest; gradually my thoughts wandered from the china parrot, and patchwork quilt and sampler, to the words my mother was speaking. Her voice was low, and sweet, and pleading, as if God was very near, instead of on the “great, white throne,” far away from human reach, where so many good people are fond of placing Him. It seemed to me as if her head were lying, like the beloved John’s, upon His bosom; and He were not too great, or good, or wise, to listen well pleased to her full heart’s outpourings. Of course, these thoughts did not then, even to myself, find voice as now, but that was my vague, unexpressed feeling. Every musical word fell distinctly on my ear; and I listened as one listens to the sweet, soothing murmurs of a brook, in the fragrant summer time. I had loved my mother before; now I _revered_ her; and it was with a new, delicious feeling I slid my hand within hers, as we passed through the low doorway, and back by the pleasant, grassy paths, to our home. How little she knew what was passing under the little sunbonnet at her side, or how near heaven she had brought me, in that old, raftered chamber.

I have spoken of my mother’s patience and forbearance. One scene I well remember. It occurred in our little sitting room at home. My mother had entered, with her usual soft step and pleasant tones, and addressed some question to me concerning the lesson I was learning, when a person entered, upon whom she had every claim for love, the deepest and strongest. To some pleasant remark of hers, this individual returned an answer so rude, so brutal, so stinging, that every drop of blood in my body seemed to congeal as the murderous syllables fell. I looked at my mother; the warm blood rushed to her temples, the smile faded from her face; then her eyes filled with tears, and bowing her head low upon her breast, with a meek, touching grace I shall never forget, she glided voiceless from the room. I did not follow her, but I knew where she had gone, as well as if I had done so. When I next saw her, save that her voice had an added sweetness, no trace of the poisoned arrow, so ruthlessly aimed at her peace, remained.

I have said my mother was hospitable; but her hospitality was not extended, like that of many, only to those who could give an equivalent in their pleasant society. One guest, who was quite the reverse of this, often received from her the kindest attention, not gratefully, not even pleasantly, for he was churlish to a degree. Vexed that she should thus waste her sweetness where it was so unappreciated, I one day expressed as much to my mother, adding, “that nobody liked him.” “Hush!” said she; “that is the very reason why I should be the more kind to him. He has a large family, and trouble and care have made him reserved and silent; he may thank me and yet not say so; besides, I do not do it for thanks,” she continued, cramming his carpet bag with her usual Lady Bountiful assiduity. The cup of cold water in the name of the Master, to the lowliest disciple, she never forgot.

To all these sweet womanly traits in my mother, was added a sound, practical judgment. On one occasion, while visiting me, a law paper was sent for my wifely signature. Without looking at it, for I hated, and to this day hate, anything of a business nature, I dipped my pen in the inkstand to append it. “Stay! child,” said my mother, arresting my hand, “do you know what that paper is about?” “Not I!” was my laughing reply; “but my husband sent it, and on his broad shoulders be the responsibility!” “That is wrong,” said she, gravely; “you should never sign any paper without a full understanding of its contents.” It seemed to me then that she was over-scrupulous, particularly as I knew she had the same implicit confidence in my husband that I had. I had reason afterward to see the wisdom of her caution.

My mother came to me one day, after rambling over my house with a motherly eye to my housekeeping—she who was such a perfect housekeeper—and held up to me a roll of bank bills, which she found lying loose upon my toilet-table. “Oh, they were safe enough!” said I; “my servants I know to be honest!” “That may be,” was her answer; “but don’t you know that you should never place temptation in their way?”

Foremost among my mother’s warm, personal friends, was Dr. Payson. For many years before the removal of our family from Portland, he was her pastor, and afterward, whenever he visited Boston, our house was emphatically his _home_; my mother welcoming his coming, and sitting spiritually at his feet, as did Mary of old her Christguest. Let me explain how I first came to love him. When I was a little girl, I used to be told by some who visited at our house, that if I was not a good girl, and did not love God, I should go to hell. Now hell seemed, as far as I could make it out from what they said, a place where people were burned forever for their sins on earth—burned, without being consumed, for millions and millions of years; and after that and so on, through a long _eternity_—a word I did not then, and do not now, comprehend. Well, I used to think about all this; sometimes as I went to school; sometimes as I lay awake in my little bed at night, and sometimes when I woke earlier than anybody else in the morning; and sometimes on Sunday, when I, now and then, caught the word “hell” in the minister’s sermon. I don’t know how it was, but it never frightened me. I think it was because I could not then, any more than I can now, believe it. The idea of loving anybody because I should be punished if I did not, seemed to freeze up the very fountain of love which I felt bubbling up in my heart, and I turned away from it with horror. I could not pray or read my Bible from fear. I did not know what fear was. I did not feel afraid of death, as my playmates did. When they told me to love God, I said that I did love Him. They did not believe me, because I did not like to talk about myself, or have others talk to me about myself; not that I was ashamed, but that it seemed to me, if I did so, that I should cease to feel. Sometimes, when they persisted in questioning and doubting me, I would get troubled, and run away, or hide. I did not like to “say my prayers,” as it is called; and at set times, morning and evening, and get on my knees to do it. I liked to have my prayer rise up out of my heart, and pass over my lips, without moving them to speech; and that wherever I happened to be, in the street, or in company, or wherever and whenever God’s goodness came into my mind, as it did often; for turn which way I would, I could see that his careful footprints had been before me, and his fingers busy, in making what I was sure then, and am sure now, none but a _God_ could make. I did not understand a word of my catechism, though I said it like a parrot, because our minister told me to. “Election,” “Predestination,” and “Foreordaining,” seemed to me very long words, that meant very little; and the more they were “explained” to me, the more misty they grew, and have continued to do so ever since; and I don’t like to hear them talked about.

The God _my eyes_ see, is not a tyrant, driving his creatures to heaven through fear of hell; he accepts no love that comes to him over that compulsory road. He pities us with an infinite pity, even when we turn away from Him; and the mistaken wretch who has done this through a long life, and worn out the patience of every earthly friend, never wears His out, is never forsaken by Him; his fellow men may hunt him to the world’s end, and drive him to despair, and still the God _I_ see, holds out his imploring hands, and says, “Come to me!” and even at the last moment, when he has spent a long life in wasting and perverting every faculty of his soul, the God I see does not pursue him vengefully, or even frown upon him, but ever that small, soft whisper, “Come to me!” floats by him on the sweet air, is written on the warm sunbeam, which refreshes him all the same as if he had never forgotten to utter his thanks for it. Now, if this man dies, and turns away at the last from all this wonderful love, what more terrible “hell” can there be, than to remember that he has done so? that he has never made the slightest return for it, or ever recognized it? that no living creature was ever made better, or purer, or wiser, or happier, that he lived in the world? but that, on the contrary, he has helped them to destroy themselves as he has done himself? What “flames” could scorch like these thoughts? And that, in my opinion, _is_ hell, and all the hell there is. It is just such a hell as wicked men have a foretaste of in this world, when they stop long enough to listen to that heavenly monitor conscience, which they try so hard to stifle. It is just such a hell as the wayward son feels, who runs away from the love and kindness of home, and returns to find only the graves of those who would have died for him.

But I am wandering a long way from what I was to tell you about—Dr. Payson.

I was dressing my doll one day, when my mother called me to come to her. I knew that some visitor had just come, for I heard the bell ring, and then a trunk drop heavily in the entry. I thought very likely it was a minister, for my mother always had a plate and a bed for them, and it made no difference, as I have told you, in her kindness, whether the minister was a big doctor of divinity, or a poor country clergyman, unknown beyond the small village where he preached. Well, as I told you, my mother called me; and it _was_ a minister who had come, and he had gone up to his room with a bad nervous headache, brought on by traveling in the heat and dust; and I was to go up, so my mother said, and bathe his head with a preparation she gave me; very gently, and very quietly, as he reclined in the big easy chair. I did not want to go; I did not like ministers as well as my mother did; and I often used to run out one door, as they came in at another; and I was often obliged to come back, with a very red face, and shake hands with them. I did not like to hear them say to me, that “my heart was as hard as a rock,” and that “if I did not get it changed, I should go to hell.” My heart did not seem hard to me; I loved everybody and everything _then_; and I loved God too, in my own way, though not in the way they seemed to want me to, because I should go to hell if I did not; this thought made my heart grow hard in a minute—made me “feel ugly,” as children say; and that’s why I ran away from the ministers who kept telling me what a “wicked” child I was.

So you may be sure, when I heard what my mother said, I took the bottle she put in my hand, which I was to use in bathing the minister’s forehead, very unwillingly, and went very slowly up stairs to my task. My mother had been there before me, and closed the blinds, and given him a footstool for his weary feet; and there he sat, looking very pale, with his eyes closed, and his head laid back in the easy chair. He did not look at all like the other ministers I was so afraid of; and I cannot tell you why, as I tip-toed up to his chair, and moistened my fingers to bathe his heated forehead, and pushed back the dark locks from it, that I thought of the pictures I had sometimes seen of our Saviour, which looked to me so very sweet and lovely. He did not speak, or open his eyes, as my fingers moved over his temples; but I knew that it gave him relief, because he soon sank into a gentle slumber, and his head drooped a little on one shoulder.

I cannot tell why I did not then go out of the room—I, who disliked ministers so much—when I might easily have done so; but instead, I sat down on a low seat near him, and watched his face, as if there were some spell in it, which forbade me to go; and I felt so quiet and happy while I sat there, and dreaded lest some one should call me away. By and by he stirred, and passing his hand slowly over his forehead, opened his eyes; they were dark and soft as a woman’s. Holding out his hand to me, with a smile which I have never forgotten to this day, he said, as he drew me to his side, and laid his hand upon my head, “The Lord bless you! my child;” then he seated me upon his knee; but he said not a word to me about “hell,” or my being “wicked,” but closing his eyes again, he began telling me the story of the Saviour’s crucifixion. Now, I had heard it many times before, I had read it myself in the Bible, when I was told to do so, and yet, that day, in that quiet, darkened room, with that gentle hand upon my shoulder, I heard it for the first time. For the first time my tears fell, and my heart went out to the pure, patient sufferer on Calvary. When the story was finished, in those low, sweet tones, I did not speak. Placing his hand upon my head, he said, again, “The Lord bless you! my child;” and so I passed out with his loving benediction, and closing the door, listened still on the other side, as though only _there_ I could learn to be good.

* * * * *

Many, many long years after this, when I was a grown woman, I visited my birthplace, Portland, from which my mother removed when I was six weeks old. I wandered up and down the streets of that lovely, leafy city, and tried to find the church where good Dr. Payson used to preach. Then, too, I wanted to see the house where I was born—the house where he laid hands of blessing on my baby forehead, when it was purple with what they thought was “the death-agony.” But where it was that the little, flickering life began, I could not find out; for my mother had then gone to the “better land.” Ah! who but God can comfort like a mother? who but God can so forgive? How many times I have shut my eyes, that I might recall her face—her blue, loving eyes, her soft, brown, curling hair; and how many times, when in great trouble, I have said, “Mother! mother!” as if she _must_ hear and comfort her child.

GRANDPAPA’S BALD HEAD.

“Shall I have a bald head, grandfather, when I am eighty?” asked little Kitty; “and will it shine, and be smooth, like yours?” “Your head don’t look much like it now, little puss!” said the old man, lifting the silky, yellow curls; “and that puts me in mind that I’ve a story to tell you—a ‘real, true story;’ and all about grandpa, too.

“When grandpa was little, like you, he didn’t live in a city like this, where the houses all touch one another, and it is as much as ever one can get a glimpse of the sky, because they are so tall. He lived in a little log house, ’way off in the forest, and there was no other log house in sight for a great many miles. There were no carriages to be seen there, or fine ladies, or fine gentlemen; but there were plenty of squirrels darting up and down the trees, and running off to their hiding places; and there were more little birds than I could count hopping over the ground, and singing in the branches overhead; and there were plenty of pretty wild flowers, peeping out here and there, in quiet, out-of-the-way little places, and little patches of bright green moss, so soft and thick, that they looked just like velvet cushions, for little fairies to sit on; and there was a red and white cow, who gave us plenty of good milk for breakfast and supper; and some funny little pigs, with black, twinkling bead eyes, and very short tails, who went scampering about just where they liked, and munching acorns.

“The log house was very rough outside, but my mother had planted blue and white morning glories, and bright yellow nasturtiums, all around it, and they climbed quite up to the little roof, and hung their blossoms about it, so that, had it not been for the funny old chimney, peeping out of the top, you might have thought it a little bower, like the one down in your mother’s garden yonder. Sometimes my mother took me on her knee at sunset, and sat in the doorway, to watch the little birds and squirrels as they went to bed, and sometimes I sat by her side in the grass, while she milked the old red and white cow. Sometimes I watched my father as he chopped wood. I liked to see the great ax come down in his strong hand, and I liked to see the splinters of wood fly about. Often he would cry out, ‘Not so near, Dan! not so near, boy; or some fine day I’ll be chopping your head off!’ At this, my mother would come running out of the house, and catching me up under her arm, set me down in the doorway, after she had placed a board across, to prevent my clambering out again. But one day my mother had gone out, far into the forest, to look for the old red and white cow, who had strayed away; so I was left alone with my father. I was very glad of that; because he was so busy chopping and piling up his wood, that he hadn’t much time to say ‘What are you at, Dan?’ as my mother did, who seemed to me to have eyes in the back of her head, whenever I wanted to be mischievous. So, at first I sat quite still on the doorstep, as my mother told me, watching my father’s ax as it gleamed in the sun, and then came down with a crash in the wood. By and by I got tired of this, and crept a little nearer; and as my father did not notice it, I hitched on a little farther and then a little farther, so that I could see better. Then I got quite close up, and just as my father raised the ax to strike, I stooped my head to pick up a splinter of wood from the log he was chopping. The next moment I found myself fastened down tight to the log, and heard my father groan out, as if he were dreadfully hurt. Then he caught me up in his arms, kissed my face, and held it up to the light, while his own was as white as if he were dead; for there, on the log, on the edge of the ax, lay one of my long yellow curls, and I was not killed at all, nor even scratched; and here,” said the old man, taking a paper from his pocketbook, and drawing out a bright, golden curl, “here is the lock that the ax cut off, instead of grandpa’s head; it don’t look as if it ever grew on this bald, shiny pate, does it? See, it is just the color of yours, Kitty; grandpa keeps it in his pocketbook, and whenever he feels troubled and worried about anything, he looks at it, and says, Well, God took care of me _then_, and I won’t believe that he will forget me _now_.” Little Kitty took the curl in her hand, and looked at it very steadily awhile. Presently she looked up at her grandpa and said, “Did your mother whip you when she came back, for getting off the doorstep?” “No,” said grandpa, laughing, “I think she forgot to do that. I remember she gave me a great deal of milk that night for my supper, and kissed me, and cried a great deal, when she tied on my nightgown and put me into bed.”

JOHN BROWN.

“John Brown’s body lies mouldering in the grave,
His soul is marching on!”

You have all heard that song, sung at the piano at home, whistled in the street, and shouted by the soldiers as they went off to the war; well, shouldn’t you like to have me tell you what sort of a _child_ John Brown was?

Little boys who live in cities, and wear velvet coats, and hats with plumes in them, and have long, silky curls, just like a little girl’s, hanging over their shoulders to their belts, and drag along through the streets holding on to a nurse’s hand, when they are seven or eight years old, and are more afraid of a little mud on their boots or on their velvet coats than anything else; who have more rocking horses, and whips, and humming tops, and velocipedes, and guns, and swords, and marbles, and Noah’s arks, and bat and balls, than they know what to do with, can hardly imagine how a little boy in the country, with none of these things, and with nobody to amuse him, or to tell him how to amuse himself, could possibly be happy or contented. I am going to tell you about John Brown, who was another kind of boy. He had never seen a city, or wore a hat on his head. He jumped out of bed himself without any nurse, and ran out of doors barefoot into the grass, eating a bit of bread for breakfast, or anything that came handy. There were no houses about, for he lived in a little hut, in the wilderness, with nothing but trees, and wild beasts, and Indians. He was only five years old when his father took him and his mother in an old ox cart, and went ’way off in the forest to live. As I told you, he had no toys; and he used, though such a little fellow, to help drive the cows home; and now and then he would ride a horse, without any saddle, to water. Sometimes he would watch his father kill rattlesnakes—great big fellows, too, such as you have shuddered to look at, even through a glass case in the Museum; and he learned not to be afraid of them, too. At first he trembled a little at a live Indian, when he met him in the woods, and was more afraid still of his rifle; but very soon he became used to them, and liked to hang about and see what they did; and after a while he learned some of their queer talk himself, so that they could understand each other very well. I suppose he got along with the Indians much better than his father, who stammered very badly, and is said never to have spoken plain at all, except when he was praying. Wasn’t that very strange? Johnny’s father used to dress deerskins; and Johnny learned it so well by watching him, that he could at any time dress the skin of a squirrel, or a raccoon, or a cat, or a dog. He learned, too, to make whiplashes of leather, and sometimes he would manage to get pennies for them, which made him feel very grand, just as if he kept shop. When he was about six years old, a poor Indian boy gave him a marble—the first he had ever seen. It was bright yellow, and Johnny thought it was splendid, and kept it carefully a long while, turning it over, and holding it up to the light, and rolling it on the floor of his father’s hut. One unlucky day, Johnny lost the yellow marble. I dare say you will laugh when I tell you that it took years to cure him of mourning for that marble; and that he used to have long fits of crying about it. But you must remember that it was the only toy he ever had, and that there were no shops about there where he could get more. One day, after the loss of the marble, he caught a little squirrel. It bit Johnny badly while he was catching it. However, Johnny held on to him, for he was not a kind of boy to let a thing go, after he had once made up his mind to have it; and so the squirrel made the best of it, particularly when he found he had lost his bushy tail in the fight, and he let Johnny tame him, and feed him, and he would climb up on Johnny’s shoulder, and look at him with his little bright eye, and then scamper down again over the grass, and then back again, and perch on Johnny’s hand, so that he was just as dear to him as your little brother is to you; or the good little boy next door, who plays with you in your father’s yard, and never once vexes you. One day Johnny and his squirrel went into the woods to play; and while Johnny was busy picking up sticks, the squirrel wandered away and got lost; and for a year or two after that, the poor boy mourned for his little pet, looking at all the squirrels he could see, for his own little bob-tailed squirrel, because no other squirrel would do but that one he had tamed and loved. But he never found him; and, between you and me, perhaps it was just as well for the squirrel. I dare say he is cracking nuts quite happily in some snug tree, and scampering about with his little baby squirrels, and has quite forgot Johnny and his lost tail.

What Johnny liked above all things, was to be sent off by his father a great way though the wilderness, with droves of cattle; and when he was only twelve years old, he used to go with them more than a hundred miles. What do you think of that? He was quite proud of it himself, and nobody could have affronted him more than to offer to help him at such times. He was more like a little Indian than anything else; he could hear so quickly any sound a long way off; and he declared that he had often smelled the frying of doughnuts at five miles’ distance. Pretty good nose, hadn’t he?

When Johnny was eight years old, his mother died. Ah! you may be sure that the loss of the yellow marble, and the bob-tailed squirrel, was nothing to this. He cried and mourned for her, as he wandered through the woods, or drove cattle for his father, and I suppose sometimes, though he loved his father, that when he came within sight of the little hut, he would rather have lain on the ground all night, than to have gone into it, and missed her pleasant “Well, Johnny, is that you, dear?” Well, he got along as well as he could, and grew a hardy, tough lad in the open-air work his father gave him to do.

Some time after this, when away some hundred miles from home with a drove of cattle, he stopped at an inn with a landlord who had a very bright little slave boy, just Johnny’s age. This little slave boy’s master made a great pet of Johnny, and brought him to the table with his best company, and repeated all his smart sayings, and asked them if they did not think it wonderful, that a boy of his age could drive so many cattle safely one hundred miles from home? And, of course, they petted Johnny too, and praised him, and thought he was quite a wonder. I suppose Johnny would have felt very nice about it, had it not been that the little slave boy, who was just his age, and as bright a little boy as Johnny, was beaten before his very eyes by his master, with an iron shovel, or anything that came handy; and while Johnny was fed with everything good, this little fellow was half starved, and half frozen with cold, on account of his thin clothing. Johnny could not forget that; he had never seen anything like it before; when he went to his comfortable bed, it troubled him; when he ate good food, it seemed to choke him; when he put on warm clothes, he felt ashamed to be warm, while the little slave boy was shivering; and Johnny felt worse, because he was only about ten years old, and couldn’t do anything to help him; but as he was going home through the woods, he said, aloud, as if he were telling it to “Our Father, who art in Heaven,” “When I grow bigger, I’ll fight for the slaves; and I’ll fight for the slaves wherever I see them, so long as I live.” For all this, Johnny was such a bashful boy, that about this time, when a lady to whom he was sent on an errand gave him a piece of bread and butter, he did not dare to tell her he didn’t eat butter, but as soon as he got out of the house he ran for a long distance, till he was out of sight, and then threw it away.

About this time a friend of Johnny’s, who owned some good books, offered to lend him some to read, for he knew how to read, although he had been to school but little. He liked history very much, and became so interested in these books, that he wanted to know all the people who had studied and read books too, and who could tell him about the world, and things which had happened in it, and how everything came about; and this desire for learning gave him a dislike to foolish talk and foolish people; and whenever he heard any sensible talk go on, as he traveled off with his cattle, he just pricked up his ears, and stored it away in his little head, to think of when he got home. You have no idea how much he picked up and how much he educated himself in that way. It would shame many boys who go to good schools, only to turn out lazy, stupid dunces.

When Johnny was fifteen, his father put him at the head of his currier and tanner establishment. Here Johnny had a large company of men and boys to look after. Now, _men_ don’t like much to have a _boy_ order them to do this or that, even though they are working for that boy’s father; but Johnny was so bright and knowing, and pleasant, that you will not be surprised to hear that they got along nicely together. Instead of quarreling with him, the men used to praise him for being so smart; so that, though he was very bashful when he began business, by the time he was twenty, he began to think he really _was_ a smart fellow, sure enough. But that was natural, you know; and I only think it was a wonder he was not quite spoiled by so much praise, and so much power, when he was so young. His young brother used to make fun of him and call him “King Johnny,” because he spoke in such a decided way to the workmen, when he wanted anything done; but Johnny went about his business and let him talk. He had his hands full cooking his own dinners, and learning arithmetic, and surveying, and I don’t know what else besides; for he was not a fellow who could even be idle a minute, you may be sure of that. The world was too full of things he wanted to know, and he was in too great a hurry to get at them.

All the time John was a young man, he never wanted, or wore, fine clothes, although he was neat and tidy. He ate plain food, and never touched tobacco, or spirits, or tea, or coffee. He drank milk, or only water. So, you see, he had a clear head for study and business, and I don’t think he ever knew the meaning of the word “dyspepsia.” When John got a letter, he always wrote on the back of it the name of the person who wrote it, and either “Not answered,” or “Not time to read,” or “No answer needed.” I tell you this to show you how thoroughly he did everything he undertook; and so honest was John, that he refused to sell his customers any leather, until every drop of moisture had been dried out of it, because the water would make it weigh more, you know, and, of course, he would get money that did not _really_ belong to him. I think, had John lived in New York, some of the business men here would have thought him crazy, or he would have thought them crazy; but, you see, John couldn’t cheat; not even though he should never be found out in it. Most young men, when they are of John’s age, think more about their own affairs than anything else—their own business, their own pleasures, etc.; whether they will ever be rich men, _how_ rich they will be, and all that. It was not so with John. He wanted money, ’tis true, but all this time he had not forgotten the little slave boy, and others like him, and it was for such as he that he wanted money, that he might help them away from their masters, and help them to be free by and by. He married, and had many children of his own, and when these children grew up, they all felt just as their father did about the slaves. After a time, John helped eleven slaves to get away to Canada, where they were quite safe. How glad they must have been! and how they must have loved John! Somebody asked John how he felt when he got them there? he said that he was so happy about it, that he was quite ready to die then. But there was other work for John and his boys to do. There was a place called Kansas, where John’s boys went to live; but as soon as the people there found out that John’s boys and himself loved the slaves, they began to steal their cattle, and burn their fences, and try, in every possible way, to trouble and bother them. So John’s boys wrote home to the old man about it, and told him that he must send them some guns and muskets, to defend their property and their lives with. Well, the old man didn’t have to stop to think long about that. He told his other boys, who were living at home with him, about it, and they agreed to start right off for Kansas, with as many guns and muskets as they could get. John had no idea of his boys out there being murdered and robbed, without fighting for them, especially when they were treated so merely for pitying the poor slaves. When they reached there, John and his four boys, they each had a short, heavy broadsword strapped to their sides. Each one had a quantity of firearms and revolvers, and there were poles standing endwise round the wagon box, with fixed bayonets, pointing upward. Oh! I can tell you, he was in real earnest about it! Well, they suffered great hardships there, while fighting for their rights: one of John’s boys was taken by the enemy, and driven with chains on him, so far in a hot sun to prison, that he became a maniac; another of his sons was so injured, that he became a cripple for life; another son was murdered while quietly walking along the road, and as he lay a corpse on the ground, one of his brutal enemies discharged a loaded pistol in his mouth. All this John had to bear, but he only said, “It is very hard; but my sons have died in a good cause—died for the poor slaves.” Most people thought, “John has had enough of it now; he will fight no more about slavery; he has taken the rest of his boys back to his old home in the mountains, and he will not be in a hurry to have them killed.”

They were mistaken. John was only waiting to whet his sword. He knew how to wait. One day, the whole country about Harper’s Ferry was in a state of distraction. The women and children were frightened to death, for John Brown was down there; and it was said he was going to help all the slaves he could to get away from their masters; and that his boys were there to help him, and a great many other men; and that they had guns, and swords, and pistols in plenty, and meant to fight fiercely, if anybody tried to hinder them. John chose Harper’s Ferry, because there were mountains all about it, and he had known every turn in them, and all their valleys, too, for seventeen years, and in case they were beaten, he thought it would be a good place for himself and the slaves to hide in, as well as a good place to fight from. The first night of John’s attack on the town, he and his men put out all the lights in the street, and took possession of the armory, where the firearms, you know, are kept. Then they took three watchmen, and locked them up in the guardhouse. There must have been friendly black people in the town who helped them do all this. Some of them cut down the telegraph wires, and others tore up the railroad track after the train had passed. When it came daylight, John and his men took prisoner every person who came out into the streets, and when people said, “Why do you do this? What do you mean?” John and his men said, “We mean to free the slaves!” One of the workmen employed at the armory, when he came to work that morning, and saw an armed guard at the gate, asked of John’s guard, “By what authority have you taken possession of this building?” “By the authority of God Almighty!” said he.