Chapter III: Front Matter (3)

“A bit of bread each,” replied the voice, “a mug of milk each, and one corner for all three to sleep in until in the morning up comes the sweet yellow sun.”

“Lift up the latch,” said Gredel. “Come in. There is bread, there is milk, and a corner laid with three sacks of thistle down. Come in, and welcome.”

Then up went the latch, and in stepped the three travellers. Gredel looked at them without moving; but when she saw they were pleasant in appearance--that their eyes were keen in spite of their many wrinkles, and that their smiles were very fresh and pleasant notwithstanding the lines about their mouth, lazy but good-hearted Gredel got up and made a neat little bow of welcome.

“Are you sisters?” she asked.

“We are three sisters,” answered the leader, she who carried the stick. “I am commonly called Sister Trot.”

“And I,” said the second, who wore the spectacles, “am commonly called Sister Pansy.”

“And I,” added the third, who carried the bag, “am styled Sister Satchel.”

“Your mother and father must have been a good-looking couple,” said Gredel, smiling.

“They were born handsome,” quoth Trot, rearing her head proudly, “and they grew handsomer.”

“How came they to grow handsomer?” asked Peterkin, who had been standing in a corner.

“Because they were brisk and hurried about,” replied Pansy, “and never found the day too long. But pray, sir, who are you?”

“I am Peterkin, son of Gredel.”

“And may I ask what you do?” inquired Trot.

“Watch the goats.”

“And what do you do when you watch the goats?”

“Look about.”

“What do you see when you look about?” asked Sister Pansy.

“The sky, and the earth, and the goats.”

“Ah!” said Pansy, “it is very good to look at the sky, and truly wise to look at the earth, while it is clever to keep an eye on the goats; but Peterkin--Peterkin--you do not look far enough!”

“And when you look about,” queried Sister Satchel, “what do you pick up?”

“Nothing,” said Peterkin.

“Nothing!” echoed the visitor. “What! not even an idea?”

“What is an idea?” asked Peterkin.

“Oh, oh, oh!” said the three sisters. “Here is Peterkin, who not only never picks up an idea, but actually does not know what one is!”

“This comes of not moving about,” said Trot.

“Of not looking about,” said Pansy.

“And of not picking up something every day,” said Satchel. “And a worse example I, for one, never came across.”

“Nor I!” “Nor I!” echoed the other sisters.

Whereupon they all looked at Peterkin, and seemed dreadfully serious.

“Why, whatever have I done?” he demanded.

“That’s just it!” said the sisters. “_What_ have you done?”

“Nothing!” exclaimed Peterkin, quite with the intention of justifying himself. “Nothing at all!”

“Ah!” said Trot, “_that_ is the truth, indeed; whatever else may be wrong--done nothing at all!”

“Nothing!” “Nothing!” repeated Satchel and Pansy, in a breath.

“Dear me!” said Peterkin.

Whereupon Gredel, half-frightened herself, and partly indignant that her boy should be lamented over in this uncalled-for manner, said, “Would you be pleased to take a seat?”

“Certainly!” said Trot. “Still I, for one, would not think of such a thing until your stools were dusted.”

Gredel could _not_ believe her eyes, for actually Trot raised one end of her stick and it became a brush, with which she dusted three stools.

“I think, too,” said Sister Pansy, looking out sharp through her spectacles, “that if we were to stop up that hole in the corner we should have less draught. As a rule, holes are bad things in a house.”

So off she went, and stopped up the hole with a handful of dried grass she took from a corner.

“Bless me!” said Satchel; “here are four pins on the floor!”

Whereupon she picked up the pins and popped them into her wallet. Meanwhile Gredel looked on, much astonished at these preceedings.

“I may as well have a rout while I am about it,” said Trot, beginning at once to sweep up.

“Cobwebs in every corner!” cried Pansy; and away she went, looking after the walls.

“No wonder you could not find your wooden spoon,” remarked Satchel; “why, here it is, most mysteriously up the chimney!”

There was such a dusting, sweeping, and general cleaning as the place had never seen before.

“This is great fun!” said Peterkin; “but how it makes you sneeze!”

“Here, dame Gredel,” cried Satchel; “I have picked up all the things you must have lost for the last three years. Here is your thimble; and now you can take the bit of leather off your finger. Here are your scissors, which will cut cloth better than that knife; and here is the lost leg of the third stool--so that I can now sit down in safety.”

“Why,” exclaimed Peterkin, “the place looks twice as large as it did, and ten times brighter. Mother, I am glad the ladies have come.”

“I am sure, ladies,” said the good woman, “I shall never forget your visit.”

To tell the truth, however, there was something very ambiguous in Gredel’s words.

“There!” said Trot; “and now I can sit down in comfort to my bread and milk.”

“And very good bread and milk, too,” said Satchel. “I think, sisters, we are quite fortunate to fall upon this goodly cot.”

“Yes,” remarked Trot, “they are not bad souls, this Gredel and Peterkin; but, they sadly want mending. However, they have good hearts, and you know that those who love much are forgiven much; and indeed I would sooner eat my supper here than in some palaces you and I, sisters, know something about.”

“Quite true!” assented the others, “quite true!” And so they went on talking as though they had been in their own house and no one but themselves in the room. Gredel listened with astonishment, and Peterkin with all his ears, too delighted even to be astonished.

“Now this,” thought he, “comes of their knowing something of what goes on beyond the Great Hill as far away as I can see.”

“Time for bed,” suddenly said Dame Trot, who evidently was the leader, “if we are to see the sun rise.”

The sisters then made themselves quite comfortable, and tucked up their thistle-down beds and home-spun sheets with perfect good humor.

* * * * *

Peterkin awoke cheerily, and he was dressed even before the sun appeared. He made the fire, set the table, gave the place a cheerful air, and then opened the door to look after the goats, wondering why he felt so light and happy. He was soon joined by the three sisters, who made a great to-do with some cold water and their washing.

“Is it good to put your head souse in a pail?” asked Peterkin.

“Try it,” replied Dame Trot.

So by this time, quite trusting the old women, he did so, and found his breath gone in a moment. However, he enjoyed breathing all the more when he found his head once more out of the pail, and after Pansy had rubbed him dry with a rough towel, which she took out of Satchel’s wallet, he thought he had never experienced such a delightful feeling as then took possession of him. Even since the previous night he felt quite a new being, and alas! he found himself forgetting Gredel--his mother Gredel, who loved him and taught him only to live for to-day.

“And shall I show you down the hill-side?” asked Peterkin, when the three sisters had taken their porridge and were sprucing themselves for departure.

“Yes,” said dame Trot, “and glad am I thou hast saved us the trouble of asking thee.”

“A good lad,” remarked Pansy to Gredel, “but he must look about him.”

“Truly,” said Satchel. “And, above all, he must pick up everything he comes across, when he can do so without robbing a neighbor, and he may steal all his neighbor _knows_, without depriving the gentleman of anything.”

Then Peterkin, feeling as light as a feather, started off down the hillside, the three old sisters chatting, whispering, and chuckling in a very wonderful manner. So, when they were quite in the valley, Peterkin said, “Please you, I will leave you now, ladies; and many thanks for your coming.” Then he very civilly touched his tattered cap, and was turning on his battered heels, when Sister Trot said, “Stop!” and he turned.

“Peterkin,” she said, “thou art worth loving and thinking about, and for your kindness to us wanderers we must ask you to keep something in remembrance of our visit. Here, take my wonderful stick and believe in it. You know me as Trot, but grown-up men call me the Fairy Work-o’-Day.” Peterkin made his obeisance, and took the stick.

“I will never lose it!” said he.

“You never will,” said Trot, “after once you know how to use it.”

“Well,” said sister Pansy, “I am not to be beaten by my sister, and so here are my spectacles.”

“I shall look very funny in them,” said Peterkin, eyeing them doubtfully.

“Nay; nobody will see them on your nose as you mark them on mine. The world will observe their wisdom in your eyes, but the wires will be invisible. By-the-by, sister Pansy is only my home-name; men call me Fairy See-far; and so be good.”

“As for me,” said the third sister, “I am but the younger of the family. I could not be in existence had not my sisters been born into the world. I am going to give you my sack; but take heed, it were better that you had no sack at all than that you should fill it too full; than that you should fling into it all that you see; than that you should pass by on the other side when, your sack being full, another human being, fallen amongst thieves, lies bleeding and wanting help! And now know that, though I am sometimes called Satchel, my name amongst the good people is the Fairy Save-some.”

“Good by,” suddenly said the three sisters. They smiled, and instantly they were gone--just like _Three Thoughts_.

So he turned his face towards home, with sorrow in his heart as he thought of the three sisters, while hope was mixed with the sadness as he glanced towards the far-off mountain which was called Mons Futura.

Now, Peterkin had never cared to climb hillsides, and, therefore he rarely went down them if he could help it, always lazily stopping at the top. But now the wonderful stick, as he pressed it upon the ground, seemed to give him a light heart, and a lighter pair of heels, and he danced up the hillside just as though he were holiday-making, soon reaching home.

“See, mother,” said Peterkin, “the good women have given me each a present--the one her stick, the second her glasses, and the third her wallet.”

“Ho!” said Gredel. “Well, I am not sorry they are gone, for I am afraid they would soon have made you despise your mother. They are very pleasant old people no doubt, but rude and certainly ill-bred, or they would not have put my house to rights.”

“But it looked all the better for it.”

“It looked very well as it was.”

“But the world goes on and on,” said Peterkin.

Gredel shook her head. “Humph!” she said, “a stick, an old pair of spectacles, and a sack not worth a dime! When people give gifts, let them be gifts and not cast-offs.”

“Anyhow,” said Peterkin, “I can tell you that the stick is a good stick, and helps you over the hill famously. I will keep it, and you may have the sack and the spectacles.”

“Let us try your spectacles,” cried Gredel. “_Oh!_” she said, trying them on carelessly. “These are the most wonderful spectacles in the world,” she went on; “but no more civil than those three old women.”

“What do you mean, mother?”

“I see you, Peterkin--and a very sad sight, too. Why, you are lazy, careless, unwashed, and stupid; and a more deplorable object was never seen by honest woman.”

Poor Peterkin blushed very much; but at this point, his mother taking off the glasses, he seized and placed them before his own eyes. “_Oh!_” he exclaimed.

“What now?” asked Gredel in some alarm.

“Now I see you as you are--and a very bad example are you to set before your own son! Why, you are careless, and love me not for myself but yourself, or you would do your best for me, and send me out in the world.”

“What? And dare you talk to your mother in such fashion? Give me the spectacles once more!” and she clapped them on again. “Bless me!” she continued, “the boy is quite right, and I see I am selfish, and that I am making him selfish--a very pretty business, indeed! This is to be thought over,” she said, laying aside the spectacles.

By this time Peterkin had possessed himself of the stick, and then, to his amazement, he found it had taken the shape of a spade.

“Well,” said he, “as here is a spade I think I will turn over the potato-patch.” This he did; and coming in to breakfast he was admonished to find how fine the milk tasted. “Mother,” said he, “here is a penny I have found in the field.”

“Put it in the bag,” said Gredel.

He did so, and immediately there was a chink.

Over he turned the sack, and lo! there were ten pennies sprinkled on the table.

“Ho, ho,” said Peterkin, “if, now, the bag increases money after such a pleasant manner, I have but to take out one coin and cast it in again, and soon I shall have a fortune.” He did so; but he heard no chinking. He inverted the bag again, and out fell the one coin he had picked up while digging the potato-patch.

“This, now, is very singular,” he said; “let me put on the spectacles.” This done, “Ha!” he cried, “I see now how it is. The money will never grow in the sack, unless one works hard; and then it increases whether one will or not.”

Meanwhile Gredel, taking up the stick, it took the shape of a broom, and upon the hint she swept the floor. Next, sitting down before Peterkin’s clothes, the stick became a needle, and she stitched away with a will.

So time rolled on. The cottage flourished, and the garden was beautiful. Then a cow was brought home, and it was wonderful how often fresh money changed in the wallet. Gredel had grown handsomer, and so also had Peterkin. But one day it came to pass that Peterkin said: “Mother, it is time I went over the great hill.”

“What! canst thou leave me?”

“Thou didst leave thy father and mother.”

Gredel was wiser than she had been, and so she quietly said: “Let us put on the spectacles. Ah! I see,” she then said, “a mother may love her son, but she must not stand in his way as he goes on in the world, or she becomes his enemy.”

Then Peterkin put on the spectacles. “Ah! I see,” said he, “a son may love his mother, but his love must not interfere with his duty to other men. The glasses say that every man should try and leave the world something the better for his coming; that many fail and but few succeed, yet that all must strive.”

“So be it,” said Gredel. “Go forth into the world, my son, and leave me hopeful here alone.”

“The glasses say that the sense of duty done is the greatest happiness in the world,” said Peterkin.

Then Gredel looked again through the glasses.

“I see,” said she; “the glasses say it is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. Go forth into the world, my son: we shall both be the happier for having done our duty.”

So out into the world went Peterkin.

What else is there to tell? Why, who can write of to-morrow?

By the way, you should know that amongst the very wise folk sister Trot is known as “Industry,” sister Pansy as “Foresight,” while honest Satchel is generally called “Economy.”

TWO FORTUNE-SEEKERS.

BY ROSSITER JOHNSON.

One afternoon I went over to see Fred Barnard, and found him sitting on the back steps, apparently meditating.

“What are you doing?” said I.

“Waiting for that handkerchief to dry,” said he, pointing to a red one with round white spots, which hung on the clothes-line.

“And what are you going to do when it’s dry?” said I.

“Tie up my things in it,” said he.

“Things! What things?”

“O, such things as a fellow needs when he’s traveling. I’m going to seek my fortune.”

“Where are you going to seek it?” said I.

“I can’t tell exactly--anywhere and everywhere. I’m going till I find it.”

“But,” said I, “do you really expect to turn over a stone, or pull up a bush, or get to the end of a rainbow, and find a crock full of five-dollar gold pieces?”

“O, no!” said Fred. “Such things are gone by long ago. You can’t do that nowadays, if you ever could. But people do get rich nowadays, and there must be some way to do it.”

“Don’t they get rich mostly by staying at home, and minding their business,” said I, “instead of going off tramping about the world?”

“Maybe some of them do,” said Fred; “but my father has always staid at home, and minded his business, and _he_ hasn’t got rich; and I don’t believe he ever will. But there’s uncle Silas, he’s always on the go, so you never know where to direct a letter to him; and he has lots of money. Sometimes mother tells him he ought to settle down; but he always says, if he did he’s afraid he wouldn’t be able to settle up by and by.”

I thought of my own father, and my mother’s brother. They both staid at home and minded their own business, yet neither of them was rich. This seemed to confirm Fred’s theory, and I was inclined to think he was more than half right.

“I don’t know but I’d like to go with you,” said I.

“I don’t want you to,” said Fred.

“Why,” said I, in astonishment; “are we not good friends?”

“O, yes, good friends as ever,” said Fred; “but you’re not very likely to find two fortunes close together; and I think it’s better for every one to go alone.”

“Then why couldn’t I start at the same time you do, and go a different way?”

“That would do,” said Fred. “I’m going to start to-morrow morning.” And he walked to the line, and felt of the handkerchief.

“I can take mother’s traveling-bag,” said I. “That will be handier to carry than a bundle tied up.”

“Take it if you like,” said Fred; “but _I_ believe there’s luck in an old-fashioned handkerchief. In all the pictures of boys going to seek their fortunes, they have their things tied up in a handkerchief, and a stick put through it and over their shoulder.”

I did not sympathize much with Fred’s belief in luck, though I thought it was possible there might be something in it; but the bundle in the handkerchief seemed to savor a little more of romance, and I determined that I would conform to the ancient style.

“Does your father know about it?” said I.

“Yes; and he says I may go.”

Just then Fred’s father drove around from the barn.

“I’m going away,” said he to Fred, “to be gone several days. So, if you go in the morning, I shall not see you again until you return from your travels.” And he laughed a little.

“Well, I’m certainly going to-morrow morning,” said Fred, in answer to the “if.”

“You ought to have a little money with you,” said Mr. Barnard, taking out his wallet.

“No, sir, I thank you,” said Fred; “but I’d rather not have it.”

His father looked surprised.

“I think it’s luckier to start without it,” said Fred, in explanation.

“Very well! Luck go with you!” said Mr. Barnard, as he drove off.

“Do you think it best to go without any money at all?” said I. “It seems to me it would be better to have a little.”

“No,” said Fred; “a fellow ought to depend on himself, and trust to luck. It wouldn’t be any fun at all to stop at taverns and pay for meals and lodging, just like ordinary travelers. And then, if people saw I had money to pay for things, they wouldn’t believe I was going to seek my fortune.”

“Why, do we want them to know that?” said I.

“_I_ do,” said he.

“That isn’t the way the boys in the stories do,” said I.

“And that’s just where they missed it,” said Fred; “or would, if they lived nowadays. Don’t you see that everybody that wants anything lets everybody know it? When I’m on my travels, I’m going to tell every one what I’m after. That’s the way to find out where to go and what to do.”

“Won’t some of them fool you,” said I, “and tell you lies, and send you on the wrong road?”

“A fellow’s got to look out for that,” said Fred, knowingly. “We needn’t believe all they say.”

“What must we take in our bundles?” said I.

“I’m going to take some cookies, and a Bible, and a tin cup, and a ball of string, and a pint of salt,” said Fred.

“What’s the salt for?” said I.

“We may have to camp out some nights,” said Fred, “and live on what we can find. There are lots of things you can find in the woods and fields to live on; but some of them ain’t good without salt--mushrooms, for instance.” Fred was very fond of mushrooms.

“And is the string to tie up the bags of money?” said I--not meaning to be at all sarcastic.

“O, no!” said Fred; “but string’s always handy to have. We may want to set snares for game, or tie up things that break, or catch fish. And then if you have to stay all night in a house where the people look suspicious, you can fix a string so that if any one opens the door of your room, it’ll wake you up.”

“If that happened, you’d want a pistol--wouldn’t you?” said I. “Or else it wouldn’t do much good to be waked up.”

“I’d take a pistol, if I had one,” said Fred; “but I can get along without it. You can always hit ’em over the head with a chair, or a pitcher, or something. You know you can swing a pitcher full of water around quick, and not spill a drop; and if you should hit a man a fair blow with it, ’twould knock him senseless. Besides, it’s dangerous using a pistol in a house. Sometimes the bullets go through the wall, and kill innocent persons.”

“We don’t want to do that,” said I.

“No,” said Fred; “that would be awful unlucky.”

Then he felt of the handkerchief again, said he guessed it was dry enough, and took it off from the line.

“Fred,” said I, “how much _is_ a fortune?”

“That depends on your ideas,” said Fred, as he smoothed the handkerchief over his knee. “I should not be satisfied with less than a hundred thousand dollars.”

“I ought to be going home to get ready,” said I. “What time do we start?”

“Five o’clock exactly,” said Fred.

So we agreed to meet at the horse-block, in front of the house, a minute or two before five the next morning, and start simultaneously on the search for fortune.

I went home, and asked mother if there was a red handkerchief, with round white spots on it, in the house.

“I think there is,” said she. “What do you want with it?”

I told her all about our plan, just as Fred and I had arranged it. She smiled, said she hoped we would be successful, and went to get the handkerchief.

It proved to be just like Fred’s, except that the spots were yellow, and had little red dots in the middle. I thought that would do, and then asked her for the salt, the cup, and the cookies. She gave me her pint measure full of salt, and as she had no cookies in the house, she substituted four sandwiches.

“But,” said I, “won’t you want to use this cup before I get back?”

“I think not,” said she, with a twinkle in her eye, which puzzled me then, but which afterward I understood.

I got my little Bible, and some twine, and then went into the yard to hunt up a stick to carry the bundle on. I found a slender spoke from an old carriage-wheel, and adopted it at once. “That,” said I to myself, as I handled and “hefted” it, “would be just the thing to hit a burglar over the head with.”

I fixed the bundle all ready for a start, and went to bed in good season. Mother rose early, got me a nice breakfast, and called me at half past four.

“Mother,” said I, as feelings of gratitude rose within me at the excellence of the meal, “how does a camel’s-hair shawl look?”

“I don’t know, my son,” said she. “I never saw one.”

“Never saw one!” said I. “Well, you _shall_ see one, a big one, if I find my fortune.”

“Thank you,” said mother, and smiled again that peculiar smile.

Fred and I met promptly at the horse-block. He greatly admired my stick; his was an old hoe-handle, sawed short. I gave him two of my sandwiches for half of his cookies, and we tied up the bundles snugly, and slung them over our shoulders.

“How long do you think it will take us?” said I.

“Maybe three or four years--maybe more,” said he.

“Let us agree to meet again on this spot five years, from to-day,” said I.

“All right!” said Fred; and he took out a bit of lead pencil, and wrote the date on the side of the block.

“The rains and snows will wash that off before the five years are up,” said I.

“Never mind! we can remember,” said Fred. “And now,” he continued, as he shook hands with me, “don’t look back. _I’m_ not going to; it isn’t lucky, and it’ll make us want to be home again. Good-bye!”

“Good-bye! Remember, five years,” said I.

He took the east road, I the west, and neither looked back.

I think I must have walked about four miles without seeing any human being. Then I fell in with a boy, who was driving three cows to pasture, and we scraped acquaintance.

“Where y’ goin’?” said he, eyeing my bundle.

“A long journey,” said I.

“Chiny?” said he.

“Maybe so--maybe not,” said I.

“What y’ got t’ sell?” said he.

“Nothing,” said I; “I’m only a traveler not a peddler. Can you tell me whose house that is?”

“That big white one?” said he; “that’s Hathaway’s.”

“It looks new,” said I.

“Yes, ’tis, spick an’ span,” said he. “Hathaway’s jest moved into it; used to live in that little brown one over there.”

“Mr. Hathaway must be rich,” said I.

“Jolly! I guess he is!--wish I was half as rich,” said the boy. “Made ’s money on the rise of prop’ty. Used to own all this land round here, when ’twas a howlin’ wilderness. I’ve heard dad say so lots o’ times. There he is now.”

“Who?--your father?” said I.

“No; Hathaway.” And the boy pointed to a very old, white-headed man, who was leaning on a cane, and looking up at the cornice of the house.

“He looks old,” said I.

“He is, awful old,” said the boy. “Can’t live much longer. His daughter Nancy’ll take the hull. Ain’t no other relations.”

“How old is Nancy?” said I; and if I had been a few years older myself, the question might have been significant; but among all the methods I had thought over of acquiring a fortune, that of marrying one was not included.

“O, she’s gray-headed too,” said the boy, “’n a post, ’nd blind ’s a bat. I wish the old man couldn’t swaller a mouthful o’ breakfast till he’d give me half what he’s got.” And with this charitable expression he turned with the cows into the lane, and I saw him no more.

While I was meditating on the venerable but not venerated Mr. Hathaway and his property, a wagon came rumbling along behind me.

“Don’t you want to ride?” said the driver, as I stepped aside to let it pass.

I thanked him, and climbed to a place beside him on the rough seat. He was in his shirt-sleeves, and wore a torn straw hat. He had reddish side-whiskers, and his chin needed shaving, badly.

“Got far to go?” said he, as the team started up again.

“I expect to walk all day,” said I.

“Then you must get a lift when you can,” said he. “Don’t be afraid to ask. A good many that wouldn’t invite you, as I did, would let you ride if you asked them.”

I promised to remember his advice.

“Ever drive a team?” said he.

“Not much,” said I.

“I want a good boy to drive team,” said he. “Suppose you could learn.” And then he began to talk to the horses, and to whistle.

“How much would you pay?” said I.

“I’d give a good smart boy ten dollars a month and board,” said he. “Git ap, Doc!”

“How much of that could he save?” said I.

“Save eight dollars a month easy enough, if he’s careful of his clothes, and don’t want to go to every circus that comes along,” said he.

I made a mental calculation: “Eight times twelve are ninety-six--into a hundred thousand--one thousand and forty-one years, and some months. O, yes! interest--well, nearly a thousand years.” Then I said aloud, “I guess I won’t hire; don’t believe I’d make a very good teamster.”

“I think you would; and it’s good wages,” said he.

“Nobody but Methuselah could get rich at it,” said I.

“Rich?” said he. “Of course you couldn’t get rich teaming. If that’s what you’re after, I’ll tell you what you do: plant a forest. Timber’s good property. The price of it’s more than doubled in ten years past, and it’ll be higher yet. You plant a tree, and it’ll grow while you sleep. Chess won’t choke it, and the weevil can’t eat it. You don’t have to hoe it, nor mow it, nor pick it, nor rotate it, nor feed it, nor churn it, nor nothing. That’s the beauty of it. And you plant a forest of trees, and in time it’ll make you a rich man.”

“How much time?” said I.

“Well, that piece of timber you see over there,--that’s Eph Martin’s; he’s going to cut it next season. The biggest trees must be--well, perhaps eighty years old. You reckon up the interest on the cost of the land, and you’ll see it’s a good investment. I wish I had such a piece.”

“Why don’t you plant one?” said I.

“O, I’m too old! My grandfather ought to have done it for me. Whoa! Doc. Whoa! Tim.”

He drew up at a large, red barn, where a man and a boy were grinding a scythe. I jumped down, and trudged on.

After I had gone a mile or two, I began to feel hungry, and sat done on a stone, under a great oak tree, to eat a sandwich. Before I knew it I had eaten two, and then I was thirsty. There was a well in a door-yard close by, and I went to it. The bucket was too heavy for me to lift, and so I turned the salt out of my cup in a little pile on a clean-looking corner of the well-curb, and drank.

The woman of the house came to the door, and took a good look at me; then she asked if I would not rather have a drink of milk. I said I would, and she brought a large bowlful, which I sat down on the door-step to enjoy.

Presently a sun-browned, barefooted boy, wearing a new chip hat, and having his trousers slung by a single suspender, came around the corner of the house, and stopped before me.

“Got any Shanghais at your house?” said he.

“No!”

“Any Cochins?”

“No!”

“Any Malays?”

“No!”

“What _have_ you got?”

“About twenty common hens,” said I, perceiving that his thoughts were running on fancy breeds of fowls.

“Don’t want to buy a nice pair of Shanghais--do you?” said he.

“I couldn’t take them to-day,” said I.

“Let’s go look at them,” said he; and I followed him toward the barn.

“This is _my_ hennery,” said he, with evident pride, as we came to a small yard which was inclosed with a fence made of long, narrow strips of board, set up endwise, and nailed to a slight railing. Inside was a low shed, with half a dozen small entrances near the ground.

“Me and Jake built this,” said he. “Jake’s my brother.”

He unbuckled a strap that fastened the gate, and we went inside. A few fowls, of breeds unfamiliar to me, were scratching about the yard.

“Don’t you call them nice hens?” said he.

“I guess they are,” said I; “but I don’t know much about hens.”

“Don’t you?” said he. “Then I’ll tell you something about them. There’s money in hens. Father says so, and I know it’s so. I made fifty-one dollars and thirteen cents on these last year. I wish I had a million.”

“A million dollars,” said I, “is a good deal of money. I should be satisfied with one tenth of that.”

“I meant a million hens,” said he. “I’d rather have a million hens than a million dollars.”

I went through a mental calculation similar to the one I had indulged in while riding with the teamster: “Fifty-one, thirteen--almost two thousand years. Great Cæsar! Yes, Great Cæsar sure enough! I ought to have begun keeping hens about the time Cassius was egging on the conspirators to lay out that gentleman. But I forgot the interest again. Call it fifteen hundred.”

“Let’s go in and look at the nests,” said the boy, opening the door of the shed.

The nests were in a row of boxes nailed to the wall. He took out some of the eggs, and showed them to me. Several had pencil-writing on the shell, intended to denote the breed. I remember _Gaim_, _Schanghy_, and _Cotching_.

“There’s a pair of Shanghais,” said he as he went out, pointing with one hand while he tightened the gate-strap with the other, “that I’ll sell you for five dollars. Or I’ll sell you half a dozen eggs for six dollars.”

I told him I couldn’t trade that day, but would certainly come and see him when I wanted to buy any fancy hens.

“If you see anybody,” said he, as we parted, “that wants a nice pair of Shanghais reasonable, you tell ’em where I live.”

“I will,” said I, and pushed on.

“Money in hens, eh?” said I to myself. “Then if they belonged to me, I’d kill them, and get it out of them at once, notwithstanding the proverb about the goose.”

After some further journeying I came to a roadside tavern. A large, square sign, with a faded picture of a horse, and the words SCHUYLER’S HOTEL, faintly legible, hung from an arm that extended over the road from a high post by the pump.

I sat down on the steps, below a group of men who were tilted back in chairs on the piazza. One, who wore a red shirt, and chewed a very large quid of tobacco, was just saying,--

“Take it by and through, a man can make wages at the mines, and that’s all he can make.”

“Unless he strikes a big nugget,” said a little man with one eye.

“He might be there a hundred years, and not do that,” said Red Shirt. “I never struck one.”

“And again he might strike it the very first day,” said One Eye.

“Again he might,” said Red Shirt; “but I’d rather take my chances keeping tavern. Look at Schuyler, now. He’ll die a rich man.”

The one who seemed to be Schuyler was well worth looking at. I had never seen so much man packed into so much chair; and it was an exact fit--just enough chair for the man, just enough man for the chair. Schuyler’s boundary from his chin to his toe was nearly, if not exactly, a straight line.

“Die rich?” said One Eye. “He’s a livin’ rich; he’s rich to-day.”

“If any of you gentlemen want to make your fortune keeping a hotel,” said Schuyler, “I’ll sell on easy terms.”

“How much, ’squire?” said Red Shirt.

“Fifteen,” answered Schuyler.

“Fifteen thousand--furniture and all?” said One Eye.

“Everything,” said Schuyler.

“Your gran’f’ther bought the place for fifteen hundred,” said One Eye. “But money was wuth more then.”

While listening to this conversation, I had taken out my cookies, and I was eating the last of them, when One Eye made his last recorded remark.

“Won’t you come in, sonny, and stay over night?” said Schuyler.

“Thank you, sir,” said I; “but I can’t stop.”

“Then don’t be mussing up my clean steps,” said he.

I looked at him to see if he was in earnest; for I was too hungry to let a single crum fall, and could not conceive what should make a muss. The whole company were staring at me most uncomfortably. Without saying another word, I picked up my stick and bundle, and walked off.

“Thirteen thousand five hundred,” said I to myself, slowly,--“in three generations--four thousand five hundred to a generation. I ought to have come over with Christopher Columbus, and set up a tavern for the red-skins to lounge around. Then maybe if I never let any little Indian boys eat their lunches on the steps, I’d be a rich man now. Fifteen thousand dollars--and so mean, so abominably mean--and such a crowd of loafers for company. No, I wouldn’t keep tavern if I could get rich in one generation.”

At the close of this soliloquy, I found I had instinctively turned towards home when I left Schuyler’s Hotel. “It’s just as well,” said I, “just as well! I’d rather stay at home and mind my business, like father, and not have any fortune, if that’s the way people get them nowadays.”

I had the good luck to fall in with my friend the teamster, who gave me a longer lift than before, and sounded me once more on the subject of hiring out to drive team for him.

As I passed over the crest of the last hill in the road, I saw something in the distance that looked very much like another boy with a bundle over his shoulder. I waved my hat. It waved its hat. We met at the horse-block, each carrying a broad grin the last few rods of the way.

“Let’s see your fortune,” said I, as I laid my bundle on the block.

“Let’s see yours,” said he, as he laid his beside it.

“You started the plan,” said I; “so you tell your adventures first.”

Thereupon Fred told his story, which I give nearly in his own words.

He traveled a long distance before he met with any incident. Then he came to a house that had several windows boarded up, and looked as if it might not be inhabited. While Fred stood looking at it, and wondering about it, he saw a shovelful of earth come out of one of the cellar windows. It was followed in a few seconds by another, and another, at regular intervals.

“I know how it is,” said Fred. “Some old miser has lived and died in that house. He used to bury his money in the cellar; and now somebody’s digging for it. I mean to see if I can’t help him.”

Going to the window, he stooped down and looked in. At first he saw nothing but the gleam of a new shovel. But when he had looked longer he discerned the form of the man who wielded it.

“Hello!” said Fred, as the digger approached the window to throw out a shovelful.

“Hello! Who are you?” said the man.

“I’m a boy going to seek my fortune,” said Fred. “What are you digging for?”

“Digging for a fortune,” said the man, taking up another shovelful.

“May I help you?” said Fred.

“Yes, if you like.”

“And have half?”

“Have all you find,” said the man, forcing down his shovel with his foot.

Fred ran around to the cellar door, laid down his bundle on the grass beside it, and entered. The man pointed to an old shovel with a large corner broken off, and Fred picked it up and went to work.

Nearly half of the cellar bottom had been lowered about a foot by digging, and the man was lowering the remainder. With Fred’s help, after about two hours of hard work, it was all cut down to the lower level.

Fred had kept his eyes open, and scrutinized every shovelful; but nothing like a coin had gladdened his sight. Once he thought he had one, and ran to the light with it. But it proved to be only the iron ear broken off from some old bucket.

“I guess that’ll do,” said the man, wiping his brow, when the leveling was completed.

“Do?” said Fred, in astonishment. “Why, we haven’t found any of the money yet.”

“What money?”

“The money the old miser buried, of course.”

The man laughed heartily. “I wasn’t digging for any miser’s money,” said he.

“You said so,” said Fred.

“O, no!” said the man. “I said I was digging for a fortune. Come and sit down, and I’ll tell you all about it.”

They took seats on the highest of the cellar steps that led out of doors.

“You see,” continued the man, “my wife went down cellar one day, and struck her forehead against one of those beams; and she died of it. If she had lived a week longer, she’d have inherited a very pretty property. So I’ve lowered the cellar floor; and if I should have another wife, her head couldn’t reach the beams, unless she was very tall--taller than I am. So if _she_ inherits a fortune, the cellar won’t prevent us getting it. That’s the fortune I was digging for.”

“It’s a mean trick to play on a boy; and if I was a man, I’d lick you,” said Fred, as he shouldered his bundle and walked away.

Two or three miles farther down the road he came to a small blacksmith shop. The smith, a stout, middle-aged man, was sitting astride of a small bench with long legs, making horseshoe nails on a little anvil that rose from one end of it.

Fred went in, and asked if he might sit there a while to rest.

“Certainly,” said the blacksmith, as he threw a finished nail into an open drawer under the bench. “How far have you come?”

“I can’t tell,” said Fred; “it must be as much as ten miles.”

“Got far to go?”

“I don’t know how far. I’m going to seek my fortune.”

The smith let his hammer rest on the anvil, and took a good look at Fred. “You seem to be in earnest,” said he.

“I am,” said Fred.

“Don’t you know that gold dollars don’t go rolling up hill in these days, for boys to chase them, and we haven’t any fairies in this country, dancing by moonlight over buried treasure?” said the smith.

“O, yes, I know that,” said Fred. “But people get rich in these days as much as ever they did. And I want to find out the best way to do it.”

“What is that nail made of?” said the smith, holding out one.

“Iron,” said Fred, wondering what that had to do with a boy seeking his fortune.

“And that hammer?”

“Iron.”

“And that anvil?”

“Iron.”

“Well, don’t you see,” said the smith, resting his hammer on the anvil, and leaning over it toward Fred,--“don’t you see that everything depends on iron? A farmer can’t cultivate the ground until he has a plow; and that plow is made of iron. A butcher can’t cut up a critter until he has a knife; and that knife is made of iron. A tailor can’t make a garment without a needle; and that needle is made of iron. You can’t build a ship without iron, nor start a mill, nor arm a regiment. The stone age, and the brass age, and the golden age are all gone by. This is the iron age; and iron is the basis of all wealth. The richest man is the man that has the most iron. Railroads are made of iron, and the richest men are those that own railroads.”

“How can one man own a railroad?” said Fred, amazed at the vastness of such wealth.

“Well, he can’t exactly, unless he steals it,” said the smith.

“I should like to own a railroad,” said Fred; and he thought what fun he might have, as well as profit, being conductor on his own train; “but I didn’t come to steal; I want to find a fortune honestly.”

“Then look for it in iron,” said the smith. “Iron in some form always paves the road to prosperity.”

“Would blacksmithing be a good way?” said Fred.

“Now you’ve hit it,” said the smith. “I haven’t got rich myself, and probably never shall. But I didn’t take the right course. I was a sailor when I was young, and spent half my life wandering around the world, before I settled down and turned blacksmith. I dare say if I had learned the trade early enough, and had gone and set up a shop in some large place, or some rising place, and hadn’t always been so low in my charges, I might be a rich man.”

Fred thought the blacksmith must be a very entertaining and learned man, whom it would be pleasant as well as profitable to work with. So, after thinking it over a few minutes, he said,--

“Do you want to hire a boy to learn the business?”

“I’ll give you a chance,” said the smith, “and see what you can do.” Then he went outside and drew in a wagon, which was complete except part of the iron-work, and started up his fire, and thrust in some small bars of iron.

Fred laid aside his bundle, threw off his jacket, and announced that he was ready for work. The smith set him to blowing the bellows, and afterward gave him a light sledge, and showed him how to strike the red-hot bar on the anvil, alternating with the blows of the smith’s own hammer.

At first it was very interesting to feel the soft iron give at every blow, and see the sparks fly, and the bars, and rods taking the well-known shapes of carriage-irons. But either the smith had reached the end of his political economy, or else he was too much in earnest about his work to deliver orations; his talk now was of “swagging,” and “upsetting,” and “countersinking,” and “taps,” and “dies”--all of which terms he taught Fred the use of.

Fred was quick enough to learn, but had never been fond of work; and this was work that made the sweat roll down his whole body. After an hour or two, he gave it up.

“I think I’ll look further for my fortune,” said he; “this is too hard work.”

“All right,” said the smith; “but maybe you’ll fare worse. You’ve earned a little something, anyway;” and he drew aside his leather apron, thrust his hand into his pocket, and brought out seven cents; which Fred accepted with thanks, and resumed his journey.

His next encounter was with a farmer, who sat in the grassy corner of a field, under the shade of a maple tree, eating his dinner. This reminded Fred that it was noon, and that he was hungry.

“How d’e do, mister?” said Fred, looking through the rail-fence. “I should like to come over and take dinner with you.”

“You’ll have to furnish your own victuals,” said the farmer.

“That I can do,” said Fred, and climbed over the fence, and sat down by his new acquaintance.

“Where you bound for?” said the farmer, as Fred opened his bundle, and took out a sandwich.

“Going to seek my fortune,” said Fred.

“You don’t look like a runaway ’prentice,” said the farmer; “but that’s a curious answer to a civil question.”

“It’s true,” said Fred. “I _am_ going to seek my fortune.”

“Where do you expect to find it?”

“I can’t tell--I suppose I must hunt for it.”

“Well, I can tell you where to look for it, if you’re in earnest; and ’tain’t so very far off, either,” said the farmer, as he raised the jug of milk to his mouth.

Fred indicated by his attitude that he was all attention, while the farmer took a long drink.

“In the ground,” said he, as he sat down the jug with one hand, and brushed the other across his mouth. “There’s no wealth but what comes out of the ground in some way. All the trees and plants, all the grains, and grasses, and garden-sass, all the brick and stone, all the metals--iron, gold, silver, copper--everything comes out of the ground. That’s where man himself came from, according to the Bible: ‘Dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return.’ And the first primary foundation of it all is agriculture. Hewson, the blacksmith, pretends to say it’s iron; and he maintained that side in the debating club at the last meeting. But I maintained it was agriculture, and I maintain so still. Says I, ‘Mr. President, what’s your tailor, and your sailor, and your ship-builder, and your soldier, and your blacksmith going to do without something to eat? [Here the farmer made a vigorous gesture by bringing down his fist upon his knee.] They can’t eat needles, nor spikes, nor guns, nor anvils. The farmer’s got to feed ’em, every one on ’em. And they’ve got to have a good breakfast before they can do a good day’s work, and a dinner in the middle of it, and a supper at the end of it. Can’t plow without iron?’ says I. ‘Why, Mr. President, in Syria and thereabouts they plow with a crooked limb of a tree to this day. The gentleman can see a picture of it in Barnes’s Notes, if he has access to that valuable work.’ And says I, ‘Mr. President, who was first in the order of time--Adam the farmer, or Tubal Cain the blacksmith? No, sir; Adam was the precursor of Tubal Cain; Adam had to be created before Tubal Cain could exist. First the farmer, and then the blacksmith;--that, Mr. President, is the divine order in the great procession of creation.’”

Here the farmer stopped, and cut a piece of meat with his pocket-knife.

“Boy,” he continued, “if you want a fortune, you must dig it out of the ground. You won’t find one anywhere else.”

Fred thought of his recent unpleasant experience in digging for a fortune, and asked, “Isn’t digging generally pretty hard work.”

“Yes,” said the farmer, as he took up his hoe, and rose to his feet; “it _is_ hard work; but it’s a great deal more respectable than wandering around like a vagrant, picking up old horse-shoes, and hollering ‘Money!’ at falling stars.”

Fred thought the man was somehow getting personal. So he took his bundle, climbed the fence, and said good-bye to him.

He walked on until he came to a fork of the road, and there he stopped, considering which road he would take. He could find no sign-board of any sort, and was about to toss one of his pennies to determine the question, when he saw a white steeple at some distance down the right hand road. “It’s always good luck to pass a church,” said he, and took that road.

When he reached the church, he sat down on the steps to rest. While he sat there, thinking over all he had seen and heard that day, a gentleman wearing a black coat, a high hat, and a white cravat, came through the gate of a little house almost buried in vines and bushes, that stood next to the church. He saw Fred, and approached him, saying,--

“Whither away, my little pilgrim?”

“I am going to seek my fortune,” said Fred.

“Haven’t you a home?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Parents?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Are they good to you?”

“O, yes, sir.”

“Then you are fortunate already,” said the gentleman. “When I was at your age, I had neither home nor parents, and the people where I lived were very unkind.”

“But my father isn’t rich,” said Fred; “and he never will be.”

“And you want to be rich?” said the gentleman.

“Yes, sir. I thought I’d try to be,” said Fred.

“What for?”

“What for? Why--why--so as to have the money.”