Chapter II: Part 2

I declare to you I am more than ever proud of my native land, when I think what our ancestors did, in old times, to obtain our freedom for us. God grant that we may know how to value our blessings, that we may ever be thankful for them, and that we may not abuse the liberty that has been given to us. I do not want my young readers to grow up, with their hearts full of the spirit of war. I love peace more than war. War I know to be a terrible thing. Seldom, very seldom would I go to war--never, unless for some great principle, such as that for which our forefathers contended. No, I do not wish to have you get your heads and hearts full of the war spirit. But I do want you to be patriots. I want you to love your country; to be willing to make sacrifices for it; to look upon it as the brightest and dearest spot on earth. Our liberty cost a great deal--a great deal of money, of hardship, of suffering, and, what is more valuable than all, a great deal of blood. It cost too much to be lightly valued--too much to be trifled with. Take care that you never get into the habit which some, who are much older than you, have fallen into, of looking upon the union of these states as a matter, after all has been said and done, of not much consequence. I tell you the bonds which bind us together is a sacred one; and, next to the tie which binds us together in families, ought to be, to you and to me, the dearest tie on earth.

CHAP. VIII.

THE BUMBLE-BEES' NEST.

All the boys and girls who live in the country, and probably a large share of those who live in the city, know the bumble-bee. We had a little different name for him in our neighborhood. _Bumble-bee_ was, however, the only name the family was known by, in Willow Lane, and I think it quite possible that such a corruption, (if it is a corruption, and the wise ones tell us it is, though I should like to see them beat the notion into the head of any one of the hundred children who went to our school,) is very common in New England.

The nests of these insects, you may not be aware, are made in the ground. These nests are frequently found in meadows, about the time the grass is mowed; and it not unfrequently happens that the mower disturbs one of these nests with his scythe, in which case, the first information the poor man obtains of the existence of the nest is from a score or two of the bumble-bees themselves--(we'll call them _bumble-bees_, for the sake of peace, though I must confess I feel a great partiality for the name by which I knew the rogues when I used to be familiar with their nests)--the bumble-bees themselves, who fly into his face, before he has time to retreat, and sting him until they get tired of the sport.

In these nests, there is usually more or less honey. Sometimes there is half a pint, or more. This honey is very palatable; and it is not an uncommon thing for children to brave the danger of being stung by the bees, for the sake of capturing a nest and getting possession of its treasures. For myself, I never was ambitious of getting renown by such means as besieging a bumble-bee's nest.

I'll tell you what I did perform, though, once on a time, which was closely connected with the race of insects I am speaking of. It is a common tradition among country boys, that white-faced bumble-bees never sting, and that you can take them in your hands with perfect safety. This tradition may have truth at the bottom of it, or it may not. I cannot tell, and I shall not stop to debate the question now. It is certain that there is an insect, very much resembling the bumble-bee, and of about the same size, who, nevertheless, is a very different fellow. This is the chap that bores holes into dry wood, as nicely as you can bore with a gimlet, on which account he is sometimes called the borer. This insect does not sting. No thanks to him, though, for not stinging. He has no instrument to sting with. For aught I know, he may have ever so good a _will_ to sting; but he has no _power_ to do so, any more than a grasshopper or a butterfly.

Well, I wanted to show some of the boys, one day, how smart I was. I had an idea that I could teach them something, and at the same time get the credit for a little bit of bravery.

"Do you see that saucy chap there," I asked, "on that clover blossom?"

"Yes," said one of the boys, "it is a bumble-bee." This time I must be permitted to say the spelling of the word, because the boys in pronouncing it, give the sound of the _b_, and I, as a historian, must report their conversation faithfully.

"Well." I said, "what will you give me, if I'll take this fellow in my hand."

It was intimated that nothing could be expected from the boys, but that the bumble-bee would be likely to give me something which I would remember, until "the cows came home." I don't know what period in the future that intended to point to, but I know that was a common expression among us all--one which we used, I suppose, without stopping to think what it meant, or how it got into use.

"I dare do it," I said. I was as bold as a lion.

"You had better not," said the boys.

I did it, though. I caught the bumble-bee, and held him fast in my hand. But if ever a poor fellow got handsomely and foolishly stung, I was that unfortunate youth; and the worst of it was, that while I was dancing about, and wringing my hand, and crying, on account of the pain, my companions were doing quite another thing: they were holding a laughing concert, at my expense.

It is hardly necessary to add, that my white-faced bumble-bee turned out to be an enemy in disguise. After that event, I made a closer examination of the faces of this class of insects, and became satisfied that there was one tribe of bumble-bees who wore a face of a pale yellow color, resembling somewhat the genuine borer, but who, for all that, could sting as well as any of their race with black faces.

This feat was as near as I ever got toward the glory of capturing a nest of bumble-bees. I have tasted the honey which came from their nests, though, many a time, and I have seen other boys capture the nests.

Billy Bolton was a great fellow at that kind of sport. Billy lived with Uncle Mike. He did _chores_--to use a word common enough in New England, though, possibly, not an elegant one--on Mr. Marble's farm; that is, he went for the cows and drove them to pasture, fed the pigs and poultry, brought water and chips for the "women folks," and ran of errands.

It was a favorite sport with Billy, in the summer time, to hunt for bumble-bees' nests, and to "take them up," as the process of capturing them was called. Uncle Mike did not like to indulge the boy in this kind of sport. Perhaps he thought it a cruel and unfeeling kind of fun; and I know he had too kind a heart, to see a boy growing up in his family with a taste for cruelty to animals of any kind. At any rate, the danger connected with the sport was enough to condemn it in the mind of Mr. Marble.

He had forbidden Billy and his own children having any thing to do with the sport. Still, it seemed Billy found means to amuse himself, now and then, in a sly way, by taking up a bumble-bees' nest.

One day, Mr. Marble and his men were engaged in the meadow, raking hay and carting it into the barn. Billy was in the meadow, too, at work among the hay, raking after the cart, I presume, as that used to be the task always allotted to me when I was of his age. In a corner of the lot, at some distance from the place where Mr. Marble and his men were at work, there was a large bottle containing water--nothing but water, reader; there was no rum drank on Mr. Marble's farm. Billy was sent after the bottle. He was gone a good while--longer, Mr. Marble thought, than was necessary. The matter was examined, when it turned out that Billy had got into trouble with a nest of bumble-bees. He had discovered a nest of these wretches, it appears; and, the temptation to wage war against them being very strong, he had stopped a moment, just to take up the nest.

Poor fellow! It proved to be a _taking in_, instead of a _taking up_, and the taking in was on the other side. When he saw that the bumble-bees had outwitted him, he snatched up the bottle, which he had thrown down, and which was lying near, and ran, as fast as his legs would let him, towards the place where the men were at work. But the bees flew faster than he could run. It was a comic scene enough to see the fellow running at the top of his speed, and some fifty bumble-bees after him, once in a while giving expression to their feelings, by saluting him, in their peculiar way, in the face and on the neck. Didn't the poor fellow scream?

But this was not the whole of the joke. Indeed, it was hardly the richest part of it. Mr. Marble, who saw what was going on, stood ready with his cart whip; and when Billy made his appearance, with a regiment of bumble-bees about his ears, he commenced beating him with the whip. Away ran the boy, and Mr. Marble chased him some half a dozen rods, and gave him about as many blows with the cart whip.

"There, you young rogue!" said Mr. Marble, as he turned to go back to his work again, "between me and the bumble-bees, I guess you have learned one good lesson thoroughly this afternoon. You will be a wiser boy, I think, after this. You will be a _smarter_ one, I'm sure; at least, for a while."

CHAP. IX.

HOW A BARN WAS BUILT.

Mike Marble, as I think I have said before, was a kind-hearted man. But he had his own way of doing every thing, and that way was very generally quite unlike most other people's way. No man ever liked better to do any body a good turn. But he had his crotchets about an act of charity, as well as about every thing else.

A neighbor went to him once, to ask him for some money to aid him in building a barn. The old one had burned down, and it was a great loss to him, he said. He hardly knew how he should get along, unless his neighbor loaned him a little money.

But Uncle Mike refused the neighbor's petition. "Money was scarce, very scarce." That was all the answer the unfortunate man could get from Mike Marble.

"This is strange enough," he mused in his own mind, as he walked away from Mr. Marble's door. "Strange enough! so kind-hearted and generous as he always has been, when any body was in distress."

The next day, however, bright and early, Uncle Mike yoked up his oxen, (some three pairs, I believe, including the _steers_, which needed something more than _moral suasion_ to keep them straight,) fastened them to the cart, and posted off, with two or three men, to the saw mill. There he and his men loaded the cart with boards and planks. Then he drove straight to the house of the unfortunate neighbor, opened the great gate, without saying a word to any member of the family, went into the door yard with his load, and threw it off within a few yards of the spot where the old barn stood.

"What on earth does all that mean?" thought the female portion of the family. The farmer and his boys were not at home at the time. Nothing was said, however.

Again Uncle Mike drove over to the mill; again he put on a load of timber; again he threw it off near the site of the old barn. Three loads were discharged there, and then he directed his men to go home with the team. He himself went to one of his neighbors, and asked him if he had any timber of any kind already sawed at Squire Murdock's mill.

"Yes," was the answer, "a little; why?"

"Well, I want some of it, if it's the right kind. What is it?"

"I don't recollect exactly--some white oak joists, I guess, and some inch boards."

"Good. Just what I want."

Suffice it to say, that Mike Marble did not leave his neighbor before he got a promise from him that he would contribute a load or two of his timber to rebuild that barn. Then he went to another neighbor, and another, and did something like the same errand, with very much the same sort of success. He called on a _boss_ carpenter, too, and secured his services in framing the barn; and, on his way home, he stopped at Slocum's blacksmith's shop, and got the promise of some nails.

Well, it was not long before the neighbors were all called together to raise Deacon Metcalf's barn, and it was not long after that before the building was ready for use. And how much do you think it cost him? Not a cent--not a single cent, the neighbors managed the thing so well. Even the good things on the supper table, when they had their "raising bee," were sent in by the neighbors.

And the whole scheme, you see, came from the crotchety brain of our friend, Mike Marble. That was his way of building a neighbor's barn, when any help was needed for that purpose.

CHAP. X.

ANOTHER BLOCK OF MARBLE.

This story about the building of the deacon's barn brings to my mind another, pretty closely related to it. Will you hear that, too?

One morning, as Uncle Mike was walking out, he saw a boy sitting down on the door steps of one of his neighbors. Upon a closer inspection of the lad it appeared that he was a poor boy, without any parents, who was wandering about, doing odd jobs, here and there, and getting what people had a mind to pay him for his services.

He was not a common vagrant, exactly, and yet he came very near being one. It was not supposed that he was a vicious boy; still it could not be denied that the life he led was tolerably well calculated to make him vicious, and most of the neighbors were afraid to have him about their houses, without keeping a sharp look out on his movements.

Mr. Marble had heard of the lad, though it so happened that he had never met him until this time.

"Hallo, there, my boy!" said Uncle Mike, "what are you so busy about?"

"Eating a cold johnny-cake, sir," was the laconic answer.

"And how do you like it?"

"Pretty well, though I guess a little butter wouldn't hurt it."

"Look here, my lad," said Uncle Mike, "what do you do generally for a living?"

"A little of every thing."

"Are you willing to work?"

"Yes, sir, if I can get any thing for it."

"Will you work for me?"

"I wouldn't mind trying it."

"I am a hard-working man. Will you work like a dog, if I'll let you try?"

"Please, sir, I'd rather work like a boy."

"Good. You shall go home with me."

And he took the boy home with him. The first thing he set him about was weeding the onion bed. It was hard work, as I know from experience. Oh, how it makes a poor fellow's back ache, to stoop down and weed onions for half a day. You must know that you can't use the hoe more than about a quarter of the time. If you could, the work would be comparatively easy and pleasant. But you can't do that. You must bend right down to the task, as if you really loved the onions, and were nursing them, as a fond mother nurses a pet child.

"Well, Fred," said the old gentleman, when the dinner horn blew its blast of invitation for the workmen to come in and pay their respects to Mrs. Marble's boiled pork and cabbage, "well, Fred, how do you like weeding onion beds?"

"Very well, sir," said the boy.

"And would you like to keep at it all the afternoon?"

"I would like to please you, sir. That's what I came here for."

The old man was so much delighted with this answer, that he not only laughed at it all the time he was at dinner, but he told it all over the neighborhood in less than a week.

"Well, Fred," said he, "I guess you've done enough of that sort of work for one day. I want you to do two or three errands after you have done your dinner."

And he sent the lad to I don't know how many different places, to do all sorts of errands. Among other things he directed him to do, was to go to the store with money, to purchase some little articles for his wife. You see the old man wanted to try the new comer, and see if he was faithful.

Well, every thing was done properly, and Uncle Mike was satisfied.

The next day, Fred had other tasks given to him. His employer selected those which were hardest and most unpleasant, as he said, "to break the little fellow in." I'll tell you one thing he did. He sent him out to catch the old mare. Now the old mare had a knack of kicking those who came to catch her, when she was not perfectly satisfied with their mode of doing the business; and she did not at all like the sly and timid way in which Fred came up to her, with the bridle concealed behind his back. She was a great lover of fair and open dealing; though, like some others of her race, that I am acquainted with, as well as some who belong to quite a different race, and who have the name of being a good deal wiser, she did not always practice herself the virtues she so highly commended in others.

She waited until the lad had got within a few feet of her, and then she whirled round, before the poor fellow, who was half frightened out of his wits, could have time to get out of her way, and let her heels fly into the air over his head. It was well for the boy that she took her aim so high. If it had been a foot or two lower, the _breaking in_ would have been an expensive one to Fred--a very expensive one, indeed.

In such ways as those I have named, and in a great many other ways, which I need not name, Uncle Mike tried the boy, to see what he was made of. He found out, before long, what he was made of. He found out that there was just such stuff in him as he liked. The more he tried him--the more he "broke him in"--the better he was pleased with him.

Well, I'll tell you how that affair with the beggar turned--for I must not make too long a story of it--Uncle Mike brought up the lad. He taught him all the mysteries of farming, and treated him as if he were a member of his own family--one of his own children--until he was twenty-one. Then he told him he was free to go where he chose. He gave him a hundred dollars in money, a yoke of oxen, a fine colt, and, what was of more value than all, his blessing.

And what do you think became of Fred? He turned out to be not only a good farmer, but a good neighbor, and a good man, every way. That same man, who was once a beggar, and who, but for Uncle Mike's odd way of doing a kind act for him, might have remained a beggar, is now one of the most highly respected men in his parish, with enough property to make him and his family comfortable, as well as some to spare for the comfort of others.

CHAP. XI.

MIKE MARBLE'S LAST DAYS.

I should love to chat about my old friend a good while longer. But perhaps I had better stop, for fear you may get tired of the theme. I must tell you a little about his old age, then I will leave off.

He was one of the happiest old men I ever knew. He was always cheerful. One could never meet him in the street, and look into his pleasant face, without catching something of his cheerfulness. Bad humor is catching, you know, as much as the small pox, or the canker rash, and so is good humor, too. At all events, I remember that once, when I felt ever so much "out of sorts," because things did not go right, I came across Uncle Mike, on my way to school, and a chat of about half a minute completely sweetened my temper.

There was nothing which Uncle Mike liked better, after his hair--the little hair that time had spared to him--was whitened with age, than to have a group of children about him, coaxing him to tell them stories.

Dear old man! my heart blesses him now, as my memory recalls the scenes in which he used to take a part. With all his oddities and crotchets, he always had a kind and warm heart beating in his bosom. I don't believe that he ever had an enemy in the world. Every body, it always seemed to me, respected him, and those who knew him most, loved him best.

He possessed an art which is worth more than the finest farm in America. It was the art of being happy himself, and of making others happy. He was never out of humor. Nobody could get him into a passion. I never heard of his having wounded the feelings of a single individual, during all the time that I was acquainted with him.

Now some people will say, "Oh, it was Mike Marble's way. That was his disposition. He could not help being good-natured. It came natural to him to make friends. It was as easy for him to scatter happiness all around him, as it was to breathe." I don't know about all that. There may have been something--probably there was something--in Mike Marble's natural disposition, which was pleasant and cheerful. But I guess it cost him some effort to live in the sunshine so constantly. There is such a thing, reader--and I hope you will mark these words well--there is such a thing as keeping the heart fresh, and green, and tender, and loving, by one's own effort; and there is such a thing, too, as letting the heart, by neglect and want of culture, become old before its time, and dry, and tough, and crabbed. You can school your affections. Did you know that? I'll tell you how to dry up all the love and kindness you may have. Shut up your heart, as an oyster does its shell. Shut it up, and be selfish. Do so, and you will soon be sick enough of the world, and the world will be sick enough of you. But I would not do that, if I were in your place. I would advise you to try to keep the heart open, by doing all the kind acts you can. But I must end my tale of Mike Marble.

Dear old man! He has gone to his rest. His voice long since ceased to be heard on earth. He died as he lived--cheerfully and peacefully. The Saviour, in whom he had trusted, was with him in his dying hour, and I cannot doubt that that good man went to dwell with the angels.

Reader, may you, like him, live a life of usefulness, and may you take your leave of the world as peacefully, as hopefully, as cheerfully, at

THE END.

_Woodworth's Juvenile Works._

PHILLIPS, SAMPSON & CO.

PUBLISH THE FOLLOWING JUVENILE WORKS,

By Francis C. Woodworth,

EDITOR OF "WOODWORTH'S YOUTH'S CABINET,"

AUTHOR OF "THE WILLOW LANE BUDGET," "THE STRAWBERRY GIRL," "THE MILLER OF OUR VILLAGE," "THEODORE THINKER'S TALES," ETC. ETC.

UNCLE FRANK'S BOYS' AND GIRLS' LIBRARY.

_A Beautiful Series, comprising six volumes, square 12mo., with
eight Tinted Engravings in each volume. The following are their
titles respectively_:

I. THE PEDDLER'S BOY; or, I'LL BE SOMEBODY.

II. THE DIVING BELL; or, PEARLS TO BE SOUGHT FOR.

III. THE POOR ORGAN-GRINDER, AND OTHER STORIES.

IV. OUR SUE: HER MOTTO AND ITS USES.

V. MIKE MARBLE: HIS CROTCHETS AND ODDITIES.

VI. THE WONDERFUL LETTER-BAG OF KIT CURIOUS.

"Woodworth is unquestionably and immeasurably the best writer
for children that we know of; for he combines a sturdy common
sense and varied information with a most childlike and loveful
spirit, that finds its way at once to the child's heart. We
regard him as one of the truest benefactors of his race; for he
is as wise as he is gentle, and never uses his power over the
child-heart, to instill into it the poison of false teaching, or
to cramp it with unlovely bigotry. The publishers have done
their part, as well as the author, to make these volumes
attractive. Altogether we regard them as one of the pleasantest
series of juvenile books extant, both in their literary
character and mechanical execution."--_Syracuse (N.Y.) Daily
Standard._

WOODWORTH'S STORIES ABOUT ANIMALS. 12mo., with Illuminated Title, and upwards of Fifty Beautiful Engravings; pp. 336.

WOODWORTH'S STORIES ABOUT BIRDS. Uniform with the above. With Sixty splendid Engravings; pp. 336.

These two volumes, containing characteristic anecdotes, told in a racy and pleasing vein, are among the most entertaining books of the kind to be found in the English language.

"Attractive stories, told in a style of great liveliness and
beauty. As a writer for the young, the author is surpassed by
very few, if any writers in this country."--_N.Y. Tribune._

"A _melange_ of most agreeable reading."--_Presbyterian._

"They cannot fail to be intensely interesting."--_Ch. Register._

"Charming stories, told with that felicitous simplicity and
elegance of diction which characterize all Mr. Woodworth's
efforts for the young."--_N.Y. Commercial Advertiser._

"Nothing can be more interesting than the stories and pictorial
illustrations of these works."--_Brattleborough Dem._

"We never pen a notice with more pleasure than when any work of
our friend Mr. Woodworth is the subject. Whatever he does is
well done, and in a sweet and gentle spirit."--_Christ.
Inquirer._

"The author is a man of fine abilities and refined taste, and
does his work in a spirit of vivacious, but most truthful
earnestness."--_Ladies' Repos._

UNCLE FRANK'S PEEP AT THE BEASTS. Square 12mo. Profusely Illustrated; pp. 160.

UNCLE FRANK'S PEEP AT THE BIRDS. Uniform with the above; pp. 160.

These two volumes are written in the simplest style, and with words, for the most part, of two and three syllables. They are exceedingly popular among children.

"Of those who have the gift to write for children, Mr. Woodworth
stands among the first; and, what is best of all, with the
ability to adapt himself to the wants and comprehension of
children, he has that high moral principle which will permit
nothing to leave his pen that can do harm."--_Arthur's Home
Gaz._

* * * * *

+-----------------------------------------------------------+
| Typographical errors corrected in text: |
| |
| Page 94: queston replaced with question |
| |
+-----------------------------------------------------------+

* * * * *