Chapter III: Part 3

The aroma of fresh cookies floated through the kitchen’s open door. You were aware that Maggie would be expecting you. When warm cookies were heralded, she had good reason to expect you. You hesitated, and for some time you held off, with the vague purpose of spiting her or your mother. If only one or the other would try to coax you in! But one or the other didn’t. So, finally (the aroma proving beyond human endurance) you tramped moodily in, and from the fragrant pile abstracted a handful of the luscious disks.

Even as you did so you were proudly conscious that another cooky day, and the pile would await your coming, in vain. Very likely, after you were gone, they would not bake cookies any more. Or, if they did, the dough would be all salty with tears. Maybe, as an almost hopeless resort, mother would say:

“Maggie, bake cookies to-day just as you used to. Leave the door and windows open, and perhaps—who knows—our Johnny may be lingering about, and when he smells them baking he will understand that we are waiting and calling.”

“Yes, ma’am—who knows?” would reply Maggie, chokingly.

You also, choked. For even then you would be dead, dead, dead. You could die in a week, couldn’t you?

You gulped down the last mouthful of warm cooky, and suddenly as you raked you waxed brighter. Why die? Why not live on, and become famous? Would not that be far better revenge? Some day, then, would reach household ears word of a new star in the firmament of glory; a name would be read, a name would be spoken, a name resounding through the whole world, name of intrepid explorer, dashing leader, multi-millionaire, potentate over savage peoples, what-not. And father would say to mother:

“Why—that’s our Johnny!”

“It certainly is!” would exclaim mother.

And she would call Maggie, and all would discuss the strange tidings. Soon the village would be ringing with your exploits.

The household would send messages to you, of course, pleading for one sign of forgiveness; for a visit, a token. But you would return with scorn their missives, and ignore their entreaties.

Or would it not be well to heap coals of fire upon their heads? ’Twas a difficult matter to decide.

At any rate, you would run away. That very afternoon should witness you steadfastly plodding onward, face to the west, fortune and revenge before, ungrateful, cruel home behind. When tea was ready Maggie, and then mother, would summon you in vain.

Mother would say to father:

“Why, I can’t find Johnny!”

“Oh, he’ll come,” would assert father.

But you wouldn’t. They would eat supper without you; they would be alarmed; they would inquire among the neighbors; they would search up-stairs and down; nothing would give them a hint—or would it be a more subtle rôle to leave a note, a tear-stained note, with simply “Good-by” writ within? That was another point to be considered.

However, the truth would dawn upon them. At first they would refuse to believe it. They would think:

“Oh, he’ll be back. You see if he isn’t.”

You would _not_ come back. Evening would merge into night—but no Johnny. The night would settle down; there would be weeping, running to and fro, searching and calling, and all the while you would be out in the dark and the dew (and it got cold, too, in the middle of the night) at the mercy of storm and prowling beasts.

When came the morn, it would find the household red-eyed, distraught, and repentant—but still no Johnny.

Possibly the minister, in church, would refer to you during his sermon; not mentioning outright your name, because that would be too direct and hard upon your folks, but nevertheless by an allusion that should be unmistakable. The congregation would know to what he was referring, and all would turn and look at the family pew—the pew of shame.

Your desk at school would be empty. The news of your departure would spread about. Teacher would break down and cry when she reached your name in the roll-call, and as a mark of respect your seat would not be given to another, ever. It would remain untenanted, sacred, an object-lesson to parents. Maybe it would be draped with crape, like the desk of Harry Peters, who died. Say!

Yes, you would run away.

You were unusually quiet and subdued that noon, at dinner. It was the quietness of resolve, the subduedness of pity. Here was the last meal that you ever should eat at this board—and none save yourself knew it. Ah, what a blow was about to fall upon the household. What a secret was locked within your breast.

It seemed almost a missed opportunity. If the folks might only suspect, and try to make advances. Then might you coolly rebuff them, deliberately freeze them out, torture them with shallow denials, and thus enjoy their suspicions while denying them your confidence.

But the meal progressed, and nobody acted curious. That made you mad.

“All raked, John?” asked father, kindly.

“Yes, sir.”

You answered him as briefly as was possible and safe.

“That’s good. Do you think he has earned a pair of white rabbits, mamma?”

White rabbits!

“He has been a very good boy, and worked hard,” assured mother, smiling upon you.

“Well, we’ll see,” hinted father, also smiling.

Gee! White rabbits were a serious menace to your outworks. You perceived your defenses giving way. Stand firm, John; stand firm. You have resolved, you know; don’t be lured by tardy bribes. What are white rabbits to freedom, and revenge?

No, you will not be a traitor to yourself. Let the white rabbits come—but, like much else, they will come too late. There will be no John—no Johnny, no—no Johnny here to give them to. And you smile in sickly fashion and say nothing.

You have the afternoon before you, and your preparations to make. While, wilfully unconscious of your sinister purpose, the household again proceeds about its routine duties, you make ready. You will not carry much with you. Maybe you will take nothing at all. Shall you leave your drawers and your treasures untouched, and merely fade mysteriously from local ken, or shall you select articles enough to signify your decision?

Oliver Optic’s boys, when escaping from the authority of a harsh step-father or uncle, went away with their possessions either slung over their shoulder, tied in a bandanna handkerchief, at the end of a stick, or else contained in a trunk toted by aid of a wheelbarrow.

With tears (tears well very easily) blurring your eyes and occasionally dropping from the end of your nose, in your little room you hastily overhaul your belongings.

Upon the bed (dear little bed!) you spread a bandanna ’kerchief, and in it you place an extra pair of stockings and your best necktie, and—well, there doesn’t seem to be much else worth taking, in the clothing line. A boy doesn’t need much; one outfit can last a long time. Besides, the raggeder you get, the better, for the more pitiable will be your plight. Your pockets already hold your jack-knife and your jew’s-harp, and thereto you add your burning-glass, and your cap-pistol (robbers and bears might not tell it from a real pistol) and a fish-line.

Cast one farewell look about the little room (dear little room!). It shall know you no more. Does it hate to see you go? But it mutely implores in vain. You settle your cap firmly upon your head, and stifling a sob over the pathos of it all you descend the stairs.

You stick the bandanna packet underneath your jacket. It would be nice if the household might suspect it, and still not see it. But the delicate medium is rather difficult to attain. Besides, it is too late for them to try to stop you, now.

Mother is in the sitting-room as you pass through the hall, kitchenward.

“Where are you going, Johnny boy?” she hails, cheerily.

“Nowhere,” you falter. “Just off.”

You pause, irresolutely, a second. If only you might be encouraged to go in to her, and with strange meaning in your caress kiss her, while she wondered at your tenderness; then in after days she would recall, and feel all the worse.

“Well, be sure and be home in time for supper. We’re going to have hot biscuits and honey!”

What a callous way to let you depart!

Noting, with minute care, each familiar object—ah, those inanimate things; _they_ know and feel bad!—you proceed into the kitchen. Here, right before Maggie’s eyes, you boldly provision with two cookies and an apple. You reck not whether she sees, or not; the die is cast. You defiantly press on, straight out of the house, and through the back gate.

The deed is done. You have gone. You are in the alley, and many a long year will elapse before that back gate again swings to your hand.

You wish that the folks knew—but they don’t. Your heart aches for yourself; your going is so unheeded, the piteousness of it so wasted.

You grow angry, and stiffen your neck. All right; they need not care, if they don’t want to. Perhaps they think you are fooling. You’ll show them—yes, you’ll show them! Oh, if they would only call after you, and beg you to turn, so that you _might_ show them. You’d never even glance. The darned old fools!

You stanchly round the alley corner, and march away, down the street. Wild horses cannot drag you back. You wish they’d try.

Two whole blocks have you put behind you. Your stern pace lags a bit. With the sky so blue and the sun so bright and the maples o’erhead so rustly and the sidewalk so flecked with gold and the yards and houses along the way so comfortable and friendly, really, it is getting to be hard work keeping up steam. You have to think of it constantly, or your fires die down.

The darned—the darned old fools!

You have been longer in traversing this third block. Another block, and the maples and the sidewalk and the comfortable, friendly houses, cease; the country begins. W-well, you’ll go that far, anyhow.

D-darn ’em!

You have come to the end of the street; here is your Rubicon. You feel that once started upon that country road, with your handkerchief slung over your shoulder, then it _will_ be too late! The idea rather awes you. It looks a long way, into the world. And dying does not, somehow, seem the attractive revenge that it once did. You slacken—and halt.

You take the bandanna packet from beneath your jacket, and inspect it.

Humph! Darn ’em, you meant it when you started, just the samee.

You uncertainly move forward again. If it wasn’t for those white rabbits—. You walk slower. You blink hard. You stop, as if run down—which, in truth, you are. You blink, and finger the cookies in your jacket pocket.

Are the folks at home missing you? Supposing that they find out you have run away, and as a punishment deny you the white rabbits, after all! The thought stings. You hesitate, and sitting by the roadside eat the two cookies and the apple.

You are reminded that there are “biscuits and honey” for supper.

Perhaps—perhaps you have gone far enough. Perhaps you’d better not do “it,” this time.

* * * * *

When, rather sheepishly, you reënter that back gate, you encounter no signs of confusion and agitation. Although it seems to you that you have been gone a long, long while, everything appears serene and just as you had left it. Nobody notices you.

You slip up-stairs. The little room welcomes you; you eye it diffidently, and challenge it to ridicule you; but it only welcomes.

You restore to their places burning-glass and pistol and fish-line. You untie the bandanna handkerchief, and return to their drawer the stockings and the best tie. You fold up the handkerchief itself, and put it away. You do not need them; not yet. You have changed your mind. But only they and you know what a narrow squeak of it this peaceful house has just had.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

GOIN’ FISHIN’

------------------------------------------------------------------------

------------------------------------------------------------------------

GOIN’ FISHIN’

IT was twenty feet long, and cost ten cents—a whole week’s keeping-the-woodbox-filled wages. To select it from amid its sheaf of fellows towering high beside the shop entrance summoned all your faculties and the faculties of four critical comrades, assisted by the proprietor himself.

“That’s the best of the lot,” he encouraged, not uninfluenced by a desire to be rid of you.

So you planked down your money, and bore off the prize; and a beautiful pole it was—longer by three feet, as you demonstrated when they were laid cheek by jowl, than that of your crony Hen.

Forthwith you enthusiastically practised with it in the back yard, to show its capabilities, while the hired girl, impeded by its gyrations, fretfully protested that you were “takin’ all outdoors.”

Your father viewed its numerous inches and smiled.

You clothed it with hook and line, an operation seemingly simple, but calling for a succession of fearful and wonderful knots, and a delicate adapting of length to length.

Thereafter it always was ready, requiring no fitting of joint and joint, no adjustment of reel, threading of eye, and attaching of snell. In your happy-go-lucky ways you were exactly suited the one to the other.

During its periods of well-earned rest it reposed across the rafters under the peak of the woodshed, the only place that would accommodate it, although in the first fever gladly would you have carried it to bed with you.

Half the hot summer afternoon Hen and you dug bait, for you and he were going fishing on the morrow. Had you been obliged to rake the yard as diligently as you delved for worms you would have been on the verge (for the hundredth time) of running away and making the folks sorry; but there is such a wide gulf betwixt raking a yard and digging bait that even the blisters from the two performances are totally distinct.

With a prodigality that indicated at the least a week’s trip, you plied your baking-powder can—the cupboard was continually stripped of baking-powder cans, in those days—with long, fat angle worms and short, fat grubs; and topping them with dirt to preserve their freshness, you set them away till the morning.

Then, with mutual promises to “be on time,” Hen and you separated.

“I suppose,” said father, gravely, to mother, across the table, at supper, “that I needn’t order anything at Piper’s (Piper was the butcher) for a few days.”

“Why so?” asked mother, for the moment puzzled.

“We’ll have fish, you know.”

“Sure enough!” agreed mother, enlightened, and glancing at you. “Of course; Johnny’s going fishing.”

From your end of the table you looked keenly at the one and at the other and pondered. If the show of confidence in you was genuine, how gratified and proud you felt! But was it? Father went on soberly eating; mother, transparent soul, smiled at you, as if in reparation, and winked both eyes.

You grinned confusedly, and bent again to your plate. Yes, they were making fun of you. But who cared! And you had mental revenge in the thought that perhaps you’d _show_ them.

You turned in early, as demanded by the strenuous day ahead. To turn you out no alarm-clock was necessary. The sun himself was just parting the pink hangings of the east, and on earth apparently only the roosters and robins were astir, when, with a hazy recollection of having fished all night, you scrambled to the floor and into your clothes.

Mother’s voice sounded gently outside the door.

“Johnny?”

“Yes; I’m up.”

“All right. I was afraid you might oversleep. Now be careful to-day, won’t you, dear?”

Again you assured her. You heard her soft steps going back down the stairs. She never failed to make your rising her own, both to undertake that you should not be disappointed and to deliver a final loving caution.

Your dressing, although accompanied by sundry yawns, was accomplished quickly, your attire for the day being by no means complicated. Your face and hair received what Maggie, the girl, would term “a lick and a promise,” and kitchenward you sped.

To delay to eat the crackers and milk that had been provided was a waste of time; but you had been instructed, and so you gobbled them down. On the kitchen table was your lunch, tied in shape convenient to stow about your person. It was a constant fight on your part with mother to make her keep your lunches at the minimum. Had she her way, you would have traveled with a large basket; and what boy wanted to be bothered with baskets and pails and things?

Upon the back porch, where you had stationed them in minute preparation, had been awaiting you all night the can of bait and the loyal pole. You seized them. Provisioned and armed, you ran into the open and looked expectantly for Hen.

From Hen’s house came no sign of life. You whistled softly; no Hen. Your heart sank. Once or twice before Hen had failed you. Affairs at his house seemed to be not so systematized as at yours.

You whistled louder; no Hen. You called, your voice echoing along the still somnolent street.

“All right,” suddenly responded Hen, sticking his head out of his window.

He was not even up!

You were disgusted. One might as well not go fishing as to start so late and have all the other fellows there first; and you darned “it” gloomily.

After seemingly an age, but with his mouth full and with other tokens of haste, Hen emerged from the side door.

“Bridget promised to call me and she forgot to wake up,” he explained.

Had Hen _your_ mother, he would have been better cared for. But, then, households differ.

At last you were off, your jacket, necessary as a portable depository, balanced with lunch, and the can of worms snugly fitted into a pocket, over the hard-boiled eggs; your mighty pole, become through many pilgrimages a veteran, sweeping the horizon; and your gallant old straw, ragged of contour and prickly with broken ends, courting, like some jaunty, out-at-the-elbow, swash-buckler cavalier, every passing breeze.

As you and Hen hurried along, how you chattered, the pair of you, with many a brag and “I bet you” and bit of exciting hearsay! How big you were with expectations!

“By jinks! I pity the fish to-day!” bantered “Uncle” Jerry Thorne, hoe in hand in his garden patch, stiffly straightening to watch you as you pattered by.

You did not answer. Onward stretched your way. Moments were precious. Who could tell what might be happening ahead at the fishing-place? Busier cackled the town hens, into view rolled the town’s sun, from town chimneys here and there idly floated breakfast smoke. The town was entering upon another day, but you—ah, you were destined afar and you must not stay.

To transport your pole, at times inclined to be unruly, with its line ever reaching out at mischievous foliage and its hook ever leaving butt or cork and angling for clothing, was an engineering feat demanding no slight ingenuity. The board walk, which later would be baking hot, so that the tender soles of barefooted little girls would curl and shrink and seek the grass, was gratefully cool, blotched as it was with dampness from the dripping trees. When the walk ceased, the road lay moist and velvety, the path was wet and cold, the fringing bushes spattered you with diamonds, and the lush turf, oozing between your toes, gave to your eager tread.

Rioted thrush and woodpecker and all their feathered cousins; higher into the silver-blue sky climbed the sun, donning anon his golden robes of state; one last impatient halt, to extract your hook from your coat collar, and now, your happy legs plashed knee over with dew and clinging dust, you had reached your goal.

You and Hen were not the first of the day’s fishermen. As the vista of bank and water unfolded before your roving eyes you descried a rival already engaged. By his torn and sagging brim, by his well-worn shirt, by his scarred and faded overalls, draggling about his ankles and dependent upon one heroic strap, you recognized a familiar. It was Snoopie—Snoopie Mitchell, who always was fishing, because he never had to ask anybody’s permission.

Snoopie’s flexible life appeared to you the model one.

“Hello, Snoop!” called you and Hen.

“Hello!” responded Snoopie, phlegmatically, desisting a moment from watching his cork, as he squatted over his pole.

“Caught anything yet?”

“Jus’ come,” vouchsafed Snoopie. “They ain’t bitin’ much. But yesterday—gee! you ought to’ve been here yesterday!”

No doubt; that usually was the way when you had to stay at home.

You tugged your bait from its tight lodgment; you peeled off your coat and tossed it aside as you would a scabbard; with feverish fingers, lest Hen should beat you, hopeful that you might even outdo Snoopie, you unwrapped your gallant pole of its line, and selecting a plump worm, slipped it, despite its protesting squirms, adown the hook.

The favorite stands at this resort were marked by their colonies of tinware—bait-cans cast away upon the grass and mud, some comparatively bright and recent, many very rusty and ancient, their unfragrant sighs horrifying the summer zephyrs. You sought _your_ stand and threw in.

From his stand Hen also threw in.

An interval of suspense ensued. The placid water was full of delightful possibilities. What glided therein that _might_ be caught! You besought your bobber with a gaze almost hypnotic; but the bobber floated motionless and obdurate.

“Snoopie’s got a bite!”

At the announcement you darted apprehensive glances in Snoopie’s direction. You were greedy enough to harbor the wish—but, ah!

“Snoopie’s got one! Snoopie’s got one!”

Snoopie’s pole had energetically reared upward and backward, and, as if at its beckoning, something small, black, and glistening had popped straight out from the glassy surface before and had flown high into the brush behind.

Snoopie rushed after, and Hen and you discarded everything and rushed, too.

“Jus’ a bullhead!”

So it was, and quite three inches long.

Snoopie ostentatiously strung it on a bit of cord and tethered it, at the water’s edge, to a stake. Then he threw in again and promptly caught another.

Somehow, Snoopie invariably did this. He was lucky in more respects than one.

From each side Hen and you sidled toward him and put your bobbers as near his as you dared.

“G’wan!” objected Snoopie, with shrill emphasis. “What you kids comin’ here for? Go find your own places. I got this first.”

Presently, to your agony, Hen likewise jerked out an astonished pout.

“Ain’t you had any bites yet?” he fired triumphantly at you.

“How deep you got your hook?” you replied.

Hen held his line so that you might see. To miss no chances, you measured accurately with a reed. Once more you adjusted your cork, moving it up a fraction of an inch, and you spat on your baited hook.

Again you threw in, landing your now irresistible lure the length of your pole and line from the shore.

“Quit your splashin’!” remonstrated Snoopie. “I had a dandy bite, an’ you scared him away. Darn you! can’t you throw in easy?”

The ripples caused by your bobber widened in concentric circles and died. You watched and waited. A kingfisher dived from his post upon a dead branch, and rising with a minnow in his bill to show you how easy it was, dashed away, laughing derisively.

With a quick exclamation, Hen swished aloft the tip of his pole.

“Golly! but I had a big nibble! He took the cork clear under!” he cried.

You wondered fiercely why _you_ couldn’t have a nibble.

As if in answer to your mute prayer, your bobber quivered, spreading a series of little rings. An electric thrill leaped through your whole body, and your fingers tightened cautiously around the well-warmed butt, which they had been caressing in vain.

“I’ve got a bite! I’ve got a bite!” you called gleefully.

Hen and Snoopie turned their faces to witness what might take place.

Then your cork was stricken with intermittent palsy, and then it staggered and swung as though it had a drop too much. Your sporting blood aflame, you bided the operations of the rash meddler who was causing this commotion.

The cork tilted alarmingly, so that the water wetted it all over. With a jump and a burst of pent-up energy (no cat after a mouse could be quicker), you whipped the heavens with your great pole; but only an empty hook followed after.

“Shucks!” you lamented.

“Aw, you jerked too soon!” criticised Snoopie.

“Darn him! he ate all my bait, anyhow!” you declared. “See?”

With utmost speed you fitted another worm and very smoothly let down exactly in the same spot.

Scarcely had the cork settled when it resumed its erratic movements. Its persecutor, whatsoever he might be, was a persistent chap.

“Bitin’ again?” inquired Snoopie, noting your strained attitude.

You nodded; the moment was too vital to admit of conversation.

“I got him! I got him! I—”

You had exulted too soon. Out like a feather you had whisked the meddlesome fellow, but in mid-air, unable to maintain the sudden pace, he parted company with the impaling steel. Down he dropped, and while the lightened hook went on without him he dived into the shallows where mud meets water.

You abandoned your pole; you plunged after him. Upon hands and knees you wallowed and grappled with him. With fish instinct, he was wriggling for the deeps and safety. You grasped him. He slid through your clutch. You grabbed at him again and obtained a pinching hold on his tail. He broke the hold and was off.

“Get him!” shrieked Snoopie.

“Get him!” shrieked Hen.

Desperately you scooped up the slime. Once more you had him. He stabbed you with his needle-like spines, but you flinched not. You hurled him inshore and tore after, not allowing him an instant’s respite.

There! He lay gasping upon the drier bank. He had lost, and out of his one piggish eye not plastered shut he signaled surrender.

Of the two parties to the wrestle you were much the muddier.

“How big?” queried Hen, anxiously.

“Oh, ’bout as big as the first one Snoop caught,” you replied, which was strictly the truth.

You devoted a few seconds to squeezing your pricked thumb; then pleasantly aware that several new arrivals were viewing your success, you gingerly strung him and deposited him, thus secured, in his native element. Here he flopped a moment, but finding his efforts useless, sulked out of sight.

You baited up; you were more contented.

Two pole-lengths from shore occurred a quick splash and a swirl.

“Gee!” burst simultaneously from the three of you; and you stared with wide eyes at the spot where the bubbles were floating.

“What was that?” ejaculated Hen.

“A big bass, I bet you,” averred Snoopie.

Nobody—within your memory, at least—ever had actually caught a “big bass” in these haunts, but upon various occasions, such as the present one, he had made himself known. To doubt his existence was heresy. He was here; of course he was. Nearly to see him was an exploit accomplished by many; nearly to catch him was accomplished by only a few less: but really to haul him out had been accorded to none.

In the meantime he cruised about, in his mysterious way, and now and then made a rumpus on the surface, to wring a tribute of hungry “Gees!” from the astounded spectators of his antics.

You gripped closer your pole and barely breathed. Perhaps he was heading in your direction; perhaps, at last, he would accept your worm, and, glory! _you_ would be the boy to carry him through town, and home! Could anything be more deliriously grand?

On the other hand, misery! perhaps he was heading for Snoopie or Hen. However, he might turn aside.

Silence reigned; the atmosphere was tense with expectation. Another swirl, a small one, off a brush-pile nearer the shore, just to your left. Cautiously you tiptoed down there and craftily introduced your tempting hook.

The cork vibrated. For an instant you lost your breath. The cork dipped. You poised, rigid but alert, daring to stir not even a toe. The cork righted, dipped again, and slowly, calmly sank into the pregnant depths.

Furiously you struck. Your good pole bent and swayed. You were wild with excitement.

“Say! Look there! Look at John!” exclaimed Hen.

“Hang on to him! Don’t let him get away!” bawled Snoopie.

Spurred by your down-curving pole and your violent endeavors, they scampered madly to your succor.

“Don’t you give him slack!” instructed Snoopie. “He’ll get loose!”

“Don’t bust the pole, either!” warned Hen.

As for you, you were fighting with all your strength. The line was taut, sawing the water, as valiantly you hoisted with the writhing tip. Your antagonist yielded a few inches, only to demand them back again. You were in deadly fear lest the hook would not hold. You hoped that he had swallowed it. But who might tell?

At any rate, you were determined that he should not have a vestige more of line if you could help it.

“Can you feel him?” asked Hen.

“Uh huh,” you panted affirmatively.

“Gim_me_ the pole,” ordered Snoopie.

You shook your head. You wanted to do it all yourself.

Little by little, in response to the relentless leverage that you exerted, your victim was being dragged to the surface. Higher and higher was elevated your pole, and the wet line followed. The cork appeared and left the water. Victory was almost yours, but you would not relax.

“It’s nothin’ but a snag!” denounced Snoopie.

You would not believe. It was—if it was not the big bass, it was something else wonderful.

A second—and up through the heaving area upon which were fixed your eyes broke a black stem. Swifter it exposed itself, and suddenly you had hoisted into the sunlight an ugly old branch, soaked and dripping, wrenched by your might from the peaceful bed where it long had lain.

Amid irritating jeers you swung it to shore.

“Well, I _had_ something all right—and it was a bass, too; and he snagged my hook on me. He took the bobber under in less’n no time, I tell you!” you argued defensively.

That was a favorite trick of the “big bass” and other prodigies of these waters—to be almost caught and to escape by cleverly snagging the hook.

Hen and Snoopie returned to their stations. You ruefully twisted your hook from the rotten wood and tried in a new place for bullheads.

You tired of this location and changed to a log; and tiring of the log, you changed to a rock; and tiring of the rock, you changed to a jutting bank; and tiring of the bank, you waded into the shallows, where, at least, the flies could not torment your legs. In the course of your wanderings your can toppled; you snatched at it but it evaded you, gurgled, and gently sank beneath. You borrowed bait from more or less unwilling brethren, or appealed to the most respectable of the riffraff cans scattered about. From the zenith the sun glared down upon your neck, and from the water the sun glared up into your face, and neck and face waxed red and redder; turtles poked their heads forth and inspected you; and dragon-flies darted at your bobber and settled upon it, giving you starts as you thought for an instant that you had a bite. You pricked your fingers on the “stingers” of vengeful victims, and you cut your feet on tin and shell and sharp root and branch; you luxuriously dined on butter-soaked bread and salt-less eggs (the salt being spilled), and you drank of water which, in these scientific later days, we know with horror to have been alive with deadly bacilli; and Snoopie, lying on his back, with his hat over his eyes, tied his line to his big toe and went to sleep.

Finally, spotted with mud and mosquito-bumps, scarlet with burn and bristling with experiences, in the sunset glow homeward you trudged, over your shoulder your faithful pole, and your hapless spoil, ever growing drier and dustier and more wretched, dangling from your hand.

“Mercy, John! What _do_ you bring those home for!” expostulated mother, from a safe distance surveying your catch, none thereof longer than a clothes-pin.

“Why, to eat,” you explained.

And she fried them for you, her very self.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

IN SOCIETY

------------------------------------------------------------------------

IN SOCIETY

YOU looked fine; simply fine! And well you might, for had you not just gone through with the ordeal of an extra bath—a process which even when regular and weekly nagged you almost beyond endurance, and now as a superfluity certainly ought to bring recompense. It seemed to you that if a boy went swimming summers, during the season intervening a good scrubbing as far as half-way down his neck should answer all purposes.

With your face shining like a red apple, with your hair slickly brushed—by mother, and your fresh waist neatly adjusted—by mother, and your Sunday jacket and knickerbockers faithfully brushed—by mother, and your shoes blacked and harmoniously buttoned—by mother again, there you stood between mother’s knees while she coaxed into an expansive knot your blue polka-dotted tie.

Then she turned you about for inspection.

“Well, well!” commented father, in acknowledgment of your effect.

Mother settled your hat delicately upon your smooth crown.

“Now, be a good boy,” she cautioned. “Be polite, and don’t be rough in your play, and remember to say good-night to Helen and her mama, and don’t act greedy when the things to eat are passed.”

She kissed you, and father kissed you, and escorted to the front door out you strutted.

“Be a good boy!” called mother after you.

You decorously yodeled for Hen; Hen, arrayed, like you, in purple and fine linen, decorously made exit and joined you; and decorously the two of you walked side by side up the street, bound for the “Daner party.”

Along the way, restrained by your feeling of spick-and-spanness from customary gambolings, you and Hen sought relief in a preliminary review of the prospective menu.

“I bet you we have ice cream—I seen Mr. Daner orderin’ it!” avowed Hen, by his abundance of enthusiasm atoning for his lack of grammar.

“Gee! I hope it’s chocolate!” you exclaimed.

“Or strawberry an’ vaniller mixed!” supplemented Hen, with a smack of anticipation.

You “geed” again, and offered an unvoiced prayer that, whatever the flavor or flavors, the dishes be large.

On ahead was disclosed the house of the party. It was lighted from top to bottom, and at the impressive sight your courage, buoyed in vain by ice-cream, chocolate, or strawberry and vanilla mixed, began to sink.

“You go in first,” you suggested to Hen.

“Naw, sir! _You!_” objected Hen. “You know ’em better’n I do.”

“But I’ll keep right close behind. Honest, I will,” you promised.

“You wouldn’t, either. You’d run off and leave me alone!” accused Hen, suspicious and diffident.

With the question of precedence still unsettled, slowly and more slowly you and he approached. Hanging to the palings of the fence, in front, were the luckless (and invidious) uninvited; among them Snoopie Mitchell, of course. Snoopie never missed anything, if within his reach, and he wore the same clothes wherever he went, be it fishing or into the _crème de la crème_ of civilization.

Your arrival was the signal for a shrill chorus of jeering cries; why, nobody may know; yet they caused you to flush with an unreasonable sense of shame.

“Hello, Jocko!” greeted Snoopie, affably (Jocko, and not, as stated the family Bible, John, being your actual name).

“Hello!” you responded feebly.

“Hello, Hen!” continued Snoop, determined to be impartial.

“Hello!” said Hen, also feebly.

“Ain’t you goin’ in?” queried Snoop. “G’wan in! What you ’fraid of?”

“G’wan in yourself!” you retorted.

“Well, I would if I was dressed up, you bet!” asserted Snoopie—oblivious of the fact that he was not expected.

“Huh!” scoffed Hen. “You ain’t invited! Ya-a-ah!”

“I know it; but I could have been if I’d wanted to!” declared Snoopie, insinuating his superiority. “I wouldn’t go to their old party!”

“Good reason why!” scoffed you and Hen.

This brief exchange of courtesies having been accomplished, attended by mocking tongues and glances you two proudly entered the gate, leaving on the outside these your social inferiors, and advancing up the walk, studiously elbow to elbow, mounted the porch steps.

“You ring!” insisted Hen.

“No! You!”

Whereupon, in the midst of the discussion the listening door opened, and into the dazzling interior you sidled together, and red as peonies received your welcome.

* * * * *

On the one side of the parlor were clustered the girls, a close corporation in stiff little dresses and stiff big sashes, and locks wonderfully curled or tied with ribbons. They whispered and giggled. On the opposite side were banded the boys, in embarrassing Sunday clothes and squeaky shoes. And they whispered and sniggered.

Betwixt this side of the parlor and that stretched a seemingly impassable chasm, which must be bridged. Upon busy Mrs. Daner, engineer-in-chief of the occasion, devolved the task of establishing communication.

“Clap-in and clap-out!” she heralded briskly.

The little girls were hustled, still giggling, into the adjoining room, and the folding doors were drawn. You boys waited. Presently the doors parted for a crack, and Mrs. Daner, as official announcer, called, between them:

“Harry Peters!”

“Aw, Harry!” derided you all. Assisted by obliging hands, Harry stumbled through the crack, and the doors met behind him. You in the outer room listened breathlessly. An instant—and then came a tremendous burst of clapping and laughter, and Harry, blushing and flustrated, plunged back into your midst.

“Aw, Harry! Got clapped out! Aw, Harry!”

“I did it on purpose!” averred Harry, stoutly. “I guess _I_ knew. I don’t want any girl kissin’ _me_, you bet!”

“Henry Schmidt!” summoned Mrs. Daner.

Hen, being notoriously afraid of girls, must have blindly plumped down into the very first chair available, for scarcely had he entered ere out he fled, headlong, in dire confusion, before a volley of gay voices and staccato palms.

“Johnny Walker!”

That was you. You had been hoping, and now you had arrived. Beset by the usual ridicule—Harry and Hen the leaders in it—reluctantly, after all, you left the safe society of your fellows, and slipping through the fateful crack uncertainly looked about you.

The atmosphere was distinctly feminine. Fourteen little girls stood each behind an empty chair, in almost a circle, and eyed you roguishly. Nobody spoke. You felt as graceful as a hippopotamus and twice as large.

Your wandering glance fell upon Mary Webster. Mary nodded invitingly. And upon Lucy Rogers. Lucy stared at you with intense soberness.

“Hurry up, Johnny. Choose a chair,” urged Mrs. Daner, she being, among her other functions, the discourager of hesitancy.

Poor soul, it devolved upon her to see that the programme moved forward swiftly, so that no one, from the belle and the beau to the fat and the cross-eyed, should be slighted through lack of time.

Mary had nodded. It must be Mary who had called for you; else why should she have nodded? With confidence you darted at Mary’s chair, and seated yourself.

How they shrieked, and how they clapped; none louder than Mary, and none more vengefully than Lucy—Lucy, who, in truth, had called you, and whom you had unwittingly exasperated. Boys are so stupid!

Another victim of female duplicity, out you dived for the refuge of your own sex. You resolved that sometime you would pay Mary Webster back.

Billy Lunt went in next. What befell Billy was signalized by a sudden uproar of laughter and soprano cries, but no clapping!

Billy was being kissed!

“A-a-aw, Billy!” and all of you pointed your fingers at him, and prodded him in the ribs, when, crimson and rumpled, he reappeared.

“Who kissed you?”

“Mary Webster; she tried to but she didn’t do it square! I skinned out an’ they grabbed holt of me, an’ I broke away!” boasted Billy.

After clap-in and clap-out was instituted post-office, and after post-office, drop-the-handkerchief, and after drop-the-handkerchief ensued King William, sung with whatever variations local tongues had given to the old, old rhyme:

King _Will_-yum was King _James’s_ son,
And he-e-e th’ royal _race_ did run;
Upo-o-on his breast he wore a sta-a-ar
Which pe-e-eople called the _sign_ of war.
Now cho-o-ose the east, now cho-o-ose the west,
And cho-o-ose the one that _you_ love best;
If _she’s_ not here to _take_ your part,
Go cho-o-ose another with _all_ your heart.
Down _on_ this carpet _you_ must kneel,
As su-u-ure’s th’ grass grows _in_ the field—

and then, as everybody knows, you are supposed to “kiss your sweet,” and “rise up_on_ your feet.” Some couples kissed, but some wouldn’t.

The gulf ’twixt the boy and the girl factions has long since been effectually spanned. Mindful of Mary’s meanness in befooling you into accepting her inhospitable chair, you devote yourself to Lucy. At first Lucy is lukewarm, and with a pout of distaste only languidly pursues you after you have deposited the handkerchief behind her. You obey a command to “bow to the wittiest, kneel to the prettiest, and kiss the one you love the best,” but although this last honor you would bestow upon Lucy, and struggle desperately to salute her, she grants you merely the tip of an ear.

You persevere in your attentions, and by repeatedly twitching her hair-ribbon into disorderly streamers, you arouse her interest in you. You chase her, screaming, up-stairs and down; and in return she, with screaming unabated, chases you down-stairs and up, and chastises you with playful little slaps and pinches.

Other couples are similarly engaged. Yet you all are “good,” as goodness goes, among your generation.

Out of what is rapidly verging upon chaos, the summons to refreshments brings organization once more. The majority of the boys, comprising the ruder spirits and the so-to-speak unattached, gather in a corner, where it is each for himself and pillage your neighbor. The politer boys, which class includes yourself, stimulated to their duty by Mrs. Daner, attend upon the fair ladies.

You watch protectingly over Lucy, gallantly letting her have the largest piece of cake, although you covet it yourself, and essaying to practise other denials such as have been impressed upon your memory by your mother.

You and Lucy converse. Your “Gee! ain’t this bully!” and her ecstatic response, “My! ain’t it, though!” establish between you a delightful understanding. For her entertainment you dexterously insert into your mouth a whole cookie.

“Oh, Johnny! How awful!” she sniggers.

The ice-cream is chocolate and vanilla, and everybody takes both. Hen seems not to be aggrieved by the absence of strawberry. Not being a ladies’ man, he is in the corner with kindred souls, but you can hear him.

The dishes are large.

“Piggie!” upbraids Lucy, when, having been solicited, you accept a second. Nevertheless, she does not refuse a spoonful from it, now and then.

Last come the candies, amidst which are fascinating motto-wafers, always the source of much mirth and amusement.

All the company exchange mottoes. You and Lucy limit your operations chiefly to one another. For instance, you present her with a pink motto, shaped like a four-leaf clover, which says;

“Are you fickle-minded?”

“You are too stout!” replies Lucy, with a circular disk in cream color.

“Forget me not,” you entreat—the words being done in red upon a white diamond.

“All in life is dear,” answers Lucy, rather vaguely, with a greenish hexagon.

“Are you in earnest?” you query—a pink heart.

“Ask pa’s consent,” suggests Lucy, unmaidenly as the encouragement may appear, with an indented square.

You have to trade around among various friends before you can effectually respond. Sly Mary Webster supplies you with “Say now!” of which you immediately avail yourself.

“Will you marry me?” asks Lucy, dared thereto by companions, while those in the secret whoop and shriek at her boldness.

“Of course I will,” you assure her, providentially possessing the very reply, on a yellow oval.

“That’s what!” comments Lucy.

The remark deserves better, but the best that you can do is a “With all my heart,” on a pink star.

* * * * *

The festivities of the evening are over. It is time to go home. Most of the mottoes have eventually been eaten, and the rest of them have been stuffed, along with other sweets, into greedy pockets. Already some of the girls have been called for by kinspeople, and some of the boys have scrambled through the hall, and noisily fled into the street. You encounter Lucy at the foot of the stairs, and hastily thrust into her hand a motto that you have been saving—a fine shamrock in yellow, which says for you:

“May I see you home to-night?”

There is a motto-wafer with a mitten on it; has Lucy one, and will she be moved to give it to you, as a mischievous rebuff? No; lacking ready answer, she only giggles and attempts to pass on.

“But may I? I ain’t foolin’—truly I ain’t!” you beseech, husky in the stress of the moment.

“_I_ don’t care,” calls back Lucy, half-way up the flight.

And so, much to the disgust of Hen, who had counted upon your society going as well as coming, you “saw her home” in the most exemplary fashion—you keeping to one edge of the walk, and she to the other, and between your parallel routes space for a coach and four.

“Edith Lucas is mad ’cause I said I’d go home with _her_,” vouchsafes Lucy.

“Pooh! We don’t mind, do we?” you affirm, employing a delightful plural.

“Uh-uh,” agrees Lucy.

Beatific silence thenceforth encompassed your route until the Rogers front gate was reached.

“Good-night!” piped Lucy, scampering for the door.

“Good-night!” cried you, running deliriously down the street.

And the next day all the boys in town pestered you with their teasing: “Aw, John! went home with a girl!” and you find “John Walker is Lucy Roger’s beau,” chalked upon horse-blocks and walks and gate-posts.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

MIDDLETON’S HILL

------------------------------------------------------------------------

------------------------------------------------------------------------

MIDDLETON’S HILL

ALL night those new and cherished acquisitions, your copper toed boots, had served patient sentry-duty beside your peaceful couch, now wistfully to wonder why their lord and master did not awaken and see what had happened.

The rising-bell summoned you, but you only protested, blind, and snuggled for another snooze.

“Snowing, John! Get up!” called father.

“Scrape, scrape,” came to your ears the warning of an early shovel.

Your heart gave a wild hurrah, open popped your eyes, to the floor you floundered, to the window you staggered. Sure enough! The sill was heaped to the lower panes, and in the air the flakes were as thick as swarming bees.

Ecstatically alive, you hustled on your clothes, bestowed on face and hair a cold lick and a hasty promise, and in the copper-toed boots (eager for the fray) raced noisily down the stairs.

You found the household less exhilarated and enthusiastic than you had expected.

“Well, this _is_ a snowstorm!” commented mother, in a blank way, pouring the coffee.

“Um-m-m! You bet!” you mumbled.

“It’s good for all day, I guess,” said father solemnly, sipping from his cup as he gazed out.

“Oh, dear! Do you think so?” sighed mother, aghast.

“Oh, gee! I hope so!” sighed you, fervently.

“Shouldn’t wonder if we had a foot or more, by night,” continued father.

You heard him rapturously. Father knew—but it seemed almost too good!

Fourteen buckwheat cakes were all that you could allow yourself, this morning. The snow needed you; and grabbing cap and scarf and mittens, with a battle-cry of defiance and joy you rushed, by the back door, into the furious vortex. The crackling stove, the cheery carpet, the warm, balmy, comfortable atmosphere of indoors appealed not to you.

First, exultantly you dragged forth for a preliminary canter your faithful sled, long since extricated from summer quarters and held in readiness for action. The snow proved satisfactory.

“Ain’t this dandy!” you shouted through the driving flakes, across from chores in your back yard to Hen at chores in his back yard.

“You bet you!” agreed Hen.

So it was, for boys; and Madam Nature, hovering anxiously near, knew that her efforts were appreciated.

“Won’t the hill be bully, tho’!” you jubilated.

“Golly!” reflected Hen.

“Got your runners polished yet?” he asked. “Mine’s all rust.”

“So are mine,” you replied.

Down crowded the snow—there never are such snows, nowadays; so jolly, so welcome, so free from disagreeable features—and in school and as you ploughed back and forth and shoveled your paths, you and your comrades were riotously happy.

Down tumbled the snow—great, soft flakes of it like shredded wool-pack—until, when it ceased, as much had fallen as heart of boy could wish for, which was considerable more than would have satisfied the majority of other people.

The hill was covered, and “sliding” was to be “dandy”—and that was your sole thought. Why else had the snow come?

To-day you remember that hill, don’t you? Middleton’s Hill! Of course you do! The best hill that ever existed. Perfect—for coasting. Ideal—for coasting. Grand—for coasting. Therefore an invaluable possession, although, be it said, of importance rather underestimated by the public generally.

The hill started off gently; suddenly, with a dip, increased its slope; and after a curve, and a splendid bump over a culvert, merged with the level roadway. Difficult enough to ascend in muddy spring, in dusty summer, and even in hard fall, when with the winter it came into its own and was polished by two hundred runners, horse and man usually sought another route. It was practically surrendered to you and yours, as your almost undisputed heritage.

To be sure, occasionally some rebellious citizen attempted to adapt it to his own selfish ends by sprinkling ashes, in a spasmodic fashion, athwart it; but a little snow or water soon nullified the feeble essay. To be sure, occasionally a stubborn driver, his discretion less than his valor, tilted at the glistening, glassy acclivity; and while his horses, zigzagging and slipping, toiled upward, you and yours hailed him as a special gift of Providence and gleefully hitched on behind.

Yes, it was a paragon of a hill, with a record of pleasure to which here and there a broken bone (soon mended) lent but additional zest.

* * * * *

The hill is ready. The track, at first traced by the accommodating sleds and feet of a pioneer few, gradually has been packed and polished until now it lies smooth, straight-away, inviting.

The hill is ready. So are you. Your round turban-like cap is pulled firmly upon your head and over your ears, your red tippet (mother knit it) twice encircles your neck, crosses your breast, and is tied (by mother) behind in a double knot, your red double mittens (mother knit them and constantly darns them) are on your hands, and your legs and feet are in your stout copper-toed, red-topped boots. And your cheeks (mother kissed them) are red, too.

Twitched by its leading-rope, follows you, like a loyal dog, your sled—a very fine sled, than which none is finer.

“Say, but she’s slick, ain’t she!” glories Hen, as you and he hurriedly draw in sight of your goal. From all quarters other boys, and girls as well, are converging, with gay chatter, upon this Mecca of winter sport. Far and wide has gone forth the word that Middleton’s hill is “bully.”

“Ain’t she!” you reply enthusiastically.

With swoop and swerve and shrill cheer down scud the sleds and bobs of the earlier arrivals, and the spectacle spurs you to the crest.

Panting, you reach it.

“You go first,” you say, to Hen.

“Naw; you,” says he.

“All right. I’d just as lief,” you respond.

Breast-high you raise your sled, its rope securely gathered in your hands.

“Clea-ear the track!” you shriek.

“Clea-ear the track!” echoes down the hill, from the mouths of solicitous friends.

You give a little run, and down you slam, sled and all, but you uppermost; a masterly exposition of “belly-bust.” Over the crest you dart. The slope is beneath you, and now you are off, willy-nilly.

“Clea-ear the track!” again you shriek, with your last gasp.

You have begun to fall like a rocket, faster, faster, ever faster, through the black-bordered lane. The wind blinds your eyes, the wind stops your breath, the wind sings in your ears, like an oriflamme stream and strain your tippet-ends, and the snow-crystals spin in your wake. Dexterously applying your toes you steer more by intuition than by sight. You dash around the curve; you strike the culvert, and it flings you into the air until daylight shows ’twixt you and your steed; ka-thump! you have landed again; and presently over the level you glide with slowly decreasing speed until, the last glossy inch covered, the uttermost mark possible, this time, attained, you arise, with eyes watery and face tingly, and stand aside to watch Hen, who comes apace in your rear.

“Aw, that ain’t fair! You’re shovin’! That don’t count!” you assert, as Hen, in order to equal your mark, evinces an inclination to propel with his hands, alligator fashion.