Chapter IV: Part 4

Hen sheepishly desists, and scrambles to his feet.

“Cracky! That’s a reg’ler old belly-bumper, ain’t it!” he exclaims joyously.

He refers to the delicious culvert. You assent. The culvert is a consummation of bliss to which words even more expressive than Hen’s may not do justice.

Up the slope, in the procession along its edge, you and he trudge; and down again, in the procession along its middle, you fly. Over and over and over you do it, and the snow fills sleeve and neck and boot-leg.

Occasionally, with much noise but little real speed, adown the track comes a girl, or two girls. The majority of them, however, use a track of their own—a shorter, slower track, off at one side. Poor things, condemned by fate to their own company and that of the smallest, timidest urchins, they pretend to have exciting times.

They sit up straight, girls do, the ethics of society seeming to deny them the privilege of “belly-buster,” and on high sleds—nothing can be more ignominious than a “girl’s sled”—scraping and screaming, showing glimpses of red flannel petticoats as they prod with their heels, acting much like frightened hens scuttling through a yard they plough to their goal.

For a girl to essay the big hill appears to be “no end of” an undertaking. First she—or, probably they, inasmuch as girls usually adventure in pairs, to encourage each other; first they, then, squat on their flimsy sled, girl fashion (another reproach this: “girl fashion”), and titter and shriek; and the one on behind urges by “hitching” with her feet in the peculiar girl way, and the one on before holds back with her feet and says:

“Wait!”

They wait for bob and sled to precede, until with frantic unanimity of action they seize upon a favorable interim betwixt coasters, and with trepidation are off.

But you overtake them.

“Look out!” you yell, as on your bounding courser you eat up the trail.

“Look out!”

You try to retard your speed by dragging your copper toes. Anticipating the shock of collision you lift the forward part of you, like a worm reconnoitering.

“Look ou-out!”

One last agonizing appeal. And now the pesky girls, glancing behind with sudden apprehension in utmost haste and terror-stricken confusion, amidst wild cries, by dint of laboring feet veer ditchward, stop on the brink, and as you shoot past rise flustrated and gaze after.

Well, they have spoiled your slide. You had a grand start, and goodness knows where you might have gone to. Darn it, why can’t girls stay on their own track!

Yes, indeed. Nevertheless, budding chivalry grafted upon natural superiority prompts you to take Somebody down on a real ride. You would like this Somebody, if the other boys would only let you; but most of the time you cannot afford to.

A sparkling little figure in white hood, fur-trimmed jacket, white mittens strung about her neck, and plaid skirt well wadded out over long leggins, with her ridiculously high sled (girl-sled) she stands by looking on.

“Want to go down, once? I’ll take you,” you offer bluffly.

From amidst the giggling society of her sex she bravely advances, and obediently seats herself on your sled.

“Oh, Lucy! I’d be ’shamed! Sliding with a boy! Oh, Lucy!”

Lucy wriggles disdainfully.

“Don’t you wish _you_ could!” she retorts.

“Aw, John! Takin’ a girl! ’Fore I’d be seen takin’ a girl!” joins in the gibing chorus of your mates.

You hurriedly shove off.

“You got room enough?” asks your solicitous passenger.

“Lots,” you affirm huskily; and crouched to steer you leave the derisive crest behind you.

Down you spin—you and Lucy, both gripping hard the sled; your shoulder pressing against her soft back, and her hair-ribbon whipping across your mouth as you peer vigilantly ahead.

Here is the culvert.

“Hold on tight!” you warn.

“Whisk—slam!”

With a tiny scream from Lucy you have landed, right side up, the three of you.

“Wasn’t that bully?” you query reassuringly.

But Lucy must first recover her breath.

This she does when finally, the sled having entirely ceased motion, you and she must fain disembark.

“My!” she gasps. “I jus’ love to go fast like that, don’t you?”

Her tone conveys volumes. Suffused with proud gratification you pick up the rope.

“You’re a splendid steerer, aren’t you!” she says admiringly.

“Huh!” you scoff. “Steerin’’s easy.”

“Get on and I’ll haul you up,” you proffer.

“Won’t I be too heavy?” she objects, delighted.

“Naw,” you assert. “You’re nothin’.”

Ignoring jeers and flings you carry out your voluntary program, to the very end.

“Thank you ever so much,” pipes Lucy, nimbly running to rejoin her own kind.

Shamefacedly you lift your sled, and with a tremendous belly-buster are away again; and when once more you reach the crest your straggle from grace will have been forgotten.

And at last, wet through and through, countenance like a polished Spitzenburgh (you have a right to the simile, as the barrel in the cellar will testify), hands and feet like parboiled lobsters, reluctant to withdraw but monstrously hungry, you arrive at home to be fed.

“_John!_ Don’t come in here that way! Go right into the kitchen and take off your boots. Mercy!” expostulates mother, as in you stamp, leaving a slushy trail and munching a doughnut as a sop to that clamorous stomach.

Wearily you return to the kitchen, and apply your oozy, slippery boots to the bootjack. Then, having abandoned your footgear, their once gay tops now a sodden maroon and their copper toes already showing effects of the friction whereby they steered you down the hill, to steam behind the kitchen stove, you obey orders to go upstairs and change into the dry clothing that mother has thoughtfully laid out.

What a nuisance mothers are! Oh, dear, won’t supper _ever_ be ready!

“Billy Lunt an’ Chub Thornbury’s got a bob. Let’s us make one,” proposed Hen.

“Let’s,” you agreed.

So, combining equipments, you and he proceeded, in emulation. The two sleds were connected by a board seven feet long, bolted as securely as possible to the rear sled, and fastened to the front one by a single bolt which acted as a pivot—and which, at a sudden jerk, would pull out, and throw the major portion of the bob upon its own resources.

However, the bob was a very good bob, and when cleverly shoved off and expertly steered gallantly maintained itself against all comers; even against Fat Day’s more aristocratic “boughten” bob, which, with its gay paint and varnish and rail “hand-holts,” was the pride of Fat’s heart and the apple of his stingy eye.

Hen steers (for steering is a science) and you shove off (for shoving off is an art). Between you two, pilot and captain of the craft, it packed, on occasion, an inconceivable number of passengers, with always room for one more.

“Gimme a ride. Lem_me_ ride!” beseech friends.

“Aw, you can’t! There ain’t any room!”

“There is, too! I can get on, all right.”

“G’wan! Don’t you let him, John! Don’t you let him, Hen! We’re all squashed now!”

This from the jealous load already booked.

“Shove up, can’t you! Aw, shove up! What’s the matter with you! There’s lots of room!”

And the pestiferous intruder squeezes in. The bob looks like a gigantic caterpillar upside down, so thick are the heads and shoulders in a series of ridges. The board creaks. The load also complains, grunting uneasily as each boy, fitting like a bootjack into the boy before, his legs stretched horizontally along either flank, tries to “shove up closer.” Hen, his feet braced against the stick nailed across the points of the guiding sled, is the only unit of the mass that enjoys any elbow-space. But then, the pilot of a vessel is _ex officio_ the favored personage.

“Darn it, lift up your feet, there!”

“Then somebody hold ’em! Grab my feet, somebody!”

“Whose feet _I_ got, anyway?”

“Aw, quit your shovin’ so!”

“G’wan an’ push off. We don’t want any more.”

“Gimme some room!” you plead. “I only got about an inch!”

They hitch along, and cede you another inch.

“Clea-ear the track!”

You bend and push. The bob starts. It gathers way. One concluding effort, and you land aboard just as it is outstripping you; and kneeling upon your scant two inches, hanging for dear life to the shoulders of the boy in front of you, are embarked for your rapturous yet excruciating flight.

With lurch and leap, with whoop and cheer, down zips the bob, every lad clutching his neighbor as he may, each cemented to each—but you, out in the cold, clutching most desperately of all.

“I’m fallin’ off!” you announce wildly.

The two inches are only one and a half.

“Jocko’s fallin’ off!”

How delightful—for the others! The news of your lingering predicament is received with hoots of wicked glee.

Around the curve, with everybody leaning, and the rear sled slewing outward whilst you balance on its extreme edge. Going—

Over the culvert, a double jounce, and now you are all but gone. Going, going—

On the level, nearing the finish, speed slightly abated; and now your tired fingers relax, you cannot hang on any longer, your knees slip, going, going—_gone_; but gone more gracefully than you had reason to expect.

“You didn’t gimme any room!” you accuse, angrily, when you meet your squad as in rollicking mood they tow the bob back toward the crest.

* * * * *

The old hill is not what it used to be. It has been “graded.” No more do the sleds flash adown as they once did. A new-fangled set of city ordinances forbids. Hazardous curve and inspiring “belly-bumper,” tippet and copper-toed boots, clipper and bob, have vanished together, leaving only a few demure little boys in overcoats, and demure little girls in muffs and boas, who sit up straight and properly descend, at a proper pace, along the outskirts—and think that they are having fun!

Good-by, old hill.

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GOIN’ SWIMMIN’

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GOIN’ SWIMMIN’

THE sun was laying a fervid course higher and higher athwart the bending blue; in household kitchens was the odor of sassafras tea—and in your mouth the taste of it; the air was humid, the earth was mellow, winter flannels a sticky burden, shoes burning shackles; snakes had long been out, and turtles were emerging, to bask, and to pop in, as of old, with exasperating freedom; you yearned to follow them.

The water _looked_ warm. Snoopie Mitchell, always authority on everything, bluffly asserted that it _was_ warm. But Snoopie appeared to have a hide impervious to discomfort. Snoopie did as he pleased, and nothing ever hurt him, notwithstanding. Sometimes you wished that your father and mother would observe, and learn, to your profit.

“Dare you to go in swimmin’!” volunteered Billy Lunt, that hot spring noon, when it seemed to you that you must burst out of your smothering clothes as a snake out of his skin.

“Aw, we ain’t afraid; are we, Hen?” you answered promptly, enrolling Hen for support.

“No. We’ll go if you will,” retorted Hen.

“Snoop Mitchell—he’s been in an’ he says it’s dandy,” informed Billy.

Of course! That Snoopie! He was well named.

“Aw—I bet he ain’t, just the sam-ee,” you faltered enviously.

“He has, too. You ask him, now.”

And Snoopie at the moment opportunely sauntering near, Billy hailed him:

“Snoopie! Ain’t you been in swimmin’ already?”

Snoopie grandly nodded, and nonchalantly spat betwixt two front upper teeth.

“Course I have,” he answered. “Ain’t you kids been in yet? Aw, gee!”

“Was it warm?” you inquired humbly.

“Jus’ right. Makes you feel fine. We go in every day, about—me an’ Spunk Carey.”

That settled it. The swimming season had opened.

During the afternoon at school you and Hen and Billy were in an ecstatic tremor. From behind his geography Billy darted into sight two fingers, you responded, daringly, with two fingers, and Hen telegraphed quick accord with like two fingers—the mysterious “V” sign of the Free Masonry of swimmers.

Teacher saw, and frowned; but “teacher,” by reason of her limitations of sex, could not appreciate what you were having, and what she was missing.

With a proud consciousness, you and Hen and Billy foregathered after school and started creekward.

“We’re goin’ swimmin’!” you called back to former associates.

“Aw, it’s too cold!” they complained.

“We don’t care. ‘Twont’ hurt us.”

“Bet you don’t go in!”

“Bet you a hundred dollars we do!”

“Bet you two hundred you don’t!”

(Dollars meant so much less to you in those days than in these.)

“You come along and see!”

“Uh-uh. We’re goin’ to play ball.”

Very well; let them stay and play ball, if they liked. You would be entitled to strut on the morrow.

In the afternoon sun the creek lay smiling, inviting, deluding. Upon its bank a new crop of tin cans testified that the fishing season, also, had opened. Some of the cans were yours. The grass was soft, and sitting on it you vied with Hen and Billy in pulling off shoes and stockings.

“First in!” challenged Billy, hastily peeling.

You fumbled with the buttons which united waist with knickerbockers, and silently resolved that you would let him beat. Evidently Hen was of mind identical. Billy, now naked like some young faun, but singularly white and spindly, gave a coltish little kick and prance, and, with ostentatious gusto, advanced to the water’s edge.

Yourself exposed to the world, feeling oddly bare and defenseless—a feeling which with wont would disappear, as the summer wore on—you stood and, shivering, wrapped yourself in your arms and watched him.

Billy stuck a toe into the water and quickly drew it back.

“Is it cold?” you queried.

“Naw! Come on!” he urged.

“Let’s see you go in first.”

“That ain’t fair. You come in, too!”

“Naw! You dared us. You got to do it first,” declared Hen.

“Huh, I ain’t afraid,” asserted Billy.

Resolutely he put one foot in. Involuntarily he flinched—but he followed it with the other. Witnessing his actions, reading that his toes were curling, you and Hen jeered and whooped. As you jeered, you continued to huddle, and to shrink within yourself. Gee, but it was cold! Somehow, the sun did not warm, and a little breeze, heretofore unnoted, enveloped you with an icy breath. You humped your shoulders, and your teeth chattered. Hen’s teeth, also, were chattering. You could hear them.

“Go on! Duck over!” you told Billy, derisively.

Billy was game. Suddenly, with water up to his quaking knees, he ducked. In an instant he was upright again—staggering, gasping, sputtering, but triumphant.

“Come on in!” he implored, wildly solicitous that you and Hen, hooting your glee, should participate more actively. “’Tain’t cold. What’s the matter with you?”

Followed by Hen you diffidently moved forward. Shivering, gingerly you teetered down, twigs and little stones hurting your yet tender soles.

Billy ducked again, apparently with the utmost relish, and floundered and splashed, his energy very marked.

You experimented with a foot—and hastily jerked it out.

“Gee!” you exclaimed. “I ain’t goin’ in! It’s too cold.”

“I ain’t, neither,” decreed Hen.

“Aw, ’tain’t cold a bit when you’ve wet over,” assured Billy eagerly—but suspiciously blue. “Take a dare—aw, I wouldn’t take a dare! You’re stumped! Yah-ah! I’ve stumped you!”

Diabolically did Billy flounder and gibe. He paused, expectantly, for you planted a foot, and gasped, and followed with the other; so did Hen.

Billy playfully splashed you.

“Come on!” he cried. “Come on!”

“Ouch! Quit that, will you?” you snarled, as the poignant drops stung your thin skin. “I’m comin’, ain’t I?”

Deeper, a little deeper, you went, with your piteously pleading flesh trying to recede from that repellant glacial line creeping up, inch by inch.

Billy shrieked with joy. What is misery when it has company!

“Duck!” he cackled. “Duck! ’Twon’t be cold after you’ve ducked.”

Must you? Oh, must you? Yes. You drew a long breath, shut your eyes, and desperately butted under. So, you dimly were conscious, did Hen.

Ugh! You choked; your stomach clove flat against your backbone, and in you was not space for air. Blindly you recovered, and lurched and clawed and fought for breath, while Billy rioted with wicked exultation.

“’Tain’t c-c-cold, is it?” you gasped defiantly.

“No; ’tain’t c-c-cold a bit,” chattered Hen.

“I told you ’twasn’t cold,” sniggered Billy.

But you impetuously plashed for shore; so did Hen; so did Billy. With numbed fingers you made all haste to pull your clothes over the goose-flesh of your weazened limbs and your shuddering little body. You began to grow warmer. You tried to control rattling teeth.

“’Twasn’t cold!”

“Of course it wasn’t!”

“We’ll tell all the kids it’s bully.”

“Gee! I feel fine, don’t you?”

“You bet!”

“Let’s come again.”

“Let’s come to-morrow.”

“N-no, I can’t come to-morrow,” you declared.

“I can’t, either,” said Hen.

Retrospect was most delightful; but prospect—well, here was a case where the prospect did _not_ please. Anyhow, you had not been stumped. Your honor was intact—and you could rest on your laurels. You could nicely combine discretion with valor; so why not?

“I’ve been in swimmin’,” you ventured, with becoming modesty, at the supper-table that evening.

“John! When?” reproved mother, aghast

“To-day, after school.”

You endeavored to speak with the carelessness befitting a seasoned nature such as yours—but you awaited with some inward trepidation family developments.

“Why!” ejaculated mother.

You felt that she was gazing across at father. Much depended, you realized, upon father. However, he had been a boy, and he surely would understand.

“But wasn’t the water too cold?” she questioned anxiously.

“Uh-uh,” you signified, steadily eating.

“It _must_ have been cold,” insisted mother. “Why, the sun hasn’t had time to warm it yet. I should think you’d have frozen to _death_!”

“It was dandy. Makes you feel fine,” you assured boldly. “Billy Lunt dared Hen and me, and—”

“I suppose if some other boy dared you to jump off the top of the church steeple you’d do it, then,” stated mother severely.

“He’d have to do it first,” you explained with a giggle.

“Well, I _should_ think you’d have frozen,” murmured mother, with an appealing glance at father.

Perhaps _she_ would have frozen—being, like “teacher,” of a sex unfortunate. But not you—nay, not mighty, dauntless, much-experienced you, with your ten long years backing you up. Huh!

* * * * *

Not always was swimming thus a task; the embrace of the creek, deceitful and inhospitable.

Ah, those glorious, piping, broiling summer days, when from the faded sky the heat streamed down, and from the simmering earth the heat streamed up; when abroad, in the maples and the elms and the apple-trees incessantly scraped with ghoulish glee the locusts, and in the fields the quail cried perseveringly, “Wet! More wet! More wet!” when the sun ruled absolutely, and everybody—save you and your fellows—stewed and panted under his sway; “dog-days”—aye, and, boy-days! Then, then, at the swimming-hole the kingdom of boyhood held high carnival.

All nature lay lax and heaving, seeking shade and avoiding exertion, as outward bound through the stifling afternoon you and Hen hastened for the swimming-hole. Even the birds were subdued, and the drone of the bumble-bee was languid, protesting; but what did you and Hen care about such things as temperature or humidity? Goodness! You were “goin’ swimmin’!”

As you pattered on, you and he, the boards of the sidewalk scorched your bare soles, toughened as they were, and even the baked earth of the pathway along the vacant lots tortured, so than with “ouches” and “gees” you hopped for shaded spots or sought the turf. Beat down upon your flapping straws the strenuous sun—his beams, after all, not unfriendly, but merely testing, and in a hearty way, welcoming.

He recognized you two as akin to the meadowlarks and the gophers, and he knew that he might not harm you. You were immunes.

The outskirts of the village are reached right speedily; and now off at a tangent, athwart the drowsy, palpitating pasture where the bees are busy amidst the clover, making for a fringe of trees leads a path worn by many a hurrying, bare, and buoyant sole.

You can hear, ahead of you, an enthusing medley of gay shrieks and cries and laughter.

“Crickety!” you say to Hen, quickening the pace. “There’s a whole lot in already!”

And you are not even undressed!

On before, between the tree-trunks at your destination, you can glimpse, strewn over the sod or hanging from low branches, rejected and dejected garments—limp shirts, hickory, checked, tinted; stumpy trousers, dangling or down-flung. You descry the patchy blue of Snoopie Mitchell’s one-suspendered overalls; so you know that Snoopie is there. You know who else is there, too. The apparel is evidence.

The sight redoubles your efforts. In rivalry with Hen, panting, perspiring, eager, you penetrate the trees and stop short on the bank. You have arrived.

Yes, here they are: Snoopie, and Billy Lunt, and Fat Day (his body covered with hives), and Skinny, and Chub, and Nixie Kemp (who can exhibit the biggest vaccination mark of all of you), and Tom Kemp (who is always peeling, somewhere), and—oh, a glorious company, wallowing like albino porpoises, threshing like whales!

“A-a-a-ah, lookee, lookee!” greets Snoopie (indefatigable, omnipresent) shrilly, grinning up at you; and for your benefit he stands on his head and waves his brown legs above the surface.

“Hello, Fat!”

“Hello, Skinny!”

“Hello, Jocko!”

“Hello, Hen!”

“Hello, Nix!”

“Come on in! Come on in!”

“Gee! It’s dandy!”

“Water’s jus’ fine! Warm as milk.”

“You’re missin’ it! We been in all day.”

Harrowing announcement!

Nor you nor Hen needs invitation by word of mouth. You are ripping feverishly at your obstinate buttons, and tugging feverishly at your pestering clinging garments. But how absurdly simple was your attire, as reviewed to-day from your environment of starch and balbriggan, hosiery and collar. Nevertheless, many a time, in your agony of haste, you envied Snoopie, who with a single movement slipped the one suspender of his overalls and ducked out of his voluminous shirt, and with a whoop was in!—happy Snoopie!

Now, investing apparel cast aside in an ignominious heap, at last free and untrammeled you stride forward. From knee down and from neck up you are dark-brown; between, you are whitish-brown. Before the season closes you will be an even brown all over (like Snoopie), if your ambition is realized.

First you must wet your head. This is the law; else you may get cramps. You hurriedly wet it.

“Look out!” you warn with a significant step or two backward, to gain momentum.

You give a little run, and with a rapturous shout and a grand splash _you_ are in. So is Hen.

Oh, bliss! The caressing, rollicking flood envelops you to the shoulders. You wade, you kick, you sputter, you blow, you plunge your length, you squeal your joy intense—you convince yourself and would convince others that you swim; and your comrades wade, and kick, and sputter, and blow, and plunge their lengths, and squeal—and ostentatiously paddle. While Snoopie, crawling about under water, grabs legs; presently grabbing yours, and down you go, beneath, to emerge strangling, clutching, incensed.

Stirred from the very bottom, all the pool is beaten to foam, the sun looks down between the spangling leaves and smiles, and the trees fondly overhang, stretching down friendly boughs.

* * * * *

What a wonder you were, as a water performer!

“See me float!” you yell—this being the popular pitch of conversation.

And you _could_ float—almost, that is, until your feet or your face sank too far and forced you to rally.

“Aw, that ain’t floatin’! Jus’ watch me!” decrees Snoopie.

Snoopie really could float—and challenging admiring eyes he proceeds to display.

“Watch _me_!” implores Fat.

“Aw, gee! Watch Fat! Aw gee! That ain’t floatin’! That ain’t floatin’, is it, Snoop? Fat wiggles his hands down by his sides!”

“Don’t either!” declares Fat, angrily, flopping his mottled self to a standing position.

“You do, too! Don’t he?”

You could stand Snoopie’s superiority, but not Fat’s.

“Well, I didn’t wiggle ’em much, anyhow,” grumbles Fat.

With breath tight held and head tilted stanchly back, launching yourself and paddling furiously dog-fashion, you can easily imagine that you are cleaving a path through the murky flood.

“You’re touchin’ bottom! Aw, you touched bottom!” accuses Fat.

“I wasn’t, either, darn you! I started ’way up there at that stick and I come ’way down here!” (The distance is at least a yard.)

Betimes, splashing out, you all seek the banks, amphibious-like; to streak yourselves fantastically with mud, to cover yourselves luxuriously with hot sand, to race, to gambol, or to loll on the turf and emulously compare sunburn, “peels,” and vaccination scars.

In again you scamper, and the pool resumes its cauldron turmoil.

The sun, from his new station low in the west, sends rays slanting in beneath the trees to signal “Home.”

“Come on, I’m goin’ out!” says Hen. “You’d better, too. Your lips are blue as the dickens.”

“So are yours,” you retort. “Ain’t they, kids! Ain’t Hen’s lips bluer’n mine?”

A farewell wallow, and out you wade reluctantly. One by one out wade all. Your hands are shriveled with long soaking. You are water-logged. There is sand in your hair. Languidly you dress.

With Snoopie and Hen and Fat and Skinny and the others—a company now chastened and subdued—back you stroll across the pasture, the setting sun in your face, the robins piping their even-song, the locusts done and quiescent, katydids tentatively tuning up as their successors. The sky is golden in the west, pink overhead, blue in the east. Upon the clover the dew is collecting, annoying o’erzealous bees. Skinny and Nix drop off to the left, Snoopie to the right, each lining his straightest course for home.

“Good-night, kids!” they call back.

Now in the village, the little group rapidly dwindles. Presently only you and Hen and Billy remain.

Billy turns in.

At his gate Hen stops.

The next gate is yours. You are glad. You are tired—so tired—so very limp and tired—and so hungry!

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THE SUNDAY-SCHOOL PICNIC

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THE SUNDAY-SCHOOL PICNIC

’TWAS the day of the picnic—the Baptist picnic. You yourself were not, by family persuasion, a member of that denomination, but the Schmidts, next door, were, and by the grace of Hen, your crony, you were enabled to gain admittance, upon occasion, into the Baptist ’bus.

The ’bus was not scandalized. You had been in it before, as Methodist, Congregationalist, Unitarian—what not. So had Hen. Only a few little girls were shocked, and gazed at you disdainfully.

“_You_ ain’t a Baptist!” they accused.

“Neither’s Blanche Davis!” you retorted, carrying the debate into the enemy’s country. “I guess I’ve got as much right here as she has!”

“I came with Lucy Barrett,” informed Blanche, primly.

“An’ I come with Hen Schmidt. His father’s a deacon, too!” you asserted.

“Oh, he ain’t—is he, Mr. Jones? He ain’t—is he?” appealed the little girls, shrilly.

Mr. Jones, beaming with long-suffering, Sunday-school-superintendent good humor, obligingly halted.

“Henry Schmidt’s father ain’t a deacon, is he?”

“Yes, I believe so,” affirmed Mr. Jones, pleasantly.

Thus you valiantly maintained your position—and Hen’s.

When you and Hen had pantingly arrived at the rendezvous you had found yourselves in the midst of baskets and bustle. The baskets gave forth fascinating, mysterious clinks. In your individual capacity of guest you had brought no basket of your own, but you had helped Hen carry down the Schmidt contribution, and you knew of what it spake and smelled, and you had peeked in under the cover. Besides, Hen had told you, in detail.

Clad in necessarily stout shoes, but quite superfluously clean waists, you and he, with the basket between, had hastened to the place of assembly.

Other boys appeared. Poor indeed was that wight who could not rake up a Baptist friend—particularly if his own church gave picnics. Therefore, behold, as at the millennium, the creeds of your world united to-day under one flag—which happened to be the Baptist.

Snoopie Mitchell, of course, was there. Snoopie usually went fishing or skating on Sunday; but at picnic-time and Christmas even he did not deny the comforts of the church.

“Hello!” you said.

“Hello!” said Snoopie nonchalantly. “Aw, you kids are too late!”

Snoopie never was too late. He had the instincts of the ranging shark, and, moreover, perfect freedom to obey them.

“Why?” demanded you and Hen breathlessly.

“They took it away. Gee! Two freezers bigger’n me!”

“More’n the Methodists had?” you inquired eagerly.

“You bet!” affirmed Snoopie.

You sighed—a happy, satisfied sigh.

The passenger ’buses arrived, two of them. They were greeted with a cheer, and scarcely had the gaunt, rusty, white horses of the foremost one swung about to back ere into it you all scrambled.

You and Hen promptly plumped down at the end—end seats and the seat with the driver being the choice ones.

“Children! Children! Be careful!” appealed the superintendent, mechanically. Poor man, already he had done a hard day’s work!

As well might he have cautioned a river running down-hill. Jostled past you girls and boys, elbows in ribs, shoulder thrusting shoulder, in a competition that recognized no sex. Like lightning the hack is occupied to overflowing; packed with two lines, facing each other, of flushed, excited children, with here and there a flustered matron; you and Hen, as stated, holding the end seats, Billy Lunt (he wasn’t a Baptist, either) up with the driver, but Snoopie, crafty, ragged Snoopie, hanging on at the steps!

The ’bus rolls off. You all shout back derisively at your outstripped associates.

Father had darkly hinted that you should take an umbrella and rubber boots, and spoken of “total immersion,” whatever that might be; but, lo, the sky is cloudless, the morn is of sparkling summer, the air is fresh, everything is lovely, the town is behind and the picnic before, and you don’t care, any more than you know, what he meant! You are in the ’bus; and the only person you envy is Snoopie, perilously clinging to its rear.

With the horses at a trot he springs on and off, drags his feet or sprints behind, and is continually saying “Lookee!” while he performs some new, adroit, impish deed. The women gasp and exclaim “Oh!” “I wish he wouldn’t!” and “Mrs. Miller, can’t _you_ stop him!” Then somebody’s hat blows off and creates a diversion.

Half a block in your wake is the other ’bus, and occasionally jogs apace a carriage, with suggestive rattle of dishes and bulge of hamper.

Your vehicle rumbles over a creek bridge and slowly rounds a curve.

“I see it! I see it!” announces Billy, wriggling on his elevation.

You all stretch necks to “see it,” too. Yes, there, just before, in the woods to the right, are the forms of the earlier invaders—the good men and women constituting the volunteer band of provision-arrangers.

The ’bus turns to the roadside. Issues from the driver a long and relieved “Whoa-oa!” But, even as he says it, you and the other boys are out, over the sides. Under the fence you scoot, to race, madly whooping, up the wooded slope, fearful lest you are missing something. After you scamper, more timidly, the little girls, and last of all, ungallantly consigned to bring the picnic odds and ends, toil your elders.

The ’bus rolls back to town, carrying a man or so delegated to get inevitably forgotten articles.

Now all the wood is riotous with scream and shout. It is a wood filled with possibilities. Early somebody discovers a garter-snake, and at the rallying-cry destruction violently descends upon the harmless thing. Immediately, dangling from the end of a stick, it spreads confusion wherever feminine humanity may be encountered. At its approach the little girls squeal and run, the larger girls shriek and expostulate, and the various mothers shrink and glare indignantly. The superintendent it is who boldly interferes, takes the limp reptile, and throws it away.

“There!” sigh glad onlookers.

But Snoopie marks its fall, and presently recovers it; thereafter to carry it around in his pocket, intent upon sticking it down unsuspecting comrades’ backs.

In the ravine is the shallow creek. As a means of entertainment the creek is about as good as the dead snake. ’Tis jump it and rejump it; ’tis wade it with shoes on and ’tis wade it with shoes off; and ’tis splash far and wide, to see which boy shall get the wetter.

Milder spirits may elect to search for “pretty flowers,” or “help mamma,” or play “Pussy Wants a Corner,” and “Ring Around a Rosie,” where solicitous eyes might fondly oversee; where busily labor and perspire the superintendent and assistants, hanging swings and hammocks, lifting, opening, and unpacking; where benignly moves the minister, diffusing unspoken blessings. But you and yours must have more strenuous recreation. So already, when word is transmitted that “they’re makin’ the lemonade,” your knickerbockers are torn from shinning up trees, your waist is limp from romping through the creek, and your face is red, and scratched, and streaming, and dirty.

You are having fun.

Lemonade! Two tubs of it, in the middle of each a lump of ice, about the ice floating disks of lemon, and a thirsty crowd encircling all.

“Be careful, children. Let the little girls drink first, boys. My, my! That’s not the way!” cautioned Mr. Jones, as, the supply of tin cups proving insufficient, some of you evinced a disposition to “get in all over.”

The little girls politely tripped off, wiping their mouths with their best handkerchiefs. You and Hen _et al._ lingered. Eventually the tubs were left unguarded. The moment seemed propitious for new diversion.

“Let’s see who can drink the most!” proposed Hen.

The idea was brilliant. To hear was to act.

It was plunge in your cup and gulp; and plunge it in and gulp; and fail not to throw the residue in your neighbor’s face. Fast and furious waxed the play, with Snoopie appearing to be sure winner.

“Aw, you ain’t drinkin’ it all! That ain’t fair!” you accused, and the other boys joined in.

“Shut up! I am, too!” replied Snoopie, angrily; and proceeded with his count: “Fourteen.”

Distanced, his competitors paused, and jealously, but half admiringly, watched.

“Bo-oys! Bo-oys!”

The gentle soprano voice with the reproachful, shocked inflection made you drop tin cups, the batch of you, and hastily look.

’Twas the minister’s wife. In power she stood above the superintendent, even, and only slightly below the minister himself.

“Why, why! You mustn’t do that!” she objected, bearing down.

Mustn’t you? Well, all right; there was lots else to do, and, soaked without and within, reeking of lemonade, you withdrew to do it.

“Gee—I drunk fifteen!” boasted Snoopie, patting his stomach.

He proved to be high man. Yourself had to your score only the modest aggregate of ten.

Behind, at the scene of the late contest, arose sounds of lamentation and dismay over the state of the tubs.

Stately, mute, impenetrable, with baffling rag-carpet covering their tops, in the shade stand the two ice-cream freezers, and on all sides of them the feet of you and your cronies, and of the little girls as well, have well-nigh worn bare the woodland sod. But now, torn away by less exalted emotions, you and Hen revolve around Mrs. Schmidt’s tablecloth spread on the ground and weighted down with dishes.

Here is to be your station at dinner. Other cloths there are, spread about, but Hen recommends his mother’s. There will be a family feeling, and less chance of neglect.

Drag slower and slower the minutes. Hen goes foraging, and returns gleefully with a cooky apiece. The delicious smell of sliced tongue and ham and boiling coffee permeates the air.

“Henry, if you and John don’t keep out from under foot, I’ll take you right straight home!” threatens Mrs. Schmidt, exasperated.

Other women, too, lower at you.

“Yes, boys,” chimes in the superintendent; “run away and play, and don’t bother the people getting dinner. When we’re ready we’ll call you.”

But, oh, dear, supposing something should be all eaten up before you got there!

At last, at the very last—as the French emphatically express it, _à la fin des fins_—your rebuffs are over. You are actually bidden to advance. ’Tis barely the wink of an eyelash, but ’tis enough; and before a word is spoken you are there, the two of you, sitting elbow to elbow, on your calves, against the cloth: greedy-eyed, watery-mouthed, faint-stomached.

From right and left come trooping young and old, none of them, save one or two couples from the Bible-class, trooping from very far. They settle like pigeons fluttering down to corn. About each cloth a circle is formed. Nobody is homeless. And isn’t it time to start in? Alas! not yet.

From his place (“Mr. Jones, _do_ sit down! You look tired to death. Sit right here!” has been the imploration, and he has yielded) the superintendent bobs up and loudly claps his hands, and says: “Sh!”

“Sh!” assist sundry whispers, as warning to you and your mates.

It is the blessing, for, as Mr. Jones subsides, the minister rises.

He prays long and fervently. Out of the corners of your eyes you continue to scan sandwich, and cake, and jelly, and pickles, while your nose wriggles like the nose of an inquiring rabbit. You wonder why the minister cannot quit; but, ignoring every good stopping-point, he proceeds on and on. You hear Hen groan with pent-up disgust. You slyly groan back.

“Amen.”

It has come! Mrs. Schmidt’s glance flashes rebuke in your direction, but neither you nor Hen cares. High swells an instant chorus of talk and rattling staccato of dishes. Hither and thither flit busy servers; and, behind the backs of the circle, down your way is progressing in solemn state a huge tray of sandwiches.

You watch it eagerly. It brushes your shoulder. You and Hen grab together. They are bun sandwiches, with cold boiled ham between. Your mouth opens against yours, and your teeth meet through it.

“Yum, yum!” you mumble ecstatically to Hen.

“Yum, yum!” agrees Hen.

Come other sandwiches—tongue and beef and potted ham; come cold fried chicken and pressed veal loaf; come jelly—several kinds—and pickles, sweet and sour. Sometimes you hesitate.

“I will if you will,” dares Hen; therefore you generally do.

Comes coffee, and more lemonade; comes pie—apple, lemon, blueberry, custard; comes cake—chocolate, lemon-layer, jelly-layer, plain, frosted, cocoanut, spice, angel-food.

“Um! Um!” revels Hen at intervals.

“Um! Um!” you respond, in perfect sympathy.

Comes ice cream in “heaping” saucers!

Come cookies and sweet crackers, ginger-bread, cream-puffs, kisses and oranges.

You both have been obliged to kneel—expanding, as it were, from your sitting posture. And now the feast is done. Vainly you view the débris; you have accomplished marvels, but you can do no more. You sigh, and, sucking an orange, reluctantly you stand. You waddle off, feeling fat and stuffy, to convene with the other boys, and compare notes.

“Aw, you ought to been at _our_ table!” claims Billy Lunt. “We had chocolate cake with chocolate an inch thick—didn’t we, Buck?”

“Buck” promptly assents.

“So’d we! So’d we!” retorts Hen. “An’ we had jelly-cake, an’—”

“So’d we!” inform rivals, bound to uphold the honors of their boards. “An’ lemon pie—”

“An’ custard, an’—”

“An’ pickled peaches—”

“Golly! I’m ’bout busted!” chuckles Billy, complacently.

Standing companionably by, Snoopie harkens and grins, but says little. Only from a bulging pocket he extracts another orange and drills into it. One may be certain that _he_, at least, has missed nothing.

Prudence might dictate a period of quiescence as a tribute to digestion. But the day is short, and a half a bun skimming into your midst—that is, into the midst of the group, not into your own midst, where it would have hard work to find lodgment—arouses you to retaliation. Back and forth and across fly the remnants from the various tablecloths, and applause greets every hit. Snoopie introduces a popular feature by plastering against a tree-trunk a fragment of a custard pie. Forthwith custard and lemon pie are at a premium, these being the kinds that stick. Then, interrupting the pleasant pastime, charge upon your ranks horrified witnesses, suddenly awakening to the crisis.

“Boys! Stop it! Stop it at once! The idea!”

Expostulating, they drive you all, shame-faced but sniggering, from the premises. You leave the plot looking as though a caisson laden with cartridges of lunch had exploded there!

The principal event of the day being over, your elders relax into a state more or less lethargic. The women sit and crochet and chat. The minister goes to sleep with a handkerchief on his face, and even some of your juniors follow suit—members of the infant class seeking the pillow of their mothers’ laps. The Bible-class wanders off in couples. The superintendent, only, is kept active by demands of “Swing me, Mr. Jones; please swing me!” from the little girls.

Naturally the inspiration for you and yours is to follow the Bible-class couples and spy upon them; when they think themselves nicely secluded and comfortably ensconced, to steal upon them; and in the midst of their innocent confidences to hoot upon them (with such delicate insinuations as “Aw, Mr. Johnson’s Miss Saxby’s beau!”—or “Say, Miss Lossing, Mr. Pugsley wants to kiss you!”)—and then to flee, riotously giggling.

It is four o’clock. Prolonged shouts from the throats of the superintendent and assistants echo through the woods, calling together the stragglers. The ’buses have arrived. Home-going must be accomplished early, on account of the “little ones.”

All right. If the day is done, another day is coming. You rush down, and you and Hen again secure the end seats. The ’bus fills, its load, on the whole, not so sprightly, nor so enthusiastic, nor so clean as in the morning.

Snoopie hangs on at the rear.

The driver says “Gid-dap!” Somebody replies with “Whoa!” “Whoa-oa!” supplement a score of voices. To frantic encouragement descends the hill, scurrying as if from Indians or bears, a belated, last Bible-class couple.

“Gid-dap!” once more urges the driver.

The ’bus moves. You yawn. Hen yawns. You are tired and sticky. Hen, also, is tired and sticky.

“Lookee!” bids Snoopie.

He throws away his dead snake; his pockets are empty again.

Yet in the depth of the aftermath you brighten. Your thoughts travel ahead. The Presbyterians are to have _their_ picnic next week!

“You goin’?” asks Hen.

“You bet!” you reply confidently.

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

THE OLD MUZZLE-LOADER

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

THE OLD MUZZLE-LOADER

THE old muzzle-loader was so much the taller that when you stood opposed to it, only by a series of hitches, a few inches at a time, could you extract the ramrod from the slot. In your aiming exercises you leaned so far backward that you formed almost a half circle. The stock was scarred, the hammer was loose, the barrel was rusted and the sight awry, but it was a fine gun; yes, a fine gun, fit for a boy to worship.

And when, with father coaching you, its barrel firmly supported in the crotch of the apple tree and its butt pressed against your throbbing chest, you shut your eyes and jerked the trigger, as you picked yourself up while invidious spectators gamboled and cheered, with what gusto did you assert that “it didn’t hurt a bit,” and avowed that you wanted to do it again.

How it happened that here you were, headed for the open country with the old muzzle-loader hoisted athwart your shoulder, probably no one alive remembers, but you—and Hen Schmidt, your aider and abettor as accessory after the fact. Dangling against your right knee was the powder flask, dangling against your left knee was the shot flask, and the two banged and rattled as you walked. In one trousers pocket were wads, in the other caps.

“Lemme carry it?” pleaded Hen.

You refused.

“Naw, sir!” you rebuked. “You don’t know how.”

“Just to that big tree,” persisted Hen.

You relented; and under your watchful eye Hen proudly bore the ennobling piece to the tree adown the dusty roadside. Exactly at the tree you claimed possession again.

To-day, looking back, can you not see yourself, a sturdy little figure trudging valorously onward, with the two flasks swaying and jiggling and the old gun cutting like sin into your uncomplaining flesh, and with heart so buoyed by the glorious present that it refused to think on the dubious future; and Hen, scarcely less elate, solicitous to relieve you of your burden, keeping pace, step for step?

The birds, flitting over or hopping upon either hand along your route, witnessed and gaily laughed. Well might they laugh, because with impunity. Your death-dealing weapon was not loaded; not yet. But presently you halt and in an angle of the rail fence you load, do the two of you, yourself operating, while Hen, keenly critical, at each movement declaims and suggests.

“Aw, gee! That ain’t enough powder!” scoffs Hen. “What you ’fraid of? If it was mine, you bet I’d put in twice as much!”

“I guess I know,” you retort. “Guess I’ve seen my father load more times ’n you ever have! What you want to do, bust it?”

The powder is dumped into the muzzle, the gun being propped slantwise so that you may work conveniently. The invincible grains fall in a tinkling shower through the black cylinder. You stuff in a wad.

“Here—” says Hen. “Lemme do it.”

You ram it down, and Hen rams it down. In goes the shot, No. 4, nice and large. You insert the final wad. You ram, and Hen rams.

“Look out!” you warn Hen, who edges so close as to joggle you; and with breathless care you press upon the nipple a cap, the way you have seen your father do, and you lower the protecting hammer over it, also the way you have seen your father do. Assisted by Hen you restore the ramrod to its groove. You straighten up. You are ready. You shoulder arms.

You and Hen climb the fence and scale the hill, upon whose slope begins your favorite patch of timber. Making sport of your backs, along the fence that you have just quitted scampers a chipmunk, but you do not know. Your thoughts are ahead.

The consciousness that your gun is charged imbues you with a strange thrill of importance. You are deadly. Come what may, lion, bear, wildcat, squirrel, rabbit, eagle, owl, partridge, you are prepared, so let them one and all beware.

You and Hen talk in guarded tones, whilst your four eyes rove hither and thither, greedy to sight prey. But under-foot, stealthy though you fancy your advance, rustle the dried leaves, spreading afar the news of your passage; and hushed though you consider your voices, they penetrate into sharp ears attuned to catch the slightest alien sound. Eyes, sharper than yours, widen and wait.

You would give the world to see a rabbit or a squirrel. You have just as much chance of seeing a rabbit or a squirrel as you have of seeing a hippopotamus. However, it doesn’t matter.

Hist! On before something twitters.

“There’s a bird!”

“Sh, can’t you! I hear him!”

Cautiously you and Hen steal forward, tip-toeing over crackling leaf and twig, your gaze riveted on the distance.

“I see him!” announces Hen, excitedly.

“Where?” you whisper.

“There—in that tree! Now he’s runnin’ ’round the trunk! He’s a woodpecker.” (Naturalists might cavil and term him a “warbler,” but just the same he acts like a woodpecker!) “Can’t you see him?”

Alas, you can’t—at least, you don’t. Hen cannot abide such stupidity. Besides, the thing is liable to make off.

“Ain’t you got any eyes? Gee whizz! Gimme the gun. I can pop him from here.”

Give Hen the gun? Well, hardly! You clutch it the tighter, and strain and peer. Now you glimpse him—a tiny chap in a pepper-and-salt suit, busily engaged in pecking at the bark beneath his toes.

“I see him!” you mutter exultantly.

You stoop; Hen stoops. You glide up, making service of covert afforded by tree and bush, and your flasks catch, and sometimes you step on them. Hen, too, glides, just behind, imitating your every movement.

The hour is portentous, but the dare-devil bird braves it and maintains his post at table. Possibly, deceived by your woodcraft (as you fondly suppose), he is oblivious to the fact that yard by yard two boys are drawing closer and closer. You are breathing hard, and to your rear pants Hen, for the advance has been onerous.

“G’wan and shoot! He’ll fly away,” urges Hen, hoarsely.

Yes, you are near enough. No. 4 shot at fifteen yards ought to do the business for that chap. You slowly settle upon your knees, behind the tree trunk which is your shelter, and cock your piece. At the click the “woodpecker” for an instant ceases operations, and flirts his tail inquisitively.

“Darn it—you’ve scared him!” you accuse Hen, who shifts and squirms at your back, in attempts to secure a better view. Hen holds himself in suspense, apparently well-nigh suffocating with the effort. You bring your piece to bear, but it is so long and awkward that you are being worsted in the struggle, when Hen eagerly proposes:

“Lay it on my shoulder!”

You recede a little, and Hen wriggles forward, the transfer being accomplished with mingled fear and haste.

Hen’s shoulder is rather low for an ideal rest, but you may not complain. You sink as far as possible, and aim. The muzzle projects beyond the tree trunk, and wavers in space. Beyond the space is your suspicious woodpecker, a creature of the most unexpected and eccentric movements imaginable. He never stays “put.” Just as the sight approaches him, he changes position; and just as he approaches the sight, it changes. A conjunction of the two seems hopeless.

“Why don’t you shoot? What’s the matter with you?” gasps Hen.

You shut both eyes. Boom!

Backward you keel, head down, heels up, and the gun, jumping from Hen’s shoulder, rasps along the tree to the ground.

“Did I hit him? Where’d he go?” you cry frantically, staggering to your feet.

Hen is bounding toward the tree whereon the impudent bird had been foraging. You wonder that the tree yet remains, but there it is, to all appearances as hale as ever.

“Did I hit him?” you repeat, seizing the gun and following.

“I dunno. But he flew off kind of funny,” reports Hen.

“Find any blood? I bet I wounded him like everything, anyhow!” you assert. The woodpecker must have bled internally, for, search as you two might, no tell-tale splashes of gore could be discovered. There were even no feathers. You scanned the tree, but upon close inspection it still persisted in acknowledging no damage, despite the frightful leaden deluge to which you had subjected it.

“Aw, you missed him! Aw, gee!” suddenly bemoans Hen, overcome by disappointment.

“Didn’t neither. He flew just when I shot, and I couldn’t stop!” you reply, defensively—unmindful of the discrepancy evident between your denial and your excuse.

“If you’d let me shoot I’d have got him,” declares Hen, unplacated.

You proceed to load. Hen moodily holds aloof from helping you ram, and you regain in some measure your lost caste only when you offer him the privilege of the ammunition flasks. These he dons, and by this little touch of diplomacy you smooth over his ill humor.

Together you and he scout along the crispy ridge, ever on the qui vive for another mark, beast or bird. Crows scold. Ah, if you could but bag a crow! But they always flap off too soon. Bluejays jeer. You would stop that mighty quick if they would give you a chance. But they don’t. Even woodpeckers fight shy of that inimical, albeit not unerring, gun.

The gun aforesaid is now growing so heavy that the fact cannot be ignored. You balance it on one portion of your anatomy, and on another; yet the more it weighs and the sharper wax its angles, and you can secure no lasting ease.

“I’ll carry it,” volunteers Hen, prompt to take advantage of your significant maneuvers.

“Uh-uh,” you decline stanchly. You compromise by suggesting, in a moment, with off-hand bluffness: “Say, let’s sit down a while. There’s nothin’ up here to shoot.”

“Naw,” responds Hen, “I’ll tell you—let’s shoot woodchucks!”

The idea appeals. After “shooting” woodpeckers, “shooting” woodchucks ought to prove a pleasing diversion.

With the gun as angular as ever, but with your hunting instincts piqued anew, you followed while Hen led to the nearest woodchuck hole: that burrow under the stump on the side of the hill, across from Squire Lucas’s pasture; a matchless lair for an old ’chuck such as was the occupant, whence he could sally forth and wallow in the squire’s clover to his heart’s and stomach’s content.

Many a covetous glance had the boys of town and country cast toward this burrow; many a fruitless attack had silly dogs made upon its unresponsive portals; from time to time fresh earth about the entrance popularly indicated that the ’chuck was enlarging and remodeling his apartments, and it was commonly believed that he had tunneled clear through the hill: laughing to scorn the foes that vainly compassed him about, he lived and fattened, and spoiled as much clover as he could.

With bated breath and gingerly tread, you and Hen sneaked to ambush under cover of the zigzag rail fence that diagonally skirted the foot of the hill, before the woodchuck’s dwelling. Ah, how many other boys had lurked there, for hope springs eternal.