University of Virginia Library

PETER HARRIS.

It was the middle month of the autumn. A blue, smoky
haze hung all day over the withering woods—there a cluster of
maples standing against the horizon, with their bright, yellow
leaves looking like a cloud of gold—here an oak, towering above
its fellows, with a few tufts of crimson among its still green
foliage; and stunted gum trees, with their shining red leaves
clinging thickly yet, glowing all along the hills like pyramids
of fire. Loaded wains were driven slowly homeward from
orchards and cornfields, heaped high with bright apples or yellow
corn; the barns were full of new hay; every thing betokened
plenty.

Along the dusty thoroughfare, toward the close of one of
the mildest days of the season, a little hard-featured man was
driving, in a rude, unpainted cart. His dress seemed to indicate
a person suddenly overtaken by a frosty morning, without
having made any preparation. Over his slightly gray hair he
wore a fur cap, evidently a boy's; and his coat, a great deal
too large for him, was of summer-cloth, shining from long wear,
and from its fashion probably never intended for him. His
trowsers, much too short, were of a blue and white cotton plaid,
and on his feet he wore heavy shoes, one of them partly cut
away toward the toe, probably for the benefit of corns. He
wore no hose whatever, and from the leather-like color of the
instep, apparently, never had worn any. His horse, lean and
shaggy, seemed quite run out with years and service, and, from
a constant inclination to turn to one side, most likely blind in
one eye. His master, nevertheless, appeared to experience

much pleasure in goading him forward, by means of a large
withe, cut from a thorn. After each application, the poor beast
trotted forward for a few minutes, and then, suffering his head
to droop almost to the ground, relapsed into a walk, when a
renewed application of the whip, and a sudden tightening of the
rein, again urged him onward.

Sitting by the old man was a little pale-faced boy. His
clothes, much too thin for the season, were patched with different
colors, and ragged still. His hat was of white fur, and had,
as it seemed, originally been too large, but by means of scissors,
needle and thread, and the rude ingenuity, probably, of
some female hand, had been made to assume a reduced size.
He wore no coat or jacket, but, instead, a faded shawl was
wrapped about his shoulders, the ends of which, crossing in
front, were tied in a close knot behind. The seat on which he
sat was much too high for his convenience; and his little naked
feet, as they rode forward, dangled about in most uncomfortable
sort.

“Well, my son,” said the old man, breaking silence for almost
the first time during the journey, as he suffered his jaded
horse to stand still before an avenue bordered with elms, and
leading to a white cottage which stood on an eminence a little
way from the road—“Well, my son, this is your uncle Jason's;
this is to be your home. You will never come to much,”
he continued, lifting the boy from the cart—“so very puny and
wite-faced; but I've done my duty by you, the same as if you
had been, like your father, smart and woluble of tongue. Yes,
this is a handsome prowision I've made for you;” and taking
the child by the hand, and walking so fast that it required the
little fellow to run, they proceeded up the avenue. Two little
boys, in bright jackets set off with black buttons, and velvet
caps with heavy tassels falling on one side, were trundling
hoops in the path. On seeing the new-comers, one of them
called out to the coachman, who sat near, watching their sport,
“John! Oh, John! look quick! here comes an old man leading
an Ingen boy!”

“Hush!” said John, coming forward, and pushing the boy, a
little rudely, one side; “more like you yourself are an Ingen!

How do you do, my little man?” he continued, taking the hand
of the strange child.

The little old man then asked John whether Jason Harris
were at home; and being told that he was, continued to say,
that he was the brother of Jason, but that he had been less fortunate
than he, and had now come to make him a present of the
little “wite-faced boy.”

When they had nearly reached the house, he paused and said,
“Here, John, or whatever your name is, take this boy into the
house, and tell Jason that his poor old brother is about to cross
the Rocky Mountains, as a ttrapper, and that he gives this little
fellow to him;” and resigning the trembling boy to John, he
turned away, and mounting his little cart, drove on.

Poor little boy! he felt very strange and uncomfortable in
that great, fine house. He had never seen so fine a house, with
such bright carpets and curtains; and his new uncle, who was
a proud, haughty man, made him almost tremble with fear, so
that he could hardly find words to answer, when he said,

“What is your name, boy?”

The little boy said, meekly, that his name was Peter Harris.

On hearing this, the two little boys in bright jackets laughed
immoderately, saying that Peter was the name of the black boy
that tended their cows.

“Well, boy,” continued the stiff man, “since my little boys
laugh at your name, we shall have to call you Pete. How old
are you, Pete?”

At this, the two boys laughed louder than before, one of them
saying to the other,

Peter crossed his hands behind him, and said that he was
eight years old.

“I suppose you have never been to school, Pete. May-be
you don't know what a school is?”

“No, sir,” said Peter; “I have never been to school; but I
know what it is, and I should like to go.”

“I suppose,” said the uncle, “you would like a great many
things.”

Peter said, “I would like a great many things,” and the
whole family laughted outright.

“Do not,” said Mrs. Harris, checking her laughter, and
speaking as though she had not laughed at all, “do not act as
foolish as the boy.”

Peter did not know how he had acted foolish, but thinking
that he must have acted so, began to cry.

“What a good warm fire hickory wood does make!” said
Mrs. Harris, stirring the embers; but Peter felt nothing of the
genial warmth, as he sat a long way from the fire, shivering,
partly with fear and partly with cold, wiping away the tears
with his faded shawl.

“What makes you act so foolishly?” continued Mrs. Harris,
who was a very stately lady; “sitting there, and crying like a
calf!” and then, turning to her husband, added, “I hope you
feel better. You have made the boy cry. You ought, I am
sure, to be very grateful [a pious woman was Mrs. Harris] for
the privilege of snatching him like a brand from the burning;”
and she called Peter to her, saying, “I suppose, my little
heathen, you have had little moral or religious culture.”

Peter, trying in vain to cease crying, said that he did not
know.

“Well, you would like to be very grateful to your uncle and
me, would you not?”

Peter said he did not know what grateful was.

“Poor heathen! I suppose not,” said the aunt. “You must
feel as if the consecration of all your energies to your uncle and
me could never repay us. You will feel so, will you not?”

Here Peter was quite at a loss. He knew no more than he
knew what grateful was, what his energies were, or how to consecrate
them to his uncle and aunt; but he said he would try.

“There must be no try about it. You must do it, or be
whipped every day, till you do;” and calling her little son, who
sat on the floor, sticking pins in the paws of her lap-dog, the
lady told him to come and teach his poor little heathen cousin
to say,

but the boy said he did not know it, and continued at his work
of torment. After some further instruction, Mrs. Harris called
Sally, the maid, and told her to take Peter out to John's room;
he would lodge there.

“Shall I get him some supper before I take him there?” said
the maid.

“It would not be worth while,” Mrs. Harris said; he had
no doubt eaten fruit enough to keep him from being hungry;
and she added, addressing Peter, “You don't want any thing to
eat, do you?”

Peter said that he had not had any dinner, and that he was
hungry.

“I'll warrant it,” said his aunt; “children never know what
they want. You may give him a piece of bread, Sally—a very
little piece, without any butter. I don't think butter is good
for children—not for little boys, especially.”

Sally took the child into the kitchen, and cutting a large slice
from a fresh loaf, buttered it nicely, saying, as she gave it to
Peter, “I like to see bread buttered smooth, don't you?” and
taking the candle from the table, and holding her hand between
it and the wind, so as to prevent its going out, they made their
way to John's room, which was a little, uncomfortable apartment
over the stable; but in one corner a bright fire was burning;
and John said his straw bed was wide enough for them
both; and drawing up one of his two chairs, gave it to Peter,
who sat down before the blaze, and ate his bread and butter,
feeling quite at home.

John, who was really very kind-hearted, gave Peter a long
piece of twine and a very red apple. He then took from his
pocket several little slips of paper, which seemed to have been
cut from newspapers at different times, and stirring the embers
till they blazed brightly, for he had no candle, sat down on a
peck measure close to the hearth, and, by way of amusing his
little guest, read:

He then asked Peter if he had ever seen a buffalo, telling

him they were a kind of wild oxen, that lived in the western
woods and prairies, where they were often seen in herds of from
twenty to fifty; and taking another slip, he read:

At this Peter laughed, and John laughed, too, as heartily as
though he had never before read it, saying, it was the shortest
pie-crust he ever heard of. Unfolding another scrap, he read:

John said he had known many old maids who were not
named Legion, and proceeded to read:

On looking up, after some further reading, and seeing Peter
fast asleep in his chair, John folded and put away the scraps,
and taking up the child, laid him carefully in bed.

One morning late in November, Peter, dressed in the castoff
clothes of his little cousin, and bearing on one arm a small
blue-and-red basket, in which was a piece of apple pie and a
primer, set out for the district school, a distance from home of
over a mile. All the girls and boys looked so hard at the
“new scholar,” that Peter, who was naturally a timid child,
could hardly speak, when the master, a tall, dark-faced man,
called him to his desk, and asked him the following questions:

“You come to this school to be taught the rudiments of an
English education, I suppose?”

Peter knew he came to be taught something, and tremblingly
answered, “Yes, sir.”

“ `Yes, sir, if you please,' ” said the teacher; and Peter said,
“Yes, sir, if you please.”

“Where do you live?”

“At uncle Jason's, if you please.”

“Why, boy, you must be a numskull. You must say, `if
you please,' if it's appropriate. What is your name?”

“Peter Harris, if you please, if it's appropriate.”

“The boy is a blockhead!” said the master; and boys and
girls, putting their books before their faces, joined in a general
titter.

“Come, come! that will do!” said the master, looking over
the school, and frowning with great severity. Then taking a
limber switch from his desk, and shaking it over the head of
Peter, in a menacing manner, he told him, that all the scholars
got whipped who did not mind and study their lessons. He
then told him to go to his seat, and study his book.

This seat was a high, wooden bench, without any back; and
Peter found sitting there, for four hours at once, very tiresome,
especially as he did not know a from b, and, consequently,
could not study. After a while, he was called to say his lesson,
but not knowing one of the letters, was made to stand on a
high stool for ten minutes, and all the children were required to
point their fingers at him, the master laying his watch on the
desk, to see the time. At its expiration, he was sent back to
his seat, and told to see if he could study now; but he could
not study any better than before; and when the boys went out
to play, he was “kept in.”

At noon-time Peter was told, that boys who would not study
must not eat; and taking his pie from the little blue-and-red
basket, the master fed it to a pig that chanced to be near the
door. Merrily rang the laughter of the boys without; but not
even while the sweeping filled the house with an impenetrable
cloud of dust, was Peter allowed to leave his seat, one of the
larger boys being stationed at the door as sentinel, while the
master went to dine.

Toward the middle of the afternoon, weary and exhausted,

the poor boy was bending down over his book, when the master
said, “Peter Harris, have you got a weakness in the chest? I
judge, from your posture, that you must be afflicted with weakness
in the chest. Sit upright, sir! and if I catch you bending
in that way again, I will strengthen you by an application on
the back.”

For a while Peter did sit upright, but, forgetting at last, sank
down in his old position; on which he was called to the master,
and asked if he did not think he deserved a whipping. “I take
no pleasure in chastising you,” he said; “but I feel it to be my
duty.” He then ordered Peter to take off his coat, and inflicted
upon him a merciless beating.

When school was dismissed at night, a southerly gust was
blowing, and the sky quite covered with black clouds, indicating
a speedy approach of rain; but Peter was detained half an
hour after the rest, so that it was almost dark, and some drops
already falling, when he was permitted to go home. When he
reached there, he was drippingly wet; but John made a bright
fire, and bringing forward the peck measure, told Peter to sit
down and dry his clothes, while he went to the kitchen and procured
for him some supper. Presently he returned with a dish
of warm toast, which he said Sally had kindly sent; but Peter,
still sitting on the peck measure, in a cloud of steam, said that
his head ached very much—that he was not hungry, and would
rather go to bed.

The night was stormy; the driving winds howled loud, and
the rain beat through the roof till the straw bed was quite wet,
so that, in the morning, Peter had a worse head-ache, together
with a sore throat and a burning fever. John procured all the
remedies he could, and watched by the bed as much of the
time as he could spare; but he was often obliged to leave him,
and the poor boy lay, sometimes for hours, moaning and fretting
alone.

When Mrs. Harris was told of the illness of the child, she
said the ground was too damp to admit of her going to see him,
but that she would send him another blanket; as to medicine,
she thought children did not require it, especially little boys.

A week went by. The wind was blowing roughly down from

the north; the door shook in its frame, and the branches of an
old elm swayed to and fro, creaking against the window-panes
all night.

Sometimes a flake of snow, drifting through roof or crevice,
fell on the face of little Peter; but his pale hands, locked
meekly together, were not lifted to brush it away. The fire
burned brightly on the hearth. John had drawn the bed close
before it, and sitting on the peck measure, with his head leaning
against the foot of the bed, was fast asleep. Dimmer and
dimmer burned the embers on the hearth; fainter and fainter
glimmered the shadows on the opposite wall, till they faded
quite away.

No call disturbed the worn watcher, and he slept on—slept,
till the gray light of the morning streamed, broad and cold,
through the uncurtained window, when, starting up, he went to
the bedside, bent noiselessly over it for a moment, and turning
away, brushed some tears from his eyes, saying, as he rekindled
the fire, “Poor little Peter! he will never be sick any
more.”