University of Virginia Library

17. CHAPTER XVII.
CROW MAKES A SPEECH ON THE STAMP ACT AND SUFFERS THE
FATE OF POPULARITY SEEKERS.

Look!

Perhaps the two things most similar and at the same
time dissimilar, are a play-ground and that work-ground
which we call the world. In both these are aspirations and
passions; loves and hatreds; sad and merry faces; toilings
after objects not worth the pursuit; and neglected pleasures,
which far outweigh those which humanity run after with
such ardor and enthusiasm. The child is father of the
man; and his offspring follows the bent of its parent:—pursues,
and loves, and suffers and rejoices, and runs the wild,
laughing or despondent race; and then the bell of fate summons
the weary player to the shades within, where no sun
shines, no blue sky arches overhead—save in the eye of
faith and hope.

But with all this similarity, we know that the real difference
is very striking. How gaily, thoughtlessly, the boy
plays, and laughs and rolls upon the grass, and climbs for
birds' nests, and is pleased with trifles—not dreaming of the
time when all his hopes, his illusions, his romance, his
thoughtless lightheartedness will change, and he will have to
go and buckle on his armor for the struggle with that strong
enemy—human life. How the little maidens run and play
and gambol with their boy sweethearts:—their hair flowing

unconfined, their eyes dancing for pure merriment, their
hearts free as yonder bird's who cuts the blue air on his joyous
wings towards the rosy east:—they know not, will not,
cannot believe that the time will come when that hair must
be primly bound up; then turn gray: when those eyes will be
dimmed with care and suffering: when those hearts, so wild
with pleasure now, will be made to suffer cruelly by some
of the little urchins with whom they play now laughingly.
Let us thank heaven for childhood's lightness, however.
The spring should not be tried until it is tempered.

The reign of marbles had come in: and those who have
reflected philosophically upon these matters, will recall the
fact that schoolboys like men are subject to furores. The
games which balls figure in are everlasting—always popular:
but marbles, prisoner's base, and “fox and a warner” are
subject to the laws of change:—that is to say, they are at
one moment neglected, then placed high upon the throne of
popularity.

Marbles reigned then:—nothing was heard for a time
on the joyous playground but those cabalistic words,
“vence”—“things”—“leave lag”—“come to taw”—
“stop pokin'”—let's plump”—“play for havin's”—“got
my ownses”—“fat!”—“knuckle down”—“turnin's”—
etc., etc. We have more than once endeavored to arrive at
the origin and philosophic significance of these terms, but
always vainly. “Vence” still remains in our minds destitute
of any imaginable root in Hebrew, Sanscrit, Greek or
Scandinavian: and the origin of “lag” like that of the
popular German beer, is doubtful.

So they played: and many large proprietors were
“broke:”—and others acquired large fortunes, which they
stowed in their capacious pockets. The girls for the most
part played at skipping rope, puss in the corner, and hunt
the slipper—the soft grass affording a very agreeable emerald
carpet for the purpose:—or they partook of the contents
of their little baskets with great gusto, giving a portion
to their non-marble-playing cavaliers, who had finished
their own commissary stores some time before. A biscuit
from a maiden was considered proof of incipient affection—
an apple, of tenderness—but a tart, a real cherry tart, with

crimson blood, and yellow, crisp delicious crust!—that was
an evidence of passionate and eternal love.

Having exhausted marbles, the young gentleman betook
themselves to leap-frog, many of them rolling on the grass
thereat. The artist of Parson Tag took a forlorn sketch of
the scene as he gazed at it mournfully through the window
—the reader will understand that this young gentleman, in
addition to his flagellation, had been kept in—and having
been obliged with a view of this sketch, which has remained
in existence to the present day, we have taken the liberty
of using it for the benefit of our readers. It represents the
youths in their cutaway coats, and short clothes, and woollen
stockings, flying over the heads of others, who stoop with
their hands upon their knees; and under a tall oak a group
of girls are watching the vaulters, and laughing at those
who roll upon the ground, victims to the immoral practice
in the steeds, of raising the shoulders as the frogs leap.
Among the maidens we recognize Donsy perfectly—older
than the rest, and laughing louder as Will rolls upon the
ground.

Will breaks up the game, and suggests an undress parade
of the Cornstalk regiment, which proposition is hailed with
pleasure. Captain Effingham thereupon marshals his soldiers,
using a piece of fence rail for a sword; and, mounted
on a stump, makes them a patriotic address—this time uninterrupted—wherein
he repeats his father's views upon the
Stamp Act, which he believes to be a measure whereby the
heads of everybody in the Colony of Virginia are to be
chopped off. He denounces it, therefore, and calls on his
companions to organize an opposition to the tyrant; and
concludes with the observation that there is for himself but
one alternative—either victory or death!

This speech is much admired, and a small storm of cheers
crackle through the air; filling the orator's bosom with grateful
emotion; his soldiers, however, decline hearing any more,
as Donsy is heard to scream terribly: and they rush towards
her to ascertain the origin of her emotion.

It was very simple. Just as Master Will had arrived at
the grand burst, in which, as we have said, he declared his
sentiments on the subject of death and victory, Donsy Smith,
who had been listening admiringly, heard a low whistle behind

her shoulder, and, turning her head, her cherry lips had
nearly impressed a salute upon those of Mr. Crow, who sat
squat behind her, grinning and goggle-eyed—resembling,
indeed, a small goblin of Ethiopian extraction.

Mr. Crow, finding himself the observed of all observers,
marched forth into the open space, the thumb of one hand in
his mouth, the other hand holding up the skirts of his lengthy
coat. He seemed to feel that he was well worth seeing, and
to court observation; his costume was, if possible, more diplomatic
than ever, and his eyes brighter. His appearance
was hailed with a great shout,—immediately a dozen hands
seized him, and he was hoisted to the stump, and ordered to
make a speech at once, on pain of dreadful punishment.

Mr. Crow does not display extraordinary confusion at
this honour,—does not press his hand upon his waistcoat, or
the portion of the frame usually covered with that garment;
does not bow or simper. He looks around with an expression
of modest confidence and amiable good nature, sucking
his thumb.

“A speech!” they cry.

“A speech from Crow!”

“Hurrah!”

Mr. Crow takes his thumb from his mouth, and finding
himself in a difficulty, draws upon Mr. William Effingham's
ideas, which he has listened to with great attention.

“Well, gemblem,” he says, with modesty, “I'se oppose,
myself. to dis stump ac.”

“Hurrah!” cry the scholars, “speak out, Crow.”

“I'se gwine to 'pose it!” continues Crow, extending
his right arm, with an electric gesture. The crowd shout and
hurrah.

“I'se gwine myself to 'pose choppin' off my head!—
'Two'nt do noways, gemblem! Just think how a feller 'd
feel!”

This sentiment produces loud applause, which Mr. Crow
acknowledges by waving the hand holding his coat tail, and,
consequently, that portion of his vestment also.

“I'se gwine to go agin it to death!” continues Crow,
with an heroic gesture, “I wants my head! how could I eat!
how gwine to drink! how gwine to do nothin'! 'thout a head.
Them's my senimers, gemblem—I say victry or deth.”

And Crow brandishes both arms tremendously, and fights
imaginary foes. His speech is received with tremendous applause,
and a popular ovation is organized in an instant.
Mounted on a rail, which is borne on the shoulders of half
a dozen of the scholars, who split their sides laughing, the
orator makes the circuit of the play-ground triumphantly.
To be sure, the ovation, like all such things, has its disadvantages,
and Crow makes more than one appeal to be permitted
to sink into obscurity again. But these entreaties
are disregarded, and he only has leave to change his horseback
position from time to time, by leaning forward on his
hands.

He says it hurts! they reply that it can't possibly.—
“Oh yes, it do!” says Crow, writhing. “Stuff your coat tails
under you,” say the urchins. Crow resigns himself, with the
air of a great man in misfortune,—when suddenly the bell
rings, and the rail—and, consequently, Crow—drops to the
ground.

Crow lies there until Donsy passes, rubbing his knees.

The master appears at the door: Crow's back being
turned he does not see him.

Donsy draws near, laughing. Crow makes mysterious
signals to her, which, at last, attract her attention.

Crow shows a letter, pushing it at her: Donsy bends
down her laughing face, and asks what in the world he
means. Crow makes mysterious signs of silence and precaution.
Donsy stretches out her hand to take the letter,
upon the back of which she reads her own name, written in
large, sprawling characters. Crow winks—Donsy smiles—
when, suddenly, the letter is grasped by a rough hand—Crow
starts up, under the application of a switch, and Parson Tag,
pursuing him, with infuriated visage, calls upon him by the
designations of “rascal,” “villain,” and “wretch,” to stop.

Crow runs for life—the parson pursues for the gratification
of revenge—his skirts flying, his puffy breast heaving
with the exertion and his wrath.