University of Virginia Library

3. CHAPTER III.
I GO TO THE BIRD'S NEST TO LIVE, AND THE GIANT PERSISTS
IN HIS PLANS FOR A SEA-VOYAGE.

My father worked for Mrs. Sanderson during the week, but he
came home every night with a graver face, and, on the closing
evening of the week, it all came out. It was impossible for him
to cover from my mother and his family for any length of time
anything which gave him either satisfaction or sorrow.

I remember how he walked the room that night, and swung
his arms, and in an excitement that was full of indignation and
self-pity declared that he could not work for Mrs. Sanderson
another week. “I should become an absolute idiot if I were
to work for her a month,” I heard him say.

And then my mother told him that she never expected anything
good from Mrs. Sanderson—that it had turned out very
much as she anticipated—though for the life of her she could
not imagine what difference it made to my father whether he
did his work in one way or another, so long as it pleased Mrs.
Sanderson, and he got his money for his labor. I did not at all
realize what an effect this talk would have upon my father then,
but now I wonder that with his sensitive spirit he did not upbraid
my mother, or die. In her mind it was only another instance
of my father's incompetency for business, to which incompetency
she attributed mainly the rigors of her lot.

Mrs. Sanderson was no better pleased with my father than
he was with her. If he had not left her at the end of his first
week, she would have managed to dismiss him as soon as she
had secured her will concerning myself. On Monday morning
I was dispatched to The Mansion with a note from my father

which informed Mrs. Sanderson that she was at liberty to suit
herself with other service.

Mrs. Sanderson read the note, put her lips very tightly together,
and then called Jenks.

“Jenks,” said she, “put the horse before the chaise, change
your clothes, and drive to the door.”

Jenks disappeared to execute her commands, and, in the
meantime, Mrs. Sanderson busied herself with preparations.
First she brought out sundry pots of jam and jelly, and then
two or three remnants of stuffs that could be made into clothing
for children, and a basket of apples. When the chaise arrived
at the door, she told Jenks to tie his horse and bestow the
articles she had provided in the box. When this task was completed
she mounted the vehicle, and bade me get in at her side.
Then Jenks took his seat, and at Mrs. Sanderson's command
drove directly to my father's house.

When we arrived, my father had gone out; and after expressing
her regret that she could not see him, she sat down by my
mother, and demonstrated her knowledge of human nature by
winning her confidence entirely. She even commiserated her
on the impracticable character of her husband, and then she
left with her the wages of his labor and the gifts she had
brought. My mother declared after the little lady went away
that she had never been so pleasantly disappointed as she had
been in Mrs. Sanderson! She was just, she was generous, she
was everything that was sweet and kind and good. All this my
father heard when he arrived, and to it all he made no reply.
He was too kind to carry anger, and too poor to spurn a freely
offered gift, that brought comfort to those whom he loved.

Mrs. Sanderson was a woman of business, and at night she
came again. I knew my father dreaded meeting her, as he
always dreaded meeting with a strong and unreasonable will.
He had a way of avoiding such a will whenever it was possible,
and of sacrificing everything unimportant to save a collision
with it. There was an insult to his manhood in the mere existence
and exercise of such a will, while actual subjection to it

was the extreme of torture. But sometimes the exercise of
such a will drove him into a corner; and when it did, the
shrinking, peaceable man became a lion. He had seen how
easily my mother had been conquered, and, although Mrs.
Sanderson's gifts were in his house, he determined that whatever
might be her business, she should be dealt with frankly
and firmly.

I was watching at the window when the little lady alighted
at the gate. As she walked up the passage from the street,
Jenks exchanged some signals with me. He pointed to the
east and then toward the sea, with gestures, which meant that
long before the dawning of the morrow's sun Mrs. Sanderson's
aged servant would cease to be a resident of Bradford, and would
be tossing “on the billow.” I did not have much opportunity
to carry on this kind of commerce with Jenks, for Mrs. Sanderson's
conversation had special reference to myself.

I think my father was a good deal surprised to find the lady
agreeable and gracious. She alluded to his note as something
which had disappointed her, but, as she presumed to know her
own business and to do it in her own way, she supposed that
other people knew their own business also, and she was quite
willing to accord to them such privileges as she claimed
for herself. She was glad there was work enough to be done
in Bradford, and she did not doubt that my father would get
employment. Indeed, as he was a stranger, she would take the
liberty of commending him to her friends as a good workman.
It did not follow, she said, that because he could not get along
with her he could not get along with others. My father was
very silent and permitted her to do the talking. He knew that
she had come with some object to accomplish, and he waited
for its revelation.

She looked at me, at last, and called me to her side. She
put her arm around me, and said, addressing my father: “I
suppose Arthur told you what a pleasant day we had together.”

“Yes, and I hope he thanked you for your kindness to him,”
my father answered.

“Oh, yes, he was very polite and wonderfully quiet for a
boy,” she responded.

My mother volunteered to express the hope that I had not
given the lady any trouble.

“I never permit boys to trouble me,” was the curt response.

There was something in this that angered my father—something
in the tone adopted toward my mother, and something
that seemed so cruel in the utterance itself. My father believed
in the rights of boys, and when she said this, he remarked
with more than his usual incisiveness that he had noticed
that those boys who had not been permitted to trouble
anybody when they were young, were quite in the habit, when
they ceased to be boys, of giving a great deal of trouble. He
did not know that he had touched Mrs. Sanderson at a very
tender point, but she winced painfully, and then went directly
to business.

“Mr. Bonnicastle,” said she, “I am living alone, as you
know. It is not necessary to tell you much about myself, but
I am alone, and with none to care for but myself. Although I
am somewhat in years, I come of a long-lived race, and am
quite well. I believe it is rational to expect to live for a considerable
time yet, and though I have much to occupy my mind
it would be pleasant to me to help somebody along. You
have a large family, whose fortunes you would be glad to advance,
and, although you and I do not agree very well, I hope
you will permit me to assist you in accomplishing your wish.”

She paused to see how the proposition was received, and was
apparently satisfied that fortune had favored her, though my
father said nothing.

“I want this boy,” she resumed, drawing me more closely to
her. “I want to see him growing up and becoming a man under
my provisions for his support and education. It is not possible
for you to do for him what I can do. It will interest me
to watch him from year to year, it will bring a little young blood
into my lonely old house occasionally, and in one way and
another it will do us all good.”

My father looked very serious. He loved me as he loved
his life. His great ambition was to give me the education
which circumstances had denied to him. Here was the opportunity,
brought to his door, yet he hesitated to accept it. After
thinking for a moment, he said gravely: “Mrs. Sanderson, God
has placed this boy in my hands to train for Himself, and I cannot
surrender the control of his life to anybody. Temporarily
I can give him into the hands of teachers, conditionally I can
place him in your hands, but I cannot place him in any hands
beyond my immediate recall. I can never surrender my right
to his love and his obedience, or count him an alien from my
heart and home. If, understanding my feeling in this matter,
you find it in your heart to do for him what I cannot, why, you
have the means, and I am sure God will bless you for employing
them to this end.”

“I may win all the love and all the society from him I can?”
said Mrs. Sanderson, interrogatively.

“I do not think it would be a happy or a healthy thing for
the child to spend much time in your house, deprived of young
society,” my father replied. “If you should do for him what
you suggest, I trust that the boy and that all of us would make
such expressions of our gratitude as would be most agreeable
to yourself; but I must choose his teachers, and my home, however
humble, must never cease to be regarded by him as his
home. I must say this at the risk of appearing ungrateful,
Mrs. Sanderson.”

The little lady had the great good sense to know when she
had met with an answer, and the adroitness to appear satisfied
with it. She was one of those rare persons who, seeing a rock
in the way, recognize it at once, and, without relinquishing their
purpose for an instant, either seek to go around it or to arrive
at their purpose from some other direction. She had concluded,
for reasons of her own, to make me so far as possible her
possession. She had had already a sufficient trial of her power
to show her something of what she could do with me, and she

calculated with considerable certainty that she could manage
my father in some way.

“Very well: he shall not come to me now, and shall never
come unless I can make my home pleasant to him,” she said.
“In the meantime, you will satisfy yourself in regard to a desirable
school for him, and we will leave all other questions for
time to determine.”

Neither my father nor my mother had anything to oppose to
this, and my patroness saw at once that her first point was
gained. Somehow all had been settled without trouble. Every
obstacle had been taken out of the way, and the lady seemed
more than satisfied.

“When you are ready to talk decisively about the boy, you
will come to my house, and we will conclude matters,” she
said, as she rose to take her leave.

I noticed that she did not recognize the existence of my
little brothers and older sisters, and something subtler than
reason told me that she was courteous to my father and mother
only so far as was necessary for the accomplishment of her purposes.
I was half afraid of her, yet I could not help admiring
her. She kissed me at parting, but she made no demonstration
of responsive courtesy to my parents, who advanced in a cordial
way to show their sense of her kindness.

In the evening, my father called upon Mr. Bradford and
made a full exposure of the difficulty he had had with Mrs. Sanderson,
and the propositions she had made respecting myself;
and as he reported his conversation and conclusions on his return
to my mother, I was made acquainted with them. Mr.
Bradford had advised that the lady's offer concerning me should
be accepted. He had reasons for this which he told my father
he did not feel at liberty to give, but there were enough that
lay upon the surface to decide the matter. There was nothing
humiliating in it, for it was no deed of charity. A great good
could be secured for me by granting to the lady what she regarded
in her own heart as a favor. She never had been greatly
given to deeds of benevolence, and this was the first notable

act in her history that looked like one. He advised, however,
that my father hold my destiny in his own hands, and keep me
as much as possible away from Bradford, never permitting me
to be long at a time under Mrs. Sanderson's roof and immediate
personal influence. “When the youngster gets older,” Mr.
Bradford said, “he will manage all this matter for himself, better
than we can manage it for him.”

Then Mr. Bradford told him about a famous family school in
a country village some thirty miles away, which, from the name
of the teacher, Mr. Bird, had been named by the pupils “The
Bird's Nest.” Everybody in the region knew about The Bird's
Nest; and multitudinous were the stories told about Mr. and
Mrs. Bird; and very dear to all the boys, many of whom had
grown to be men, were the house and the pair who presided
over it. Mr. Bradford drew a picture of this school which
quite fascinated my father, and did much—everything indeed—
to reconcile him to the separation which my removal thither
would make necessary. I was naturally very deeply interested
in all that related to the school, and, graceless as the fact may
seem, I should have been ready on the instant to part with all
that made my home, in order to taste the new, strange life it
would bring me. I had many questions to ask, but quickly arrived
at the end of my father's knowledge; and then my imagination
ran wildly on until the images of The Bird's Nest and
of Mr. and Mrs. Bird and Hillsborough, the village that made
a tree for the nest, were as distinctly in my mind as if I had
known them all my life.

The interview which Mrs. Sanderson had asked of my father
was granted at an early day, and the lady acceded without a
word to the proposition to send me to The Bird's Nest. She
had heard only good reports of the school, she said, and was
apparently delighted with my father's decision. Indeed, I suspect
she was quite as anxious to get me away from my father
and my home associations as he was to keep me out of The
Mansion and away from her. She was left to make her own
arrangements for my outfit, and also for my admission to the

school, though my father stipulated for the privilege of accompanying
me to the new home.

One pleasant morning, some weeks afterward, she sent for
me to visit her at The Mansion. She was very sweet and
motherly; and when I returned to my home I went clad in a
suit of garments that made me the subject of curiosity and
envy among my brothers and mates, and with the news that in
one week I must be ready to go to Hillsborough. During all
that week my father was very tender toward me, as toward
some great treasure set apart to absence. He not only did not
seek for work, but declined or deferred that which came. It
was impossible for me to know then the heart-hunger which he
anticipated, but I know it now. I do not doubt that, in his
usual way, he wove around me many a romance, and reached
forward into all the possibilities of my lot. He was always as
visionary as a child, though I do not know that he was more
childlike in this respect than in others.

My mother was full of the gloomiest forebodings. She felt
as if Hillsborough would prove to be an unhealthy place; she
did not doubt that there was something wrong about Mr. and
Mrs. Bird, if only we could know what it was; and for her part
there was something in the name which the boys had given the
school that was fearfully suggestive of hunger. She should
always think of me, she said, as a bird with its mouth open,
crying for something to eat. More than all, she presumed that
Mr. Bird permitted his boys to swim without care, and she
would not be surprised to learn that the oldest of them carried
guns and pistols and took the little boys with them.

Poor, dear mother! Most fearful and unhappy while living,
and most tenderly mourned and reverend in memory! why did
you persist in seeing darkness where others saw light, and in
making every cup bitter with the apprehension of evil? Why
were you forever on the watch that no freak of untoward fortune
should catch you unaware? Why did you treat the Providence
you devoutly tried to trust as if you supposed he meant
to trick you, if he found you for a moment off your guard? Oh,

the twin charms of hopefulness and trustfulness! What power
have they to strengthen weary feet, to sweeten sleep, to make
the earth green and the heavens blue, to cheat misfortune of
its bitterness and to quench even the poison of death itself!

It was arranged that my father should take me to Hillsborough
in Mrs. Sanderson's chaise—the same vehicle in which
I had first seen the lady herself. My little trunk was to be attached
by straps to the axletree, and so ride beneath us. Taking
leave of my home was a serious business, notwithstanding
my anticipations of pleasure. My mother said that it was not
at all likely we should ever meet again; and I parted with her
at last in a passion of tears. The children were weeping too,
from sympathy rather than from any special or well-comprehended
sorrow, and I heartily wished myself away, and out of
sight.

Jenks brought the horse to us, and, after he had assisted
my father in fastening the trunk, took me apart from the
group that had gathered around the chaise, and said in a confidential
way that he made an attempt on the previous night to
leave. He had got as far as the window from which he intended
to let himself down, but finding it dark and rather cloudy
he had concluded to defer his departure until a lighter and
clearer night. “A storm, a dark storm, is awful on the ocean,
you know,” said Jenks, “but I shall go. You will not see me
here when you come again. Don't say anything about it, but
the old woman is going to be surprised, once in her life. She
will call Jenks, and Jenks won't come. He will be far, far
away on the billow.”

“Good-by,” I said; “I hope I'll see you again somewhere,
but I don't think you ought to leave Mrs. Sanderson.”

“Oh, I shall leave,” said Jenks. “The world is large and
Mrs. Sanderson is—is—quite small. Let her call Jenks once,
and see what it is to have him far, far away. Her time will
come.” And he shook his head, and pressed his lips together,
and ground the gravel under his feet, as if nothing less than
an earthquake could shake his determination. The case seemed

quite hopeless to me, and I remember that the unpleasant possibility
suggested itself that I might be summoned to The Mansion
to take Jenks's place.

At the close of our little interview, he drew a long paper box
from his pocket, and gave it to me with the injunction not to
open it until I had gone half way to Hillsborough. I accordingly
placed it in the boot of the chaise, to wait its appointed
time.

Jenks rode with us as far as The Mansion, spending the
time in instructing my father just where, under the shoulder
of the old black horse, he could make a whip the most effective
without betraying the marks to Mrs. Sanderson, and, when we
drove up to the door, disappeared at once around the corner
of the house. I went in to take leave of the lady, and found
her in the little library, awaiting me. Before her, on the table,
were a Barlow pocket-knife, a boy's playing-ball, a copy of
the New Testament, and a Spanish twenty-five cent piece.

“There,” she said, “young man, put all those in your
pockets, and see that you don't lose them. I want you to write
me a letter once a month, and, when you write, begin your letters
with `Dear Aunt.”'

The sudden accession to my boyish wealth almost drove me
wild. I had received my first knife and my first silver. I impulsively
threw my arms around the neck of my benefactress,
and told her I should never, never forget her, and should
never do anything that would give her trouble.

“See that you don't!” was the sharp response.

As I bade her good-by, I was gratified by the look of pride
which she bestowed on me, but she did not accompany me to
the door, or speak a word to my father. So, at last, we were gone,
and fairly on the way. I revealed to my father the treasures I
had received, and only at a later day was I able to interpret the
look of pain that accompanied his congratulations. I was indebted
to a stranger, who was trying to win my heart, for possessions
which his poverty forbade him to bestow upon me.

Of the delights of that drive over the open country I can

give no idea. We climbed long hills; we rode by the side of
cool, dashing streams; we paused under the shadow of wayside
trees; we caught sight of a thousand forms of frolic life
on the fences, in the forests, and in the depths of crystal pools;
we saw men at work in the fields, and I wondered if they did not
envy us; we met strange people on the road, who looked at
us with curious interest; a black fox dashed across our way,
and, giving us a scared look, scampered into the cover and was
gone; bobolinks sprang up in the long grass on wings tangled
with music, and sailed away and caught on fences to steady
themselves; squirrels took long races before us on the road-side
rails; and far up through the trees and above the hills white-winged
clouds with breasts of downy brown floated against a sky
of deepest blue. Never again this side of heaven do I expect
to experience such perfect pleasure as I enjoyed that day—a
delight in all forms and phases of nature, sharpened by the
expectations of new companionships and of a strange new life
that would open before I should sleep again.

The half-way stage of our journey was reached before noon,
and I was quite as anxious to see the gift which Jenks had
placed in my hands at parting as to taste the luncheon which
my mother had provided. Accordingly, when my repast was
taken from the basket and spread before me, I first opened the
paper box. I cannot say that I was not disappointed;
but the souvenir was one of which only I could understand
the significance, and that fact gave it a rare charm. It consisted
of a piece of a wooden shingle labeled in pencil
“Atlantick Oshun,” in the middle of which was a little ship,
standing at an angle of forty-five degrees to the plane of
the shingle, with a mast and a sail of wood, and a figure
at the bow, also of wood, intended doubtless to represent
Jenks himself, looking off upon the boundless waste. The
utmost point of explanation to which my father could urge me
was the statement that some time something would happen at
The Mansion which would explain all. So I carefully put the
“Atlantick Oshun” into its box, in which I preserved it for

many months, answering all inquiries concerning it with the
tantalizing statement that it was “a secret.”

Toward the close of the afternoon, we came in sight of
Hillsborough, with its two churches, and its cluster of embowered
white houses. It was perched, like many New England
villages, upon the top of the highest hill in the region, and we
entered at last upon the long acclivity that led to it. Halfway
up the hill, we saw before us a light, open wagon drawn by
two gray horses, and bearing a gentleman and lady who were
quietly chatting and laughing together. As we drew near to
them, they suddenly stopped, and the gentleman, handing the
reins to his companion, rose upon his feet, drew a rifle to his
eye and discharged it at some object in the fields. In an
instant, a little dog bounced out of the wagon, and, striking
rather heavily upon the ground, rolled over and over three
or four times, and then, gaining his feet, went for the game.
Our own horse had stopped, and, as wild as the little dog, I
leaped from the chaise, and started to follow. When I came
up with the dog, he was making the most extravagant plunges
at a wounded woodchuck, who squatted, chattering and showing
his teeth. I seized the nearest weapon in the shape of a
cudgel that I could find, dispatched the poor creature, and bore
him in triumph to the gentleman, the little dog barking and
snapping at the game all the way.

“Well done, my lad! I have seen boys who were afraid of
woodchucks. Toss him into the ravine: he is good for
nothing,” said the man of the rifle.

Then he looked around, and, bowing to my father, told him
that as he was fond of shooting he had undertaken to rid the
farms around him of the animals that gave their owners so
much trouble. “It is hard upon the woodchucks,” he added,
“but kind to the farmers.” This was apparently said to defend
himself from the suspicion of being engaged in cruel and
wanton sport.

At the sound of his voice, the tired and reeking horse which
my father drove whinnied, then started on, and, coming to the

back of the other carriage, placed his nose close to the gentleman's
shoulder. The lady looked around and smiled, while
the man placed his hand caressingly upon the animal's head.
“Animals are all very fond of me,” said he. “I don't understand
it: I suppose they do.”

There was something exceedingly winning and hearty in the
gentleman's voice, and I did not wonder that all the animals
liked him.

“Can you tell me,” inquired my father, “where The Bird's
Nest is?”

“Oh, yes, I'm going there. Indeed, I'm the old Bird himself.”

“Tut! who takes care of the nest?” said the lady with a
smile.

“And this is the Mother Bird—Mrs. Bird,” said the gentleman.

Mrs. Bird bowed to us both, and, beckoning to me, pointed
to her side. It was an invitation to leave my father, and take
a seat with her. The little dog, who had been helped into his
master's wagon, saw me coming, and mounted into his lap,
determined that he would shut that place from the intruder. I
accepted the invitation, and, with the lady's arm around me,
we started on.

“Now I am going to guess,” said Mr. Bird. “I guess your
name is Arthur Bonnicastle, that the man behind us is your
father, that you are coming to The Bird's Nest to live, that
you are intending to be a good boy, and that you are going to
be very happy.”

“You've guessed right the first time,” I responded laughing.

“And I can always guess when a boy has done right and
when he has done wrong,” said Mr. Bird. “There's a little
spot in his eye—ah, yes! you have it!—that tells the whole
story,” and he looked down pleasantly into my face.

At this moment one of his horses discovered a young calf by
the roadside, and, throwing back his ears, gave it chase. I
had never seen so funny a performance. The horse, in genuine
frolic, dragged his less playful mate and the wagon through the

gutter and over rocks for many rods, entirely unrestrained by
his driver until the scared object of the chase slipped between
two bars at the roadside, and ran wildly off into the field. At
this the horse shook his head in a comical way and went
quietly back into the road.

“That horse is laughing all over,” said Mr. Bird. “He
thinks it was an excellent joke. I presume he will think of it,
and laugh again when he gets at his oats.”

“Do you really think that horses laugh, Mr. Bird?” I inquired.

“Laugh? Bless you, yes,” he replied. “All animals laugh
when they are pleased. Gyp”—and he turned his eyes upon
the little dog in his lap—“are you happy?”

Gyp looked up into his master's face, and wagged his tail.

“Don't you see `yes' in his eye, and a smile in the wag of
his tail?” said Mr. Bird. “If I had asked you the same
question you would have answered with your tongue, and
smiled with your mouth. That's all the difference. These
creatures understand us a great deal better than we understand
them. Why, I never drive these horses when I am
finely dressed for fear they will be ashamed of their old harness.”

Then turning to the little dog again, he said: “Gyp, get
down.” Gyp immediately jumped down, and curled up at his
feet. “Gyp, come up here,” said he, and Gyp mounted
quickly to his old seat. “Don't you see that this dog understands
the English language?” said Mr. Bird; “and don't you
see that we are not so bright as a dog, if we cannot learn his?
Why, I know the note of every bird, and every insect, and
every animal on all these hills, and I know their ways and
habits. What is more, they know I understand them, and you
will hear how they call me and sing to me at The Bird's Nest.”

So I had received my first lesson from my new teacher, and
little did he appreciate the impression it had made upon me.
It gave me a sympathy with animal life and an interest in its
habits which have lasted until this hour. It gave me, too, an

insight into him. He had a strong sympathy in the life of a
boy, for his own sake. Every new boy was a new study that
he entered upon, not from any sense of duty, or from any
scheme of policy, but with a hearty interest excited by the boy
himself. He was as much interested in the animal play of a
boy as he had been in the play of the horse. He watched a
group of boys with the same hearty amusement that held him
while witnessing the frolic of kittens and lambs. Indeed, he
often played with them; and in this sympathy, freely manifested,
he held the springs of his wonderful power over them.

We soon arrived at The Bird's Nest, and all the horses were
passed into other hands. My little trunk was loosed, and
carried to a room I had not seen, and in a straggling way we
entered the house.

Before we alighted, I took a hurried outside view of my
future home. On the whole, “The Bird's Nest” would have
been a good name for it if a man by any other name had presided
over it. It had its individual and characteristic beauty,
because it had been shaped to a special purpose; but it seemed
to have been brought together at different times, and from wide
distances. There was a central old house, and a hexagonal
addition, and a tower, and a long piazza that tied everything
together. It certainly looked grand among the humble houses
of the village; though I presume that a professional architect
would not have taken the highest pleasure in it. As Mr. Bird
stepped out of his wagon upon the piazza, and took off his hat, I
had an opportunity to see him and to fix my impressions of his
appearance. He was a tall, handsome, strongly-built man, a
little past middle life, with a certain fullness of habit that comes
of good health and a happy temperament. His eye was blue,
his forehead high, and his whole face bright and beaming with
good-nature. His companion was a woman above the medium
size, with eyes the same color of his own, into whose plainly-parted
hair the frost had crept, and upon whose honest face
and goodly figure hung that ineffable grace which we try to
characterize by the word “motherly.”

I heard the shouts of boys at play upon the green, for it was
after school hours, and met half-a-dozen little fellows on the
piazza, who looked at me with pleasant interest as “the new
boy;” and then we entered a parlor with curious angles, and
furniture that betrayed thorough occupation and usage. There
were thrifty plants and beautiful flowers in the bay-window, for
plants and flowers came as readily within the circle of Mr.
Bird's sympathies as birds and boys. There was evidently an
uncovered stairway near one of the doors, for we heard two or
three boys running down the steps with a little more noise than
was quite agreeable. Immediately Gyp ran to the door where
the noise was manifested, and barked with all his might.

“Gyp is one of my assistants in the school,” said Mr. Bird,
in explanation, “especially in the matter of preserving order.
A boy never runs down-stairs noisily without receiving a scolding
from him. He is getting a little old now and sensitive, and
I am afraid has not quite consideration enough for the youngsters.”

I laughed at the idea of having a dog for a teacher, but with
my new notions of Gyp's capacity I was quite ready to believe
what Mr. Bird told me about him.

My father found himself very much at home with Mr. and
Mrs. Bird, and was evidently delighted with them, and with my
prospects under their roof and care. We had supper in the
great dining-room with forty hungry but orderly boys, a pleasant
evening with music afterward, and an early bed. I was
permitted to sleep with my father that night, and he was permitted
to take me upon his arm, and pillow my slumbers there,
while he prayed for me and secretly poured out his love upon
me.

Before we went to sleep my father said a few words to me,
but those words were new and made a deep impression.

“My little boy,” he said, “you have my life in your hands.
If you grow up into a true, good man, I shall be happy, although
I may continue poor. I have always worked hard, and
I am willing to work even harder than ever, if it is all right

with you; but if you disappoint me and turn out badly, you
will kill me. I am living now, and expect always to live, in
and for my children. I have no ambitious projects for myself.
Providence has opened a way for you which I did not anticipate.
Do all you can to please the woman who has undertaken
to do so much for you, but do not forget your father and
mother, and remember always that it is not possible for anybody
to love you and care for you as we do. If you have any
troubles, come to me with them, and if you are tempted to do
wrong pray for help to do right. You will have many struggles
and trials—everybody has them—but you can do what you
will, and become what you wish to become.”

The resolutions that night formed—a thousand times shaken
and a thousand times renewed—became the determining and
fruitful forces of my life.

The next morning, when the old black horse and chaise were
brought to the door, and my father, full of tender pain, took
leave of me, and disappeared at last at the foot of the hill, and
I felt that I was wholly separated from my home, I cried as if
I had been sure that I had left that home forever. The passion
wasted itself in Mrs. Bird's motherly arms, and then, with
words of cheer and diversions that occupied my mind, she cut
me adrift, to find my own soundings in the new social life of
the school.

Of the first few days of school-life there is not much to be
said. They passed pleasantly enough. The aim of my teachers
at first was not to push me into study, but to make me
happy, to teach me the ways of my new life, and to give me an
opportunity to imbibe the spirit of the school. My apprehensions
were out in every direction. I learned by watching
others my own deficiencies; and my appetite for study grew
by a natural process. I could not be content, at last, until I
had become one with the rest in work and in acquirements.

There lies before me now a package of my letters, made
sacred by my father's interest in and perusal and preservation
of them; and, although I have no intention to burden these

pages with their crudenesses and puerilities, I cannot resist the
temptation to reproduce the first which I wrote at The Bird's
Nest, and sent home. I shall spare to the reader its wretched
orthography, and reproduce it entire, in the hope that he will
at least enjoy its unconscious humor.