University of Virginia Library

4. CHAPTER IV.
IN WHICH THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE IS NOT PERMITTED TO
RUN AT ALL.

The first night which I spent in The Bird's Nest, after my
father left me, was passed alone, though my room opened into
another that was occupied by two boys. On the following day
Mr. Bird asked me if I had met with any boy whom I would
like for a room-mate; and I told him at once that Henry
Hulm was the boy I wanted. He smiled at my selection, and
asked for the reason of it; and he smiled more warmly still
when I told him I thought he was handsome, and seemed
lonely and sad. The lad was at least two years older than I,
but among all the boys he had been my first and supreme
attraction. He was my opposite in every particular. Quiet,
studious, keeping much by himself, and bearing in his dark
face and eyes a look of patient self-repression, he enlisted at
once my curiosity, my sympathy and my admiration.

Henry was called into our consultation, and Mr. Bird informed
him of my choice. The boy smiled gratefully, for he
had been shunned by the ruder fellows for the same qualities
which had attracted me. As the room I occupied was better
than his, his trunk was moved into mine; and while we
remained in the school we continued our relations and kept
the same apartment. If I had any distinct motive of curiosity
in selecting him he never gratified it. He kept his history covered,
and very rarely alluded, in any way, to his home or his
family.

The one possession which he seemed to prize more highly
than any other was an ivory miniature portrait of his mother,
which, many a time during our life together, I saw him take

from his trunk and press to his lips. I soon learned to respect
his reticence on topics which were quite at home on my own lips.
I suspect I did talking enough for two boys. Indeed, I threw
my whole life open to him, with such embellishments as my
imagination suggested. He seemed interested in my talk, and
was apparently pleased with me. I brought a new element
into his life, and we became constant companions when out of
school, as well as when we were in our room.

We were always wakened in the morning by a “whoop” and
“halloo” that ran from room to room over the whole establishment.
A little bell started it somewhere; and the first boy
who heard it gave his call, which was taken up by the rest and
borne on from bed to bed until the whole brood was in full cry.
Thus the school called itself. It was the voices of merry and
wide-awake boys that roused the drowsy ones; and very rarely
did a dull and sulky face show itself in the breakfast-room.

This morning call was the key to all the affairs of the day
and to the policy of the school. Self-direction and self-government—these
were the most important of all the lessons
learned at The Bird's Nest. Our school was a little community
brought together for common objects—the pursuit of useful
learning, the acquisition of courteous manners, and the practice
of those duties which relate to good citizenship. The only
laws of the school were those which were planted in the conscience,
reason, and sense of propriety of the pupils. The
ingenuity with which these were developed and appealed to has
been, from that day to this, the subject of my unbounded admiration.
The boys were made to feel that the school was
their own, and that they were responsible for its good order.
Mr. Bird was only the biggest and best boy, and the accepted
president of the establishment. The responsibility of the boys
was not a thing of theory only. It was deeply realized in the
conscience and conduct of the school. However careless and
refractory a new boy might be, he soon learned that he had a
whole school to deal with, and that he was not a match for the
public opinion. He might evade the master's or a teacher's

will, but he could not evade the eyes or the sentiments of the
little fellows around him.

On the first Friday evening of my term, I entered as a
charmed and thoroughly happy element into one of the social
institutions of the school. On every Friday evening, after the
hard labor of the week was over, it was the custom of the
school to hold what was called a “reception.” Teachers and
pupils made the best toilet they could, and spent the evening
in the parlors, dancing, and listening to music, and socially
receiving the towns-people and such strangers as might happen
to be in the village. The piano that furnished the music was
the first I had ever heard, and at least half of my first reception-evening
was spent by its side, in watching the skillful and
handsome fingers that flew over its mysterious keys. I had
always been taught that dancing was only indulged in by wicked
people; but there were dear Mr. and Mrs. Bird looking on;
there was precious Miss Butler without her belt, leading little
fellows like myself through the mazes of the figures; there were
twenty innocent and happy boys on the floor, their eyes sparkling
with excitement; there were fine ladies who had come to
see their boys, and village maidens simply clad and as fresh as
roses; and I could not make out that there was anything wicked
about it.

It was the theory of Mr. Bird that the more the boys could
be brought into daily familiar association with good and gracious
women the better it would be for them. Accordingly he
had no men among his teachers, and as his school was the
social center of the village, and all around him were interested
in his objects, there were always ladies and young women at
the receptions who devoted themselves to the happiness of the
boys. Little lads of less than ten summers found no difficulty
in securing partners who were old enough to be their mothers
and grandmothers; and as I look back upon the patient and
hearty efforts of these women, week after week and year after
year, to make the boys happy and manly and courteous, it enhances
my respect for womanhood, and for the wisdom which

laid all its plans to secure these attentions and this influence
for us. I never saw a sheepish-looking boy or a sheepish-acting
boy who had lived a year at The Bird's Nest. Through the
influence of the young women engaged as teachers and of those
who came as sympathetic visitors, the boys never failed to become
courteous, self-respectful, and fearless in society.

Miss Butler, the principal teacher, who readily understood
my admiration of her, undertook early in the evening to get me
upon the floor; but it was all too new to me, and I begged to
be permitted for one evening to look on and do nothing. She
did not urge me; so I played the part of an observer. One
of the first incidents of the evening that attracted my attention
was the entrance in great haste of a good-natured, rollicking boy,
whose name I had learned from the fellows to be Jack Linton.
Jack had been fishing and had come home late. His toilet
had been hurried, and he came blundering into the room with
his laughing face flushed, his neck-tie awry, and his heavy boots
on.

Mr. Bird, who saw everything, beckoned Jack to his side.
“Jack,” said he, “you are a very rugged boy.”

“Am I?” And Jack laughed.

“Yes, it is astonishing what an amount of exercise you require,”
said Mr. Bird.

“Is it?” And Jack laughed again.

“Yes, I see you have your rough boots on for another walk.
Suppose you walk around Robin Hood's Barn, and report
yourself in a light, clean pair of shoes, as soon as you return.”

Jack laughed again, but he made rather sorry work of it;
and then he went out. “Robin Hood's Barn” was the name
given to a lonely building a mile distant, to which Mr. Bird was
in the habit of sending boys whose surplus vitality happened to
lead them into boisterousness or mischief. Gyp, who had been
an attentive listener to the conversation, and apparently understood
every word of it, followed Jack to the door, and, having
dismissed him into the pleasant moonlight, gave one or two
light yelps and went back into the drawing-room.

Jack was a brisk walker and a lively runner, and before an
hour had elapsed was in the drawing-room again, looking as
good-natured as if nothing unusual had occurred. I looked at
his feet and saw that they were irreproachably incased in light,
shining shoes, and that his neck-tie had been readjusted. He
came directly to Mr. Bird and said: “I have had a very pleasant
walk, Mr. Bird.”

“Ah! I'm delighted,” responded the master, smiling; and
then added:

“Did you meet anybody?”

“Yes, sir; I met a cow.”

“What did you say to her?”

“I said `How do you do, ma'am? How's your calf?”'

“What did she say?” asked Mr. Bird very much amused.

“She said the calf was very well, and would be tough enough
for the boys in about two weeks,” replied Jack, with a loud
laugh.

Mr. Bird enjoyed the sally quite as much as the boys who
had gathered round him, and added:

“We all know who will want the largest piece, Jack. Now
go to your dancing.”

In a minute afterward, Jack was on the floor with a matronly-looking
lady to whom he related the events of the evening
without the slightest sense of annoyance or disgrace. But
that was the last time he ever attended a reception in his rough
boots.

The evening was filled with life and gayety and freedom.
To my unaccustomed eyes it was a scene of enchantment. I
wished my father could see it. I would have given anything
and everything I had to give could he have looked in upon it.
I was sure there was nothing wrong in such amusement. I
could not imagine how a boy could be made worse by such
happiness, and I never discovered that he was. Indeed, I can
trace a thousand good and refining influences to those evenings.
They were the shining goals of every week's race with
my youthful competitors; and while they were accounted simply

as pleasures by us, they were regarded by the master and
the teachers as among the choicest means of education. The
manners of the school were shaped by them; and I know that
hundreds of boys attribute to them their release from the bondage
of bashfulness, under which many a man suffers while in
the presence of women during all his life.

I repeat that I have never discovered that a boy was made
worse by his experiences and exercises during those precious
evenings; and I have often thought how sad a thing it is for a
child to learn that he has been deceived or misinformed by his
parents with relation to a practice so charged with innocent
enjoyment. I enter here no plea for dancing beyond a faithful
record of its effect upon the occupants of The Bird's Nest.
I suppose the amusement may be liable to abuse: most good
things are; and I do not know why this should be an exception.
This, however, I am sure it is legitimate to say: that
the sin of abuse, be it great or little, is venial compared with
that which presents to the conscience as a sin in itself that
which is not a sin in itself, and thus charges an innocent amusement
with the flavor of guilt, and drives the young, in their
exuberant life and love of harmonious play, beyond the pale
of Christian sympathy.

As I recall the events of the occasion I find it impossible to
analyze the feeling that one figure among the dancers begot in
me. Whenever Miss Butler was on the floor I saw only her.
Her dark eyes, her heavy shining hair, the inexpressible ease of
her motions, her sunny smile,—that combination of graces
and manners which makes what we call womanliness,—fascinated
me, and inspired me with just as much love as it is possible
for a boy to entertain. I am sure no girl of my own age
could have felt toward her as I did. I should have been
angry with any boy who felt toward her thus, and equally
angry with any boy who did not admire her as much, or who
should doubt, or undertake to cheapen, her charms. How can
I question that it was the dawn within me of the grand passion
—an apprehension of personal and spiritual fitness for companionship?

Pure as childhood, inspired by personal loveliness,
clothing its object with all angelic perfections, this boy-love
for a woman has always been to me the subject of pathetic
admiration, and has proved that the sweetest realm of love is
untained by any breath of sense.

There was a blind sort of wish within me for possession,
even at this early age, and I amused the lady by giving utterance
to my feelings. Wearied with the dancing, she took my
hand and led me to a retired seat, where we had a delightful
chat.

“I think you were born too soon,” I said to her, still clinging
to her hand, and looking my admiration.

“Oh! if I had been born later,” she replied, “I should not
be here. I should be a little girl somewhere.”

“I don't think I should love you if you were a little girl,” I
responded.

“Then perhaps you were not born soon enough,” she suggested.

“But if I had been born sooner I shouldn't be here now,”
I said.

“That's true,” said the lady, “and that would be very bad,
wouldn't it?”

“Yes, ever so bad,” I said. “I wouldn't miss being here
with you for a hundred dollars.”

The mode in which I had undertaken to measure the pleasure
of her society amused Miss Butler very much; and as I felt
that the sum had not impressed her sufficiently, I added fifty
to it. At this she laughed heartily, and said I was a strange
boy, a statement which I received as pleasant flattery.

“Did you ever hear of the princess who was put to sleep for
a hundred years and kept young and beautiful through it all?”
I inquired.

“Yes.”

“Well, I wish Mr. Bird were an enchanter, and would put
you to sleep until I get to be a man,” I said.

“But then I couldn't see you for ten years,” she replied.

“Oh dear!” I exclaimed, “it seems to be all wrong.”

“Well, my boy, there are a great many things in the world
that seem to be all wrong. It is wrong for you to talk such
nonsense to me, and it is wrong for me to let you do it, and we
will not do wrong in this way any more. But I like you, and
we will be good friends always.”

Thus saying, my love dismissed me, and went back among
the boys; but little did she know how sharp a pang she left in
my heart. The forbidden subject was never mentioned again,
and like other boys under similar circumstances, I survived.

There was one boy besides myself who enacted the part of
an observer during that evening. He was a new boy, who had
entered the school only a few days before myself. He was from
the city, and looked with hearty contempt upon the whole
entertainment. He had made no friends during the fortnight
which had passed since he became an occupant of The Bird's
Nest. His haughty and supercilious ways, his habit of finding
fault with the school and everything connected with it, his
overbearing treatment of the younger boys, and his idle habits
had brought upon him the dislike of all the fellows. His name
was Frank Andrews, though for some reason we never called
him by his first name. He gave us all to understand that he was
a gentleman's son, that he was rich, and, particularly, that he
was in the habit of doing what pleased him and nothing else.

He was dressed better than any of the other boys, and
carried a watch, the chain of which he took no pains to conceal.
During all the evening he stood here and there about
the rooms, his arms folded, looking on with his critical eyes and
cynical smile. Nobody took notice of him, and he seemed
to be rather proud of his isolation. I do not know why he
should have spoken to me, for he was my senior, but toward
the close of the evening he came up to me and said in his
patronizing way:

“Well, little chap, how do you like it?”

“Oh! I think it's beautiful,” I replied.

“Do you! That's because you're green,” said Andrews.

“Is it!” I responded, imitating his tone. “Then they're
all green—Mr. Bird and all.”

“There's where you're right, little chap,” said he. “They
are all green—Mr. Bird and all.”

“Miss Butler isn't green,” I asserted stoutly.

“Oh! isn't she?” exclaimed Andrews, with a degree of
sarcasm in his tone that quite exasperated me. “Oh, no! Miss
Butler isn't green of course,” he continued, as he saw my face
reddening. “She's a duck—so she is! so she is! and if you
are a good little boy you shall waddle around with her some
time, so you shall!”

I was so angry that I am sure I should have struck him if
we had been out of doors, regardless of his superior size and
age. I turned sharply on my heel, and, retiring to a corner
of the room, glared at him savagely, to his very great amusement.

It was at this moment that the bell rang for bed; and receiving,
one after another, the kisses of Mr. and Mrs. Bird, and
bidding the guests a good-night, some of whom were departing
while others remained, we went to our rooms.