University of Virginia Library

5. CHAPTER V.
THE DISCIPLINE OF THE BIRD'S NEST AS ILLUSTRATED BY TWO
STARTLING PUBLIC TRIALS.

Scarcely less interesting than the exercises of reception-evening
were those of the “family meeting,” as it was called,
which was always held on Sunday. This family meeting was
one of the most remarkable of all the institutions of The Bird's
Nest. It was probably more influential upon us than even the
attendance at church, and our Bible lessons there, which occurred
on the same day, for its aim and its result were the application
of the Christian rule to our actual, every-day conduct.

I attended the family meeting which was held on my first
Sunday at the school with intense interest. I suspect, indeed,
that few more interesting and impressive meetings had ever
been held in the establishment.

After we were all gathered in the hall, including Mrs. Bird
and the teachers, as well as the master, Mr. Bird looked kindly
out upon us and said:

“Well, boys, has anything happened during the week that
we ought to discuss to-day? Is the school going along all
right? Have you any secrets buttoned up in your jackets that
you ought to show to me and to the school? Is there anything
wrong going on which will do harm to the boys?”

As Mr. Bird spoke, changing the form of his question
so as to reach the consciences of his boys from different directions,
and get time to read their faces, there was a dead silence.
When he paused, every boy felt that his face had been shrewdly
read and was still under inspection.

“Yes, there is something wrong: I see it,” said Mr. Bird.
“I see it in several faces; but Tom Kendrick can tell us just

what it is. And he will tell us just what it is, for Tom Kendrick
never lies.”

All eyes were instantly turned on Tom, a blushing, frank-faced
boy of twelve. Close beside him sat Andrews, the new boy,
who had so roused my anger on Friday night. His face wore
the same supercilious, contemptuous expression that it wore
that night. The whole proceeding seemed to impress him
as unworthy even the toleration of a gentleman's son, yet I felt
sure that he would be in some way implicated in Tom Kendrick's
revelations. Indeed, there was, or I thought there was,
a look of conscious guilt on his face and the betrayal of
excitement in his eye, when Tom rose to respond to Mr. Bird's
bidding.

Tom hesitated, evidently very unwilling to begin. He
looked blushingly at Mrs. Bird and the teachers, then looked
down, and tried to start, but his tongue was dry.

“Well, Tom, we are all ready to hear you,” said Mr. Bird.

After a little stammering, Tom pronounced the name of
Andrews, and told in simple, straightforward language, how
he had been in the habit of relating stories and using words
which were grossly immodest; how he had done this repeatedly
in his hearing and against his protests, and furthermore, how
he had indulged in this language in the presence of smaller
boys. Tom also testified that other boys besides himself had
warned Andrews that if he did not mend his habit he would be
reported at the family meeting.

There was the utmost silence in the room. The dropping
of a pin could have been heard in any part of it, for, while the
whole school disliked Andrews, his arrogance had impressed
them, and they felt that he would be a hard boy to deal with.
I watched alternately the accuser and the accused, and I
trembled in every nerve to see the passion depicted on the features
of the latter. His face became pale at first—deathly pale
—then livid and pinched—and then it burned with a hot flame
of shame and anger. He sat as if he were expecting the
roof to fall, and were bracing himself to resist the shock.

When Tom took his seat Andrews leaned toward him and
muttered something in his ear.

“What does he say to you, Tom?” inquired Mr. Bird.

“He says he'll flog me for telling,” answered Tom.

“We will attend to that,” said Mr. Bird. “But first let us
hear from others about this matter. Has any other boy heard
this foul language? Henry Hulm, can you tell us anything?”

Henry was another boy who always told the truth; and
Henry's testimony was quite as positive as Tom's, though it
was given with even more reluctance. Other boys testified in
confirmation of the report of Tom and Henry, until, in the
opinion of the school, Andrews was shamefully guilty of the matter
charged upon him. I was quite ignorant of the real character
of the offense, and wondered whether his calling Miss
Butler a duck was in the line of his sin, and whether my testimony
to the fact was called for. No absurdity, such as this
would have been, broke in upon the earnest solemnity of the
occasion, however, and the house was silent until Mr. Bird said:

“What have you to say for yourself, Andrews?”

The boy was no whit humbled. Revenge was in his heart
and defiance in his eye. He looked Mr. Bird boldly in the
face; his lips trembled, but he made no reply.

“Nothing?” Mr. Bird's voice was severe this time, and
rang like a trumpet.

Andrews bit his lips, and blurted out: “I think it is mean
for one boy to tell on another.”

“I don't,” responded Mr. Bird; “but I'll tell you what is
mean: it is mean for one boy to pollute another—to fill his
mind with words and thoughts that make him mean; and I
should be sorry to believe that I have any other boy in school
who is half as mean as you are. If there is anything to be
said about mean boys, you are not the boy to say it.”

At first, I confess that I was quite inclined to sympathize
with the lad in his view of the dishonor of “telling on” a boy,
notwithstanding my old grudge; but my judgment went with
the majority at last.

Mr. Bird said that, as there were several new boys in the school,
it would be best, perhaps, to talk over this matter of reporting
one another's bad conduct to him and to the school.

“When boys first come here,” said Mr. Bird, “they invariably
have those false notions of honor which lead them to cover up
all the wrong-doings of their mates; but they lose them just as
soon as they find themselves responsible for the good order of
our little community. Now we are all citizens of this little town
of Hillsborough, in which we live. We have our own town
authorities and our magistrate, and we are all interested in the
good order of the village. Suppose a man should come here
to live who is in the habit of robbing hen-roosts, or setting
barns on fire, or getting drunk and beating his wife and children:
is it a matter of honor among those citizens who behave
themselves properly to shield him in his crimes, and refrain
from speaking of him to the authorities? Why, the thing is
absurd. As good citizens—as honorable citizens—we must report
this man, for he is a public enemy. He is not only dangerous
to us, but he is a disgrace to us. So long as he is permitted
to live among us, unreproved and uncorrected, every man
in the community familiar with his misdeeds is, to a certain extent,
responsible for them. Very well: we have in this house
a little republic, and if you can learn to govern yourselves here,
and to take care of the enemies of the order and welfare of the
school, you will become good citizens, prepared to perform the
duties of good citizenship. I really know of nothing more demoralizing
to a boy, or more ruinous to a school, than that
false sense of honor which leads to the covering up of one another's
faults of conduct.”

Mr. Bird paused, and, fixing his eye upon Andrews, who had
not once taken his eye from him, resumed; “Now here is a
lad who has come to us from a good family; and they have
sent him here to get him away from bad influences and bad
companions. He comes into a community of boys who are
trying to lead good lives, and instead of adopting the spirit of
the school, and trying to become one with us, he still holds the

spirit of the bad companions of his previous life, and goes persistently
to work to make all around him as impure and base
as himself. Nearly all these boys have mothers and sisters,
who would be pained almost to distraction to learn that here,
upon these pure hills, they are drinking in social poison with
every breath. How am I to guard you from this evil if I do
not know of it? How can I protect you from harm if you
shield the boy who harms you? There is no mischief of which a
boy is capable that will not breed among you like a pestilence
if you cover it; and instead of sending you back to your homes
at last with healthy bodies and healthy minds and pure spirits,
I shall be obliged, with shame and tears, to return you soiled
and spotted and diseased. Is it honorable to protect crime?
Is it honorable to shield one who dishonors and damages you?
Is it honorable to disappoint your parents and to cheat me?
Is it honorable to permit these dear little fellows to be spoiled,
when the wicked lad who is spoiling them is allowed to go free
of arrest and conviction?”

Of course I cannot pretend to reproduce the exact words in
which Mr. Bird clothed his little argumentative address. I was
too young at the time to do more than apprehend the meaning of
it: and the words that I give are mainly remembered from repetitions
of the same argument in the years that followed. The
argument and the lesson, however, in their substance and practical
bearings, I remember perfectly.

Continuing to speak, and releasing Andrews from his regard
for a moment, Mr. Bird said: “I want a vote on this question.
I desire that you all vote with perfect freedom. If you are not
thoroughly convinced that I am right in this matter, I wish you
to vote against me. Now all those boys who believe it to be
an honorable thing to report the persistently bad conduct of a
schoolmate will rise and stand.”

Every boy except Andrews rose, and with head erect stood
squarely upon his feet. The culprit looked from side to side
with a sneer upon his lip, that hardened into the old curl of
defiance as he turned his eyes upon Mr. Bird's face again.

“Very well,” said Mr. Bird, “now sit down, and remember
that you are making rules for the government of yourselves.
This question is settled for this term, and there is to be no
complaint hereafter about what you boys call “telling on one
another.” I do not wish you to come to me as tattlers. Indeed,
I do not wish you to come to me at all. If any boy
does a wrong which I ought to know, you are simply to tell
him to report to me what he has done, and if he and I cannot
settle the matter together I will call upon you to help us.
There will be frictions and vexations among forty boys; I
know that, and about these I wish to hear nothing. Settle
these matters among yourselves. Be patient and good-natured
with each other; but all those things that interfere with the
order, purity, and honor of the school—all those things that
refuse to be corrected—must be reported. I think we understand
one another. The school is never to suffer in order to
save the exposure and punishment of a wrong-doer.

“As for this boy, who has offended the school so grossly
and shown so defiant a spirit, I propose, with the private assistance
of the boys who have testified against him, to make
out a literal report of his foul language and forward it to his
mother, while at the same time I put him into the stage-coach
and send him home.”

It was a terrible judgment, and I can never forget the passion
depicted upon Andrews' face as he comprehended it. He
seemed like one paralyzed.

“Every boy,” said Mr. Bird, “who is in favor of this punishment
will hold up his right hand.”

Two or three hands started to go up among the smaller boys,
but as their owners saw that they had no support, they were drawn
down again. Four or five of the boys were in tears, and dear
Mr. Bird's eyes were full. He gathered at a glance the meaning
of the scene, and was much moved. “Well, Tom Kendrick,
you were the first to testify against him; what have you
to say against this punishment?”

Tom rose with his lips trembling, and every nerve full of

[ILLUSTRATION]

The appeal from man to woman—from justice to mercy.

[Description: 587EAF. Illustration page. Image of an older woman, seated, with her arms around a little boy clings to her with his head buried in her lap. She is looking up at the gentleman who stands looking down at them with his hands clasped behind his back.]

excitement. “Please, sir,” said Tom, “I should like to have
you give Andrews another chance. I think it's an awful thing
to send a boy home without giving him more than one chance.”

Tom sat down and blew his nose very loud, as a measure of
relief.

I watched Andrews with eager eyes during the closing passages
of his trial. When Tom rose on behalf of the whole
school to plead for him—that he might have one more chance
—the defiant look faded from his face, and he gave a convulsive
gulp as if his heart had risen to his throat and he were struggling
to keep it down. When Tom sat down, Andrews rose upon his
feet and staggered and hesitated for a moment; then, overcome
by shame, grief and gratitude, he ran rather than walked to
where Mrs. Bird was sitting near her husband, and with a wild
burst of hysterical sobbing threw himself upon his knees, and
buried his face in the dear motherly lap that had comforted so
many boyish troubles before. The appeal from man to woman
—from justice to mercy—moved by the sympathy of the boys,
was the most profoundly touching incident I had ever witnessed,
and I wept almost as heartily as did Andrews himself. In
truth, I do not think there was a dry eye in the room.

“Tom,” said Mr. Bird, “I think you are right. You have
helped me, and helped us all. The lad ought to have another
chance, and he shall have one if he desires it. The rest of
this matter you can safely leave to Mrs. Bird and myself. Now
remember that this is never to be alluded to. If the lad remains
and does right, or tries to do right, he is to be received and cherished
by you all. No one of us is so perfect that he does not
need the charity of his fellows. If Andrews has bad habits,
you must help him to overcome them. Be brothers to him in
all your future intercourse, as you have been here to-day; and
as we have had business enough for one family meeting, you
may pass out and leave him with us.”

“Gorry!” exclaimed Jack Linton, wiping his eyes and wringing
his handkerchief as he left the door, “wasn't that a freshet?
Wettest time I ever saw in Hillsborough.”

But the boys were not in a jesting mood, and Jack's drolleries
were not received with the usual favor. Every thoughtful and
sympathetic lad retired with a tableau on his memory never to be
forgotten—a benignant man looking tearfully and most affectionately
upon him, and a sweet-faced, large-hearted woman
pillowing in her lap the head of a kneeling boy, whose destiny
for all the untold and unguessed ages was to be decided there
and then.

It was more than an hour before we saw anything of Mr.
and Mrs. Bird. When they issued from their retirement they
were accompanied by a boy who was as great a stranger to
himself as he was to the school. Conquered and humbled,
looking neither to the right nor the left, he sought his room,
and none of us saw his face until the school was called together
on Monday morning. His food was borne to his room by Mrs.
Bird, who in her own way counseled and comforted him, and prepared
him to encounter his new relations with the institution.
The good, manly hearts of the boys never manifested their
quality more strikingly than when they undertook on Monday
to help Andrews into his new life. The obstacles were all taken
out of his path—obstacles which his own spirit and life had
planted—and without a taunt, or a slight, or a manifestation
of revenge in any form, he was received into the brotherhood.

On Monday evening we were somewhat surprised to see him
appear, dressed in his best, his hands nicely gloved, making his
way across the village green. No one questioned him, and all
understood the case as he turned in at the gate which led to the
home of the village minister.

When any lad had behaved in an unseemly manner at church,
it was Mr. Bird's habit to compel him to dress himself for a call,
and visit the pastor with an apology for his conduct. “It is not
a punishment, my boy,” Mr. Bird used to say, “but it is what
one gentleman owes to another. Any boy who so far forgets
his manners as to behave improperly in the presence of a clergyman
whose ministration he is attending owes him an apology,

if he proposes to be considered a gentleman; and he must
make it, or he cannot associate with me or my school.”

In this case he had made conformity to his rule a test of the
genuineness of the boy's penitence, and a trial of his newly-professed
loyalty. The trial was a severe one, but the result gratified
all the boys as much as it did dear Mr. and Mrs. Bird.

I was very much excited by the exposure of Andrews, and
put a good many serious questions to myself in regard to my
own conduct. The closing portion of the Sunday evening on
which the event occurred was spent by several boys and myself
in our rooms. We were so near each other that we could easily
converse through the open doors, and I was full of questions.

“What do you think Mr. Bird will do with Andrews?” I inquired
of Jack Linton.

“Oh, nothing: he's squelched,” said Jack.

“I should think he would punish him,” I said, “for I know
Mr. Bird was angry.”

“Yes,” responded Jack, “the old fellow fires up sometimes
like everything; but you can't flail a boy when he's got his
head in a woman's lap, can you, you little coot?”

“That's the way my mother always flailed me, any way,” I
said, at which Jack and all the boys gave a great laugh.

“Flailing,” said Jack, taking up a moralizing strain, when
the laugh was over, “don't pay. The last school I went to before
I came here was full of no end of flailing. There gets to
be a sort of sameness about it after a while. Confound that
old ruler! I used to get it about every day—three or four
whacks on a fellow's hand; first it stung and then it was numb;
and it always made me mad, or else I didn't care. There isn't
quite so much sameness about a raw-hide, for sometimes you
catch it on your legs and sometimes on your shoulders, but
there gets to be a sort of sameness about that too. But here
in this school! My! You never know what's coming. Say,
boys, do you remember that day when I was making such a row
out in the yard, how Mr. Bird made me take a fish-horn, and
blow it at each corner of the church on the green?”

The boys laughed, and Henry Huim said: “Yes, Jack, but
you liked that better than that other punishment when he sent
you out into the grove to yell for three-quarters of an hour.”

“I'll bet I did,” responded Jack. “I got so hoarse that time
I couldn't speak the truth for a week, but that's enough better
than meditating. If there's anything I hate it's meditating on
my misdemeanors and things, kneeling before a tree by the
side of the road, like a great heathen luny. I suppose half the
people thought I was praying like an old Pharisee. Gorry!
If the minister had found me there I believe he'd have kneeled
right by the side of a fellow; and wouldn't that have been a
pretty show! Did any of you ever hug a tree for an hour?”

None of them ever did. “It's awful tiresome,” continued
Jack, upon whose punishments Mr. Bird seemed to have exercised
all his ingenuities. “It's awful tiresome and it isn't a bit
interesting. If it was only a birch-tree a fellow might amuse
himself gnawing the bark, but mine was a hemlock with an antheap
at the bottom. Oh! I tell you, my stockings wanted
tending to when I got through: more ants in 'em than you
could count in a week. Got a little exercise out of it, though
—fighting one foot with the other. After all it's better than it
is when there's so much sameness. It's tough enough when
you are at it, but it doesn't make you mad, and it's funny to
think of afterwards. I tell you, old Bird—”

“Order! Order! Order!” came from all the boys within
hearing.

“Well, what's broke now?” inquired Jack.

“There isn't any Old Bird, in the establishment,” said one
of them.

“Mr. Bird, then. Confound you, you've put me out. I forget
what I was going to say.”

Here I took the opportunity to inquire whether any sins of
the boys were punishable by “flailing.”

“Yes,” replied Jack, “big lying and tobacco. Unless a fellow
breaks right in two in the middle, as Andrews did to-day,
he'd better make his will before he does anything with either of

'em. Old Bird—Mr. Bird, I mean—don't stand the weakest
sort of a cigar; and look here, Arthur Bonnicastle” (suddenly
turning to me), “you're a little blower, and you'd better hold
up. If you don't, you'll find out whether there's any flailing
done here.”

The conversation went on, but I had lost my interest in it.
The possibility of being punished filled me with a vague alarm.
It was the first time I had ever been characterized as “a little
blower,” but my sober and conscientious chum had plainly told
me of my fault, and I knew that many statements which I had
made during my short stay in the school would not bear examination.
I resolved within myself that I would reform, but the
next day I forgot my resolution, and the next, and the next,
until, as I afterwards learned, my words were good for nothing
among the boys as vouchers for the truth. I received my correction
in due time, as my narrative will show.

My readers will have seen already that The Bird's Nest was
not very much like other schools, though I find it difficult to
choose from the great variety of incidents with which my memory
is crowded those which will best illustrate its peculiarities.
The largest liberty was given to us, and we were simply responsible
for the manner in which we used it. We had the freedom
of long distances of road and wide spaces of field and forest.
Indeed, there was no limit fixed to our wanderings, except the
limit of time. There were no feuds between the town-boys
and the school. It was not uncommon to see them at our
receptions, and everybody in Hillsborough was glad when The
Bird's Nest was full.

During the first week of my active study I got very tired, and
after the violent exercise of the play-ground I often found myself
so much oppressed by the desire for sleep that it was
simply impossible for me to hold up my head. It was on one
such occasion that my sleepy eyes caught the wide-awake
glance of Mr. Bird, and the beckoning motion of his finger. I
went to his side, and he lifted me to his knee. Pillowing my
head upon his broad breast, I went to sleep; and thus holding

me with his strong arm he went on with the duties of the
school. Afterwards, when similarly oppressed, or when languid
with indisposition, I sought the same resting-place many
times, and was never refused. A scene like this was not an
uncommon one. It stirred neither surprise nor mirth among
the boys. It fitted into the life of the family so naturally that
it never occasioned remark.

It must have been three weeks or a month after I entered
the school that, on a rainy holiday, as I was walking through
one of the halls alone, I was met by two boys who ordered me
peremptorily to “halt.” Both had staves in their hands, taller
than themselves, and one of them addressed me with the words:
“Arthur Bonnicastle, you are arrested in the name of The
High Society of Inquiry, and ordered to appear before that
august tribunal, to answer for your sins and misdemeanors.
Right about face!”

The movement had so much the air of mystery and romance
that I was about equally pleased and scared. Marching between
the two officials, I was led directly to my own room,
which I was surprised to find quite full of boys, all of whom
were grave and silent. I looked from one to another, puzzled
beyond expression, though I am sure I preserved an unruffled
manner, and a confident and even smiling face. Indeed, I
supposed it to be some sort of a lark, entered upon for passing
away the time while confined to the house.

“We have secured the offender,” said one of my captors,
“and now have the satisfaction of presenting him before this
honorable Society.”

“The prisoner will stand in the middle of the room, and
look at me,” said the presiding officer, in a tone of dignified
severity.

I was accordingly marched into the middle of the room and
left alone, where I stood with folded arms, as became the grand
occasion.

“Arthur Bonnicastle,” said the officer before mentioned,
“you are brought before The High Society of Inquiry on a

charge of telling so many lies that no dependence whatever
can be placed upon your words. What have you to reply to
this charge. Are you guilty or not guilty?”

“I am not guilty. Who says I am?” I exclaimed indignantly.

“Henry Hulm, advance!” said the officer.

Henry rose, and walking by me, took a position near the
officer, at the head of the room.

“Henry Hulm, you will look upon the prisoner and tell the
Society whether you know him.”

“I know him well. He is my chum,” replied Henry.

“What is his general character?”

“He is bright and very amiable.”

“Do you consider him a boy of truth and veracity?”

“I do not.”

“Has he deceived you?” inquired the officer. “If he has,
please to state the occasion and circumstances.”

“No, your Honor. He has never deceived me. I always
know when he lies and when he speaks the truth.”

“Have you ever told him of his crimes, and warned him to
desist from them?”

“I have,” replied Henry, “many times.”

“Has he shown any disposition to mend?”

“None at all, your honor.”

“What is the character of his falsehood?”

“He tells,” replied Henry, “stunning stories about himself.
Great things are always happening to him, and he is always
performing the most wonderful deeds.”

I now began with great shame and confusion to realize that
I was to be exposed to ridicule. The tears came into my eyes
and dropped from my cheeks, but I would not yield to the impulse
either to cry or to attempt to fly.

“Will you give us some specimens of his stories?” said the
officer.

“I will,” responded Henry, “but I can do it best by asking
him questions.”

“Very well,” said the officer, with a polite bow. “Pursue
the course you think best.”

“Arthur,” said Henry, addressing me directly, “did you ever
tell me that, when you and your father were on the way to
this school, your horse went so fast that he ran down a black
fox in the middle of the road, and cut off his tail with the wheel
of the chaise, and that you sent that tail home to one of your
sisters to wear in her winter hat?”

“Yes, I did,” I responded, with my face flaming and painful
with shame.

“And did your said horse really run down said fox in the
middle of said road, and cut off said tail; and did you send
home said tail to said sister to be worn in said hat?” inquired
the judge, with a low, grum voice. “The prisoner will answer
so that all can hear.”

“No,” I replied, and, looking for some justification of my
story, I added: “but I did see a black fox—a real black fox,
as plain as day!”

“Oh! Oh! Oh!” ran around the room in chorus. “He
did see a black fox, a real black fox, as plain as day!”

“The witness will pursue his inquiries,” said the officer.

“Arthur,” Henry continued, “did you or did you not tell
me that when on the way to this school you overtook Mr. and
Mrs. Bird in their wagon, that you were invited into the wagon
by Mrs. Bird, and that one of Mr. Bird's horses chased a calf
on the road, caught it by the ear and tossed it over the fence
and broke its leg?”

“I s'pose I did,” I said, growing desperate.

“And did said horse really chase said calf, and catch him by
said ear, and toss him over said fence, and break said leg?” inquired
the officer.

“He didn't catch him by the ear,” I replied doggedly, “but
he really did chase a calf.”

“Oh! Oh! Oh!” chimed in the chorus. “He didn't catch
him by the ear, but he really did chase a calf!”

“Witness,” said the officer, “you will pursue your inquiries.”

“Arthur, did you or did you not tell me,” Henry went on,
“that you have an old friend who is soon to go to sea, and that
he has promised to bring you a male and female monkey, a
male and female bird of paradise, a barrel of pineapples, and a
Shetland pony?”

“It doesn't seem as if I told you exactly that,” I replied.

“Did you or did you not tell him so?” said the officer, severely.

“Perhaps I did,” I responded.

“And did said friend, who is soon to go to said sea, really
promise to bring you said monkeys, said birds of paradise, said
pine-apples, and said pony?”

“No,” I replied, “but I really have an old friend who is going
to sea, and he'll bring me anything I ask him to.”

“Oh! Oh! Oh!” swept round the room again. “He really
has an old friend who is going to sea, and he'll bring him anything
he asks him to.”

“Hulm, proceed with your inquiries,” said the officer.

“Did you or did you not,” said Henry, turning to me again,
“tell me that one day, when dining at your Aunt's, you saw a
magic portrait of a boy upon the wall, that came and went, and
came and went, like a shadow or a ghost?”

As Henry asked this question he stood between two windows,
while the lower portion of his person was hidden by a table behind
which he had retired. His face was lighted by a half-smile,
and I saw him literally in a frame, as I had first seen the picture
to which he alluded. In a moment I became oblivious to
everything around me except Henry's face. The portrait was
there again before my eyes. Every lineament and even the
peculiar pose of the head were recalled to me. I was so much
excited that it really seemed as if I were looking again upon the
picture I had seen in Mrs. Sanderson's dining-room. Henry was
disconcerted, and even distressed by my intent look. He was
evidently afraid that the matter had been carried too far, and
that I was growing wild with the strange excitement. Endeavoring
to recall me to myself, he said in a tone of friendliness:

“Did you or did you not tell me the story about the portrait,
Arthur?”

“Yes,” I responded, “and it looked just like you. Oh! it
did, it did, it did! There—turn your head a little more that
way—so! It was a perfect picture of you, Henry. You never
could imagine such a likeness.”

“You are a little blower, you are,” volunteered Jack Linton,
from a corner,

“Order! Order! Order!” swept around the room.

“Did said portrait,” broke in the voice of the officer, “come
and go on said wall, like said shadow or said ghost?”

“It went but it didn't come,” I replied, with my eyes still
fixed on Henry.

“Oh! Oh! Oh!” resumed the chorus. “It went but it
didn't come!”

“Please stand still, Henry! don't stir!” I said. “I want
to go nearer to it. She wouldn't let me.”

I crept slowly toward him, my arms still folded. He grew
pale, and all the room became still. The presiding officer and
the members of The High Society of Inquiry were getting
scared. “It went but it didn't come,” I said. “This one
comes but it doesn't go. I should like to kiss it.”

I put out my hands towards Henry, and he sank down behind
the table as if a ghost were about to touch him. The
illusion was broken, and I started as if awakened suddenly
from a dream. Looking around upon the boys, and realizing
what had been done and what was in progress, I went into a
fit of hearty crying, that distressed them quite as much as my
previous mood had done. Nods and winks passed from one
to another, and Hulm was told that no further testimony was
needed. They were evidently in a hurry to conclude the case,
and felt themselves cut short in their forms of proceeding. At
this moment a strange silence seized the assembly. All eyes
were directed toward the door, upon which my back was
turned. I wheeled around to find the cause of the interruption.
There, in the doorway, towering above us all, and looking

questioningly down upon the little assembly, stood Mr.
Bird.

“What does this mean?” inquired the master.

I flew to his side and took his hand. The officer who had
presided, being the largest boy, explained that they had been
trying to break Arthur Bonnicastle of lying, and that they were
about to order him to report to the master for confession and
correction.

Then Mr. Bird took a chair and patiently heard the whole
story.

Without a reproach, further than saying that he thought me
much too young for experiments of the kind they had instituted
in the case, he explained to them and to me the nature
of my misdemeanors.

“The boy has a great deal of imagination,” he said, “and a
strong love of approbation. Somebody has flattered his power
of invention, probably, and, to secure admiration, he has exercised
it until he has acquired the habit of exaggeration. I
doubt whether the lad has done much that was consciously
wrong. It is more a fault of constitution and character than a
sin of the will; and now that he sees that he does not win
admiration by telling that which is not true, he will become
truthful. I am glad if he has learned, even by the severe
means which have been used, that if he wishes to be loved and
admired he must always tell the exact truth, neither more nor
less. If you had come to me, I could have told you all about
the lad, and instituted a better mode of dealing with him. He
has been through some sudden changes of late that have had
the natural tendency to exaggerate his fault. But I venture to
say that he is cured. Are n't you, Arthur?” And he stooped
and lifted me to his face and looked into my eyes.

“I don't think I shall do it any more,” I said.

Bidding the boys disperse, he carried me down stairs into his
own room, and charged me with kindly counsel. I went out
from the interview humbled and without a revengeful thought
in my heart toward the boys who had brought me to my trial.

I saw that they were my friends, and I was determined to prove
myself worthy of their friendship.

Jack Linton was waiting for me on the piazza, and wished to
explain to me that he hadn't anything against me. “I went in
with the rest of 'em because they wanted me to,” said Jack,
“and because I wanted to see what it would be like; but
really, now, I don't object so much to blowing myself. There's
a sort of sameness, you know, about always telling the truth
that there isn't about blowing, but it's the same thing with hash
and bread and butter, and it seems to be necessary.”

I told him that I wasn't going to blow any more, and
that I had arranged it all with Mr. Bird. He shook hands with
me and then stooped down and whispered: “You don't catch
me trying any High old Society of Inquiries on a chap of your
size again.”

As soon as I settled into the routine of my school life the
weeks flew away so fast that they soon got beyond my counting.
The term was long, but I was happy in my study, happy
in my companionships, and happy in the love of Mr. and Mrs.
Bird, and in their control and direction. I wrote letters home
every week, and received prompt replies from my father. The
monthly missives to “My dear Aunt,” were regularly written,
though I won no replies to them. I learned, however, that
Mr. Bird had received communications from her concerning
myself. On one occasion she sent her love to me through
him, and he delivered the message with an amused look in his
eyes that puzzled me.

The summer months passed away, and that great, mysterious
change came on which reported the consummation of growth
and maturity in the processes and products of the year. The
plants that had toiled all summer, evolving flower and fruit,
were soothed to sleep. The birds stopped singing lest they
should waken them. The locusts by day and the crickets by
night crooned their lullaby. A dreamy haze hung around the
distant hills, and here and there a woodbine lighted its torch
in the darkening dingle, and the maples in mellow fire signalled

each other from hill to hill. The year had begun to die.
There were chils at night and fevers by day, and stretches of
weird silence that impressed me more profoundly than I can
possibly reveal. It was as if the angels of the summer had fled
at the first frost, and the angels of the autumn had come down,
bringing with them a new set of spiritual influences that saddened
while they sweetened every soul whose sensibilities were
delicate enough to apprehend and receive them.

During those days I felt my first twinges of genuine homesickness.
I was conscious that I had grown in body and mind
during my brief absence; and I wanted to show myself to the
dear ones with whom I had passed my childhood. I imagined
the interest with which they would listen to the stories of my
life at school; and I had learned enough of the world already to
know that there was no love so sweet and strong as that which
my home held for me. I had been made glad by my father's
accounts of his modest prosperity. Work had been plenty and
the pay was sure and sufficient. The family had been reclothed,
and new and needed articles of furniture had been purchased.

I wrote to Mrs. Sanderson and asked the privilege of going
home to spend my vacation, and through my father's letters I
learned that she would send for me. A week or more before
the close of the term I received a note addressed to me in a
hand-writing gone to wreck through disuse, from old Jenks. If
I were to characterize the orthography in which it was clothed,
I should say it was eminently strong. I do not suppose it was
intended to be blank verse, but it was arranged in disconnected
lines, and read thus:

This unique document was not committed to the flames,
according to the directions of the writer. It was much too
precious for such a destiny, and was carefully laid away between
the leaves of my Testament, to be revealed in this later time.

The last evening of the term was devoted to a reception.
Many parents of the boys who had come to take their darlings
home were present; and sitting in the remotest corner of the
dancing-room, shrunken into the smallest space it was possible
for him to occupy, was old Jenks, gazing enchanted upon such
a scene as had never feasted his little gray eyes before. I had
learned to dance, in a boy's rollicking fashion, and during the
whole evening tried to show off my accomplishments to my old
friend. One after another I led ladies—middle-aged and young
—to the floor, and discharged the courtesies of the time with
all the confidence of a man of society. Occasionally I went to
his side and asked him how he liked it.

“It's great—it's tremenduous,” said Jenks. “How do you
dare to do it—eh? say!” said he, drawing me down to him by the
lappel of my coat: “I've been thinking how I'd like to have
the old woman on the floor, and see her tumble down once. I
ain't no dancer, you know, but I'd dance a regular break-down
over her before I picked her up and set her on her pins again.
Wouldn't it be fun to see her get up mad, and limp off into a
corner?”

I laughed at Jenks's fancy, and asked him what he thought of
the last lady I danced with.

“She's a beauty,” said Jenks. “I should like to sail with
her—just sit and hold her hand and sail—sail away, and keep
sailing and sailing and sailing.”

“I'm glad you like her,” I said, “for that is my lady-love.
That's Miss Butler.”

“You don't say!” exclaimed Jenks. “Well, you don't
mind what I say, do you?”

“Oh no,” I said, “you're too old for her.”

“Well, yes, perhaps I am, but isn't she just—isn't she rather
—that is, isn't she a bit too old for you?”

“I shall be old enough for her by and by,” I replied.

“Well, don't take to heart anything I say,” responded Jenks.
“I was only talking about sailing, any way. My mind is on the
sea a good deal, you know. Now you go on with your dancing,
and don't mind me.”

The next morning there were all sorts of vehicles at the
door. There were calls and farewells and kisses, and promises
to write, and hurrahs, and all the incidents and excitements of
breaking up. With a dozen kisses warm upon my cheeks,
from teachers and friends, I mounted the chaise, and Jenks
turned the old horse toward home.

I suppose the world would not be greatly interested in the
conversation between the old servant and the boy who that
day drove from Hillsborough to Bradford. Jenks had been
much moved by the scenes of the previous evening, and his mind,
separated somewhat from the sea, out toward whose billowy
freedom it had been accustomed to wander, turned upon
women.

“I think a woman is a tremendous being,” said Jenks.
“When she's right, she's the rightest thing that floats. When
she's wrong, she's the biggest nuisance that ploughs the sea,
even if she's little and don't draw two feet of water. Perhaps
it isn't just the thing to say to a boy like you, but you'll never
speak of it, if I should tell you a little something?”

“Oh, never!” I assured him.

“Well, I 'spose I might have been a married man;” and
Jenks avoided my eyes by pretending to discover a horse-shoe
in the road.

“You don't say so!” I exclaimed in undisguised astonishment,
for it had never occurred to me that such a man as Jenks
could marry.

“Yes, I waited on a girl once.”

“Was she beautiful?” I inquired.

“Well, I should say fair to middling,” responded Jenks,
pursing his lips as if determined to render a candid judgment.
“Fair to middling, barring a few freckles.”

“But you didn't leave her for the freckles?” I said.

“No, I didn't leave her for the freckles. She was a good
girl, and I waited on her. It don't seem possible now, that
I ever ra'aly waited on a girl, but I did.”

“And why didn't you marry her?” I inquired warmly.

“It wasn't her fault,” said Jenks. “She was a good girl.”

“Then why didn't you marry her?” I insisted.

“Well, there was another fellow got to hanging round,
and—you know how such things go. I was busy, and—didn't
'tend up very well, I s'pose—and—she got tired waiting for
me—or something—and the other fellow married her, but I've
never blamed her. She's been sorry enough, I guess.”

Jenks gave a sigh of mingled regret and pity, and the subject
was dropped.

The lights were shining cheerfully in the windows as we
drove into Bradford. When we came in sight of my father's
house, Jenks exacted a pledge from me that all the confidences
of the day which he had so freely reposed in me should never
be divulged. Arriving at the gate, I gave a wild whoop,
which brought all the family to the door, and in a moment I
was smothered with welcome.

Ah! what an evening was that! What sad, sweet tears
drop upon my paper as I recall it, and remember that every
eye that sparkled with greeting then has ceased to shine,
that every hand that grasped mine is turned to dust, and that
all those loving spirits wait somewhere to welcome me home
from the school where I have been kept through such a long,
eventful term.