 | Marjorie Daw, and other people |  |
4. A YOUNG DESPERADO.
WHEN Johnny is all snugly curled up in
bed, with his rosy cheek resting on one
of his scratched and grimy little hands, forming
altogether a faultless picture of peace and innocence,
it is hard to realize what a busy, restive,
pugnacious, badly ingenious little wretch he is!
There is something so comical in those pygmy
shoes and stockings sprawling on the floor,—
they look as if they could jump up and run off,
if they wanted to,—there is something so laughable
about those little trousers, which appear to
be making futile attempts to climb up into the
easy-chair,—the said trousers still retaining the
shape of Johnny's active legs, and refusing to go
to sleep,—there is something, I say, about these
things, and about Johnny himself, which makes
it difficult for me to remember that, when Johnny
is awake, he possesses the cunning of Machiavel
and the sang-froid of the Capitaine Fracasse.
I am sure I do not know how he came by such
unpleasant traits. I am myself the least diplomatic
and audacious of men. Of course, I do
not mean to imply that Johnny inherited his disposition
from his mother. She is the gentlest of
women. But when you come to Johnny,—he's
the teror of the whole neighborhood.
He was meek enough at first,—that is to say,
for the first six or seven days of his existence.
But I verily believe he was not more than eleven
days old and twenty-two inches long when he
showed a degree of temper that would have been
respectable in an aged giant. On that occasion
he turned very red in the face,—he was superfluously
red before,—doubled up his ridiculous
hands in the most threatening manner, and
finally, in the impotency of rage, punched himself
in the eye. When I think of the life he led
his mother and Susan during the first eighteen
months after his arrival, I shrink from the responsibility
of allowing Johnny to call me father.
Johnny's aggressive disposition was not more
early developed than his duplicity. By the time
he was two years of age I had got the following
bitter maxim by heart: “Whenever J. is particularly
sure to be in some mischief. And I must say
there was a novelty, an unexpectedness, an ingenuity,
in his badness that constantly astonished
me. The crimes he committed could be arranged
alphabetically. He never repeated himself. His
evil resources were inexhaustible. He never did
the thing I expected he would. He never failed
to do the thing I was unprepared for. I am not
thinking so much of the time when he painted
my writing-desk with raspberry jam as of the
occasion when he perpetrated an act of original
cruelty on Mopsey, a favorite kitten in the household.
We were sitting in the library. Johnny
was playing in the front hall. In view of the
supernatural stillness that reigned, I remarked,
suspiciously, “Johnny is very quiet, my dear.”
At that moment a series of pathetic mews was
heard in the entry, followed by a violent scratching
on the oil-cloth. Then Mopsey bounded into
the room with three empty spools strung upon
her tail. The spools were removed with great
difficulty, especially the last one, which fitted
remarkably tight. After that, Mopsey never saw
a work-basket without arching her tortoise-shell
natural thickness. Another child would have
squeezed the kitten, or stuck a pin in her, or
twisted the tail; it was reserved for the superior
genius of Johnny to string rather small spools
upon it. He heightened expectation by never
doing the obvious thing.
It was this fertility and happiness, if I may say
so, of invention that prevented me from being
entirely dejected over my son's behavior at this
period. Sometimes the temptation to seize him
and shake him was too strong for poor human
nature. But I always regretted it afterwards.
When I saw him asleep in his tiny bed, with one
tear dried on his plump, velvety cheek and two
little mice-teeth visible through the parted lips, I
could not help thinking what a little bit of a
fellow he was, with his funny little fingers and
his funny little nails; and it did not seem to me
that he was the sort of person to be pitched into
by a great strong man like me.
“When Johnny grows older,” I used to say to
his mother, “I'll reason with him.”
Now I do not know when Johnny will grow
old enough to be reasoned with. When I reflect
people, if they happen to be unwilling to accept
your view of matters, I am inclined to be very
patient with Johnny, whose experience is rather
limited, after all, though he is six years and a
half old, and naturally wants to know why and
wherefore. Somebody says something about the
duty of “blind obedience.” I cannot expect
Johnny to have more wisdom than Solomon, and
to be more philosophic than the philosophers.
At times, indeed, I have been led to expect
this from him. He has shown a depth of mind
that warranted me in looking for anything. At
times he seems as if he were a hundred years
old. He has a quaint, bird-like way of cocking
his head on one side, and asking a question that
appears to be the result of years of study. If I
could answer some of those questions, I should
solve the darkest mysteries of life and death.
His inquiries, however, generally have a grotesque
flavor. One night, when the mosquitoes were
making sprightly raids on his person, he appealed
to me, suddenly: “How does the moon feel
when a skeeter bites it?” To his meditative
mind, the broad, smooth surface of the moon
wandering bird of prey.
I freely confess that Johnny is now and then
too much for me. I wish I could read him as
cleverly as he reads me. He knows all my weak
points; he sees right through me, and makes me
feel that I am a helpless infant in his adroit
hands. He has an argumentative, oracular air,
when things have gone wrong, which always
upsets my dignity. Yet how cunningly he uses
his power! It is only in the last extremity that
he crosses his legs, puts his hands into his
trousers-pockets, and argues the case with me.
One day last week he was very near coming to
grief. By my directions, kindling-wood and coal
are placed every morning in the library grate, in
order that I may have a fire the moment I return
at night. Master Johnny must needs apply a
lighted match to this arrangement early in the
forenoon. The fire was not discovered until the
blower was one mass of incandescent iron, and
the wooden mantel-shelf was smoking with the
intense heat.
When I came home, Johnny was led from the
store-room, where he had been imprisoned from
in eating about two dollars' worth of preserved
pears.
“Johnny,” said I, in as severe a tone as one
could use in addressing a person whose forehead
glistened with syrup, — Johnny, don't you
remember that I have always told you never to
meddle with matches?”
It was something delicious to see Johnny trying
to remember. He cast one eye meditatively
up to the ceiling, then he fixed it abstractedly on
the canary-bird, then he rubbed his ruffled brows
with a sticky hand; but really, for the life of
him, he could n't recall any injunctions concerning
matches.
“I can't, papa, truly,” said Johnny at length.
“I guess I must have forgot it.”
“Well, Johnny, in order that you may not
forget it in future —”
Here Johnny was seized with an idea. He
interrupted me.
“I'll tell you what you do, papa, — you jest
put it down in writin'.”
With the air of a man who has settled a question
definitely, but at the same time is willing to
may have to throw out, Johnny crossed his legs,
and thrust his hands into those wonderful
trousers-pockets. I turned my face aside, for I
felt a certain weakness creeping into the corners
of my mouth. I was lost. In an instant the
little head, covered all over with brown curls,
was laid upon my knee, and Johnny was crying,
“I'm so very, very sorry!”
I have said that Johnny is the terror of the
neighborhood. I think I have not done the young
gentleman an injustice. If there is a window
broken within the radius of two miles from our
house, Johnny's ball, or a stone known to have
come from his dexterous hand, is almost certain
to be found in the battered premises. I never
hear the musical jingling of splintered glass but
my porte-monnaie gives a convulsive throb in my
breat-pocket. There is not a doorstep in our
street that has not borne evidences in red chalk
of his artistic ability; there is not a bell that he
has n't rung and run away from at least three
hundred times. Scarcely a day passes but he
falls out of something, or over something, or
into something. A ladder running up to the
to be resisted by him than the back platform of
a horse-car, when the conductor is collecting his
fare in front.
I should not like to enumerate the battles that
Johnny has fought during the past eight months.
It is a physical impossibility, I should judge, for
him to refuse a challenge. He picks his enemies
impartially out of all ranks of society. He has
fought the ash-man's boy, the grocer's boy, the
plumber's boy, (I was glad of that!) the rich
boys over the way, and any number of miscellaneous
boys who chanced to stray into our street.
I cannot say that this young desperado is always
victorious. I have known the tip of his
nose to be in a state of unpleasant redness for
weeks together. I have known him to come
home frequently with no brim to his hat; once
he presented himself with only one shoe, on
which occasion his jacket was split up the back
in a manner that gave him the appearance of an
over-ripe chestnut bursting out of its bur. How
he will fight! But this I can say,—if Johnny
is as cruel as Caligula, he is every inch as brave
as Agamemnon.
At present the General, as I sometimes call
him, is in hospital. He was seriously wounded
at the battle of The Little Go-Cart, on the 9th
instant. On returning from my office yesterday
evening, I found that scarred veteran stretched
upon a sofa in the sitting-room, with a patch of
brown paper stuck over his left eye, and a convicting
smell of vinegar about him.
“Yes,” said his mother, dolefully, “Johnny's
been fighting again. That horrid Barnabee boy
(who is eight years old, if he is a day) won't let
the child alone.”
“Well,” said I, “I hope Johnny gave that
Barnabee boy a thrashing.”
“Did n't I, though?” cries Johnny, from the
sofa. “You bet!”
“O Johnny!” remonstrates his mother.
Now, several days previous to this, I had addressed
the General in the following terms:—
“Johnny, if I ever catch you in another fight
of your own seeking, I shall cane you.”
In consequence of this declaration, it became
my duty to look into the circumstances of the
present affair, which will be known in history as
the battle of The Little Go-Cart. After going
to be the state of the case.
It seems that the Barnabee Boy—I speak of
him as if he were the Benicia Boy—is the oldest
pupil in the Primary Military School (I think it
must be a military school) of which Johnny is a
recent member. This Barnabee, having whipped
every one of his companions, was sighing for
new boys to conquer, when Johnny joined the
institution. He at once made friendly overtures
of battle to Johnny, who, oddly enough, seemed
indisposed to encourage his advances. Then
Barnabee began a series of petty persecutions,
which had continued up to the day of the fight.
On the morning of that eventful day the Barnabee
Boy appeared in the school-yard with a
small go-cart. After running down on Johnny
several times with this useful vehicle, he captured
Johnny's cap, filled it with sand, and dragged
it up and down the yard triumphantly in the
go-cart. This made the General very indignant,
of course, and he took an early opportunity of
kicking over the triumphal car, in doing which
he kicked one of the wheels so far into space
that it has not been seen since.
This brought matters to a crisis. The battle
would have taken place then and there; but at
that moment the school-bell rang, and the gladiators
were obliged to give their attention to Smith's
Speller. But a gloom hung over the morning's
exercises,—a gloom that was not dispelled in
the back row, when the Barnabee Boy stealthily
held up to Johnny's vision a slate, whereon was
inscribed this fearful message:—
Johnny got it “put down in writin' ” that
time!
After a hasty glance at the slate, the General
went on with his studies composedly enough.
Eleven o'clock came, and with it came recess,
and with recess the inevitable battle.
Now I do not intend to describe the details of
this brilliant action, for the sufficient reason that,
though there were seven young gentlemen (connected
war correspondents, their accounts of the engagement
are so contradictory as to be utterly worthless.
On one point they all agree, — that the
contest was sharp, short, and decisive. The
truth is, the General is a quick, wiry, experienced
old hero; and it did not take him long to rout
the Barnabee Boy, who is in reality a coward, as
all bullies and tyrants have ever been, and always
will be.
I do not approve of boys fighting; I do not
defend Johnny; but if the General wants an
extra ration or two of preserved pear, he shall
have it!
I am thoroughly aware that, socially speaking,
Johnny is a Black Sheep. I know that I have
brought him up badly, and that there is not an
unmarried man or woman in the United States
who would n't have brought him up “very differently.”
It is a great pity that the only people
who know how to manage children never
have any. At the same time, Johnny is not a
black sheep all over. He has some white spots.
His sins — if wiser folks had no greater! — are
to his evanescent youth, and will pass away; but
his honesty, his generosity, his bravery, belong
to his character, and are enduring qualities. The
quickly crowding years will tame him. An expensive
pane of glass, or a protrusive bell-knob,
ceases in time to have attractions for the most
susceptible temperament. And I am confident
that Johnny will be a great statesman, or a valorous
soldier, or, at all events, a good citizen,
after he has got over being A Young Desperado.
| Marjorie Daw, and other people | |