Pocket Island
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Charles Clark Munn >> Pocket Island
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The boy did not feel at home at the academy. It was so unlike the dear
old district school. But he felt it was a good training for him, and he
watched the older scholars and studied hard. The girls all wore long
dresses, and, as a rule, were just budding into young womanhood. Of
these he was a trifle afraid, especially of Liddy, who was one of the
prettiest. She was also one of the best scholars, and in her studies
easily a leader. It acted as a spur to the boy, whose secret though
ardent admiration had originally been the motive force that brought him
to the academy. His pride was such that he was ashamed to have her
surpass him, and for her to solve a problem in algebra that he had
failed on, humiliated him.
Another thing he learned that winter besides his lessons, was that
stylish clothes and genteel manners in a young man counted far more in a
girl's estimation than proficiency in study. There was one pupil in
particular, named James White, who, though dull in lessons, was popular
with the girls. He was the fop of the school, wore the nattiest of
garments, patent-leather shoes, gold watch, bosom pin, seal ring, and
was blessed with a nice little moustache. He also smoked cigars with all
the _sang froid_ of experienced men. It might be said that he prided
himself on his style, but that was all he had for consolation, for he
was always at the foot of his class. He also showered a deal of
attention and candy on Liddy. It is needless to say the boy hated him,
and once gave him a good thrashing for calling him a "greeny." It was
true enough, but then a boy who is a greenhorn doesn't enjoy being
informed of it by a better-dressed stupid who tries to cut him out!
There was one other comfort the boy had: he was often enabled to give a
far better recitation than White could. On these occasions a faint look
of admiration in Liddy's blue eyes was like a rift of sunshine on a
cloudy day to him. When the standing of all pupils was read at the
middle of the term, the boy was away ahead of White, and felt almost as
proud as the night he walked home with Liddy from his first party. It
cheered him a deal in his hard fight against ignorance and the
awkwardness that, like hayseed from the farm, still clung to him. How
much the few quiet attentions and pleasant words Liddy favored him with
encouraged him, no one but himself ever knew. He never told Liddy even,
till a good many years after. Toward the end of the term this studious
little lady gave a party, and with the rest the boy was invited. It
gladdened his heart, of course, but when the day before the affair, and
as they were all leaving the hill upon which the academy stood, she
quietly said to him: "Come early, I want you to help me get ready to
play a new game called questions," he felt like a king. It is needless
to say he went early.
The new game proved a success. It consisted of as many numbered cards as
there were players, distributed among them by chance. The holders of
these were each in turn to give an answer to any question asked
beginning with "Who," the selection being made by the chance drawing of
one of the same series of numbers from a hat. To illustrate: If there
were thirty boys and girls playing the same game, cards bearing the
numbers from one to thirty were distributed among them.
As many more bearing the same numbers were retained by the leader, who
would start the game by asking, for instance: "Who has the largest
mouth?" A number would be drawn from the hat and the boy or girl who
held the duplicate number was by this means identified as having a
suitable mouth for pie. He or she in turn was then at liberty to get
square by asking another question also beginning with "who," and so on.
"Questions" scored a hit and made no end of fun. Some one asked: "Who is
the biggest fool in the room?" and when the number was called and Master
White proved to hold the duplicate, the boy smiled, for retribution
occasionally overtakes those who wear too fine clothes. A young folks'
party in those days would be no party at all unless there were some
kissing games, and when toward the close of this one, somebody proposed
they wind up with "Copenhagen," all seemed willing.
When the little gathering had departed, the boy made bold to stay a few
minutes longer and hold a most delightful though brief chat with Liddy.
They talked over a lot of mutually interesting subjects, including
their opinions of Mr. Webber, and if that worthy could have heard what
they said it might have reduced his bumptiousness just a trifle. Liddy
also assured the boy that she did not care a row of pins for Jim White,
and considered him too awfully stuck up for endurance, all of which,
mingled with a few sweet smiles, caused our young friend to feel that
his future life at the academy might be pleasanter for him.
CHAPTER VII.
LIDDY.
In one of the New England States, and occupying a beautiful valley
between two low ranges of mountains, was the town of Southton. One of
these ranges, that on the east, was known as the Blue Hills; the other
was nameless. This valley was about four miles in width, and winding
through it ran a small river. On the banks of this, and nearly in the
center of the town, was a village, or "town center," as it was called,
containing two churches, an academy and several stores. In one of these
churches, Rev. Jonas Jotham expounded the orthodox Congregational faith,
including predestination, foreordination, and all creation, and in the
other Rev. Samuel Wetmore argued on the same lines, clinching them all
with the necessity of total immersion as a means of salvation.
There was no affiliation between the two sects, each declaring the other
totally blind to Scriptural truths; wrong in all points of creed, and
sure to be damned for it. Sectarian feeling was strong, social lines
between the two churches were sharply drawn, and the enmities of feeling
engendered in the pulpits were reflected among the members. Each worthy
dominie emitted long sermons every Sunday, often extending to
"seventeenthly," while occasionally a few of the good deacons slept; and
so, year after year, the windy war continued.
In the meantime the children attended school, played hard, were happy,
grew up, courted, married, and kept on farming, and life in Southton
flowed onward as peacefully as the current of the river that meandered
through it.
Near the eastern border, and beside a merry brook that tumbled down from
the Blue Hill range, was the home of Loring Camp, his wife, and his only
daughter, Liddy. He was not a member of either of the two orthodox
churches, but a fearless, independent thinker, believing in a merciful
God of love and forgiveness, rather than a Calvinistic one, and who
might be classed as a Unitarian in opinion. Broad-chested, broad-minded,
outspoken in his ways, he was at once a loving husband, a kind father, a
good neighbor, an honest man and respected. Tilling a small farm and
mingling with that more or less attention to his trade of a builder, he
earned a good livelihood. A reader of the best books and a thinker as
well, he was firm in his convictions, terse in his criticism, and yet
charitable toward all. His daughter inherited her father's keen
intellect and her mother's fair face and complexion, it is needless to
say, was the pride of his heart and loved by all.
Of Liddy herself, since she is the central figure in this narrative, a
more explicit description must be given. To begin with, she was at the
age of seventeen, a typical New England girl of ordinary
accomplishments, home loving and filial in disposition, with a nature as
sweet as the daisies that grew in the green meadows about her home, and
a mind as clear as the brook that rippled through them. Fond of pretty
things in the house, a daintily set table, tidy rooms, and loving
neatness and order, she was a good cook, a capable housekeeper and a
charming hostess as well. She loved the flowers that bloomed each summer
in the wide dooryard, and had enough romance to enjoy nature's moods at
all times. She cared but little for dress and abhorred loud or
conspicuous garments of any kind. While fond of music, she never had had
an opportunity to cultivate that taste, and her sole accomplishment in
that respect was to play upon the cottage organ that stood in her
parlor, and sing a few simple ballads or Sabbath-school hymns. She was
of medium height, with a charmingly rounded figure, and blessed with a
pair of blue eyes that could change from grave to gay, from mirth to
tenderness, as easily as clouds cross the sun. With the crowning glory
of her sunny hair, a sweet and sympathetic mouth, modest and unassuming
ways, tender heart and affectionate manner, she was an unusually
attractive girl.
Of her feelings toward the boy little need be said; and since he has now
reached eighteen and a moustache, he deserves and shall have an
introduction by his name of Mr. Charles Manson. He was tall, had honest
brown eyes, an earnest manner; was unsophisticated and believed all the
world like himself, good and true. He was of cheerful temper and
generous disposition; hated shams and small conceits, and--next to
Liddy--loved the fields, the woods, and the brooks that had been his
companions since boyhood. She had known him when, at the district
school, he ignored girls; and later, as he began to bring her flag-root
in summer, or draw her on his sled in winter, she had taken more notice
of him. When he left the little brown schoolhouse for good she had
given him a lock of hair, though for what reason she could hardly tell;
and when he walked home with her from his first party she felt startled
a little at his boldness in kissing her. That act had caused a flutter
in her feelings, and though she thought none the less of him for it,
nothing would have tempted her to tell her parents about it. That
experience may be considered as the birthday of her girlish love, and
after that they were always the best of friends. He had never been
presuming, but had always treated her with a kind of manly respect that
slowly but surely had won her heart.
When they met at the academy she feared he might be too attentive, but
when she found him even less so than she expected, unknown to herself,
her admiration increased. While she gave him but little encouragement
there, still if he had paid any attention to another girl it would have
hurt her. By nature she despised any deception, and to be called a flirt
was to her mind an insult. She would as soon have been called a liar. On
the other hand, any display of affection in public was equally
obnoxious. She was loving by nature, but any feeling of that kind toward
a young man was a sacred matter, that no one should be allowed to
suspect, or at least inspect. This may be an old-fashioned peculiarity,
yet it was a part of her nature. It may seem strange, but "Charlie," as
she always called her admirer, had early discovered this and had always
been governed by it.
It is not easy to give an accurate pen-picture of a young and pretty
girl who is bright, vivacious, piquant, tender, sweet and lovable. One
might as well try to describe the twinkle of a star or the rainbow flash
of a diamond. To picture the growth of love in such a girl's heart is
like describing the shades of color in a rose, or the expression of
affection in the eyes of a dog, and equally impossible.
Liddy's home was one of the substantial, old-time kind, with tall
pillars in front, a double piazza and wide hall, where stood an ancient
clock of solemn tick. There were open fireplaces in parlor and
sitting-room, and the wide dooryard was divided by a graveled and
flower-bordered walk, where in summer bloomed syringas, sweet williams,
peonies and phlox. On either side of the gate were two immense and
broad-spreading maples. Houses have moods as well as people, and the
mood of this one was calm, cool, dignified and typical of its fairest
inmate.
When the first term of their academy life together closed, and the long
summer vacation began, Manson called on Liddy the next Sunday evening
and asked her to take a ride. He had called at various times before, but
not as though she were the sole object of his visit. This time he came
dressed in his best and as if he boldly came to woo the fair girl. All
that summer he was a regular caller, and always received the same quiet
and cordial welcome. Together they enjoyed many delightful drives along
shaded roads on pleasant afternoons or moonlit evenings, and each
charming hour only served to bind the chains of love more tightly.
Occasionally they gathered waterlilies from a mill pond hidden away
among the hills, and one Saturday afternoon he brought her to Ragged
Brook--a spot that had been the delight of his boyhood--and showed her
how to catch a trout.
The first one she hooked she threw up into the top of a tree, and as the
line was wound many times around the tip of the limb the fish had to be
left hanging there. Though almost mature in years, they were in many
ways like children, telling each other their little plans and hopes, and
giving and receiving mutual sympathy. It was all the sweetest and best
kind of a courtship, for neither was conscious that it was such, and
when schooltime came after the summer was over, the tender bond between
them had reached a strength that was likely to shape and determine the
history of their lives. How many coming heartaches were also to be woven
into the tender bond they little realized.
CHAPTER VIII.
THE HUSKING-BEE.
When David Newell, a prosperous Southton farmer living "over east," as
that portion of the town was designated, invited all the young people in
the vicinity to his annual husking-bee, every one knew that a good time
was in store. Card-playing was considered a vice in those days, and
limited to a few games of "seven-up," played by sinful boys on a
hay-mow, and dancing was frowned upon by the churches. On the outskirts
of the town a few of the younger people occasionally indulged in the
crime of taking steps to music as a change from the pious freedom of
kissing parties. There was one sacrilegious person named Joe Dencie
living in the east-side neighborhood, who could not only "make a fiddle
talk," as the saying was, but "call off" and keep time and head, foot,
both arms and entire body as well, and at once. To describe his ability
more completely it might be said that he fiddled and danced at the same
time.
When the anticipated evening came, Manson and Liddy, as well as other
invited ones, arrived at the Newell barn, where everything was in
readiness. In the center of the large floor was a pile of unhusked corn
surrounded by stools and boxes for seats, and lighted by lanterns
swinging from cords above. No time was wasted, for Joe Dencie was there,
and every one knew that the best of a husking came after the corn was
disposed of. And how the husks flew! When a red ear was found by a girl
the usual scramble occurred, for unless she could run once around the
pile before the young man who discovered it could catch her, he claimed
a kiss. Manson, who sat next to Liddy, kept a sharp watch, for he didn't
intend to have some other fellow steal a march on him. He noticed that
she husked cautiously, and when presently he saw her drop an unhusked
ear by her side he quietly picked it up and found it was a red one. He
said nothing, but her action set him to thinking. It was not long ere
the pile of corn melted away, and then the floor was swept; Joe Dencie
took his place in one corner on a tall stool, and the party formed in
two lines for the Virginia reel.
There is no modern "function" that has one-half the fun in it that an
old-time husking-bee had, and no dance that can compare with an
old-fashioned contra-dance enjoyed in a big barn, with one energetic
fiddler perched in a corner for an orchestra, and six lanterns to light
the festivities! It was music, mirth, care-free happiness and frolic
personified. The floor may have been rough, but what mattered? The young
men's boots might have been a trifle heavy, but their hearts were not,
and when it came to "balance and swing," with the strains of "Money
Musk" echoing from the bare rafters, the girl knew she had a live
fellow's arm around her waist, and not one afraid to more than touch her
fingers lest her costume be soiled. Girls didn't wear "costumes" in
those days; they wore just plain dresses, and their plump figures,
bright eyes and rosy cheeks were as charming as though they had been
clad in Parisian gowns.
When the dance was over all were invited into the house to dispose of
mince pie, cheese, doughnuts and sweet cider, and then, with the moon
silvering the autumn landscape, the party separated. As Manson drove
along the wooded road conveying Liddy to her home, he felt a little
curious. He could not quite understand why she had taken pains _not_ to
find a red ear. All the other girls had found one or more, and seemed
to enjoy the scramble that followed.
"Why did you not husk that red ear?" he asked her, after they were well
on their way.
"Simply because I do not like public kissing," she replied quietly.
"Some girls do not mind, and perhaps they like it. I do not. It cheapens
a girl in my opinion, or at least it certainly cheapens a kiss. You are
not offended, are you?" turning her face toward him.
"By no means," he answered; and then, after a pause, he added: "I think
you are right, but it seemed a little odd."
"I presume I am a little peculiar," she continued, "but to me this
public kissing at parties and huskings seems not only silly, but just a
trifle vulgar. When we were children at the district school, I thought
it was fun, but it appears different now." Then, after a pause: "If I
were a young man I would not want the girl I thought most of kissed a
dozen times by every other fellow at a party. It is customary here in
Southton, and considered all right and proper, while card-playing and
dancing are not. I would much rather play cards or dance than act like
school children."
"I most certainly agree with you, so far as the cards and dancing go,"
said Manson, "and now that you put it in the way you have, I will agree
with you regarding kissing games."
As these two young people had just entered their third year at the
academy, and Liddy was only eighteen, it may seem that she was rather
young to discuss the ethics of kissing; but it must be remembered that
she was older in thought than in years, and besides, she was blessed
with a father who had rather liberal and advanced ideas. He did not
consider card-playing at one's home a vice, or dancing a crime.
"A penny for your thoughts," said she, after they had ridden in silence
for a time, and were crossing a brook that looked like a rippling stream
of silver in the moonlight.
"I was thinking," he replied, "of a night just like this four years ago,
when I went home with you from that party at the Stillman's. It was an
event in my life that set me thinking."
"And have you been thinking about it ever since?" she said, laughing.
"If you have it must have been an important event."
"No," he answered quietly; "but if it had not been for that party, it is
likely I should not have gone to the academy, and most likely I should
not be escorting you home to-night."
"I do not quite understand you," said Liddy; and then, with an accent of
tenderness in her voice: "Tell me why, Charlie?"
"I am afraid you will laugh at me if I do," he said.
"No," she replied, "I will not; why should I?"
"Well," he continued, "to be candid, I was rather ashamed of myself that
evening, or at least ashamed of my clothes. Then you told me you were
going to the academy, and for that reason mainly I wanted to go, so you
see what resulted from my going to the party. I do not think father
intended to send me, and he would not if I had not coaxed him. My first
term there was not very pleasant for many reasons, and had I known all I
was to encounter I think my courage would have failed me. I am glad now
that it did not." He paused a moment and then continued in a lower tone:
"Whatever good it has done me is all due to you."
No more was said on the subject, and as they rode along in silence, each
was thinking of the curious web of emotions that was moulding their
lives and making definite objects grow from intangible impulses. He was
hardly conscious yet what a motive force in his plans Liddy was destined
to be; and she was filled with a new and sweet consciousness of a
woman's power to shape a man's plans in life. When her home was reached,
and after he had assisted her to alight, they stood for a moment by the
gate beneath the maples. No light was visible in the house; no sound of
any nature was heard. The sharp outlines of the buildings were softened
by the moonlight, and the bold formation of the Blue Hills, vague and
indistinct. The near-by brook, as of yore, sparkled like silver coin,
and the landscape was bathed in mellow light. As Liddy's face was turned
toward him, a ray of moonshine fell upon it, and her eyes seemed to fill
with a new tenderness. It was a time and place for loving thoughts and
words, and what these two young hearts felt called upon to utter may be
safely left to the reader's imagination.
When Manson drove away, he felt that the future was bright before him,
and that life held new and wonderfully sweet possibilities. If he built
a few air castles as he rode along in silence and alone, and if into
them crept a fair girl's face and tender blue eyes, it was but natural.
The magic sweetness of our first dreams of love come but once in their
pure simplicity; and none ever afterward seem quite like them. We may
strive to feel the same tender thrill; we may think the same thoughts
and build the same fairy palaces, woven out of moonbeams and filled with
the same divine illusions, but all in vain, for none can live life over.
When Liddy entered her home her footsteps seemed touched with a new
life. Perhaps the effect of "Money Musk" had not entirely died away.
CHAPTER IX.
GOOD ADVICE.
The next day after the husking, when Manson resumed his studies at the
academy, a new and serious ambition kept crowding itself into his
thoughts. Some definite shape of what the object of a man's existence
should be would in spite of all efforts mix itself with his algebra, and
form an extra unknown quantity, still more elusive. He tried to put it
out of his mind, but the captivating air castle would not down. Of
course Liddy formed a central figure in this phantom dwelling, and to
such an extent that he hardly dared to look at her when they met in the
recitation room for fear she would read his thoughts. Occasionally,
while studying he would steal a look across the schoolroom at her
well-shaped head with its crown of sunny hair, but her face was usually
bent over her book. She had always treated him with quiet but pleasant
friendliness at school, and he, understanding her nature by degrees,
had come to feel it would annoy her if he were too attentive. His
newborn ambition he felt must be absolutely locked in his own heart for
many years to come, or until some vocation in life and the ability to
earn a livelihood for two could be won.
For the entire week his castle building troubled him in a way, as a
sweet delusion, but a detriment to study, and then he resolved to put it
away. "It may never come, and it may," he said to himself, "but if it
does it will only be by hard work." He had never felt satisfied to
become a farmer like his father, but what else to apply himself to he
had no idea. He knew this was to be his last term at the academy, and
that he must then turn his attention to some real occupation in life. He
had been in the habit of calling upon Liddy nearly every Sunday evening
for the past year, and to look forward to it as the one pleasant
anticipation of the week. He felt she was glad to see him, and what was
of nearly as much comfort, that her father was, as well. He resolved
when a good chance came to ask Mr. Camp's advice as to some choice of a
profession.
When he called the next Sunday evening, which happened to be chilly,
Liddy met him with her usual pleasant smile and invited him into the
parlor, where a bright fire was burning. She wore a new and becoming
blue sacque, and he thought she never looked more charming. He had
usually spent part of the evenings in the sitting-room with the family,
but this time he felt he was considered as Liddy's especial company and
treated as such.
"I have noticed a cloud on your face several times the past week," she
said, as soon as they were seated. "Has your algebra bothered you, or is
the barn dance troubling your conscience?"
"I have been building foolish air castles," he replied, "for one thing,
and trying to solve a harder problem than algebra contains, for another.
The husking dance does not trouble me. I would like to go to one every
week. Do you feel any remorse from being there?"
"No," she answered, "I do not; and yet I heard this week that some one
over in town who is active in the church said it was a disgrace to all
who were there. I wish people thought differently about such things. I
enjoyed the dance ever so much, but I do not like to be considered as
acting disgracefully. Do you?"
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