Several times during the day, these two boys came very near doing something which they would have been ashamed of and heartily sorry for afterwards. They met some boys playing cards for small sums of money, and were urged to "try their luck." At first, they thought they would, "just for fun." But they finally concluded that fun of that sort was rather too dangerous--that it would cost more than it would come to--and so they pa.s.sed on.

About a hundred rods from the village, in an orchard, our two friends came across a company of larger boys, who were playing ball. Here they encountered another temptation. The ball-players were treating themselves to a kind of liquor, which, in those parts, bore the name of _egg-nog_. Some of the boys and girls who read this story, or hear it read, will no doubt laugh at this unmusical and out-of-the-way name; and I confess the word looked to me so strange and barbarous, after I had written it down, that I had a great mind to dash my pen across it, and hunt up some other name for it. However, I concluded I would go straight to Webster's large dictionary, and see whether he had taken notice of the word. I made up my mind that, if I found it in the dictionary, I would hold on to it, and that if it were missing there, I would let it stay in the society where it was born, christened and brought up. I went to the dictionary, and there I found the word, looking, for all the world, as if it were vastly at home.

"Egg-nog," says Doctor Webster, "a drink used in America, consisting of the yelks of eggs beaten up with sugar, and the whites of eggs whipped, with the addition of wine or spirits." The addition which Webster speaks of, and which consisted of _spirits_ when I was a boy, and not of _wine_, you will please to take notice, was considered a very important addition, without which the liquor would be worthless.

Well, Samuel and Frederick, though they were strongly urged to "taste of the nice egg-nog," and though they almost wished that they might so far gratify their curiosity as to taste of it, succeeded in resisting the temptation, and letting the stuff alone. Neither of them drank a drop of it; though I should not wonder if they found it rather hard work to refuse.

My young friend, perhaps you think these facts are hardly worth noticing. But I look upon them in a very different light. These boys, in my opinion, gained great victories that day--victories quite as worthy of praise and honor as those of Alexander and Caesar. They had the courage to _do right_, when they were tempted to _do wrong_. They did right. And they had their reward, no doubt, when they heard the voice of conscience in their own bosoms, whispering, "Well done."

CHAP. IX.

PATRIOTISM AND POWDER.

It was more than six months after the thanksgiving festival, before the factory boys had another holiday. Time, who never stands still a moment, went on, and by and by, the Fourth of July came round. Samuel and Frederick were companions on that day, as well as on the preceding thanksgiving festival. The first thing they did, after they got up in the morning--for they were wakened very early by the ringing of all the bells in Meadville, not excepting the one on the factory, which was keyed on a very high note, and was cracked in the bargain, though it made up in zeal and earnestness what it lacked in depth and sweetness--the first thing they did was to climb the hill that overlooked the village, where the men were firing a salute in honor of the day. There seems to be something in the smell of gunpowder, and the sound of a huge-mouthed cannon, which wakes up a good deal of patriot feeling in the breast of a child.

How my little heart, when it was not much bigger than a chipping squirrel's, used to throb with patriotism--or something else, for I am not so sure that it was patriotism, after all--while I heard the rusty old cannon that did duty at Willow Lane, booming out its sentiments about matters and things in general, and the declaration of American independence in particular. As long ago as I can remember, I know the sound of a drum almost overturned the little sense I had. Oh, what a quant.i.ty of martial spirit was set in motion in my brain, when, as it sometimes happened, I got a chance to beat on that drum myself--to beat on it with both hands, "like a trainer." It was one of the proudest achievements of my childhood, I do believe--that performance on the drum--the real drum, the identical one which the "trainers"

used.

It is not quite so with me, now-a-days. You may wonder why. I almost wonder why myself. But so it is. The deafening roar of cannon, the racket of a thousand muskets, the clatter of junior drums, and the thunder of senior ones, have not _such_ a moving effect on me as they used to have. They _move me out of the way_ now. That is about all.

I suppose, if the truth was known, I dislike _war_ more than I did when I was a child. War seems a terrible thing to me, whenever I think of it. I cannot bear the thought that hostile men should meet each other on the field of battle, and use all the art they are masters of, in trying to kill each other.

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE YOUNG DRUMMER.]

But enough of this. Children, as I was saying, love to hear the noise of the cannon. It stirs up the embers of their patriotism, or fills them with some other kind of fire. We will not stop now to inquire very particularly as to the nature of the blaze. Our two friends felt as if there was a young Vesuvius burning in their bosoms, as they listened to the sound of the cannon. Frederick especially, was quite beside himself. War had completely turned his head. Oh, how he longed to be a soldier. I am not sure but he almost wished some nation or other would pick a quarrel with us, so that he might have a chance to shoulder his musket, and start right off, and fight the battles of his country. Like a great many other children, he saw only one side of war, and that was its bright side. He heard no groans from dying men, no whizzing of cannon b.a.l.l.s past his ears. He saw no river of blood flowing from human veins. He had lost no limb of his own; he was in danger of losing none. I hardly think he had read the poetical confessions of a young hero just returned from the wars. Did you ever read them, my friend? They are worth reading, and I will quote them for you:

"My father was a farmer good, With corn and beef in plenty.

I mowed, and hoed, and held the plow And longed for one and twenty; For I had quite a martial turn, And scorned the lowing cattle; I burned to wear a uniform, Hear drums, and see a battle.

"My birth-day came; my father urged, But stoutly I resisted; My sister wept, my mother prayed, But off I went, and 'listed.

They marched me on through wet and dry, To tunes more loud than charming, But lugging knapsack, box and gun, Was harder work than farming.

"We met the foe--the cannons roared-- The crimson tide was flowing-- The frightful death-groans filled my ears-- I wished that I was mowing.

I lost my leg--the foe came on-- They had me in their clutches-- I starved in prison till the peace, Then hobbled home on crutches."

This young hero gives the other and darker side of war, you see. There is reality in what the poor fellow says, if he does tell his story in rather a humorous vein. I tell you what it is, little friend, there is nothing good in war. It is a terrible thing; and though I don't pretend to say that it is never necessary, I consider it one of the worst curses with which a nation is ever visited--worse than pestilence, worse than famine. That is the reason why I do not quite like to see boys so fond of war, and so full of the war spirit.

But we must proceed with the story.

CHAP. X.

THE GLa.s.s OF GIN.

Soon after breakfast was over that morning, Samuel and his companion strolled out into the village. None but those who are kept constantly at work in a close room, almost every day in the year, except Sunday, can imagine with what light hearts these two boys walked the streets of that factory village, on the morning of that memorable holiday. I say memorable. It proved to be a day which neither of these boys could well forget.

As they pa.s.sed along through the village in the course of the forenoon, they saw a great many sights, which to their young eyes, were worth going a great way to see. There were tents erected on the square in front of the meeting house--tents in which there were scores of eatable and drinkable things to sell. In one of these tents, there was a boy, who seemed very much at home, dealing out candies, and filberts, and raisins, and gingerbread, and liquors of different kinds. There were a dozen different bottles and decanters in his tent, each with some sort of liquor in it.

"Hurrah!" said he, as soon as the two friends came up to the tent; "why, Fred, is that you?" And he wrung Frederick's hand much as a farmer is accustomed to wring the necks of fat chickens, a day or two before Christmas or Thanksgiving.

It turned out that the youth who was so glad to see Frederick, was Peter Pippin, a son of the butcher in the place where Frederick's father lived. Peter was a rude, untutored boy, rough as a nutmeg grater, or a chestnut bur. He and Frederick had been to school together; and though they had never been very intimate, because their tastes were so different, they had been sufficiently acquainted to be really glad to see each other again, after a separation of more than a year.

"Bless me!" said Peter--_Pete_ he was always called at school, but we will give him all that belongs to him, for that is nothing to boast of--"bless me! how you have grown, Fred. 'Pon my soul, I'm glad to see you. Come, take something to drink. What'll you have? and that chap there with you, what'll you have, my beauty?"

This coa.r.s.e language grated a good deal on Samuel's ears, and it was by no means pleasant to Frederick; but it did not affect both boys in exactly the same way. The former was so much disgusted, that, after thanking the butcher's boy for his invitation, he was hurrying away as fast as possible. The latter, while he did not care a straw for the liquor, felt kindly towards his former schoolfellow, and was rather disposed to gratify him by at least going through the ceremony of drinking.

Frederick is on dangerous ground now. But he had been on dangerous ground before, you recollect. He got off the rocks then. Let us hope he will now. But Freddy, you must look out. As the sailor says, when he is looking out at the mast head, and when he sees the vessel is driving rapidly towards the surf, "breakers ahead!" There is temptation here. To be sure, it is not so strong, but he can overcome it. How easily he resisted a similar temptation on Thanksgiving day.

The result of that day's adventures shows that he can get along safely enough, if he will only look out for himself. But _will_ he look out for himself? We shall see.

"Hadn't we better walk along, Fred?" asked Samuel, in a kind and pleasant tone of voice.

"Not quite yet, if you please," said Frederick.

"Come, say what you'll have, Fred! Take a pull at this 'ere old Jamaky? The real critter, Fred, the real critter--none of your Boston pisin stuff. Or what do you say to a double and twisted horn of brandy what's jist come from France?"

Fred hesitated. Strange enough that he should hesitate. Was he charmed, as a bird is said to be charmed by a black snake, so that he could not move?

"It is time to be off, Fred. Take my advice, and come along," said Samuel.

"You little chicken-hearted baby!" Peter broke in, "hold your tongue, if you don't want it pulled out by the roots."

"Wait half a minute," said Frederick to his companion. "Peter, pray don't talk so to Samuel. He is one of the best fellows that ever lived."

"Well, he ain't worth minding, any how. Come, now, are you going to drink or not? Take some punch? That's the stuff. There ain't no spirit in it hardly. Or may be you'll have some gin."

And the butcher's boy poured out a gla.s.s half full of gin and water, and pa.s.sed it to Frederick, while he took good care to prepare another gla.s.s for himself. Peter drank. _So did Frederick_--not because he loved the liquor, but because he was good-natured. He did it to oblige his former school-fellow. I said he did it because he was good-natured. I ought rather to have said, perhaps, that it was because he had not courage enough to do right. I am not sure but that is a more correct reason than the other.

Poor Frederick! From the moment he drank that gla.s.s of gin, he felt unhappy. All day long he thought of what he had done, and it robbed him of all his peace.

"But never mind, Fred," said his companion, "you are sorry you did it, and you will never drink any more. Let that comfort you."

I will drop the thread of Frederick's history here, for the present.

Perhaps I may take it up again, though, by and by. The reason I have given any sketch at all of this boy's adventures, I frankly confess it, is that by comparing him with Samuel, and noticing where he stumbled, and how he stumbled, you might learn exactly what those traits of character were by which the latter was able to get over the difficulties he met with, and to resist the temptations that surrounded him.

CHAP. XI.

LIFE IN A FACTORY.