Stuyvesant Part 1

Stuyvesant.

by Jacob Abbott.

PREFACE.

The development of the moral sentiments in the human heart, in early life,--and every thing in fact which relates to the formation of character,--is determined in a far greater degree by sympathy, and by the influence of example, than by formal precepts and didactic instruction. If a boy hears his father speaking kindly to a robin in the spring,--welcoming its coming and offering it food,--there arises at once in his own mind, a feeling of kindness toward the bird, and toward all the animal creation, which is produced by a sort of sympathetic action, a power somewhat similar to what in physical philosophy is called _induction_. On the other hand, if the father, instead of feeding the bird, goes eagerly for a gun, in order that he may shoot it, the boy will sympathize in that desire, and growing up under such an influence, there will be gradually formed within him, through the mysterious tendency of the youthful heart to vibrate in unison with hearts that are near, a disposition to kill and destroy all helpless beings that come within his power. There is no need of any formal instruction in either case. Of a thousand children brought up under the former of the above-described influences, nearly every one, when he sees a bird, will wish to go and get crumbs to feed it, while in the latter case, nearly every one will just as certainly look for a stone. Thus the growing up in the right atmosphere, rather than the receiving of the right instruction, is the condition which it is most important to secure, in plans for forming the characters of children.

It is in accordance with this philosophy that these stories, though written mainly with a view to their moral influence on the hearts and dispositions of the readers, contain very little formal exhortation and instruction. They present quiet and peaceful pictures of happy domestic life, portraying generally such conduct, and expressing such sentiments and feelings, as it is desirable to exhibit and express in the presence of children.

The books, however, will be found, perhaps, after all, to be useful mainly in entertaining and amusing the youthful readers who may peruse them, as the writing of them has been the amus.e.m.e.nt and recreation of the author in the intervals of more serious pursuits.

CHAPTER I.

THE CAVERN.

One pleasant summer morning Alphonzo was amusing himself by swinging on a gate in front of his mother's house. His cousin Malleville, who was then about eight years old, was sitting upon a stone outside of the gate, by the roadside, in a sort of corner that was formed between the wall and a great tree which was growing there. Malleville was employed in telling her kitten a story.

The kitten was sitting near Malleville, upon a higher stone.

Malleville was leaning upon this stone, looking the kitten in the face. The kitten was looking down, but she seemed to be listening very attentively.

"Now, Kitty," said Malleville, "if you will sit still and hark, I will tell you a story,--a story about a mouse. I read it in a book. Once there was a mouse, and he was white, and he lived in a cage. No I forgot,--there were three mice. I'll begin again.

"Once there was a boy, and he had three white mice, and he kept them in a cage."

Here Malleville's story was interrupted by Phonny, who suddenly called out:

"Here comes Beechnut, Malleville."

"I don't care," said Malleville, "I'm telling a story to Kitty, and you must not interrupt me."

Here the kitten jumped down from the stone and ran away.

"Now Phonny!" said Malleville, "see what you have done;--you have made my Kitty go away."

"I didn't make her go away," said Phonny.

"Yes you did," said Malleville, "you interrupted my story, and that made her go away."

Phonny laughed aloud at this a.s.sertion, though Malleville continued to look very serious. Phonny then repeated that he did not make the kitten go away, and besides, he said, he thought that it was very childish to pretend to tell a story to a kitten.

Malleville said that she did not think it was childish at all; for _her_ kitten liked to hear stories. Phonny, at this, laughed again, and then Malleville, appearing to be still more displeased, said that she was not any more childish than Phonny himself was.

By this time Beechnut, as Phonny called him, had come up. He was driving a cart. The cart was loaded with wood. The wood consisted of small and dry sticks, which Beechnut had gathered together in the forest.

"Beechnut," said Phonny, "are you going into the woods again for another load?"

"Yes," said Beechnut.

"And may I go with you?" said Phonny.

"Yes," said Beechnut.

"And I?" said Malleville.

"Yes," said Beechnut.

Beechnut drove on into the yard, and at length stopped near a great woodpile. Beechnut began to throw off the wood. Phonny climbed up into the cart too, to help Beechnut unload. Malleville sat down upon a log lying near to see.

While they were at work thus, throwing off the wood, Phonny, instead of taking the smallest sticks that came in his way, tried always to get hold of the largest. He had three motives for doing this, all mingled together. The first was a pleasure in exercising his own strength; the second, a desire to show Malleville that he was no child; and the third, to make a display of his strength to Beechnut.

After a while, when the load had been about half thrown off, Phonny stopped his work, straightened himself up with an air of great self-satisfaction and said,

"Malleville says I am childish; do you think I am, Beechnut?"

"No," said Malleville, "I did not say so." She began to be a little frightened at this appeal to Beechnut.

"Yes," said Phonny, "you certainly did."

"No," said Malleville.

"What did you say?" asked Phonny.

"I said I was not childish myself, any more than you."

"Well, that is the same thing," said Phonny.

Malleville was silent. She thought that it was a different thing, but she did not know very well how to explain the difference.

In the mean time Beechnut went on unloading the wood.

"Do _you_ think I am childish at all, Beechnut," said Phonny.

"Why I don't know," said Beechnut, doubtfully. "I don't know how many childish things it is necessary for a boy to do, in order to be considered as childish in character; but I have known you to do _two_ childish things within half an hour."

Phonny seemed a little surprised and a little confused at this, and after a moment's pause he said:

"I know what one of them is, I guess."

"What?" asked Beechnut.

"Swinging on the gate."

"No," said Beechnut, "I did not mean that. You have done things a great deal more childish than that."