The Bobbin Boy Part 9

"Where now, boys?" inquired Sam.

"Bound for Prospect Hill: it is a good clear day for a fine view, and I am going to count the churches," answered Nat.

"Count your grandmothers!" sneeringly exclaimed Sam. "I would give more to roll a big stone down the steep side than I would for the best view you can get from the top."

"But don't you think the prospect from the hill is fine, Sam?"

"Fine enough, I s'pose, though I don't know much about it, as I never thought it was best to injure my eyes looking."

"Well, I must say that you----"

"There, take that, you little whelp," just then shouted Sam to Trip, as he gave the little dog a kick that sent him half across the road.

It seems that Trip happened to come in Sam's way, so that he stumbled against him, and this aroused his ire at once, and then followed the cruel a.s.sault. The dog certainly did not mean to come in his way, for he was not a boy that even the dogs liked. They usually kept a respectable distance from both Sam and Ben, and saved their good-will for such kind boys as Nat and Frank. Dogs learn very readily who their friends are, and they wag their tails and skip around those only who are.

Frank looked at Nat when he saw his favorite dog thus abused, and the glance which they exchanged told what each of them thought of the barbarous treatment. Nothing was said, however, and they pa.s.sed on. It was evident, by this time, that Sam and his brother intended to accompany them, without an invitation, to Prospect Hill. While they are on the way, we will improve the time to say a word about Nat's love of nature.

Sam could see no beauty in a landscape. Why any person should want to stand upon a hill-top for a whole half hour to view green lawns, gardens, meadows, and villages and cities, with their church spires and domes, he could not understand, especially after they had seen them once. If he could have been put into Eden, it would have been no sport for him, unless he could have had the privilege of clubbing the cats and stoning the dogs.

It was different with Nat. He never tired of the view from Prospect Hill, and this love of nature and art contributed to elevate his character. This is always the case. Scarcely any person has become renowned for learning, in whom this love was not early developed. Sir Francis Chantrey was one of the most distinguished artists of his day, possessing a nice discrimination and a most delicate taste, to aid him in his remarkable imitations of nature. He was reared upon a farm, where he enjoyed the innocent pleasure of ranging the forests, climbing hills, bathing in ponds and streams, and rambling through vale and meadow for fowl and fish, all of which he did with a "relish keen." Perhaps he owed more to the inspiration of the wild scenes of Derby Hills, than to all the books that occupied his attention in his boyhood's days. The same was true of the gifted poet Burns, whose sweet and lofty verse has made the name of Scotland, his native land, immortal. He took his first lessons from the green fields, and gushing bird-songs, on his father's farm. Silently, and unconsciously to himself, dame Nature waked his poetic genius into life, when he followed the plough, angled in his favorite stream, or played "echo" with the neighboring woods. The late Hugh Miller, also, the world-renowned geologist, might have been unknown to fame but for the unconscious tuition that he derived from the rocky sides of Cromarty Hill, and his boyish exploration of Doocot Caves. He loved nature more than he loved art. There was nothing that suited him better than to be scaling the rugged sides of hills, exploring deep, dark caverns, and hunting sh.e.l.ls and stones on the sea-sh.o.r.e. He was naturally rough, headstrong, and heedless--qualities that tend to drag a youth down to ruin. But his love of nature opened a path of innocent thought and amus.e.m.e.nt before him, and saved him from a wretched life.

Thus the facts of history show that there is more hope of a boy who loves the beautiful in nature and art, than of him who, like Sam Drake, cared for neither. Perhaps we shall learn that it would have been better for Sam if he had thought more favorably of nature, and less of rude and cruel sports.

The boys reached the top of the hill before two o'clock. Sam Drake was the first to set his foot upon its solid apex, and he signalized the event by swinging his hat, and shouting,

"Three cheers for the meeting-houses!"

This was done, of course, as a sort of reflection upon Nat, who made no reply. Sam was about three years older than Nat, and yet Nat was the most of a man.

"A fire in Boston," exclaimed Frank, as soon as he reached the summit, and cast his eyes towards the city. All looked, and, to their surprise, there was a dense volume of smoke issuing from the north part of the city, indicating that a terrific fire was raging. Had it been in the night-time, the whole heavens would have been lighted up with the blaze, and the scene would have been grand beyond description. But in the sunlight, nothing but smoke could be seen.

"What do you suppose it is burning?" inquired Frank. "It must be some large building, I should think by the smoke it makes. Perhaps it is a whole block on fire."

"I guess it is one of Nat's churches," said Sam, casting a glance at the person hit by the remark. "He had better count it before it is gone."

"Well," replied Nat, who was tempted by the last fling to answer, "I know of one fellow----"

And there he stopped short, for his caution prevailed, and he concluded that "the least said the better." He had a pretty cutting remark on the tip of his tongue, when he remembered that Sam was older than himself, and was base enough to return a blow for a word. Besides, he had a special dislike for Sam, since his cruel treatment of Spot, which would naturally lead him to say as little to him as possible.

"What is that you know about a fellow?" said Sam, growing angry. "It is a lucky thing for you that you didn't say it. Give me any of your sarce, and I'll let you know who is the oldest. Boys that count churches better look two ways for Sunday."

Frank saw how things were going, so he sought to quell the storm in Sam's breast by calling the attention of all to the peculiar symmetry and beauty of an elm tree that stood in the distance. But Sam, not caring to view such objects, turned away to hurl stones, with which he had taken care to fill his pockets, at some object near the base of the hill. Frank's device, however, accomplished the object intended.

"How many miles do you think we can see from the top of this hill?"

inquired Nat, addressing himself to Frank.

"Well, I hardly know," answered Frank. "We can see Boston very plainly, and that is ten miles distant. We can see further still in the other direction, perhaps twice as far."

"How fine this is!" continued Nat. "But I must begin to count the churches, or I shall not get through this afternoon. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten--yes, here are ten right here within a few miles. And now let us count them----"

He was stopped here in the middle of a sentence, by the yelp of the dog Trip, and both turned to see what was the matter with him, when Sam shouted:

"Look here, Frank, dogs are falling. Trip has taken the shortest cut down hill this time."

"Good!" added Ben. "I wish all the dogs were kicked after him." And both Sam and Ben seemed to glory in the calamity that had befallen Trip.

Frank and Nat stood appalled when they saw what the trouble was. Sam had kicked Trip down the precipitous side of the hill, where there was a fearful plunge of thirty or forty feet; and there he lay motionless upon his side. Although they stood so far above the dog, it was very evident that he was dead. Frank burst into tears as the unwelcome truth flashed upon his mind that Trip was no more. It was a full, overflowing gush of grief from the bottom of his heart. Nat felt badly to see the dog killed, and also at seeing the grief into which Frank was plunged, and _he_ began to weep also; and there the two boys cried as sincerely over the lifeless dog, as ever friend shed tears over the corpse of friend.

"Well done, now, if I ain't beat!" exclaimed Sam. "Crying over a dead dog! Better save your tears for his funeral, Frank. I'll preach his funeral sermon if you'll name a text. And you come in second mourner, do you, Nat?"

"Second mourner or not," answered Nat, wiping his eyes, and roused by the scene into a magnanimous self-defence, "if I was in Frank's place, your father should know of this."

"Well, 'spose he does know it, what do you think I care?" responded Sam.

"I'd like to see the old man calling me to an account for killing a dog."

"So should I like to see him do it," quickly added Nat, "if he would give you what you deserve."

Ben evidently relented by this time for his harsh saying about the matter, and addressing his brother, he said,

"After all, Sam, I think it was rather too bad to kill Trip, for he was the cleverest dog in town. I don't think you'll gain many friends by the act."

"I didn't mean to kill him," said Sam.

"But you might have known that it _would_ kill him to kick him down such a place as that," said Nat.

"That is not so clear, my boy," replied Sam; "it takes a boy bright enough to count meeting-houses to do that. You see I am green--it is the bright feller, who can speak pieces, and look at the fields and trees from Prospect Hill, to foresee such events."

"Come, Sam, you are a little too bad," said Ben. "I don't think you'd like it very well if Frank should kill your gray squirrel the first chance he has."

Sam found it difficult to argue the case with his brother Ben against him, who had really been converted over to the other side by the tears of Frank and Nat. Ben was always a better boy than Sam, but he often yielded to his wicked counsels because Sam was the eldest. Ben was made worse by his brother's influence. This was the general impression in the neighborhood. Sam also, owed a spite to good boys in general, who ranked higher than himself in school, and were thought more highly of in the community. He knew that Nat was a favorite, in school and out, with all who knew him, and so he was envious and vindictive. He twitted him about thinking more of himself than he ought, although he did not really think so. The fact was, Nat was far in advance of Sam in reading, writing, arithmetic, and every branch of study, although the latter was three years older. This circ.u.mstance probably excited the ill-will of Sam, as he had an evil disposition, made more evil every day by his vicious course. What he said and did on that day was the result of his jealousy and envy, in connection with his bad temper and reckless spirit. Probably he did not think of killing Trip, when he gave him a kick, for he was utterly reckless, and scarcely ever stopped to consider consequences. But this was no excuse. It is evidence rather of a more dangerous temper of mind.

Sam gave Ben a wink, and both hurried away together, leaving Nat and Frank alone, as they were glad to be.

"How cruel Sam is!" said Frank, breaking the silence that prevailed after they were left alone.

"Worse than that," added Nat. "I begin to think that what Mr. Bond said the other day about him will prove true."

"What _did_ he say?"

"He said that Sam would become a very bad man, unless he turned his course soon, and that he should not be surprised if he came to the gallows. I thought at once of a story which I read the other day about a boy."

"Do you mean a boy like Sam?"

"Yes; very much like him. He lived in England, and he was neighbor to a minister there. The minister had two or three sons whom he warned not to a.s.sociate with this bad boy. He told them that he would come to some bad end because he did not obey his parents, and was so wicked in other respects. And it proved true; for, in a few years he was shut up in prison for his crimes."

"Sam ought to be put there for what he has done already," said Frank.

"But come, let us go round and get poor Trip's body. He shall have a decent burial at any rate."

Both started up, and hastened down the hill to a spot from which they might turn and pa.s.s round to where Trip lay. They were soon at his side.