The William Henry Letters Part 2

Mr. Carver seemed a very quiet, thoughtful man, and of quite a different turn from his brother.

I suggested that boarding-house diet was apt to be plain; and then told grandmother about a nephew of mine, a nice boy, who was rather older than her grandson, who was named after me, and of whom I thought everything. I told her he had been away at school a year, and that he enjoyed himself, and went ahead in his studies, and never had a sick day, and came home with better manners than he had when he went away. As this pleased her, I said everything I could think of about my nephew, including some anecdotes of little Silas, when he was quite small; and she told a few about William Henry, the others helping her out, now and then, with some missing items.

Uncle Jacob said he shouldn't dare to say how many times she'd been frightened almost to death about Billy. Many and many a time she was sure he was lost, or drowned, or run over, or carried off, and would never come back alive; but he always managed to come out straight at last. Uncle Jacob said that if all the worry that was worried in this world were piled up together, 't would make a mountain; but if all of it that needn't be worried were knocked off, what was left wouldn't be bigger than a huckleberry hill.

Mr. Carver said there was one thing which made him entirely willing to trust William Henry away, and that was, he had always been a boy of principle. "I have watched him pretty closely," said Mr. Carver, "and have noticed that he has a kind of pride about him that will not permit him to lie, or equivocate in any way.

"That's true!" cried Aunt Phebe. "True enough! Billy don't always look fit to be seen, but he isn't deceitful. I'll say that for him!"

"When he went to our school," said Matilda, "and was in the cla.s.s below me, and there was a fuss among the boys, and all of 'em told it a different way, the teacher used to say she would ask William Henry, and then she could tell just how it happened."

"He couldn't have a better name than that," said Mr. Carver.

Grandmother wiped her eyes, she seemed so gratified that her boy's good qualities were remembered at last.

I am almost certain that an editor should not be so long in telling his story. But I should like to say a little more about that first night,--just a very little more.

Grandmother wouldn't hear of my going to a hotel. Anybody that had been a soldier, and was doing good, should never go from her house to find a night's lodging. And she might as well have said, particularly anybody that had a little Silas away at school, for I saw she felt it.

It required very little urging to make me stay; for in all my travels I had never met with a pleasanter set of people. My choice was offered me, whether to lodge in the front chamber, or in the little back chamber where Billy slept. Of course I chose the last; for people's best, front, spare chambers never suit me very well.

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Billy's room was a snug little room, low in the walls, and papered with flowery paper. There were two windows, the curtains to which were made of paper like that on the walls. You had to roll them up with your hands, and tie them with a string that went over the top. The room was over the sink-room, and in going into it we stepped one step down. There was no carpet on the floor, excepting a strip by the bedside and a mat before the table. Grandmother said the table Billy and she made together, so the legs didn't stand quite true. It was covered with calico, and more calico was puckered on round the edge and came down to the floor. That was done, she said, to make a place for his boots and shoes. She thought 't was well for a boy to have a place for his things, even if he did always leave them somewhere else. There was nothing under the table but one rubber boot, with the rubber mostly cut off, and some pieces of new pine, easy to whittle, that Billy had picked up and stowed away there. A narrow looking-gla.s.s hung over the table. It had a queer picture at the top, of two j.a.panese figures. The gla.s.s had a little crack in one corner,--cracked by his ball bouncing up when he was trying it. Some green tissue-paper hung around this fracture with a very innocent, ornamental air. Not far from the gla.s.s I observed a rusty jack-knife stuck in the wall, close to the window-frame; and on its handle was hanging a string of birds'-eggs. In stepping up to examine these I stumbled against an old hair-covered trunk, quite a large one.

The cover seemed a little askew, and not inclined to shut. This trunk was the color of a red cow, and for aught I know was covered with the skin of a red cow. In the middle of the cover the letters W. C. were printed in bra.s.s nails, which led me to guess that the trunk had belonged to William Henry's father. Grandmother raised the cover, to see what kept it from shutting, and found 't was a great scraggly piece of sa.s.safras (saxifax) root, which lay on top.

There was everything in that trunk,--everything. Of course I don't mean meeting-houses, or steamboats, or anacondas; but everything a boy would be likely to have. I saw picture papers, leather straps, old pocket-books, a pair of dividers, the hull of a boat, a pair of boot-pullers, a chrysalis, several penholders, a large clam-sh.e.l.l, a few pocket combs,--comb parts gone,--fishing-lines, reels, bobs, sinkers, a bullet-mould, arrows, a bag of marbles, a china egg, a rule, hammers, a red comforter, two odd mittens, "that had lost the mates of 'em," a bird-call, a mask, an empty cologne-bottle, a dime novel, odd cards,--all these, and more, were visible by merely stirring the top layer a little. Also several tangles of twine, twining and intertwining among the ma.s.s. Grandmother shook up the things some,--by means of a handle which probably belonged to a hatchet, but the hatchet part was buried,--and I saw that the bottom was covered with marbles, dominos, nails, bottles, slate-pencils, bits of bra.s.s clock machinery, and all the innumerable nameless, shapeless things which would be likely to settle down to the bottom of a boy's trunk. Grandmother said she should set it to rights if it weren't for fish-hooks; but anybody's hands going in there would be likely to get fish-hooks stuck into them.

In one end of the trunk was quite a fanciful box. It was nothing but a common pine box, painted black, with "cut out" pictures pasted on it.

There were ladies' faces, generals' heads, bugs, horses, b.u.t.terflies, chairs, ships, birds, and in the centre of the cover, outside, there was a large red rose on its stalk. At the centre, inside, was a laughing, or rather a grinning face, cut from some comic magazine. In this box was kept some of his more precious treasures,--a little bra.s.s anchor, a silver pencil-case, a whole set of dominos, and a ball, very prettily worked, orange-peel pattern, in many colors. This was a present from his teacher. There was also a curious pearl-handled knife, with the blades broken short off. She said he never felt so badly about breaking any knife as when that got broken, for it was one his cousin brought him home from sea. He was keeping it to have new blades put in.

"How much this trunk reminds me of little Silas's bureau-drawer!" I said, taking up an old writing-book. As I spoke several bits of paper fell out and among them were some very funny pictures, done with a lead-pencil and then inked over.

"What are these?" I asked. "Does he draw?"

"Well--not exactly," she answered,--"nothing that can be called drawing.

He tries sometimes to copy what he sees."

"I suppose I may look at them," I said, picking up one of the bits of paper. "Pray what is this?"

Grandmother put on her spectacles, and turned the paper round, as if trying to find the up and down of it.

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"O, this is Uncle Jacob chasing the calf," said she; "those things that look like elbows are meant for his legs kicking up. And on this piece he's tried to make the old gobbler flying at Georgiana. You see the turkey is as big as she is. But maybe you don't know which the turkey is! That one is the fat man, and that one is the cat and kittens. And that one is a dandy, making a bow. He saw one over at the hotel that he took it from."

She was sitting by the bed, and as she named them, spread them out upon it, one by one, along with some others I have not mentioned, all very comical. When I had finished laughing over them I said,--

"I should like to send these pictures in my barrel. 'T would give the little sick contrabands something to laugh at."

"Well, I'll tell Billy when he comes," she answered, then gathered them up and smoothed the quilt again.

The bedstead was a low one, without any posts, except that each leg ended at the top with a little round, flat head or k.n.o.b. The quilt was made of light and dark patchwork. Grandmother told me, lowering her voice, that Billy's mother made that patchwork when she was a little girl just learning to sew; but 't was kept laid away, and about the last work she ever did was to set it together. And 't was her request that Billy should have it on his bed. She said Billy was a very _feeling_ boy, though he didn't say much. One time, a couple years ago, she hung that quilt out to blow, and forgot to take it in till after the dew began to fall, so, being a little damp, she put on another one. But next morning she looked in, and there 't was, over him, spread on all skewy!

"Sometimes I think," she added, "that boys have more feeling than we think for!"

"I know they have!" I answered.

A picture of William Henry's mother hung opposite the bed. It was not a very handsome face, nor a pretty face. But it had such an earnest, loving, wistful expression, that I could not help exclaiming, "Beautiful!"

"Yes, she was a beautiful woman. We all loved her. She was just like a daughter to me. Billy doesn't know what he's lost, and 't is well he don't. I try to be a mother to him; but they say," said the tender-hearted old lady,--"they say a grandmother isn't fit to have the bringing up of a child! Billy has his faults."

"Now if I were a child," I exclaimed, "I should rather you would have the bringing up of me than anybody I know of! And 't is my opinion, from what I hear, that you've done well by Billy. Of course boys are boys, and don't always do us they ought to. Now there's little Silas. He's been a world of trouble first and last. But then boys soon get big enough to be ashamed of all their little bad ways. The biggest part of 'em like good men best, and mean to be good men. And I think Billy's going to grow up a capital fellow! A capital fellow! If a boy's true-hearted he'll come out all right. And your boy is, isn't he?"

"O very!" she said. "Very!"

I was so glad to think, after the old lady had gone down, that I'd said something which, if she kept awake, thinking about the boy, would be a comfort to her.

Next morning grandmother brought out quite an armful of old clothes. A poor old couple, living near, she said, took most of hers and Mr.

Carver's; but what few there were of Billy's that were decent to send I might have. A couple of linen jackets, a Scotch cap, two pairs of thin trousers, not much worn, but outgrown, a small overcoat, several pairs of stockings, and some shoes. And the boots also, and some underclothing, that William Henry might have worn longer, she said, if he were only living at home, where she could put a st.i.tch in 'em now and then.

Grandmother sighed as she emptied the pockets of crumbles, green apples, reins, bullets, and knotted, gray, balled-up pocket-handkerchiefs. Among the clothes she brought out a funny little uniform, which I had seen hanging up in his room,--one that he had when a soldier, or trainer, as she called it, in a military company, formed near the beginning of the war. It consisted of a blue flannel sack, edged with red braid, red flannel Zouave trousers, and a blue flannel cap, bound with red, and having a square visor. That uniform would fit some little contraband, she said.

"Hadn't you better keep those?" I asked. "Won't he want them?"

"O no," she said. "He's outgrown them. And 't is no use keeping them for moths to get into."

She gave me some picture-books, and two primers, a roll of linen, and quite a good blanket, all of which I received thankfully.

In rolling up the different articles, I saw her eye resting so lovingly on the little uniform, that I said, "Here, grandmother, hadn't you better take back these?"

"O, I guess not," she answered. "I guess you better send them. But," she added a moment after, "perhaps they might as well stay till you send another barrel."

"Just exactly as well," I said. And the old lady seemed as if she had recovered a lost treasure.

Aunt Phebe added a good many valuable articles, so that by the time Uncle Jacob was ready to start I had collected two immense bundles, and felt almost brave enough to face another barrel. For they all said they would beg from their friends, and save things, and that I must certainly come again.

"For you know," said Aunt Phebe, "'t is a great deal better to hear you tell things than to read about them in the newspapers."

They stood about the door to see us off, and Matilda stroked the old horse, and talked to him as if he understood. She broke off two heads of phlox, red and white, and fastened them in behind his ear. Uncle Jacob told me, as we rode along, that the old horse really expected to be patted and talked to before starting. And indeed I noticed myself that after being dressed up he stepped off with an exceedingly satisfied air, just as I have seen some little girls,--and boys too, for that matter, and occasionally grown people.

But it is quite time to give you the Letters. There should be more of them, for the correspondence covers a period of about two years. 'T is true that, after the first, William Henry did not write nearly as often.

But still there are many missing. Little Tommy cut up some into strings of boys and girls, and at one time when grandmother wasn't very well, and had to hire help, the girl look some to kindle fire with. The old lady said she was sitting up in her arm-chair, by the fireplace one day, when she saw, in the corner, a piece of paper with writing on it, half burnt up. She poked it out with a yardstick, and 't was one of Billy's letters! Quite a number which were perfect have been omitted. This is because that some coming between were missing; and so, as the children say, there wouldn't be any sense to them. Others contained mostly private matters. Very few were dated. This is, however, of small importance, as the Letters probably will never be brought forward to decide a law case.