Little Men: Life at Plumfield With Jo's Boys
in his sleep on the shed roof, and a general state of nervousness in
the little ones, it was forbidden, and they fell back on more harmless
amusements.
One evening, when the small boys were snugly tucked in bed, and the
older lads were lounging about the school-room fire, trying to decide
what they should do, Demi suggested a new way of settling the question.
Seizing the hearth-brush, he marched up and down the room, saying, “Row,
row, row;” and when the boys, laughing and pushing, had got into line,
he said, “Now, I'll give you two minutes to think of a play.” Franz was
writing, and Emil reading the Life of Lord Nelson, and neither joined
the party, but the others thought hard, and when the time was up were
ready to reply.
“Now, Tom!” and the poker softly rapped him on the head.
“Blind-man's Buff.”
“Jack!”
“Commerce; a good round game, and have cents for the pool.”
“Uncle forbids our playing for money. Dan, what do you want?”
“Let's have a battle between the Greeks and Romans.”
“Stuffy?”
“Roast apples, pop corn, and crack nuts.”
“Good! good!” cried several; and when the vote was taken, Stuffy's
proposal carried the day.
Some went to the cellar for apples, some to the garret for nuts, and
others looked up the popper and the corn.
“We had better ask the girls to come in, hadn't we?” said Demi, in a
sudden fit of politeness.
“Daisy pricks chestnuts beautifully,” put in Nat, who wanted his little
friend to share the fun.
“Nan pops corn tip-top, we must have her,” added Tommy.
“Bring in your sweethearts then, we don't mind,” said Jack, who laughed
at the innocent regard the little people had for one another.
“You shan't call my sister a sweetheart; it is so silly!” cried Demi, in
a way that made Jack laugh.
“She is Nat's darling, isn't she, old chirper?”
“Yes, if Demi don't mind. I can't help being fond of her, she is so good
to me,” answered Nat, with bashful earnestness, for Jack's rough ways
disturbed him.
“Nan is my sweetheart, and I shall marry her in about a year, so don't
you get in the way, any of you,” said Tommy, stoutly; for he and Nan
had settled their future, child-fashion, and were to live in the willow,
lower down a basket for food, and do other charmingly impossible things.
Demi was quenched by the decision of Bangs, who took him by the arm and
walked him off to get the ladies. Nan and Daisy were sewing with Aunt Jo
on certain small garments, for Mrs. Carney's newest baby.
“Please, ma'am, could you lend us the girls for a little while? We'll
be very careful of them,” said Tommy, winking one eye to express apples,
snapping his fingers to signify pop-corn, and gnashing his teeth to
convey the idea of nut-cracking.
The girls understood this pantomime at once, and began to pull of
their thimbles before Mrs. Jo could decide whether Tommy was going
into convulsions or was brewing some unusual piece of mischief. Demi
explained with elaboration, permission was readily granted, and the boys
departed with their prize.
“Don't you speak to Jack,” whispered Tommy, as he and Nan promenaded
down the hall to get a fork to prick the apples.
“Why not?”
“He laughs at me, so I don't wish you to have any thing to do with him.”
“Shall, if I like,” said Nan, promptly resenting this premature
assumption of authority on the part of her lord.
“Then I won't have you for my sweetheart.”
“I don't care.”
“Why, Nan, I thought you were fond of me!” and Tommy's voice was full of
tender reproach.
“If you mind Jack's laughing I don't care for you one bit.”
“Then you may take back your old ring; I won't wear it any longer;” and
Tommy plucked off a horsehair pledge of affection which Nan had given
him in return for one made of a lobster's feeler.
“I shall give it to Ned,” was her cruel reply; for Ned liked Mrs.
Giddy-gaddy, and had turned her clothespins, boxes, and spools enough to
set up housekeeping with.
Tommy said, “Thunder turtles!” as the only vent equal to the pent-up
anguish of the moment, and, dropping Nan's arm, retired in high dudgeon,
leaving her to follow with the fork, a neglect which naughty Nan
punished by proceeding to prick his heart with jealousy as if it were
another sort of apple.
The hearth was swept, and the rosy Baldwins put down to roast. A shovel
was heated, and the chestnuts danced merrily upon it, while the corn
popped wildly in its wire prison. Dan cracked his best walnuts, and
every one chattered and laughed, while the rain beat on the window-pane
and the wind howled round the house.
“Why is Billy like this nut?” asked Emil, who was frequently inspired
with bad conundrums.
“Because he is cracked,” answered Ned.
“That's not fair; you mustn't make fun of Billy, because he can't hit
back again. It's mean,” cried Dan, smashing a nut wrathfully.
“To what family of insects does Blake belong?” asked peacemaker Franz,
seeing that Emil looked ashamed and Dan lowering.
“Gnats,” answered Jack.
“Why is Daisy like a bee?” cried Nat, who had been wrapt in thought for
several minutes.
“Because she is queen of the hive,” said Dan.
“No.”
“Because she is sweet.”
“Bees are not sweet.”
“Give it up.”
“Because she makes sweet things, is always busy, and likes flowers,”
said Nat, piling up his boyish compliments till Daisy blushed like a
rosy clover.
“Why is Nan like a hornet?” demanded Tommy, glowering at her, and
adding, without giving any one time to answer, “Because she isn't sweet,
makes a great buzzing about nothing, and stings like fury.”
“Tommy's mad, and I'm glad,” cried Ned, as Nan tossed her head and
answered quickly,
“What thing in the china-closet is Tom like?”
“A pepper pot,” answered Ned, giving Nan a nut meat with a tantalizing
laugh that made Tommy feel as if he would like to bounce up like a hot
chestnut and hit somebody.
Seeing that ill-humor was getting the better of the small supply of wit
in the company, Franz cast himself into the breach again.
“Let's make a law that the first person who comes into the room shall
tell us a story. No matter who it is, he must do it, and it will be fun
to see who comes first.”
The others agreed, and did not have to wait long, for a heavy step soon
came clumping through the hall, and Silas appeared, bearing an armful
of wood. He was greeted by a general shout, and stood staring about him
with a bewildered grin on his big red face, till Franz explained the
joke.
“Sho! I can't tell a story,” he said, putting down his load and
preparing to leave the room. But the boys fell upon him, forced him into
a seat, and held him there, laughing, and clamoring for their story,
till the good-natured giant was overpowered.
“I don't know but jest one story, and that's about a horse,” he said,
much flattered by the reception he received.
“Tell it! tell it!” cried the boys.
“Wal,” began Silas, tipping his chair back against the wall, and
putting his thumbs in the arm-holes of his waistcoat, “I jined a cavalry
regiment durin' the war, and see a consid'able amount of fightin'. My
horse, Major, was a fust-rate animal, and I was as fond on him as
ef he'd ben a human critter. He warn't harnsome, but he was the
best-tempered, stiddyest, lovenest brute I ever see. The fust battle we
went into, he gave me a lesson that I didn't forgit in a hurry, and
I'll tell you how it was. It ain't no use tryin' to picter the noise and
hurry, and general horridness of a battle to you young fellers, for I
ain't no words to do it in; but I'm free to confess that I got so sort
of confused and upset at the fust on it, that I didn't know what I was
about. We was ordered to charge, and went ahead like good ones, never
stoppin' to pick up them that went down in the scrimmage. I got a shot
in the arm, and was pitched out of the saddle don't know how, but there
I was left behind with two or three others, dead and wounded, for the
rest went on, as I say. Wal, I picked myself up and looked round for
Major, feeling as ef I'd had about enough for that spell. I didn't see
him nowhere, and was kinder walking back to camp, when I heard a whinny
that sounded nateral. I looked round, and there was Major stopping for
me a long way off, and lookin' as ef he didn't understand why I was
loiterin' behind. I whistled, and he trotted up to me as I'd trained him
to do. I mounted as well as I could with my left arm bleedin' and was
for going on to camp, for I declare I felt as sick and wimbly as a
woman; folks often do in their fust battle. But, no sir! Major was the
bravest of the two, and he wouldn't go, not a peg; he jest rared up, and
danced, and snorted, and acted as ef the smell of powder and the noise
had drove him half wild. I done my best, but he wouldn't give in, so
I did; and what do you think that plucky brute done? He wheeled slap
round, and galloped back like a hurricane, right into the thickest of
the scrimmage!”
“Good for him!” cried Dan excitedly, while the other boys forgot apples
and nuts in their interest.
“I wish I may die ef I warn't ashamed of myself,” continued Silas,
warming up at the recollection of that day. “I was mad as a hornet, and
I forgot my waound, and jest pitched in, rampagin' raound like fury till
there come a shell into the midst of us, and in bustin' knocked a lot
of us flat. I didn't know nothin' for a spell, and when I come-to, the
fight was over just there, and I found myself layin' by a wall of poor
Major long-side wuss wounded than I was. My leg was broke, and I had a
ball in my shoulder, but he, poor old feller! was all tore in the side
with a piece of that blasted shell.”
“O Silas! what did you do?” cried Nan, pressing close to him with a face
full of eager sympathy and interest.
“I dragged myself nigher, and tried to stop the bleedin' with sech rags
as I could tear off of me with one hand. But it warn't no use, and he
lay moanin' with horrid pain, and lookin' at me with them lovin' eyes of
his, till I thought I couldn't bear it. I give him all the help I could,
and when the sun got hotter and hotter, and he began to lap out his
tongue, I tried to get to a brook that was a good piece away, but I
couldn't do it, being stiff and faint, so I give it up and fanned him
with my hat. Now you listen to this, and when you hear folks comin' down
on the rebs, you jest remember what one on 'em did, and give him credit
of it. A poor feller in gray laid not fur off, shot through the lungs
and dyin' fast. I'd offered him my handkerchief to keep the sun off his
face, and he'd thanked me kindly, for in sech times as that men don't
stop to think on which side they belong, but jest buckle-to and help one
another. When he see me mournin' over Major and tryin' to ease his pain,
he looked up with his face all damp and white with sufferin', and sez
he, 'There's water in my canteen; take it, for it can't help me,' and he
flung it to me. I couldn't have took it ef I hadn't had a little brandy
in a pocket flask, and I made him drink it. It done him good, and I felt
as much set up as if I'd drunk it myself. It's surprisin' the good sech
little things do folks sometime;” and Silas paused as if he felt again
the comfort of that moment when he and his enemy forgot their feud, and
helped one another like brothers.
“Tell about Major,” cried the boys, impatient for the catastrophe.
“I poured the water over his poor pantin' tongue, and ef ever a dumb
critter looked grateful, he did then. But it warn't of much use, for
the dreadful waound kep on tormentin' him, till I couldn't bear it any
longer. It was hard, but I done it in mercy, and I know he forgive me.”
“What did you do?” asked Emil, as Silas stopped abruptly with a loud
“hem,” and a look in his rough face that made Daisy go and stand by him
with her little hand on his knee.
“I shot him.”