MOONLIGHT CONVERSATION BY THE BROOK.

WALTER well deserved the praise lavished upon him by Ned. He had little resemblance to his brother Joe, or indeed any other member of the family, except in size. He was of large frame; Joe had great square jaws, high cheek bones, his hair coarse and bristling, and his joints large,—he was what is termed, in common parlance, double-jointed,—and, though exceeding agile, was loose-limbed, and somewhat awkward in his movements.

Walter, on the other hand, was compactly built, graceful in all his movements; fair complexion, regular features, fine hair, that curled upon the least exertion, and something in the expression of his face that inspired confidence and attracted at once; though full of humor, he possessed not a particle of Joe’s fondness for practical jokes. Every whit as resolute and fond of rough sports as any of his race, he had what none of the rest possessed—imagination and sentiment; he was thoughtful, reflective, and a vein of almost feminine delicacy ran through his whole nature.

All that Joe thought of, when he looked upon a noble maple, was, how much potash it would make, whether a keel-piece could be got out of it; or upon a majestic pine, how many boards it would scale.

But Walter looked upon them with other eyes; the murmur of the streams and the glance of the river through the green foliage appealed to susceptibilities that did not exist in the breast of the other. In all other respects he was Griffin to the backbone. He was a universal favorite; all the boys loved Walter Griffin, and he loved them in return. He loved John Rhines, Fred Williams, and Uncle Isaac, but Charlie Bell was his ideal of perfection, and, though so much his senior, seemed nearer than all the rest. The thoughtful tenderness of Charlie’s nature touched an answering chord in that of Walter; he found something there, he could not find among his mates.

Charlie, trading with Fred, and owning a portion of the goods, was often in the store, and brought a good deal in contact with Walter; they naturally grew together.

When he found Charlie was going to be married, he told John he was real sorry, because he knew he shouldn’t see so much of him, and he was afraid he wouldn’t love him so much. But he soon found, to his great gratification, that “the more angels in the heart, the more room.”

No sooner was Charlie married than he bought a pew in the meeting-house, and asked Walter to sit with him (as Mr. Griffin had a large family, and their pew was always crowded), and frequently invited him to tea; he soon began to feel at home there, and found that he saw a great deal more of Charlie than when he was obliged to go on to Elm Island to see him, or met him occasionally at the store.

Charlie’s religion was not something put upon him like lacker upon metal, but it was a part of him, as much so as the very blood in the chambers of his heart, or the pulse in his veins; it made him happy, and it was an instinct with him to communicate that which so blessed himself to those he loved. It was not a task; he could not help it. ‘Twas just as much a part of his nature, as to press the hand or kiss the lips of those he loved.

The period occupied by our narrative was long before the era of Sabbath schools, notwithstanding young people by no means grew up, in the days of our fathers, without religious instruction, and that of the most substantial kind; since parents then discharged, in respect to their children, the duties which are now but too often surrendered to Sabbath school teachers, and the material for mission schools, now so abundant, did not then exist.

Parson Goodhue was accustomed, once a month, to assemble all the children, as also the older boys and girls, in the school-house on Saturday afternoon, and to put them the questions contained in the Westminster Catechism, previously committed to memory.

Walter Griffin had made all his preparations for going to sea, as a green hand, in the Casco, with Isaac Murch; the ship was ready to sail Monday, for Cadiz. Walter having attended the catechising for the last time, when he saw all his schoolmates, and received a parting blessing from the good minister, started up to Pleasant Cove, to take leave of Charlie, whom he met coming from the barn, where he had been tying up his oxen.

“Good evening, Mr. Bell.”

“Good evening, Walter. I was afraid you would go away without coming to see me.”

“I couldn’t think of that, sir; I came up to the school-house, and then kept on.”

“Then you are all dressed for Sabbath, and I shan’t let you go from here to-night; stop right here, and go to meeting with us in the morning.”

“I fear I shall hinder you, sir.”

“Not a whit. Uncle Isaac has been helping me break up, and has just gone from here; we’ve done work enough for one day. I’m going to clean up and rest; come, go in; supper is about ready.”

Walter assisted Charlie to milk, and do his chores, and as the twilight came on, they sat down together beneath a tree near the edge of a bank, where the brook met the waters of the bay.

It was a most picturesque, lovely spot, one that Charlie dearly loved, and to which he never took any one who he knew was incapable of appreciating it; he didn’t like to have his chosen spots like an unfenced common, for everybody and everything to trample on.

It was a warm evening, the first of September; the season had been moist and shady; not a leaf gave token of decay. Just above them they saw the white foam of the water, as it fell in broken wreaths of foam over the precipice, and caught again the gleam of it through the leaves, as with tranquil current it met the waters of the bay, rolling with a low ripple upon the white sand of the beach.

They sat with their backs against a large oak that grew double, forking just above their heads, and thus, being rather flat than round, offered a convenient rest.

“Walter,” said Charlie, putting his arm around the boy, and drawing his head on to his breast, “how do you like this spot?”

“I think it is most beautiful. I could sit here all night and listen to that waterfall, and watch the moonbeams glancing on the water.”

“The first time I ever saw this place, I came here alone, on very much such a night as this. I loved it then, and have loved it more and more ever since. I shall miss you very much, Walter; only think how many Sabbath days we’ve sat side by side in meeting; I hope there’s some good come of it all. Walter, do you ever pray?”

There was no reply, but a tear fell on Charlie’s hand; at length he said, “No, sir; I never did.”

“But you say the Lord’s Prayer?”

“No, sir.”

“Didn’t your mother learn you to say it when a child?”

“No, sir; there ain’t any goodness in our folks; we are a hard, rough set; ain’t like other people; only think about wrestling, shooting, and falling timber. When Joe became religious, he wanted to have prayers Sabbath night; but father wouldn’t hear to it. Now he’s got a house of his own, he can do as he likes.”

“But you are not a rough, thoughtless boy, Walter; you are a gentle, loving boy, and you think; all the Griffin there is in you, is on the outside; you love the woods, flowers, the waters, and this beautiful spot touches you, just as it does me.”

Walter made no reply, but pressed Charlie’s hand.

“And you love me?”

“I do, Mr. Bell, with all my heart and soul.”

“Then how can you help loving God, who made everything and everybody that you love and admire?”

“I know I ought.”

“Perhaps you don’t like to have me talk to you in this way.”

“Yes, sir, I do; I could hear you talk forever.”

“Walter, I don’t believe there was ever a boy in the world had more friends than you have.”

“That is just what I was thinking myself, this very afternoon, when all the boys and girls came round me at the catechising, and seemed sorry to have me go away.”

“Don’t you think you owe a good deal to your Maker? and ought you not to tell him so?”

“Yes, sir, I know I ought to; but I can’t.”

“You could ask me to speak to the captain, and get you a chance to go in the Casco.”

“O, sir, you, Mr. Rhines, and Uncle Isaac are so good, I don’t feel afraid to ask you anything.”

“God is better.”

“But he seems a great way off.”

“He would seem near if you would go to him, and try to get acquainted. Besides, he has spoken first, and asked you to come.”

“I’m afraid you will think I am a very rude boy.”

“You are like all boys, and all the rest of us, before we begin to think of better things. Now, Walter, there’s just one thing I want you to do.”

“What is that, sir?”

“You know I have been on the ocean somewhat, and know what it is to be there, and how sailor men feel, although you will soon know much more about the matter than I do. There is no time, as you will soon learn, when a sailor man spends his time so well as in the middle watch of a pleasant night, when it is fair weather and moderate—everything going along smooth. It is then, if a man has any conscience, it wakes up; if he has had good bringing up, and good instructions, they come to his mind; it is then his thoughts are homeward bound, and he thinks of parents, brothers, sisters, and all he loves best on earth. Then he travels over the whole ground, from childhood clear along. You’ll find it so.”

“I expect I shall spend many an hour in that way, and then I shall think of you and all your kindness to me.”

“It isn’t kindness, Walter; it is more than that. I have enjoyed it as much as you. There are some beautiful nights at sea, as well as dark and dismal ones. There will be nights just like this, when the moon will glance on the long swell just as it now does on the little ripple on that beach, and the stars will seem like so many eyes looking down upon you, and the royal will look in the shadow as if it reached the sky.”

“I know I shall enjoy such nights, and wish them longer.”

“They make up for a good many rough ones, and you can live them over many times. Well, when such a night comes, I want you, as you look on the moon and stars, to remember that as the same moon is shining on me, looking down on this little brook, and into the cove, so the same good heavenly Father is over us both; that then I shall look at that moon, and think of you; this little nook, the trees, and all we’ve said to one another here will travel out on the ocean to meet you; then perhaps you may think, I wonder if some good friend is not thinking of and praying for me; ought I not to do something for myself?”

“I thank you for all these pleasant thoughts. I never thought of such things before. It is not the way Parson Goodhue talks to us about religion.”

“Well, he is a wise man. I can only talk in a simple way, as it comes to me, and out of my heart.”

“But you don’t talk to me like as anybody else does. Captain Rhines often gives me good advice, and so does Uncle Isaac, about not drinking, and getting into bad company, or being profane, and about saving my money. But you don’t, somehow, seem to give me advice, or ever mention those things. I like to have them take notice of me, and always thank them; but when you talk with me,—for you don’t seem to talk at me,—I want to put my arms right round your neck.”

“Don’t spoil a good mind, Walter.” And the boy actually embraced him. “People have different ways of looking at the same thing,” continued Charlie; “you wouldn’t want all your friends to be just alike—would you?”

“No, indeed, sir, any more than I would want all the flowers to be of one form and color, or all the birds to look alike and sing the same song.”

“Well, if you only love Him who made and gave you everything half as well as you love me, who have done, and can do, very little for you, all these other matters will take care of themselves.”

“Please talk some more, sir.”

“It is time to go. We’ve been here a great while. They will all be a-bed.”

“O, sir, we haven’t been here but a little while.”

“How long do you think?”

“Half an hour.”

“We’ve been here an hour and a half; I know by the tide. It was high water when we sat down here. You see that white rock just breaking the water?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, when that rock is fairly out, it is two hours ebb. Walter, what makes you so bent upon going to sea? You might do well on a farm. Fred would, in the course of another year, take you in as partner. If you want money, I will lend it to you. Then you can be at home among your friends. Is it because you think you can make money faster?”

“No, sir; I don’t think money is everything. There’s Isaac Murch, as straightforward, kind-hearted a fellow as ever lived,—as smart a man as was ever wrapped up in skin; but he thinks money is everything. He’ll give, too, especially to a good cause; but it comes hard. He’ll go through a deal to get a dollar. I mean to have a good living,—I think that’s for every one who strives for it,—and earn my wages, wherever I am. I don’t believe in wasting, or any of your low stuff, but I had rather have friends who love me for my own sake, good health, enjoy myself, and have others enjoy themselves with me, than all the money in the world.”

“Money won’t buy happiness, Walter.”

“You know, sir, you were saying just now that you hoped you shouldn’t have to grind your broad-axe again for six years; you did so long to turn over some of this wild land, plant an orchard, have grain, fruit and flowers, and cattle in the pastures.”

“Yes, and I felt more than I said.”

“But haven’t you made pretty much all the property you have out of the sea?”

“Yes.”

“Yet you want to work on the land.”

“Because I love to. I love to work with tools, but I want some time to plant and sow, and see things grow, whether I make anything or not; it’s my nature.”

“So it’s my nature to go to sea. I wish you could see all the boats Flour (I mean Peterson) has made and rigged for me. I wouldn’t care if there was only land enough to build wharves to tie vessels up, to clean and grave their bottoms, and all the rest was water.”

“But it is a hard life, and rude company. You are a quiet, thoughtful boy, and as affectionate as a woman.”

“There’s a hard streak in all us Griffins; so I suppose there must be in me.”

This was the boy Ned Gates was so much attached to, and helped do his work at the tan-yard, and respecting whom Mrs. Gates said he was too good to go to sea (this good lady seeming to think it best to have only bad men at sea).

Naturally adapted to sea life, he was already (but little more than a boy) acting as second mate, and, by his keenness of perception, was the first to discern the whereabouts of the enemy.

To say that Walter and Ned were intimate, and enjoyed themselves together, would be superfluous. They were fortunately in the same watch, slept in the same berth, and became more attached to each other every day. Ned was smart and ambitious, but light. He always aspired to furl the royal, which he could do well enough, when it was dry, at any rate, by furling the yard-arms first; but when it was wet, and a gale of wind, it was rather more than a match for him. At such times, Walter, who knew the ambition and grit of his little shipmate, and was unwilling to mortify him before the crew, would wait till he saw the sail blow away from him once or twice, and then run up and help him.

Ned was very desirous of raising a cue, and even had dim visions of a beard. He sported a concern about three inches in length, and which very much resembled the appendage of a Suffolk pig. It was so short that Walter, who combed and dressed it for him when the rest of the watch were asleep, found it very difficult to make the eel-skin stay on, even with a clove hitch, and, to Ned’s great indignation, suggested that he should put some tar on it, in order to make the string stick. Walter, on the other hand, boasted a cue nearly a foot in length, and the rudiments of a beard.

Whenever he shaved (which luxury he sometimes indulged in, by the solicitations of Ned, on Sunday morning in port, when the rest were ashore, to avoid disparaging remarks), Ned sat looking at him with the greatest reverence, and indulging in visions of the future, although, as yet, his lip was guiltless even of down.