When Ben, Jr. received his goad, made as smooth as glass and fish-skin could render it, oiled with linseed oil to give it a handsome color and make it more pliable, he was highly gratified. The youngster, however, soon ascertained that in one very important respect it was deficient: there was no brad in it.

The discovery was by no means satisfactory; a goad without a brad, was no goad at all, and he teased Charlie till he put in one of considerable length, as sharp as a needle, but told him he must not stick it into the oxen. It unfortunately happened that this was just the thing Bennie wanted to do, and wanted the brad for. Charlie stuck it into the oxen, and he flattered himself that he could perform equally well. While his father and Yelf were at the pry, he strutted alongside of Charlie, leaping up and down when it came to a severe pull, very red in the face, smiting on the ground, and screaming, “Gee Turk! back Buck! her Spark up, you old villain.”

For a while he amused himself by sticking the brad into chips and flinging them to a distance, or impaling wood-worms and grasshoppers; but these amusements soon ceased to be exciting. The little Mischief longed, but didn’t quite dare, to try it on the oxen; he at length determined to do or die. Watching his opportunity when Charlie’s back was turned, he set his teeth, went close to old Turk, shut both eyes, and jabbed the brad into his thigh the whole length, with such good will that the blood followed the steel. All around the scene of labor were great stumps which had been torn from the ground, some of the pines ten or fifteen feet in circumference, sitting on their edges, the sharp points of their roots protruding in all directions. The enraged ox administered a kick that sent Bennie through a thorn bush, in amongst the jagged roots of a pine stump, where he was wedged in fast, screaming piteously. There was, indeed, abundant cause for lamentation; the thorns had torn his hands and the side of his face, the point of a pine root had gone through his upper lip, and the skin was scraped from his thigh.

Notwithstanding his fright and wounds, though the blood was running from his lip and hands, he resolutely refused to be carried to his mother till he obtained his goad, thoroughly convinced that it was a real one, and effectual, clung like birdlime to the instrument of his misfortunes. The next day being rainy, Charlie went to work in the shop upon a pair of cart wheels, and during the rest of the week continued to work on them.

When Saturday evening came, Sally said to him, “Now, Charlie, not another stroke of work shall you do till you’ve been to see Uncle Isaac, Joe Griffin, and the rest of your friends. Here you’ve been away going on two years, and come home for a visit, and stick right down to work the very next day. It’s too bad. Uncle Isaac will think you don’t care anything about him. I should think you’d want to go to Pleasant Cove.”

“So I do, mother; but you know father has been alone a great part of the time, and I wanted to help fix the orchard, get the stuff sawed out for the wheels, and then I’m going to get Uncle Isaac to help me make them.”

“Well, when we go over to meeting to-morrow, I shall leave you, and you must stay till we come over the next Lord’s day, and see all hands.”

“I will, mother.”

John and Charlie went over to Uncle Isaac’s and staid two days and nights. There they learned that Isaac, his nephew, was expected that week. From there they went to Joe Griffin’s. His farm was situated on a ridge of excellent land that rose gradually from the water, the summit being covered with a mixed growth, in which beech largely predominated, succeeded on the declivity by rock maple, ash, and yellow birch. In front of the house was a cove, with a point on the south-west side, which sheltered it from winds blowing from that direction, but was exposed to the north and north-west winds. The house itself stood within a stone’s throw of the shore, in the middle of a clearing of about six acres. It was a log house, of the rudest kind, as Joe thought it very likely he might burn it up before he got done setting fires. Rude as was its appearance, the whole scene presented to the eye an aspect of comfort and plenty. The burn had a noble log fence around it; a magnificent piece of corn completely surrounded the house and log barn, growing to the very threshold, leaving only a footpath by which to reach the house; on the other side, the lot had been sown with wheat, which was now cut, and large stooks were scattered over the field.

As the boys approached, they paused in admiration.

“I have seen a good many pieces of corn planted on a burn, but I never saw anything that would begin with that.”

“Look at the grain,” said Charlie, “don’t that look rich? Well, they’ll have enough to eat, that’s certain.”

Entering the house, they found Mrs. Griffin at the loom, weaving, and received a most cordial welcome. The house had but two rooms, but the roof being sharp, and the house large on the ground, there was room to put beds in the garret. Skeins of linen and woollen yarn, hanging up all around the room, attested Sally’s capabilities.

“Where is Joe?” asked Charlie.

“In the woods, on the back end of the lot, falling trees. He goes into the woods as soon as he can see, and stays as long as he can see.”

“He must make an awful hole in the woods in a week,” said John.

“Have you got any pasture?”

“No; but the cow does first-rate on browse, and what grass grows on open spots in the woods. Now Joe gives her cornstalks, she does better than our cows ever did at home in the best pasture.”

“Have you got a pig?” asked Charlie.

“Yes, a real nice one. Come, go look at him. We’ve had milk enough for him till lately. Now Joe has to buy potatoes for him; but we shall have corn enough of our own by and by.”

“That you will,” said John. “I don’t see how you get your cow into the barn. You can’t drive her through this cornfield; it’s all around the barn.”

“We don’t. I go out in the woods to milk. We’ve got a cow-yard there; and when it rains Joe milks.”

“You have real nice times—don’t you, Sally?”

“I guess we do, John. We work hard, but we are well and strong: work don’t hurt us, and we’ve enough to eat. Our place is paid for. There ain’t a man in the world has a right to ask Joe for a dollar, and there never was a woman had a better husband. We are just as happy as the days are long.”

After seeing the pig and hens, the boys said they must go and find Joe.

“Well, go right to the end of the corn, and you’ll hear his axe. Do you like coot stew, boys?”

“Don’t we!” said Charlie; “and haven’t had one since we left home.”

“Then you shall have one for supper. Joe shot some coots this morning.”

The boys proceeded through the woods, guided by the sound of the axe, and soon perceived their friend through the trees busily at work. Creeping cautiously on their hands and knees, they succeeded in approaching within a stone’s throw, and concealing themselves behind the roots of an upturned tree, observed his movements. For a long distance in front of him were trees cut partly through, the white chips covering the ground all around their roots. He was now at work upon an enormous red oak, with long, branching limbs. Having finished his scarf on the side next to some partially cut trees, and which had taken the tree nearly off, he wiped the sweat from his brow, and with an upward glance at the sun, leaned upon his axe-handle.

It was evident to the boys that Joe had been chopping trees partly off during the whole afternoon, and was about to fall the monster oak on them, in order to make a drive; and as he knew by the sun it was not far from supper-time, this was the last he intended to cut before supper. He had evidently done a hard day’s work. The sweat was dropping from his nose, and his clothes were saturated. Nevertheless, a smile passed over his features, as he stood with a foot on one of the great spur roots of his victim, leaning forward upon the axe-handle, evidently in a very happy frame of mind.

“He’s thinking about that piece of corn,” whispered Charlie, “and what a nice farm he’ll have when he gets these trees out of the way.”

“Didn’t you see him looking at the sun? He’s glad it’s most supper-time, when he can see Sally.”

Joe now resumed his work, and taking hold of the end of his axe-handle with both hands, delivered long, swinging blows, with the precision and rapidity of some engine, while the great chips fell from the scarf, and accumulated in a pile around the roots.

“I told you he wanted to see Sally. Only see that axe go in! How true he strikes, and what a long-winded creature he is!”

“Won’t that make a smashing when it falls? Such a big tree, and such long limbs! There it goes! I can see the top quiver!”

Crack! snap! Joe ceased to strike as the enormous bulk tottered for a moment in the air, then falling upon the trees adjoining, which were cut nearly off, bore them down in an instant, these in their turn falling upon others. Beneath this tremendous aggregate of forces, the forest fell with a roar and crash, as though uprooted by a whirlwind, the air was filled with branches and leaves, and when the tumult had subsided, a long, broad path was cut through the dense forest, with here and there a mutilated stub standing upright amid the desolation. As the last tree touched the earth, a loud cheer, mingled with the sound of cracking timber and rending branches. Turning suddenly around, Joe confronted John and Charlie.

“How are you, old slayer of trees?” cried Charlie.

“First-rate, my little boat-builder,” replied Joe, taking both his hands; “and how are you, John?”

“Well and hearty.”

“I’m right glad to see you, boys, and take it real kind in you to come clear up here to visit me. When did you get home?”

“Last week,” said Charlie. “We came over to Uncle Isaac’s, and from there here. You’ve got a real nice place, Joe. How much land have you?”

“Two hundred acres. It is well watered and timbered. There’s pine on the back part, as there is on your’n, and all these lots. Did you see my corn?”

“Yes, we’ve been to the house, and came right through it. I never saw such corn before!” said John.

“That’s what everybody says, and the wheat is as good as the corn. If the frost holds off, and the bears don’t eat it up, I shall have a lot of corn; but right here in the woods the frost is apt to strike early.”

“Been cutting up any shines lately, Joe?” asked John.

“Not a shine. I’m an old, steady, married man.”

The horn was now heard.

“Come, boys, there’s supper.”

It was only five o’clock. It was the farmers’ custom in those days to have supper at five or half past, and then work till night. Sally had provided a bountiful supper—a coot stew, flapjacks, with maple sirup and custards.

“Did you make this sirup, Joe?” asked Charlie.

“Yes, or rather, Sally did, and sugar enough to last a year. I tapped the trees, and fixed a kettle in the woods, and she made it while I was clearing land long before the house was built. She said if I was going to have corn to begin with, she would have sugar, and you see she’s got it.”