CHARLIE IN THE SHIP-YARD.

Perhaps the readers of the previous volumes will recollect that Isaac Murch became so much interested in the account given him, in Havana, by Captain Rhines, of the noble conduct of Flour in respect to his old master, aiding him in his poverty, and also of his kindness and fidelity to himself when sick, that he determined to teach him to read and write, and he made some progress during the passage home. When Isaac went to sea again, John Rhines became his teacher, and when John went to learn a trade, Captain Rhines undertook the task himself. It was quite pleasing to note the respect with which Flour was treated by the whole community since he had begun to respect himself, had become a temperate man, and was acquiring knowledge; for, not satisfied with teaching him to read, Captain Rhines was instructing him in arithmetic. He spent the rainy days, and other leisure moments he could spare from his labor, in studying. Nobody now called him Flour, except occasionally from long habit.

It was now James, or Peterson, or even Mr. Peterson. He was an excellent calker and rigger. Captain Rhines introduced him at Wiscasset, where they built many large vessels to carry ton-timber and spars, as a reliable workman, and he had all the work he wanted. The captain also gave him a piece of land, put him up a houseframe, and boarded it. He was able to finish it, little by little, himself, and leave the money, which was in Captain Rhines’s hands, on interest. He had a boy, Benjamin, named after Captain Rhines, nineteen years old, a stout, smart fellow, with very handsome form and features, all the boy, now John Rhines was gone, that Charlie couldn’t throw; but he was so black he shone.

Before this, Flour lived near Captain Rhines’s pasture, in a half-faced log cabin, where he had squat. It stood among a bed of thistles, with heaps of clam shells all around. Destitute of a chimney, the smoke went through a hole in the roof of his cabin, and he was called Old Flour.

No one but they who had lived on Elm Island could imagine what a convenience the Perseverance, Jr. had become. Indeed, not a member of the family would have parted with her for any consideration.

Sunday morning, no matter if it was quite rough, they would all but Sally Merrithew or Mrs. Rhines, get in and go to meeting. On pleasant days they would take the baby, and then all could go. If it was calm it did not matter in the least. Ben would take two oars, and, sitting on the forward thwart, row cross-handed, while Charlie would pull one oar aft, and Sally, assisted, or rather bothered, by Ben, Jr., would steer.

The boat had not been in the water a week before Mrs. Rhines and Mary discovered that they had never seen the baby, and must see it; and Charlie had to bring them on.

It was so convenient, too, for Sally’s mother, who was no more afraid of the water than a coot, to come and see her daughter! and even Mrs. Rhines, naturally timorous on the water, was not afraid to come in that boat.

Tige came on with the Rhines girls. He wanted to see the baby; and such a frolic as he had with Ben, Jr., and the little one you never saw! Tige played rather rough. Every once in a while he would get the whole top of Bennie’s head into his mouth, and scrape the scalp with the points of his teeth, till the child would sing out at the top of his voice, and quit playing till it had done smarting, and then begin with new zeal. Bennie had a great chunk of meat that Tige wanted; but Ben wouldn’t give it to him. Tige followed him round, and when his attention was occupied, licked it out of his hand; but before he could swallow it, Ben got bold of one half, and it was which and t’other, till, Ben’s fingers slipping on the greasy meat, he went over backwards on the floor, and the meat disappeared down Tige’s throat in a moment.

The child, provoked, began to strike him; but all the notice Tige took of it was to wag his tail in complacent triumph, and lick the child’s greasy fingers.

“It wouldn’t be a very safe operation for a man to pull meat out of Tige’s mouth, and strike him in that way,” said Ben, patting fondly the noble brute; “his life wouldn’t be worth much.”

While Charlie was thus pleasantly and profitably occupied in boat-building, a cousin of Captain Rhines, Mr. Foss, who was employed in ship-building at Stroudwater, came to visit him. Captain Rhines brought him on to the island to see Ben. He conceived a great liking for Charlie, who then had two boats set up in the shop, and partly done. Charlie, in the course of conversation, told him of his desire and intention one day to become a ship-builder.

“If that is your intention,” was the reply of Mr. Foss, “you have worked long enough on boats.”

“Why so, sir; is it not much the same thing?”

“Not by any means; the proportions are very different. A full boat would be a very sharp ship—too sharp: the scale is larger, and the distances longer. What would be a proper dead rise in a boat would be quite another thing, come to let it run the length of a vessel’s floor, three times as wide as the whole boat. I’m going to set up a vessel when I go back; if you will go with me and work till spring, I’ll give you good wages, and learn you all I know; with the practice you have had on boats, you will learn very fast.”

Ben expressed his willingness.

“But I have these boats to finish.”

“Mr. Foss will not go for a week; what is not done by that time, I will do.”

“What will you do, if I take the tools?”

“You need take no more than a broadaxe, adze, square, rule, and compasses,” said Mr. Foss; “I’ve got tools enough.”

It was so late in the year, Ben thought he should not be able to cross to the main land much more, and told them to take the boat.

They accordingly furnished themselves with provision, water, and a compass, and set out, Charlie consoling himself for leaving Elm Island by the prospect of being only three or four miles from John.

He was now to leave Elm Island for the first time since he came on to it, and he went all around to take a last look at his pets, and bid them “good by,” and even to the top of the old maple and big pine, where he had spent so many happy hours.

They had a pleasant time up, either a fair wind or calm, did not have to row but little till they ran her right into Stroudwater River, and into the ship-yard.

The next Saturday evening about eight o’clock, John Rhines was told that some one wished to see him at the door; and going without a light, he landed in the embrace of Charlie.

The moment they were alone, Charlie said,—

“Guess what I have done since you came away.”

“Built a boat.”

“Yes; I’ve sold her, and built five more; sold all but one of them, and I came up in her.”

“What a boy you are, Charlie! We’ll have some sails in her; there’s a glorious chance to sail in this harbor in the summer, and a splendid fishing ground. There are lots of acorns on Hog Island, and walnuts on Mackie’s Island.”

“Yes; but guess what else I’ve done.”

“It’s no use to guess, you do so many things.”

“Bought a farm.”

“Bought a farm!”

“Yes, and paid for it! almost four hundred acres; all kinds of land. O, the prettiest harbor! and a pond, a brook, and the handsomest elm tree you ever saw. All kinds of land, and bears on it, John; only think, bears on it, and wolves. O, I forgot a little duck of an island, where the Indians made canoes.”

“Is there a great long point that crooks round like a horseshoe? and does the elm stand on a little tongue that the water runs almost round?”

“Just so.”

“O, I know; that’s a splendid place! I’ve been there many a time, frost-fishing. Cross-root Spring is there, a regular boiling spring; but I never was far from the beach. I didn’t know there was a pond.”

“Now, John, some time when we get through here, you, and I, and Fred will go and have a chowder there; go all over it, and have a good time.”

After this they spent Sundays together, and sat side by side at meeting.

When Charlie began to work at Stroudwater the timber was not cut; thus he had an opportunity to help cut the timber, and begin at the foundation. Modern improvements were unknown then, and he found Mr. Foss built his vessels very much as he built his boats—by setting up stem and stern posts, a few frames, and working by ribbands.

It was late in the fall when Charlie went away, and Ben was obliged to work on the boats when he ought to have been putting his winter wood under cover. The moment the boats were done, he hauled up an enormous pile of wood, both green and dry, and had cut up a good part of the dry, when there came a great fall of snow and covered it all up; and not only so, but the dry chips that had come from hewing the frame of the shed, which were scattered over the ground, and that he meant to have put under cover. Thus the wood was all covered up in snow, and the new wood-shed stood empty.

Sally Merrithew had returned home; the snow was deep; the weather, though fair, extremely cold; and communication between Elm Island and the main pretty much suspended. Joe Griffin was building a log-house on his own land; but the snow being so deep that it was quite difficult to work in the woods, Peter Brock had persuaded him to assist in making axes.

Uncle Jonathan Smullen lived about half way between Joe’s father’s and the blacksmith’s shop, on a little rise, just where the road makes a short turn and goes down to Peterson’s spring. Thus Joe passed the house several times a day, going to and returning from labor.

Sally Merrithew did not approve of his practical jokes: he knew it, and endeavored with all his might to restrain himself. It was now a long time since Joe had been uncorked, and Sally was beginning to hope he never would be again.

Uncle Smullen had a cross ram: he would often run at the old man, who, being old and clumsy, was afraid of him. The barn-yard was very large, being used for both sheep and cattle. In the middle was a large patch of ice. The old man had stocking feet drawn over his shoes, to prevent slipping, and whenever the ram made demonstrations, would run on the ice; the ram, unable to follow, would stand at the edge and keep him there till some one came, or the ram got tired.

Half the cause of the trouble was, that the ram wanted the hens’ corn, and, because the old man wouldn’t let him have any, meant to proceed to blows. Joe, finding the old gentleman beleaguered one day, relieved him.

“The pesky creetur, Mr. Griffin, has kept me here most all the forenoon.”

“I’d cut his head off.”

“I would, Joseph; but he’s an excellent breed; I bought him of Seth Dingley.”

This incident suggested an idea to Joe’s but too fertile brain in an instant. The spirit of mischief invigorated by a long repose, and with difficulty suppressed, rose in arms. That night he made shoes for the ram’s feet, with sharp calks, and nails to put them on with. Mr. Smullen was very methodical in his habits, and Joe was well acquainted with them.

It was his custom, before turning the cattle out in the forenoon, to put a little salt hay in the yard for the sheep, then carry out the corn for the hens, and bring in the eggs in the same measure; and he never varied a hair’s breadth.

After Bobby had gone to school, Joe went into the sheep-house, nailed the shoes on the ram, and after plaguing and irritating him till he was thoroughly mad, hid himself behind the log fence, in the sun, to see what would come of it.

The ram did not offer to molest the old gentleman while he was bringing out the hay. Soon afterwards he came out with a wooden bowl full of corn, going to the barn, when the ram started for him.

“You won’t catch me this time, you pesky sarpint you,” said the old gentleman, quickening his pace for the ice, and soon reached what he supposed his harbor of safety. The brute had found out he was shod, and running backward half the length of the yard to obtain momentum, rushed forward and struck the old gentleman in the rear with the force of a battering-ram. Away went the corn in all directions over the yard, to the manifest delight of the hungry sheep. Uncle Smullen lay prostrate on the ice: one half the wooden bowl flew over the fence, the other into the water trough, while the ram, who had exerted his utmost strength in a dead rush, not meeting with the resistance upon which he had calculated, turning a summerset upon the body of his antagonist, went end over end. Before he could pick himself up, he was seized by Joseph, and flung into the barn.

The moment Joe saw Uncle Smullen fall, his better nature awoke: hastening to his aid, he inquired,—

“Are you much hurt, Uncle Jonathan?”

“I don’t know! I’m in hopes there ain’t no bones broke; it’s a marcy there ain’t. If I’d gone backwards, it would sartainly have killed me.”

“Your face is bleeding,” said Joe, wiping it with his handkerchief.

“Yes; I’m terribly shook all over, and I feel kind o’ faint.”

The old man was bruised on his forehead, and his lip was cut by the edge of the bowl; but though much frightened, he was not seriously injured.

Joe took him in his arms, and carried him into the house, secretly resolving that this should be the last thing of the kind he would ever be guilty of.

Depositing the old man on the bed, he went to the barn and tore the shoes off the ram’s feet, but, in his haste to get back, dropped one on the floor of the tie-up.

“I thought I was safe on that spot of ice, Joseph. He never followed me there before. I didn’t think he could stand on the ice.”

“You see he couldn’t very well,” replied Joe, who was in agony lest his agency in the matter should get wind; “for you see he went end over end.”

“We ought to be thankful,” said Mrs. Smullen, “it’s no worse. There was old Mrs. Aspinwall broke her hip only by treading on a pea, and falling down on her own floor. What we’re going to do about wood and the cattle I’m sure I don’t know! I’m so lame, I couldn’t milk to save my life.”

“Don’t worry the least mite about the cattle, Mrs. Smullen. I’ll take care of them, and cut you up a lot of wood.”

“I’m sure I don’t know how we shall ever repay you, Joseph. It’s of the Lord’s marcies you happened to be here.”

This was perfect torture to Joe. His cheeks burned, and his conscience stung.

“I’m sure,” said the old man, “I don’t know what I shall do with that ram, now he’s got to be master.”

“I’ll take care of him,” said Joe.

He persuaded Sally Merrithew to go there, and stay till the old gentleman got better, then went and tied the ram’s legs, and, flinging him on his shoulders, carried him over to his father’s.

Sally was a girl of keen wit and excellent judgment. She had not the least doubt but that, in some way or other, Joe Griffin was at the bottom of the whole matter.

“How came he there at that time of day, when he ought to have been in Peter Brock’s shop?” was the query she raised in her own mind. His assiduous attentions to the old people had to her a suspicious look, and appeared very much like an effort to atone for an injury. The ram had never ventured on the ice before—how came he to then? Still these surmises afforded not a shadow of proof. She was greatly perplexed.

One morning she was milking, and, perceiving that her pail didn’t set even on the floor, moved it, and underneath was one of the ram’s shoes that Joe had dropped. In an instant she had a clew to the mystery. Perceiving that no one was in sight, she went to the spot of ice, found the prints of the ram’s corks, and compared them with the shoe.

“What a creature he is!” said Sally. “I was in hopes he had left off such things, after having been most smothered in a honey-pot, and scorched in the brush. He’s broke out again, worse than ever.”

Sunday night he came to see her, as usual.

“Joe,” said she, “do they shoe at Peter’s shop?”

“Yes, Peter shoes lots of horses; but they go round to the houses to shoe oxen, carry the shoes and nails, and cast the cattle in the barn floor” (slings were not in use then) “to nail them on.”

“Do they ever shoe rams?”

Joe’s features instantly assumed a terrified expression. He colored to the very tips of his ears, but uttered no word.

“If,” said Sally, “it had been Ben Rhines, Seth Warren, Charlie, or anybody that could have taken their own part; but to set to work on that poor old man, one of the kindest men that ever lived, who took in that miserable Pete Clash, and clothed him, when he had no place to put his head, and whom everybody loves, to run the risk of killing or crippling him for life, I say it’s real mean!”

Joe made no reply, and Sally saw something very much like a tear in his eye. She pitied him from the bottom of her heart, but felt that for the reformation of such an incorrigible sinner it was her duty to go on.

“Did you ever see that before?” she inquired, holding before the terrified culprit the identical shoe, with the nails still sticking in it.

Joe uttered a groan.

“If it should get out, the neighbors would never speak to you again, and you’d have to leave town. I know you feel bad,” she continued, bursting into tears; “but what did put it into your head?”

“The devil.”

“Well, I’d keep better company.”

“You see, Sally, I was going home to dinner one day, and the ram had the old man penned on the ice, and there they stood looking at each other. That’s what put it into my head. I didn’t think anything about the consequences till I saw the ram start for him. Then it all came to me, and I was over the fence in a minute; but it was too late. I don’t think I’m made like other folks. Such things come over me just like lightning, and it seems as if I was hurried. This is the last shine I shall ever cut up.”

“You’ve said so before, Joe.”

“But I mean it now; I’m purposed. Won’t you give me that shoe, Sally?”

“No, Joe, I’m going to keep it; and as sure as you cut up another shine, I’ll show it.”

Joe’s reformation was radical this time, and Sally ventured to marry him. Years after—when Mrs. Griffin—Sally Rhines was visiting her. In hunting over her drawers to find a pattern of a baby’s dress, she came across the shoe, and then it came out. She gave it to the baby to play with.

“I should be afraid to give it to him,” said Mrs. Rhines, “for fear he’d catch something, and go to cutting up shines when he grows up.”