HORACE

During that week before the Fourth of July the days passed with incredible slowness. One afternoon, to beguile the time, I went over to Horace Winslow's house.

Horace, from the standpoint of most of us, was entitled to sympathy,—he was being "brought up" with so much care.

Not that any of us were neglected. School was our portion, Mr. Colburn's and other improving but uncomfortable books were our fare through nine months of the year. On Sundays we were duly despatched to the school appropriate to that day. We each carried the traditional cent for the contribution box. And, as in the story-books (which are sometimes faithful transcripts from life), it was with difficulty that we passed the traditional drug shop, which displayed the traditional peppermint lozenges and "coltsfoot."

And, still in the traditional manner, the Tempter's voice was loud sometimes in our ears,—so loud that we turned and entered Dr. Dibden's shop, and spent that cent for a roll of lozenges, or a piece of coltsfoot, or of "stick lickrish."

But if we did this thing, so did Horace Winslow. And if, occasionally, we had to be sent from the dinner-table to remove a few burrs from our coat collars, or to make another attempt with the hair-brush, so had Horace. In such matters his experiences were not different from those of the other boys in the neighborhood.

His mind was being improved,—that was all.

It had not injured his health to any extent. He presented, on that afternoon, his usual round countenance, and red cheeks. A pleasing plumpness was his most noticeable characteristic,—not the lean air of the scholar.

I found him making a suitable home for his turtles, and I joined in the work with enthusiasm. The turtles had been straying lately, and it was clear that something had to be done. It is distressing, after you have lavished any amount of attention on a turtle, and have tied him by a long string so as to give him wide liberty, to find in the morning that he has twisted and tangled the string amongst the grass, and then departed, leaving one end of the string buried, as if in derision, in the ground.

We set out to construct a turtle-proof pen from boards and shingles.

"I came pretty near losin' all the turtles," said Horace.

"Did they break the strings?" I asked.

"No,—only one of 'em. But Aunt said she didn't know but I'd have to put 'em all back in the pond."

"What for?"

"'Cos I took one of 'em to bed with me night 'fore last."

"Which one?"

"That big one, with the yuller spots."

"Did she mind?"

"Who,—Aunt Cora? You bet she did! I put him in the bath-tub to give him a swim in the mornin', an' I forgot him when I went to breakfast, an' then right after breakfast I had to go down town to get a yeast-cake, an' Aunt found him swimmin' round in the tub, an' she said 'twas horrid to have turtles in the tub, an' she wanted to know when I put him there, an' so she found out I'd had him under the pillow all night, an' she was awful mad! I thought she was goin' to lick me, but she didn't. I didn't dare tell her I'd had another one up there the night before,—the little black one. He's a jim-dandy,—the best turtle I've got. His name is Pete."

I agreed that Pete was a very desirable turtle. And I put in a request.

"Tell me if your Aunt makes you put 'em back in the pond, will you?"

"She won't. She said I could keep 'em, but I can't bring 'em inside the house. Gee! She's been awful cross lately, though. Last night again. An' Uncle, too. We went in swimmin' out to Four Rocks,—I mean I did, an' Ben Spauldin', an' Harry Fletcher, an'—"

"How'd you go?" I interrupted; "out the railroad?"

"No, we got a ride on Dole's wagon to the green, an' then went out the middle road. While we were in the water, two fellers came along, an' grabbed most of my clothes, an' Ben's, an' run up across the track, an' chucked 'em into Mr. Harris' shanty, an' then run off laughin'; an' I run up to get 'em, an' just as I got up on the road Aunt an' Uncle came drivin' along with Mr. Benton, an' they were mad as hops 'cos I didn't have anythin' on, an' Uncle was goin' to make me get into the carriage an' get under a robe, till I told him my clothes were in the shanty."

"What did he say?"

"He said I'd ought to have taken better care of my clothes, an' Aunt said it was disgraceful runnin' round stark naked on the road, an' she was mortified to death, an' I couldn't go in swimmin' any more if I didn't behave, an'—oh, darn it all, is that two o'clock?"

It was certainly two. The North Church clock struck the hour distinctly.

"I s'pose I'll have to go in, now," he announced sorrowfully.

I was about to ask the reason, when the voice of Mrs. Vincent, Horace's aunt, came from behind the closed shutters of a window.

"Horace!"

"Oh, I don't want to come in now!"

"Horace!"

"Well, I don't, Aunt. Sam Edwards is here, and we've got to build this turtle-pen."

"HORACE!"

"I can't leave Sam here all alone, Aunt. 'Twouldn't be polite."

"Horace, come in the house instantly. You may bring Samuel with you."

"Oh, he don't want to come."

"Doesn't want to come, you mean. Wouldn't you like to hear me read to Horace, Samuel?"

I was greatly interested in the turtles, but I was also fond of being read to. Apparently I was going to lose the company of Horace, anyhow. Moreover, I was afraid of Horace's aunt. So I meekly said:—

"Yes'm."

But Horace still raised objections.

"We can't leave the turtles like this Aunt,—they'll all get away."

"Horace, mind what I say this minute. You can make the turtles safe enough. I will give you three minutes longer, and if you are not indoors then, your uncle will punish you this evening."

We collected the wayward turtles and put them in a garden basket. A few seconds later we presented ourselves before Mrs. Vincent, who looked at us ominously over the top of a book. Horace sat down in one stiff-backed chair, and I in another. He began to screw his face into knots as soon as he saw the book.

It was unknown to me, and fifteen or twenty years were to elapse before I should know its title. Then, one day, reading Guizot's "History of France," I recognized a passage, and realized with what work we had been regaled,—when we wished to build a turtle-pen.

"Oh, Aunt—"

"Horace, be quiet. Sit up straight in your chair. Put your hand down."

She looked Horace over critically, and then began to read.

"'The old parliamentarians were triumphant; at the same time as AbbÉ Terray, Chancellor Maupeou was disgraced, and the judicial system he had founded fell with him. Unpopular from the first, the Maupeou Parliament had remained in the nation's eyes the image of absolute power corrupted and corrupting. The suit between Beaumarchais and Councillor GoËzman—'"

"Oh, Aunt, I don't want—"

"Horace, if you are not still this instant, I will put you to bed!"

Horace's articulations dissolved into snuffles and whines; we both hitched and wriggled in our chairs, and the reading went on. We heard what Chancellor Maupeou said to the Duke de La VrilliÈre, and what M. Turgot wrote to Louis XVI,—if a process in which the brain took almost no part can be called hearing. These personages were strangers to me, but Horace greeted them as familiar enemies. I judged that he knew and hated them of old time.

An hour passed, a long hot hour. M. de Malesherbes had gone the way of Turgot, and Horace and I were reduced to a mere coma. Then the book was closed, and we were told that we might return to our turtles.

We did so with profound joy, and Horace, seeing the Tiltons' cat hurrying over the fence, remarked that she was Chancellor Maupeou, and threw a green apple at her.