"Well," said Phonny, "I will carry him the paper."

"You must only give him the paper," said Beechnut, "and not tell him any thing about the case yourself."

"No," said Phonny, "I will not."

"For if you do," continued Beechnut, "he will know who the parties are, and then he will not like to decide the question."

"Well," said Phonny, "I will not tell him."

"Let Stuyvesant go with you," said Beechnut.

"Well," said Phonny.

Phonny accordingly took the paper and went into the house with Stuyvesant. He led the way up into his cousin Wallace's room. He found Wallace seated at his table in his alcove, where he usually studied. The curtains were both up, which was the signal that Phonny might go and speak to him.

Phonny and Stuyvesant accordingly walked up to the table, and Wallace asked them if they wished to speak to him.



Phonny handed him the paper.

"There," said he, "is a case for you to decide."

Wallace took the paper and read it. He said nothing, but seemed for a moment to be thinking on the subject, and then he took his pen and wrote several lines under the question. Phonny supposed that he was writing his answer.

After his writing was finished, Wallace folded up the paper, and told Phonny that he must not read it until he had given it to Beechnut.

"How did you know that it was from Beechnut?" said Phonny.

"I knew by the handwriting," said Wallace. "Besides, I knew that there was nobody else here who would have referred such a question to me, in such a scientific way."

So Phonny took the paper and carried it down to Beechnut.

Beechnut opened it, and read aloud as follows:

My judgment is, that it would depend upon whether B. had a reasonable time to consider and decide upon the offer, before C. came forward. In all cases of making an offer, it is implied that reasonable time is allowed to consider it.

"The question is, then, boys," said Beechnut, "whether Stuyvesant had had a reasonable time to consider my offer, before Phonny came forward. What do you think about that, Phonny?"

"Why, yes," said Phonny, "he had an hour."

Stuyvesant said nothing.

"I will think about that while I am riding," said Beechnut, "and tell you what I conclude upon it when I return. Perhaps we shall have to refer that question to Mr. Wallace, too."

So Beechnut drove away, and the boys went back into the shop. Here they resumed their work of putting the tools in order, and while doing so, they continued their conversation about the question of priority.

"I think," said Phonny, "that you had abundance of time to consider whether you would accept the offer."

"We might leave that question to Wallace, too," said Stuyvesant.

"Yes," said Phonny, "let's go now and ask him."

"Well," said Stuyvesant, "I am willing."

"Only," said Phonny, "we must not tell him what the question is about."

"No," said Stuyvesant.

So the boys went together up to Wallace's room. They found him in his alcove as before. They advanced to the table, and Wallace looked up to them to hear what they had to say.

"B. had an hour to consider of his offer," said Phonny, "don't you think that that was enough?"

Phonny was very indiscreet, indeed, in asking the question in that form, for it showed at once that whatever might be the subject of the discussion, he was not himself the person represented by B. It was now no longer possible for Wallace to look at the question purely in its abstract character.

"Now I know," said Wallace, "which is B., and of course you may as well tell me all about it."

Phonny looked at Stuyvesant with an expression of surprise and concern upon his countenance.

"No matter," said Stuyvesant, "let us tell him the whole story."

Phonny accordingly explained to Wallace, that the contract related to the care of the hen-house and the hens,—that it was first offered to Stuyvesant, that Stuyvesant did not accept it for an hour or two, and that in the course of that time he, Phonny, had himself applied for it. He concluded by asking Wallace if he did not think that an hour was a reasonable time.

"The question," said Wallace, "how much it is necessary to allow for a reasonable time, depends upon the nature of the subject that the offer relates to. If two persons were writing at a table, and one of them were to offer the other six wafers in exchange for a steel pen, five minutes, or even one minute, might be a reasonable time to allow him for decision. On the other hand, in buying a house, two or three days would not be more than would be reasonable. Now, I think in such a case as this, any person who should receive such an offer as Beechnut made, ought to have time enough to consider the whole subject fairly. He would wish to see the hen-house, to examine its condition, to consider how long it would take him to put it in order, and how much trouble the care of the hens would make him afterward. He would also want to know how many eggs he was likely to receive, and to consider whether these would be return enough for all his trouble. Now, it does not seem to me, that one hour, coming too just when Stuyvesant was called away to dinner, could be considered a reasonable time. He ought to have a fair opportunity when the offer is once made to him, to consider it and decide understandingly, whether he would accept it or not."

"Well," said Phonny, with a sigh, "I suppose I must give it up."

So he and Stuyvesant walked back to the shop together.



CHAPTER VII.

THE WORK SHOP.

When the boys entered the shop door, the first thing for Phonny to do, was to look and see if his trap was safe. It was safe. It remained standing upon the horse-block where he had placed it.

"And now," said Phonny, "the question is, where I am to find a box for a cage. I must go and look about."

"And I must go and look at my hen-house," said Stuyvesant.

Phonny proposed that Stuyvesant should go with him to find a box, and then help him make a cage, and after that, he would go, he said, and help Stuyvesant about the repairs of the hen-house.

"I must go and look at the hen-house first," said Stuyvesant. "I can do that, while you are finding the box, and then I will help you."

"Well," said Phonny. "But—on the whole, I will go with you to look at it, and then you can go with me to find the box."

So the boys walked along toward the hen-house together.

When they came to the place, they went in, and Stuyvesant proceeded to examine the premises very thoroughly. There were two doors of admission. One was a large one, for men and boys to go in at. The other was a very small one, a square hole in fact, rather than a door, and was intended for the hens.

This small opening had once been fitted with a sort of lid, which was attached by leather hinges on its upper edge to a wooden bar or cleat nailed to the side of the house, just over the square hole. This lid formed, of course, a sort of door, opening outward and upward. When up, it could be fastened in that position, by means of a wooden button. The button and the bar of wood remained in its place, but the door was gone.

"Where is the door?" asked Stuyvesant, after he had examined all this very carefully.

"Why, I took it off," said Phonny, "to make a little stool of. I wanted a square board just about that size."

"And did you make a stool?" asked Stuyvesant.

"No," said Phonny. "I found that I could not bore the holes for the legs. I tried to bore a hole, but I split the board."

"Then I must find another piece of board, somewhere," said Stuyvesant.

Stuyvesant next turned his attention to the great door. He swung it to and fro, to see if the hinges were in order. They were. Next he shut it, but he found there was nothing to keep it shut.

"There used to be a button," said Phonny.

"Where is the button now?" asked Stuyvesant.

"I don't know," said he. "Let me see;—it must be about here somewhere."

So saying, Phonny began to look around upon the ground. There was some litter upon the ground, formed of sticks, straws, &c., and Phonny began to poke this litter about with his foot.

"I saw it lying down here somewhere, once," said he, "but I can't find it now."

"Why didn't you pick it up and put it away in some safe place?" said Stuyvesant, "or get it put on?"

"Why, I don't know," said Phonny. "You see we don't want to shut up the hens much in the summer."

"No," replied Stuyvesant; "but it is a great deal better to have the doors all in order."

"Why is it better?" asked Phonny.

"It is more satisfactory," said Stuyvesant.

"Satisfactory!" repeated Phonny. "Hoh!"

Stuyvesant went into the hen-house. Phonny followed him in.

It was a small room, with a loft upon one side of it. The floor was covered with sticks, straw and litter. In one corner was a barrel, three quarters filled with hay. There were two or three bars overhead for the hens to roost upon. Stuyvesant looked around upon all these objects for a few minutes in silence, and then pointing up to the loft, he asked,

"What is up there?"

"That is the loft," replied Phonny. "There is nothing up there."

"How do you get up to see?" asked Stuyvesant.

"I can't get up, except when Beechnut is here to boost me," said Phonny.

"I mean to make a ladder," said Stuyvesant.

"Hoh!" said Phonny, "you can't make a ladder."

"I will try, at any rate," said Stuyvesant. Then after a short pause and a little more looking around, he added,

"Well, I am ready now to go and help you find your box. I see what I have got to do here."

"What is it?" asked Phonny.

"I have got a small door to make, and a button for the large door, and a ladder to get up to the loft. Then I have got to clear the hen-house all out, and put it in order. What is in this barrel?"

"That is where the hens lay sometimes," said Phonny, "when they don't lay in the barn."

So saying, Phonny walked into the corner where the barrel stood, and there he found three eggs in the nest.

"Three eggs," said he. "I think Dorothy has not been out here to-day. That is the beginning of your profits. You can take two of them; we have to leave one for the nest-egg."

Phonny proposed that Stuyvesant should carry the eggs in, and give them to Dorothy; but he said he would not do it then. He would leave them where they were for the present, and go and look for the box. Stuyvesant was intending to look, at the same time, for the materials necessary for his door, his ladder, and his button.

Phonny, accordingly, led the way, and Stuyvesant followed, into various apartments in the barns and sheds, where lumber was stored, or where it might be expected to be found. There were several boxes in these places, but some were too large, and others too small, and one, which seemed about right in respect to size, was made of rough boards, and so Phonny thought that it would not do.

At last he found some boxes under a corn-barn, one of which he thought would do very well. It was about two feet long, when laid down upon its side, and one foot wide and high. The open part was to be closed by a wire front which was yet to be made.

"Now," said Phonny, "help me to get the box to the shop, and then Wallace is coming down to help me make it into a cage."

So Phonny and Stuyvesant, working together, got the box into the shop. The bench had been cleared off, so that there was a good space there to put the box upon. Phonny and Stuyvesant placed it there, and then Phonny went to the trap to see if his squirrel was safe.

"Now, Frink," said he, "we are going to make you a beautiful cage. Wait a little longer, and then we will let you out of that dark trap."

Phonny said this as he passed across the floor toward the horse-block. As soon however as he came near to the trap, he suddenly called out to Stuyvesant,

"Why, Stuyvesant, see how big this hole is."

He referred to the hole which the squirrel had begun to gnaw. Somehow or other the opening had grown very large. Phonny stooped down with his hands upon his knees and peeped into the trap.

The squirrel was gone.

"He's gone!" said Phonny. "He's gone!" So saying he lifted up the lid gradually, and then holding out the empty trap to Stuyvesant, he exclaimed again in a tone of despair,—"He's gone!"

"He gnawed out," said Stuyvesant.

"Yes," said Phonny.

There were two windows in Phonny's shop. One was over the work bench and was an ordinary window, formed with sashes. The other was merely a large square hole with a sort of lid or shutter opening upward and outward, like the small door of the hen-house. Phonny used to call this his shutter window. It was the place where he was accustomed to throw out his shavings.

Of course there was no glass in this window, and nothing to keep out the wind and rain when it was open. In stormy weather, therefore, it was always kept shut. The shavings which Phonny threw out here formed a little pile outside, and after accumulating for some time, Phonny used to carry them away and burn them.

As Phonny stood showing the empty cage to Stuyvesant, his back was turned toward this window, but Stuyvesant was facing it. Happening at that instant to glance upward, behold, there was the squirrel, perched at his ease upon a beam which passed along just over the window.

Stuyvesant did not say a word, but pointed to the place. Phonny looked up and saw the squirrel.



"Oo—oo—oo!—" said Phonny.

"Shut the window," he exclaimed. "Let us shut the window quick," he added impatiently; and then creeping softly up to the place, he took hold of the prop which held the shutter up, and gently drawing it in, he let the shutter down into its place.

"Shut the other window," said Phonny. "Climb up on the bench, Stivy, and shut the other window as quick as you can."

Stuyvesant clambered up upon the bench and shut down the sash of the window.

"Now for the door," said Phonny; and he ran to the door and shut it, looking round as he went, toward the squirrel. As soon as he got the door shut he seemed relieved.

"There," said he, "we have got him safe. The only thing now is to catch him."

Here followed quite a long consultation between the two boys, in respect to the course which it was now best to pursue. Phonny's first plan was to put the trap upon the table and then for him and Stuyvesant to drive the squirrel into it. Stuyvesant however thought that that would be a very difficult operation.

"If the squirrel were a horse," said he, "and the trap a barn, we might possibly get him in; but as it is, I don't believe the thing can be done."

Phonny next proposed to chase the squirrel round the shop until they caught him. Stuyvesant objected to this too.

"We should frighten him," said he, "and make him very wild; and besides we might hurt him dreadfully in catching and holding him. Very likely we should pull his tail off."

After considerable consultation, the boys concluded to let the squirrel remain for a time at liberty in the shop, taking care to keep the door and windows shut. They thought that by this means he would become accustomed to see them working about, and would grow tame; perhaps so tame that by-and-by, Phonny might catch him in his hand.

"And then, besides," said Phonny, "we can set the trap for him here to-night, when we go away, and perhaps he will go into it, and get caught so before morning."

"Then we mustn't feed him any this afternoon," said Stuyvesant. "He won't go into the trap to-night, unless he is hungry."

"Well," said Phonny, "we won't feed him. I will leave him to himself, and let him do what he pleases, and I'll go to work and make my cage."

Phonny's plan for his cage was this. Stuyvesant helped him form it. He was to take some wire, a coil of which he found hanging up in the shed, and cut it into lengths suitable for the bars of his cage. Then he was going to bore a row of holes in the top of his box, near the front edge, with a small gimlet. These holes were to be about half an inch apart, and to be in a line about half an inch from the front edge of the top of the box. The wires were to be passed down through these holes, and then in the bottom of the box, at the points where the ends of those wires would come, respectively, he was to bore other holes, partly through the board, to serve as sockets to receive the lower ends of the wires.

This plan being all agreed upon, Phonny climbed up upon the bench, with his gimlet in his hand, and taking his seat upon the box, was beginning to bore the holes.

"Stop," said Stuyvesant, "you ought to draw a line and mark off the places first."

"Oh no," said Phonny, "I can guess near enough."

"Well," said Stuyvesant, "though I don't think that guessing is a good way."

Phonny thought that it would take a great while to draw a line and measure off the distances, and so he went on with his boring, looking up, however, continually from his work, to watch the squirrel.

"And now," said Stuyvesant, "I will begin my work."

Stuyvesant accordingly went out, taking great care, as he opened and shut the door, not to let the squirrel escape. Presently he returned, bringing his materials. There was a short board for the small door, two long strips for the sides of the ladder, and another long strip, which was to be sawed up into lengths for the cross-bars.

Stuyvesant began first with his door. He went out to the hen-house, carrying with him an instrument called a square, on which feet and inches were marked. With this he measured the hole which his door was to cover, and then making proper allowance for the extension of the door, laterally, beyond the hole, he determined on the length to which he would saw off his board. He determined on the breadth in the same way.

He then went to the shop and sawed off the board to the proper length, and then, with the hatchet and plane, he trimmed it to the proper breadth. Next he made two hinges of leather, and nailed them on in their places, upon the upper side of the board. He then carried his work out to the hen-house, and nailed the ends of the hinges to the cross-bar provided for them. When this was all done, he turned the lid up and fastened it into its place.

Then, standing up, he surveyed his work with a look of satisfaction, and said,

"There!"

He returned to the shop again. When he came to the door he opened it a very little way, and paused, calling out to Phonny, to know if the squirrel was anywhere near.

"No," said Phonny, "come in."

So he went in. The squirrel had run along the beams to the back part of the shop, and was nibbling about there among some blocks of wood.

"I have a great mind to feed him," said Phonny. "He is hungry."

"Well," said Stuyvesant.

So Phonny took the ear of corn out of the trap, and breaking it into two or three pieces he carried the parts into the back part of the shop, and put them at different places on the beams. Then he crept back to his work again.

Stuyvesant went to work making his button. He selected a proper piece of wood, sawed it off of the proper length, and then shaped it into the form of a button by means of a chisel, working, in doing this, at the bench. As soon as this operation was completed, he took a large gimlet and bored a hole through the center of the button. He measured very carefully to find the exact center of the button, before he began to bore.

When the button was finished, Stuyvesant looked in Phonny's nail-box to find a large screw, and when he had found one, he took the screw-driver and went out to the hen-house and screwed the button on. When the screw was driven home to its place, Stuyvesant shut the door and buttoned it. Then standing before it with his screw-driver in his hand, he surveyed his work with another look of satisfaction, and said,

"There! there are two good jobs done."

He then opened and shut his two doors, both the large and the small one, to see once more whether they worked well. They did work perfectly well, so he turned away and went back toward the shop again, saying,

"Now for the ladder."

He went back to the shop and entered cautiously as before. He found that Phonny had bored quite a number of holes, and was now engaged in cutting his wire into lengths. He used for this purpose a pair of cutting-plyers, as they are called, an instrument formed much like a pair of nippers. The instrument was made expressly for cutting off wire.

Stuyvesant came to the place where Phonny was at work, and stood near him a few minutes looking on. He perceived that the holes were not in a straight line, nor were they equidistant from each other. He, however, said nothing about it, but soon went to his own work again.

He took the piece of wood which he had selected to make his cross-bars of, and began to consider how many cross-bars he could make from it.

"What is that piece of wood for?" asked Phonny.

"It is for the cross-bars of my ladder," said Stuyvesant.

"The cross-bars of a ladder ought to be round," said Phonny. "They always make them round. In fact they call them rounds."

"Yes," said Stuyvesant, "I know they do, but I can't make rounds very well. And besides if I could, I could not make the holes in the side-pieces to put them into. So I am going to make them square, and nail them right on."

"Hoh!" said Phonny, "that is no way to make a ladder. You can bore the holes easily enough. Here. I'll show you how. I've got an auger."

So saying, Phonny jumped down from the bench and went and climbed up upon the chopping-block to get down an auger. Phonny had two augers, and they both hung over the block. He took down one and began very eagerly to bore a hole into the side of the chopping-block. He bored in a little way, and then, in attempting to draw the auger out, to clear the hole of chips, the handle came off, leaving the auger itself fast in the hole.

"Ah! this auger is broken," said Phonny, "I forgot that. I could bore a hole if the auger was not broken."

"Never mind," said Stuyvesant, "I don't think I could make a ladder very well in that way, and don't like to undertake any thing that I can't accomplish. So I will make it my way."

Stuyvesant went out to the hen-house, and measured the height of the loft. He found it to be seven feet. He concluded to have his ladder eight feet long, and to have six cross-bars, one foot apart, the upper and lower cross-bars to be one foot from the ends of the ladder. The cross-bars themselves being about two inches wide each, the breadth of the whole six would be just one foot. This Stuyvesant calculated would make just the eight feet.

Stuyvesant then went back to the shop. He found that the pieces which he had chosen for the sides of the ladder were just about eight feet long.

Phonny came to him while he was measuring, to see what he was going to do.

"How wide are you going to have your ladder?" said he.

"I don't know," said Stuyvesant. "I am going to have it as wide as I can."

So saying, Stuyvesant took down the piece which he had intended for the cross-bars.

"I am going to divide this into six equal parts," said he, "because I must have six bars."

So Stuyvesant began to measure. The piece of wood, he found, was eight feet long,—the same as the side pieces of the ladder.

"And now, how are you going to divide it?" said Phonny.

"Why, eight feet," said Stuyvesant, "make ninety-six inches. I must divide that by six."

So he took a pencil from his pocket and wrote down the figures 96 upon a board; he divided the number by 6.

"It will go 16 times," said he. "I can have 16 inches for each cross bar."

Stuyvesant then measured off sixteen inches, and made a mark, then he measured off sixteen inches more, and made another mark. In the same manner, he proceeded until he had divided the whole piece into portions of sixteen inches each. He then took a saw and sawed the piece off at every place where he had marked.

"There," said he, "there are my cross-bars!"

"What good cross-bars," said Phonny. "That was an excellent way to make them."



CHAPTER VIII.

A DISCOVERY.

While the boys were at work in this manner, Stuyvesant making his ladder, and Phonny his cage, they suddenly heard some one opening the door. Wallace came in. Phonny called out to him to shut the door as quick as possible. Wallace did so, while Phonny, in explanation of the urgency of his injunction in respect to the door, pointed up to the squirrel, which was then creeping along, apparently quite at his ease, upon one of the beams in the back part of the shop.

"Why, Bunny," said Wallace.

"His name is not Bunny," said Phonny. "His name is Frink."

"Frink," repeated Wallace. "Who invented that name?"

"I don't know," replied Phonny, "only Beechnut said that his name was Frink. See the cage I am making for him."

Wallace came up and looked at the cage. He stood a moment surveying it in silence. Then he turned toward Stuyvesant.

"And what is Stuyvesant doing?" said he.

"He is making a ladder."

"What is it for, Stuyvesant?" said Wallace.

"Why, it is to go upon the loft, in the hen-house," said Phonny, "though I don't see what good it will do, to go up there."

"So it is settled, that you are going to have the hen-house," said Wallace, looking toward Stuyvesant.

"Yes," said Stuyvesant.

Here there was another long pause. Wallace was looking at the ladder. He observed how carefully Stuyvesant was making it. He saw that the cross-bars were all exactly of a length, and he knew that they must have been pretty accurately measured. While Wallace was looking on, Stuyvesant was measuring off the distances upon the side pieces of the ladder, so as to have the steps of equal length. Wallace observed that he did this all very carefully.

Wallace then looked back to Phonny's work. He saw that Phonny was guessing his way along. The holes were not equidistant from each other, and then they were not at the same distance from the edge of the board. As he had advanced along the line, he had drawn gradually nearer and nearer to the edge, and, what was a still greater difficulty, the holes in the lower board, which was to form the bottom of the cage, since their places too had been guessed at, did not correspond with those above, so that the wires, when they came to be put in, inclined some this way, and some that. In some places the wires came very near together, and in others the spaces between them were so wide, that Wallace thought that the squirrel, if by any chance he should ever get put into the cage, would be very likely to squeeze his way out.

Then, besides, Phonny had not measured his wires in respect to length, but had cut them off of various lengths, taking care however not to have any of them too short. The result was that the ends of the wires projected to various distances above the board, presenting a ragged and unworkmanlike appearance.

Wallace was silent while he was looking at these things. He was thinking of the difference between the two boys. The train of thought which was passing through his mind was somewhat as follows.

Stuyvesant is younger than Phonny, and he was brought up in a city, and yet he seems a great deal more of a man; which is very strange. In the first place he takes a great deal more interest in the hens, which are useful and productive animals, than he does in the squirrel, which is a mere plaything. Then he plans his work carefully, considers how much he can probably accomplish himself, and undertakes no more. He plans, he calculates, he measures, and then proceeds steadily and perseveringly till he finishes.

In the midst of these reflections, Wallace was called away by Phonny, as follows.

"Cousin Wallace, I wish you would finish my cage for me. I am tired of boring all these holes, and besides I can't bore them straight."

Wallace looked at the work a moment in uncertainty. He did not like to throw away his own time in finishing an undertaking so clumsily begun, and on the other hand, he did not like very well to refuse to help Phonny out of his difficulties. He finally concluded to undertake the work. So he took the cage down from the bench and put it upon the floor; he borrowed the iron square and the compasses from Stuyvesant; he ruled a line along the top of the box at the right distance from the edge, and marked off places for the holes, half an inch apart, along this line, pricking in, at the places for the holes, deep, with one of the points of the compass. When this had all been done he went on boring the holes.

Stuyvesant was now ready to nail the cross-bars to the side pieces of the ladder. He asked Phonny where he kept his nails. Phonny showed him a box where there was a great quantity of nails of all sizes, some crooked and some straight, some whole and some broken, and all mixed up in confusion with a mass of old iron, such as rings, parts of hinges, old locks and fragments of keys. Stuyvesant selected from this mass a nail, of the size that he thought was proper, and then went to his ladder to apply it, to see whether it would do.

"It is too large," said Phonny.

"No," said Stuyvesant, "it is just right. I want the nail to go through and come out on the other side, so that I can clinch it."

"You can't clinch such nails as these," said Phonny. "They are cut nails, and they will break off if you try to clinch them."

"But I shall soften them first," said Stuyvesant.

"Soften them!" said Phonny, "how can you do that?"

"By putting them in the fire," said Stuyvesant.

"He can't soften them, can he, Wallace?" said Phonny.

"Yes," said Wallace, "he can soften them so that they will clinch."

This was true. What are called cut-nails, are made by machinery. They are cut from flat-bars or plates of iron, almost red-hot, by a massive and ponderous engine carried by water. At the same instant that the nail is cut off from the end of the plate by the cutting part of the engine, the end of it is flattened into a head by another part, which comes up suddenly and compresses the iron at that end with prodigious force. The nail is then dropped, and it falls down, all hot, into a box made to receive it below.

The prodigious pressure to which the hot iron is subjected in the process of making cut-nails, seems as it were to press the particles of iron closer together, and make the metal more compact and hard. The consequence is, that such nails are very stiff, and if bent much, they break off. This is no disadvantage, provided that the wood to be nailed is such that the nail is to be driven straight into the substance of it to its whole length. In fact, this hardness and stiffness is an advantage, for, in consequence of these properties, the nail is less likely to bend under the hammer.

When, however, the nailing to be done is of such a kind that it becomes necessary that the nail should pass through the wood so as to come out upon the other side, to be clinched there, the stiffness of the iron in a cut-nail constitutes a serious difficulty; for the end of the nail where it comes through, instead of bending over and sinking into the wood, as it ought to do, at first refuses to bend at all, and then when the workman attempts to force it to bond by dint of heavier blows with the hammer, it breaks off entirely.

To remedy this difficulty, it is found best to heat nails intended for clinching before driving them. By heating the iron red hot, the metal seems to expand to its original condition of ductile iron, and it loses the extreme hardness and stiffness which was given to it by the force and compression of the nail-making machine.

Stuyvesant had seen a carpenter in New York heating some nails on one occasion, and he had asked him the reason. He, therefore, understood the whole process, and his plan was now, after selecting his nails, to go and heat them red-hot in the kitchen-fire.

He made a little calculation first in respect to the number of nails that he should want. There were six cross-bars. These bars were to be nailed at both ends. This would make twelve nailings. Stuyvesant concluded that he would have four nails at each nailing, and multiplying twelve by four, he found that forty-eight was the number of the nails that he should require. To be sure to have enough, he counted out fifty-two. Some might break, and perhaps some would be lost in the fire.

Phonny felt a considerable degree of interest in Stuyvesant's plan of softening the nails, and so he left Wallace to go on boring the holes, while he went with Stuyvesant into the house.

"You never can get so many nails out of the fire in the world," said Phonny. "They will be lost in the ashes."

"I shall put them on the shovel," said Stuyvesant.

When they got into the kitchen, Stuyvesant went to Dorothy, who was still ironing at a table near the window, and asked her if he might use her shovel and her fire to heat some nails.

"Certainly," said Dorothy. "I will go and move the flat-irons out of the way for you."

Stuyvesant was always very particular whenever he went into the kitchen, to treat Dorothy with great respect. He regarded the kitchen as Dorothy's peculiar and proper dominion, and would have considered it very rude and wrong to have been noisy in it, or to take possession of, and use without her leave, the things which were under her charge there. Dorothy observed this, and was very much pleased with it, and as might naturally be expected, she was always glad to have Stuyvesant come into the kitchen, and do any thing that he pleased there.

There was a large forestick lying across the andirons, with a burning bed of coals below. Directly in front of these coals was a row of flat-irons. Stuyvesant put his nails upon a long-handled shovel, and Dorothy moved away one of the flat-irons, so that he could put the shovel, with the nails upon it, in among the burning coals.

"Now," said he, "it will take some time for them to get hot, and I will go and clear out the floor of the hen-house in the meanwhile."

"Well," said Phonny, "I will help you."

"Only," said Stuyvesant, turning to Dorothy, "will you look at the nails when you take up your irons, and if you see that they get red-hot, take the shovel out from the coals and set it down somewhere on the hearth to cool?"

"Yes," said Dorothy, "but what are you going to heat the nails for?"

"To take the stiffness out of them," said Stuyvesant.

"To take the stiffness out?" replied Dorothy. "What do you wish to do that for?"

"So that I can clinch them," replied Stuyvesant, "and I should like to have you take them off the fire as soon as you see that they are red-hot."



"Yes," said Dorothy, "I will."

So Phonny and Stuyvesant went away, while Dorothy resumed her ironing.

They got a wheel-barrow and a rake, and went out to the hen-house. They raked the floor all over, drawing out the old straw, sticks, &c., to the door. They then with a fork pitched this rubbish into the wheel-barrow, and wheeled it out, and made a heap of it in a clear place at some distance from the buildings, intending to set it on fire. There were four wheel-barrow loads of it in all.

They then went into the barn and brought out a quantity of hay, and sprinkled it all over the floor of the hen-house, which made the apartment look extremely neat and comfortable. They then brought out another fork-full of hay and pitched it up upon the loft.

"There!" said Stuyvesant, "now when we have got our ladder done, we will climb up and spread it about."

"Hark!" said Phonny.

"What is that?" said Stuyvesant.

"It sounded like a hen clucking. I wonder if it is possible that there is a hen up there."

"We will see," said Stuyvesant, "when we get our ladder done."

"Yes," said Phonny, "we must go and finish our ladder; and the nails—it is time to go and get the nails or they will be all burnt up."

The boys accordingly went back to the kitchen. They found that Dorothy had taken the nails away from the fire, and they were now almost cool. Stuyvesant slid them off from the shovel upon a small board, which he had brought in for that purpose, and then they went back to the shop.

They found that Wallace had gone. He had finished boring the holes, and now all that Phonny had to do, was to cut off the wires and put them in. He had, however, now become so much interested in the operation of making the ladder, that he concluded to put off finishing the cage until the ladder was done. Besides, he was in a hurry to see whether there really was a hen up there on the loft.

So he helped Stuyvesant nail his ladder. Stuyvesant got a small gimlet to bore holes for the nails. Phonny thought that this was not necessary. He said they could drive the nails without boring. Stuyvesant said that there were three objections to this: first, they might not go straight, secondly, they might split the wood, and thirdly, they would cause the wood to break out, as he called it, where they came through on the other side.

As soon as he had bored one hole he put a nail into it, and drove it almost through, but not quite through, as he said it might prove that he should wish to alter it. He then went to the other end of the same cross-bar, bored a hole there, and put a nail in, driving it as far as he had driven the first one. This was the topmost cross-bar of the ladder, and it was held securely in its place by the two nails. Stuyvesant then took the bottom cross-bar and secured that in the same way. Then he put on the other bars one at a time, until his ladder was complete in form, only the cross-bars were not yet fully nailed. He and Phonny looked at it carefully, to see if all was right, and Stuyvesant, taking it up from the floor, placed it against the wall of the shop.

"Let me climb up on it," said Phonny.

"Not now," said Stuyvesant,—"wait till it is finished."

Stuyvesant then proceeded to drive the nails home, and clinch them. The clinching was done, by putting an axe under the part of the ladder where a nail was coming through, and then driving. The point of the nail when it reached the axe, was deflected and turned, and bending round entered the wood again, on the back side, and so clinched the nail firmly. Thus the other holes were bored, and the other nails put in, and at length the ladder was completed.

Just as the boys were ready to carry it out, the door opened, and Beechnut came in.

Beechnut looked round at all that the boys had been doing, with great interest. He examined the ladder particularly, and said that it was made in a very workmanlike manner. Phonny showed Beechnut his cage too, though he said that he had pretty much concluded not to finish it that afternoon.

"I don't see why you need finish it at all," said Beechnut. "You have got a very good cage already for your squirrel."

"What cage?" asked Phonny.

"This shop. It is a great deal better cage for him than that box,—I think, and I have no doubt that he thinks so too."

"He would gnaw out of this shop," said Phonny.

"Not any more easily than he would gnaw out of the box," said Beechnut.

Phonny turned to his box and looked at the smooth surface of the pine which formed the interior. He perceived that Frink could gnaw through anywhere, easily, in an hour.

"I did not think of that," said Phonny "I must line it with tin."

He began to picture to his mind, the process of putting his arm into the box and nailing tin there, where there was no room to work a hammer, and sighed.

"Well," said he, "I'll let him have the whole shop, to-night, and now we will go out and try the ladder."

The whole party accordingly went to the hen-house. Beechnut examined the small door that Stuyvesant had made, and the button of the large door, while Stuyvesant was planting the ladder. Phonny was eager to go up first; Stuyvesant followed him.

Phonny mounted upon the floor of the loft, and immediately afterward began to exclaim,

"Oo—oo—Stivy,—here is old Gipsy, on a nest, and I verily believe that she is setting; I could not think what had become of old Gipsy."

Just at this time, Beechnut's head appeared coming up the ladder. He called upon the boys to come back, away from the hen, while he went up to see. She was upon a nest there, squatted down very low, and with her wings spread wide as if trying to cover a great nest full of eggs.

"Yes," said Beechnut, "she is setting, I have no doubt; and as she has been missing a long time, I presume the chickens are about coming out."

"Hark!" said Beechnut.

The boys listened, and they heard a faint peeping sound under the hen.

Beechnut looked toward the boys and smiled.

Phonny was in an ecstacy of delight. Stuyvesant was much more quiet, but he seemed equally pleased. Beechnut said that he thought that they had better go away and leave the hen to herself, and that probably she would come off the nest, with her brood, that evening or the next morning.

"But stop," said Beechnut, as he was going down the ladder. "It is important to ascertain whether they are eggs or chickens under the hen. For if they are eggs they are one third your property, and if they are chickens, they are all mine."

"However," he resumed, after a moment's pause, "I think we will call them eggs to-day. I presume they were all eggs when we made the bargain. To-morrow we will get them all down, and you, Phonny, may make a pretty little coop for them in some sunny corner in the yard."

Phonny had by this time become so much interested in the poultry, that he proposed to Stuyvesant to let him have half the care of them, and offered to give Stuyvesant half of his squirrel in return. Stuyvesant said that he did not care about the squirrel, but that he would give him a share of the hen-house contract for half the shop.

Phonny gladly agreed to this, and so the boys determined that the first thing for the next day should be, to put the shop and the tools all in complete order, and the next, to make the prettiest hen-coop they could contrive, in a corner of the yard. This they did, and Beechnut got the hen and the chickens down and put them into it. The brood was very large, there being twelve chickens in it, and they were all very pretty chickens indeed.



CHAPTER IX.

THE ACCIDENT.

About a week after the occurrences related in the last chapter, Mrs. Henry was sitting one morning at her window, at work. It was a large and beautiful window, opening out upon a piazza.

The window came down nearly to the floor, so that when it was open one could walk directly out. There was a sort of step, however, which it was necessary to go over.

Mrs. Henry had a little table at the window, and she was busy at her work. There was a basket on the floor by her side. Malleville was sitting upon the step. She had quite a number of green leaves in her lap, which she had gathered in the yard. She said that she was going to put them into a book and press them.

Just then she heard Phonny's voice around a corner, calling to her.

"Malleville! Malleville!" said the voice, calling loudly.

Malleville hastily gathered up her leaves, and called out, "What, Phonny? I'm coming."

Before she got ready to go, however, Phonny appeared upon the piazza.

"Malleville," said he, "come and see our chickens."

"Well," said Malleville, "I will come."

"And mother, I wish you would come out and see them, too," said Phonny.

"I have seen them once," said his mother, "only two or three days ago."

"But, mother, they are a great deal larger now," replied Phonny. "I wish you could come and see them. You don't know how large they have grown."

"Very well," said Mrs. Henry, "I will come."

So she laid aside her work, and stepping out into the piazza, she followed Phonny and Malleville around the corner of the house. Phonny walked fast, with long strides, Malleville skipped along by his side, while Mrs. Henry came on after them at her leisure.

They all gathered round the coop, which had been made in a sunny corner of the yard. It was a very pretty coop indeed. It was formed by a box, turned bottom upward to form a shelter for the hen when she chose to retire to it, and a little yard with a paling around it made by bars, to prevent the chickens from straying away. Phonny said that there was a good, comfortable nest in under the box, and he was going to lift up the box and let Mrs. Henry see the nest, but Stuyvesant recommended to him not to do so, as it would frighten the hen.

There was an opening in the side of the box, which served as a door for the hen to go in and out at. At the time of Mrs. Henry's visit, the hen was out in the yard walking about. She appeared to be a little anxious at seeing so unusual a company of visitors at her lodgings, and at first thought it probable that they might have come to take some of her chickens away. But when she found that they stood quietly by, and did not disturb her, she became quiet again, and began to scratch upon the ground to find something for the chickens to eat.

Seeing this, Phonny ran off to bring some food for them, and presently returned with a saucer full of what he called pudding. It consisted of meal and water stirred up together. He threw out some of this upon the ground within the yard, and the hen, calling the chickens to the place, scattered the pudding about with her bill for the chickens to eat.

The boys then wished to have Mrs. Henry go to the shop. She, accordingly, went with them. They opened the shop-door very carefully to keep Frink from getting out. When they were all safely in and the door was shut, they began to look about the room to find the squirrel. "There he is," said Phonny, pointing to the beam over the shutter-window.

So saying he went to the place, and putting up his hand, took the squirrel and brought him to his mother.

"Why, how tame he is!" said Mrs. Henry.

"Yes," said Phonny, "Stuyvesant and I tamed him. He runs all about the shop. And we have got a house for him to sleep in. Come and see his house."

So saying, Phonny led his mother and Malleville to the back side of the shop, where, upon a shelf, there stood a small box, with a hole in the side of it, much like the one which had been made for the hen, only not so large.

"He goes in there to sleep," said Phonny. "We always feed him in there too, so as to make him like the place."

As Phonny said this, he put the squirrel down upon the beam before the door of his house.

"Now you will see him go in," said he.

Frink crept into his hole, and then turning round within the box, he put his head out a little way, and after looking at Mrs. Henry a moment with one eye, he winked in a very cunning manner.

There was a small paper tacked up with little nails on the side of the squirrel's house, near the door.

"What is this?" said Mrs. Henry.

"Oh! that's his poetry," said Phonny, "you must read it."

So Mrs. Henry, standing up near, read aloud as follows:—

My name is Frink, And unless you think, To give me plenty to eat and drink, You'll find me running away Some day; I shall tip you a wink, Then slyly slink, Out through some secret cranny or chink, And hie for the woods, away, Away.

Mrs. Henry laughed heartily at this production. She asked who wrote it.

"Why, we found it here one morning," said Phonny. "Stuyvesant says that he thinks Beechnut wrote it."

"But Beechnut," added Malleville, "says that he believes that Frink wrote it himself."

"Oh no," said Stuyvesant, "he did not say exactly that."

"What did he say?" asked Mrs. Henry.

"Why, he said," replied Stuyvesant, "that as there was a pen and ink in the shop, and hammer and nails, and as the paper was found nailed up early one morning, when nobody had slept in the shop the night before but Frink, if it did not turn out that Frink himself wrote the lines, he should never believe in any squirrel's writing poetry as long as he lived."

Mrs. Henry laughed at this, and she then began to look about the shop to see the tools and the arrangements which had been made by the boys for their work.

She found the premises in excellent order. The floor was neat, the tools were all in their proper places, and every thing seemed well arranged.

"I suppose the tools are dull, however," said Mrs. Henry, "as boys' tools generally are."

"No," said Phonny, "they are all sharp. We have sharpened them every one."

"How did you do it?" asked Mrs. Henry.

"Why, we turned the grindstone for Beechnut while he ground his axes, and then he held our tools for us to sharpen them. We could not hold them ourselves very well."

"We are going to keep them sharp," continued Phonny,—"as sharp as razors. Won't we, Stivy?"

"We are going to try it," said Stuyvesant.

Phonny took up the plane to show his mother how sharp it was.

"Yes," said she; "I like that tool too, very much—it is so safe."

The plane is a very safe tool, indeed, for the cutting part, which consists of a plate of iron, faced with steel for an edge, is almost embedded in the wood. It is made in fact on purpose to take off a thin shaving only, from a board, and it would be impossible to make a deep cut into any thing with it.

Phonny then showed his mother his chisels. He had four chisels of different sizes. They were very sharp.

"It seems to me that a chisel is not so safe a tool as a plane," said Mrs. Henry.

"Why not, mother?" asked Phonny.

"Why you might be holding a piece of wood with your fingers, and then in trying to cut it with the chisel, the chisel might slip and cut your fingers."

"Oh no, mother," said Phonny, "there is no danger."

Boys always say there is no danger.

Phonny next showed his gimlets, and his augers, and his bits and bit-stocks. A bit is a kind of borer which is turned round and round by means of a machine called a bit-stock.

Phonny took the bit-stock and a bit and was going to bore a hole in the side of the bench, by way of showing his mother how the tool was used.

"Stop," said Stuyvesant, "I would not bore into the work bench. I will get a piece of board."

So he pulled out a small piece of board from under the work bench and Phonny bored into that.

Mrs. Henry next came to the chopping block. The hatchet was lying upon the block.

"I am rather sorry to see that you have got a hatchet," said Mrs. Henry.

"Why, mother?" asked Phonny.

"Because I think it is a dangerous tool. I think it is a very dangerous tool indeed."

"Oh no, mother," said Phonny, "there is no danger."

"You might be holding a piece of wood in your hand," said Mrs. Henry, "and then in trying to chop it with your hatchet, hit your hand instead of the wood. There is great danger when you strike a blow with a sharp instrument."

"Oh no, mother," said Phonny. "There is not any danger. I have had my hatchet a long time and I never have cut myself but once."

"That shows that there is some danger," said his mother. "Besides I knew a boy who was cutting with a hatchet, and it came down through the board that he was cutting, and struck the boy himself, in the knee, and wounded him very badly."

"But I shall be very careful," said Phonny. "I know I shall not cut myself with it."

"I wish," said his mother, "that you would let me have the hatchet to carry in the house and keep it till you grow older."

"Oh no, mother," said Phonny, "we could not get along at all without the hatchet, unless we had an axe, and that would be more dangerous still. But we will be very careful with it."

Mrs. Henry did not appear satisfied with these promises, but she did not urge Phonny any longer to give the hatchet to her. She walked along, seeming, however, not at all at her ease. Phonny showed her his stock of boards and blocks, among which last, was one which he said was to be made into a boat. After looking around at all these things, Mrs. Henry and Malleville went away. Phonny and Stuyvesant remained in the shop.

"I would let her have the hatchet," said Stuyvesant.

"I don't think there is any danger," said Phonny.

"Nor I," said Stuyvesant.

"Then why would not you keep the hatchet here?" asked Phonny.

"Because, Aunt Henry does not feel easy about it," said Stuyvesant. "It is not right for us to make her feel uncomfortable."

"But then what shall we do when we want to sharpen stakes?" asked Phonny.

"I don't know," said Stuyvesant,—thinking. "Perhaps we might burn them sharp in the kitchen fire."

"Hoh!" said Phonny, "that would not do at all."

"It would be better than to make Aunt Henry feel anxious," said Stuyvesant.

"But I don't think she feels anxious," said Phonny. "She will forget all about it pretty soon. However, if you think it is best, I will carry my hatchet in and give it to her. We can get along very well with the draw shave."

"Well," said Stuyvesant, "I do think it is best; and now I am going to finish mending the wheel-barrow."

"Well," said Phonny, "and I will go and carry the hatchet in to my mother."

Phonny accordingly took the hatchet and went sauntering slowly along out of the shop.

In a few minutes, Stuyvesant heard an outcry in the yard. It sounded like a cry of pain and terror, from Phonny. Stuyvesant threw down his work, and ran out to see what was the matter.

He found Phonny by the woodpile, where he had stopped a moment to chop a stick with his hatchet, and had cut himself. He was down upon the ground, clasping his foot with his hands, and crying out as if in great pain.

"Oh, Stuyvesant," said he. "I have cut my foot. Oh, I have cut my foot, most dreadfully."

"Let me see," said Stuyvesant, and he came to the place. Phonny raised his hands a little, from his foot, so as to let Stuyvesant see, but continued crying, with pain and terror.

"Oh dear me!" said he. "What shall I do?—Oh dear me!"

Stuyvesant looked. All that he could see, however, was a gaping wound in Phonny's boot, just over the ankle, and something bloody beneath.

"I don't think it is cut much," said Stuyvesant. "Let us go right into the house."

Phonny rose, and leaning upon Stuyvesant's shoulder, he began to hobble along toward the house, uttering continued cries and lamentations by the way.

"I would not cry," said Stuyvesant. "I would bear it like a hero."

In obedience to this counsel, Phonny abated somewhat the noise that he was making, though he still continued his exclamations and moanings. Dorothy came to the door to find out what was the matter.

Dorothy was not much alarmed. In fact the more noise a child made when hurt, the less concerned Dorothy always was about it. She knew that when people were dangerously wounded, they were generally still.

"What's the matter?" said Dorothy.

"He has cut his foot," said Stuyvesant.

"Let me see," said she. So she looked down at Phonny's ankle.

"I guess he has cut his boot more than his foot," said she. "Let's pull off his boot."

"Oh dear me!" said Phonny. "Oh, go and call my mother. Oh dear me!"

Dorothy began to pull off Phonny's boot, while Stuyvesant went to call Phonny's mother. Mrs. Henry was very much alarmed, when she heard that Phonny had cut himself. She hurried out to him, and seemed to be in great distress and anxiety. She kneeled down before him, while Dorothy held him in her lap, and examined the foot. The cut was a pretty bad one, just above the ankle.

"It is a very bad place for a cut," said she. "Bring me some water."

"I'll get some," said Stuyvesant.

So Stuyvesant went and got a bowl from a shelf in the kitchen, and poured some water into it, and brought it to Mrs. Henry. Mrs. Henry bathed the wound with the water, and then closing it up as completely as possible, and putting a piece of sticking-plaster across to keep the parts in place, she bound the ankle up with a bandage.

By this time Phonny had become quiet. His mother, when she had finished bandaging the ankle, brought another stocking and put it on, to keep the bandage in its place.

"There!" said she, "that will do. Now the first thing is to get him into the other room."

So Dorothy carried Phonny in, and laid him down upon the sofa in the great sitting-room.

That evening when Beechnut went to the village to get the letters at the post-office, he stopped at the doctor's on his way, to ask the doctor to call that evening or in the morning at Mrs. Henry's. The doctor came that evening.

"Ah, Phonny," said he, when he came into the room, and saw Phonny lying upon the sofa, "and what is the matter with you?"

"I have cut my foot," said Phonny.

"Cut your foot!" rejoined the doctor, "could not you find any thing else to cut than your foot?"

Phonny laughed.

"I hope you have cut it in the right place," continued the doctor. "In cutting your foot every thing depends upon cutting it in the right place."

While the doctor was saying this, Mrs. Henry had drawn off Phonny's stocking, and was beginning to unpin the bandage.

"Stop a moment, madam," said the doctor. "That bandage is put on very nicely; it seems hardly worth while to disturb it. You can show me now precisely where the wound was."

Mrs. Henry then pointed to the place upon the bandage, underneath which the cut lay, and she showed also the direction and length of the cut.

"Exactly," said the doctor. "You could not have cut your ankle, Phonny, in a better place. A half an inch more, one side or the other, might have made you a cripple for life. You hit the right place exactly. It is a great thing for a boy who has a hatchet for a plaything, to know how to cut himself in the right place."



The doctor then said that he would not disturb the bandage, as he had no doubt that the wound would do very well under the treatment which Mrs. Henry herself had administered. He said that in a few days he thought it would be nearly well.

It might be prudent, however, he added, not to walk upon that foot in the mean time. There might be some small possibility in that case, of getting the wound irritated, so as to bring on an inflammation, and that might lead to serious consequences.

The doctor then bade Phonny good-bye, telling him that he hoped he would be as patient and good-natured in bearing his confinement, as he had been dextrous in the mode of inflicting the wound. And so he went away.



CHAPTER X.

GOOD ADVICE.

Phonny was confined nearly a week with his wound. They moved the sofa on which he was lying up into a corner of the room, near Mrs. Henry's window, and there Stuyvesant and Malleville brought various things to him to amuse him.

He was very patient and good-natured during his confinement to this sofa. Wallace came to see him soon after he was hurt, and gave him some good advice in this respect.

"Now," said Wallace, "you have an opportunity to cultivate and show one mark of manliness which we like to see in boys."

"I should think you would like to see all marks of manliness in boys," said Phonny.

"Oh no," said Wallace. "Some traits of manly character we like, and some we don't like."

"What don't we like?" asked Phonny.

"Why—there are many," said Wallace, hesitating and considering. "We don't desire to see in boys the sedateness and gravity of demeanor that we like to see in men. We like to see them playful and joyous while they are boys."

"I thought it was better to be sober," said Phonny.

"No," said Wallace, "not for boys. Boys ought to be sober at proper times; but in their plays and in their ordinary occupations, it is better for them to be frolicsome and light-hearted. Their time for care and thoughtful concern has not come. The only way by which they can form good healthy constitutions, is to run about a great deal, and have a great deal of frolicking and fun. Only they must be careful not to let their fun and frolicking give other people trouble. But we like to see them full of life, and joy, and activity, for we know that that is best for them. If a boy of twelve were to be as sage and demure as a man, always sitting still, and reading and studying, we should be afraid, either that he was already sick, or that he would make himself sick."

"Then I think that you ought to be concerned about Stuyvesant," said Phonny, "for he is as sage and demure as any man I ever saw."

Wallace laughed at this.

"There is a boy that lives down in the village that is always making some fun," said Phonny. "One evening he dressed himself up like a poor beggar boy, and came to the door of his father's house and knocked; and when his father came to the door, he told a piteous story about being poor and hungry, and his mother being sick, and he begged his father to give him something to eat, and a little money to buy some tea for his mother. His father thought he was a real beggar boy, and gave him some money. Then afterward he came in and told his father all about it, and had a good laugh.

"Then another day he got a bonnet and shawl of his sister Fanny, and put them upon a pillow, so as to make the figure of a girl with them, and then he carried the pillow up to the top of the shed, and set it up by the side of the house. It looked exactly as if Fanny was up there. Then he went into the house and called his mother to come out. And when she got out where she could see, he pointed up and asked her whether Fanny ought to be up there on the shed."



Wallace laughed to hear this story.

"Then in a minute," continued Phonny, "the boy pointed off in another direction, and there his mother saw Fanny playing safely upon the grass."

"And what did his mother say?" asked Wallace.

"She was frightened at first," replied Phonny, "when she saw what she supposed was Fanny up in such a dangerous place; but when she saw how it really was, she laughed and went into the house."

"Do you think he did right, Wallace?" asked Stuyvesant.

"What do you think, Phonny?" asked Wallace.

"Why, I don't know," said Phonny.

"Do you think, on the whole, that his mother was most pleased or most pained by it?" asked Wallace.

"Most pleased," said Phonny. "She was not much frightened, and that only for a moment, and she laughed about it a great deal."

"Were you there at the time?" asked Wallace.

"Yes," said Phonny.

"What was the boy's name?" said Wallace.

"Arthur," said Phonny.

"Another day," continued Phonny, "Arthur was taking a walk with Fanny, and he persuaded her to go across a plank over a brook, and when she was over, he pulled the plank away, so that she could not get back again. He danced about on the bank on the other side, and called Fanny a savage living in the woods."

"And what did Fanny do?" asked Wallace.

"Why, she was very much frightened, and began to cry."

"And then what did Arthur do?" asked Wallace.

"Why, after a time he put up the plank again and let her come home. He told her that she was a foolish girl to cry, for he only did it for fun."

"And do you think he did right or wrong?" said Wallace.

"Why, wrong, I suppose," said Phonny.

"Yes," said Wallace, "decidedly wrong, I think; for in that case there is no doubt that his fun gave his sister a great deal of pain. It is very right for boys to love frolicking and fun, but they should be very careful not to let their fun give other people trouble or pain."

"But now, Phonny," continued Wallace, "you are to be shut up for perhaps a week, and here is an opportunity for you to show some marks of manliness which we always like to see in boys."

"How can I?" asked Phonny.

"Why, in the first place," said Wallace, "by a proper consideration of the case, so as to understand exactly how it is. Sometimes a boy situated as you are, without looking at all the facts in the case, thinks only of his being disabled and helpless, and so he expects every body to wait upon him, and try to amuse him, as if that were his right. He gives his mother a great deal of trouble, by first wanting this and then that, and by uttering a great many expressions of discontent, impatience and ill-humor. Thus his accident is not only the means of producing inconvenience to himself, but it makes the whole family uncomfortable. This is boyishness of a very bad kind.

"To avoid this, you must consider what the true state of the case is. Whose fault is it that you are laid up here in this way?"

"Why it is mine, I suppose," said Phonny. "Though if Stuyvesant had not advised me to bring the hatchet in, I suppose that I should not have cut myself."

"It was not by bringing the hatchet in, that you cut yourself," said Wallace, "but by stopping to cut with it on the way, contrary to your mother's wishes."

"Yes," said Phonny, "I suppose that was it."

"So that it was your fault. Now when any person commits a fault," continued Wallace, "he ought to confine the evil consequences of it to himself, as much as he can. Have the evil consequences of your fault, extended yet to any other people, do you think?"

"Why, yes," said Phonny, "my mother has had some trouble."

"Has she yet had any trouble that you might have spared her?" asked Wallace.

"Why—I don't know," said Phonny, "unless I could have bandaged my foot up myself."

"If you could have bandaged it up yourself," said Wallace, "you ought to have done so, though I suppose you could not. But now it is your duty to save her, as much as possible, from all other trouble. You ought to find amusement for yourself as much as you can, instead of calling upon her to amuse you, and you ought to be patient and gentle, and quiet and good-humored.

"Besides," continued Wallace, "I think you ought to contrive something to do to repay her for the trouble that she has already had with this cut. She was not to blame for it at all, and did not deserve to suffer any trouble or pain."

"I don't know what I can do," said Phonny, "to repay her."

"It is hard to find any thing for a boy to do to repay his mother, for what she does for him. But if you even wish to find something, and try to find something, it will make you always submissive and gentle toward her, and that will give her pleasure."

"Perhaps I might read to her sometimes when she is sewing," said Phonny.

"Yes," said Wallace, "that would be a good plan."

When this conversation first commenced, Malleville was standing near to Wallace, and she listened to it for a little time, but she found that she did not understand a great deal of it, and she did not think that what she did understand was very interesting. So she went away.

She went to the piazza and began to gather up the green leaves which she had been playing with when Phonny had called her to go out to see the chickens. She put these leaves in her apron with the design of carrying them to Phonny, thinking that perhaps it would amuse him to see them.

She brought them accordingly to the sofa, and now stood there, holding her apron by the corners, and waiting for Wallace to finish what he was saying.

"What have you got in your apron?" said Wallace.

"Some leaves," said Malleville. "I am going to show them to Phonny."

So she opened her apron and showed Phonny.

"They are nothing but leaves," said Phonny, "are they? Common leaves."

"No," said Malleville, "they are not common leaves. They are very pretty leaves."

Stuyvesant came to look at the leaves. He took up one or two of them.

"That is a maple leaf," said he, "and that is an oak."

There was a small oak-tree in the corner of the yard.

"I am going to press them in a book," said Malleville.

Wallace looked at the leaves a minute, and then he went away.

Stuyvesant seemed more interested in looking at the leaves, than Phonny had been. He proposed that while Phonny was sick, they should employ themselves in making a collection of the leaves of forest-trees.

"We can make a scrap-book," said he, "and paste them in, and then, underneath we can write all about the trees that the leaves belong to."

"How can we find out about the trees?" asked Phonny.

"Beechnut will tell us," said Stuyvesant.

"So he will," replied Phonny, "and that will be an excellent plan."

This project was afterward put into execution. Stuyvesant made a scrap-book. He made it of a kind of smooth and pretty white wrapping-paper. He put what are called false leaves between all the true leaves, as is usually done in large scrap-books. Stuyvesant's scrap-book had twenty leaves. He said that he did not think that they could find more than twenty kinds of trees. They pressed the leaves in a book until they were dry, and then pasted them into the scrap-book, one on the upper half of each page. Then they wrote on a small piece of white paper, all that they could learn about each tree, and put these inscriptions under the leaves, to which they respectively referred.

The children worked upon the collection of leaves a little while every day. They divided the duty, giving each one a share. Stuyvesant pressed the leaves and gummed them to their places in the book. Phonny, who was a pretty good composer, composed the descriptions, and afterward Stuyvesant would copy them upon the pieces of paper which were to be pasted into the book. Stuyvesant used to go out to the barn or the yard, to get all the information which Beechnut could give him in respect to the particular tree which happened, for the time being, to be the subject of inquiry. He would then come in and tell Phonny what Beechnut had told him. Phonny would then write the substance of this information down upon a slate, and after reading it over, and carefully correcting it, Stuyvesant would copy it neatly upon the paper.

One day during the time that Phonny was confined to his sofa, Stuyvesant and Malleville had been playing with him for some time. At last Stuyvesant and Malleville concluded to go out into the yard a little while, and they left Phonny with a book to read.

"I am sorry to leave you alone," said Stuyvesant.

"Oh, no matter," said Phonny, "I can read. But there is one thing I should like."

"What is that?" said Stuyvesant.

"I should like to see Frink. I suppose it would not do to bring him in here. Would it, mother?"

Mrs. Henry was sitting at her window at this time sewing.

"Why, I don't know," said Mrs. Henry. "How can you bring him in?" she asked.

"Oh, I can put his house upon a board," said Stuyvesant, "and put him into it, and then bring house and all."

"Well," said Mrs. Henry, "I have no objection. Only get a smooth and clean board."

So Stuyvesant went out to the shop to get the squirrel. He found him perched upon the handle of the hand-saw, which was hanging against the wall.

"Come, Frink, come with me," said Stuyvesant. So he extended his hand and took Frink down.

"Ah!" said he, "I have not got your house ready yet. So you will please to go down into my pocket until I am ready."

So saying, Stuyvesant slipped the squirrel into his jacket-pocket, leaving his head and the tip of his tail out. The squirrel being accustomed to such operations, remained perfectly still. Stuyvesant then found a board a little larger than the bottom of the squirrel's house, and putting this board upon the bench, he placed the house upon it. He then took Frink out of his pocket and slipped him into the door. He next put a block before the door to keep the squirrel from coming out, and then taking up the board by the two ends he carried it out of the shop.

He walked along the yard with it until he came to the piazza, and then went in at Mrs. Henry's window, which was open. As soon as he had gone in, Mrs. Henry shut her window, and Malleville shut the doors. Stuyvesant then put the house down upon a chair, and took the block away from the door to let the squirrel come out.

Frink seemed at first greatly astonished to find himself in a parlor. The first thing that he did was to run up to the top of a tall clock which stood in the corner, and perching himself upon a knob there, he began to gaze around the room.



Phonny was very much amused at this. Stuyvesant and Malleville were very much amused, too. They postponed their plan of going out to play for some time, in order that they might see Frink run about the parlor. At length, however, they went away, and Phonny commenced reading his story. After a time, Frink crept slyly along and perched himself on the back of the sofa, close to the book out of which Phonny was reading.



CHAPTER XI.

THE JOURNEY.

One evening about a week after the occurrences related in the last chapter, when Phonny's foot had got entirely well, Mrs. Henry went to the door which led to the back yard with a letter in her hand. She was looking for Stuyvesant.

Presently she saw him and Phonny coming through the garden gate with tools in their hands. They had been down to build a bridge across a small brook in a field beyond the garden.

"Stuyvesant," said Mrs. Henry, "I have just received a letter from your father."

Stuyvesant's eye brightened as Mrs. Henry said this, and he pressed eagerly forward to learn what the letter contained.

"It is about you," said Mrs. Henry, "and it is a very important letter indeed."

"What is it?" said Phonny eagerly. "Read it to us, mother."

So Mrs. Henry opened the letter and read it as follows,—the boys standing before her all the time, with their tools in their hands.

"NEW YORK, June 20.

"My Dear Sister,

"My business has taken such a turn that I am obliged to go to Europe, to be gone five or six weeks, and I am thinking seriously of taking Stuyvesant with me. He is so thoughtful and considerate a boy that I think he will give me very little trouble, and he will be a great deal of company for me, on the way. Besides I think he will be amused and entertained himself with what he will see in traveling through England, and in London and Paris, and I do not think that he will care much for whatever hardships we may have to endure on the voyage. So I have concluded to take him, if he would like to go. I intend to sail in the steamer of the first, so that it will be necessary for him to come home immediately. I would rather have him come home alone, if he feels good courage for such an undertaking,—as I think he could take care of himself very well, and the experience which he would acquire by such a journey would be of great service to him. If he seems inclined to come alone, please send him on as soon as may be. Furnish him with plenty of money, and give him all necessary directions. If on the other hand he appears to be a little afraid, send some one with him. Perhaps Beechnut could come."

Here Mrs. Henry raised her eyes from the letter as if she had read all that related to the subject, and Phonny immediately exclaimed.

"Send me, mother; send me. I'll go and take care of him. Let me go, Stivy, that will be the best plan." As he said this Phonny, using his hoe for a vaulting pole, began to leap about the yard with delight at the idea.

Stuyvesant remained where he was, with a pleased though thoughtful expression of countenance, but saying nothing.

"I'll give you two hours to think of it," said Mrs. Henry, addressing Stuyvesant. "You must set off either alone or with Beechnut to-morrow morning."

"Well," said Stuyvesant, "I will think of it and come to tell you. And now, Phonny, let us go and put away the tools."

In the course of the two hours which Stuyvesant was allowed for considering the question, he made a great many inquiries of Beechnut in respect to the journey, asking not only in relation to the course which he should pursue at the different points in the journey if every thing went prosperously and well, but also in regard to what he should do in the various contingencies which might occur on the way.

"Do you advise me to try it?" said Stuyvesant.

"Yes," said Beechnut, "by all means; and that is very disinterested advice, for there is nothing that I should like better than to go with you."

Mrs. Henry herself afterward asked Beechnut if he thought it would be safe for Stuyvesant to go alone.

"Just as safe," said Beechnut, "as it would be for him to go under my charge. There is always danger of accidents, in traveling," he added, "but there is no more danger for Stuyvesant alone than if he were in company."

"But will he know what to do always," said Mrs. Henry, "in order to get along?"

"I think he will," said Beechnut. "I shall explain it all to him beforehand."

"But there may be some accident," said Mrs. Henry. "The train may run off the track, or there may be a collision."

"That is true," replied Beechnut, "but those things will be as likely to happen if I were with him as if he were alone. It seems to me that when a boy gets as old as Stuyvesant, the only advantage of having some one with him when he is traveling is to keep him from doing careless or foolish things,—and Stuyvesant can take care of himself in that respect."

It was finally decided that Stuyvesant should go alone.

About eight o'clock, Mrs. Henry went up into Stuyvesant's room to pack his trunk, but she found it packed already. Stuyvesant had put every thing in, and had arranged the various articles in a very systematic and orderly manner. The trunk was all ready to be locked and strapped; but it was left open in order that Mrs. Henry might see that all was right.

Besides his trunk, Stuyvesant had a small carpet-bag, which contained such things as he expected to have occasion to use on the way. In this carpet-bag was a night-dress, rolled up snugly, and also a change of clean linen. Besides these things there were two books which Stuyvesant had borrowed of Phonny to read in the cars, in case there should chance to be any detention by the way. Stuyvesant had a small morocco portfolio too, which shut with a clasp, and contained note and letter paper, and wafers and postage stamps. This portfolio he always carried with him on his journeys, so that he could, at any time, have writing materials at hand, in case he wished to write a letter. He carried the portfolio in his carpet-bag. There was a small square morocco-covered inkstand also in the carpet-bag. It shut with a spring and a catch, and kept the ink very securely.

Mrs. Henry calculated that it would cost Stuyvesant about ten dollars to go from Franconia to New York; so she put ten dollars, in small bills, in Stuyvesant's wallet, and also a ten dollar bill besides, in the inner compartment of his wallet, to be used in case of emergency. When all these arrangements were made, she told Stuyvesant that he might go and find Beechnut, and get his directions.

Stuyvesant accordingly went in pursuit of Beechnut. He found him sitting on a bench, under a trellis covered with woodbine, at the kitchen door, enjoying the cool of the evening. Malleville was with him, and he was telling her a story. Stuyvesant and Phonny came and sat down upon the bench near to Beechnut.

"So then it is decided that you are to go alone," said Beechnut.

"Yes," said Stuyvesant, "and I have come to you to get my directions."

"Well," said Beechnut. "I am glad you are going. You will have a very pleasant journey, I have no doubt,—that is, if you have accidents enough."

"Accidents!" said Stuyvesant. "So you wish me to meet with accidents?"

"Yes," said Beechnut. "I don't desire that you should meet with any very serious or dangerous accidents, but the more common accidents that you meet with, the more you will have to amuse and entertain you. If it were only winter now, there would be a prospect that you might be blocked up in a snow storm."

"Hoh!" said Phonny, "that would be a dreadful thing."

"No," replied Beechnut, "not dreadful at all. For people who are on business, and who are in haste to get to the end of their journey, it is bad to meet with accidents and delays; but for boys, and for people who are traveling for pleasure, the more adventures they meet with the better."

"Accidents are not adventures," said Phonny.

"They lead to adventures," replied Beechnut.

"But now for my directions," said Stuyvesant.

"Well, as for your directions," replied Beechnut, "I can either go over the whole ground with you, and tell you what to do in each particular case,—or I can give you one universal rule, which will guide you in traveling in all cases, wherever you go. Which would you prefer?"

"I should prefer the rule," said Stuyvesant, "if that will be enough to guide me."

"Yes," said Beechnut, "it is enough to guide you, not only from here to New York, but all over the civilized world."

"What is the rule?" asked Stuyvesant.

"I shall write it down for you," replied Beechnut, "and you can read it in the stage, to-morrow morning, or in the cars."

"Well," said Stuyvesant,—"if you are sure that it will be enough for me."

"Yes," replied Beechnut, "I am sure it will be enough. It is the rule that I always travel by, and I find it will carry me safely anywhere. It is an excellent rule for ladies, who are traveling alone. If they would only trust themselves to it, it would be all the guidance that they would need."

"Well," said Stuyvesant, "I will decide to take the rule."

Shortly after this, Beechnut and the children all went into the house, and Stuyvesant and Phonny went to bed. Stuyvesant was so much excited, however, at the thoughts of his journey, that it was a long time before he could get to sleep.

He woke at the earliest dawn. He rose and dressed himself, and took his breakfast at six o'clock. At seven the stage came for him. Beechnut carried his trunk out to the stage, and the driver strapped it on in its place, behind. Mrs. Henry and Malleville stood at the door to see. Stuyvesant went first to the kitchen, to bid Dorothy good-by, and then came out through the front door, and bade Mrs. Henry and Malleville good-by.



By this time the driver of the stage had finished strapping on the trunk, and had opened the door and was waiting for Stuyvesant to get in. Beechnut handed Stuyvesant a small note. He said that the Traveling Rule was inside of it, but that Stuyvesant must not open the note until he got into the car on the railroad. So Stuyvesant took the note and put it in his pocket, and then shaking hands with Beechnut and Phonny, and putting his carpet-bag in before him, he climbed up the steps and got into the stage. The driver shut the door, mounted upon the box, and drove away.

Stuyvesant had about twenty-five miles to go in the stage. He was then to take the cars upon a railroad and go about a hundred and fifty miles to Boston. From Boston he was to go to New York, either by the railroad all the way, or by one of the Sound boats, just as he pleased.

Stuyvesant had a great curiosity to know what the rule was which Beechnut had written for him as a universal direction for traveling. He had, however, been forbidden to open the note until he should reach the cars. So he waited patiently, wondering what the rule could be.

One reason in fact why Beechnut had directed Stuyvesant not to open his note until he should reach the cars, was to give him something to occupy his attention and amuse his thoughts on first going away from home. The feeling of loneliness and home-sickness to be apprehended in traveling under such circumstances, is always much greater when first setting out on the journey than afterward, and Beechnut being aware of this, thought it desirable to give Stuyvesant something to think of when he first drove away from the door.

When Stuyvesant first got into the stage he took a place on the middle of the front seat, which was not a very good place, for he could not see. Pretty soon, however, he had an opportunity to change to a place on the middle seat, near the window. Here he enjoyed the ride very much. He could look out and see the farms, and the farm-houses, and the people passing, as the stage drove along, and at intervals he amused himself with listening to the conversation of the people in the stage.

It was about ten o'clock when the stage arrived at the railroad station. As they drew near to the place, Stuyvesant began to consider what he should have to do in respect to getting his trunk transferred from the stage to the train of cars. He knew very well that he could ask the driver what to do, but he felt an ambition to find out himself, and he accordingly concluded to wait until after he had got out of the stage, and had had an opportunity to make his own observations before troubling the driver with his questions. As for his ticket, he was aware that he must buy that at the ticket-office, and he supposed that he could find the ticket-office very readily.

When the stage stopped, Stuyvesant and all the other passengers got out. The stage was standing near a platform which extended along the side of one of the buildings of the station. As soon as the passengers had got out, the driver began to take off the trunks from the rack behind the stage, and to put them on the platform.

There was a gentleman among the passengers who had said in the course of conversation in the stage, that he belonged in Boston, and was going there. It occurred to Stuyvesant that it would be a good plan to watch this man and see what he would do in respect to his trunk, and then do the same in respect to his own. So he stood on the platform while the driver was taking down the trunks, and said nothing.

The driver put the trunks and baggage down, in heaps of confusion all about the platform, and though the passengers were all standing around, none of them paid much attention to what he was doing; this led Stuyvesant to think that there was no urgent necessity for haste or anxiety about the business, but that in some way or other it would all come right in the end. So he stood quietly by, and said nothing.

The result was just as he had anticipated; for after he had been standing there a short time, a man with a band about his hat, on which were inscribed the words BAGGAGE-MASTER, came out from a door in the station-house, and advancing toward the baggage with a business-like air, he said,

"Now then, gentlemen, tell me where all this baggage is going to?"

As the baggage-master said this, the people standing by began to point out their several trunks, and to say where they were to go. As fast as the baggage-master was informed of the destination of the trunks and carpet-bags, he would fasten a check upon each one by means of a small strap, and give the mate of the check to the owner of the baggage. Stuyvesant stood quietly by, watching this operation until it came to the turn of the gentleman who he had observed was going to Boston.

"That trunk is to go to Boston," said the gentleman, pointing to his trunk.

So the baggage-master checked the trunk and gave the duplicate check to the gentleman.

"And that trunk is to go to Boston too," said Stuyvesant, pointing to his own trunk.

So the baggage-master put a check upon Stuyvesant's trunk and gave Stuyvesant the duplicate of it.

Stuyvesant observed that as soon as the baggage was checked, the owners of it appeared to go away at once, and to give themselves no farther concern about it, and he inferred that it would be safe for him to do so too. So he went into the station to find the ticket-office, in order to buy his ticket. He saw, in a corner of the room, a sort of window with a counter before it, and a sign, with the words TICKET OFFICE above. Stuyvesant went to this window. The Boston gentleman was there, buying his ticket.

"One for Boston," said the gentleman. As he said this, he laid down a bank-bill upon the counter just within the window. The ticket seller gave him two tickets and some change.

"He said one and he has got two," said Stuyvesant to himself. "I wonder what that means."

Stuyvesant then took the Boston gentleman's place at the window, and laid down a bank bill upon the counter, saying:

"Half a one, for Boston."

The ticket-seller looked at Stuyvesant a moment over his spectacles, with a very inquiring expression of countenance, and then said,

"How old are you, my boy?"

"I am between nine and ten," said Stuyvesant.

"And are you going to Boston, all alone?" asked the man.

"Yes, sir," said Stuyvesant.

So the man gave Stuyvesant two tickets and his change, and Stuyvesant put them, tickets, money and all, carefully in his wallet, and turned away. He observed that each of his tickets had one of the corners cut off. This was to show that they were for a boy who had only paid half-price.

As Stuyvesant turned to go away, he met the driver of the stage coming toward him.

"Ah, Stuyvesant," said he, "I was looking for you. Have you got your tickets?"

"Yes," said Stuyvesant.

"And is your trunk checked?" asked the driver.

"Yes," said Stuyvesant.

"Very well, then; it's all right. I was going to show you. I did not suppose that you knew how to take care of yourself so well."

There were no cars at the station at this time. It was a way station, and the train was to pass there, and stop a few minutes to take up passengers, but it had not yet arrived. Stuyvesant went round to see what had been done with his trunk. It had been removed from the place where he had left it, but after a time he found it, with others, on another platform near the railroad track. He supposed that that was the place where the train was to come in.

He was right in this supposition, for in a few minutes the sound of the whistle was heard in the distance, and soon afterward the train came thundering in. It slackened its speed as it advanced, and finally stopped opposite to the platform on which Stuyvesant was standing. The baggage-master put the trunks into the baggage car, and the passengers got into the passenger cars, and in a very few minutes the bell rang, and the train began to move on again. Stuyvesant got an excellent seat near a window.

"Now," said he, "for Beechnut's rule."

So Stuyvesant opened his note, and read as follows:—

"UNIVERSAL RULE FOR INEXPERIENCED TRAVELERS.

"Keep a quiet mind, and do as other people do. BEECHNUT."

"That's just what I have been doing all the time," said Stuyvesant to himself, as soon as he had read the paper. "I found out Beechnut's rule myself, before he told me."

This was true; for Stuyvesant's instinctive good sense and sagacity had taught him that when traveling with a multitude of other people, who were almost all perfectly familiar with the usages of the road, a stranger would always find sufficient means of guidance in his observation of those about him. It gave Stuyvesant pleasure to think that he had found out the way to travel himself, and he was very glad to have the wisdom of the method which he had adopted, confirmed by Beechnut's testimony.

During the whole of the journey to Boston, Stuyvesant guided himself by observation of those about him. When the conductor came for the tickets Stuyvesant looked to see what the others did, and then did the same himself. At one time the cars stopped, and all the passengers rose from their seats and seemed to be going out. Stuyvesant accordingly rose and went with them. There was a man on the platform, who called out as the people stepped down from the cars, "Passengers for Boston will take the forward cars on the right." Stuyvesant followed the crowd and entered with them into the cars of another train. In fact the travelers had arrived at what is called a junction, that is to a place where they come upon a railroad belonging to another company, and here of course they took another train. The fact that there were two railroads and two companies was the reason why each passenger had two tickets.

Stuyvesant wondered whether the baggage men would remember to transfer his trunk to the new train, without his attending to it, but as he observed that the other passengers did nothing about their trunks, but went at once into the new cars, he concluded that he had nothing to do but follow their example.

When he arrived at Boston it was very late. This was owing to a detention which took place on the road through a somewhat singular cause. It seems that there was in one part of the road a very narrow cut, through a rocky hill, and the company were attempting to widen it in order to make a double track. They had accordingly been blasting the rocks on one side of the cut, and having fired a very heavy charge just before the train that Stuyvesant was in came along, an immense mass of rocks had fallen down into the cut and covered the track so that the train could not get by. The workman had accordingly sent a man along with a red flag to stop the train when it should come, and in the mean time they went to work with an enormous crane, which was set up on the rocks above, to hoist the stones off from the track, and swing them out of the way. A great many of the passengers got out and went forward when the train stopped, in order to see this operation; and Stuyvesant felt himself authorized by Beechnut's rule to go with them. It took more than half an hour to raise and remove the rocks so as to clear the track, and Stuyvesant had a very pleasant time in watching the operation, and in listening to the remarks of the men who were standing around.

On account of this delay, and of some subsequent delays which were caused by this one, it was quite late when the train arrived in Boston. When the cars at length reached the Boston station and the passengers began to get out, a great scene of noise and confusion ensued.

"Now," said Stuyvesant to himself, "I must obey the first part of Beechnut's direction, and keep a quiet mind."

He accordingly rose from his seat, and taking his carpet-bag in his hand he went out with the rest of the passengers. There was a great crowd of hackmen on the platform, all clamorously shouting together to the passengers, offering their carriages and calling out the names of the several hotels. Stuyvesant observed that those before him who wished for a hack would quietly speak to one of these men, give him their baggage tickets and then ask him to show them his carriage. Stuyvesant accordingly did the same. He spoke to a man who was standing there with a whip in his hand and asking every body if they wanted a carriage.

THE END