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 [Illustration: MIKE'S CROTCHETS IN WAR-TIME. ]

UNCLE FRANK'SBOY'S & GIRL'SLIBRARY, BY

FRANCIS C. WOODWORTH, EDITOR OF WOODWORTH'S YOUTH'S CABINET. 

[Illustration]

MIKE MARBLE:

HIS CROTCHETS AND ODDITIES. 

With Tinted Illustrations. 

BY

UNCLE FRANK, AUTHOR OF "A PEEP AT OUR NEIGHBORS, " "THE PEDDLER'S BOY, ""THE DIVING BELL, " "WILLOW LANE STORIES, " ETC. 

BOSTON:PHILLIPS, SAMPSON & COMPANY, PUBLISHERS. 

Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1852, By PHILLIPS, SAMPSON & CO. , In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States forthe District of Massachusetts. 

STEREOTYPED BYBILLIN & BROTHERS, No. 10 NORTH WILLIAM STREET, N. Y. WRIGHT & HASTY, Printers, 3 Water Street, Boston. 

CONTENTS. 

 PAGE

CHAPTER I. ABOUT CROTCHETS 7

CHAPTER II. CROTCHETY FOLKS 15

CHAPTER III. LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 27

CHAPTER IV. CHIPS FROM BIRCH WOODS 35

CHAPTER V. A PAIR OF THIEVES 54

CHAPTER VI. PAYING HIM OFF 68

CHAPTER VII. MIKE'S CROTCHETS IN WAR-TIME 92

CHAPTER VIII. THE BUMBLE-BEES' NEST 109

CHAPTER IX. HOW A BARN WAS BUILT 127

CHAPTER X. ANOTHER BLOCK OF MARBLE 134

CHAPTER XI. MIKE MARBLE'S LAST DAYS 150

ILLUSTRATIONS. 

MIKE'S CROTCHETS IN WAR-TIME (Frontispiece)

VIGNETTE TITLE-PAGE 1

THE BOY IN THE WOODS 48

OLD IRONSIDES AND THE CHILDREN 63

A CRYING SPELL 77

PAYING FOR MISCHIEF 124

MIKE MARBLE AND THE BEGGAR 135

MIKE MARBLE IN HIS OLD AGE 147

MIKE MARBLE. 

CHAP. I. 

ABOUT CROTCHETS. 

Don't be frightened, reader, at what you see on the title-page of thisbook, or at the head which I have given to my first chapter. Don't letthe idea creep into your head, that I am going to give you a dull andsleepy essay on music. It is not the _crotchets_ which you find inthe singing-book, that I intend to talk about; I leave them to thosewho know more about them than I do. There is a man of my acquaintance, whom I could hunt up without much trouble, and who, if you should everchoose to give him a chance, would talk you deaf, and write you blind, about this sort of crotchets, together with all the members of thatnoisy family--breves, semibreves, minims, and what not! I'll refer youto him, for all the mysteries of the _gamut_. Whenever you want tolearn them, I assure you he would like no better fun than to teachthem to you. I'll not interfere with his trade. 

My business is with another family of crotchets. Webster--NoahWebster, the man who made the spelling-book, out of which Uncle Franklearned to say, or rather to drawl his letters--gives, in his largedictionary, as one of the definitions of the word _crotchet_, this: "apeculiar turn of mind, a whim, a fancy. " Here you have just that kindof crotchet that I am going to deal with. Mr. Webster could not havehit my crotchet more exactly, if he had taken aim at it on purpose. It is a _peculiar turn of mind_, or, if you prefer it, a _whim_, or a_fancy_, that I shall talk about, for an hour or so, perhaps longer. Indeed, I am not perfectly sure but I shall find a whole flock ofwhims and fancies, because, you know, "birds of a feather flocktogether, " and, in that case, I shall give you a peep at a score ortwo of whims and fancies. 

Now, who knows but these crotchets will be worth hearing about? Peoplewrite large, thick volumes, on drier topics than whims andfancies--that is, to my way of thinking--and I suppose their booksare read. Certainly they expect to have them read, or they would notmake them. Then why may not my book on crotchets find readers?

If I were to write a book on _warts_ and _corns_, don't you think thebook would get read? I do. I have not the least doubt of it. Suppose, now, it were published in the newspapers, that _Messrs. Phillips, Sampson & Company_, one of the largest and most respectable publishinghouses in the Union, are about to issue a volume, entitled _Freaks ofthe Wart Family_, from the pen of Uncle Frank, a man who, first andlast, has printed a good deal of sense, together with some nonsense, and who, in this volume, has succeeded in stringing together some ofthe strangest things that ever saw the light. Suppose that somenewspaper should give that item of news, don't you think folks wouldget the book, when it was published? and don't you think they wouldread it, or, at all events, skim it over, to see what kind of stuffUncle Frank had been emptying out of his brain? I think so. 

Well, warts and corns are to the body what whims and crotchets are tothe mind. The body has freaks--the mind has freaks. Warts don'texactly _belong_ to the body. That is, there could be a very good sortof a body, without a single wart on it; and indeed, if you please, aman would be a more perfect man, if there were no warts about him, from head to foot. So of crotchets. I don't pretend that a person hasany thing to boast of, because his head is full of crotchets. Perhapshe would be better without them. _Perhaps_ he would. But warts andcrotchets are both found among mankind. Both are freaks of nature, soto speak; of course, both are worth examining. One thing at a time, though. Let us turn our attention, at present, to _crotchets_. 

CHAP. II. 

CROTCHETY FOLKS. 

A crotchety person, according to this same Noah Webster, whom I havequoted before, is one who has whims or crotchets in the brain. Now aword about these crotchety folks. 

I'll tell you what it is, my friend. The older I grow, the more I feelinclined to let every man and woman, every boy and girl, act outhimself, or herself. "That is a singular fellow, " we often hear itsaid. "He's as odd as Dick's hat-band. I don't know what to think ofhim. He seems to be a good sort of a man. But he _is_ odd. His head isas full of crotchets as it can hold. "

When I hear a person talk in this style, I feel like saying, "Stop amoment, my dear sir. He's 'a good sort of a man--_but_, ' you say. Thatshows you are not precisely satisfied with his goodness; and pray, what is the matter with it? Why don't you like it, sir? Whatparticular fault have you to find with it? Come, out with it now. "

Press a man, who is talking in this way about a crotchety neighbor, right up to the point, and you will generally find that the reason hedoes not like him is because he has a different way of saying anddoing things from his own. 

Now I believe that some folks are odd because they cannot help it. True, there are a great many who are odd, just for the sake of beingodd. They are ambitious to be known as singular people. We will letthem pass. They certainly work hard to earn the name they love to beknown by; and perhaps we ought not to try to rob them of it, or to sayany thing very severe about their taste. We will let them pass. 

But there are a multitude of other people who are odd, and whoseoddities cannot be accounted for in the same way. They are odd, because they were born so. They are odd, because they cannot helpbeing odd. If they should try, with all their might, to do as most oftheir neighbors do, they would make perfect dunces of themselves; forevery body, old or young, makes a dunce of himself, and nothing else, whenever he undertakes to be what he is not--whenever he undertakes tobe somebody else. He is not very well acquainted with the race hebelongs to, who, as he goes through the world, does not get this truthhammered into him. 

Why, at this very moment, I can think of at least a dozen odd people, whom I am in the habit of meeting every day, and who, I verilybelieve, could no more help their oddities and crotchets than some oftheir neighbors could help having warts come out on their hands. Thecrotchets are natural and unavoidable in one case--the warts arenatural and unavoidable in the other. 

These are my notions about crotchety people, in general, and I havethrown them out, as one throws out feather beds from the garretwindows, when the house is on fire--so that the articles that are tobe thrown afterward may find a good soft spot to alight on, and notget damaged by their fall. 

The truth is, I am going to introduce to you an old gentleman, whohad a large head, tolerably well filled with crotchets; and as it issuch a common thing for people to raise a hue and cry against everybody who has any oddities about him, I thought I would put you on yourguard a little, by a word of apology for that entire race of people, who are odd because they cannot be any thing else. 

This old gentleman, who, by the way, was a great friend of the littlefolks, is _Mike Marble_. I introduce him to you as an _old_ gentleman. But, although he was old, when I first saw him, I must not forgetthat he was young once--as young as any of my readers--and that heplayed his part as a boy, as well as his part as a man. There are agood many anecdotes afloat about him and his odd way of doing things, before he grew up to manhood. My grandfather knew him when he was alad at school. I believe he and Mike were nearly of the same age. 

That grandfather of mine, now I think of it, was a great story-teller. I have sometimes nearly half made up my mind, while casting about me, to find some new mine of stories for my young readers, that I wouldput my thinking cap on, and see if I could not recollect a budget ofmy grandfather's stories, large enough to fill a book. I am not surebut I will do so one of these days; and, if I do, I shall print thebudget, depend upon it. 

My grandfather and Mike Marble were as dear to each other as if theyhad been brothers. They lived not far apart, and went to schooltogether. For some of Mike's crotchets I am indebted to this oldfriend of his. Others I picked up, here and there, among old peoplethat knew him, and others still I got from a personal acquaintancewith him in his old age. 

You will excuse me, if I call him _Mike_ sometimes. He was always socalled, when he was a boy, I believe. And while you are excusing mefor calling him _Mike_--you see I take you to be very kind andobliging--you will please excuse me, also, if I happen to prefix thetitle of _Uncle_ to that nickname; for he was known, far and near, as_Uncle Mike_ in his later days. 

It is true that _Michael_ was his name correctly and honestly spelledout. But it is equally true that Michael was a name to which he seldomhad to answer. At school, and among his playmates, it was always_Mike_. I really believe, from what I have heard my grandfather say, that not half the boys and girls in his neighborhood could have beenconvinced, by any common arguments, that his name was Michael. Indeed, I remember having heard that once, when a schoolmate called the fellowby the long name, just to see how it would seem, he and the other boyboth burst right out into a perfect roar of laughter over the soundof it. "For pity's sake, " said he, when he got over his laughing fit, "don't call me by that hard name again, as long as I live;" and, as heseemed to be quite in earnest, none of the boys ever addressed him byany other name than _Mike_, after that. 

CHAP. III. 

LIGHTS AND SHADOWS. 

"But who is _Mike Marble_? where does he live? what sort of a man ishe? what kind of oddities has he got?"

My little friend, your questions come out so fast, and there is such along string of them, that they make me think of the way a whole packof fire crackers go off, when you touch a coal to one of them, andthrow the whole into the street. I am going to tell you ever so manythings about this same Mike Marble. Before I get through with him, youwill get very well acquainted with him, I think. But Uncle Frank, youknow, has got some oddities himself. When he has got any thing to do, he, too, has his own way of doing it. 

Some people, I suppose, if they were treating you to a few chapters inthe history of this singular man, would weave the threads together ina different manner from mine. They would begin, very likely, bytelling where the chap was born, who were his father and mother, howmany brothers and sisters he had, what their names were, whether hehad any uncles and aunts, and if he had, what kind of uncles and auntsthey were, and all that sort of thing. And they would describe Mike'sappearance exactly--tell you whether he had black eyes or blue, grayeyes or brown, red eyes or green. But I don't see much use in that. 

Indeed, I am not sure but I shall keep you ignorant as to how helooked, and let you learn what there is worth learning in hischaracter--for character is the great thing, after all, you know--bythe stories I shall tell of him. I might, it is true, take everybranch, and leaf, and bud, and flower, of his character, and pick itall to pieces, and show you, in this way, what he was made of. But youwould get tired of all that. So I'll take another course. I'll tellyou what he said and did--what he said and did at different times, atdifferent periods in his life, and in different circumstances. Don'tyou think this is the best way to make you acquainted with him? I do;for, if you find out what a person says, and does, and thinks, youfind out what he is. 

One or two things, however, I must say about this Mike Marble, by wayof general introduction. 

He was born at a very interesting period--about nine years before thebreaking out of the American Revolution. He was quite an old manbefore he went to his final rest. Indeed, it is but a few years sinceI saw his weather-beaten face, all lighted up with smiles. Unlike manyother men, when they get to be old, he never made a practice ofcarping at every thing he saw about him, because it was not exactly inthe style of 1776. He believed that there was wisdom among ourgrandfathers and grandmothers, but that there is wisdom, also, amongtheir grand-children. 

I have told you that he had some oddities. I have hinted, too, in asort of whisper, that I do not consider a man an absolute Pagan, because he happens to be a little odd. Something more than this Icould say of Uncle Mike, odd as he was; but I guess you will find outwhat I think of him, before I get through. Suffice it to say, that, while I didn't like him _because_ he was odd, I did like him, _inspite_ of his oddities. He was a fine old man. As the world goes, hewas a most excellent man. He had his faults, a plenty of them; thoughI have sometimes thought

 "That e'en his failings lean'd to virtue's side. "

Some of them did, I know. He had his faults, nevertheless. I confessthat. He always had them, no doubt. Faults are common things amongmankind and womankind. But, with your consent, we will trip lightlyover all that part of our hero's history which is shaded withblemishes. 

[Illustration]

CHAP. IV. 

CHIPS FROM BIRCH WOODS. 

One of the worst things I ever heard of in the history of Mike, according to the best of my recollection, was the way he served BillyBirch's dog. You must know something about this Billy Birch. _Burt_was his real name. But it was changed into Birch by his neighbors, fora reason which I will give you by and bye. 

Mr. Burt was a pretty good sort of a man, in his own estimation, butnot greatly or generally beloved by his neighbors. He was achurch-going man, and had a knack, somehow or other, of getting alongdecently with the forms--the outside garments, so to speak--ofreligion. It was really astonishing how glibly he would _talk_ aboutreligion. But as to the practical part of it, he did not succeed aswell. That was up-hill work for the old man. 

He found it exceedingly difficult to keep himself "unspotted from theworld. " Some of his nearest neighbors thought they could count a greatmany worldly spots upon him. I don't know how that was, as I never wasacquainted with the man, and ought not to judge him too harshly. Indeed, Uncle Frank must endeavor to keep in mind, that with whatmeasure we mete it shall be measured to us again. But from all theshreds and patches of his history that have come down to the presentday, Mr. Birch does seem to have been a selfish man, and a great dealtoo fond of money. 

My young friend, it is one of the most difficult things in thisworld, to act up to the spirit of the golden rule of our Lord, and doto others as we would have them do to us, when we are as full as wecan hold of selfishness. You may lay that thought up in your memory. 

Billy Birch found that truth out. What did he care how manynewly-planted hills of corn and rows of peas his hens might scratchup, provided the corn was not his corn, and the peas were not hispeas, and provided he did not have to suffer for the scratching? Not amill. He would sit, smoking his pipe--for he was a great smoker--inthe old, straight-backed oak chair on the stoop, as cool as acucumber, while the biggest rooster on his premises, the lord of thewhole barn-yard, was leading a regiment of hens and petty roosters ina crusade upon Squire Chapman's corn-field across the way; and if theSquire or one of his boys came over to inform him what havoc the henswere making, and to ask him what to do with the troublesome creatures, the old man would perhaps take his pipe out of his mouth, and, afterslowly puffing out a cloud of smoke, would say, "Why, drive them out, to be sure!"

What did he care, if his old mare--who, by the way, was a very nervoussort of a mare, and could not stay long in one spot--what did he care, if the old creature did jump over the six-rail fence around the goodparson's field of clover, and eat what she wanted, and trample down, in her nervous way of doing things, a good share of the rest of theclover? Why, it didn't hurt _him_ any. The old miser! It wasn't _his_field of clover that Katy trampled down. And besides, didn't he payhis minister's tax? and didn't the minister and his family live inbetter style than he and his family could afford to live in?

Katy loved clover. _He_ wasn't to blame for that, and he didn't knowthat Katy was to blame. It was a very natural taste, that of his oldmare. And why didn't the parson, he should like to know, build hisfence higher, if he didn't want his clover eaten up by other people'shorses?

What was it to Billy Birch, if his dog did kill a neighbor's sheep, now and then? What did he care, what should he care? If they were hisown sheep, that would alter the case. But Cęsar never killed hismaster's sheep. Wasn't that kind in Cęsar? And as to this sheep-bitinghabit of his, why it is the _nature_ of dogs to kill sheep. Cęsar_must_ kill somebody's sheep; and if he hadn't picked out a good fatone from this flock, it would have been somebody else's flock. What isthe use in making such a fuss about a sheep or two? The loss of onesheep won't break any body. What can't be cured, must be endured. People must take care of their sheep, if they don't want them to bekilled. 

That is the way this selfish, narrow-minded farmer reasoned andtalked. You can see, plainly enough, that he was not the sort of manto be very much respected in the neighborhood. He was not respected. In fact, there was not, in all the parish, a more generally unpopularman than Billy Birch. 

The boys, I have heard, bore him a grudge of long standing. It relatedto the huckleberries and hazel nuts in the old man's birch woods. There were bushels of huckleberries, and almost as many hazel nuts, inthose woods. But would you have thought of such a thing? Mr. Birchforbade the boys picking any of his huckleberries or hazel nuts. Everso many huckleberries decayed on the bushes every year, or were leftto be harvested by the birds, because Mr. Birch's family could notpick them all themselves, and he was so tight that he would not letany body else pick them. He was like the dog in the manger, you see. He could not eat the hay himself, and he would not let any body elseeat it. 

But the meanest thing that I ever heard of his doing, was this: Inthese same woods--the woods where the huckleberries and hazel nutsgrew--there were great multitudes of birch trees, of different speciesand among the rest, some of that species which goes by the name, amongchildren, of _black birch_. I need not tell any of my country readersabout this kind of birch. They know it well enough. They have eatenbirch bark, many a time; and, for ought I know, some of them havefelt a tingling sensation in the region of the back and legs, broughtabout by the use of birch twigs in the hands of some schoolmaster. 

Well, Moses Ramble was crossing Billy Birch's woods one day in thespring of the year. For awhile, he whistled along, as merry-hearted asthe blue birds that had just returned from their southern tour, andwho were chirping on the branches over his head, breaking off, now andthen, a few sprigs of birch, from the trees along his path. By andbye, he sat down on the fence, to rest himself, still going on withhis whistling, at intervals, when his mouth was not too much occupiedwith the birch to interfere with the music. 

 [Illustration: THE BOY IN THE WOODS. ]

While the merry young fellow was sitting here, feeling at peace withall the world, and not dreaming but all the world was at peace withhim, he heard a slight rustling behind him, and, looking over hisshoulder, whom should he see but Billy Birch himself, leaning againsta chestnut tree, and looking as if he were angry enough to bite in twoa hoe handle. 

What on earth the man was doing there, history does not inform us, though it used to be more than hinted among the younger citizens inthat neighborhood, that he was prowling about in those woods as a spyon the movements of the boys. They said he was just the man for suchbusiness. 

Moses did not like the appearance of the face that was lowering onhim; and, although he was innocent of the slightest intention of doingany harm on the man's premises, he thought it would be safer for himto walk off than it would be to stay there. So he leaped from thefence, and began, leisurely, to walk home. 

"Stop, you young heathen!" said Billy Birch. 

The little fellow did stop, and stood as still as the old chestnuttree, against which the lord of those woods was leaning. 

"What are you _munching_ there, sir?"

Moses, having no suspicion at all that he had been doing any harm tothe estate of the old man, replied, frankly and plainly, that he waseating birch. 

"Aha!" said the farmer, "you are, eh? I'll teach you to eat my birch. I'll give you as much birch as you will want for a fortnight!"

And he took the twig which Moses was gnawing out of his hands, andwhipped him with it, until he made the poor fellow cry out with painand mortification. 

"There, you thief!" he said, after flogging him to his heart'scontent, "that will teach you to steal my birch, I guess. "

From that day the selfish farmer began to be called _Birch_, in thatsection of the country; and it was not many months before his name wasalmost as effectually changed as if he had applied to the legislatureof the state to have that body change it for him. 

CHAP. V. 

A PAIR OF THIEVES. 

About that dog of Billy Birch. Have I not promised to tell yousomething about him, and the accident that happened to him, whichaccident Mike Marble might have prevented, if he had made the attempt?I have a good mind to tell you about these matters, at any rate, whether I have made such a promise or not. 

Mind now, reader, that, in telling this story, I don't mean to have itunderstood that I think Mike did right. I'll grant that he did wrong. But I mention the fact to show what sort of mischief Mike was up to, and what sort of blemishes those were, which I confess he had in hischaracter; for, as I think I said before, this trick was about as bada thing as I ever heard of his being guilty of. 

Cęsar got to be a great hero in the sheep-killing business--a perfectNimrod of a dog. It sometimes happens, I fancy, that soldiers whospend more of their time in war, actually shooting people and cuttingtheir throats, after a while, get to liking the trade, and takepleasure in slaughtering human beings, just as a carpenter or aprinter might take pleasure in _his_ trade. Well, it got to besomewhat so with Cęsar, it would seem; for it often came to pass thattwo or three sheep would be killed in one night, when, of course, asingle fat one would supply his appetite bountifully for several days, at least. He must have liked the business, or he would have contentedhimself with killing only a sufficient number of sheep to keep him infood. 

The neighbors who suffered from Cęsar's favorite amusement, complained, now and then, to his master. But it did no good. "Theymust keep their sheep out of the way, " the selfish man would say. "Cęsar is a capital family dog. I don't know what I should do withouthim--he is so faithful. " That was as much satisfaction as they couldever get. Billy Birch would not shut up his dog at night, and as forkilling him, that was out of the question. He would rather lose hisbest horse than Cęsar. True, the neighbors might have sued the ownerof the dog, and have got the value of their lost sheep in that way. But they were generally peaceable folks, and had a great dread ofgoing to law, especially with one of their own neighbors. The resultwas, that Cęsar's business prospered more and more every day. 

It was in the full tide of his success as a sheep-killer, that hecame, one day, into Mr. Marble's door yard, and took his station nearthe wood pile. Mike saw him, and knew well enough what he came for. His father had just been slaughtering an ox, and some of the daintypieces of the animal were lying on the wood pile, the scent of whichhad brought Cęsar to the spot. No doubt, having feasted on mutton solong, he had got a little sick of it, and thought he would make adinner on beef. He was a dainty fellow, you perceive. 

I don't know what put it into Mike's head to play the trick he did onCęsar. But he had no sooner seen him smelling around among the refusepieces of the ox's carcass, than he determined to punish him, ifpossible, for his notorious crimes. So, without saying a word to anybody, he gathered up all the choice bits which had tempted the dog tothe yard, and placed them within a few feet of the heels of Mr. Marble's old chaise horse, who was standing there, hitched to a gatepost, waiting patiently for somebody to come and harness him. 

Now this horse, who was called _Old Ironsides_, was as famous for hiskicking habits as Cęsar was for his sheep-killing. He seemed to takeup kicking as a sort of amusement, to while away his leisure hours. It was a wonder that Mr. Marble kept him; for he had kicked the oldchaise to pieces several times; and as to his stable, he made nothingof kicking off all the boards within reach of his heels, every fewnights, just for the fun of the thing, and to show what mighty deedshe could do with his heels. 

It is no more than an act of simple justice to Old Ironsides, however, to say, that he was as gentle as a lamb to the children of his master. They could do any thing with him. Often, when he was standing at thedoor, or in his stable, they would go close to him, and pat him on hisneck, and play with him, as if he were one of their own number; andthe old fellow would take all their fun good-humoredly. Among all hissins in the kicking line--and he had a great many, first and last, toanswer for--he never kicked either of the children. They all lovedhim, in fact; and many is the dainty morsel he received from theirhands. 

Well, to go on with the story of Mike's piece of mischief. The dog, as he had expected, trotted along after the pieces of meat, andcommenced eating, without any suspicions of harm, right under the_battery_ of the old horse. There he remained for some moments, asMike says, taking as much comfort eating his dinner, as if he weredining on one of his father's sheep. 

 [Illustration: OLD IRONSIDES AND THE CHILDREN. ]

Old Ironsides took no notice of the dog. Indeed, he rather appearedhalf asleep. He often shut his eyes, by the way, as he was standing ata post, and dosed, and nodded, much after the fashion of some men, when they set out to listen to a sermon on Sunday. All the time, however, Mike had a crotchet in his head. 

"Halloo, old fellow!" he shouted, "what are you about there?"

In an instant Old Ironsides was wide awake, and, seeing at a glancewhat was going on behind, he pricked up his ears, uttered one briefsnort, and away went his heels like lightning. Poor Cęsar! When hetouched this planet again--for Old Ironsides had sent him up towardsthe moon, much farther than I should want to go, in that style--he wasa lost dog. Old Ironsides, who proved to be as great a hero, in hisway, as Cęsar was, had killed him. The great enemy of sheepdom hadceased to breathe. 

[Illustration]

CHAP. VI

"PAYING HIM OFF;"

OR, AN ODD WAY OF SHOWING REVENGE. 

Jacob Grumley, who was sometimes nicknamed _Grumble_, on account of ahabit he had of finding fault with every thing and every body, went tothe same school with Mike Marble. Now Mike was as remarkable for hischeerful and amiable disposition, as Jacob was for his ill nature. Inhalf of the cases where the latter would get angry, and storm, andrage, and fret, and foam, like a hyena, or a Bengal tiger, the otherwould remain as cool as a cucumber, or, perhaps, burst out into ahearty laugh. 

One day, when several of the schoolboys, including Michael and Jacob, were playing ball on the fine lawn in front of the school house, adispute occurred between the young grumbler and another boy, and Mikeventured to suggest to Jacob, as kindly as he could, that he was inthe wrong. 

"You little meddlesome dunce!" said Jacob, all in a blaze of anger, "I'll teach you to mind your own business, and let other people'squarrels alone. " And, suiting his action to his words, he struck Mikein the face so hard that the blood ran from his nose in a stream. 

Well, what do you think Mike did, then? I know what some boys wouldhave done, if they had been in his place. They would have struckJacob, at any cost. That is the way they would have taken theirrevenge. That is the way, indeed, that Mike's school-fellows advisedhim to take his revenge. Half a dozen of them, at least, surroundedhim, and urged him to flog Jacob. 

"I'd pay him off for it, " said one. 

"The rascal!" said another. "I'd make him smart for it. "

"And we'll all stand by you, " said one, "if you'll flog him. "

"Mike wasn't a bit to blame, either, " added another. "If I were in hisplace, if I wouldn't make Jake see stars, then--"

The remainder of the speech was lost to every body but the speaker, asall the boys, by this time, were talking at once. It is a wonder tome that they did not take the matter altogether into their own hands, and give Jake the flogging which they thought he so richly deserved;for Michael was a great favorite among them, and they could not bearto see him abused. But I believe they contented themselves withletting off ever so many vials of wrath, in the shape of words; andJake Grumble, finding how matters stood, walked sulkily away. 

"Now, Mike, what are you going to do?" asked one of the boys. 

"Do about what?" asked the injured boy. 

"About the bloody nose that Jake gave you, " was the reply. 

"I'm going to see if I can't stop its bleeding, " said Mike. 

"No, I don't mean that, " said the other. "I mean what are you going todo to Jake?"

"Oh, " said Mike, "I guess I'll pay him off, one of these days. "

"And why not now?" the boy asked. 

"I've got as much on my hands as I can attend to, just now, " saidMike. 

How do you suppose Jake felt, that day, after his cruel treatment ofone of his playmates? What do you suppose were his feelings, when hefound out what all the boys thought of his conduct; and when he hadtime to reflect upon the folly and wickedness of what he had done?Perhaps you can guess pretty well how he felt. Possibly you haveyourself wronged some one of your playmates, and recollect how youfelt about it, when you had a chance to get away somewhere, alone, tothink over your conduct. If so, you can give a pretty rational guessas to the kind of feelings that were at work in Jake's bosom, on hisway home from school that day. 

He did not go home in company with the rest of the boys and girls whowent in the same direction. He was in the habit of doing so. But hefelt so much ashamed on account of what he had done, that he could notbear to see the faces of any of the children. 

Instead of taking the public road that led directly to his father'shouse, he went through the gate that led into Deacon Stark's pasture, and followed the cart-path through the woods. It was a great dealfarther that way. But he went through the woods so as to get clear ofhis playmates. One of the deacon's hired men saw the boy, leaningagainst the fence, just at the edge of the woods. Poor fellow! he wascrying, as if his heart would break. So the man said. Jake got theworst of it, in that affair. Don't you think he did?

But I have not got through with the story yet, and I must go on withit. 

 [Illustration: A CRYING SPELL. ]

Time passed on--days, weeks, and even months, came and went--butMike did not "pay off" the boy who had so unjustly abused him. Hiscompanions urged him to do it, until they got out of patience, andconcluded to give the matter up. 

As for Jake, it was as much as he could do to look Mike in the face. He avoided him, as much as possible, and seemed to be unhappy wheneverhe came near him. But Mike, on his part, treated the boy who hadinjured him just as if nothing had happened. 

I have often noticed, that where there has been any difficultybetween two persons, the one who was at fault is more apt to cherishunkind feelings than the one who was innocent. It was so in this case. Jacob treated Michael as if it were Michael rather than himself, whohad been in the wrong. He never spoke to him, when he could help it;and when he did say any thing to him, he spoke peevishly, and pressedthe words between his teeth, as if he had the lockjaw. 

One day, during that interesting season of the year when the farmersare busy making hay, Jake had occasion to pass through Mr. Marble'smeadow, with his fishing rod, on his way to the "deep hole, " where, asevery body in the neighborhood knew, multitudes of sun fish and perchwere always to be found, ready for a nice bit of an angle-worm. 

Jake, being a little thirsty--for it was a very warm day--went up tothe tree under which Mr. Marble kept the refreshments for his hiredmen, and took up the wooden bottle to drink. There was nothing wrong, perhaps, in the liberty he took, though I think it would have beenquite as well, if he had asked Mr. Marble's consent in the firstplace. But we will let that pass. Jake had a different way of doingthings. 

As I said, he took up the bottle to drink. But the moment he did so, Ranter, Mr. Marble's old dog, who lay under the tree, where he hadbeen stationed to keep watch, thinking his master's property was indanger, flew at the boy, and caught him by the arm. Poor Jake! heyelled lustily, you may be sure. But it did no good. Ranter held himin his jaws, as tight as if he were a woodchuck or a rabbit, insteadof a school-boy. 

Mike was spreading hay, at the time, some twenty yards off, or moreand hearing the boy crying for help, and looking in the direction fromwhich the voice came, he saw Jake fast in the clutches of the dog. Inan instant he shouted, as loud as he could scream, "Here, Ranter!here, Ranter!" and in another instant, Ranter let go of the poor boy, and bounded away towards his young master. 

Jake, as you may suppose, and as Mike found, when he went to him, wasvery badly bitten. The blood ran from his arm quite as freely as itdid from Mike's nose, some time before that. 

"Did Ranter hurt you much?" asked Mike, kindly. 

"Very badly, I'm afraid, " said Jake, almost frantic with pain andfright. 

Mike said he was sorry, and expressed his wonder that Ranter could beso cruel. Then he ran and called his father, who was busy in anotherpart of the meadow, when the accident happened, and who did not hearJake's call for help. Mr. Marble had the boy taken to his house, where his wound was nicely dressed, and where the utmost care wastaken of him by the whole family, among whom Mike was the foremost. Itwas two or three days before it was thought prudent to remove thesufferer to his father's house; and during that time there was no one, not even Jacob's own mother, who was more kind and attentive to himthan Mike Marble. 

The time came when the wounded boy was able to go home. An hour or twobefore the wagon was to come for him, he was sitting in an easychair, with the wounded arm lying on a pillow, and Mike, as usual, wasat his side. There happened to be no one else in the chamber besidesthe two boys. 

"Mike, " said the other, "I want to say something to you. "

"What is it?" asked Mike. 

"I don't know how to say it, " was the answer. 

And there was a pause. Jacob had undertaken a task which was entirelynew to him, and he did not know how to begin it. At length he triedagain:

"Mike, " said he, "I struck you once--it was a good while ago--do youremember it?"

"Yes, " Mike said. 

"Well, I am sorry I struck you, " said Jacob, and burst into tears. 

"I knew you were sorry, " said Mike, "and I have forgiven you, longago. "

"_Do_ you forgive me?" asked Jacob, earnestly. 

"I do, from my heart, " said Mike. 

Then followed another flood of tears. This time it was a good whilebefore Jacob could speak, so as to be understood, and when he didspeak, it was only to say, "Oh, Mike, you are _so_ kind! You seem like a brother to me. "

Jacob's father came into the room just at this moment, and nothingmore was said by either of the boys on the subject which so deeplyaffected Jacob. But Mike saw, plainly enough, that the heart of theboy who had injured him was melted, and he was satisfied. 

How warmly Jacob pressed Mike's hand, when he bade him "good bye, " andstarted for home. 

Not long after that, Mike met one of the boys who had urged him sostrongly to return the blow that Jacob gave him. 

"Well, " said Mike, "I've done it. "

"Done what?" asked the other boy. 

"Paid him off, " said Mike. 

"What, Jake Grumble?"

"Yes. "

"Good. Tell me all about it. "

And Mike did tell him all about it. 

"Well, I do say for it, Mike, " said the other boy, after listening tothe whole story, "you are just the queerest fellow that I ever saw orheard of. "

"But don't you think that was about the best way to pay him off, after all?" asked Mike. 

"Well, " said the other boy, after a moment's pause, "I declare I don'tknow but it was, when I come to think of it. "

And don't _you_ think it was the best way to pay him off, reader? Ido, and I should be glad if every body would learn to pay such debtsin very much the same way. It may be a very queer mode of takingrevenge. But it seems to me quite a sensible one; and I am sure it isa thousand times better than the mode that people so often choose. IfI am not greatly mistaken, indeed, it is just the mode that isrecommended in the word of God, which says, "If thine enemy hunger, feed him; if he thirst, give him to drink; for, in so doing, thoushalt heap coals of fire on his head. "

CHAP. VII. 

MIKE'S CROTCHETS IN WAR-TIME. 

You have heard a great deal about the Revolutionary War. You haveheard what hardships our forefathers went through, while they werefighting the battles of liberty. But I doubt if you can form, in yourown mind, any thing like a true picture of what those brave mensuffered. Why, many of them had to go barefoot, for whole weeks at atime, right in the heart of winter. They could hardly get food to eat;and many and many a time, if it had not been for the thought that theywere engaged in a good cause, and that God was on their side, theymust have been discouraged, and given up all as lost. But they did notgive up. They stood firm at their post, until they either fell beforetheir enemies, or perished by fatigue and exposure. 

When the tidings came to the neighborhood where Mike Marble lived, that Washington's noble band were suffering every thing but death atValley Forge, every man and woman, that could boast of any thing inthe shape of a heart, were moved with pity. And they were not thepeople to let their kind feelings go off in fog and smoke. They werenot blustering people. They believed in _acting_, as well as in_talking_. When they had heard the sad news, the next question was, "Can we _do_ any thing?" That question was soon answered. The nextwas, "_What_ can we do?" Well, it was pretty soon found out that allcould do something--that some could do one thing, and some another;but that every family in the parish could do something. 

So they went to work. The mothers and daughters went to knittingstockings, and making under garments for the soldiers. Every chest ofdrawers, and wardrobe, and closet in the house was ransacked, to findbed-quilts and blankets for the army. And the fathers and sons, theywent to work, with a right good will, to get shoes, and hats, andcoats, and other articles of wearing apparel, so as to have them readyat the time the agent from the commander-in-chief should pass throughthe place. 

The younger branches of the families in that neighborhood, too, caughtthe spirit of their fathers and mothers. I must tell you a story aboutthe agency of the little folks in furnishing supplies for the army. 

Mike Marble asked his father, one day, if he might call a meeting ofthe boys and girls at his house, to talk over war matters. The old manlaughed, and said he might, if he chose. "But what do you childrenexpect to do for the army, Mike?" he added. "What can you do, Ishould like to know?"

"I don't know, father, " was the reply, "but I guess we can all dosomething; I'm pretty sure I can, for one. "

Well, the meeting was called. The schoolmaster gave out notice, oneafternoon, that all the boys and girls were invited to Mr. MarcusMarble's house, the next Wednesday, at "early candlelight, " and, toquote the precise language of Mike's invitation--for he had it allwritten out, and the schoolmaster read it word for word--that businessof importance would be brought before the meeting, which would bemade known at that time. 

When the hour of "early candlelight" arrived, and, indeed, before thehour of late daylight had closed, there was a crowd of boys and girlsassembled in Mr. Marble's kitchen, to talk over matters and thingsabout the war. They appointed a chairman, (if chairman he could becalled, who had numbered less than a dozen summers, ) the object of themeeting was stated, and they went as orderly to work in theirdeliberations, as if they had been playing statesmen for half acentury. Only one grown person--Mr. Marble--was admitted into thekitchen, and he was there only as a listener. He did not take any partin the proceedings. 

My grandfather was the chairman of the evening, and the principalorator was Mike Marble. His speech at the time was not reported, norhave I any notes of it at hand. But my grandfather used to say it wasone of the most eloquent addresses he ever heard in his life. I caneasily believe it. One half of what is necessary in an orator is _tofeel_ what he says. If he feels, it is not so much, matter in whatshape the words come from his mouth. I am a firm believer in a goodstyle. People who speak in public ought to use chaste and elegantlanguage. But a good style, and ever so good a delivery, are worth butlittle, unless the speaker has a soul, and unless he can make hishearers feel because he feels. 

Mike was in earnest. It looked a little like boy's play, to be sure, to see that group of children there, talking about great principles. But it was something more than play. Mike was in earnest, and hiswords, as he was describing the sufferings of the army at ValleyForge, came warm and flowing from his heart. If the character of aspeech can be judged of from the effect it has, certainly the one fromMike Marble deserves a high rank; for he carried all the boys andgirls along with him. Other speeches were made; but Mike was theWebster of the evening. 

Well, what do you think that little band of patriots resolved to do? Idoubt whether you can guess. The first thing they did was to find outhow much cash each one had laid aside, to be used for spending moneyon such occasions as Thanksgiving, and Christmas, and Training day. 

"For my part, " said Mike, "I would rather never spend another cent forsugar plums in my life, than to have the soldiers go barefoot on thesnow. I tell you what it is, fellow-countrymen--(Mr. Marble wasobserved by the chairman to bite his lips, to keep in a good roundlaugh, when those words, _fellow-countrymen_, came out)--I tell youwhat it is, the things that are wanted now are boots, and shoes, andstockings, and jackets--and not gingerbread, and sugar plums, andspruce beer, and gimcracks of that kind. "

When the little patriots came to count up their money, they found itamounted to more than ten dollars. And it was none of your paltrycontinental stuff. It was all made up of good hard silver and copper. 

The next thing they did was to appoint a treasurer, to take charge ofthe money, and to see that it was paid over to Washington's agent, whowas to be instructed to pay it all out in shoes. And that was not allthese young statesmen did. They resolved that they would give to thearmy every cent of all the spending money they might get, as long asthe war lasted. Didn't they do their work pretty well, my little lad?I think they did. They did what they could. La Fayette and Washingtondid no more. You will smile when I tell you one thing which wasproposed that evening. One of the boys thought it would be a good planto turn over to the poor soldiers all the stockings and shoesbelonging to the assembly. He thought they could get along betterwalking on the snow with their bare feet, than the troops could. Butsome one, with a little more forethought than this generous-heartedspeaker, suggested that the soldiers at Valley Forge would find itdifficult to get on such stockings and shoes as the Blue Hill boys hadto bestow. So that scheme failed. But it shows what stuff those ladswere made of. It shows what kind, generous, noble, self-denying heartsbeat in their bosoms. 

I declare to you I am more than ever proud of my native land, when Ithink what our ancestors did, in old times, to obtain our freedom forus. God grant that we may know how to value our blessings, that we mayever be thankful for them, and that we may not abuse the liberty thathas been given to us. I do not want my young readers to grow up, withtheir hearts full of the spirit of war. I love peace more than war. War I know to be a terrible thing. Seldom, very seldom would I go towar--never, unless for some great principle, such as that for whichour forefathers contended. No, I do not wish to have you get yourheads and hearts full of the war spirit. But I do want you to bepatriots. I want you to love your country; to be willing to makesacrifices for it; to look upon it as the brightest and dearest spoton earth. Our liberty cost a great deal--a great deal of money, ofhardship, of suffering, and, what is more valuable than all, a greatdeal of blood. It cost too much to be lightly valued--too much to betrifled with. Take care that you never get into the habit which some, who are much older than you, have fallen into, of looking upon theunion of these states as a matter, after all has been said and done, of not much consequence. I tell you the bonds which bind us togetheris a sacred one; and, next to the tie which binds us together infamilies, ought to be, to you and to me, the dearest tie on earth. 

CHAP. VIII. 

THE BUMBLE-BEES' NEST. 

All the boys and girls who live in the country, and probably a largeshare of those who live in the city, know the bumble-bee. We had alittle different name for him in our neighborhood. _Bumble-bee_ was, however, the only name the family was known by, in Willow Lane, and Ithink it quite possible that such a corruption, (if it is acorruption, and the wise ones tell us it is, though I should like tosee them beat the notion into the head of any one of the hundredchildren who went to our school, ) is very common in New England. 

The nests of these insects, you may not be aware, are made in theground. These nests are frequently found in meadows, about the timethe grass is mowed; and it not unfrequently happens that the mowerdisturbs one of these nests with his scythe, in which case, the firstinformation the poor man obtains of the existence of the nest is froma score or two of the bumble-bees themselves--(we'll call them_bumble-bees_, for the sake of peace, though I must confess I feel agreat partiality for the name by which I knew the rogues when I usedto be familiar with their nests)--the bumble-bees themselves, who flyinto his face, before he has time to retreat, and sting him until theyget tired of the sport. 

In these nests, there is usually more or less honey. Sometimes thereis half a pint, or more. This honey is very palatable; and it is notan uncommon thing for children to brave the danger of being stung bythe bees, for the sake of capturing a nest and getting possession ofits treasures. For myself, I never was ambitious of getting renown bysuch means as besieging a bumble-bee's nest. 

I'll tell you what I did perform, though, once on a time, which wasclosely connected with the race of insects I am speaking of. It is acommon tradition among country boys, that white-faced bumble-beesnever sting, and that you can take them in your hands with perfectsafety. This tradition may have truth at the bottom of it, or it maynot. I cannot tell, and I shall not stop to debate the question now. It is certain that there is an insect, very much resembling thebumble-bee, and of about the same size, who, nevertheless, is a verydifferent fellow. This is the chap that bores holes into dry wood, asnicely as you can bore with a gimlet, on which account he is sometimescalled the borer. This insect does not sting. No thanks to him, though, for not stinging. He has no instrument to sting with. Foraught I know, he may have ever so good a _will_ to sting; but he hasno _power_ to do so, any more than a grasshopper or a butterfly. 

Well, I wanted to show some of the boys, one day, how smart I was. Ihad an idea that I could teach them something, and at the same timeget the credit for a little bit of bravery. 

"Do you see that saucy chap there, " I asked, "on that clover blossom?"

"Yes, " said one of the boys, "it is a bumble-bee. " This time I must bepermitted to say the spelling of the word, because the boys inpronouncing it, give the sound of the _b_, and I, as a historian, must report their conversation faithfully. 

"Well. " I said, "what will you give me, if I'll take this fellow in myhand. "

It was intimated that nothing could be expected from the boys, butthat the bumble-bee would be likely to give me something which I wouldremember, until "the cows came home. " I don't know what period in thefuture that intended to point to, but I know that was a commonexpression among us all--one which we used, I suppose, withoutstopping to think what it meant, or how it got into use. 

"I dare do it, " I said. I was as bold as a lion. 

"You had better not, " said the boys. 

I did it, though. I caught the bumble-bee, and held him fast in myhand. But if ever a poor fellow got handsomely and foolishly stung, Iwas that unfortunate youth; and the worst of it was, that while I wasdancing about, and wringing my hand, and crying, on account of thepain, my companions were doing quite another thing: they were holdinga laughing concert, at my expense. 

It is hardly necessary to add, that my white-faced bumble-bee turnedout to be an enemy in disguise. After that event, I made a closerexamination of the faces of this class of insects, and becamesatisfied that there was one tribe of bumble-bees who wore a face of apale yellow color, resembling somewhat the genuine borer, but who, forall that, could sting as well as any of their race with black faces. 

This feat was as near as I ever got toward the glory of capturing anest of bumble-bees. I have tasted the honey which came from theirnests, though, many a time, and I have seen other boys capture thenests. 

Billy Bolton was a great fellow at that kind of sport. Billy livedwith Uncle Mike. He did _chores_--to use a word common enough in NewEngland, though, possibly, not an elegant one--on Mr. Marble's farm;that is, he went for the cows and drove them to pasture, fed the pigsand poultry, brought water and chips for the "women folks, " and ran oferrands. 

It was a favorite sport with Billy, in the summer time, to hunt forbumble-bees' nests, and to "take them up, " as the process of capturingthem was called. Uncle Mike did not like to indulge the boy in thiskind of sport. Perhaps he thought it a cruel and unfeeling kind offun; and I know he had too kind a heart, to see a boy growing up inhis family with a taste for cruelty to animals of any kind. At anyrate, the danger connected with the sport was enough to condemn it inthe mind of Mr. Marble. 

He had forbidden Billy and his own children having any thing to dowith the sport. Still, it seemed Billy found means to amuse himself, now and then, in a sly way, by taking up a bumble-bees' nest. 

One day, Mr. Marble and his men were engaged in the meadow, raking hayand carting it into the barn. Billy was in the meadow, too, at workamong the hay, raking after the cart, I presume, as that used to bethe task always allotted to me when I was of his age. In a corner ofthe lot, at some distance from the place where Mr. Marble and his menwere at work, there was a large bottle containing water--nothing butwater, reader; there was no rum drank on Mr. Marble's farm. Billy wassent after the bottle. He was gone a good while--longer, Mr. Marblethought, than was necessary. The matter was examined, when it turnedout that Billy had got into trouble with a nest of bumble-bees. He haddiscovered a nest of these wretches, it appears; and, the temptationto wage war against them being very strong, he had stopped a moment, just to take up the nest. 

Poor fellow! It proved to be a _taking in_, instead of a _taking up_, and the taking in was on the other side. When he saw that thebumble-bees had outwitted him, he snatched up the bottle, which he hadthrown down, and which was lying near, and ran, as fast as his legswould let him, towards the place where the men were at work. But thebees flew faster than he could run. It was a comic scene enough to seethe fellow running at the top of his speed, and some fifty bumble-beesafter him, once in a while giving expression to their feelings, bysaluting him, in their peculiar way, in the face and on the neck. Didn't the poor fellow scream?

 [Illustration: PAYING FOR MISCHIEF. ]

But this was not the whole of the joke. Indeed, it was hardly therichest part of it. Mr. Marble, who saw what was going on, stood readywith his cart whip; and when Billy made his appearance, with aregiment of bumble-bees about his ears, he commenced beating him withthe whip. Away ran the boy, and Mr. Marble chased him some half adozen rods, and gave him about as many blows with the cart whip. 

"There, you young rogue!" said Mr. Marble, as he turned to go back tohis work again, "between me and the bumble-bees, I guess you havelearned one good lesson thoroughly this afternoon. You will be a wiserboy, I think, after this. You will be a _smarter_ one, I'm sure; atleast, for a while. "

CHAP. IX. 

HOW A BARN WAS BUILT. 

Mike Marble, as I think I have said before, was a kind-hearted man. But he had his own way of doing every thing, and that way was verygenerally quite unlike most other people's way. No man ever likedbetter to do any body a good turn. But he had his crotchets about anact of charity, as well as about every thing else. 

A neighbor went to him once, to ask him for some money to aid him inbuilding a barn. The old one had burned down, and it was a great lossto him, he said. He hardly knew how he should get along, unless hisneighbor loaned him a little money. 

But Uncle Mike refused the neighbor's petition. "Money was scarce, very scarce. " That was all the answer the unfortunate man could getfrom Mike Marble. 

"This is strange enough, " he mused in his own mind, as he walked awayfrom Mr. Marble's door. "Strange enough! so kind-hearted and generousas he always has been, when any body was in distress. "

The next day, however, bright and early, Uncle Mike yoked up his oxen, (some three pairs, I believe, including the _steers_, which neededsomething more than _moral suasion_ to keep them straight, ) fastenedthem to the cart, and posted off, with two or three men, to the sawmill. There he and his men loaded the cart with boards and planks. Then he drove straight to the house of the unfortunate neighbor, opened the great gate, without saying a word to any member of thefamily, went into the door yard with his load, and threw it off withina few yards of the spot where the old barn stood. 

"What on earth does all that mean?" thought the female portion of thefamily. The farmer and his boys were not at home at the time. Nothingwas said, however. 

Again Uncle Mike drove over to the mill; again he put on a load oftimber; again he threw it off near the site of the old barn. Threeloads were discharged there, and then he directed his men to go homewith the team. He himself went to one of his neighbors, and asked himif he had any timber of any kind already sawed at Squire Murdock'smill. 

"Yes, " was the answer, "a little; why?"

"Well, I want some of it, if it's the right kind. What is it?"

"I don't recollect exactly--some white oak joists, I guess, and someinch boards. "

"Good. Just what I want. "

Suffice it to say, that Mike Marble did not leave his neighbor beforehe got a promise from him that he would contribute a load or two ofhis timber to rebuild that barn. Then he went to another neighbor, andanother, and did something like the same errand, with very much thesame sort of success. He called on a _boss_ carpenter, too, andsecured his services in framing the barn; and, on his way home, hestopped at Slocum's blacksmith's shop, and got the promise of somenails. 

Well, it was not long before the neighbors were all called together toraise Deacon Metcalf's barn, and it was not long after that beforethe building was ready for use. And how much do you think it cost him?Not a cent--not a single cent, the neighbors managed the thing sowell. Even the good things on the supper table, when they had their"raising bee, " were sent in by the neighbors. 

And the whole scheme, you see, came from the crotchety brain of ourfriend, Mike Marble. That was his way of building a neighbor's barn, when any help was needed for that purpose. 

CHAP. X. 

ANOTHER BLOCK OF MARBLE. 

This story about the building of the deacon's barn brings to my mindanother, pretty closely related to it. Will you hear that, too?

One morning, as Uncle Mike was walking out, he saw a boy sitting downon the door steps of one of his neighbors. Upon a closer inspection ofthe lad it appeared that he was a poor boy, without any parents, who was wandering about, doing odd jobs, here and there, and gettingwhat people had a mind to pay him for his services. 

 [Illustration: MIKE MARBLE AND THE BEGGAR. ]

He was not a common vagrant, exactly, and yet he came very near beingone. It was not supposed that he was a vicious boy; still it could notbe denied that the life he led was tolerably well calculated to makehim vicious, and most of the neighbors were afraid to have him abouttheir houses, without keeping a sharp look out on his movements. 

Mr. Marble had heard of the lad, though it so happened that he hadnever met him until this time. 

"Hallo, there, my boy!" said Uncle Mike, "what are you so busy about?"

"Eating a cold johnny-cake, sir, " was the laconic answer. 

"And how do you like it?"

"Pretty well, though I guess a little butter wouldn't hurt it. "

"Look here, my lad, " said Uncle Mike, "what do you do generally for aliving?"

"A little of every thing. "

"Are you willing to work?"

"Yes, sir, if I can get any thing for it. "

"Will you work for me?"

"I wouldn't mind trying it. "

"I am a hard-working man. Will you work like a dog, if I'll let youtry?"

"Please, sir, I'd rather work like a boy. "

"Good. You shall go home with me. "

And he took the boy home with him. The first thing he set him aboutwas weeding the onion bed. It was hard work, as I know fromexperience. Oh, how it makes a poor fellow's back ache, to stoop downand weed onions for half a day. You must know that you can't use thehoe more than about a quarter of the time. If you could, the workwould be comparatively easy and pleasant. But you can't do that. Youmust bend right down to the task, as if you really loved the onions, and were nursing them, as a fond mother nurses a pet child. 

"Well, Fred, " said the old gentleman, when the dinner horn blew itsblast of invitation for the workmen to come in and pay their respectsto Mrs. Marble's boiled pork and cabbage, "well, Fred, how do you likeweeding onion beds?"

"Very well, sir, " said the boy. 

"And would you like to keep at it all the afternoon?"

"I would like to please you, sir. That's what I came here for. "

The old man was so much delighted with this answer, that he not onlylaughed at it all the time he was at dinner, but he told it all overthe neighborhood in less than a week. 

"Well, Fred, " said he, "I guess you've done enough of that sort ofwork for one day. I want you to do two or three errands after you havedone your dinner. "

And he sent the lad to I don't know how many different places, to doall sorts of errands. Among other things he directed him to do, was togo to the store with money, to purchase some little articles for hiswife. You see the old man wanted to try the new comer, and see if hewas faithful. 

Well, every thing was done properly, and Uncle Mike was satisfied. 

The next day, Fred had other tasks given to him. His employerselected those which were hardest and most unpleasant, as he said, "tobreak the little fellow in. " I'll tell you one thing he did. He senthim out to catch the old mare. Now the old mare had a knack of kickingthose who came to catch her, when she was not perfectly satisfied withtheir mode of doing the business; and she did not at all like the slyand timid way in which Fred came up to her, with the bridle concealedbehind his back. She was a great lover of fair and open dealing;though, like some others of her race, that I am acquainted with, aswell as some who belong to quite a different race, and who have thename of being a good deal wiser, she did not always practice herselfthe virtues she so highly commended in others. 

She waited until the lad had got within a few feet of her, and thenshe whirled round, before the poor fellow, who was half frightened outof his wits, could have time to get out of her way, and let her heelsfly into the air over his head. It was well for the boy that she tookher aim so high. If it had been a foot or two lower, the _breakingin_ would have been an expensive one to Fred--a very expensive one, indeed. 

In such ways as those I have named, and in a great many other ways, which I need not name, Uncle Mike tried the boy, to see what he wasmade of. He found out, before long, what he was made of. He found outthat there was just such stuff in him as he liked. The more he triedhim--the more he "broke him in"--the better he was pleased with him. 

Well, I'll tell you how that affair with the beggar turned--for Imust not make too long a story of it--Uncle Mike brought up the lad. He taught him all the mysteries of farming, and treated him as if hewere a member of his own family--one of his own children--until he wastwenty-one. Then he told him he was free to go where he chose. He gavehim a hundred dollars in money, a yoke of oxen, a fine colt, and, whatwas of more value than all, his blessing. 

 [Illustration: MIKE MARBLE IN HIS OLD AGE. ]

And what do you think became of Fred? He turned out to be not only agood farmer, but a good neighbor, and a good man, every way. Thatsame man, who was once a beggar, and who, but for Uncle Mike's odd wayof doing a kind act for him, might have remained a beggar, is now oneof the most highly respected men in his parish, with enough propertyto make him and his family comfortable, as well as some to spare forthe comfort of others. 

CHAP. XI. 

MIKE MARBLE'S LAST DAYS. 

I should love to chat about my old friend a good while longer. Butperhaps I had better stop, for fear you may get tired of the theme. Imust tell you a little about his old age, then I will leave off. 

He was one of the happiest old men I ever knew. He was alwayscheerful. One could never meet him in the street, and look into hispleasant face, without catching something of his cheerfulness. Badhumor is catching, you know, as much as the small pox, or the cankerrash, and so is good humor, too. At all events, I remember that once, when I felt ever so much "out of sorts, " because things did not goright, I came across Uncle Mike, on my way to school, and a chat ofabout half a minute completely sweetened my temper. 

There was nothing which Uncle Mike liked better, after his hair--thelittle hair that time had spared to him--was whitened with age, thanto have a group of children about him, coaxing him to tell themstories. 

Dear old man! my heart blesses him now, as my memory recalls thescenes in which he used to take a part. With all his oddities andcrotchets, he always had a kind and warm heart beating in his bosom. Idon't believe that he ever had an enemy in the world. Every body, italways seemed to me, respected him, and those who knew him most, lovedhim best. 

He possessed an art which is worth more than the finest farm inAmerica. It was the art of being happy himself, and of making othershappy. He was never out of humor. Nobody could get him into a passion. I never heard of his having wounded the feelings of a singleindividual, during all the time that I was acquainted with him. 

Now some people will say, "Oh, it was Mike Marble's way. That was hisdisposition. He could not help being good-natured. It came natural tohim to make friends. It was as easy for him to scatter happiness allaround him, as it was to breathe. " I don't know about all that. Theremay have been something--probably there was something--in MikeMarble's natural disposition, which was pleasant and cheerful. But Iguess it cost him some effort to live in the sunshine so constantly. There is such a thing, reader--and I hope you will mark these wordswell--there is such a thing as keeping the heart fresh, and green, andtender, and loving, by one's own effort; and there is such a thing, too, as letting the heart, by neglect and want of culture, become oldbefore its time, and dry, and tough, and crabbed. You can school youraffections. Did you know that? I'll tell you how to dry up all thelove and kindness you may have. Shut up your heart, as an oyster doesits shell. Shut it up, and be selfish. Do so, and you will soon besick enough of the world, and the world will be sick enough of you. But I would not do that, if I were in your place. I would advise youto try to keep the heart open, by doing all the kind acts you can. ButI must end my tale of Mike Marble. 

Dear old man! He has gone to his rest. His voice long since ceased tobe heard on earth. He died as he lived--cheerfully and peacefully. TheSaviour, in whom he had trusted, was with him in his dying hour, and Icannot doubt that that good man went to dwell with the angels. 

Reader, may you, like him, live a life of usefulness, and may you takeyour leave of the world as peacefully, as hopefully, as cheerfully, at

THE END. 

_Woodworth's Juvenile Works. _

PHILLIPS, SAMPSON & CO. 

PUBLISH THE FOLLOWING JUVENILE WORKS, By Francis C. Woodworth, EDITOR OF "WOODWORTH'S YOUTH'S CABINET, "

AUTHOR OF "THE WILLOW LANE BUDGET, " "THE STRAWBERRY GIRL, " "THE MILLEROF OUR VILLAGE, " "THEODORE THINKER'S TALES, " ETC. ETC. 

UNCLE FRANK'S BOYS' AND GIRLS' LIBRARY. 

 _A Beautiful Series, comprising six volumes, square 12mo. , with eight Tinted Engravings in each volume. The following are their titles respectively_:

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II. THE DIVING BELL; or, PEARLS TO BE SOUGHT FOR. 

III. THE POOR ORGAN-GRINDER, AND OTHER STORIES. 

IV. OUR SUE: HER MOTTO AND ITS USES. 

V. MIKE MARBLE: HIS CROTCHETS AND ODDITIES. 

VI. THE WONDERFUL LETTER-BAG OF KIT CURIOUS. 

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WOODWORTH'S STORIES ABOUT ANIMALS. 12mo. , with Illuminated Title, andupwards of Fifty Beautiful Engravings; pp. 336. 

WOODWORTH'S STORIES ABOUT BIRDS. Uniform with the above. With Sixtysplendid Engravings; pp. 336. 

These two volumes, containing characteristic anecdotes, told in a racyand pleasing vein, are among the most entertaining books of the kindto be found in the English language. 

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UNCLE FRANK'S PEEP AT THE BEASTS. Square 12mo. Profusely Illustrated;pp. 160. 

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These two volumes are written in the simplest style, and with words, for the most part, of two and three syllables. They are exceedinglypopular among children. 

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