Over against the wall on one side was a faded green sofa. It was not an inviting1 seat, for in some places the springs peeped through, and one of its legs was broken, giving it a suspicious tilt2 against the wall. But a certain little boy found one corner of the rickety old sofa a very comfortable place, and he used to curl up there nearly every day, reading such stray newspapers as he could lay hands on, and watching the people come and go.
To the little boy the stock of goods displayed for sale was as curious in its variety as the people who called day after day for the letters that came or that failed to come. To some dainty persons the mingled3 odor of cheese, cam-phene, and mackerel would have been disagreeable; but Joe Maxwell—that was the name of the little boy—had a healthy disposition4 and a strong stomach, and he thought the queer little post-office was one of the pleasantest places in the world.
A partition of woodwork and wire netting cut off the post-office and the little stock of groceries from the public at large, but outside of that was an area where a good many people could stand and wait for their letters. In one corner of this area was the rickety green sofa, and round about were chairs and boxes and barrels on which tired people could rest themselves.
The Milledgeville papers had a large circulation in the county. They were printed at the capital of the State, and were thought to be very important on that account. They had so many readers in the neighborhood that the postmaster, in order to save time and trouble, used to pile them up on a long shelf outside the wooden partition, where each subscriber5 could help himself. Joe Maxwell took advantage of this method, and on Tuesdays, when the Milledgeville papers arrived, he could always be found curled up in the corner of the old green sofa reading the Recorder and the Federal union. What he found in those papers to interest him it would be hard to say. They were full of political essays that were popular in those days, and they had long reports of political conventions and meetings from all parts of the State. They were papers for grown people, and Joe Maxwell was only twelve years old, and small for his age.
There was another place that Joe found it pleasant to visit, and that was a lawyer’s office in one of the rooms of the old tavern6 that looked out on the pillared veranda7. It was a pleasant place to him, not because it was a law-office, but because it was the office of a gentleman who was very friendly to the youngster. The gentleman’s name was Mr. Deometari, and Joe called him Mr. Deo, as did the other people of Hillsborough. He was fat and short and wore whiskers, which gave him a peculiar8 appearance at that time. All the rest of the men that Joe knew wore either a full beard or a mustache and an imperial. For that reason Mr. Deometari’s whiskers were very queer-looking. He was a Greek, and there was a rumor9 among the people about town that he had been compelled to leave his country on account of his politics. Joe never knew until long afterward10 that politics could be a crime. He thought that politics consisted partly in newspaper articles signed “Old Subscriber” and “Many Citizens” and “Vox Populi” and “Scrutator,” and partly in arguments between the men who sat in fine weather on the dry-goods boxes under the china-trees. But there was a mystery about Mr. Deometari, and it pleased the lad to imagine all sorts of romantic stories about the fat lawyer. Although Mr. Deometari was a Greek, there was no foreign twang to his tongue. Only as close an observer as the boy could have told from his talk that he was a foreigner. He was a good lawyer and a good speaker, and all the other lawyers seemed to like him. They enjoyed his company so well that it was only occasionally that Joe found him in his office alone.
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Once Mr. Deometari took from his closet a military uniform and put it on. Joe Maxwell thought it was the most beautiful uniform he had ever seen. Gold braid ran down the sides of the trousers, gold cords hung loosely on the breast of the coat, and a pair of tremendous epaulets surmounted11 the shoulders. The hat was something like the hats Joe had seen in picture-books. It was caught up at the sides with little gold buttons, and trimmed with a long black feather that shone like a pigeon’s breast. Fat as Mr. Deometari was, the lad thought he looked very handsome in his fine uniform. This was only one incident. In his room, which was a large one, Mr. Deometari had boxes packed with books, and he gave Joe leave to ransack12 them. Many of the volumes were in strange tongues, but among them were some quaint13 old English books, and these the lad relished14 beyond measure. After a while Mr. Deometari closed his office and went away to the war.
It would not be fair to say that Joe was a studious lad. On the contrary, he was of an adventurous15 turn of mind, and he was not at all fond of the books that were in his desk at Hillsborough Academy. He was full of all sorts of pranks16 and capers18, and there were plenty of people in the little town ready to declare that he would come to some bad end if he was not more frequently dosed with what the old folks used to call hickory oil. Some of Joe Maxwell’s pranks were commonplace, but others were ingenious enough to give him quite a reputation for humor, and one prank17 in particular is talked of by the middle-aged19 people of Hillsborough to this day.
The teacher of the academy had organized a military company among the pupils—it was just about the time when rumors20 and hints of war had begun to take shape—and a good deal of interest was felt in the organization, especially by the older boys. Of this company Joe Maxwell was the fourth corporal, a position which gave him a place at the foot of the company. The Hillsborough Cadets drilled every school-day, and sometimes on Saturdays, and they soon grew to be very proud of their proficiency21.
At last, after a good deal of manoeuvring on the playgrounds and in the public square, the teacher, who was the captain, concluded that the boys had earned a vacation, and it was decided22 that the company should go into camp for a week on the Oconee River, and fish and hunt and have a good time generally. The boys fairly went wild when the announcement was made, and some of them wanted to hug the teacher, who had hard work to explain that an attempt of this sort was not in accord with military tactics or discipline.
All the arrangements were duly made. Tents were borrowed from the Hillsborough Rifles, and the drum corps23 of that company was hired to make music. A half-dozen wagons24 carried the camp outfit25 and the small boys, while the larger ones marched. It was an entirely26 new experience for Joe Maxwell, and he enjoyed it as only a healthy and high-spirited boy could enjoy it. The formal and solemn way in which the guard was mounted was very funny to him, and the temptation to make a joke of it was too strong to be resisted.
The tents were pitched facing each other, with the officers’ tent at the head of the line thus formed. At the other end of the lane and a little to the rear was the baggage-tent, in which the trunks, boxes, and commissaries were stored. Outside of all, the four sentinels marched up and down. The tents were pitched in an old field that was used as a pasture, and Joe noticed during the afternoon two mules28 and a horse browsing29 around. He noticed, too, that these animals were very much disturbed, especially when the drums began to beat, and that their curiosity would not permit them to get very far from the camp, no matter how frightened they were.
It happened that one of Joe’s messmates was to go on guard duty at twelve o’clock that night. He was a fat, awkward, good-natured fellow, this messmate, and a heavy sleeper30, too, so that, when the corporal of the guard undertook to arouse him, all the boys in the tent were awakened31. All except Joe quickly went to sleep again, but this enterprising youngster quietly put on his clothes, and, in the confusion of changing the guard, slipped out of the lines and hid in a convenient gully not far from the camp.
It was his intention to worry if not to frighten his messmate, and while he lay there trying to think out the best plan to pursue, he heard the horse and mules trampling32 and snorting not very far off. Their curiosity was not yet satisfied, and they seemed to be making their way toward the camp for the purpose of reconnoitering.
Joe’s mind was made up in an instant.
He slipped down the gully until the animals were between him and the camp, and then, seizing a large pine brush that happened to be lying near, he sprang toward them. The mules and horse were ripe for a stampede. The camp itself was an object of suspicion, and this attack from an unexpected quarter was too much for them. Snorting with terror they rushed in the direction of the tents. The sleepy sentinel, hearing them coming, fired his gun in the air and ran yelling into the camp, followed by the horse and one of the mules. The other mule27 shied to the right when the gun was fired, and ran into the baggage-tent. There was a tremendous rattle33 and clatter34 of boxes, pots, pans, and crockery ware35. The mule, crazed with fright, made a violent effort to get through the tent, but it caught him in some way. Finally, the ropes that held it down gave way, and the mule, with the tent flapping and flopping36 on his back, turned and rushed through the camp. To all but Joe Maxwell it was a horrifying37 sight. Many of the boys, as the saying is, “took to the woods,” and some of them were prostrated38 with fright. These were consequences that Joe had not counted on, and it was a long time before he confessed to his share in the night’s sport. The results reached further than the camp. In another part of the plantation39 the negroes were holding a revival40 meeting in the open air, preaching and shouting and singing. Toward this familiar scene the mule made his way, squealing41, braying42, and kicking, the big white tent flopping on his back. As the terrified animal circled around the place, the negroes cried out that Satan had come, and the panic that ensued among them is not easily described. Many thought that the apparition43 was the ushering44 in of the judgment-day, while by far the greater number firmly believed that the “Old Boy” himself was after them. The uproar45 they made could be plainly heard at the camp, more than a mile away—shrieks, screams, yells, and cries for mercy. After it was all over, and Joe Maxwell had crept quietly to bed, the thought came to him that it was not such a fine joke, after all, and he lay awake a long time repenting46 the night’s work. He heard the next day that nobody had been hurt and that no serious damage had been done, but it was many weeks before he forgave himself for his thoughtless prank.
Although Joe was fond of fun, and had a great desire to be a clown in a circus or to be the driver of a stage-coach—just such a red and yellow coach, with “U. S. M.” painted on its doors, as used to carry passengers and the mails between Hillsborough and Rockville—he never permitted his mind to dwell on these things. He knew very well that the time would soon come when he would have to support his mother and himself. This thought used to come to him again and again when he was sitting in the little post-office, reading the Milledgeville papers.
It so happened that these papers grew very interesting to both old and young as the days went by. The rumors of war had developed into war itself. In the course of a few months two companies of volunteers had gone to Virginia from Hillsborough, and the little town seemed to be lonelier and more deserted47 than ever. Joe Maxwell noticed, as he sat in the post-office, that only a very few old men and ladies came after the letters and papers, and he missed a great many faces that used to smile at him as he sat reading, and some of them he never saw again. He noticed, too, that when there had been a battle or a skirmish the ladies and young girls came to the post-office more frequently. When the news was very important, one of the best-known citizens would mount a chair or a dry-goods box and read the telegrams aloud to the waiting and anxious group of people, and sometimes the hands and the voice of the reader trembled.
One day while Joe Maxwell was sitting in the post-office looking over the Milledgeville papers, his eye fell on an advertisement that interested him greatly. It seemed to bring the whole world nearer to him. The advertisement set forth48 the fact that on next Tuesday the first number of The Countryman, a weekly paper would be published. It would be modeled after Mr. Addison’s little paper, the Spectator, Mr. Goldsmith’s little paper, the Bee, and Mr. Johnson’s little paper, the Rambler. It would be edited by J. A. Turner, and it would be issued on the plantation of the editor, nine miles from Hillsborough. Joe read this advertisement over a dozen times, and it was with a great deal of impatience49 that he waited for the next Tuesday to come.
But the day did come, and with it came the first issue of The Countryman. Joe read it from beginning to end, advertisements and all, and he thought it was the most entertaining little paper he had ever seen. Among the interesting things was an announcement by the editor that he wanted a boy to learn the printing business. Joe borrowed pen and ink and some paper from the friendly postmaster, and wrote a letter to the editor, saying that he would be glad to learn the printing business. The letter was no doubt an awkward one, but it served its purpose, for when the editor of The Countryman came to Hillsborough he hunted Joe up, and told him to get ready to go to the plantation. The lad, not without some misgivings50, put away his tops and marbles, packed his little belongings51 in an old-fashioned trunk, kissed his mother and his grandmother good-by, and set forth on what, turned out to be the most important journey of his life.
Sitting in the buggy by the side of the editor and publisher of The Countryman, Joe Maxwell felt lonely indeed, and this feeling was increased as he went through the little town and heard his schoolmates, who were at their marbles on the public square, bidding him good-by.
He could hardly keep back his tears at this, but, on looking around after the buggy had gone a little way, he saw his friends had returned to their marbles, and the thought struck him that he was already forgotten. Many and many a time after that he thought of his little companions and how quickly they had returned to their marbles.
The editor of The Countryman must have divined what was passing in the lad’s mind (he was a quick-witted man and a clever one, too), for he tried to engage in conversation with Joe. But the boy preferred to nurse his loneliness, and would only talk when he was compelled to answer a question. Finally, the editor asked him if he would drive, and this Joe was glad enough to do, for there is some diversion in holding the reins52 over a spirited horse. The editor’s horse was a large gray, named Ben Bolt, and he was finer than any of the horses that Joe had seen at the livery-stable. Feeling a new and an unaccustomed touch on the reins, Ben Bolt made an effort to give a new meaning to his name by bolting sure enough. The road was level and hard, and the horse ran rapidly for a little distance; but Joe Maxwell’s arms were tough, and before the horse had gone a quarter of a mile the lad had him completely under control.
“You did that very well,” said the editor, who was familiar with Ben Bolt’s tricks. “I didn’t know that little boys in town could drive horses.”
“Oh, sometimes they can,” replied Joe. “If he had been scared, I think I should have been scared myself; but he was only playing. He has been tied at the rack all day, and he must be hungry.”
“Yes,” said the editor, “he is hungry, and he wants to see his mate, Rob Roy.”
Then the editor, in a fanciful way, went on to talk about Ben Bolt and Rob Roy, as if they were persons instead of horses; but it did not seem fanciful to Joe, who had a strange sympathy with animals of all kinds, especially horses and dogs. It pleased him greatly to think that he had ideas in common with a grown man, who knew how to write for the papers; and if the editor was talking to make Joe forget his loneliness he succeeded admirably, for the lad thought no more of the boys who had so quickly returned to their marbles, but only of his mother, whom he had last seen standing53 at the little gate smiling at him through her tears.
“That,” said he, “is where the high sheriff of the county lives. Do you know Colonel John B. Stith?”
“Yes,” Joe replied; “but I thought he lived in a large, fine house. I don’t see how he can get in at that door yonder.”
“What makes you think he is too big for the door?” asked the editor.
“Why, the way he goes on,” said Joe, with the bluntness of youth. “He is always in town talking politics, and he talks bigger than anybody.”
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“Well,” said the editor, laughing, “that is his house. When you get a little older you’ll find people who are more disappointing than the high sheriff. Boys are sometimes too big for their breeches, I’ve heard said, but this is the first time I ever heard that a man could be too big for his house. That is a good one on the colonel.”
Ben Bolt trotted55 along steadily56 and rapidly, but after a while dusk fell, and then the stars came out. Joe peered ahead, trying to make out the road.
“Just let the horse have his way,” said the editor. “He knows the road better than I do”; and it seemed to be so, for, when heavy clouds from the west came up and hid the stars, and only the darkness was visible, Ben Bolt trotted along as steadily as ever. He splashed through Crooked57 Creek58, walked up the long hill, and then started forward more rapidly than ever.
“It is a level road, now,” the editor remarked, “and Ben Bolt is on the home-stretch.”
In a little while he stopped before a large gate. It was opened in a jiffy by some one who seemed to be waiting.
“Is that you, Harbert?” asked the editor.
“Yes, marster.”
“Well, I want you to take Mr. Maxwell here to Mr. Snelson’s.”
“Yasser,” responded the negro.
“Snelson is the foreman of the printing-office,” the editor explained to Joe, “and for the present you are to board with him. I hope he will make things pleasant for you. Goodnight.”
To the lonely lad it seemed a long journey to Mr. Sneison’s—through wide plantation gates, down narrow lanes, along a bit of public road, and then a plunge59 into the depths of a great wood, where presently a light gleamed through.
“I’ll hail ’em,” said Harbert, and he sent before him into the darkness a musical halloo, whereupon, as promptly60 as its echo, came a hearty61 response from the house, with just the faintest touch of the Irish brogue in the voice.
“Ah, and it’s the young man! Jump right down and come in to the warmth of the fire. There’s something hot on the hearth62, where it’s waiting you.”
And so Joe Maxwell entered on a new life—a life as different as possible from that which he had left behind in Hillsborough.
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1
inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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tilt
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| v.(使)倾侧；(使)倾斜；n.倾侧；倾斜 | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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5
subscriber
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| n.用户，订户；（慈善机关等的）定期捐款者；预约者；签署者 | |
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tavern
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| n.小旅馆，客栈；小酒店 | |
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veranda
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| n.走廊；阳台 | |
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8
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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rumor
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| n.谣言，谣传，传说 | |
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10
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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11
surmounted
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| 战胜( surmount的过去式和过去分词 )； 克服（困难）； 居于…之上； 在…顶上 | |
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12
ransack
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| v.彻底搜索，洗劫 | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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relished
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| v.欣赏( relish的过去式和过去分词 )；从…获得乐趣；渴望 | |
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adventurous
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| adj.爱冒险的；惊心动魄的，惊险的，刺激的 | |
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pranks
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| n.玩笑，恶作剧( prank的名词复数 ) | |
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prank
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| n.开玩笑，恶作剧；v.装饰；打扮；炫耀自己 | |
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capers
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| n.开玩笑( caper的名词复数 )；刺山柑v.跳跃，雀跃( caper的第三人称单数 ) | |
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middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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rumors
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| n.传闻( rumor的名词复数 )；[古]名誉；咕哝；[古]喧嚷v.传闻( rumor的第三人称单数 )；[古]名誉；咕哝；[古]喧嚷 | |
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proficiency
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| n.精通，熟练，精练 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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corps
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| n.(通信等兵种的)部队；(同类作的)一组 | |
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wagons
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| n.四轮的运货马车( wagon的名词复数 )；铁路货车；小手推车 | |
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outfit
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| n.（为特殊用途的）全套装备，全套服装 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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mule
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| n.骡子，杂种，执拗的人 | |
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mules
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| 骡( mule的名词复数 )； 拖鞋； 顽固的人； 越境运毒者 | |
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browsing
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| v.吃草( browse的现在分词 )；随意翻阅；（在商店里）随便看看；（在计算机上）浏览信息 | |
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sleeper
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| n.睡眠者，卧车，卧铺 | |
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awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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trampling
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| 踩( trample的现在分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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ware
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| n.(常用复数)商品，货物 | |
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flopping
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| n.贬调v.（指书、戏剧等）彻底失败( flop的现在分词 )；（因疲惫而）猛然坐下；（笨拙地、不由自主地或松弛地）移动或落下；砸锅 | |
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horrifying
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| a.令人震惊的，使人毛骨悚然的 | |
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prostrated
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| v.使俯伏，使拜倒( prostrate的过去式和过去分词 )；（指疾病、天气等）使某人无能为力 | |
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plantation
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| n.种植园，大农场 | |
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revival
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| n.复兴，复苏，（精力、活力等的）重振 | |
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squealing
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| v.长声尖叫，用长而尖锐的声音说( squeal的现在分词 ) | |
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braying
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| v.发出驴叫似的声音( bray的现在分词 )；发嘟嘟声；粗声粗气地讲话（或大笑）；猛击 | |
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43
apparition
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| n.幽灵，神奇的现象 | |
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44
ushering
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的现在分词 ) | |
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uproar
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| n.骚动，喧嚣，鼎沸 | |
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46
repenting
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| 对（自己的所为）感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的现在分词 ) | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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48
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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49
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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50
misgivings
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕；疑虑，担心，恐惧( misgiving的名词复数 )；疑惧 | |
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51
belongings
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| n.私人物品，私人财物 | |
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52
reins
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| 感情，激情； 缰( rein的名词复数 )； 控制手段； 掌管； （成人带着幼儿走路以防其走失时用的）保护带 | |
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53
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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54
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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55
trotted
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| 小跑，急走( trot的过去分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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56
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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57
crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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58
creek
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| n.小溪，小河，小湾 | |
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59
plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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60
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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61
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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62
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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