CHAPTER II. THE BOYS

While Nat takes a good long sleep, I will tell my little readers

something about the boys, among whom he found himself when he woke up.

To begin with our old friends. Franz was a tall lad, of sixteen now, a

regular German, big, blond, and bookish, also very domestic, amiable,

and musical. His uncle was fitting him for college, and his aunt for a

happy home of his own hereafter, because she carefully fostered in him

gentle manners, love of children, respect for women, old and young,

and helpful ways about the house. He was her right-hand man on all

occasions, steady, kind, and patient; and he loved his merry aunt like a

mother, for such she had tried to be to him.

Emil was quite different, being quick-tempered, restless, and

enterprising, bent on going to sea, for the blood of the old vikings

stirred in his veins, and could not be tamed. His uncle promised that he

should go when he was sixteen, and set him to studying navigation, gave

him stories of good and famous admirals and heroes to read, and let him

lead the life of a frog in river, pond, and brook, when lessons were

done. His room looked like the cabin of a man-of-war, for every thing

was nautical, military, and shipshape. Captain Kyd was his delight, and

his favorite amusement was to rig up like that piratical gentleman, and

roar out sanguinary sea-songs at the top of his voice. He would dance

nothing but sailors' hornpipes, rolled in his gait, and was as

nautical in conversation to his uncle would permit. The boys called him

“Commodore,” and took great pride in his fleet, which whitened the

pond and suffered disasters that would have daunted any commander but a

sea-struck boy.

Demi was one of the children who show plainly the effect of intelligent

love and care, for soul and body worked harmoniously together. The

natural refinement which nothing but home influence can teach, gave

him sweet and simple manners: his mother had cherished an innocent and

loving heart in him; his father had watched over the physical growth of

his boy, and kept the little body straight and strong on wholesome food

and exercise and sleep, while Grandpa March cultivated the little mind

with the tender wisdom of a modern Pythagoras, not tasking it with long,

hard lessons, parrot-learned, but helping it to unfold as naturally and

beautifully as sun and dew help roses bloom. He was not a perfect child,

by any means, but his faults were of the better sort; and being early

taught the secret of self-control, he was not left at the mercy of

appetites and passions, as some poor little mortals are, and then

punished for yielding to the temptations against which they have

no armor. A quiet, quaint boy was Demi, serious, yet cheery, quite

unconscious that he was unusually bright and beautiful, yet quick to see

and love intelligence or beauty in other children. Very fond of books,

and full of lively fancies, born of a strong imagination and a spiritual

nature, these traits made his parents anxious to balance them with

useful knowledge and healthful society, lest they should make him one of

those pale precocious children who amaze and delight a family sometimes,

and fade away like hot-house flowers, because the young soul blooms too

soon, and has not a hearty body to root it firmly in the wholesome soil

of this world.

So Demi was transplanted to Plumfield, and took so kindly to the life

there, that Meg and John and Grandpa felt satisfied that they had done

well. Mixing with other boys brought out the practical side of him,

roused his spirit, and brushed away the pretty cobwebs he was so fond of

spinning in that little brain of his. To be sure, he rather shocked

his mother when he came home, by banging doors, saying “by George”

emphatically, and demanding tall thick boots “that clumped like papa's.”

But John rejoiced over him, laughed at his explosive remarks, got the

boots, and said contentedly,

“He is doing well; so let him clump. I want my son to be a manly boy,

and this temporary roughness won't hurt him. We can polish him up by

and by; and as for learning, he will pick that up as pigeons do peas. So

don't hurry him.”

Daisy was as sunshiny and charming as ever, with all sorts of

womanlinesses budding in her, for she was like her gentle mother,

and delighted in domestic things. She had a family of dolls, whom she

brought up in the most exemplary manner; she could not get on without

her little work-basket and bits of sewing, which she did so nicely, that

Demi frequently pulled out his handkerchief to display her neat stitches,

and Baby Josy had a flannel petticoat beautifully made by Sister Daisy.

She like to quiddle about the china-closet, prepare the salt-cellars,

put the spoons straight on the table; and every day went round the

parlor with her brush, dusting chairs and tables. Demi called her a

“Betty,” but was very glad to have her keep his things in order, lend

him her nimble fingers in all sorts of work, and help him with his

lessons, for they kept abreast there, and had no thought of rivalry.

The love between them was as strong as ever; and no one could laugh

Demi out of his affectionate ways with Daisy. He fought her battles

valiantly, and never could understand why boys should be ashamed to

say “right out,” that they loved their sisters. Daisy adored her twin,

thought “my brother” the most remarkable boy in the world, and every

morning, in her little wrapper, trotted to tap at his door with a

motherly “Get up, my dear, it's 'most breakfast time; and here's your

clean collar.”

Rob was an energetic morsel of a boy, who seemed to have discovered the

secret of perpetual motion, for he never was still. Fortunately, he was

not mischievous, nor very brave; so he kept out of trouble pretty well,

and vibrated between father and mother like an affectionate little

pendulum with a lively tick, for Rob was a chatterbox.

Teddy was too young to play a very important part in the affairs of

Plumfield, yet he had his little sphere, and filled it beautifully.

Every one felt the need of a pet at times, and Baby was always ready to

accommodate, for kissing and cuddling suited him excellently. Mrs.

Jo seldom stirred without him; so he had his little finger in all the

domestic pies, and every one found them all the better for it, for they

believed in babies at Plumfield.

Dick Brown, and Adolphus or Dolly Pettingill, were two eight year-olds.

Dolly stuttered badly, but was gradually getting over it, for no one was

allowed to mock him and Mr. Bhaer tried to cure it, by making him talk

slowly. Dolly was a good little lad, quite uninteresting and ordinary,

but he flourished here, and went through his daily duties and pleasures

with placid content and propriety.

Dick Brown's affliction was a crooked back, yet he bore his burden so

cheerfully, that Demi once asked in his queer way, “Do humps make people

good-natured? I'd like one if they do.” Dick was always merry, and did

his best to be like other boys, for a plucky spirit lived in the

feeble little body. When he first came, he was very sensitive about his

misfortune, but soon learned to forget it, for no one dared remind him

of it, after Mr. Bhaer had punished one boy for laughing at him.

“God don't care; for my soul is straight if my back isn't,” sobbed Dick

to his tormentor on that occasion; and, by cherishing this idea, the

Bhaers soon led him to believe that people also loved his soul, and did

not mind his body, except to pity and help him to bear it.

Playing menagerie once with the others, some one said,

“What animal will you be, Dick?”

“Oh, I'm the dromedary; don't you see the hump on my back?” was the

laughing answer.

“So you are, my nice little one that don't carry loads, but marches by

the elephant first in the procession,” said Demi, who was arranging the

spectacle.

“I hope others will be as kind to the poor dear as my boys have learned

to be,” said Mrs. Jo, quite satisfied with the success of her teaching,

as Dick ambled past her, looking like a very happy, but a very feeble

little dromedary, beside stout Stuffy, who did the elephant with

ponderous propriety.

Jack Ford was a sharp, rather a sly lad, who was sent to this school,

because it was cheap. Many men would have thought him a smart boy, but

Mr. Bhaer did not like his way of illustrating that Yankee word, and

thought his unboyish keenness and money-loving as much of an affliction

as Dolly's stutter, or Dick's hump.

Ned Barker was like a thousand other boys of fourteen, all legs,

blunder, and bluster. Indeed the family called him the “Blunderbuss,”

and always expected to see him tumble over the chairs, bump against the

tables, and knock down any small articles near him. He bragged a good

deal about what he could do, but seldom did any thing to prove it, was

not brave, and a little given to tale-telling. He was apt to bully the

small boys, and flatter the big ones, and without being at all bad, was

just the sort of fellow who could very easily be led astray.

George Cole had been spoilt by an over-indulgent mother, who stuffed him

with sweetmeats till he was sick, and then thought him too delicate

to study, so that at twelve years old, he was a pale, puffy boy, dull,

fretful, and lazy. A friend persuaded her to send him to Plumfield, and

there he soon got waked up, for sweet things were seldom allowed, much

exercise required, and study made so pleasant, that Stuffy was gently

lured along, till he quite amazed his anxious mamma by his improvement,

and convinced her that there was really something remarkable in

Plumfield air.

Billy Ward was what the Scotch tenderly call an “innocent,” for though

thirteen years old, he was like a child of six. He had been an unusually

intelligent boy, and his father had hurried him on too fast, giving him

all sorts of hard lessons, keeping at his books six hours a day, and

expecting him to absorb knowledge as a Strasburg goose does the food

crammed down its throat. He thought he was doing his duty, but he nearly

killed the boy, for a fever gave the poor child a sad holiday, and when

he recovered, the overtasked brain gave out, and Billy's mind was like a

slate over which a sponge has passed, leaving it blank.

It was a terrible lesson to his ambitious father; he could not bear the

sight of his promising child, changed to a feeble idiot, and he sent

him away to Plumfield, scarcely hoping that he could be helped, but sure

that he would be kindly treated. Quite docile and harmless was Billy,

and it was pitiful to see how hard he tried to learn, as if groping

dimly after the lost knowledge which had cost him so much.

Day after day, he pored over the alphabet, proudly said A and B, and

thought that he knew them, but on the morrow they were gone, and all

the work was to be done over again. Mr. Bhaer had infinite patience with

him, and kept on in spite of the apparent hopelessness of the task, not

caring for book lessons, but trying gently to clear away the mists from

the darkened mind, and give it back intelligence enough to make the boy

less a burden and an affliction.

Mrs. Bhaer strengthened his health by every aid she could invent, and

the boys all pitied and were kind to him. He did not like their active

plays, but would sit for hours watching the doves, would dig holes for

Teddy till even that ardent grubber was satisfied, or follow Silas, the

man, from place to place seeing him work, for honest Si was very good to

him, and though he forgot his letters Billy remembered friendly faces.

Tommy Bangs was the scapegrace of the school, and the most trying

scapegrace that ever lived. As full of mischief as a monkey, yet

so good-hearted that one could not help forgiving his tricks; so

scatter-brained that words went by him like the wind, yet so penitent

for every misdeed, that it was impossible to keep sober when he

vowed tremendous vows of reformation, or proposed all sorts of queer

punishments to be inflicted upon himself. Mr. and Mrs. Bhaer lived in

a state of preparation for any mishap, from the breaking of Tommy's own

neck, to the blowing up of the entire family with gunpowder; and Nursey

had a particular drawer in which she kept bandages, plasters, and salves

for his especial use, for Tommy was always being brought in half dead;

but nothing ever killed him, and he arose from every downfall with

redoubled vigor.

The first day he came, he chopped the top off one finger in the

hay-cutter, and during the week, fell from the shed roof, was chased by

an angry hen who tried to pick his out because he examined her chickens,

got run away with, and had his ears boxed violent by Asia, who caught

him luxuriously skimming a pan of cream with half a stolen pie.

Undaunted, however, by any failures or rebuffs, this indomitable youth

went on amusing himself with all sorts of tricks till no one felt safe.

If he did not know his lessons, he always had some droll excuse to

offer, and as he was usually clever at his books, and as bright as a

button in composing answers when he did not know them, he go on pretty

well at school. But out of school, Ye gods and little fishes! how Tommy

did carouse!

He wound fat Asia up in her own clothes line against the post, and left

here there to fume and scold for half an hour one busy Monday morning.

He dropped a hot cent down Mary Ann's back as that pretty maid was

waiting at table one day when there were gentlemen to dinner, whereat

the poor girl upset the soup and rushed out of the room in dismay,

leaving the family to think that she had gone mad. He fixed a pail of

water up in a tree, with a bit of ribbon fastened to the handle, and

when Daisy, attracted by the gay streamer, tried to pull it down, she

got a douche bath that spoiled her clean frock and hurt her little

feelings very much. He put rough white pebbles in the sugar-bowl when

his grandmother came to tea, and the poor old lady wondered why they

didn't melt in her cup, but was too polite to say anything. He passed

around snuff in church so that five of the boys sneezed with such

violence they had to go out. He dug paths in winter time, and then

privately watered them so that people should tumble down. He drove poor

Silas nearly wild by hanging his big boots in conspicuous places,

for his feet were enormous, and he was very much ashamed of them. He

persuaded confiding little Dolly to tie a thread to one of his loose

teeth, and leave the string hanging from his mouth when he went to

sleep, so that Tommy could pull it out without his feeling the dreaded

operation. But the tooth wouldn't come at the first tweak, and poor

Dolly woke up in great anguish of spirit, and lost all faith in Tommy

from that day forth.

The last prank had been to give the hens bread soaked in rum, which made

them tipsy and scandalized all the other fowls, for the respectable old

biddies went staggering about, pecking and clucking in the most maudlin

manner, while the family were convulsed with laughter at their antics,

till Daisy took pity on them and shut them up in the hen-house to sleep

off their intoxication.

These were the boys and they lived together as happy as twelve lads

could, studying and playing, working and squabbling, fighting faults and

cultivating virtues in the good old-fashioned way. Boys at other schools

probably learned more from books, but less of that better wisdom which

makes good men. Latin, Greek, and mathematics were all very well, but in

Professor Bhaer's opinion, self knowledge, self-help, and self-control

were more important, and he tried to teach them carefully. People shook

their heads sometimes at his ideas, even while they owned that the boys

improved wonderfully in manners and morals. But then, as Mrs. Jo said to

Nat, “it was an odd school.”