Chiquita, an American Novel. Merrill Tileston

Jack wondered why everybody looked so grave and serious when the spring freshets made the brooks roily so he could not fish. In after years when that animated devastating fortress of trees, rocks and factory debris crushed its way down the valley, receiving its propulsive force from the waters which broke forth from bondage, Jack remembered those grave and serious faces.

      But it was among the hills of the Deerfield valley that Jack loved best to wander and to fish for trout, or to help Uncle Zebedee and Uncle John in planting or haying or "salting" the cattle, or gathering apples on hills so steep that the fruit rolled a rod sometimes after falling from the trees.

      In the old barn at milking time, when the cows were yoked to their feed racks, Jack helped give them hay—nice new clover—and then waited and watched Aunt Sally strain the warm fluid into the bright pans, fearing the while she would forget the little cup, which he kept moving from one place to another, and which she seemed never to see until almost the last drop in the pail was reached. Churning day was always welcome to Jack. The old yellow churn, which stood near the big water trough in the wash room, had to be brought into the kitchen, and then he would turn the paddle wheel round and round, listening to the patter of the blades as they splashed into the cream, until finally he knew by the sound that the butter had "come."

      Jack did not like Saturday night very well, for at sundown on the last day of the week those good orthodox folks commenced their Sunday. Saturday afternoon was given to baking cake and other dainties and getting the house in order for the Lord's Day. The men folks were shaved clean and all the chores were done and supper ended before sundown. Then the old black leather Bible was taken from the shelf and all gathered around for family prayers. These devotions were held every night about bedtime, but Saturday evening was the beginning of the Sabbath, and services were held earlier and longer than on other days of the week. The room, with its chintz-covered lounge, rag carpet, Dutch clock, and chairs upholstered in haircloth, seemed more sacred on Saturday. The Bible was read, a lesson given from the shorter catechism, and several of Watts' hymns repeated by all together, or by volunteers, as the spirit moved; a song or two, then all would kneel devoutly, while Uncle John, in deep stentorian voice, prayed long and earnestly for the divine grace, which sustains the righteous through the snares and temptations of the wicked world; after which all retired.

      On Sunday no work was done that could be avoided, and at an early hour in solemn procession all filed out to the vehicles which conveyed them to the village two and one-half miles away. The horses knew it was Sunday and devoutly raised one leg at a time in covering the distance. The minister knew it was Sunday and exhorted his hearers, with threats of dire hell and damnation, to mend their ways. Sunday school immediately after the morning service, then lunch at the wagons or on the steps of the church or in the church, and again the minister unrolled his sermons and renewed his valiant fight in redemption of sinners. The choir stood up, the leader struck the key with his tuning fork, and when the "pitch" was duly recognized the last hymn was sung, followed by the doxology and benediction. All hearts seemed to begin life anew when the final "Amen" was pronounced, and although the long hill had to be ascended, it took less time than it had to descend in the morning. It was dinner time when the farm was again reached and all were hungry. After the meal the family gathered in the parlor, with its fragrant odor of musty walls, varnished maps and stuffy ancientness which pervaded everything. Here the conversation dwelt upon the goodness of the Lord, misfortunes of the sick in the neighborhood, news of which had been learned at church, or other topics not too worldly. As sundown approached the men folks commenced to get ready for the week's work and changed their clothes, while the women got out aprons and put away their "Sunday duds." By sunset the wash barrel was brought forth and the laundry work for Monday commenced.

      In the wagon-shed Uncle John had his scythe ready to grind, and as Jack turned the stone he said to himself, "Uncle John bears down harder on Sunday night than he does any other night in the week."

      These visits to the old farm were at frequent intervals, so Jack had ample opportunity to see real country life under all the different aspects of maple-sugar making, planting, haying, cutting wood for the year, and building stone walls. Berrying was about the greatest enjoyment, next to catching brook trout, and such an abundance of blackberries in the pastures and woods where portions of the timber had been cut out! But the visits came to an end, inasmuch as Jack's father "moved west" to one of the great flour-milling cities, which flourished at the close of the Civil War.

      In the west Jack received his final education, at sixteen taking leave of Latin, algebra and rhetoric, with one term in the high school. During the grammar school incubation Jack learned the difference between a village teacher and a city ward instructor; also that the western city ward boy had to fight occasionally, while the good New England lad was in mortal disgrace if he ever presumed to raise his hands against a fellow schoolmate. Jack had been warned time and again by his father not to fight, as it was wicked, and severe punishment awaited all demonstrations of anything in the nature of a "scrap."

      It was but natural that a boy who would not fight should become the target for every pugnacious lad in the school, and Jack went home regularly with a bloody nose or scratched face, as a result of some misunderstanding. Not only would he get larruped by the bigger boys, but little fellows half his size walloped him good and plenty. Then the teacher had to make an example of him with the ruler, and finally his father finished up the job in the barn or across his knee with the hair brush. The hair brush was the handiest thing Jack ever encountered in his "spare (not) the rod" career. One day he went home with a frightful cut in his lip where some "bully" of the school had kicked him. His father lost all patience and Jack pleaded for a hearing.

      "Why do you tell me it is wicked to fight and punish me for getting licked? I can lick any boy in the school, but have never raised my hand yet, because you told me not to, and they pick on me all the time."

      It was a revelation to the parent and he wondered at his own obtuseness. One instruction, one little lesson to be a man, he gave Jack: "Do not fight for the sake of showing off, or to be a 'bully,' but defend yourself always."

      Jack was all excitement, and forgot his swollen lip. His father continued: "And when you find you have to defend yourself, strike straight from the shoulder and hit between the eyes, downward, like that," and the stern old man took a crack at the side of the barn and ripped a board off, besides nearly breaking his knuckle. Jack went to school that afternoon, and at recess, when a big, red-headed bully, nicknamed "Cross-eyed Whittaker," commenced to tease and banter him, Jack edged away as usual, but with eyes ablaze and fist clinched. He saw that the "bully" was bent on showing off, and knew the time had come to make the first stand for Jack. Whittaker was about the same height, but much heavier in build than Jack. Finally, as the big one got nearer and nearer and became more and more offensive, Jack stood his ground, looking the "bully" over from head to foot, and suddenly said:

      "You miserable coward, you have picked on me long enough. Now let me alone or take the licking that you deserve."

      The other boys, of course, jumped up and gathered in a ring. "Fight! Fight!" was yelled by a hundred throats, as all rushed to where the now angry combatants faced each other. Jack stood poised on one foot ready for any emergency. All at once he spied the crony of the "bully" sneaking through the crowd of boys to get behind his chum. When the latter saw his "pal" his courage increased wonderfully, but ere he had time to put into execution the thoughts uppermost in his mind, Jack made a feint, a step back and then a lunge ahead with a right-hand smash just as he had seen his father hit the board, and the "bully" lay at his feet writhing and kicking in defeat.

      Whittaker took the licking very much to heart, and he carried a scar on his lip, caused by Jack's blow, to his grave. Jack heard occasionally that the "bully" had sworn to "get even," but as time passed and their pursuits carried them into opposing channels, Whittaker soon became a school-day reminiscence and later was not even remembered by name.

      Jack's school days came to an end and he went into his father's mill to work, learning the various methods of flour manufacture and manner of marketing the product. The business did not seem to take his fancy. "Something wrong in the industry," he would often say to the boss miller. "Here you work this mill day and night, turn out three hundred barrels of flour every twenty-four hours, yet lose money on the product half the time.