Be Courteous | Page 2

hair, carrying an ax upon his shoulder, and bearing in his hand a
small pail of "dinner;" for Graffam, when refused employment by
others, usually found something to do at "Motley's Mills," which were
about half a mile from the village. Sad and serious-looking was this
poor man in the morning, and neither extreme civility nor extreme
rudeness on the part of the school children could procure a single word
from him at this time of day. Not thus at evening. "Let us run after

Graffam, and have some fun," the boys would say on returning home;
and then it was wonderful to see the change which had been wrought in
this mournful-looking, taciturn man of the morning. Sometimes he was
in a rage, repaying their assaults with fearful oaths and bitter curses; but
it was a thing more general to find him in merry mood, and then he was
himself a boy, pitching his companions about in the snow, or talking
with them largely and confidentially of landed estates and vast
resources all his own. It is needless to inform my sagacious young
reader, that the cause of this change in the poor man was rum.
We have referred to the month of July and a part of August; it was
during this season of the year that the plain, on account of the rich
berries tinging its surface with beautiful blue, became a place of much
resort. These berries, hanging in countless clusters upon their low
bushes among the shrubbery, were at least worth going to see. It is the
opinion of most people, however, (an opinion first entertained in Eden,)
that fruit pleasant to the eye is desirable for the taste. Such was the
opinion prevalent in that region; and the sight of merry "blue-berry
companies," sometimes in wagons, sometimes on foot, was among the
most common of our midsummer morning scenes. Equally familiar was
the sight of like companies returning at evening, weary, but better
satisfied; glad that, with well-filled pails and baskets, they were so near
home. This was the time of year when the young Graffams became
visible. The blue-berry companies often encountered them upon the
plain, but found them shy as young partridges, dodging through the
bushes, and skulking away as though kidnappers were in pursuit.
There was, however, one boy among them, the eldest, (if we remember
rightly,) who was quite familiar with the villagers. He was a little boy,
not more than ten or eleven at the time of which I now write, and for
two or three summers had been in the habit of bringing berries to the
village, and offering them for any small matter, either for food or
clothing. Both the kind-hearted and the curious had plied this little boy
with questions, relative to his manner of life, his mother, brothers, and
sisters; but his answers were far from giving information upon any of
these points. He always declined a proposed visit by saying, "Mother
don't want no company." This seemed true enough; for when any
visitor to the plain called at Graffam's for a drink of water, they were
never invited to enter. The water was handed them through a small

opening, and the mother was seldom visible.
It was one of the brightest of our July mornings, when a blue-berry
company started from the village before-mentioned. Two wagons filled
with young people passed along the principal street at an early hour,
raising a cloud of dust as they turned the corner where stood a
guide-board pointing out the plain road to the pond. Onward rolled the
two wagons, the tin-pails and dippers dancing and rattling in the rear,
keeping time with the clatter of untamed tongues in the van. "Shall we
call at 'Appledale?'" asked the driver of the first wagon, coming to a
sudden stand.
"Go along!" laughingly answered a gay girl in the second. "Our horse is
putting his nose into your tin rattletraps."
The question was repeated.
"They are strangers to us," replied a black-eyed young lady, "and from
seeing them at church I should think them precise. A refusal would be
mortifying; and if the prim Miss Martha concludes to go, that will be
still worse. We cannot act ourselves, and all the fun will be spoiled.
What say you, Fanny Brighton?"
Fanny, a bright-looking, but rather reckless girl, replied: "They shall
not go, neither Miss Martha nor Miss Emma; not that I care a
fiddlestring for their primness or their precision; nobody shall prevent
me from thinking, and acting, and doing as I please to-day; from being,
in short, what I was made to be--Fanny Brighton, and nobody else."
Fanny spoke with her usual authority, and expected obedience; but to
her surprise Henry Boyd, the young driver of the first wagon, still
hesitated,