Being a Boy | Page 8

of my
investigations the tin horn would blow a great blast from the farmhouse,
which would send a cold chill down my back in the hottest days. I
knew what it meant. It had a frightfully impatient quaver in it, not at all
like the sweet note that called us to dinner from the hay-field. It said,
"Why on earth does n't that boy come home? It is almost dark, and the
cows ain't milked!" And that was the time the cows had to start into a
brisk pace and make up for lost time. I wonder if any boy ever drove
the cows home late, who did not say that the cows were at the very
farther end of the pasture, and that "Old Brindle" was hidden in the
woods, and he couldn't find her for ever so long! The brindle cow is the
boy's scapegoat, many a time.
No other boy knows how to appreciate a holiday as the farm-boy does;
and his best ones are of a peculiar kind. Going fishing is of course one
sort. The excitement of rigging up the tackle, digging the bait, and the
anticipation of great luck! These are pure pleasures, enjoyed because

they are rare. Boys who can go a-fishing any time care but little for it.
Tramping all day through bush and brier, fighting flies and mosquitoes,
and branches that tangle the line, and snags that break the hook, and
returning home late and hungry, with wet feet and a string of speckled
trout on a willow twig, and having the family crowd out at the kitchen
door to look at 'em, and say, "Pretty well done for you, bub; did you
catch that big one yourself?" --this is also pure happiness, the like of
which the boy will never have again, not if he comes to be selectman
and deacon and to "keep store."
But the holidays I recall with delight were the two days in spring and
fall, when we went to the distant pasture-land, in a neighboring town,
maybe, to drive thither the young cattle and colts, and to bring them
back again. It was a wild and rocky upland where our great pasture was,
many miles from home, the road to it running by a brawling river, and
up a dashing brook-side among great hills. What a day's adventure it
was! It was like a journey to Europe. The night before, I could scarcely
sleep for thinking of it! and there was no trouble about getting me up at
sunrise that morning. The breakfast was eaten, the luncheon was
packed in a large basket, with bottles of root beer and a jug of switchel,
which packing I superintended with the greatest interest; and then the
cattle were to be collected for the march, and the horses hitched up. Did
I shirk any duty? Was I slow? I think not. I was willing to run my legs
off after the frisky steers, who seemed to have an idea they were going
on a lark, and frolicked about, dashing into all gates, and through all
bars except the right ones; and how cheerfully I did yell at them.
It was a glorious chance to "holler," and I have never since heard any
public speaker on the stump or at camp-meeting who could make more
noise. I have often thought it fortunate that the amount of noise in a boy
does not increase in proportion to his size; if it did, the world could not
contain it.
The whole day was full of excitement and of freedom. We were away
from the farm, which to a boy is one of the best parts of farming; we
saw other farms and other people at work; I had the pleasure of
marching along, and swinging my whip, past boys whom I knew, who
were picking up stones. Every turn of the road, every bend and rapid of
the river, the great bowlders by the wayside, the watering-troughs, the
giant pine that had been struck by lightning, the mysterious covered

bridge over the river where it was, most swift and rocky and foamy, the
chance eagle in the blue sky, the sense of going somewhere,--why, as I
recall all these things I feel that even the Prince Imperial, as he used to
dash on horseback through the Bois de Boulogne, with fifty mounted
hussars clattering at his heels, and crowds of people cheering, could not
have been as happy as was I, a boy in short jacket and shorter
pantaloons, trudging in the dust that day behind the steers and colts,
cracking my black-stock whip.
I wish the journey would never end; but at last, by noon, we reach the
pastures and turn in the herd; and after making the tour of the lots