Harry Milvaine; Or, The Wanderings of a Wayward Boy

by Gordon Stables

therecertainly never was a much "deader" cock. The arrow was still stickingin his breast.

  "What shall I do? Shall I bury the cock and run away?"

  "That would not be brave, dear. No Highlander runs away. Go straightto your father and tell him."

  Harry did so.

  "What's the matter, lad?" said his father. "Hold up your head. What isit?"

  "Papa," replied the boy, not daring to look up, but speaking to a ploughthat stood near. "Papa, I took my bow and arrows--"

  "Yes, boy."

  "And I went down the paddock."

  "Well?"

  "And I fired at the cock."

  "Yes."

  "And I'm afraid he--wants to be--buried."

  "Well, well, well, never mind, boy; I forgive you because you've comelike a man and like a Highlander and told me. We'll put the poor cockin the pot and have him for dinner."

  "Oh, no, no, dear papa," cried Harry, looking up now for the first time,"I could not bear to see him cooked."

  "Well, go and bury him yourself, then."

  Harry ran off happy, and Yonitch and he dug a grave and buried the poorcock's corpse, and it took Harry a whole week's work in the tool-houseto fashion him a "wooden tombstone," and write an epitaph. The epitaphran as follows:--

  here lies papa's poor cotching chiney cock croolly slane by harry with his bow and arrie.

  he sleeps in peas.

  That tool-house and workshop of Harry's was quite a wonderful place.And wonderful, indeed, were the things Harry turned out of it. I'm notjoking. He really did make good useful articles--boxes, picture frames,a footstool for his mother, a milking-stool for Yonitch, and anextraordinary rustic-looking, but comfortable, arm-chair for his father.It had a high back and a carpet bottom, and seated in it, on theverandah on a summer's evening, with his pipe and his paper, papa didlook the very quintessence of comfort and jollity.

  But Harry might often have been seen at the village carpenter's shop,taking lessons in the useful art of joinery.

  In return for the high-backed chair, his father presented him, whenChristmas came round, with a turning lathe. Then I think that Harry'scup of bliss was full to overflowing.

  But his workshop soon proved too small to hold all his belongings. Hesecured a piece of ground from his father in a quiet and shelteredcorner of the paddock, and within this he determined to do great things,as soon as spring brought out the daisies, and the ground was dry.

  Now let me tell the reader, before I go a line farther on with my story,that though I am bound, in justice to my young hero, to say that henever neglected his lessons, nor his prayers, dear lad, still I do notwish to make him out a greater saint than perhaps most boys of his ageare.

  He is painted from the life, mind you, and I have not hid his failingsfrom you. Nor need I hesitate to say that a fight between Harry andsome village lad was of no very rare occurrence, and it was no uncommonthing to meet him coming homewards after one of these tulzies, with hisjacket all covered with mud and his face all covered with blood.

  So there! I hide nothing, good or bad.

  Harry was going to do great things then with his bit of ground. He felthimself to be a small landed proprietor, a laird in miniature. Hethought and planned in his spare moments all the livelong winter. Heeven put his plans on paper. This he did in the stillness of night, bythe light of his own moulded candles.

  Harry was immensely rich--at least he thought himself so. He had amoney-box in the shape of a dog-kennel that stood on the mantelpiece ofhis own room, and goodness only knows how much money it did _not_contain. For years back, whenever he had received sixpence or ashilling from a relation or friend, pop! it had gone into the kennel.Half-crowns were too big to go in, but he changed them for smallercoins, and in they went. There was one whole sovereign in and one halfone.

  But Harry had not depended altogether for his riches on the charity offriends and relations. No, for he was a wealthy dealer in live stock.Not cattle and horses, nor sheep and pigs. Harry's was a London market,and a world-wide market. His medium for sale was a paper called _TheExchange and Mart_, and his stock consisted of canaries, siskins, andBritish birds of all kinds. The latter he found in the woods and wilds,and reared by hand. He also sold guinea-pigs, white rats, piebald mice,hedgehogs, and snakes.

  So no wonder he had amassed wealth.

  And now spring came. The robin left the gateway where he had beensinging so sweetly all the winter, and went away to the woods to buildhimself a nest. The primroses came out in the copses, and as soon asthe blackbird and thrush saw them they started singing at once.

  The trees all burst into bud and then into leaf. The young corn grewgreen in the fields, seeing which the lark tried how high he could mountand how loud he could sing.

  And the wind blew soft and warm from the west, and the sun shone forthbright and clear, and dried up the roads and the fields, and chasedevery bit of snow away from the glens and straths, only permitting it toremain here and there in the hollows on the mountain tops.

  Then Harry prepared for action.

  It may be thought strange that Harry had no companions of his own age.But I am writing the history of a strange and wayward boy, a boy whonever wanted or sought for companionship, a kind of miniature edition ofRobinson Crusoe he was, only he liked Yonitch to come and look at hiswork sometimes. There was also the joiner's man, who used to come upnow and then and give Harry hints about "this, that, or t'other." Sothe boy did not feel lonely.

  Andrew was this joiner's man's name. He was a kind ofJack-of-all-trades.

  And never went about without his snuff-box.

  He was very fond of Harry. In two evenings he dug and levelled andraked all Harry's estate for him, and Harry was duly thankful, becausedigging is very hard work.

  Harry bought snuff for Andrew, and Andrew was happy.

  Wire fencing now occupied our hero's attention. He went all by himself(accompanied by Eily, of course) to a neighbouring town to buy thegalvanised iron mesh, and found that the money he had taken from hiskennel for this purpose was more than sufficient.

  Next he planned his garden, and laid out and gravelled his walks,bordering them nicely with old bricks. He gravelled quite a large spaceat one end, because here he was to build his house.

  The floor of this was laid first and plastered over with a mixture ofPortland cement and sand, and when dry it was as hard and firm asmarble.

  Then the uprights were put in, one for each corner, and the roof put on.At this work he received valuable assistance from Andrew, and paid himin snuff.

  The roof Andrew thatched, and when the house was built, it was a veryrustic and very romantic one indeed; partly bungalow, partlysummer-house.

  Lovely flowering climbers were planted, quick growing ones, wildconvolvulus and clematis, with a few roses, and before the summer washalf done all the walls were covered with a wealth of floral beauty.

  Inside everything was neatness and regulation. One end was the workingend, tool-bench, and lathe. All the rest of the house or room was likea boudoir, a sofa, chairs, a bookcase, brackets, candlesticks, a mirroror two, flower vases--all perfect and beautiful.

  And all devised by Harry's own hands.

  Am I not right in saying he was a kind of second edition of RobinsonCrusoe?

  The garden, too, was well planted, and all along the wire fence,entirely covering it, were wild convolvuluses.

  Miss Campbell was permitted to visit the hermit Harry in his charmingabode. But _not_ to mention _lessons_. Harry's was quite apleasure-house, and lessons would have been out of keeping altogether init. But she had to read stories to him.

  Yonitch was another invited guest. _She_ did not read stories. But shetold the most wonderful fairy tales, and even ghost stories, that everany one listened to.

  One day, when Harry was away fishing, his father happened to look intohis quarters and took the liberty of having a peep through his books.They were nearly all books of adventure and t
ravel, and mostly seastories, with just a sprinkling of poetry.

  Harry's father went away--thinking.

  How was this to end? He wished his son, his only son, to remain at homewith him, to grow up with him, and help to farm his little estate. Butthose books? What could the boy's bent be?

  That evening, after supper, he asked Harry straight what he would liketo be.

  Harry had an old-fashioned way of speaking, as boys have who are broughtup by themselves, and only hear their elders talk.

  He cocked his head consideringly on one side and replied--

  "Oh! a sailor, papa. There can't be any question about that."

  "Ah! boy, I'll send you to school, and that'll knock all that nonsenseout of your head."

  Harry looked at his father wonderingly. He could not understand whathis father meant any more than if he had talked Greek.

  "Draw your stool