CHAPTER XIII.
BERT AT HOME.
It was an article of faith in the Lloyd family that there was not ahouse in Halifax having a pleasanter situation than theirs, and theycertainly had very good grounds for their belief. Something has alreadybeen told about its splendid view of the broad harbour, furrowed withwhite-capped waves, when of an afternoon the breeze blew in smartly fromthe great ocean beyond; of its snug security from northern blasts; ofthe cosy nook it had to itself in a quiet street; and of its ampleexposure to the sunshine. But, perhaps, the chief charm of all was theold fort whose grass-grown casemates came so close to the foot of thegarden, that ever since Bert was big enough to jump, he had cherished awild ambition to leap from the top of the garden fence to the level topof the nearest casemate.
This old fort, with its long, obsolete, muzzle-loading thirty-twopounders, was associated with Bert's earliest recollection. His nursehad carried him there to play about in the long, rank grass underneaththe shade of the wide-spreading willows that crested the seaward slopebefore he was able to walk; and ever since, summer and winter, he hadfound it his favourite playground.
The cannons were an unfailing source of delight to him. Mounted highupon their cumbrous carriages, with little pyramids of round iron ballsthat would never have any other use than that of ornament lying besidethem, they made famous playthings. He delighted in clambering up andsitting astride their smooth, round bodies as though they were horses;or in peering into the mysterious depths of their muzzles. Indeed, oncewhen he was about five years old he did more than peer in. He tried tocrawl in, and thereby ran some risk of injury.
He had been playing ball with some of the soldier's children, and seemedso engrossed in the amusement that his mother, who had taken him intothe fort, thought he might very well be left for a while, and so shewent off some little distance to rest in quiet, in a shady corner. Shehad not been there more than a quarter of an hour, when she was startledby the cries of the children, who seemed much alarmed over something;and hastening back to where she had left Bert, she beheld a sight thatwould have been most ludicrous if it had not been so terrifying.
Protruding from the mouth of one of the cannons, and kicking veryvigorously, were two sturdy, mottled legs that she instantly recognisedas belonging to her son, while from the interior came strange muffledsounds that showed the poor little fellow was screaming in direaffright, as well he might in so distressing a situation. Too young tobe of any help, Bert's playmates were gathered about him crying lustily,only one of them having had the sense to run off to the carpenter's shopnear by to secure assistance.
"Fortunately, a big soldier came along, and, slippingboth hands as far up on Bert's body as he could reach, with a strong,steady pull drew him out of the cannon."--_Page_ 119.]
Mrs. Lloyd at once grasped Bert's feet and strove to pull him out, butfound it no easy matter. In his efforts to free himself he had onlystuck the more firmly, and was now too securely fastened for Mrs. Lloydto extricate him. Fortunately, however, a big soldier came along at thisjuncture, and, slipping both hands as far up on Bert's body as he couldreach, grasped him firmly, and with one strong, steady pull, drew himout of the cannon.
When he got him out, Bert presented so comical a spectacle that hisstalwart rescuer had to lay him down and laugh until the tears rolleddown his cheeks. Mrs. Lloyd, too, relieved from all anxiety, and feelinga reaction from her first fright, could not help following his example.His face, black with grime, which was furrowed with tears, his handseven blacker, his nice clothes smutched and soiled, and indeed, hiswhole appearance suggested a little chimney-sweep that had forgotten toput on his working clothes before going to business. Bert certainly wasenough to make even the gravest laugh.
Beyond a bruise or two, he was, however, not a whit the worse for hiscurious experience, which had come about in this way:--While they wereplaying with the ball, one of the children had, out of mischief, pickedit up and thrown it into the cannon, where it had stayed. They tried toget it out by means of sticks, but could not reach it. Then Bert, alwaysplucky and enterprising to the verge of rashness, undertook to go afterthe ball himself. The other boys at once joined forces to lift him upand push him into the dark cavern, and then alarmed by his cries andunavailing struggles to get out again, began to cry themselves, and thusbrought Mrs. Lloyd to the scene.
Mr. Lloyd was very much amused when he heard about Bert's adventure.
"You've beaten Shakespeare, Bert," said he, after a hearty laugh, asMrs. Lloyd graphically described the occurrence. "For Shakespeare says aman does not seek the bubble reputation in the cannon's mouth, until hebecomes a soldier, but you have found it, unless I am much mistaken,before you have fairly begun being a schoolboy."
Bert did not understand the reference to Shakespeare, but he didunderstand that his father was not displeased with him, and that was amuch more important matter. The next Sunday afternoon, when they wentfor their accustomed stroll in the fort, Bert showed his father the biggun whose dark interior he had attempted to explore.
"Oh, but father, wasn't I frightened when I got in there and couldn'tget out again!" said he earnestly, clasping his father's hand tightly,as the horror of the situation came back to him.
"You were certainly in a tight place, little man," answered Mr. Lloyd,"and the next time your ball gets into one of the cannons you had betterask one of the artillerymen to get it out for you. He will find it amuch easier job than getting you out."
Bert loved the old fort and its cannons none the less because of hisadventure, and as he grew older he learned to drop down into it from thegarden fence, and climb back again, with the agility of a monkey. Thegarden itself was not very extensive, but Bert took a great deal ofpleasure in it, too, for he was fond of flowers--what true boy, indeed,is not?--and it contained a large number within its narrow limits, therebeing no less than two score rose bushes of different varieties, forinstance. The roses were very plenteous and beautiful when in theirprime, but at opposite corners of the little garden stood two trees thathad far more interest for Bert than all the rose trees put together.These were two apple trees, planted, no one knew just how or when, whichhad been allowed to grow up at their own will, without pruning orgrafting, and, as a consequence, were never known to produce fruit thatwas worth eating. Every spring they put forth a brave show of pink andwhite blossoms, as though this year, at all events, they were going todo themselves credit, and every autumn the result appeared inhalf-a-dozen hard, small, sour, withered-up apples that hardly deservedthe name. And yet, although these trees showed no signs of repentanceand amendment, Bert, with the quenchless hopefulness of boyhood, neverquite despaired of their bringing forth an apple that he could eatwithout having his mouth drawn up into one tight pucker. Autumn afterautumn he would watch the slowly developing fruit, trusting for thebest. It always abused his confidence, however, but it was a long timebefore he finally gave it up in despair.
At one side of the garden stood a neat little barn that was also ofspecial interest to Bert, for, besides the stall for the cow, there wasanother, still vacant, which Mr. Lloyd had promised should have a ponyfor its tenant so soon as Bert was old enough to be trusted with such aplaymate.
Hardly a day passed that Bert did not go into the stable, and, standingby the little stall, wonder to himself how it would look with a prettypony in it. Of course, he felt very impatient to have the pony, but Mr.Lloyd had his own ideas upon that point, and was not to be moved fromthem. He thought that when Bert was ten years old would be quite timeenough, and so there was nothing to do but to wait, which Bert did, withas much fortitude as he could command.
Whatever might be the weather outside, it seemed always warm and sunnyindoors at Bert's home. The Lloyds lived in an atmosphere of love, bothhuman and Divine. They loved one another dearly, but they loved Godstill more, and lived close to Him. Religion was not so much expressedas implied in their life. It was not in the least obtrusive, yet onecould never mistake their point of view. Next to its sincerity
, thestrongest characteristic of their religion was its cheeriness. They sawno reason why the children of the King should go mourning all theirdays; on the contrary, was it not rather their duty, as well as theirprivilege, to establish the joy of service?
Brought up amid such influences, Bert was, as a natural consequence,entirely free from those strange misconceptions of the true character ofreligion which keep so many of the young out of the kingdom. He sawnothing gloomy or repellent in religion. That he should love and serveGod seemed as natural to him as that he should love and serve hisparents. Of their love and care he had a thousand tokens daily. Of theDivine love and care he learned from them, and that they should believein it was all the reason he required for his doing the same. He asked nofurther evidence.
There were, of course, times when the spirit of evil stirred within him,and moved him to rebel against authority, and to wish, as he put ithimself one day when reminded of the text, "Thou God seest me," that"God would let him alone for a while, and not be always looking at him."But then he wasn't an angel by any means, but simply a hearty, healthy,happy boy, with a fair share of temper, and as much fondness for havinghis own way as the average boy of his age.
His parents were very proud of him. They would have been queer parentsif they were not. Yet they were careful to disguise it from him as faras possible. If there was one thing more than another that Mr. Lloyddisliked in children, and, therefore, dreaded for his boy, it was thatforward, conscious air which comes of too much attention being paid themin the presence of their elders. "Little folks should be seen and notheard," he would say kindly but firmly to Bert, when that young personwas disposed to unduly assert himself, and Bert rarely failed to takethe hint.
One trait of Bert's nature which gave his father great gratification washis fondness for reading. He never had to be taught to read. He learned,himself. That is, he was so eager to learn that so soon as he hadmastered the alphabet, he was always taking his picture books to hismother or sister, and getting them to spell the words for him. In thisway he got over all his difficulties with surprising rapidity, and atfive years of age could read quite easily. As he grew older, he showedrather an odd taste in his choice of books. One volume that he read fromcover to cover before he was eight years old was Layard's "Nineveh."Just why this portly sombre-hued volume, with its winged lion stamped ingold upon its back, attracted him so strongly, it would not be easy tosay. The illustrations, of course, had something to do with it, and thenthe fascination of digging down deep into the earth and bringing forthall sorts of strange things no doubt influenced him.
Another book that held a wonderful charm for him was the Book ofRevelation. So carefully did he con this, which he thought the mostglorious of all writings, that at one time he could recite many chaptersof it word for word. Its marvellous imagery appealed to his imaginationif it did nothing more, and took such hold upon his mind that no part ofthe Bible, not even the stories that shine like stars through the firstbooks of the Old Testament, was more interesting to him.
Not only was Bert's imagination vivid, but his sympathies were also veryquick and easily aroused. It was scarcely safe to read to him a pathetictale, his tears were so certain to flow. The story of Gellert's hound,faithful unto death, well-nigh broke his heart, and that perfect pearl,"Rab and His Friends," bedewed his cheeks, although he read it again andagain until he knew it almost by heart.
No one ever laughed at his tenderness of heart. He was not taught thatit was unmanly for a boy to weep. It is an easy thing to chill andharden an impressionable nature. It is not so easy to soften it again,or to bring softness to one that is too hard for its own good.
With such a home, Bert Lloyd could hardly fail to be a happy boy, and noone that knew him would ever have thought of him as being anything else.He had his dull times, of course. What boy with all his faculties hasnot? And he had his cranky spells, too. But neither the one nor theother lasted very long, and the sunshine soon not only broke through theclouds, but scattered them altogether. Happy are those natures not givento brooding over real or fancied troubles. Gloom never mends matters: itcan only make them worse.
Bert Lloyd's Boyhood: A Story from Nova Scotia Page 14