The Old Stone House, Constance Fenimore Woolson [e book free reading txt] 📗

>“And you girls are so soft!” said Tom. “I’d rather be a boy than a girl, any day. Come, now!”

But Gem was not inclined to argue this point, so they carried out their bone-hunting project, much to the discomfiture of Pete Trone, Esq., who followed behind as if fascinated, watched the disinterment of each relic with mortified interest, and, when the last was brought into view, drooped his head and tail, and sought refuge in the cornfield where he relieved his feelings by burrowing wildly in twenty different places.

“There come the B. B.‘s!” exclaimed Gem, interrupting Tom in a search for artichokes; “eight of them, as sure as you live!”

“What an expression,” said Tom, imitating his sister’s voice; “you girls are so common!” But the approach of the visitors made a truce a matter of necessity, and soon the project of the tree-house engrossed the entire attention. Boards were brought from the little tool-house, saws were in demand, and Gem was deputed to confiscate all the hammers and nails in the house for the use of the builders; the work went bravely on, and by noon the walls of the fortification were up, and the roof well advanced towards completion. A ladder brought from the barn, took the workmen half-way up the trunk; but the old tree was lofty, and a long space intervened between the end of the ladder and the lowest branches, which must of necessity be ascended in that squirming manner peculiar to boys, wherein they delight to bark their shins, tear their trousers, and blister their hands in the pursuit of glory. Gem, of course, could not hope to emulate the B. B.‘s in this mode of progression towards the fortification, but she brought nails and carried boards with great energy. When there was no call for her services, she watched with intense interest the B. B. who happened to be squirming up. If there was no B. B. squirming up, there was sure to be one squirming down, for a principal part of the time seemed to be devoted to journeys below and aloft, besides elaborate contrivances for slinging boards and tools to the climbers’ backs; indeed, to a looker-on, this seemed to be the chief interest of the fortification.

At last it was done, all but the floor; Tom said it did not matter about that, as the boys could easily stand on the branches. Word was given to ascend, and, one by one, all the B. B.‘s squirmed up the tree and took their places inside; nothing was to be seen but their feet, huddled together on the branches. It took ten minutes for all the band to assemble on high, but in less than two, down they squirmed again. “What is the matter?” said Gem in astonishment; she had not expected to see the B. B.‘s for hours, absorbed as they would be in their leafy abode.

“We’re going to take up the dogs,” said Tom, who came first; “we’re going to sling ‘em up in a basket. It will be such fun, and they’ll like it first-rate.”

“Oh, don’t, Tom!” exclaimed Gem; “Turk is too big, Grip will be sure to fall out, and it will make Pete Trone seasick.”

But no attention was paid to her remonstrances, and the B. B.‘s inspired to new exertions, made numerous journeys up and down, rigging a pulley and making various preparations for the aerial voyage. When all was ready there was a discussion as to which dog should go. Turk was too big, no basket would hold him; and Grip, Tom said, had “no common sense,” and would not appreciate the situation. Pete Trone was evidently the man for the place, and he jumped gayly into the basket at Tom’s command, without any suspicion of danger; and when he found himself hanging in mid-air, he did not flinch, but settled down resolutely on his haunches, looking over the side with one eye as much as to say, “Who’s afraid?”

“Didn’t I tell you?” said Tom enthusiastically. “I knew Pete would come out strong. It will take a good while to get him up there. I say, boys, let’s sing ‘Up in a Balloon.’ It will be appropriate to the occasion.”

So all the B. B.‘s joined in the chorus with so much power that Aunt Faith came to the back door to listen.

“Tom! Tom!” she called, when the song was finished; “what are you doing?”

“It’s only the B. B.‘s, Aunt Faith. We’re hoisting Pete Trone up into the tree,” shouted Tom.

“Dinner will be ready in a few moments; you had better come in and rest; you must be very warm,” said Aunt Faith from the shaded piazza.

When the basket reached the air-shanty, the B. B.‘s who were there to receive it, suddenly remembered that there was no floor, and Pete, although a dog of varied accomplishments, could hardly be expected to keep his footing on the branches. So there was nothing to be done but let him down again, which was accordingly effected with great care, Pete sitting composedly in the basket without moving a muscle, and jumping out when he reached the ground with conscious importance wagging in his tail. It was one o’clock, and the B. B.‘s, after promising to return, adjourned for dinner; Tom and Gem bathed their burning faces, and joined the family circle in the cool dining-room.

“You are as bad as a fire-ball, Tom,” said Hugh, looking at his red face; “what have you been doing?”

“Splendid fun! We’ve been building a house in a tree.” And forthwith Tom launched into a full description of the fortification.

“‘Oh for a lodge in some vast wilderness, some boundless contiguity of shade!’ That was the motive which actuated the Band of Brothers, I suppose,” said Hugh.

“The B. B.‘s don’t know anything about poetry,” said Tom, with scorn; “they’ve got other things to attend to, I can tell you.”

“They’re coming again this afternoon,” said Gem, “to talk over what we shall do on Fourth of July.”

“To be sure; the Birthday of Freedom is close upon us,” said Hugh; “whatever you do, my countrymen, let it be worthy of the occasion.”

“We’ve got two or three plans,” began Gem, but Tom interrupted her; “Don’t breathe a word, it will spoil all, Gem.”

“I hope it is not dangerous,” said patient Aunt Faith, who associated the Birthday of Independence with visions of boys disfigured for life with gunpowder, and girls running madly towards the house with their muslin dresses blazing.

“None of the plans are dangerous, Aunt Faith,” said Tom; “but we don’t want anybody to know anything about them beforehand; especially Hugh.”

“I smell a rat,—I see him floating in the air,—but I shall yet be able to nip him in the bud,” quoted Hugh, with pointed emphasis.

“Now don’t, Hugh! just promise that you won’t cross the back terrace until after the Fourth,” pleaded Gem. “It will be twice the fun for you, too, if you don’t know anything about it beforehand.” After some delay the two conspirators wrenched the required promise from their cousin, who pretended to be deeply curious about the plot, and heroically unselfish in abandoning his designs upon it.

At three o’clock the meeting was held under the elm-tree on the terrace; the B. B.‘s reinforced to the number of twelve were there, and Tom and Gem did the honors with cordial hospitality. Many plans were brought forward for the consideration of the patriots, but objections were found to one and all; at length Gem disappeared and after a long delay, returned carrying some books under her arm. “I have thought of something,” she said, taking a seat under the tree; “we will have the battle of Bunker Hill and the life of General Israel Putnam.” The word “battle” stimulated the B. B.‘s, who were lying about on the grass, worn out with their efforts to arrange a programme. “Bunker Hill forever!” said one, tossing up his hat. Tom said nothing; he was not going to be carried away by any of Gem’s nonsense, not he! “My plan is this,” began Gem, encouraged by the general attention; “we will have a real battle,—we’ve got torpedoes, fire-crackers, and Tom’s cannon, you know,—and we’ll make a big monument of boards for Bunker’s Hill; I’ve been there and know just how it looks.”

“It wasn’t there when the battle was fought, Goosey,” said Tom.

“How do you know?” retorted Gem; “you were not there, I guess. And as to history, who got ten imperfect marks in one week?”

The B. B.‘s not being strong in history, did not take sides in this contest, and Gem went on triumphantly. “Jim Morse can be General Putnam, because his uncle’s name is Putnam; you see, I thought of that,” said Gem, with conscious pride.

“Hurrah for Jim!” said the enthusiastic B. B. before mentioned.

“Then there will be the wolf-scene,” continued Gem. “You remember how Putnam went down in a cave when everybody else was afraid, and shot a great wolf there. They had a rope around his legs, and when he pulled it they jerked it up, and out he came holding the wolf by the ears. Now that will do splendidly for us, for we can have the underground shanty for the cave, and Turk will just do for the wolf.”

This last idea was received with applause, and the discussion became general, even Tom forgetting his scorn in the interest of the occasion, and actually taking some importance upon himself because his sister was the originator of so much brilliancy. Books were consulted, suggestions and changes made, and the whole plot of the drama altered again and again. Each B. B. felt himself called upon to be a general, and they had all selected the names of revolutionary heroes, when some one suggested that an army composed entirely of generals would be difficult to manage. Then, there was the question of time, also. Should they confine themselves to Bunker Hill, or give an abstract of the whole war? Tom was for the whole war; but that was because he had already announced himself as George Washington, and naturally wished for as many battles as possible. He intended, also, to throw in the episode of the hatchet; “It will be real easy,” he said, advocating his plan, “I know it all, out of the reader, and besides, we’ve got a cherry-tree.”

But another boy maintained that more than one battle would spoil the effect; a number of the forces must of course be left dead and wounded upon the field, and it would not look well for them to come to life over and over again, right before everybody.

It was finally decided to adopt a circuitous course, steering between the impossibilities, yet bringing in all the desired effects. The drama was to open with the wolf-hunt. Then the scene was to change; Putnam, peacefully engaged in ploughing, was to hear the glorious news and depart instantly for Bunker Hill. The battle was to rage fiercely on the terrace slope, and in the vegetable garden, while a masked battery did terrible execution in the asparagus bed, and whole ranks of the enemy were to be mowed down in the cornfield conveniently out of sight. As Tom said, “Something must be left to the imagination.” The third scene was to bring in the hanging of the spy, Nathan Palmer, in order that Putnam might read his famous letter on the subject; but as Gem objected to the tragical end, it was decided to alter history a little, and let Nathan escape by night, which change would also give a fine chance for dark-lanterns, masks, and a muffled drum. The whole was to close with a tableau, and the singing of the “Star-Spangled Banner,” in which the audience were to be especially requested to join.

The outline of the performance