Harry Milvaine; Or, The Wanderings of a Wayward Boy

by Gordon Stables

near my knee, my lad, and I'll suggest to you whatyou'll be, and you shall choose. Well, then, first and foremost, howwould you like to be a doctor? Fine thing to be a doctor, drive aboutin a beautiful white-lined carriage, have the entree of all the besthouses, have a splendid house yourself, and--"

  "Nasty man!" said Harry.

  "Who?" said Mr Milvaine.

  "Why, the doctor to be sure. Dear papa, I wouldn't take physic myselfeven, and I'm sure I wouldn't ask anybody else to. No, papa, I'll be asailor."

  "Well, how would you like to enter the Church? how would you like to bea clergyman? No one in the world so highly respected as a clergyman.He is fit to sit down side by side with royalty itself, and his holymission, Harold--"

  "Stop, stop, papa. I say my prayers every morning and I say my prayersevery night, but somehow I go and do naughty things just the same. Youknow I tree'd poor guvie for a whole night, and I tease poor Towsie, andI slew the Cochin China cock. No, no, dear papa; I'm not good enough tobe a clergyman. I'll be a sailor."

  "Well, how would you like to enter business, and rise, perhaps, to beLord Mayor of London, and ride in a gilded coach, and live in a houselike a palace--"

  "Papa, papa, don't; I would rather live in the beech tree in the forestthan in a palace. I'll be a sailor."

  His father bent down, and took Harry's hand in his. "Wouldn't you liketo stay at home and help your papa, when he grows old, to farm, and takeyour poor old mother to church every Sunday on your arm?"

  "If you wished it very much, papa; but you see, papa--"

  The boy ceased speaking, and gazed into the fire for fully a minute.

  Then up he jumped and clapped his hands.

  "Ha?" he laughed, "I have it, dear papa. I have it. I'll do both."

  "Both what?"

  "Why, I'll go to sea first, and visit all kinds of strange places andstrange countries, and kill, oh! such lots of lions and tigers andsavages; and then, papa, come back and help you to farm, and take mymamma to church. Isn't it fun?"

  His father laughed, and took up his pipe. Shouldn't wonder, he thoughtto himself, but there may be some little truth in that old saying: "Thechild is the father of the man."

  Book 1--CHAPTER FIVE.

  THE STORY THAT THE SWALLOW TOLD.

  That garden and that bungalow was a continual source of delight to youngHarry. All the improvements which he was constantly carrying out insidethe room itself, he planned and executed without assistance, but Andrewthe joiner used to come up of an evening pretty frequently, and give himadvice about the garden. So it flourished, and was very beautiful.

  Andrew was often out and about the country doing odd jobs at theresidences of the gentry, and whenever he could beg a root of some rareplant or flower he did so, and brought it straight home to the younglaird, as he called Harry.

  And Harry would give him snuff.

  Not, mind you, that it was for sake of the snuff that Andrew did theselittle kindnesses to Harry. Truth is he dearly loved the boy.

  A harum-scarum sort of a young man was Andrew, and there were people inthe parish who said he was only half-witted, but this was all nonsense.Andrew came out with droll sayings at times--he was an original, andthat is next door to a genius; but the truth is he had more wit and adeal more brains than many, or most of his detractors.

  Andrew was tall and lank, and not an over-graceful walker, but he had akind face of his own and black beads of eyes, round which smiles werenearly always dancing, and it did not take much to make Andrew laughright out. A right merry guffaw it was too. Sometimes it made the dogsbark, and the cocks all crow, and the peacock scream like a thousandcats all knocked into one. That is the kind of young man Andrew was.He came from the low country, and spoke a trifle broad. But that didnot matter, his heart was as good as any Highlander's.

  Harry and his friend frequently went to the forest together, but neveragain near Towsie's gate, because the boy had promised not to tease thebull any more. A promise is a sacred thing, and Harry knew this. Theboy had a hundred friends in the forest. Yes, and far more.

  For he loved nature.

  And there was not a bush or tree he did not know all about: when theybudded, when they broke into leaf, and even when those leaves would fadeand fall and die.

  There was not a flower he did not know, nor a bird he could notrecognise by name, by note or song, by its nest or by its eggs.

  He was no wanton nest-robber, though; a boy who is so has no manlinessor fairness or gentlemanly feeling about him. Harry never robbed anest, but more than once he pitched into other boys for doing so, andfought sturdy battles in the forest in defence of his friends the birds.

  Did you ever notice, dear reader, what a sweet sweet song that of thehouse-martin is? With its coat of dusky black, the little crimson blushon its breast, and its graceful form, the martin is a charming birdaltogether. But its song is to my ears ineffably sweet.

  It is not a loud song, and the bird always sits down to sing. It is notloud for this reason: away in the wilds of Africa, where this birdiefrequently goes, there are so many enemies about that to sing veryloudly would lead to the discovery of its whereabouts, and it wouldprobably be killed and devoured.

  For this very reason many of the birds in Africa sing not at all. Gayand lovely are they even as the flowers, the glorious flowers that adornthe hillside and forest and plain, but silently they flit from bough tobough.

  One evening Harry was seated on his sofa, or rather he was halfreclining thereon, reading a volume of his favourite poet--Campbell, Ithink. It was very still and quiet. His little window, round which theroses and the clematis clung, was open, and the sweet breath of flowersfloated in with the gentle breeze.

  It was so still and silent that Harry could hear the soft foot-fall ofEily the collie, as she came along the gravelled path towards thebungalow door.

  "Come, in Eily," he said, "and lie down, I'm reading."

  "Oh?" he added, as he looked up, "what have you in your mouth? A bone?"

  Eily advanced, and put her chin ever so gently on, her young master'sknee.

  No, it was not a bone, but a bird, a lovely martin.

  Not a tooth had Eily put in it, not a feather had she ruffled, andhardly had she wetted its plumage.

  Harry took it tenderly in his hand.

  "Where did you get it, Eily? In the loft?"

  Eily wagged her tail.

  Swift as lightning though they may fly out of doors, no bird is moreeasily captured inside than the house-martin. If found in a loft theyappear to lose presence of mind at once, and after flying about for ashort time usually alight against the glass. When one is taken itslittle heart may be felt beating against the hand, as if it verily wouldbreak.

  And no wonder.

  Fancy, reader, how you should feel were you captured by some great ogre,taller than a steeple, and carried away, expecting death every minute.

  "Give it to me, Eily. Give it quick. I hope you haven't draggled itsplumage very much. Now shut the door."

  Eily went and did as she was told. [It is very seldom a dog is taughtthis trick, but it is a very handy one.--G.S.]

  Harry admired it for a little while. Then he gently kissed its brow.Its wee beak was half upturned, and its black beads of eyes appeared tolook appealingly at him.

  "What are you going to do with me?" it seemed to ask. "Are you going tokill me, or swallow me alive as we martins do the flies?"

  "_I'm_ not going to harm you a bit," said Harry.

  "I'm only going to hold you in my hand for a short time to admire you.How soft and warm you feel, and what a pretty dusky red patch you haveon your breast! I've often listened to your song as you sat on theapple tree. But why do you sing so soft and low?"

  "Because," replied the bird, talking with its eyes--at least Harrythought he could read the answer there--"because in our country if wesang too loudly our enemies would hear us and come and kill us."

  "And who are your enemies?"

 
"Big birds with terrible claws and beaks, that want to fly at us anddevour us. And terrible snakes that glide silently up the branches onwhich we are perched, and sometimes strike us dead, as quick as alightning's flash."

  "And I suppose you _must_ sing?"

  "Oh yes, we must sing, because we are so very happy, and we love eachother so."

  "And why are your wings and back so dusky and dark?"

  "That our enemies may not see us."

  "But I've read," said Harry, "that many tropical birds were all brightand gay with colours of every hue."

  "Oh yes, so they are, but then these live all their lives among flowersas gorgeous in colour as they themselves are, and so their enemiesmistake them for the flowers among which they dwell."

  "Do you