Mike Marble Part 4

I did it, though. I caught the b.u.mble-bee, and held him fast in my hand. But if ever a poor fellow got handsomely and foolishly stung, I was that unfortunate youth; and the worst of it was, that while I was dancing about, and wringing my hand, and crying, on account of the pain, my companions were doing quite another thing: they were holding a laughing concert, at my expense.

It is hardly necessary to add, that my white-faced b.u.mble-bee turned out to be an enemy in disguise. After that event, I made a closer examination of the faces of this cla.s.s of insects, and became satisfied that there was one tribe of b.u.mble-bees who wore a face of a pale yellow color, resembling somewhat the genuine borer, but who, for all that, could sting as well as any of their race with black faces.

This feat was as near as I ever got toward the glory of capturing a nest of b.u.mble-bees. I have tasted the honey which came from their nests, though, many a time, and I have seen other boys capture the nests.

Billy Bolton was a great fellow at that kind of sport. Billy lived with Uncle Mike. He did _ch.o.r.es_--to use a word common enough in New England, though, possibly, not an elegant one--on Mr. Marble's farm; that is, he went for the cows and drove them to pasture, fed the pigs and poultry, brought water and chips for the "women folks," and ran of errands.

It was a favorite sport with Billy, in the summer time, to hunt for b.u.mble-bees' nests, and to "take them up," as the process of capturing them was called. Uncle Mike did not like to indulge the boy in this kind of sport. Perhaps he thought it a cruel and unfeeling kind of fun; and I know he had too kind a heart, to see a boy growing up in his family with a taste for cruelty to animals of any kind. At any rate, the danger connected with the sport was enough to condemn it in the mind of Mr. Marble.

He had forbidden Billy and his own children having any thing to do with the sport. Still, it seemed Billy found means to amuse himself, now and then, in a sly way, by taking up a b.u.mble-bees' nest.

One day, Mr. Marble and his men were engaged in the meadow, raking hay and carting it into the barn. Billy was in the meadow, too, at work among the hay, raking after the cart, I presume, as that used to be the task always allotted to me when I was of his age. In a corner of the lot, at some distance from the place where Mr. Marble and his men were at work, there was a large bottle containing water--nothing but water, reader; there was no rum drank on Mr. Marble's farm. Billy was sent after the bottle. He was gone a good while--longer, Mr. Marble thought, than was necessary. The matter was examined, when it turned out that Billy had got into trouble with a nest of b.u.mble-bees. He had discovered a nest of these wretches, it appears; and, the temptation to wage war against them being very strong, he had stopped a moment, just to take up the nest.

Poor fellow! It proved to be a _taking in_, instead of a _taking up_, and the taking in was on the other side. When he saw that the b.u.mble-bees had outwitted him, he s.n.a.t.c.hed up the bottle, which he had thrown down, and which was lying near, and ran, as fast as his legs would let him, towards the place where the men were at work. But the bees flew faster than he could run. It was a comic scene enough to see the fellow running at the top of his speed, and some fifty b.u.mble-bees after him, once in a while giving expression to their feelings, by saluting him, in their peculiar way, in the face and on the neck.

Didn't the poor fellow scream?

[Ill.u.s.tration: PAYING FOR MISCHIEF.]

But this was not the whole of the joke. Indeed, it was hardly the richest part of it. Mr. Marble, who saw what was going on, stood ready with his cart whip; and when Billy made his appearance, with a regiment of b.u.mble-bees about his ears, he commenced beating him with the whip. Away ran the boy, and Mr. Marble chased him some half a dozen rods, and gave him about as many blows with the cart whip.

"There, you young rogue!" said Mr. Marble, as he turned to go back to his work again, "between me and the b.u.mble-bees, I guess you have learned one good lesson thoroughly this afternoon. You will be a wiser boy, I think, after this. You will be a _smarter_ one, I'm sure; at least, for a while."

CHAP. IX.

HOW A BARN WAS BUILT.

Mike Marble, as I think I have said before, was a kind-hearted man.

But he had his own way of doing every thing, and that way was very generally quite unlike most other people's way. No man ever liked better to do any body a good turn. But he had his crotchets about an act of charity, as well as about every thing else.

A neighbor went to him once, to ask him for some money to aid him in building a barn. The old one had burned down, and it was a great loss to him, he said. He hardly knew how he should get along, unless his neighbor loaned him a little money.

But Uncle Mike refused the neighbor's pet.i.tion. "Money was scarce, very scarce." That was all the answer the unfortunate man could get from Mike Marble.

"This is strange enough," he mused in his own mind, as he walked away from Mr. Marble's door. "Strange enough! so kind-hearted and generous as he always has been, when any body was in distress."

The next day, however, bright and early, Uncle Mike yoked up his oxen, (some three pairs, I believe, including the _steers_, which needed something more than _moral suasion_ to keep them straight,) fastened them to the cart, and posted off, with two or three men, to the saw mill. There he and his men loaded the cart with boards and planks.

Then he drove straight to the house of the unfortunate neighbor, opened the great gate, without saying a word to any member of the family, went into the door yard with his load, and threw it off within a few yards of the spot where the old barn stood.

"What on earth does all that mean?" thought the female portion of the family. The farmer and his boys were not at home at the time. Nothing was said, however.

Again Uncle Mike drove over to the mill; again he put on a load of timber; again he threw it off near the site of the old barn. Three loads were discharged there, and then he directed his men to go home with the team. He himself went to one of his neighbors, and asked him if he had any timber of any kind already sawed at Squire Murdock's mill.

"Yes," was the answer, "a little; why?"

"Well, I want some of it, if it's the right kind. What is it?"

"I don't recollect exactly--some white oak joists, I guess, and some inch boards."

"Good. Just what I want."

Suffice it to say, that Mike Marble did not leave his neighbor before he got a promise from him that he would contribute a load or two of his timber to rebuild that barn. Then he went to another neighbor, and another, and did something like the same errand, with very much the same sort of success. He called on a _boss_ carpenter, too, and secured his services in framing the barn; and, on his way home, he stopped at Sloc.u.m's blacksmith's shop, and got the promise of some nails.

Well, it was not long before the neighbors were all called together to raise Deacon Metcalf's barn, and it was not long after that before the building was ready for use. And how much do you think it cost him?

Not a cent--not a single cent, the neighbors managed the thing so well. Even the good things on the supper table, when they had their "raising bee," were sent in by the neighbors.

And the whole scheme, you see, came from the crotchety brain of our friend, Mike Marble. That was his way of building a neighbor's barn, when any help was needed for that purpose.

CHAP. X.

ANOTHER BLOCK OF MARBLE.

This story about the building of the deacon's barn brings to my mind another, pretty closely related to it. Will you hear that, too?

One morning, as Uncle Mike was walking out, he saw a boy sitting down on the door steps of one of his neighbors. Upon a closer inspection of the lad it appeared that he was a poor boy, without any parents, who was wandering about, doing odd jobs, here and there, and getting what people had a mind to pay him for his services.

[Ill.u.s.tration: MIKE MARBLE AND THE BEGGAR.]

He was not a common vagrant, exactly, and yet he came very near being one. It was not supposed that he was a vicious boy; still it could not be denied that the life he led was tolerably well calculated to make him vicious, and most of the neighbors were afraid to have him about their houses, without keeping a sharp look out on his movements.

Mr. Marble had heard of the lad, though it so happened that he had never met him until this time.

"Hallo, there, my boy!" said Uncle Mike, "what are you so busy about?"

"Eating a cold johnny-cake, sir," was the laconic answer.

"And how do you like it?"

"Pretty well, though I guess a little b.u.t.ter wouldn't hurt it."

"Look here, my lad," said Uncle Mike, "what do you do generally for a living?"

"A little of every thing."

"Are you willing to work?"

"Yes, sir, if I can get any thing for it."

"Will you work for me?"

"I wouldn't mind trying it."