Frank's Campaign; Or, The Farm and the Camp

“It is a beautiful morning,” said the young man courteously.

“Yes, sir,” was the respectful answer. “Have you been up looking at the view?”

“Yes—and to get an appetite for breakfast. And you?”

Frank Frost—for it was he—laughed. “Oh, I am here on quite a different errand,” he said. “I used to come here earlier in the season to drive the cows to pasture. I come this morning to carry some milk to a neighbor who takes it of us. She usually sends for it, but her son is just now sick with the measles.”

“Yet I think you cannot fail to enjoy the pleasant morning, even if you are here for other purposes.”

“I do enjoy it very much,” said Frank. “When I read of beautiful scenery in other countries, I always wish that I could visit them, and see for myself.”

“Perhaps you will some day.”

Frank smiled, and shook his head incredulously. “I am afraid there is not much chance of it,” he said.

“So I thought when I was of your age,” returned Henry Morton.

“Then you have traveled?” said Frank, looking interested.

“Yes. I have visited most of the countries of Europe.”

“Have you been in Rome?” inquired Frank.

“Yes. Are you interested in Rome?”

“Who could help it, sir? I should like to see the Capitol, and the Via Sacra, and the Tarpeian Rock, and the Forum—and, in fact, Rome must be full of objects of interest. Who knows but I might tread where Cicero, and Virgil, and Caesar had trodden before me?”

Henry Morton looked at the boy who stood beside him with increased interest. “I see you are quite a scholar,” he said. “Where did you learn about all these men and places?”

“I have partly prepared for college,” answered Frank; “but my father went to the war some weeks since, and I am staying at home to take charge of the farm, and supply his place as well as I can.”

“It must have been quite a sacrifice to you to give up your studies?” said his companion.

“Yes, sir, it was a great sacrifice; but we must all of us sacrifice something in these times. Even the boys can do something for their country.”

“What is your name?” asked Henry Morton, more and more pleased with his chance acquaintance. “I should like to become better acquainted with you.”

Frank blushed, and his expressive face showed that he was gratified by the compliment.

“My name is Frank Frost,” he answered, “and I live about half a mile from here.”

“And I am Henry Morton. I am stopping temporarily at the hotel. Shall you be at leisure this evening, Frank?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then I should be glad to receive a call from you. I have no acquaintances, and perhaps we may help each other to make the evening pass pleasantly. I have some pictures collected abroad, which I think you might like to look at.”

“I shall be delighted to come,” said Frank, his eyes sparkling with pleasure.

By this time they had reached the church, which was distant but a few rods from the hotel. They had just turned the corner of the road, when the clang of a bell was heard.

“I suppose that is my breakfast-bell,” said the young man. “It finds me with a good appetite. Good morning, Frank. I will expect you, then, this evening.”

Frank returned home, feeling quite pleased with his invitation.

“I wish,” thought he, “that I might see considerable of Mr. Morton. I could learn a great deal from him, he has seen so much.”

His road led him past the house of Squire Haynes. John was sauntering about the yard with his hands in his pockets.

“Good morning, John,” said Frank, in a pleasant voice.

John did not seem inclined to respond to this politeness. On seeing Frank he scowled, and without deigning to make a reply turned his back and went into the house. He had not forgotten the last occasion on which they had met in the woods, when Frank defeated his cruel designs upon poor Pomp. There was not much likelihood that he would forget it very soon.

“I can’t understand John,” thought Frank. “The other boys will get mad and get over it before the next day; John broods over it for weeks. I really believe he hates me. But, of course, I couldn’t act any differently. I wasn’t going to stand by and see Pomp beaten. I should do just the same again.”

The day wore away, and in the evening Frank presented himself at the hotel, and inquired for Mr. Morton. He was ushered upstairs, and told to knock at the door of a room in the second story.

His knock was answered by the young man in person, who shook his hand with a pleasant smile, and invited him in.

“I am glad to see you, Frank,” he said, very cordially.

“And I am much obliged to you for inviting me, Mr. Morton.”

They sat down together beside the table, and conversed on a variety of topics. Frank had numberless questions to ask about foreign scenes and countries, all of which were answered with the utmost readiness. Henry Morton brought out a large portfolio containing various pictures, some on note-paper, representing scenes in different parts of Europe.

The evening wore away only too rapidly for Frank. He had seldom passed two hours so pleasantly. At half-past nine, he rose, and said half-regretfully, “I wish you were going to live in the village this winter, Mr. Morton.”

The young man smiled. “Such is my intention, Frank,” he said quietly.

“Shall you stay?” said Frank joyfully. “I suppose you will board here?”

“I should prefer a quieter boarding-place. Can you recommend one?”

Frank hesitated.

“Where,” continued Mr. Morton, “I could enjoy the companionship of an intelligent young gentleman of your age?”

“If we lived nearer the village,” Frank began, and stopped abruptly.

“Half a mile would be no objection to me. As I don’t think you will find it unpleasant, Frank, I will authorize you to offer your mother five dollars a week for a room and a seat at her table.”

“I am quite sure she would be willing, Mr. Morton, but I am afraid we should not live well enough to suit you. And I don’t think you ought to pay so much as five dollars a week.”

“Leave that to me, Frank. My main object is to obtain a pleasant home; and that I am sure I should find at your house.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Frank; “I will mention it to my mother, and let you know in the course of to-morrow.”

CHAPTER XVII. A SHADE OF MYSTERY

Frank found little difficulty in persuading his mother to accept young Morton’s proposition. From her son’s description she felt little doubt that he would be a pleasant addition to the family circle, while his fund of information would make him instructive as well as agreeable.

There was another consideration besides which determined her to take him. Five dollars a week would go a great way in housekeeping, or, rather, as their income from other sources would probably be sufficient for this, she could lay aside the entire amount toward paying the mortgage held by Squire Haynes. This plan occurred simultaneously to Frank and his mother.

“I should certainly feel myself to blame if I neglected so good an opportunity of helping your father,” said Mrs. Frost.

“Suppose we don’t tell him, mother,” suggested Frank; “but when he gets home surprise him with the amount of our savings.”

“No,” said Mrs. Frost, after a moment’s thought, “your father will be all the better for all the good news we can send him. It will make his life more tolerable.”

Frank harnessed his horse to a light wagon and drove down to the tavern.

Henry Morton was sitting on the piazza, as the day was unusually-warm, with a book in his hand.

“Well,” he said, looking up with a smile, “I hope you have come for me.”

“That is my errand, Mr. Morton,” answered Frank. “If your trunk is already packed, we will take it along with us.”

“It is quite ready. If you will come up and help me downstairs with it, I will settle with the landlord and leave at once.”

This was speedily arranged, and the young man soon occupied a seat beside Frank.

Arrived at the farmhouse, Frank introduced the new boarder to his mother.

“I hope we shall be able to make you comfortable,” said Mrs. Frost, in a hospitable tone.

“I entertain no doubt of it,” he said politely. “I am easy to suit, and I foresee that Frank and I will become intimate friends.”

“He was very urgent to have you come. I am not quite sure whether it would have been safe for me to refuse.”

“I hope he will be as urgent to have me stay. That will be a still higher compliment.”

“Here is the room you are to occupy, Mr. Morton,” said Mrs. Frost, opening a door at the head of the front stairs.

It was a large square room, occupying the front eastern corner of the house. The furniture was neat and comfortable, though not pretentious.

“I like this,” said the young man, surveying his new quarters with an air of satisfaction. “The sun will find me out in the morning.”

“Yes, it will remain with you through the forenoon. I think you will find the room warm and comfortable. But whenever you get tired of it you will be welcome downstairs.”

“That is an invitation of which I shall be only too glad to avail myself. Now, Frank, if you will be kind enough to help me upstairs with my trunk.”

The trunk was carried up between them, and placed in a closet.

“I will send for a variety of articles from the city to make my room look social and cheerful,” said Mr. Morton. “I have some books and engravings in Boston, which I think will contribute to make it so.”

A day or two later, two large boxes arrived, one containing pictures, the other books. Of the latter there were perhaps a hundred and fifty, choice and well selected.

Frank looked at them with avidity.

“You shall be welcome to use them as freely as you like,” said the owner—an offer which Frank gratefully accepted.

The engravings were tastefully framed in black walnut. One represented one of Raphael’s Madonnas. Another was a fine photograph, representing a palace in Venice. Several others portrayed foreign scenes. Among them was a street scene in Rome. An entire family were sitting in different postures on the portico of a fine building, the man with his swarthy features half-concealed under a slouch hat, the woman holding a child in her lap, while another, a boy with large black eyes, leaned his head upon her knees.

“That represents a Roman family at home,” explained Henry Morton.

“At home!”

“Yes, it is the only home they have. They sleep wherever night finds them, sheltering themselves from the weather as well as they can.”

“But how do they get through the winter? should think they would freeze.”

“Nature has bestowed upon Italy a mild climate, so that, although they may find the exposure at this season disagreeable, they are in no danger of freezing.”

There was another engraving which Frank looked at curiously. It represented a wagon laden with casks of wine, and drawn by an ox and a donkey yoked together. Underneath was a descriptive phrase, “Caro di vino.”

“You don’t see such teams in this country,” said Mr. Morton, smiling. “In Italy they are common enough. In the background you notice a priest with a shovel-hat, sitting sideways on a donkey. Such a sight is much more common there than that of a man on horseback. Indeed, this stubborn animal is found very useful in ascending and descending mountains, being much surer-footed than the horse. I have ridden down steep descents along the verge of a precipice where it would have been madness to venture on horseback, but I felt the strongest confidence in the donkey I bestrode.”

Frank noticed a few Latin books in the collection. “Do you read Latin, Mr. Morton?” he inquired.

“Yes, with tolerable ease. If I can be of any assistance to you in carrying on your Latin studies, it will afford me pleasure to do so.”

“I am very much obliged to you, Mr. Morton. I tried to go on with it by myself, but every now and then I came to a difficult sentence which I could not make out.”

“I think we can overcome the difficulties between us. At any rate, we will try. Have no hesitation in applying to me.”

Before closing this chapter, I think it necessary to narrate a little incident which served to heighten the interest with which Frank regarded his new friend, though it involved the latter in a shadow of mystery.

Mrs. Frost did not keep what in New England is denominated “help.” Being in good health, she performed the greater part of her household tasks unassisted. When washing and house-cleaning days came, however, she obtained outside assistance. For this purpose she engaged Chloe to come twice a week, on Monday and Saturday, not only because in this way she could help the woman to earn a living, but also because she found her a valuable and efficient assistant.

Henry Morton became a member of the little household at the farm on Thursday, and two days later Chloe came as usual to “clean house.”

The young man was standing in the front yard as Chloe, with a white turban on her head, for she had not yet laid aside her Southern mode of dress, came from the street by a little path which led to the back door. Her attention was naturally drawn to the young man. No sooner did she obtain a full view of him, than she stopped short and exclaimed with every appearance of surprise, “Why, Mass’ Richard, who’d’a’ thought to see you here. You look just like you used to do, dat’s a fac’. It does my old eyes good to see you.”

Henry Morton turned suddenly.

“What, Chloe!” he exclaimed in equal surprise. “What brings you up here? I thought you were miles away, in Virginia.”

“So I was, Mass’ Richard. But Lor’ bless you, when de Linkum sogers come, I couldn’t stay no longer. I took and runned away.”

“And here you are, then.”

“Yes, Mass’ Richard, here I is, for sure.”

“How do you like the North, Chloe?”

“Don’t like it as well as de Souf. It’s too cold,” and Chloe shivered.

“But you would rather be here than there?”

“Yes, Mass’ Richard. Here I own myself. Don’t have no oberseer to crack his whip at me now. I’se a free woman now, and so’s my little Pomp.”

The young man smiled at the innocent mistake.

“Pomp is your little boy, I suppose, Chloe.”

“Yes, Mass’ Richard.”

“Is he a good boy?”

“He’s as sassy as de debble,” said Chloe emphatically. “I don’t know what’s goin’ to ‘come of dat boy. He’s most worried my life out.”

“Oh, he’ll grow better as he grows older. Don’t trouble yourself about him. But, Chloe, there’s one favor I am going to ask of you.”

“Yes, Mass’ Richard.”

“Don’t call me by my real name. For some reasons, which I can’t at present explain, I prefer to be known as Henry Morton, for some months to come. Do you think you can remember to call me by that name?”

“Yes, Mass’—Henry,” said Chloe, looking perplexed.

Henry Morton turned round to meet the surprised looks of Frank and his mother.

“My friends,” he said, “I hope you will not feel distrustful of me, when I freely acknowledge to you that imperative reasons compel me for a time to appear under a name not my own. Chloe and I are old acquaintances, but I must request her to keep secret for a time her past knowledge concerning me. I think,” he added with a smile, “that she would have nothing to say that would damage me. Some time you shall know all. Are you satisfied?”

“Quite so,” said Mrs. Frost. “I have no doubt you have good and sufficient reason.”

“I will endeavor to justify your confidence,” said Henry Morton, an expression of pleasure lighting up his face.

CHAPTER XVIII. THANKSGIVING AT THE FARM

The chill November days drew to a close. The shrill winds whistled through the branches of the trees, and stirred the leaves which lay in brown heaps upon the ground. But at the end of the month came Thanksgiving—the farmer’s Harvest Home. The fruits of the field were in abundance but in many a home there were vacant chairs, never more, alas! to be filled. But he who dies in a noble cause leaves sweet and fragrant memories behind, which shall ever after make it pleasant to think of him.

Thanksgiving morning dawned foggy and cold. Yet there is something in the name that warms the heart and makes the dullest day seem bright. The sunshine of the heart more than compensates for the absence of sunshine without.

Frank had not been idle.

The night before he helped Jacob kill a turkey and a pair of chickens, and seated on a box in the barn they had picked them clean in preparation for the morrow.

Within the house, too, might be heard the notes of busy preparation. Alice, sitting in a low chair, was busily engaged in chopping meat for mince pies. Maggie sat near her paring pumpkins, for a genuine New England Thanksgiving cannot be properly celebrated without pumpkin pies. Even little Charlie found work to do in slicing apples.

By evening a long row of pies might be seen upon the kitchen dresser. Brown and flaky they looked, fit for the table of a prince. So the children thought as they surveyed the attractive array, and felt that Thanksgiving, come as often as it might, could never be unwelcome.

Through the forenoon of Thanksgiving day the preparations continued. Frank and Mr. Morton went to the village church, where an appropriate service was held by Reverend Mr. Apthorp. There were but few of the village matrons present. They were mostly detained at home by housewifely cares, which on that day could not well be delegated to other hands.

“Mr. Morton,” said Frank, as they walked leisurely home, “did you notice how Squire Haynes stared at you this morning?”

Mr. Morton looked interested. “Did he?” he asked. “I did not notice.”

“Yes, he turned halfround, and looked at you with a puzzled expression, as if he thought he had seen you somewhere before, but could not recall who you were.”

“Perhaps I reminded him of some one he has known in past years,” said the young man quietly. “We sometimes find strange resemblances in utter strangers.”

“I think he must have felt quite interested,” pursued Frank, “for he stopped me after church, and inquired who you were.”

“Indeed!” said Henry Morton quietly. “And what did you tell him?”

“I told him your name, and mentioned that you were boarding with us.”

“What then? Did he make any further inquiries?”

“He asked where you came from.”

“He seemed quite curious about me. I ought to feel flattered. And what did you reply?”

“I told him I did not know—that I only knew that part of your life had been passed in Europe. I heard him say under his breath, ‘It is singular.’”

“Frank,” said Mr. Morton, after a moment’s thought, “I wish to have Squire Haynes learn as little of me as possible. If, therefore, he should ask you how I am employed, you say that I have come here for the benefit of my health. This is one of my motives, though not the principal one.”

“I will remember,” said Frank. “I don’t think he will say much to me, however. He has a grudge against father, and his son does not like me. I am sorry that father is compelled to have some business relations with the squire.”

“Indeed!”

“Yes, he holds a mortgage on our farm for eight hundred dollars. It was originally more, but it has been reduced to this. He will have the right to foreclose on the first of July.”

“Shall you have the money ready for him at that time?”

“No; we may have half enough, perhaps. I am sometimes troubled when I think of it. Father feels confident, however, that the squire will not be hard upon us, but will renew the mortgage.”

Henry Morton looked very thoughtful, but said nothing.

They had now reached the farmhouse.

Dinner was already on the table. In the center, on a large dish, was the turkey, done to a turn. It was flanked by the chickens on a smaller dish. These were supported by various vegetables, such as the season supplied. A dish of cranberry sauce stood at one end of the table, and at the opposite end a dish of apple sauce.

“Do you think you can carve the turkey, Mr. Morton?” asked Mrs. Frost.

“I will at least make the attempt.”

“I want the wish-bone, Mr. Morton,” said Maggie.

“No, I want it,” said Charlie.

“You shall both have one,” said the mother. “Luckily each of the chickens is provided with one.”

“I know what I am going to wish,” said Charlie, nodding his head with decision.

“Well, Charlie, what is it?” asked Frank.

“I shall wish that papa may come home safe.”

“And so will I,” said Maggie.

“I wish he might sit down with us to-day,” said Mrs. Frost, with a little sigh. “He has never before been absent from us on Thanksgiving day.”

“Was he well when you last heard from him?”

“Yes, but hourly expecting orders to march to join the army in Maryland. I am afraid he won’t get as good a Thanksgiving dinner as this.”

“Two years ago,” said Mr. Morton, “I ate my Thanksgiving dinner in Amsterdam.”

“Do they have Thanksgiving there, Mr. Morton?” inquired Alice.

“No, they know nothing of our good New England festival. I was obliged to order a special dinner for myself. I don’t think you would have recognized plum pudding under the name which they gave it.”

“What was it?” asked Frank curiously.

“Blom buden was the name given on the bill.”

“I can spell better than that,” said Charlie.

“We shall have to send you out among the Dutchmen as a schoolmaster plenipotentiary,” said Frank, laughing. “I hope the ‘blom buden’ was good in spite of the way it was spelt.”

“Yes, it was very good.”

“I don’t believe it beat mother’s,” said Charlie.

“At your present rate of progress, Charlie, you won’t leave room for any,” said Frank.

“I wish I had two stomachs,” said Charlie, looking regretfully at the inviting delicacies which tempted him with what the French call the embarrassment of riches.

“Well done, Charlie!” laughed his mother.

Dinner was at length over. Havoc and desolation reigned upon the once well-filled table.

In the evening, as they all sat together round the table, Maggie climbed on Mr. Morton’s knee and petitioned for a story.

“What shall it be about?” he asked.

“Oh, anything.”

“Let me think a moment,” said the young man.

He bent his eyes thoughtfully upon the wood-fire that crackled in the wide-open fireplace, and soon signified that he was ready to begin.

All the children gathered around him, and even Mrs. Frost, sitting quietly at her knitting, edged her chair a little nearer, that she, too, might listen to Mr. Morton’s story. As this was of some length, we shall devote to it a separate chapter.

CHAPTER XIX. THE WONDERFUL TRANSFORMATION

“My story,” commenced Mr. Morton, “is rather a remarkable one in some respects; and I cannot vouch for its being true. I shall call it ‘The Wonderful Transformation.’

“Thomas Tubbs was a prosperous little tailor, and for forty years had been a resident of the town of Webbington, where he had been born and brought up. I have called him little, and you will agree with me when I say that, even in high-heeled boots, which he always wore, he measured only four feet and a half in height.

“In spite, however, of his undersize, Thomas had succeeded in winning the hand of a woman fifteen inches taller than himself. If this extra height had been divided equally between them, possibly they might have attracted less observation. As it was, when they walked to church, the top of the little tailor’s beaver just about reached the shoulders of Mrs. Tubbs. Nevertheless, they managed to live very happily together, for the most part, though now and then, when Thomas was a little refractory, his better half would snatch him up bodily, and, carrying him to the cellar, lock him up there. Such little incidents only served to spice their domestic life, and were usually followed by a warm reconciliation.

“The happy pair had six children, all of whom took after their mother, and promised to be tall; the oldest boy, twelve years of age, being already taller than his father, or, rather, he would have been but for the tall hat and high-heeled boots.

“Mr. Tubbs was a tailor, as I have said. One day there came into his shop a man attired with extreme shabbiness. Thomas eyed him askance.

“‘Mr. Tubbs,’ said the stranger, ‘as you perceive, I am out at the elbows. I would like to get you to make me up a suit of clothes.’

“‘Ahem!’ coughed Thomas, and glanced upward at a notice affixed to the door, ‘Terms, Cash.’