class="tdr">147

THE PEDDLER'S BOY.

CHAP. I.ToC

A BIRD'S-EYE GLANCE.

Among the many beautiful villages near Boston, there is one quite as beautiful as any, situated but a few miles from that busy metropolis, called—but I must not mention its name; that is of very little consequence. A few rods from the Common, the pride of the Bostonians, is the depot of the railroad which passes through this place; and one has only to jump into the cars, and in less than fifteen minutes he is there. Uncle Frank has some dear friends in this village, and choice spirits they are, in his estimation. How much this fact has to do with his opinion of the beauty of the place, he does not pretend to say. He has scarcely settled it in his own mind. Nor is it much matter, as the story about to be related will neither lose nor gain much in its interest, by the good or ill opinion which the reader may happen to have of the village itself; though I may be pardoned for adding that I should put rather a low value upon the taste of that man, or woman, or child, who could visit this part of the country, when Nature has her best dress on, and not pronounce it one of the most delightful spots, in his or her opinion, that the sun or moon ever shone upon.

Among my friends in this charming village, is one whom, at present, I will call Mr. Bissell—Mr. Samuel Bissell. I will call him so for the present, I say. His real name is no more like Bissell than yours is—no more like Samuel Bissell than it is like John Smith or George Jones; but I think he will forgive us, though, for taking such a liberty with his "good name," should he ever happen to come across this story, and should it prove to him a sort of looking-glass, in which he can see his own features.

When he was a lad, about twelve years old, his father, who had been possessed of a handsome property, failed in business, and as Samuel says, "became as poor as a church mouse." What would have taken place if Samuel's father had been successful in his business affairs, so that it would not have been absolutely necessary for the lad to work for a living, is more than I can say. Probably it is more than anybody can say. Very likely it would not have been as well for Samuel. It is a good thing for boys and girls to work. Idleness is the cause of a great deal of mischief. I really pity the boy whose father brings him up without giving him a chance to learn some trade or profession. I am always afraid that, in such cases, the lad will learn a trade "on his own hook," and one which will give him trouble, if his father or guardian does not himself see that he gets something better to do.

As I was saying, it is impossible to tell what would have been the history of Samuel Bissell, if, by his father's failure in business, he had not been driven to get a living by his own labor. It is enough for us to know what his history actually was in the circumstances in which he was placed when his father, by a sudden change of fortune, became a poor man.

But I must go back a little in my history. I want you to see and mark well two or three things, which, though little in themselves, are very important. Little things, let me tell you, are not to be despised, because they are little. A very small stream of water, which you might easily wade across, can set the machinery of a whole factory in motion. Half a dozen marks made with a pen in as many seconds, are sufficient to send weeping and death into every family in an empire. So I must go back a few years in the history of our young friend, and see where he was, what he was, and what sort of a bringing up he had, before the time of his father's unfortunate failure.

CHAP. II.ToC

PEDDLERS AND PEDDLING.

I have more than half a mind to give you a rough sketch of the Yankee Peddler.

"But I know all about this race of men already," perhaps you will say.

Do you? Well, then, consider my sketch as having been made for another reader, and not for you. The fact is—for I want to let you into one of my little secrets, just here, to start with—the story I am telling is one about a peddler's boy; and I have got a notion that it would be a good plan to devote one chapter, before I have any more to do with the boy himself, to that famous class of men who get their living principally by peddling small wares about the country.

The peddler—the genuine Massachusetts or Connecticut peddler—usually has a wagon built on purpose for his business, so fitted up that it will conveniently hold all the articles he has for sale. One who has ever taken a peep into a peddler's wagon, will not need to be told that his assortment comprises a great many different articles. Tin ware occupies a large space. In this department may be found tin ovens, sauce pans, milk pans, graters, skimmers, and things of that sort. Then the genuine peddler is always provided with two tin trunks, I believe—trunks which are large enough to hold about half a bushel each. These trunks are stored full of little knick-knacks, "too numerous to mention," as the dealer in dry goods has it in his advertisement.

The peddler does not often drive his trade in the city. He finds the country the best place for him. So you generally come across him where there are not many stores, and where the houses are not very close together. He stops before the door of a house. I say he stops; but I ought rather to have said his horse; for the old nag, who, perhaps, has been in his service for a quarter of a century, stops of her own accord at the door of every respectable looking house on the route. She needs no hint from her master in relation to this matter.

Indeed, I once heard of a peddler's mare, who was so well persuaded that it would be for the interest of her master to stop at the gate of a certain large and neat-looking farm-house, which gate the peddler seemed, for once, disposed to pass by, that she actually stopped in the road, and looked round at the man who had the helm, as if she would say, "My dear sir, there must be some mistake about this matter. Are you crazy? Upon my word, this is one of the strangest things that has ever turned up since we've been driving this peddling business."

We will suppose, now, that the faithful horse, guided by something which, for want of a better name, people generally call instinct, but which seems to me a good deal like reason, has stopped at the door of a house. The peddler, taking good care to carry along with him the tin trunks before mentioned, leaves the wagon, and goes into the house, the faithful mare, in the meantime, leisurely grazing, if it is summer,