the story of a bad boy(顽童故事)-第11节
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You shall judge for yourself。
It is Sunday morning。 I should premise by saying that the deep gloom
which has settled over everything set in like a heavy fog early on Saturday
evening。
At seven o'clock my grandfather comes smilelessly downstairs。 He is
dressed in black； and looks as if be had lost all his friends during the night。
Miss Abigail； also in black； looks as if she were prepared to bury them；
and not indisposed to enjoy the ceremony。 Even Kitty Collins has caught
the contagious gloom； as I perceive when she brings in the coffee…um…a
solemn and sculpturesque urn at any time； but monumental now…and sets it
down in front of Miss Abigail。 Miss Abigail gazes at the urn as if it held
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the ashes of her ancestors； instead of a generous quantity of fine old Java
coffee。 The meal progresses in silence。
Our parlor is by no means thrown open every day。 It is open this June
morning； and is pervaded by a strong smell of centretable。 The furniture of
the room； and the little China ornaments on the mantel…piece； have a
constrained； unfamiliar look。 My grandfather sits in a mahogany chair；
reading a large Bible covered with green baize。 Miss Abigail occupies one
end of the sofa； and has her hands crossed stiffly in her lap。 I sit in the
comer； crushed。 Robinson Crusoe and Gil Blas are in close confinement。
Baron Trenck； who managed to escape from the fortress of Clatz； can't for
the life of him get out of our sittingroom closet。 Even the Rivermouth
Barnacle is suppressed until Monday。 Genial converse； harmless books；
smiles； lightsome hearts； all are banished。 If I want to read anything； I can
read Baxter's Saints' Rest。 I would die first。 So I sit there kicking my heels；
thinking about New Orleans； and watching a morbid blue…bottle fly that
attempts to commit suicide by butting his head against the window…pane。
Listen！…no； yes…it is…it is the robins singing in the garden…the grateful；
joyous robins singing away like mad； just as if it wasn't Sunday。 Their
audacity tickles me。
My grandfather looks up； and inquires in a sepulchral voice if I am
ready for Sabbath school。 It is time to go。 I like the Sabbath school； there
are bright young faces there； at all events。 When I get out into the sunshine
alone； I draw a long breath； I would turn a somersault up against Neighbor
Penhallow's newly painted fence if I hadn't my best trousers on； so glad
am I to escape from the oppressive atmosphere of the Nutter House。
Sabbath school over； I go to meeting； joining my grandfather； who
doesn't appear to be any relation to me this day； and Miss Abigail； in the
porch。 Our minister holds out very little hope to any of us of being saved。
Convinced that I am a lost creature； in common with the human family； I
return home behind my guardians at a snail's pace。 We have a dead cold
dinner。 I saw it laid out yesterday。
There is a long interval between this repast and the second service； and
a still longer interval between the beginning and the end of that service；
for the Rev。 Wibird Hawkins's sermons are none of the shortest； whatever
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The Story of a Bad Boy
else they may be。
After meeting； my grandfather and I take a walk。 We visit
appropriately enough…a neighboring graveyard。 I am by this time in a
condition of mind to become a willing inmate of the place。 The usual
evening prayer…meeting is postponed for some reason。 At half past eight I
go to bed。
This is the way Sunday was observed in the Nutter House； and pretty
generally throughout the town； twenty years ago。1 People who were
prosperous and natural and happy on Saturday became the most rueful of
human beings in the brief space of twelve hours。 I don't think there was
any hypocrisy in this。 It was merely the old Puritan austerity cropping out
once a week。 Many of these people were pure Christians every day in the
seven…excepting the seventh。 Then they were decorous and solemn to the
verge of moroseness。 I should not like to be misunderstood on this point。
Sunday is a blessed day； and therefore it should not be made a gloomy one。
It is the Lord's day； and I do believe that cheerful hearts and faces are not
unpleasant in His sight。
〃O day of rest！ How beautiful； how fair；
How welcome to the weary and the old！
Day of the Lord！ and truce to earthly cares！
Day of the Lord； as all our days should be！
Ah； why will man by his austerities
Shut out the blessed sunshine and the light；
And make of thee a dungeon of despair！〃
1 About 1850。
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CHAPTER Seven
One Memorable Night
Two months had elapsed since my arrival at Rivermouth； when the
approach of an important celebration produced the greatest excitement
among the juvenile population of the town。
There was very little hard study done in the Temple Grammar School
the week preceding the Fourth of July。 For my part； my heart and brain
were so full of fire…crackers； Roman candles； rockets； pin…wheels； squibs；
and gunpowder in various seductive forms； that I wonder I didn't explode
under Mr。 Grimshaw's very nose。 I couldn't do a sum to save me； I couldn't
tell； for love or money； whether Tallahassee was the capital of Tennessee
or of Florida； the present and the pluperfect tenses were inextricably
mixed in my memory； and I didn't know a verb from an adjective when I
met one。 This was not alone my condition； but that of every boy in the
school。
Mr。 Grimshaw considerately made allowances for our temporary
distraction； and sought to fix our interest on the lessons by connecting
them directly or indirectly with the coming Event。 The class in arithmetic；
for instance； was requested to state how many boxes of fire…crackers； each
box measuring sixteen inches square； could be stored in a room of such
and such dimensions。 He gave us the Declaration of Independence for a
parsing exercise； and in geography confined his questions almost
exclusively to localities rendered famous in the Revolutionary War。
〃What did the people of Boston do with the tea on board the English
vessels？〃 asked our wily instructor。
〃Threw it into the river！〃 shrieked the smaller boys； with an
impetuosity that made Mr。 Grimshaw smile in spite of himself。 One
luckless urchin said； 〃Chucked it；〃 for which happy expression he was
kept in at recess。
Notwithstanding these clever stratagems； there was not much solid
work done by anybody。 The trail of the serpent （an inexpensive but
dangerous fire…toy） was over us all。 We went round deformed by quantities
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of Chinese crackers artlessly concealed in our trousers…pockets； and if a
boy whipped out his handkerchief without proper precaution； he was sure
to let off two or three torpedoes。
Even Mr。 Grimshaw was made a sort of accessory to the universal
demoralization。 In calling the school to order； he always rapped on the
table with a heavy ruler。 Under the green baize table…cloth； on the exact
spot where he usually struck； certain boy； whose name I withhold； placed a
fat torpedo。 The result was a loud explosion； which caused Mr。 Grimshaw
to look queer。 Charley Marden was at the water…pail； at the time； and
directed general attention to himself by strangling for several seconds and
then squirting a slender thread of water over the blackboard。
Mr。 Grimshaw fixed his eyes reproachfully on Charley； but said
nothing。 The real culprit （it wasn't Charley Marden； but the boy whose
name I withhold） instantly regretted his badness； and after school
confessed the whole
