SPECIMEN OF A DIARY—IN SOLID MEASURE.
“Monday, Dec. 20.—Cold and cloudy. I intended to study an hour before going to school, but as usual, these short mornings, I over-slept myself. However, I got through my recitations tolerably well. I got one or two new ideas on grammar, to-day. Mr. Upton says ‘had rather’ is a very vulgar expression, although it is often used by people who ought to know better. ‘I had rather go’—had go—what tense is that? ‘I would rather go,’ is the correct phrase. ‘Had better,’ he says, is also bad grammar. He says he sometimes hears the girls say such a dress or bonnet is ‘tasty,’ but there is no such word—we should say tasteful. I studied my history lesson two hours in the evening, but did not quite master it. I was tired and sleepy, and I am afraid I did not apply my mind very closely to it.
“Tuesday, Dec. 21.—Pleasant, but the coldest day yet, this winter. Thermometer 3° below zero, at sunrise. The almanac says ‘winter commences’ to-day, and I should think it did, in good earnest. This is the shortest day of the year, the sun having reached its greatest southern declination. Mr. Upton explained it to us, this morning. I was perfect in all my recitations except history, in which I missed one question. It is strange how we go on mispronouncing words for a long time, without discovering our error. Our history lesson to-day had a good deal to say about magna charta, the great charter of liberty which the English barons compelled King John to sign; and it turned out that only two in the class knew how to pronounce charta. I always supposed the ch should be pronounced as in chart, but it seems they have the sound of k. Distich is another word that I never knew how to pronounce until to-day. It occurred in our reading lesson, this morning, and I pronounced the ch as in stitch; but Mr. Upton corrected me, and told me to call it distick. I could not believe he was right, until I looked into the large dictionary. I wish I could learn as easily as some of the scholars do. While we were reciting history, several of us missed, and Mr. Upton asked us if we had studied two hours out of school, according to the rule. By-and-by he came to Jerry Hall, who recited so well that Mr. Upton said, ‘There’s a boy that has studied his two hours, I am very certain.’ ‘No, sir, I didn’t,’ said Jerry, ‘I only read it over twice; that’s all that I ever study my history lessons.’ And yet I spent two hours over it, and did not learn it perfectly, even then. I stayed with Sarah Cobb in the evening, as she was alone. When the family got back, Mr. C. brought me home in his sleigh.
“Wednesday, Dec. 22.—A little more snow fell in the forenoon, but the afternoon was pleasant. I got up early and studied an hour, before school-time. My recitations were all perfect. After dinner, father took us all to ride. We went as far as Mr. Rogers’s house, on the Dodgeville road. We stopped there, and warmed ourselves, and on the whole, had a pleasant time. I noticed that the snow-birds were very plenty and lively, this afternoon. Father says that is a sign of a storm. These birds are not the same as the little chipping sparrows that are around here in summer. I always supposed they were the same, but father says it is a mistake. He says the snow-birds go to the Arctic regions in the spring, and breed, and do not come back again till winter. I studied a philosophy lesson, in the evening, about two Lours, and then read the ‘Advertiser’ till bed-time.”
After giving these illustrations of the different methods of journalizing, Mr. Upton said any one of them was better than no diary, but there was a marked difference in their value. No. 1, he said, was dry, bare, and uninteresting—a mere skeleton; useful, it is true, but not half so useful as it might be. No. 2 was too wordy, and recorded too many trivial things, and dealt too much in moral reflections that seemed to be lugged in for effect. It was quite a tax on one’s time and patience to keep such a journal, and perseverance in so serious an undertaking was almost too much to expect. No. 3 came nearer to the true idea of a diary, which should be a register of daily observations as well as occurrences—a record of ideas as well as events. This was the system, “solid measure,” which he recommended; and it was this that Jessie took as her model, when she began the experiment of keeping a journal.
CHAPTER III.
SNOW AND ICE.
One day Ronald and Henry, Jessie’s brother, took it into their heads to build a large snow-house in the yard back of the house. It was to be capacious enough to receive half a dozen boys at once, and so high as to admit of their standing upright within it. There was plenty of snow all around, and by working diligently with their shovels about an hour, they accumulated a pretty large heap. They had beat it down hard with their shovels, as they piled it up, so that it was quite solid. But after working harmoniously together, all this time, some differences of opinion at length began to arise between the two builders. Henry wanted to pile on more snow, and make the house larger. Ronald insisted that it was large enough, now. Henry, who was taller than Ronald, declared that he should not be able to stand up straight in it. Ronald told him not to be alarmed about that, for in digging out the inside, he meant to go clean down to the ground, which would make the hut nearly two feet higher than it appeared to be.
So Ronald carried his point, and Henry yielded somewhat reluctantly. They worked together again for a while, though not quite so merrily as before, smoothing and rounding off the pile into a regular shape. But when this was completed, they again began to dispute. Not that either of them was of a quarrelsome disposition, but there was an honest difference of opinion between them, and, as will sometimes happen in such cases, each was more ready to argue his own side than to listen to the other. Henry was for throwing a quantity of water upon the heap, by which means the outside would be turned into solid ice, as the water froze. He proposed to do this now, and to leave the work of excavation until another day. But Ronald thought the heap was compact and solid enough as it was, and it would only be throwing away labor to put water upon it. He determined to dig it out at once; and having marked a place for the door, he forthwith began to hollow out the hut, without further argument. Henry stood leaning upon his shovel, apparently not much pleased with the independent spirit displayed by Ronald; but he said little, and offered no further assistance.
Such was the position of affairs, when footsteps were heard on the other side of the fence, and Ronald, looking over, spied Jessie, who had evidently set out for a walk.
“Where are you going, Jessie?” he inquired.
“Down to the pond, to see the ice-boat,” replied Jessie.
“Hold on a minute and I’ll go, too,” said Ronald, throwing down his shovel, and brushing the snow from his clothes.
“That’s right—I should like company,” replied Jessie. “Wont you come, too, Henry?”
“I can’t—it’s about time for me to go home,” replied Henry.
“Well, don’t you touch my snow-house, while I’m gone, will you?” interposed Ronald.
“Your snow-house, I should think!” retorted Henry, in a sneering tone.
“Yes, it is mine, for it’s on mother’s land, and you’ve no right to come into the yard, if I tell you not to,” replied Ronald.
“It’s your mother’s land, is it? I thought she died in the poor-house, years ago,” responded Henry, with a bitter look that did not seem to sit at all naturally upon that open, good-natured face.
“Well, you touch it if you dare, that’s all,” replied Ronald, with an angry look; and leaping over the fence, he ran to overtake Jessie, who had walked on, and had heard none of this ill-natured conversation.
To explain Henry’s ungenerous fling about Ronald’s mother, it should be mentioned that the parents of that boy were poor French Canadian emigrants, who were suddenly carried off by a fever, in Highburg, leaving their only child, Ronald, at the age of eight years, homeless and friendless. He was a singularly bright and lively boy, and Marcus Page took such a fancy to him, that he induced his mother to adopt the orphan. Never having received much training, Ronald had many wild and strange ways, and had fallen into some bad habits, though his disposition was naturally affectionate, kind-hearted and docile. Marcus, from the first, exerted a great influence over him, acting the part of teacher and father to him; and from his success in making a good boy of this little semi-savage, he earned the name of “the Boy-Tamer.”
Ronald’s anger was somewhat cooled off, by the time he overtook Jessie, although he was not yet in a very pleasant mood. He looked back several times, to see what Henry was about, but the latter stood leaning upon the fence, apparently undecided what to do. Jessie asked several questions about the snow-house, as they walked along. Although Ronald did not seem inclined to say much about it, he was careful to give her no intimation of the quarrel that had arisen. She had been recently reading a volume of Arctic travels, and Ronald’s snow-house reminded her of the huts of snow in which the Esquimaux live. She explained to him the manner in which they are built. They are circular in shape, rising in the form of a dome, and are built wholly of ice and snow. We give a representation of one nearly completed. The picture also shows a finished hut, in the distance, and the low and narrow entrance to a third, in the foreground. It does not seem as though these snow hovels could be much more comfortable to dwell in than the one which Ronald and Henry built; but the poor Esquimaux, though living in a climate far colder than the coldest in the United States, are glad to make their homes in these rude huts, which seem fit only for boys’ playthings. An American traveller in those regions says that although these snow-houses might not be considered exactly comfortable, particularly by those who had a fondness for dry clothing, and for joints that did not creak with frost in the morning, yet he confessed he had often slept soundly in them.
From snow-houses the conversation glided to iceboats, which are sleds or boats constructed to sail on the ice. One of these had been recently rigged up by a young man in town, and as it was a novelty, it was the object of Jessie’s walk to see it. Ronald had already seen it, and explained its construction to her; and she, in return, told him how in Arctic expeditions the sledges were sometimes provided with sails, by which the men were greatly aided in their tedious journeys over vast fields of ice.
Merry voices soon informed Jessie and Ronald that they were in the vicinity of the pond. Round Hill Pond, it was called, taking its name from a prominent hill near its borders. It was a beautiful sheet of water, surrounded on all sides by hilly land, much of which was covered with forest trees. At this time, there was quite a large gathering of young men and boys upon its glassy surface. There were parties of merry skaters, performing their quick and graceful evolutions, or cutting fantastic figures upon the ice. Some of the skaters had bats and balls, and others were drawing sleds, on which were seated their little brothers or sisters. There were also some famous coasts on the pond, which many of the boys were improving. Starting high up on the steep sides of the pond, they came down with a railroad speed that sent them whizzing across the narrow part of the pond; and here, fortunately, was another icy hill-side, by which they were returned to their first starting place, in the same way they came. I cannot say what would have been the consequences of a collision between these two opposite trains of coasters; but as each side had its own track, and the law of keeping to the right was enforced by common consent, they got along without anything more serious than an occasional narrow escape from an accident.
But the great attraction of the pond was the ice-boat. This was a large, rough sled, shaped somewhat like a flat-iron, and instead of runners, having three skate irons, two behind and one forward. The forward skate could be turned, and thus served as a rudder to steer the craft. Near the centre of the sled there was a mast, capable of supporting a large, square sail. The sail was dropped, and the ice-boat was at rest, near the edge of the pond, when Jessie and Ronald arrived. They went down upon the ice, to have a nearer view of it, and found the young man who made it getting ready for a sail. Several persons were standing around, one of whom, a middle-aged man, was endeavoring to convince the youth that he sailed his craft wrong end first.
“Why, look here, John,” said the man, “doesn’t it stand to reason that the rudder of a boat ought to be in the stern? Now just answer me that, will you?”
“Well,” replied the boy, availing himself of the Yankee’s privilege of answering a question by asking another, “supposing you were making an ox-sled with a set of double runners, would you put the traverse runners behind, because you were going to steer with them?”
“That’s nothing to do with it,” replied the other; “of course I wouldn’t build an ox-sled as I would a sail-boat. But, let me tell you, I’ve seen these things before to-day. I was out in Iowa, one winter, and crossed the Mississippi in a sail-sled, a good deal like this, only she had the two stationary runners in front, and the single one behind. She was running as a ferry-boat, and she flew across the river like a bird. And then she’d mind her rudder just as quick as any boat you ever saw; you could whirl her right about in a moment.”
“So I can my boat,” replied the youth; “and as to that, I don’t believe it makes any difference whether the steering runner is in front or behind. Come, jump on, Mr. Grant, and you shall see for yourself,” added the young man, as he hoisted his sail.
“No, you’ll sail better with one than with two on board, with this wind,” replied the man.
“Well, Jessie, you’re light—I’ll take you, if you want to have a sail,” continued the young man.
“No, I thank you, I had rather stand here and see you sail,” replied Jessie.
“Yes, go, Jessie,” interposed Ronald; “I would, if he asked me.”
John did not take the hint, but setting his sail to the breeze, and giving his craft a push by means of a boat-hook, he started on his trip alone. There was a light wind, and the ice-boat, after a few minutes, got up a pretty good speed, sailing along very handsomely at the rate of four or five miles an hour, which is a little faster than a good walker usually travels. The young man frequently changed her course, and conclusively showed that the craft obeyed her rudder, if it was, as Mr. Grant asserted, in the wrong end of the boat.
As the sun was nearing the western horizon, Jessie and Ronald did not wait to see the return of the ice-boat, but started for home after it had disappeared behind the hills. They had not proceeded far, when they discovered, with astonishment and awe, that since they had passed securely over the road, but little more than an hour before, a fearful snow-slide had taken place at a particular point, burying up the highway for nearly a dozen rods, to the depth of twenty feet! The road at this place wound around the foot of a steep hill, upon the side of which the deep snow had become softened by the afternoon sun, and slipping from the grasp of its icy moorings, had swept down from the heights above in an avalanche which must have shaken the solid ground beneath. There was a farm-house just beyond, and Jessie and Ronald, as soon as their first surprise was over, began to feel serious apprehensions that it had been swept away in the rushing tide from the mountain. They accordingly scaled the immense pile of snow, which was as hard and compact as if it had been trodden down by the feet of an army, and hurried forward to ascertain the extent of the disaster. To their great relief, they found the house safe, but so near had the destructive avalanche come to it, that a shed attached to the barn was demolished and buried up, and a wagon standing in it was crushed to pieces. The family which occupied the house had not yet recovered from their alarm and excitement. At the time the slide occurred, the mother and her two children were alone in the house. Hearing an unusual noise, which jarred the building like an earthquake, she ran to the door, and saw the whole hill-side apparently sliding down into the road. Comprehending her danger at a glance, she seized her little girl with one hand, and her babe with the other, and fled from the house with all possible speed—all of them bareheaded, and with only such garments as they wore indoors. Fortunately, she soon met her husband, who at first thought his wife had suddenly become crazy; but after hearing her story, he took the little girl into his arms, and they went back to the house. When Jessie and Ronald got there, the man was trying very earnestly to convince his wife that there was no further danger, but she kept glancing anxiously at the snow on the hill behind the house, as if momentarily expecting to see it commence its destructive march. There was, however, really little danger, now, for such was the form of the hill above the house, that a slide would not be likely to occur there, unless in connection with an avalanche on the more precipitous part of the mountain.
Jessie and Ronald now hurried home, thankful that an unseen Hand had held back the crashing snow-slip, while they were slowly passing along its track, unconscious of danger. So intently were their minds engaged with the fearful scene they had just witnessed, that Ronald did not notice, as he passed into the yard, that his snow-house was reduced to a shapeless heap, and its ruins scattered around in every direction.
CHAPTER IV.
THE REFEREE CASE.
“I wonder where Henry is; I haven’t seen him for three or four days,” said Jessie one morning, as Ronald was mending one of the straps of his skates, preparatory to an excursion to the pond with several boys who were waiting outside.
No reply was made, and after a moment’s pause, she added,
“I am afraid he is sick. Have you seen him, lately, Ronald?”
“No, I haven’t seen him since that day we went over to Round Hill Pond, to see the ice-boat,” replied Ronald.
“You haven’t heard of the falling out of Ronald and Henry, have you?” inquired Oscar of Jessie, as soon as Ronald left the room.
“A falling out? No, I have heard nothing about that. What is the trouble between them?” inquired Jessie.
“I didn’t know anything about it until yesterday,” replied Oscar, “although I suspected something was wrong. It seems, according to Ronald’s story, that he and Henry undertook to build a snow-house, and had got it nearly done, when Henry got mad about something or other, and knocked it all to pieces, while Ronald was away.”
“But I can hardly believe that,” said Jessie. “It doesn’t seem at all like Henry, to do such a thing as that—and such good friends as he and Ronald have always been, too. Did anybody see Henry tear the house down, or is it all mere suspicion?”
“It’s nothing but suspicion, I believe,” replied Oscar; “but Ronald says he’s certain Henry did it, and he declares he will never have anything more to say to him. It’s a little suspicious that Henry hasn’t been over here, since that day, isn’t it?”
“Well, I shall not believe Henry did it, unless he acknowledges it, or some witness testifies that he saw him do it,” added Jessie. “I will go over and see Henry, to-day, and find out the truth about the matter.”
In the afternoon, when her work was finished up, Jessie went over to Mr. Allen’s, where Henry lived, and made inquiries about the report she had heard in the morning. Her brother readily admitted that he had destroyed the snow-house; but he justified himself on the ground, first, that Ronald did not treat him well, but provoked him to do it; and secondly, that he had a right to destroy it, as the snow-house was just as much his as it was Ronald’s. Jessie listened patiently to all he had to say in his defence, and then simply inquired:—
“Why haven’t you been over to see us, since that day?—you used to come almost every day.”
Henry bit his thumb nail nervously, and gazed intently at the corner of the carriage-shed, but made no reply.
“Come, Henry, I want an answer to that question,” added Jessie. “You know that you and I have no better friend, next to our mother, than Mrs. Page. Then all the rest of the family have always been very kind to us. Now I want to know why you should shun them all, and your own sister, too, if you only did what your conscience approved, the last time you were over there. Will you answer me that?”
After a long pause, finding that Jessie was still patiently waiting for a reply, he stammered:—
“I don’t know—I suppose I didn’t do exactly right—but Ronald’s more to blame than I am—he began to pick upon me, first.”
“Well,” added Jessie, “I want this quarrel settled right up, before it grows any worse. You acknowledge that you did wrong; now are you willing to confess this to the one you wronged, and to ask his pardon?”
“If he’d apologize to me first, perhaps I would,” replied Henry, after a little hesitation.
“How much nobler it would be for you to go to him, first,” replied Jessie. “According to your own showing, you are the one most to blame, even if Ronald did provoke you a little. Now I will engage, that if you go and acknowledge to him that you have done wrong, he will make ample apology to you for whatever provocation he may have given. Will you do it?”
“But I only did what I had a right to do—the snow-house was mine as much as it was his,” said Henry, evading the question.
“I have some doubts about that,” replied Jessie. “The snow-house was in Ronald’s yard, and you were his guest. I think he had the best right to it. But even if you were equal partners in the matter, you had no right to destroy it without his consent. He has rights, as well as you. Two men sometimes build a house together; but if they should get into a dispute, when it was finished, and one of them should go and set the building afire, or pull it all to pieces, I think he would have to go to the State prison, even if he did own half the property. It would be a crime. And it is just the same in your case. At most you only owned half the snow-house, and you had no right to destroy even your own half, because it would interfere with Ronald’s rights to do so.”
Henry attempted no reply to this reasoning, but still manifested an unwillingness to make any advances towards a reconciliation. Jessie then tried to persuade him to go home with her, and have an interview with Ronald, she promising to do her best to arrange matters to the satisfaction of both; but Henry resolutely refused to do this.
“I have thought of one other way to settle this quarrel,” added Jessie, after a little pause; “and that is, to refer it to two or three referees, and let them decide who is most to blame, and who shall make a first confession. Will you agree to that?”
“I don’t see any need of going to all that fuss about it—Ronald began the quarrel, and if he wants to make up, let him say so,” replied Henry.
“It is not considered a very good sign,” resumed Jessie, “when a man refuses to submit his dispute with a neighbor to two or three disinterested persons. People say he does not act in good faith. It looks as though he were neither innocent nor honest. Must I go home and tell the folks that you have done this?”
“No, I didn’t refuse, but I don’t see any use in doing it, though,” answered Henry.
“Suppose Ronald insists that you are more to blame than he, and refuses to acknowledge his error until you have confessed yours; how can you ever come to terms, unless by some such means as I have proposed? It is a very simple thing, and if you are both acting in good faith, I don’t see how you can object to it. Will you agree to it, if Ronald will?”
“Y-e-s,” replied Henry, with evident reluctance.
“Well, you had better choose your referee now—that will save the necessity of seeing you again about it,” added Jessie.
“I’ll choose you,” said Henry.
“Very well, I’ll accept,” replied Jessie. “Ronald shall choose another, and we two shall elect a third; then both parties shall have a hearing, and you agree to abide by the decision we make, without any question or grumbling, do you?”
“Why—but—”
“No whys or buts now, bub,” interrupted Jessie, “the award of the referees is final—there’s no appeal from it.”
“Well, but suppose you referees should decide that Ronald should give me a thrashing; do you suppose I’d stand still and take it?” inquired Henry.
“That is not a supposable case,” replied Jessie. “All I can say to it, is, that if the referees think the breach cannot be healed, and justice done to all, without some kind of reparation, or punishment, we shall expect the guilty one to submit to it, whatever it is. But I must be going, now—you will probably hear from us to-morrow.”
Jessie had a private interview with Ronald, on her return home, and found that he was really much offended with Henry. He gave his version of the difficulty, dwelling particularly upon Henry’s ungenerous fling at his parents, and the spite he exhibited in destroying the snow-house.
“But,” Jessie suggested, after patiently hearing his statement, “isn’t it possible that you were the aggressor, after all? Were you not a little arbitrary, and self-willed, about that time? And didn’t you provoke Henry by telling him you could order him out of the yard, if you chose, and by daring him to touch the snow-house, after you left it? You know Henry is older than you, and that made it harder to submit to such treatment. He feels that he did wrong, and I think he is sorry for it; but he says you began the quarrel, and are more to blame than he is. If you should go to him, and apologize for what you said, I am confident he would be melted into penitence in an instant, and make all the reparation possible for the wrong he has done you.”
Ronald was ready to admit that some of the blame should be placed to his account, but he did not think he was called upon to take the first step towards a reconciliation. Jessie then told him of the referee plan, and he cheerfully assented to it, and chose Marcus as his arbitrator.
It happened that Marcus heard nothing about the quarrel until Jessie apprised him of the honorable office to which he had been chosen. He approved of the course Jessie had taken, and accepted the appointment; and as a third referee was wanted, they selected Oscar for that post. Shortly after this, Mr. Allen rode by, and Marcus, hailing him, asked permission for Henry to come over for a little while in the evening, which he readily granted. So it was decided that the matter should be settled up at once.
Henry arrived early in the evening, before the referees had commenced their business, Jessie being engaged with her duties in the kitchen. He was ushered into the sitting-room, where several of the family were seated, including Ronald.
“Mr. Allen said you wanted me to come over here, this evening,” he said to Marcus, with some embarrassment of manner, as he entered the room.
“Yes, walk in and take a seat—I’m glad to see you once more,” replied Marcus.
“Good evening, Henry,” said Ronald, very composedly, after the others had all saluted the newcomer.
“Good evening,” Henry feebly responded, blushing a deeper red than before.
“Been skating, to-day?” inquired Ronald.
“No,” replied Henry, in an almost inaudible tone, hitching uneasily in his seat.
“I have,” continued Ronald, warming up. “Oh, you ought to have been there, and seen Gil Bryant skate. Did you ever see him?”
“No, I believe not,” replied Henry, who was winking intently at the fire.
“Well, if he isn’t a splendid skater, then I never saw one,” continued Ronald. “Why, they say he has skated a mile in three minutes and a half; shouldn’t you call that pretty quick travelling?”
Henry silently nodded assent—to the fire, and looked more “worked up” than ever.
“What, don’t you believe it, Marcus?” inquired Ronald, in a tone of surprise, as he noticed a broad smile illuminating Marcus’s face.
“Believe it?” responded Marcus; “of course I do. I’ve skated about as fast as that myself, before now.”
The fact was, Marcus was smiling at the thoughtless, good-natured talkativeness of Ronald, as contrasted with the timid and nervous reserve of Henry, and was balancing in his mind the question whether, after all, the services of the board of arbitrators would be necessary to bring the opposing parties to a reconciliation. That smile, however, seemed to have broken the spell that was upon Ronald. He dropped the thread of conversation, and was soon lost in his book, while Henry continued to sit winking at the glowing, coal-enveloped back-log. Aunt Fanny, who sat at the table sewing, now endeavored to draw him into conversation by inquiries after Mr. Allen’s family, but did not meet with much better success than Ronald. Pretty soon Mrs. Page and Jessie came in, and Marcus inquired:
“Can we have the kitchen, now, mother?”
“Yes,” replied Mrs. Page.
“Well, Jessie and Oscar, suppose we withdraw,” continued Marcus.
The three referees retired to the kitchen, and after consulting a few moments, decided to examine the two parties to the dispute separately. Henry was then called in, and gave his version of the difficulty, from its beginning to his destruction of the snow-house. He defended himself, as well as he could, and promptly and frankly answered all the questions that were put to him by the referees. He was then requested to withdraw, and Ronald was called in, and underwent a similar examination. The latter seemed in quite a merry mood, when he returned to the sitting-room.
“Mother,” he said, “you ought to go out there, and see what an august tribunal we’ve got. They’re all as sober as judges, and Marcus has got a sheet of paper, and is scribbling away on it as fast as he can. He made believe that he was writing down all I said, but I guess I can talk faster than he can write, any day.”
“He was only noting down the leading points of your testimony, I suppose,” remarked Mrs. Page.
“Leading points?” continued Ronald; “he must have found them pretty thick, then, for he kept scribbling the whole time I was in the room. Did he when you was in there, Henry?”
“Yes,” replied Henry, “he filled a whole page, and began another.”
“Well,” added Ronald, with an air of mock gravity, “I suppose the momentous question is almost decided. I tremble for my fate—don’t you, Henry?”
“Not much,” replied Henry, with a smile.
“After all, I suppose we might as well be resigned,” continued Ronald; “I’m not going to worry about it, any way.”
“I don’t think it will be a very great hardship to either of you, to shake hands and become friends again, if that is all the referees ask,” remarked Mrs. Page.
“Nor I, neither. Come, Henry, let’s do it now, and get the start of them,” cried Ronald; and grasping each other’s hands, the two estranged playmates indulged in a long and hearty shake, and felt that their quarrel was at once healed.
“Well done, boys!” exclaimed Mrs. Page. “Now how much better that is, than to let such a trifling thing make enemies of you. I shouldn’t wonder if you both remembered this act as long as you live; and you’ll always remember it with pleasure, too.”
“Do you suppose that’s all they’ll tell us to do—to shake hands and make up?” inquired Ronald.
“I haven’t any idea what kind of a decision they will make, as I know but little about the facts in the case,” replied Mrs. Page.
“It seems to me they are a good while making their decision,” said Henry; “I should think it was about time to hear from them.”
Oscar appeared at the door, a few minutes afterward, and summoned Ronald and Henry before the referees. Marcus requested them to stand, while he read the decision.
“Mayn’t I say something, first?” inquired Ronald.
“Yes,” replied Marcus.
“Well, Henry and I have made up,” added Ronald.
“Ah, I’m glad to hear that,” said Marcus. “If you had done this a little sooner, you might have saved yourselves and us some trouble; but as we have finished up the business you employed us to do, we shall expect you to abide by our decision, and to pay us our fees.”
“Fees? Have we got to pay you fees?” inquired Ronald, with a laugh.
“To be sure you have,” replied Marcus, with the utmost gravity. “It is customary to pay the referees, in such cases.”
“Well, I don’t believe you’ll make much out of me—I can’t raise more than one cent apiece for you, any way,” said Ronald, feeling in his pocket.
“We wont discuss that point now, but I will read the decision,” observed Marcus; “and he proceeded to read the following paper: