Who was this arch heretic, this chosen emissary of Satan, at whom the parish turned pale? Little Willie Torrance, aged seven, the son of George Torrance, a small farmer. What were the influences under which this heresy was developed, it is now our task to describe.
Willie was what his mother called "a fell laddie," and his father "a fair heartbreak." Do what they liked, they could never make him behave like other boys. His dull red hair was always in disorder; his face seemed a favourite resting-place for dust and smut; his hands were soiled with the stroking of rabbits and pigeons; and his corduroys were torn and worn with the climbing of trees. A book was a thing which he never of his own accord touched. When he should have been learning his lessons, he was outside watching the ducklings and the chicks; and on Sabbath evenings, when all the members of the family were questioned on the Shorter Catechism, he mixed up the answers in the most profane and ludicrous manner. Every effort was tried to reclaim him. His brother and sister, who were much older than he, were most faithful in holding up before him all his sins against cleanliness and order; his father at intervals conscientiously applied Solomon's educative instrument, the rod; and his mother, though longing to be kind and sympathetic, frowned upon many of his ways. But all these measures seemed to produce no effect. He, indeed, endured all their treatment without a murmur or protest, and really felt at times that he was a bad lot and would come to a bad end; but his patience was unhesitatingly pronounced to be "dourness," and was added on to his list of crimes.
But in spite of all this, he could not have been a bad boy, for he had some devoted friends. The moment he appeared in the farmyard, his presence was hailed by both "the fowl and the brute." In the sound of his voice and the touch of his hand there was that miraculous power, sympathy, which at once won their hearts. He understood them and they understood him. Sweep, the cat, rubbed and purred against his leg; Rover, the dog, jumped up to kiss his face; Blaze, the bob-tailed horse, turned round its head in its stall to neigh to him; the brown calf put its nose over the fence to be scratched; and the pigeons settled on him like a small cloud to eat the corn from his hand.
But Willie's greatest blessing was his staunch bosom friend, Bob Fortune. A friend is dear at any time, but he is especially dear in our childhood, when the heart is fresh, the conscience clean, and the world full of untasted pleasures. Not only is he another self, doubling our delights and lessening our troubles, but he is what Shakespeare calls "an earth-treading star," shedding a new light on everything. Answering exactly to this description was Bob Fortune, nine years of age, and a neighbour farmer's son, who called in, every morning, for Willie and accompanied him to school. He was a healthy, hearty, intelligent boy. It seemed as if his soul were made of sunlight, which warmed every limb and shone through every feature. He had a smile and a soft word for every living creature; and it was only when he witnessed cruelty that he was ever out of temper. Overflowing, too, with animal spirits and all kinds of boyish accomplishments, he was ever ready to run, leap, sing, whistle, and imitate all sorts of sounds. He was also clever with his hands and with his tongue, and, therefore, well fitted to be not only a friend but a protector to Willie.
Your ordinary boy is apt to be cruel. He is as Dickens remarks, "an enemy to all creation." He stones cats, beats the dumb driven cattle, robs birds' nests, and in general gets "his sport," as he calls it, at the expense of the lower animals. Like his full-grown fellow-sportsmen, when he wants to be happy, he says, "Let us go and kill something." This habit is not the result, as some suppose, of the cruelty inherent in human nature, but rather arises from sheer thoughtlessness. It never occurs to him that the lower animals feel the same pain as we do; and, strange as it may seem, in this age of education, sympathy towards our fellow-creatures is not taught at school.
From this savage habit our two lads had been saved by a painful accident. One day a pretty, bright, playful young spaniel, named Spring, which they had just been fondling, darted before a carriage, and was run over and killed. Willie, especially, was dreadfully shocked, and could not get rid of the sight of the poor animal writhing in the death throes on the hard road, looking up pitifully into his face as if struggling to tell what it was suffering, and venting all its agony in one long, pitiful whine. Next day he stated to Bob that it was wrong to torment animals, "for," he said, "they suffer jist like hiz." They both resolved that they would not be cruel to any creature, and that they would no longer rob nests. They might take one egg, but that would not matter, as the bird could not count and would never miss it. Then they wondered where Spring was now; and Bob, whose imagination was always active, declared that he was sure to be in heaven. Good dogs, he said, must go to heaven; for their masters, when they went there, could not be happy without them. To Willie this reasoning was conclusive, for he could not fancy any perfect state of happiness where there were no four-footed favourites.
Our story begins on a bright summer morning, when the two boys set out together for school. Delightful as their walks always were, this particular walk was to be more delightful than usual. They had scarcely left the farm buildings and were passing a whinny knowe, when out there came running in a great state of flutter and anger, as if to attack them, a hen partridge. Knowing by this that her brood was near, they searched among the furze, and found instead of young partridges, five barn-door chickens. There they were—yellow, black, and white—staggering on their wire-like legs, and wondering very much at this strange world into which they had evidently just newly come. On searching still further, they came upon a nest with the empty shells. It was evident that the pair of partridges, having been robbed of their own eggs, had come upon this neglected nest, had taken possession of it, had hatched the brood and were now trying, like good foster-parents, to bring up their adopted family.
The next object before which the boys stood was a well-grown larch at the foot of the avenue. On it was their favourite nest, a chaffinch's, a perfect specimen of bird-craft. They had been able to examine and admire it by climbing a neighbouring tree and looking into it. It was snugly and securely placed in a fork of the larch, was cosy inside with hair, wool, and feathers, and outside was covered skilfully all over with lichen so as to look like a bit of the tree. They had also taken an interest in the two birds, and by feeding them every day with seed had made them quite tame. On this morning, the boys saw that something unusual had happened; for the hen-bird was flitting excitedly between the ground and the nest, and the cock was singing his favourite song with more than his usual briskness; and on climbing the neighbouring tree, they saw that the nest was full of gaping little bills. No wonder that the mother was busy and the father proud!
But the most exciting event was seen when they were passing along the pathway that skirts the back of the Gibbet Wood. Out in the air above the field, a beak-and-claw fight was going on between two birds that were discovered to be a wood-pigeon and a sparrow-hawk. The pigeon was having the worst of it, and its feathers were falling fast, when some crows, happening to pass, darted upon the common foe, the hawk, and forced it to let go its hold. The pigeon alighted on a wall to recover itself and then disappeared, and the hawk retreated, pursued and harassed by its black enemies.
Then without further adventures they sauntered along by the loch side under the blue unclouded weather. Bright and sympathetic, they formed a part of the general joy that was abroad on the earth. They carolled with the lark, whistled with the blackbird, and sported with the butterfly among the flowers. And in the intervals Bob, full of bright fancies, told what he was to do when he was a man: how he was going to be a farmer, and have a garden full of the bonniest flowers, and keep all kinds of horses, dogs, rabbits, and birds.