Charlie’s stories were not all so sad as these. Many of them caused them all to laugh till their sides ached.
“How did you get your living, Charles,” said Ben, “before you shipped with the pirates in the shaving mill?”
“I ran of errands, and piled up wood on the wharves, picked up old junk round the wharves and sold it, and went round to the doors of the houses and sung songs; did everything and anything that I could get a copper by, except to beg and steal. I never did beg in my life, but sometimes I thought I must come to it or starve.”
“Sing me a song, do, Charlie,” said Fred.
“Some other time, Fred, I will; but not to-night. I have been talking about things that make my heart ache, and I don’t feel like it.”
If Charles could tell them many things that were new and interesting, they could equal him in all these respects. Joe could tell him stories of logging, camp-life in the woods, and hunting; Ben, of the seas and privateering.
Charlie was exceedingly curious and inquisitive in respect to everything that related to the Indians. He had read and heard a great many stories about them in his own country, from old soldiers that had been in the British armies, and of whom every village and hamlet had its share, and who had fought in all the Old French and Indian wars; but he had never seen a savage, or any of their work.
“They are the fellows for making baskets,” said Joe, “and they can color them too.” Then he told him about their canoes of birch bark.
Ben showed him a pair of snow-shoes, and put them on, and a pair of moccasons worked with beads.
Sally showed him a box made of birch wood, covered with bark, and worked with porcupine quills of different colors—blue, white, and green.