The old tumble-down blacksmith’s shop, at the fork of the roads, was a picture indeed. The red-hot iron, throwing out its shower of golden sparks, Farmer Boyce’s gray, bending his proud, arched neck, and meekly yielding his fore foot to the clasp of the smith’s sinewy arm! Little Jack thought it must be “so nice to sleep in your shoes, and have no bother with shoe-butnens and laces,” but timidly shrank back at the nailing part, and could not be made to understand that it was not painful to the horny hoof.
Now, the road, for a short distance, lies close along the shore of Bristol Bay, where the setting sun has just given a golden “tipping” to the wavelets, whose soft lapping sound is new music to the city children’s ears.
A huge farm-gate, at the end of this bit of shore road, swings open to receive the gay cavalcade; a thick grove of chestnut trees was passed through, then beach wagon and pony cart halted at the door of a large, old-fashioned farm-house, over whose broad porch rose-bushes and honeysuckles climbed at will, even boldly venturing to peer into the very windows of the chambers above, whilst buttercups and white daisies, quite at home, nestling in the green grass of the smooth lawn, laughed out their bright welcome to the little folk, and bade them make themselves at home, too, for this was Liberty Hall.
Jem gives a spring, and is in the lovely-looking lady’s arms, who stands waiting on the porch, whilst shy little Bessie hides her curly head in the folds of her mother’s dress, half afraid and half eager for the stranger brother’s kiss.
Mrs. Harwood needs no introduction to her dear friend’s children, for Mamma’s letters have long ago made “Artie, Daisy, Rosie, Harry, and Jack,” household words at Harmony Hall.
The bread and butter on the waiting tea-table was capital, never milk more golden, Lady Bee at home, and Busy Bee in her hive, have helped to spread the table with dainties, and salt sea is the best sauce in the world; but still the ten children found it a tedious meal, and wondered whether good Jem had been quite starved at school,—that he could stow away such a quantity of food, and whether he had not, may be, lost his teeth, that he took such a while.
Kind Mr. Harwood, at last, read the wistful look in their faces, and bade them take a run to the shore before it grew too late, and good Jem left such a bit of cocoanut cake on his plate as boarding-school boys only dream of, to marshal the excited little crowd down the sloping lawn to the nice sanded floor of their shore parlor, and out to the edge of the little wharf where lay Psyche, Mr. Harwood’s yacht, with its gay streamers, in anticipation of the morrow’s sport. The good-natured yachtsmen helped all the little ones on board, and enjoyed the eagerness with which they examined sails, anchor, cable, compass, cabin, deck, and pantry, and peered into the well-filled hampers. Then, on shore again, Jem and his brothers exhibited rare powers of “skipping” stones, and the younger ones splashed and dashed with bits of wood and pebbles, to their hearts’ content. Ned suddenly cried—
“Halloo! men alive, if there isn’t old Sam, the blind clam-man, and his cart, coming up our road. What does that mean, I should like to know? Let’s find out.”
“The men alive,” consisting of Ned, Artie, Charlie, and Kit, with little Jack toiling in their rear, started off on a quick run to find out for themselves the “meaning” of Black Sam’s clam-cart paying them a visit at that time of night. Mamma explained the mystery thus—
“You know, children, to-morrow is the Fourth, and as your Papa and his friends are to be gone all day on the yacht, I thought the greatest pleasure I could give you was an out-of-door fish dinner, which you are to prepare entirely yourselves. I will be your guest. I know you like to dig your own clams; but, as you will need many, Papa thought it best for Sam to bring some to-night, with oysters, too.”