Bert Lloyd's Boyhood: A Story from Nova Scotia

by J. Macdonald Oxley

"You were certainly in a tight place, little man," answered Mr. Lloyd, "and the next time your ball gets into one of the cannons you had better ask one of the artillerymen to get it out for you. He will find it a much easier job than getting you out."

Bert loved the old fort and its cannons none the less because of his adventure, and as he grew older he learned to drop down into it from the garden fence, and climb back again, with the agility of a monkey. The garden itself was not very extensive, but Bert took a great deal of pleasure in it, too, for he was fond of flowers—what true boy, indeed, is not?—and it contained a large number within its narrow limits, there being no less than two score rose bushes of different varieties, for instance. The roses were very plenteous and beautiful when in their prime, but at opposite corners of the little garden stood two trees that had far more interest for Bert than all the rose trees put together. These were two apple trees, planted, no one knew just how or when, which had been allowed to grow up at their own will, without pruning or grafting, and, as a consequence, were never known to produce fruit that was worth eating. Every spring they put forth a brave show of pink and white blossoms, as though this year, at all events, they were going to do themselves credit, and every autumn the result appeared in half-a-dozen hard, small, sour, withered-up apples that hardly deserved the name. And yet, although these trees showed no signs of repentance and amendment, Bert, with the quenchless hopefulness of boyhood, never quite despaired of their bringing forth an apple that he could eat without having his mouth drawn up into one tight pucker. Autumn after autumn he would watch the slowly developing fruit, trusting for the best. It always abused his confidence, however, but it was a long time before he finally gave it up in despair.

At one side of the garden stood a neat little barn that was also of special interest to Bert, for, besides the stall for the cow, there was another, still vacant, which Mr. Lloyd had promised should have a pony for its tenant so soon as Bert was old enough to be trusted with such a playmate.

Hardly a day passed that Bert did not go into the stable, and, standing by the little stall, wonder to himself how it would look with a pretty pony in it. Of course, he felt very impatient to have the pony, but Mr. Lloyd had his own ideas upon that point, and was not to be moved from them. He thought that when Bert was ten years old would be quite time enough, and so there was nothing to do but to wait, which Bert did, with as much fortitude as he could command.

Whatever might be the weather outside, it seemed always warm and sunny indoors at Bert's home. The Lloyds lived in an atmosphere of love, both human and Divine. They loved one another dearly, but they loved God still more, and lived close to Him. Religion was not so much expressed as implied in their life. It was not in the least obtrusive, yet one could never mistake their point of view. Next to its sincerity, the strongest characteristic of their religion was its cheeriness. They saw no reason why the children of the King should go mourning all their days; on the contrary, was it not rather their duty, as well as their privilege, to establish the joy of service?

Brought up amid such influences, Bert was, as a natural consequence, entirely free from those strange misconceptions of the true character of religion which keep so many of the young out of the kingdom. He saw nothing gloomy or repellent in religion. That he should love and serve God seemed as natural to him as that he should love and serve his parents. Of their love and care he had a thousand tokens daily. Of the Divine love and care he learned from them, and that they should believe in it was all the reason he required for his doing the same. He asked no further evidence.

There were, of course, times when the spirit of evil stirred within him, and moved him to rebel against authority, and to wish, as he put it himself one day when reminded of the text, "Thou God seest me," that "God would let him alone for a while, and not be always looking at him." But then he wasn't an angel by any means, but simply a hearty, healthy, happy boy, with a fair share of temper, and as much fondness for having his own way as the average boy of his age.

His parents were very proud of him. They would have been queer parents if they were not. Yet they were careful to disguise it from him as far as possible. If there was one thing more than another that Mr. Lloyd disliked in children, and, therefore, dreaded for his boy, it was that forward, conscious air which comes of too much attention being paid them in the presence of their elders. "Little folks should be seen and not heard," he would say kindly but firmly to Bert, when that young person was disposed to unduly assert himself, and Bert rarely failed to take the hint.

One trait of Bert's nature which gave his father great gratification was his fondness for reading. He never had to be taught to read. He learned, himself. That is, he was so eager to learn that so soon as he had mastered the alphabet, he was always taking his picture books to his mother or sister, and getting them to spell the words for him. In this way he got over all his difficulties with surprising rapidity, and at five years of age could read quite easily. As he grew older, he showed rather an odd taste in his choice of books. One volume that he read from cover to cover before he was eight years old was Layard's "Nineveh." Just why this portly sombre-hued volume, with its winged lion stamped in gold upon its back, attracted him so strongly, it would not be easy to say. The illustrations, of course, had something to do with it, and then the fascination of digging down deep into the earth and bringing forth all sorts of strange things no doubt influenced him.

Another book that held a wonderful charm for him was the Book of Revelation. So carefully did he con this, which he thought the most glorious of all writings, that at one time he could recite many chapters of it word for word. Its marvellous imagery appealed to his imagination if it did nothing more, and took such hold upon his mind that no part of the Bible, not even the stories that shine like stars through the first books of the Old Testament, was more interesting to him.