So the two would go down to the banks of the Merrimac, and embark in a boat which belonged to the old man, and paddle up and down the river, sometimes for an entire day. Daniel never lost his love of fishing, but in after years, when the cares of statesmanship were upon him, dressed in suitable style he would take his fishing pole and lie in wait for his finny victims, while perhaps he was mentally composing some one of his famous speeches, destined to thrill the hearts of thousands, or direct the policy of the government. These happy days spent in the open air corrected his native delicacy, and gradually imparted physical strength and vigor, and in time knit the vigorous frame which seemed a fitting temple for his massive intellect.
Even the most trivial circumstances in the boyhood of such a man as Daniel Webster are noteworthy, and I am sure my boy-readers will read with interest and sympathy the account of a signal victory which the boy gained, though it was only over a feathered bully.
Belonging to a neighbor was a cock of redoubtable prowess, a champion whose fame was in all the farmyards for miles around. One day Daniel, coming home from school, beheld with mortification the finish of a contest in which a favorite fowl of his own came off decidedly second best. The victorious rooster strutted about in conscious and complacent triumph.
“It’s too bad, Zeke!” said Daniel in genuine vexation, as he saw the crestfallen look of his own vanquished fowl. “I should like to see that impudent bully get well whipped.”
“There isn’t a rooster about here that can whip him, Dan.”
“I know that, but he will meet his match some time.”
“At any rate I’ll drive him away. He’ll have to run from me.”
Dan picked up a stone, and pelted the victor out of the yard, but the feathered bully, even in his flight, raised a crow of victory which vexed the boy.
“I’d give all the money I’ve got, Zeke, for a rooster that would whip him,” said Dan.
There came a time when Daniel had his wish.