About two weeks after this, Peleg Bunce, my father’s hired man, was sent, by mother, to get a load of scrubbing-sand; and when I came home from school Peleg said to me, “Robert, here’s your knife,” at the same time reaching it to me. “My knife!” I exclaimed, in a manner and with feelings compounded of sanity and insanity. “Divil burn the knife,” I whispered to myself, not wishing to speak a bad word distinctly. Peleg found it in the sand-pit; and he knew it was mine, for he once borrowed it of me to make a bow-pin for old Brin—but returned it, of course, without accomplishing his object. Once more I put it in my pocket, and began to reflect how I should ever get entirely rid of it. At last, a plan occurred to me, which I conceived to be faultless. There was a pond near my father’s house, at the outlet of which stood a large blast furnace. I determined to drown my knife. Accordingly, lest its own weight should not be sufficient to keep it at the bottom, and to make “assurance doubly sure,” I got from the barn a piece of halter with which I tied a pretty good sized stone to my knife, and threw it into the furnace-pond. And great was my joy to see it turn and turn around until it sank out of my sight. Soon as it had fairly disappeared, I fetched a heavy sigh of mingled joy and suspense—then turned home with a light and happy heart. Sweet was my rest that night, and pleasant were my dreams. Week after week passed away, and my old knife likewise passed into oblivion.
One bright and beautiful morning in October, old Russell Case and his two sons came down from the mountain on which they lived, to fish in the pond; and as they were notorious fishermen, they generally had quite a company of boys to watch their operations. As it was not yet school-time, Bill Williams and myself went to see them draw their seine. They took a good sweep into the pond with their boat, then came on shore and commenced hauling in. We were all anxiously watching for the fish, and nearly the whole of them had been emptied on the beach, when Bill Williams exclaimed, “Why, Bob, there’s your knife!” And sure enough, on hauling in the last joint of the seine, what should be hanging to it but my knife with the string and stone attached to it! Perfectly astounded at this discovery, I could almost have prayed that the waters might rise and overwhelm seine, fishermen and all! However, the thing was easily explained; for the piece of halter which I used happened to have been made of hemp, and the knife not being as heavy as the string, while the stone lay on the bottom, that was elevated some inches from it, and so the fishermen caught it.
Once more, with a heavy heart, I put that old knife in my pocket. A deep feeling of disappointment and melancholy took possession of my mind, and long and seriously did I ponder upon the best means of ridding myself of this tantalizing treasure. In vain had I endeavored to give it away—in vain, to lose it—in vain, to drown it. Light, at last, seemed to dawn through the gloom that had gathered upon me, and my resolution was soon taken. I repaired one evening to the furnace—went into the top-house, and there waited until they began to put in their hourly supply of coal and ore. I then thrust my knife into the box of ore which I thought the filler would put in first. I did not wish to throw it directly into the top myself, for this would seem like doing an evil deed, and such a one I did not wish to do. Strongly and quickly did my heart beat as I watched the baskets of coal disappear; and, finally, my whole frame shook with agitation when I saw the filler take the box of ore which contained my knife, and toss its contents into the furnace! A long-drawn sigh gave vent to the conflicting emotions which had agitated my mind, and I turned homeward with a feeling of deep, almost overwhelming satisfaction and delight, that my eyes had certainly beheld, for the last time, my old BARLOW KNIFE!
GERTRUDE.
BY MISS A. D. WOODBRIDGE,
STOCKBRIDGE, MASS.
List to the passers by!
They’re hastening on, the young, the beautiful,
To scenes of pleasure. To the thronged soirée,
The brilliant party, or the festive dance,