“I’ve got a big favor to ask of you, Sir,” said Duncan the next day. “You’ll not be upset, will you?”
“Certainly not, Duncan,” I said. “What do you want?”
“Well, it’s just this, Sir — me and my mates, we get up some sports every year on the grassy area. We have them in August, Sir, just when the visitors are here. They all turn out to see them, and lots of them are very good in giving money to help buy the prizes. You see, Sir, there are many young fellows here, young chaps who must have something to keep them out of mischief; when they’re not fishing, they’re bound to be after the beer, if they haven’t something to turn their minds and keep them going a bit. And these sports, why, they like them, Sir, and a man must keep sober if he’s to win a prize — you understand, Sir?”
“Yes, Duncan, I understand,” I said; “it’s an excellent idea for these young fellows, and for the older ones too, for that matter. I suppose you want a donation for your prizes?” I added, as I handed him some money.
“Thank you kindly, Sir; I won’t refuse it, and it’s very good of you to help us so generously, but that isn’t what I came to ask you for. I hardly like to bother you, Sir,” he said doubtfully.
“Never mind the bother, Duncan; let’s hear what you want.”
“Well, it’s just this, Sir. Could you, do you think, make us some sort of program to hang up by the post office there for visitors to see? You draw the pictures so quick, Sir, and — ”
“I see, Duncan; you want the program to be illustrated. I’m your man; I’ll do it at once.” I was really quite glad to oblige the kind, honest fisherman.
He was very pleased at my quick agreement, and left at once to get a board to fasten my program to. We soon made out a list of attractions, and I had great pleasure in illustrating the catalog of sports.
I headed it —
ATTENTION!
RUNSWICK ATHLETIC SPORTS
Then, from the R of Runswick I hung a long fishnet, covered with floats, and falling down over a fish basket, and some lobster pots. On the ground I added a number of fish that had been emptied out of the basket.
Next followed a list of patrons, such as: The Honorable O’Mackerell, Lord Crabby Lobster, Sir C. Shrimp, etc., etc.
Then came a list of the various sports, each profusely illustrated — The tug of war, the jockey race, the women’s egg and spoon race, the sack race, the greased pole, the long jump, etc., and lastly, an announcement of a grand concert to be held in the evening, as a conclusion to the festivities of the day.
Duncan was more than satisfied — he was delighted, and his gratitude knew no bounds. His excitement was childlike, as he carried the board away to hang it in a conspicuous place.
The whole village eagerly waited as the big day approached.
“Are you going to see the great tug of war, big Mr. Jack?” my little friend called to me over the wall as I was painting. As for the York boys, Harry and Bob, they spent time every day admiring the program and bringing other visitors to see and admire the work of their artist.
Duncan anxiously watched the sky the day before the sports, and Polly triumphantly announced, when I came down to breakfast, “A fine day, Sir; couldn’t be finer, could it now?”
Those village sports were really a pretty sight. I can see it all in my mind’s eye now. I often wonder why I haven’t made a picture of it — the high cliff stretching overhead, and covered with red-tiled cottages nestled among the bushes and bracken. Then below the cliff was a level stretch of grass, covered with hardy fishermen and their wives, and surrounding the grass, on the sandy hills, the visitors old and young, dressed in bright colors and holiday attire.
The program lasted a long time and went well. Polly distinguished herself by winning the egg and spoon race, much to the joy of little John, who watched all the proceedings from his father’s arms.
Then came the biggest event, the tug of war. A long cable was brought out and stretched across the grass, and a pocket-handkerchief was tied in the center of it. Two stakes were then driven into the ground, and between these a line was chalked on the grass. The handkerchief was then placed exactly over the line. After this all the fishermen who entered the contests were divided into two teams. Then each side grabbed one end of the rope, and at a given signal they began to pull. It was a test of strength; whichever side could pull the handkerchief past the two stakes, and over the line, would win.
How those men pulled! What force they put into it! Yet for a long time the rope did not move a single inch. These powerful fishermen lay on the ground, so that they could pull harder. Every nerve, every muscle seemed to be strained, but the two sides were so evenly matched, that the rope was motionless, and it was impossible to tell which team would win.
Little John was eagerly watching his father.
“Pull, Daddy, pull!” I heard him cry, and I think I was nearly as pleased as he and Polly were when Duncan and the men on his side suddenly made one mighty effort, and the handkerchief was drawn across the line. There was tremendous cheering after this. Polly clapped her hands with delight, and little Jack and big Jack nearly shouted themselves hoarse.
This interesting sight I had reason to remember afterward as you will see. The evening concert went as well as the sports had, and Duncan came in that night rather tired, but satisfied with the day’s fun.
I enjoyed all the sights at Runswick Bay, but I was particularly charmed with what happened the day after the sports. All the village got up early, and as I was dressing, it seemed to me that every fisherman in the place was hurrying down to the beach. It wasn’t long before I followed them to see what they were doing. I found that they were about to draw the crab boats up from the shore, to a place where they would be safe from the winter storms. It was hard work, but every one was there to give a hand.
A long string of men and boys laid hold of the cable fastened to a boat. Even the wives and older children grabbed it. I went to help too, and several of the visitors followed my example. Then, when we were all in position, Duncan, who was directing the proceedings, warned us not to pull till the signal was given. Then there rose a peculiar cry or yodel, all the fishermen uttering it together, and as soon as it died away we gave our united, mighty pull. Then we paused to take a breath, until once more there came a yodel followed by another pull, and as this was repeated again and again, the heavy boat made steady and regular progress across the wet sand. Up the low bank she came, over the rough grass, slowly, steadily, she moved onward, until at last she was placed safely out of the reach of the highest tide and the roughest sea. Thus, one after another, the boats were drawn up, and we were exhausted before our work was done.
I think it must have been that very day, that, as I was painting, I once more heard the broken notes of the instrument which had bothered me so much before. It was that tune again, my mother’s tune, and somehow, I don’t know how it was, with the sound of my mother’s tune I was reminded of the Sunday service. Ah! my mother was on the right side of the line, I said to myself; she was a servant of Christ. But her son! what is he?
I didn’t want to think about this subject, so I jumped up from my campstool, and standing under the wall, I called, “Little Jack, little Jack.”
The music stopped at once, and the child came out. How fond I was of the merry little boy!
“Yes, Mr. big Jack,” he said, as he ran out of the gate.
“Come and talk to me, little friend,” I said, “while I paint. Who plays music in your house?”
“I do,” said little Jack.
“You do, Jack? You’re pretty young to be playing music! What do you play on, and who taught you?”
“Nobody teached me, Mr. Jack,” he said; “I teached my own self.”
“Teached your own self? How did you manage that?” I asked.
“I turned him round and round and round, Mr. Jack, and the music came, and I teached my own self,” he repeated.
“What is it, Jack?” I asked. “Is it an old music box?”
“No, it’s an organ, a barrow organ, Mr. Jack.”
“Oh, a barrel organ you mean; how in the world did you get hold of a barrel organ? Is it a little toy one?”
“No, it’s big, ever so big,” he said, stretching out his hands to show me its size.
“Whoever gave you it?” I asked.
“It isn’t Jack’s own organ,” said the child. “Whose is it, then?”
“It’s Father’s, Father’s own organ.”
It seemed to me a most extraordinary thing for the preacher of Runswick Bay to have in his possession, but I didn’t want to ask any more questions just then.
However, in the afternoon my little friend called to me over the wall, “Big Mr. Jack, come here.”
“Come where, my little man?”
“Come inside and look at Father’s organ; I’ll play it to you, Mr. Jack.”
“What will your father say if I come in?” “Father’s out.”
“What will your mother say?”
“Mother’s out too.”
I didn’t relish the idea of entering a man’s house in his absence, but the insistent entreaties kept coming from the other side of the wall. Over and over again it was, “Do come, Mr. Jack; do come quick, Mr. Jack.” At last, to please the child, I left my work for a few minutes and went up the steps which led to the gate of their garden.
The cottage was small, but nicely laid out. The tiny well kept lawn was covered with short, soft grass, and in the center of this a round bed filled with brilliant flowers. Round the wall, at the edge of the garden, was a border, in which grew all manner of pretty, sweet-smelling flowers. There were asters, mignonette, sweet peas and many others. Then in front of me was the cottage, with two gables and a red-tiled roof, the walls of which were covered from top to bottom with creeping plants, all helping to make the little place beautiful.
“What a nice home you have, little Jack!” I said.
He kept tight hold of my hand, so that I would not escape from him, and led me on — into a tiny entrance hall, past one or two doors, down a dark passage, and into a room at the back.
This room had a small bow window overlooking the sea, the walls were covered with bookshelves, a writing table stood in the window, and in a corner by the fireplace was the extraordinary object I had been brought to see — a very outdated barrel organ.
What a peculiar thing to come across in a preacher’s study! What possible use could he have for it? It was a dilapidated, old instrument, almost falling to pieces with old age. The shape was so old-fashioned that I don’t remember ever having seen one like it; the silk which had once decorated it was torn into shreds, and it was impossible to tell what its original color had been; the wood was worm-eaten and decayed, and the leg it had rested on could no longer support its weight.
“Let me hear you play it, Jack,” I said.
He sat down with great pride to turn the handle, but I noticed that half the notes were broken off the barrel, which accounted for only fragments of each tune being heard, while many bars of some were missing completely. However, Jack seemed very proud of his performance, and insisted on my staying till he had gone through all four tunes which the old thing was supposed to play. He announced their names, one by one, as each began.
“This is ‘My Poor Mary Anne,’ Mr. Jack, very sad.” Then when that was finished, “This is the ‘Old Hundred,’ very old.”
After this there was a long turning of the handle without any sound being heard, for the first part of the next tune was entirely gone. “I can’t say the name of this one, Mr. Jack,” he explained; “Marjorie called it something like ‘Ma says.’”
“Oh! the Marseillaise,” I said, laughing; “all right, little man, I know that.”
“Then comes Father’s tune; Father likes it best of all. Listen, ‘Home, sweet home, there’s no place like home, there’s no place like home.’ Do you like it, Mr. Jack?”
“Yes, I do like it, Jack,” I said; “I knew it when I was a little boy like you.”
As he played, the music reminded me again of my mother’s voice and my mother’s words. I hadn’t thought of her so much for years before I came to Runswick Bay. The old organ brought her back to me, for she was always kind to organ-grinders. An old Italian man used to come round with a barrel organ when I was a little boy. I can see him now. I used to watch for him from my bedroom window, and as soon as he came in sight I flew down to my mother for a penny, and then went into the garden and stood beside him while he played. Mother gave me on my birthday a musical box in the shape of a barrel organ with strap which I could hang round my neck. I used to take this box with me, and standing beside the old man, I imitated his every movement, holding my little organ just as he held his big one, and playing beside him as long as he remained. So wonderful did this man’s occupation seem to me, that I can remember quite well when my father asked me one day what I would like to be when I grew up. I answered without a moment’s hesitation, “An organ-grinder, of course, Father.”
My boyhood days — how long ago they seemed! What was the use of recalling them! It wouldn’t bring back the mother I had lost, or the father who had cared for me, and it only made me depressed to think of them. What good, I asked myself, would my holiday do me if I spent it in brooding over old sorrows? I must forget this kind of thing and cheer up.
“Now, little Jack,” I said, “big Jack must go back to his picture; come and climb into the old boat, and see how you would look in the foreground of it.” He looked just right, perched amongst the nets and fishing tackle. I felt I should improve my picture by introducing him into it, and from that day on he came for a while every morning to be painted. He was a good model, never moving after I told him I was ready, and never speaking unless I spoke to him.
I never saw a more lovable child nor a more obedient one. While full of fun and with a mischievous spirit, he was checked in a moment by a single word. No one could be dull in his company, and as the week passed, I began to regain my usual cheerfulness and lose the uncomfortable feeling left by the sermon on the shore and the questions the preacher had asked us.