“O, ma,” said Horace, coming, into the house one morning glowing with excitement, “mayn’t I go in the woods with Peter Grant?  He knows where there’s heaps of boxberries.”

“And who is Peter Grant, my son?”

“He is a little boy with a bad temper,” said aunt Louise, frowning severely at Horace. ­If she had had her way, I don’t know but every little boy in town would have been tied to a bed-post by a clothes-line.  As I have already said, aunt Louise was not remarkably fond of children, and when they were naughty it was hard for her to forgive them.

She disliked little Peter; but she never stopped to think that he had a cross and ignorant mother, who managed him so badly that he did not care about trying to be good.  Mrs. Grant seldom talked with him about God and the Saviour; she never read to him from the Bible, nor told him to say his prayers.

Mrs. Clifford answered Horace that she did not wish him to go into the woods, and that was all that she thought it necessary to say.

Horace, at the time, had no idea of disobeying his mother; but not long afterwards he happened to go into the kitchen, where his grandmother was making beer.

“What do you make it of, grandma?” said he.

“Of molasses and warm water and yeast.”

“But what gives the taste to it?”

“O, I put in spruce, or boxberry, or sarsaparilla.”

“But see here, grandma:  wouldn’t you like to have me go in the woods ‘someplace,’ and dig roots for you?”

“Yes, indeed, my dear,” said she innocently; “and if you should go, pray get some wintergreen, by all means.”

Horace’s heart gave a wicked throb of delight.  If some one wanted him to go after something, of course he ought to go; for his mother had often told him he must try to be useful.  Strolling into the woods with Peter Grant, just for fun, was very different from going in soberly to dig up roots for grandma.

He thought of it all the way out to the gate.  To be sure he might go and ask his mother again, but “what was the use, when he knew certain sure she’d be willing?  Besides, wasn’t the baby crying, so he mustn’t go in the room?”

These reasons sounded very well; but they could be picked in pieces, and Horace knew it.  It was only when the baby was asleep that he must keep out of the chamber; and, as for being sure that his mother would let him go into the woods, the truth was, he dared not ask her, for he knew she would say, “No.”

He found Peter Grant lounging near the school-house, scribbling his name on the clean white paint under one of the windows.

Peter’s black eyes twinkled.

“Going, ain’t you, cap’n! dog and all?  But where’s your basket?  Wait, and I’ll fetch one.”

“There,” said he, coming back again, “I got that out of the stable there at the tavern; Billy Green is hostler:  Billy knows me.”

“Well, Peter, come ahead.”

“I don’t believe you know your way in these ere woods,” returned Peter, with an air of importance.  “I’ll go fust.  It’s a mighty long stretch, ’most up to Canada; but I could find my way in the dark.  I never got lost anywheres yet!”

“Poh! nor I either,” Horace was about to say; but remembering his adventure in Cleveland, he drowned the words in a long whistle.

They kept on up the steep hill for some distance, and then struck off into the forest.  The straight pine trees stood up solemn and stiff.  Instead of tender leaves, they bristled all over with dark green “needles.”  They had no blessings of birds’ nests in their branches; yet they gave out a pleasant odor, which the boys said was “nice.”

“But they aren’t so splendid, Peter, as our trees out west ­don’t begin! They grow so big you can’t chop ’em down.  I’ll leave it to Pincher!”

“Chop ’em down?  I reckon it can’t be done!” replied Pincher ­not in words, but by a wag of his tail.

“Well, how do you get ’em down then, cap’n?”

“We cut a place right ’round ’em:  that’s girdlin’ the tree, and then, ever so long after, it dies and drops down itself.”

“O, my stars!” cried Peter, “I want to know!”

“No, you DON’T want to know, Peter, for I just told you!  You may say, ’I wonder,’ if you like; that’s what we say out west.”

“Wait,” said Peter.  “I only said, ’I want to know what other trees you have;’ that’s what I meant, but you shet me right up.”

“O, there’s the butternut, and tree of heaven, and papaw, and ’simmon, and a ‘right smart sprinkle’ of wood-trees.”

“What’s a ’simmon?”

“O, it looks like a little baked apple, all wrinkled up; but it’s right sweet.  Ugh!” added Horace, making a wry face; “you better look out when they’re green:  they pucker your mouth up a good deal worse’n choke-cherries.”

“What’s a papaw?”

“A papaw?  Well, it’s a curious thing, not much account.  The pigs eat it.  It tastes like a custard, right soft and mellow.  Come, let’s go to work.”

“Well, what’s a tree of heaven?”

“O, Peter, for pity’s sakes how do I know?  It’s a tree of heaven, I suppose.  It has pink hollyhocks growing on it.  What makes you ask so many questions?”

Upon that the boys went to work picking boxberry leaves, which grew at the roots of the pine trees, among the soft moss and last year’s cones.  Horace was very anxious to gather enough for some beer; but it was strange how many it took to fill such “enormous big baskets.”

“Now,” said Horace, “I move we look over yonder for some wintergreen.  You said you knew it by sight.”

“Wintergreen? wintergreen?” echoed Peter:  “O, yes, I know it well enough.  It spangles ’round.  See, here’s some; the girls make wreaths of it.”

It was moneywort; but Horace never doubted that Peter was telling the truth, and supposed his grandmother would be delighted to see such quantities of wintergreen.

After some time spent in gathering this, Horace happened to remember that he wanted sarsaparilla.

“I reckon,” thought he, “they’ll be glad I came, if I carry home so many things.”

Peter knew they could find sarsaparilla, for there was not a root of any sort which did not grow “in the pines;” of that he was sure.  So they struck still deeper into the woods, every step taking them farther from home.  Pincher followed, as happy as a dog can be; but, alas! never dreaming that serious trouble was coming.

The boys dug up various roots with their jackknives; but they both knew the taste of sarsaparilla, and could not be deceived.

“We hain’t come to it yet,” said Peter; “but it’s round here somewheres, I’ll bet a dollar.”

“I’m getting hungry,” said Horace:  “isn’t it about time for the dinner-bell to ring?”

“Pretty near,” replied Peter, squinting his eyes and looking at the sky as if there was a noon-mark up there, and he was the boy to find it.  “That bell will ring in fifteen minutes:  you see if it don’t.”

But it did not, though it was high noon, certainly.  Hours passed.  Horace remembered they were to have had salt codfish and cream gravy for dinner.  Aunt Madge had said so; also a roly-poly with foaming sauce.  It must now be long ago since the sugar and butter were beaten together for that sauce.  He wondered if there would be any pudding left.  He was sure he should like it cold, and a glass of water with ice in it.

O, how many times he could have gone to the barrel which stood by the sink, and drunk such deep draughts of water, when he didn’t care anything about it!  But now he was so thirsty, and there was not so much as a teaspoonful of water to be found!

“I motion we go home,” said Horace, for at least the tenth time.

“Well,” replied Peter, sulkily, “ain’t we striking a bee-line?”

“We’ve got turned round,” said Horace:  “Canada is over yonder, I know.”

“Pshaw! no, it ain’t, no such a thing.”

But they were really going the wrong way.  The village bell had rung at noon, as usual, but they were too far off to hear it.  It was weary work winding in and out, in and out, among the trees and stumps.  With torn clothes, bleeding hands, and tired feet, the poor boys pushed on.

“Of course we’re right,” said Peter, in a would-be brave tone:  “don’t you remember that stump?”

“No, I don’t, Peter Grant,” replied Horace, who was losing his patience:  “I never was here before.  Humph!  I thought you could find your way with your eyes shut.”

“Turn and go t’other way, then,” said Peter, adding a wicked word I cannot repeat.

“I will,” replied Horace, coolly:  “if I’d known you used such swearing words I never’d have come!”

“Hollo, there!” shouted Peter, a few moments after, “I’ll keep with you, and risk it, cap’n.”

“Come on, then,” returned Horace, who was glad of Peter’s company just now, little as he liked him.  “Where’s our baskets?” said he, stopping short.

“Sure enough,” cried Peter; “but we can’t go back now.”

They had not gone far when they were startled by a cry from Pincher, a sharp cry of pain.  He stood stock still, his brown eyes almost starting from their sockets with agony and fear.  It proved that he had stumbled upon a fox-trap which was concealed under some dry twigs, and his right fore-paw was caught fast.

Here was a dilemma.  The boys tried with all their might to set poor Pincher free; but it seemed as if they only made matters worse.

“What an old nuisance of a dog!” cried Peter; “just as we’d got to goin’ on the right road.”

“Be still, Peter Grant!  Hush your mouth!  If you say a word against my dog you’ll catch it.  Poor little Pincher!” said Horace, patting him gently and laying his cheek down close to his face.

The suffering creature licked his hands, and said with his eloquent eyes, ­

“Dear little master, don’t take it to heart.  You didn’t know I’d get hurt!  You’ve always been good to poor Pincher.”

“I’d rather have given a dollar,” said Horace; “O, Pincher!  I wish ’twas my foot; I tell you I do!”

They tried again, but the trap held the dog’s paw like a vice.

“I’ll tell you what,” said Peter; “we’ll leave the dog here, and go home and get somebody to come.”

“You just behave, Peter Grant,” said Horace, looking very angry.  “I shouldn’t want to be your dog!  Just you hold his foot still, and I’ll try again.”

This time Horace examined the trap on all sides, and, being what is called an ingenious boy, did actually succeed at last in getting little Pincher’s foot out.

“Whew!  I didn’t think you could,” said Peter, admiringly.

“You couldn’t, Peter; you haven’t sense enough.”

The foot was terribly mangled, and Pincher had to be carried home in arms.

“I should like to know, Peter, who set that trap.  If my father was here, he’d have him in the lock-up.”

“Poh! it wasn’t set for dogs,” replied Peter, in an equally cross tone, for both the boys were tired, hungry, and out of sorts.  “Don’t you know nothin’?  That’s a bear-trap!”

“A bear-trap!  Do you have bears up here?”

“O, yes, dear me, suz:  hain’t you seen none since you’ve been in the State of Maine?  I’ve ate ’em lots of times.”

Peter had once eaten a piece of bear-steak, or it might have been moose-meat, he was not sure which; but at any rate it had been brought down from Moosehead Lake.

“Bears ’round here?” thought Horace, in a fright.

He quickened his pace.  O, if he could only be sure it was the right road!  Perhaps they were walking straight into a den of bears.  He hugged little Pincher close in his arms, soothing him with pet names; for the poor dog continued to moan.

“O, dear, dear!” cried Peter, “don’t you feel awfully?”

“I don’t stop to think of my feelings,” replied Horace, shortly.

“Well, I wish we hadn’t come ­I do.”

“So do I, Peter.  I won’t play ‘hookey’ again; but I’m not a-goin’ to cry.”

“I’ll never go anywheres with you any more as long as I live, Horace Clifford!”

“Nobody wants you to, Pete Grant!”

Then they pushed on in dignified silence till Peter broke forth again with wailing sobs.

“I dread to get home!  O, dear, I’ll have to take it, I tell you.  I guess you’d cry if you expected to be whipped.”

Horace made no reply.  He did not care about telling Peter that he too had a terrible dread of reaching home, for there was something a great deal worse than a whipping, and that was, a mother’s sorrowful face.

“I shouldn’t care if she’d whip me right hard,” thought Horace; “but she’ll talk to me about God and the Bible, and O, she’ll look so white!”

“Peter, you go on ahead,” said he aloud.

“What for?”

“O, I want to rest a minute with Pincher.”

It was some moments before Peter would go, and then he went grumbling.  As soon as he was out of sight, Horace threw himself on his knees and prayed in low tones, ­

“O God, I do want to be a good boy; and if I ever get out of this woods I’ll begin!  Keep the bears off, please do, O God, and let us find the way out, and forgive me.  Amen.”

Horace had never uttered a more sincere prayer in his life.  Like many older people, he waited till he was in sore need before he called upon God; but when he had once opened his heart to him, it was wonderful how much lighter it felt.

He rose to his feet and struggled on, saying to Pincher, “Poor fellow, poor fellow, don’t cry:  we’ll soon be home.”

“Hollo there, cap’n!” shouted Peter:  “we’re comin’ to a clearin’.”

“Just as I expected,” thought Horace:  “why didn’t I pray to God before?”