some like to be one thing, some another. there is so much to be done, so many different things to do, so many trades! shepherds, soldiers, sailors, ploughmen, carters—one could go on all day naming without getting to the end of them. for myself, boy and man, i have been many things, working for a living, and sometimes doing things just for pleasure; but somehow, whatever i did, it never seemed quite the right and proper thing to do—it never quite satisfied me. i always wanted to do something else—i wanted to be a carpenter. it seemed to me that to stand among wood-shavings and sawdust, making things at a bench with bright beautiful tools out of nice-smelling wood, was the cleanest, healthiest, prettiest work that any man can do. now all this has nothing, or very little, to do with my story: i only spoke[14] of it because i had to begin somehow, and it struck me that would make a start that way. and for another reason, too. his father was a carpenter. i mean martin's father—martin, the little boy lost. his father's name was john, and he was a very good man and a good carpenter, and he loved to do his carpentering better than anything else; in fact as much as i should have loved it if i had been taught that trade. he lived in a seaside town, named southampton, where there is a great harbour, where he saw great ships coming and going to and from all parts of the world. now, no strong, brave man can live in a place like that, seeing the ships and often talking to the people who voyaged in them about the distant lands where they had been, without wishing to go and see those distant countries for himself. when it is winter in england, and it rains and rains, and the east wind blows, and it is grey and cold and the trees are bare, who does not think how nice it would be to fly away like the summer birds to some distant country where the sky is always blue and the sun shines bright and warm every day? and so it came to pass that john, at last, when he was an old man, sold his shop, and went abroad. they went to a country many thousands of miles away—for you must know that mrs. john went too; and when the sea voyage ended, they travelled many days and weeks in a wagon until they came to the place where they wanted to live; and there, in that lonely country, they built a house, and made a garden, and planted an orchard. it[15] was a desert, and they had no neighbours, but they were happy enough because they had as much land as they wanted, and the weather was always bright and beautiful; john, too, had his carpenter's tools to work with when he felt inclined; and, best of all, they had little martin to love and think about.
but how about martin himself? you might think that with no other child to prattle to and play with or even to see, it was too lonely a home for him. not a bit of it! no child could have been happier. he did not want for company; his play-fellows were the dogs and cats and chickens, and any creature in and about the house. but most of all he loved the little shy creatures that lived in the sunshine among the flowers—the small birds and butterflies, and little beasties and creeping things he was accustomed to see outside the gate among the tall, wild sunflowers. there were acres of these plants, and they were taller than martin, and covered with flowers no bigger than marigolds, and here among the sunflowers he used to spend most of the day, as happy as possible.
he had other amusements too. whenever john went to his carpenter's shop—for the old man still dearly loved his carpentering—martin would run in to keep him company. one thing he loved to do was to pick up the longest wood-shavings, to wind them round his neck and arms and legs, and then he would laugh and dance with delight, happy as a young indian in his ornaments.
a wood-shaving may seem a poor plaything to a child with[16] all the toyshops in london to pick and choose from, but it is really very curious and pretty. bright and smooth to the touch, pencilled with delicate wavy lines, while in its spiral shape it reminds one of winding plants, and tendrils by means of which vines and creepers support themselves, and flowers with curling petals, and curled leaves and sea-shells and many other pretty natural objects.
one day martin ran into the house looking very flushed and joyous, holding up his pinafore with something heavy in it.
"what have you got now?" cried his father and mother in a breath, getting up to peep at his treasure, for martin was always fetching in the most curious out-of-the-way things to show them.
"my pretty shaving," said martin proudly.
when they looked they were amazed and horrified to see a spotted green snake coiled comfortably up in the pinafore. it didn't appear to like being looked at by them, for it raised its curious heart-shaped head and flicked its little red, forked tongue at them.
his mother gave a great scream, and dropped the jug she had in her hand upon the floor, while john rushed off to get a big stick. "drop it, martin—drop the wicked snake before it stings you, and i'll soon kill it."
martin stared, surprised at the fuss they were making; then, still tightly holding the ends of his pinafore, he turned and ran out of the room and away as fast as he could go. away went his father after him, stick in hand, and out of the gate[17] into the thicket of tall wild sunflowers where martin had vanished from sight. after hunting about for some time, he found the little run-away sitting on the ground among the weeds.
"where's the snake?" he cried.
"gone!" said martin, waving his little hand around. "i let it go and you mustn't look for it."
john picked the child up in his arms and marched back to the room and popped him down on the floor, then gave him a good scolding. "it's a mercy the poisonous thing didn't sting you," he said. "you're a naughty little boy to play with snakes, because they're dangerous bad things, and you die if they bite you. and now you must go straight to bed; that's the only punishment that has any effect on such a harebrained little butterfly."
martin, puckering up his face for a cry, crept away to his little room. it was very hard to have to go to bed in the daytime when he was not sleepy, and when the birds and butterflies were out in the sunshine having such a good time.
"it's not a bit of use scolding him—i found that out long ago," said mrs. john, shaking her head. "do you know, john, i can't help thinking sometimes that he's not our child at all."
"whose child do you think he is, then?" said john, who had a cup of water in his hand, for the chase after martin had made him hot, and he wanted cooling.
"i don't know—but i once had a very curious dream."
"people often do have curious dreams," said wise old john.[18]
"but this was a very curious one, and i remember saying to myself, if this doesn't mean something that is going to happen, then dreams don't count for much."
"no more they do," said john.
"it was in england, just when we were getting ready for the voyage, and it was autumn, when the birds were leaving us. i dreamed that i went out alone and walked by the sea, and stood watching a great number of swallows flying by and out over the sea—flying away to some distant land. by-and-by i noticed one bird coming down lower and lower as if he wanted to alight, and i watched it, and it came down straight to me, and at last flew right into my bosom. i put my hand on it, and looking close saw that it was a martin, all pure white on its throat and breast, and with a white patch on its back. then i woke up, and it was because of that dream that i named our child martin instead of john as you wished to do. now, when i watch swallows flying about, coming and going round the house, i sometimes think that martin came to us like that one in the dream, and that some day he will fly away from us. when he gets bigger, i mean."
"when he gets littler, you mean," said john with a laugh. "no, no, he's too big for a swallow—a michaelmas goose would be nothing to him for size. but here i am listening to your silly dreams instead of watering the melons and cucumbers!" and out he went to his garden, but in a minute he put his head in at the door and said, "you may go and tell him to get up[19] if you like. poor little fellow! only make him promise not to go chumming with spotted snakes any more, and not to bring them into the house, because somehow they disagree with me."
about midnight martin was wakened by loud horrible noises in the room, and started up on bed trembling with fear. the sounds came from the old man's nose, and resembled a succession[41] of blasts on a ram's horn, which, on account of its roughness and twisted shape, makes a very bad trumpet. as soon as martin discovered the cause of the noise he crept out of bed and tried to waken the old snorer by shouting to him, tugging at his arms and legs, and finally pulling his beard. he refused to wake. then martin had a bright idea, and groping his way to the bucket of cold water standing beside the fire-place, he managed to raise it up in his arms, and poured it over the sleeper.
the snoring changed to cries of loud choking snorts, then ceased. martin, well pleased at the success of his experiment, was about to return to his bed when old jacob struggled up to a sitting posture.
"hullo, wake up, little boy!" he shouted. "my bed's all full o' water—goodness knows where it comes from."
"i poured it over you to wake you up. don't you know you were making a noise with your nose?" cried martin at the top of his voice.
"you—you—you throwed it over me! you—o you most[42] wicked little villain you! you throwed it over me did you!" and here he poured out such a torrent of abusive words that martin was horrified and cried out, "o what a naughty, wicked, bad old man you are!"
it was too dark for old jacob to see him, but he knew his way about the room, and taking up the wet rug that served him for covering he groped his way to martin's bed and began pounding it with the rug, thinking the naughty little boy was there.
"you little rascal you—i hope you like that!—and that!—and that!" he shouted, pounding away. "i'll learn you to throw water over your poor old dad! and such a—a affectionate father as i've been too, giving him sich nice wittles—and—and singing and dancing to him to teach him music. perhaps you'd like a little more, you takes it so quietly? well, then, take that!—and that!—and that! why, how's this—the young warmint ain't here arter all! well, i'm blowed if that don't beat everythink! what did he go and chuck that water over me for? what a walloping i'll give him in the morning when it's light! and now, boy, you may go and sleep on my bed, 'cos it's wet, d'ye see; and i'll sleep on yourn, 'cos it's dry."
then he got into martin's bed, and muttered and grumbled himself to sleep. martin came out from under the table, and after dressing himself with great secrecy crept to the door to make his escape. it was locked and the key taken away. but he was determined to make his escape somehow, and not wait to be whipped; so, by and by, he drew the little deal table close[43] against the wall, and getting on to it began picking the rushes one by one out of the lower part of the thatch. after working for half-an-hour, like a mouse eating his way out of a soft wooden box, he began to see the light coming through the hole, and in another half hour it was large enough for him to creep through. when he had got out, he slipped down to the ground, where the dogs were lying. they seemed very glad to see him, and began pressing round to lick his face; but he pushed them off, and ran away over the plain as fast as he could. the stars were shining, but it was very dark and silent; only in moist places, where the grass grew tall, he heard the crickets strumming sadly on their little harps.
at length, tired with running, he coiled himself in a large tussock of dry grass and went to sleep, just as if he had been accustomed to sleep out of doors all his life.
