Part 1 (1/2)

A Little Boy Lost.

by W. H. Hudson.

_Chapter One_

_The Home on the Great Plain_

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 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 s.h.i.+ps 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 s.h.i.+ps and often talking to the people who voyaged in them about the distant lands where they had been, without wis.h.i.+ng 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 s.h.i.+nes bright and warm every day? And so it came to pa.s.s 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 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 suns.h.i.+ne among the flowers--the small birds and b.u.t.terflies, 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 amus.e.m.e.nts 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 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-sh.e.l.ls 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 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 b.u.t.terfly.”

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 b.u.t.terflies were out in the suns.h.i.+ne 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.”