Winning His Way | Page 3

who kept her house neat and tidy, though it was a crazy old
affair.
"Well, mother, I thought it would please Paul."
"S-s-s-s-si'c!" Paul made a hiss which Bruno understood, for he went at
Muff more fiercely. It was glorious to see Muff spit fire, and hear her
growl low and deep like distant thunder. Paul would not have Muff hurt
for anything, but he loved to see Bruno show his teeth at her, for she
was gritty when waked up.
"Be still, Paul, and let Muff alone," said Paul's mother.
"Come, Bruno, she ain't worth minding," said Paul.
"They have got good courage, both of 'em," said the Pensioner; "and

courage is one half of the battle, and truth and honor is the other half.
Paul, I want you to remember that. It will be worth more than a fortune
to you. I don't mean that cats and dogs know much about truth and
honor, and I have seen some men who didn't know much more about
those qualities of character than Muff and Bruno; but what I have said,
Paul, is true for all that. They who win success in life are those who
love truth, and who follow what is noble and good. No matter how
brave a man may be, if he hasn't these qualities he won't succeed. He
may get rich, but that won't amount to much. Success, Paul, is to have
an unblemished character,--to be true to ourselves, to our country, and
to God."
He went on with his story, telling how the British troops ran before the
fire of the Yankees,--how they re-formed and came on a second time,
and were repulsed again,--how General Clinton went over from Boston
with reinforcements,--how Charlestown was set on fire,--how the
flames leaped from house to house, and curled round the spire of the
church,--how the red-coats advanced a third time beneath the great
black clouds of smoke,--how the ammunition of the Yankees gave out,
and they were obliged to retreat,--how General Putnam tried to rally
them,--how they escaped across Charlestown Neck, where the
cannon-balls from the British floating batteries raked the ranks! He
made it all so plain, that Paul wished he had been there.
The story completed, Paul climbed the creaking stairway to his narrow
chamber, repeated his evening prayer, and scrambled into bed.
"He is a jolly boy," said the Pensioner to Paul's mother, as Paul left the
room.
"I don't know what will become of him," she replied, "he is so wild and
thoughtless. He leaves the door open, throws his cap into the corner,
sets Bruno and Muff to growling, stops to play on his way home from
school, sings, whistles, shouts, hurrahs, and tears round like all
possessed."
If she could have looked into Paul's desk at school, she would have
found whirligigs, tops, pin-boxes, nails, and no end of strings and

dancing dandy-jims.
"Paul is a rogue," said the Pensioner. "You remember how he got on
top of the house awhile ago and frightened us out of our wits by
shouting 'Fire! fire!' down the chimney; how we ran out to see about it;
how I asked him 'Where?' and says he, 'Down there in the fireplace,
grandpa.' He is a chip of the old block. I used to do just so. But there is
one good thing about him, he don't do mean tricks. He don't bend up
pins and put them in the boys' seats, or tuck chestnut-burs into the girls'
hoods. I never knew him to tell a lie. He will come out all right."
"I hope so," said Mrs. Parker.
Paul could look through the crevices between the shingles, and the
cracks in the walls, and behold the stars gleaming from the
unfathomable spaces. He wondered how far they were away. He
listened to the wind chanting a solemn dirge, filling his soul with
longings for he knew not what. He thought over his grandfather's
stories, and the words he had spoken about courage, truth, and honor,
till a shingle clattering in the wind took up the refrain, and seemed to
say, Truth and honor,--truth and honor,--truth and honor,--so steadily
and pleasantly, that while he listened the stars faded from his sight, and
he sailed away into dream-land.
Paul was twelve years old, stout, hearty, and healthy,--full of life, and
brimming over with fun. Once he set the village in a roar. The people
permitted their pigs to run at large. The great maple in front of the
Pensioner's house was cool and shady,--a delightful place for the pigs
through the hot summer days.
Mr. Chrome, the carriage-painter, lived across the road. He painted a
great many wagons for the farmers,--the wheels yellow, the bodies blue,
green, or red, with scrolls and flowers on the sides. Paul watched