“My friend informed me of all these facts in a very sorrowful letter, and I hastened to take my son once more under my own roof.

“Here I tried every method that a father’s love could devise to reform him.  But all was useless.  He seemed to have no idea of truth or honor, of affection or duty to me.  When, at times, I thought he was showing signs of improvement, I always found, afterward, that he was only concealing his mischievous acts more carefully.  I call them mischievous, though the word ‘malicious’ would perhaps describe them better; for they were all undertaken in a spirit of evil, and not of fun.”  The old gentleman here rested, and refreshed himself with a sip of the cordial.

“But it would take days to tell you of all my troubles with that boy, and I will briefly refer to the rest of them.

“By the advice of another friend (for I have never taken any step in the treatment of my child without first seeking for friendly advice), I sent him, when twelve years of age, to a celebrated school in Massachusetts, where the discipline is very strict.  I had a personal interview with the master, and requested him, as a favor, to chastise Myndert, if all other means failed to subdue him.  Though I could not bear to whip him, I was willing that he should suffer a proper punishment, inflicted in the right spirit, from others.  At this school he conducted himself properly for about three weeks, and was taking a high rank as a scholar, when his natural tastes asserted themselves, in all sorts of wicked pranks on his fellow pupils, on the teachers, and on people in the village.  The master at first expostulated, and then gave Myndert a good thrashing.  That night the master narrowly escaped being hit by a large stone thrown through his bedroom window.  Next morning my son was missing, and for three weeks no trace of him could be found.  I advertised in newspapers, describing him, and offering large rewards for his recovery.  I had the same notice printed on bills, and stuck up all through the country.  I employed detectives to trace out the runaway.  A month passed, and no tidings.  I was in despair.  Toward the close of the fifth week, one of the detectives struck a trail on Cape Cod, and, after a patient search, found the young rascal living, under the assumed name of Carlo, with a fisherman, in a little seaside hamlet.  As the fishing season was a good one, and men were scarce, the fisherman had gladly received my son as an apprentice for his board.  The novelty, excitement, and sometimes danger of the pursuit pleased Myndert greatly, and the old fisherman said that he was a good hand for a boy.  When the detective found him, however, he was beginning to be tired of his strange occupation (nothing pleases him long), and he consented to come home on condition that I would not scold him, and would give him plenty of pocket money.  I had been weak enough to authorize the making of these promises.