IV.

A Friend made and Friend lost.

To visit, is a great thing in the boy calendar;—­not to visit this or that neighbor,—­to drink tea, or eat strawberries, or play at draughts,—­but to go away on a visit in a coach, with a trunk, and a great-coat, and an umbrella—­this is large!

It makes no difference that they wish to be rid of your noise, now that Charlie is sick of a fever:  the reason is not at all in the way of your pride of visiting.  You are to have a long ride in a coach, and eat a dinner at a tavern, and to see a new town almost as large as the one you live in; and you are to make new acquaintances.  In short, you are to see the world:  a very proud thing it is to see the world!

As you journey on, after bidding your friends adieu, and as you see fences and houses to which you have not been used, you think them very odd indeed:  but it occurs to you that the geographies speak of very various national characteristics, and you are greatly gratified with this opportunity of verifying your study.  You see new crops too, perhaps a broad-leaved tobacco-field, which reminds you pleasantly of the luxuriant vegetation of the tropics, spoken of by Peter Parley, and others.

As for the houses and barns in the new town, they quite startle you with their strangeness:  you observe that some of the latter, instead of having one stable-door have five or six,—­a fact which puzzles you very much indeed.  You observe further that the houses many of them have balustrades upon the top, which seems to you a very wonderful adaptation to the wants of boys who wish to fly kites, or to play upon the roof.  You notice with special favor one very low roof, which you might climb upon by a mere plank, and you think the boys whose father lives in that house are very fortunate boys.

Your old aunt, whom you visit, you think, wears a very queer cap, being altogether different from that of the old nurse, or of Mrs. Boyne,—­Madge’s mother.  As for the house she lives in, it is quite wonderful.  There are such an immense number of closets, and closets within closets, reminding you of the mysteries of “Rinaldo Rinaldini.”  Beside which there are immensely curious bits of old furniture—­so black and heavy, and with such curious carving!—­and you think of the old wainscot in the “Children of the Abbey”.  You think you will never tire of rambling about in its odd corners, and of what glorious stories you will have to tell of it when you go back to Nelly and Charlie.

As for acquaintances, you fall in the very first day with a tall boy next door, called Nat, which seems an extraordinary name.  Besides, he has travelled; and as he sits with you on the summer nights under the linden-trees, he tells you gorgeous stories of the things he has seen.  He has made the voyage to London; and he talks about the ship (a real ship) and starboard and larboard, and the spanker, in a way quite surprising; and he takes the stern-oar in the little skiff, when you row off in the cove abreast of the town, in a most seaman-like way.