But we “preacher’s sons,” by which name we are universally distinguished, have our own crosses as well.  It is generally agreed that much ought to be expected of us and little obtained.  Let one of us play truant from school, or use a naughty word in play, or make marbles a source of revenue, or fight on the common when provoked, or steal a cherry, and the fact travels our town over like a telegram.  We once suffer greatly in repute by selling our neighbor’s old iron and brass to an itinerant pedler, and are alleged to have run up a debit account of one dime with an old negro who sells spruce beer and “horse cakes”—­whereafter we fail.

The church people, much to our dissatisfaction, present us with castaway coats and boots, which we are made to wear, and once or twice, when we encounter Margot in this shape, we burst into tears and run home to hide our wounded vanity in the stable loft.  There, in the “mow,” while we devise bitter and futile conspiracies against society, the mare, munching her fodder, looks up at us with patient eyes, as if to say:  “Am I not also mortified for the faith?” But we are cut to the heart to think that Margot may contrast us with better-dressed boys, and therefore think us of little spirit, learning, and courage.  It is for you, pretty coquette, that we carry many scandals and scars!  We do not quite love you, Margot; but we are foolishly vain and sensitive, and your eyes are very beautiful!

Still we are acknowledged at school to be “smart.”  All preacher’s sons are so by common concession, and though we may not visit the circus, like others, we get abundance of free tickets for concerts, panoramas, and glass-blowers.  Once, indeed, the great Chippewa chief, Haw-waw-many-squaw, having thrown the town into consternation by placards of himself scalping his enemies and smoking their tobacco, makes a triumphal entry into the main street at full gallop, and pitching his tent before the court-house, walks into the parsonage—­war plumes, moccasins, and all—­gives us complimentary seats, and eats the better half of our dinner.  This incident is a source of pride to ourself beyond any thing experienced by any urchin besides.  We boast of it frequently, and, being disliked therefor, commit several impromptu scalpings on our own account.

Vagabonds unnumbered beg our hospitality, and get it.  Some of these it would be difficult to determine, either as to profession or destination.  Many of them are systematic pensioners upon the preacher, and plead devotion to our denomination as a means of gaining our hearts.  They have the gossip of the “Conference” at their tongues’ ends, and lead our family devotion with the grace and hypocrisy of Belial.