Harry's Holiday/Chapter IV

When Harry awoke the next morning, he felt a great deal of pleasure in recollecting, that although his birthday was over, his holiday was not; and that he had still such a substantial remembrance of it in his possession as the watch.

He lay awake some time listening to it; for he had put it under his pillow. At last, however, he took a hint that it gave him, and dressed himself. Finding that it was time, he took a short walk before breakfast, and was greatly pleased by a poor man, whom ​he met, asking him what a clock it was. Afterwards he compared his time with the church-clock, and found the latter was five minutes too slow. When he had done that, he felt no inclination to continue his walk, and so he returned.

But, after all, Harry felt rather uneasy and uncomfortable this morning; he knew his father's eye was upon him, to see what he would do now that he had his time at his own disposal; but as he had formed no plans, and had no object in view, he was completely at a loss how to employ any time in which there was nobody to play with. It is pretty clear, therefore, that when Harry was talking so much about having his own way, “only for one week,” he did not ​know what that way would be; it seemed that he only disliked his father's way. Young people should always be able to tell what it is they would like to do, before they complain that they cannot do as they like. Indeed, Harry would not have looked half so foolish as he did, while he was dozing away his time, if he had not said so much about having his own way with it. It is certain he would have received the news of his holiday with much more real pleasure, if he had known that it would have enabled him to complete any undertaking already begun, or to begin any thing that, when done, would be useful and creditable to him. Any plan of this kind would have entirely prevented the misfortunes of the birth-day, as well as the constant trouble and in​convenience of appearing to be doing something, when, in fact, he was doing nothing.

“Well, Harry,” said his mamma, who met him in the garden, “what fine weather you have for your holiday! I hope you will enjoy it, although Arthur is gone.”

“I hope I shall, mamma, “said Harry; “but”—

“But what, my dear,” said his mother.

“Why if—if there was any thing you thought I had better do, I should have no objection to do it.”

“You are to do exactly what you like yourself, Harry; you know this week is entirely your own.”

“I wonder what James did with his week's holiday,” said Harry.

“James can tell you, I suppose,” ​said his mother; “but I should like best to see you act for yourself, and so would your father; for I believe that was the reason he gave you this holiday; but if you really wish me to mention any thing for your employment, why, I will try to think of something.”

“Well, mamma—I shall see;——— perhaps—I think—I know what I shall like to do to-day,” said Harry; who began to fear his mother really would think of something.

“Very well, my dear,” said his mamma; “I tell you again, I do not wish to direct you; and then, you know, if, like Rasselas, you can do as you please, but do not please yourself, it will not be my fault, will it?”

“Oh no, mamma; it will not be your ​fault certainly,” said Harry: “and I don't think it will be mine. I intend to begin Rasselas to-day.

“I am glad to hear it,” said his mother: “I think if you understand it, you will see that it was Rasselas's fault, generally, that he did not please himself; and so it is everybody's fault, when they are discontented with their situation, and wander about expecting pleasure from things that cannot give it.”

It is very probable that there are some other little boys, besides Harry, who wish nothing more than to be allowed to do always as they like; or, at any rate, to have a time in which they might enjoy such a privilege. But let them be sure they know before-hand exactly what they would do; otherwise, like him, they might at last do nothing at all.

​There was time after breakfast for Harry to have a good game of play with his brothers, before they went to their lessons; but when they were gone, and he was quite at liberty to do as he saw fit, and it became necessary to think of something for himself, he was considerably at a loss. He continued, however, for some time playing at trap-ball; but, being alone, there was nobody to throw him the ball back again; so that the harder he hit it, the further he had to run and fetch it, and that did not suit Harry. “Ah, well,” said he, striking the ball with all his force, and throwing the bat after it, “I'm not going to do this all day—I wish Arthur was here;—let us see,—oh, I can fly my kite! Oh no, I can't though,” said he, when he found the string tangled as he had ​left it the day before; so he was obliged to give it up; for to untangle it was not the job for Harry. What should he do? Who can think of any thing? Harry will be very much obliged to anybody who will tell him what to do! Harry, who wanted so much to do as he liked, and to have his own way “only for one week.” But let us give him time; perhaps he has not thought about it yet: it is to be remembered that this holiday took him by surprise. Well, Harry did take his time; for there he stood a long while, with his peg-top in his hand, making marks upon the white wall, though he hardly knew what he was about. Whilst he was doing this, there was a garden spider close by him, very differently employed; for it was hard at work at its web, going ​round and round a great many times, to mend a large hole that Harry's trap-ball had made in it: happening to observe it, he poked another great hole, to see what it would do then; upon which it instantly ran up a single thread of its web a long way, and hid itself under a leaf. If Harry had been a little older, or rather a little wiser, he might have learnt something of this poor spider; for it soon returned to its web, and did not repair it in the way that Harry did his rabbit-house; but never left off till it had made it in every respect as good as it was before.

It being a very hot day, Harry slowly walked in doors, and, throwing himself back in a chair, took a comfortable nap. It was the same place where he sat some time before, ​longing and grumbling to have a little time he could call his own. He sprang from his seat, however, in an instant, on hearing a step which he thought to be his father's, and he narrowly escaped being caught sound asleep in this his own time, though he wished it to be thought that he knew better than anybody how to employ it.

Again resuming his seat, he was near beginning to dose, when he thought he might as well do as he had said, and read Rasselas. Accordingly he opened it, and after reading a page or two began to skip a great deal. He soon after turned over the leaves very fast, in hope of meeting with something that he called interesting. His eye at last caught the words ‘one day,’ which he very much liked to see at the beginning of a paragraph; ​however, as what followed did not please him particularly, after having dipped in several places not more to his satisfaction, he laid the book down, and thought it very dry. He then turned over some other books that he found on the shelves, and at last fixed upon Æsop's fables: these detained him much longer, though he read them very fast, and never troubled himself with looking at the applications. He had discernment enough to perceive the wit and beauty of many of them; but some others that were equally good, but above his comprehension, he pronounced to be very poor things. “I,” said he, “could write as good a fable as that,” referring to one he despised; and so he drew out his pencil to try, but he found that he could not ​make one at all; for he had (just then at least) no ideas, no thoughts to make it of. It is when people have real ideas, or thoughts, and only then, that what they write or say is worth reading or hearing; but when they attempt to do either, without ideas, they can produce nothing but nonsense, and that of the most tiresome kind.

Harry, finding it did not suit him to compose a fable, thought he could, at least, turn one into rhyme; and he was so pleased with this scheme, that he more than half determined to versify the whole book. He accordingly attempted several, but did not succeed; at last, however, he began one which he contrived, with some difficulty, to finish, and, after reading it over a time or two with some little complacency, ​he thrust it into his pocket, quite contented with what he had done that morning.

“Why, Harry,” said his father to him, at dinner-time, “you have been as still as a mouse this morning.”

“Yes, papa,” said Harry, drawing out his handkerchief, “it's so hot.”

“You have dropped something,” said his father; “a manuscript, I see!”

Harry coloured deeply as he took up his fable, which lay with the writing uppermost.

“So you have been scribbling this morning, Harry—no wonder you were so quiet; pray may we be favoured with a sight of your composition?”

“Oh, I've only been—you may see it if you please, papa,” said Harry.

“Let me see then,” said his father, putting on his glasses. “Verses! verses, ​I declare! Oh—Æsop in rhyme!” said he, and read as follows:

Poor Harry scarcely knew how he felt while his father was reading his performance; he observed, however, that he smiled continually, and once burst out a laughing.

“Well, Harry,” said his father, folding up the paper, “this is droll certainly; and you have contrived to express, I believe, quite as much as ever Æsop intended. Some of your ​rhymes are rather roughly fitted, but that, perhaps, may be in character for a clown. There is one thing, however, that I like, which I cannot always praise you for—I mean your having finished it.

Harry thought this sufficient encouragement to him to try what more he could do; but there were no rhymes to be had that afternoon, and he gave it up.

“Well, I'm glad that I'm not obliged to go to my lessons this hot day,” said Harry to himself, leaning back in his chair; “so tired as I am—that's what I mean—when one feels so languid; it's very hard to be forced to do every thing just the same as usual—papa ought to make some difference.”

“I wish, though,” thought he, “I could contrive something or other to ​do in this holiday, if it were only for the appearance of it;—I know what will be said if I don't; so after all, I can't do really as I like,” said he, gaping. “Dear!” thought he, and he shut his mouth in an instant, “I've a great mind to copy that—it's the very thing! and then hang up my nice new one instead of that old dirty thing.” The dirty thing that had caught Harry's eye was Dr. Priestley's Chart of History, which hung against the wall opposite to him. Having been there many years, it was indeed discoloured, but it was quite whole, and, as to the use of it, was as good as ever.

Harry was very fond of undertaking great things, and though nobody had less patience and perseverance in overcoming difficulties than he, yet while he was planning, the more difficulties ​there were, the better he was pleased with his scheme.

But he thought it best to consult his father on this business, and he never was afraid of doing so, unless his conscience told him there was something improper in what he wished to do; and so strong were his present impressions of the propriety, and even necessity of this undertaking, that he felt more than usual confidence in asking his father's advice and assistance.

His father never forbad his children to attempt anything merely on the score of its being impossible for them to accomplish it; on the contrary, he would make it possible for them to try, in order to convince them by the best argument in the world, their own experience, what the real difficulties ​were; and these he always represented to them before they began.

“Papa,” said Harry, as he entered the family school-room, “may I have a large sheet of paper?”

His brothers looked up from their lessons, curious to know what Harry was going to do.

“How large?” said his father; “what is it for?”

“I want as large a one as there is,” said Harry; “as large—as—the chart of history.”

“So you are going to copy that, are you?” said his father.

“Why, I was thinking, papa,” said Harry, that that is very old and dirty, and—all that, and that a new one would look much better; and that I could make one if you had no objection.”

​“Why, my dear boy,” said his father, “I'll tell you what I think about it. It will cost you a great deal of labour and time to copy that neatly from beginning to end (and you would not like to do it unneatly of course); and when done, it would only be another of what we have already: it is something like copying a printed book, which would not be worth while, you know, because the time it would take must be more valuable than the money it would cost; and with respect to the operation of copying, I am afraid you will find it very difficult to draw all the lines in that chart without a blot, or an error, and I can assure you it will be a very fatiguing task to write in all the names without a blot or an error; hey—what think you?”

Harry looked disappointed, and only ​said how dirty the old one was, and that his would be quite clean and new.

“Very well,” said his father, “you shall have paper, and may begin as soon as you please; but bring me the chart that we may see what size to make it.”

Harry soon returned with the dusty scroll, which had stains and ink-spots before it and cobwebs behind it.

“Ah—this wants dusting I see,” said his papa, brushing it briskly, and Harry was sorry to see how much better it looked.

“This roller, and the moulding at top will do very well for mine,” said Harry; “I may as well take them off.”

“Not at present,” said his father, “not at present, I think: we had better wait till the new one is ready. Now ​the first thing to be done is to join two sheets of paper.”

“Dear! what, isn't there one sheet of paper large enough?” said Harry.

“No,” said his father; “and don't you see this is joined?”

Harry saw that it was, but was sorry, because he knew he should have to wait till it was dry. That part of the job, however, was done sooner than he expected, and he had nothing to do but to begin. His father, who only waited till he saw he was wanted, then stepped forward, and advised Harry first to make a square, by the help of instruments, proper for the purpose, and then to draw all the lines very correctly with a brass pen, before he attempted the writing. But, alas! poor Harry! he had not drawn half a dozen of these divisions, when a large ​drop of ink followed his pen along the ruler, which made a line almost a quarter of an inch broad; and, in dividing the distances with the compasses, he found that he had miscounted, so that he became quite confused.

“I don't see much use in all this measuring,” said Harry; “why can't I copy it as one should any thing else?” So he ruled his lines, one after another, by his eye, and it is astonishing how much faster he found he could do it.

“Now,” thought he, “I may just as well begin writing some of the names in; I don't see why I should wait till all the lines are done.” So he wrote as many names as filled up the spaces made by the few lines he had drawn. Then he thought he might just as well colour a little bit of it, to see how it looked. When he had thus done all ​the different sorts of things that there were to do, he left off to rest himself. “Ah, well,” thought he, “I needn't do any more now; there's plenty of time to finish it before my holiday is over.” So saying, he rolled up his chart wet as it was, and hiding it up, ran down stairs.

“Well, Harry, how does your chart of history come on?” said his father.

“Oh, papa, I've done a good bit of it,” said Harry.

Just then his father was called away; so Harry escaped further questions for the present. But he now saw that he had brought himself into a disagreeable dilemma; for, as he knew his father would ask to see his chart, he must either work regularly at it, and take great pains with it, or suffer the disgrace he had so often incurred, of not ​finishing what he had begun. He comforted himself, however, with thinking that he was not obliged to do it now.

Soon after, as he was walking in the garden, a man came with some paint to do the pales, and this was a welcome incident to Harry, who did not exactly know what he was going to do next, and it relieved him for the present from that disagreeable state of mind in which the attention is engaged upon nothing.

After watching the man for some time, Harry longed for some paint himself, to try what he could do; for it seemed the easiest and pleasantest work he had ever seen done. “Can you let me have some of that paint?” said Harry, at last.

“Yes, sir, certainly,” said the man.

Harry hastened to fetch a vessel, ​which the man readily filled, at his employer's expence, with the aforesaid paint.

“Can you lend me a brush?” said Harry.

“There's a very nice one,” said the man; “perhaps you'd like to buy it—it's only a shilling, sir.”

“I will buy it, then,” said Harry; and the bargain was concluded immediately.

With his paint and brush, Harry set off, highly pleased, though he did not recollect anything just then that wanted painting.

“Let's see,” said he, walking slowly round the yard, and looking up and down for something to begin upon,—“I don't see why this wheelbarrow shouldn't be done;” and that, to him, seemed equivalent, at that time, to why ​it should be done; so, dirty as it was, he painted the wheelbarrow, inside and out-wheel, handles and all; indeed, if it had been full of coals, gravel, or potatoes, it is not unlikely that he would have painted them also; such are the silly, useless, or mischievous things that occupy idle people.