e feel tender toward him; so that if he needs
a whipping, I would rather do it. He knows something that no one else
knows. I could not have him killed or sent away. You have heard me speak
of Nathaniel, my oldest boy?"

"Yes."

"That is his picture in my room, you know. He was a good boy to me. He
loved his mother. I loved Nathaniel--you cannot think how much I loved
Nathaniel. It was on my account that he went away.

"The farm did not produce enough for us all: Nathaniel, John, and I. We
worked hard and had a hard time. One year--that was ten years ago--we
were sued for our taxes.

"'Nathaniel,' said I, 'I will go to taking boarders.'

"Then he looked up to me and said (oh, how noble and handsome he
appeared to me!):

"'Mother, I will go to sea.'

"'Where?' asked I, in surprise.

"'In a coaster.'

"I turned white. How I felt!

"'You and John can manage the place,' he continued. 'One of the vessels
sails next week--Uncle Aaron's; he offers to take me.'

"It seemed best, and he made preparations to go.

"The spring before, Skipper Ben--you have met Skipper Ben--had given me
some goose eggs; he had brought them from Canada, and said that they
were wild-goose eggs.

"I set them under hens. In four weeks I had three goslings. I took them
into the house at first, but afterward made a pen for them out in the
yard. I brought them up myself, and one of those goslings is that
gander.

"Skipper Ben came over to see me, the day before Nathaniel was to sail.
Aaron came with him.

"I said to Aaron:

"'What can I give to Nathaniel to carry to sea with him to make him
think of home? Cake, preserves, apples? I haven't got much; I have done
all I can for him, poor boy.'

"Brother looked at me curiously, and said:

"'Give him one of those wild geese, and we will fatten it on shipboard
and will have it for our Thanksgiving dinner.'

"What brother Aaron said pleased me. The young gander was a noble bird,
the handsomest of the lot; and I resolved to keep the geese to kill for
my own use and to give _him_ to Nathaniel.

"The next morning--it was late in September--I took leave of Nathaniel.
I tried to be calm and cheerful and hopeful. I watched him as he went
down the walk with the gander struggling under his arms. A stranger
would have laughed, but I did not feel like laughing; it was true that
the boys who went coasting were usually gone but a few months and came
home hardy and happy. But when poverty compels a