aller than Reuben, and
the latter admired him intensely: we never cease admiring those "a head
taller" than ourselves. Reuben absolutely pined in longing wonderment at
the way in which Nat Boody could crack a coach-whip, and with a couple
of hickory sticks could "call the roll" upon a pine table equal to a
drum-major. Wonderful were the stories this boy could tell, to special
cronies, of his adventures in the city: they beat the Geography "all
hollow." Such an air, too, as this Boody had, leaning against the
pump-handle by his father's door, and making cuts at an imaginary span
of horses!--such a pair of twilled trousers, cut like a man's!--such a
jacket, with lapels to the pockets, which he said "the sailors wore on
the sloops, and called 'em monkey-jackets"!--such a way as he had of
putting a quid in his mouth! for Nat Boody chewed. It is not strange
that Reuben, feeling a little of ugly constraint under the keen eye of
the spinster Eliza, should admire greatly the free-and-easy manner of
the tavern-boy, who had such familiarity with the world and such large
range of action. The most of us never get over a wonderment at the
composure and complacency which spring from a wide knowledge of the
world; and the man who can crack his whip well, though only at an
imaginary pair of horses, is sure to have a throng of admirers.

By this politic lad, Nat Boody, the innocent Reuben was decoyed into
many a little bargain which told more for the shrewdness of the tavern
than for that of the parsonage. Thus, he bartered one day a new
pocket-knife, the gift of his Aunt Mabel of Greenwich Street, for a knit
Scotch cap, half-worn, which the tavern traveller assured him could not
be matched for any money. And the parson's boy, going back with this
trophy on his head, looking very consciously at those who give an
admiring stare, is pounced upon at the very door-step by the
indefatigable spinster.

"What now, Reuben? Where in the world did you get that cap?"

"Bought it,"--in a grand way.

"But it's worn," says the aunt. "Ouf! whose was it?"

"Bought it of Nat Boody," says Reuben; "and he says there isn't another
can be had."

"Bah!" says the spinster, making a dash at the cap, which she seizes,
and, straightway rushing in-doors, souses in a kettle of boiling water.

After which comes off a new skirmish, followed by the partial defeat of
Reuben, who receives such a combing down (with sundry killed and
wounded) as he remembers for