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The prodigious pressure to which the hot iron is subjected in the process of making cut-nails, seems as it were to press the particles of iron closer together, and make the metal more compact and hard. The consequence is, that such nails are very stiff, and if bent much, they break off. This is no disadvantage, provided that the wood to be nailed is such that the nail is to be driven straight into the substance of it to its whole length. In fact, this hardness and stiffness is an advantage, for, in consequence of these properties, the nail is less likely to bend under the hammer.
When, however, the nailing to be done is of such a kind that it becomes necessary that the nail should pass through the wood so as to come out upon the other side, to be clinched there, the stiffness of the iron in a cut-nail constitutes a serious difficulty; for the end of the nail where it comes through, instead of bending over and sinking into the wood, as it ought to do, at first refuses to bend at all, and then when the workman attempts to force it to bond by dint of heavier blows with the hammer, it breaks off entirely.
To remedy this difficulty, it is found best to heat nails intended for clinching before driving them. By heating the iron red hot, the metal seems to expand to its original condition of ductile iron, and it loses the extreme hardness and stiffness which was given to it by the force and compression of the nail-making machine.
Stuyvesant had seen a carpenter in New York heating some nails on one occasion, and he had asked him the reason. He, therefore, understood the whole process, and his plan was now, after selecting his nails, to go and heat them red-hot in the kitchen-fire.
He made a little calculation first in respect to the number of nails that he should want. There were six cross-bars. These bars were to be nailed at both ends. This would make twelve nailings. Stuyvesant concluded that he would have four nails at each nailing, and multiplying twelve by four, he found that forty-eight was the number of the nails that he should require. To be sure to have enough, he counted out fifty-two. Some might break, and perhaps some would be lost in the fire.
Phonny felt a considerable degree of interest in Stuyvesant’s plan of softening the nails, and so he left Wallace to go on boring the holes, while he went with Stuyvesant into the house.
“You never can get so many nails out of the fire in the world,” said Phonny. “They will be lost in the ashes.”
“I shall put them on the shovel,” said Stuyvesant.
When they got into the kitchen, Stuyvesant went to Dorothy, who was still ironing at a table near the window, and asked her if he might use her shovel and her fire to heat some nails.
“Certainly,” said Dorothy. “I will go and move the flat-irons out of the way for you.”
Stuyvesant was always very particular whenever he went into the kitchen, to treat Dorothy with great respect. He regarded the kitchen as Dorothy’s peculiar and proper dominion, and would have considered it very rude and wrong to have been noisy in it, or to take possession of, and use without her leave, the things which were under her charge there. Dorothy observed this, and was very much pleased with it, and as might naturally be expected, she was always glad to have Stuyvesant come into the kitchen, and do any thing that he pleased there.
There was a large forestick lying across the andirons, with a burning bed of coals below. Directly in front of these coals was a row of flat-irons. Stuyvesant put his nails upon a long-handled shovel, and Dorothy moved away one of the flat-irons, so that he could put the shovel, with the nails upon it, in among the burning coals.
“Now,” said he, “it will take some time for them to get hot, and I will go and clear out the floor of the hen-house in the meanwhile.”
“Well,” said Phonny, “I will help you.”
“Only,” said Stuyvesant, turning to Dorothy, “will you look at the nails when you take up your irons, and if you see that they get red-hot, take the shovel out from the coals and set it down somewhere on the hearth to cool?”
“Yes,” said Dorothy, “but what are you going to heat the nails for?”
“To take the stiffness out of them,” said Stuyvesant.
“To take the stiffness out?” replied Dorothy. “What do you wish to do that for?”
“So that I can clinch them,” replied Stuyvesant, “and I should like to have you take them off the fire as soon as you see that they are red-hot.”
“Yes,” said Dorothy, “I will.”
So Phonny and Stuyvesant went away, while Dorothy resumed her ironing.
They got a wheel-barrow and a rake, and went out to the hen-house. They raked the floor all over, drawing out the old straw, sticks, &c., to the door. They then with a fork pitched this rubbish into the wheel-barrow, and wheeled it out, and made a heap of it in a clear place at some distance from the buildings, intending to set it on fire. There were four wheel-barrow loads of it in all.
They then went into the barn and brought out a quantity of hay, and sprinkled it all over the floor of the hen-house, which made the apartment look extremely neat and comfortable. They then brought out another fork-full of hay and pitched it up upon the loft.
“There!” said Stuyvesant, “now when we have got our ladder done, we will climb up and spread it about.”
“Hark!” said Phonny.
“What is that?” said Stuyvesant.
“It sounded like a hen clucking. I wonder if it is possible that there is a hen up there.”
“We will see,” said Stuyvesant, “when we get our ladder done.”
“Yes,” said Phonny, “we must go and finish our ladder; and the nails – it is time to go and get the nails or they will be all burnt up.”
The boys accordingly went back to the kitchen. They found that Dorothy had taken the nails away from the fire, and they were now almost cool. Stuyvesant slid them off from the shovel upon a small board, which he had brought in for that purpose, and then they went back to the shop.
They found that Wallace had gone. He had finished boring the holes, and now all that Phonny had to do, was to cut off the wires and put them in. He had, however, now become so much interested in the operation of making the ladder, that he concluded to put off finishing the cage until the ladder was done. Besides, he was in a hurry to see whether there really was a hen up there on the loft.
So he helped Stuyvesant nail his ladder. Stuyvesant got a small gimlet to bore holes for the nails. Phonny thought that this was not necessary. He said they could drive the nails without boring. Stuyvesant said that there were three objections to this: first, they might not go straight, secondly, they might split the wood, and thirdly, they would cause the wood to break out, as he called it, where they came through on the other side.
As soon as he had bored one hole he put a nail into it, and drove it almost through, but not quite through, as he said it might prove that he should wish to alter it. He then went to the other end of the same cross-bar, bored a hole there, and put a nail in, driving it as far as he had driven the first one. This was the topmost cross-bar of the ladder, and it was held securely in its place by the two nails. Stuyvesant then took the bottom cross-bar and secured that in the same way. Then he put on the other bars one at a time, until his ladder was complete in form, only the cross-bars were not yet fully nailed. He and Phonny looked at it carefully, to see if all was right, and Stuyvesant, taking it up from the floor, placed it against the wall of the shop.
“Let me climb up on it,” said Phonny.
“Not now,” said Stuyvesant, – “wait till it is finished.”
Stuyvesant then proceeded to drive the nails home, and clinch them. The clinching was done, by putting an axe under the part of the ladder where a nail was coming through, and then driving. The point of the nail when it reached the axe, was deflected and turned, and bending round entered the wood again, on the back side, and so clinched the nail firmly. Thus the other holes were bored, and the other nails put in, and at length the ladder was completed.
Just as the boys were ready to carry it out, the door opened, and Beechnut came in.
Beechnut looked round at all that the boys had been doing, with great interest. He examined the ladder particularly, and said that it was made in a very workmanlike manner. Phonny showed Beechnut his cage too, though he said that he had pretty much concluded not to finish it that afternoon.
“I don’t see why you need finish it at all,” said Beechnut. “You have got a very good cage already for your squirrel.”
“What cage?” asked Phonny.
“This shop. It is a great deal better cage for him than that box, —I think, and I have no doubt that he thinks so too.”
“He would gnaw out of this shop,” said Phonny.
“Not any more easily than he would gnaw out of the box,” said Beechnut.
Phonny turned to his box and looked at the smooth surface of the pine which formed the interior. He perceived that Frink could gnaw through anywhere, easily, in an hour.
“I did not think of that,” said Phonny “I must line it with tin.”
He began to picture to his mind, the process of putting his arm into the box and nailing tin there, where there was no room to work a hammer, and sighed.
“Well,” said he, “I’ll let him have the whole shop, to-night, and now we will go out and try the ladder.”
The whole party accordingly went to the hen-house. Beechnut examined the small door that Stuyvesant had made, and the button of the large door, while Stuyvesant was planting the ladder. Phonny was eager to go up first; Stuyvesant followed him.
Phonny mounted upon the floor of the loft, and immediately afterward began to exclaim,
“Oo – oo – Stivy, – here is old Gipsy, on a nest, and I verily believe that she is setting; I could not think what had become of old Gipsy.”
Just at this time, Beechnut’s head appeared coming up the ladder. He called upon the boys to come back, away from the hen, while he went up to see. She was upon a nest there, squatted down very low, and with her wings spread wide as if trying to cover a great nest full of eggs.
“Yes,” said Beechnut, “she is setting, I have no doubt; and as she has been missing a long time, I presume the chickens are about coming out.”
“Hark!” said Beechnut.
The boys listened, and they heard a faint peeping sound under the hen.
Beechnut looked toward the boys and smiled.
Phonny was in an ecstacy of delight. Stuyvesant was much more quiet, but he seemed equally pleased. Beechnut said that he thought that they had better go away and leave the hen to herself, and that probably she would come off the nest, with her brood, that evening or the next morning.
“But stop,” said Beechnut, as he was going down the ladder. “It is important to ascertain whether they are eggs or chickens under the hen. For if they are eggs they are one third your property, and if they are chickens, they are all mine.”
“However,” he resumed, after a moment’s pause, “I think we will call them eggs to-day. I presume they were all eggs when we made the bargain. To-morrow we will get them all down, and you, Phonny, may make a pretty little coop for them in some sunny corner in the yard.”
Phonny had by this time become so much interested in the poultry, that he proposed to Stuyvesant to let him have half the care of them, and offered to give Stuyvesant half of his squirrel in return. Stuyvesant said that he did not care about the squirrel, but that he would give him a share of the hen-house contract for half the shop.
Phonny gladly agreed to this, and so the boys determined that the first thing for the next day should be, to put the shop and the tools all in complete order, and the next, to make the prettiest hen-coop they could contrive, in a corner of the yard. This they did, and Beechnut got the hen and the chickens down and put them into it. The brood was very large, there being twelve chickens in it, and they were all very pretty chickens indeed.
Chapter IX
The Accident
About a week after the occurrences related in the last chapter, Mrs. Henry was sitting one morning at her window, at work. It was a large and beautiful window, opening out upon a piazza.
The window came down nearly to the floor, so that when it was open one could walk directly out. There was a sort of step, however, which it was necessary to go over.
Mrs. Henry had a little table at the window, and she was busy at her work. There was a basket on the floor by her side. Malleville was sitting upon the step. She had quite a number of green leaves in her lap, which she had gathered in the yard. She said that she was going to put them into a book and press them.
Just then she heard Phonny’s voice around a corner, calling to her.
“Malleville! Malleville!” said the voice, calling loudly.
Malleville hastily gathered up her leaves, and called out, “What, Phonny? I’m coming.”
Before she got ready to go, however, Phonny appeared upon the piazza.
“Malleville,” said he, “come and see our chickens.”
“Well,” said Malleville, “I will come.”
“And mother, I wish you would come out and see them, too,” said Phonny.
“I have seen them once,” said his mother, “only two or three days ago.”
“But, mother, they are a great deal larger now,” replied Phonny. “I wish you could come and see them. You don’t know how large they have grown.”
“Very well,” said Mrs. Henry, “I will come.”
So she laid aside her work, and stepping out into the piazza, she followed Phonny and Malleville around the corner of the house. Phonny walked fast, with long strides, Malleville skipped along by his side, while Mrs. Henry came on after them at her leisure.
They all gathered round the coop, which had been made in a sunny corner of the yard. It was a very pretty coop indeed. It was formed by a box, turned bottom upward to form a shelter for the hen when she chose to retire to it, and a little yard with a paling around it made by bars, to prevent the chickens from straying away. Phonny said that there was a good, comfortable nest in under the box, and he was going to lift up the box and let Mrs. Henry see the nest, but Stuyvesant recommended to him not to do so, as it would frighten the hen.
There was an opening in the side of the box, which served as a door for the hen to go in and out at. At the time of Mrs. Henry’s visit, the hen was out in the yard walking about. She appeared to be a little anxious at seeing so unusual a company of visitors at her lodgings, and at first thought it probable that they might have come to take some of her chickens away. But when she found that they stood quietly by, and did not disturb her, she became quiet again, and began to scratch upon the ground to find something for the chickens to eat.
Seeing this, Phonny ran off to bring some food for them, and presently returned with a saucer full of what he called pudding. It consisted of meal and water stirred up together. He threw out some of this upon the ground within the yard, and the hen, calling the chickens to the place, scattered the pudding about with her bill for the chickens to eat.
The boys then wished to have Mrs. Henry go to the shop. She, accordingly, went with them. They opened the shop-door very carefully to keep Frink from getting out. When they were all safely in and the door was shut, they began to look about the room to find the squirrel. “There he is,” said Phonny, pointing to the beam over the shutter-window.
So saying he went to the place, and putting up his hand, took the squirrel and brought him to his mother.
“Why, how tame he is!” said Mrs. Henry.
“Yes,” said Phonny, “Stuyvesant and I tamed him. He runs all about the shop. And we have got a house for him to sleep in. Come and see his house.”
So saying, Phonny led his mother and Malleville to the back side of the shop, where, upon a shelf, there stood a small box, with a hole in the side of it, much like the one which had been made for the hen, only not so large.
“He goes in there to sleep,” said Phonny. “We always feed him in there too, so as to make him like the place.”
As Phonny said this, he put the squirrel down upon the beam before the door of his house.
“Now you will see him go in,” said he.
Frink crept into his hole, and then turning round within the box, he put his head out a little way, and after looking at Mrs. Henry a moment with one eye, he winked in a very cunning manner.
There was a small paper tacked up with little nails on the side of the squirrel’s house, near the door.
“What is this?” said Mrs. Henry.
“Oh! that’s his poetry,” said Phonny, “you must read it.”
So Mrs. Henry, standing up near, read aloud as follows: —
My name is Frink,And unless you think,To give me plenty to eat and drink,You’ll find me running awaySome day;I shall tip you a wink,Then slyly slink,Out through some secret cranny or chink,And hie for the woods, away,Away.Mrs. Henry laughed heartily at this production. She asked who wrote it.
“Why, we found it here one morning,” said Phonny. “Stuyvesant says that he thinks Beechnut wrote it.”
“But Beechnut,” added Malleville, “says that he believes that Frink wrote it himself.”
“Oh no,” said Stuyvesant, “he did not say exactly that.”
“What did he say?” asked Mrs. Henry.
“Why, he said,” replied Stuyvesant, “that as there was a pen and ink in the shop, and hammer and nails, and as the paper was found nailed up early one morning, when nobody had slept in the shop the night before but Frink, if it did not turn out that Frink himself wrote the lines, he should never believe in any squirrel’s writing poetry as long as he lived.”
Mrs. Henry laughed at this, and she then began to look about the shop to see the tools and the arrangements which had been made by the boys for their work.
She found the premises in excellent order. The floor was neat, the tools were all in their proper places, and every thing seemed well arranged.
“I suppose the tools are dull, however,” said Mrs. Henry, “as boys’ tools generally are.”
“No,” said Phonny, “they are all sharp. We have sharpened them every one.”
“How did you do it?” asked Mrs. Henry.
“Why, we turned the grindstone for Beechnut while he ground his axes, and then he held our tools for us to sharpen them. We could not hold them ourselves very well.”
“We are going to keep them sharp,” continued Phonny, – “as sharp as razors. Won’t we, Stivy?”
“We are going to try it,” said Stuyvesant.
Phonny took up the plane to show his mother how sharp it was.
“Yes,” said she; “I like that tool too, very much – it is so safe.”
The plane is a very safe tool, indeed, for the cutting part, which consists of a plate of iron, faced with steel for an edge, is almost embedded in the wood. It is made in fact on purpose to take off a thin shaving only, from a board, and it would be impossible to make a deep cut into any thing with it.
Phonny then showed his mother his chisels. He had four chisels of different sizes. They were very sharp.
“It seems to me that a chisel is not so safe a tool as a plane,” said Mrs. Henry.
“Why not, mother?” asked Phonny.
“Why you might be holding a piece of wood with your fingers, and then in trying to cut it with the chisel, the chisel might slip and cut your fingers.”
“Oh no, mother,” said Phonny, “there is no danger.”
Boys always say there is no danger.
Phonny next showed his gimlets, and his augers, and his bits and bit-stocks. A bit is a kind of borer which is turned round and round by means of a machine called a bit-stock.
Phonny took the bit-stock and a bit and was going to bore a hole in the side of the bench, by way of showing his mother how the tool was used.
“Stop,” said Stuyvesant, “I would not bore into the work bench. I will get a piece of board.”
So he pulled out a small piece of board from under the work bench and Phonny bored into that.
Mrs. Henry next came to the chopping block. The hatchet was lying upon the block.
“I am rather sorry to see that you have got a hatchet,” said Mrs. Henry.
“Why, mother?” asked Phonny.
“Because I think it is a dangerous tool. I think it is a very dangerous tool indeed.”
“Oh no, mother,” said Phonny, “there is no danger.”
“You might be holding a piece of wood in your hand,” said Mrs. Henry, “and then in trying to chop it with your hatchet, hit your hand instead of the wood. There is great danger when you strike a blow with a sharp instrument.”
“Oh no, mother,” said Phonny. “There is not any danger. I have had my hatchet a long time and I never have cut myself but once.”
“That shows that there is some danger,” said his mother. “Besides I knew a boy who was cutting with a hatchet, and it came down through the board that he was cutting, and struck the boy himself, in the knee, and wounded him very badly.”
“But I shall be very careful,” said Phonny. “I know I shall not cut myself with it.”
“I wish,” said his mother, “that you would let me have the hatchet to carry in the house and keep it till you grow older.”
“Oh no, mother,” said Phonny, “we could not get along at all without the hatchet, unless we had an axe, and that would be more dangerous still. But we will be very careful with it.”
Mrs. Henry did not appear satisfied with these promises, but she did not urge Phonny any longer to give the hatchet to her. She walked along, seeming, however, not at all at her ease. Phonny showed her his stock of boards and blocks, among which last, was one which he said was to be made into a boat. After looking around at all these things, Mrs. Henry and Malleville went away. Phonny and Stuyvesant remained in the shop.
“I would let her have the hatchet,” said Stuyvesant.
“I don’t think there is any danger,” said Phonny.
“Nor I,” said Stuyvesant.
“Then why would not you keep the hatchet here?” asked Phonny.
“Because, Aunt Henry does not feel easy about it,” said Stuyvesant. “It is not right for us to make her feel uncomfortable.”
“But then what shall we do when we want to sharpen stakes?” asked Phonny.
“I don’t know,” said Stuyvesant, – thinking. “Perhaps we might burn them sharp in the kitchen fire.”
“Hoh!” said Phonny, “that would not do at all.”
“It would be better than to make Aunt Henry feel anxious,” said Stuyvesant.
“But I don’t think she feels anxious,” said Phonny. “She will forget all about it pretty soon. However, if you think it is best, I will carry my hatchet in and give it to her. We can get along very well with the draw shave.”
“Well,” said Stuyvesant, “I do think it is best; and now I am going to finish mending the wheel-barrow.”
“Well,” said Phonny, “and I will go and carry the hatchet in to my mother.”
Phonny accordingly took the hatchet and went sauntering slowly along out of the shop.
In a few minutes, Stuyvesant heard an outcry in the yard. It sounded like a cry of pain and terror, from Phonny. Stuyvesant threw down his work, and ran out to see what was the matter.
He found Phonny by the woodpile, where he had stopped a moment to chop a stick with his hatchet, and had cut himself. He was down upon the ground, clasping his foot with his hands, and crying out as if in great pain.
“Oh, Stuyvesant,” said he. “I have cut my foot. Oh, I have cut my foot, most dreadfully.”
“Let me see,” said Stuyvesant, and he came to the place. Phonny raised his hands a little, from his foot, so as to let Stuyvesant see, but continued crying, with pain and terror.
“Oh dear me!” said he. “What shall I do? – Oh dear me!”
Stuyvesant looked. All that he could see, however, was a gaping wound in Phonny’s boot, just over the ankle, and something bloody beneath.
“I don’t think it is cut much,” said Stuyvesant. “Let us go right into the house.”
Phonny rose, and leaning upon Stuyvesant’s shoulder, he began to hobble along toward the house, uttering continued cries and lamentations by the way.
“I would not cry,” said Stuyvesant. “I would bear it like a hero.”
In obedience to this counsel, Phonny abated somewhat the noise that he was making, though he still continued his exclamations and moanings. Dorothy came to the door to find out what was the matter.
Dorothy was not much alarmed. In fact the more noise a child made when hurt, the less concerned Dorothy always was about it. She knew that when people were dangerously wounded, they were generally still.