With effort Benjamin folded his hands across his chest the way the elders and the overseers did. Then he sat in cramped silence, waiting for God to put words into Papa’s mouth.
Suddenly there was a light patter of cushioned feet, and Grimalkin was in the room. He sat down before Papa and busied himself, washing his paws and dressing what little fur he had left.
Papa’s voice began to quake. “Winter closes in, O Lord,” he said. “Thou hast provided well for Thy human creatures. Now we beseech Thee to restore Grimalkin’s coat to its former thickness.”
Papa’s voice died away. The room became very still. Benjamin found it difficult to breathe. Even the candle sputtered for air.
I must tell Papa. Now. At once, Benjamin told himself. He leaned forward. His heart seemed to catch in his throat. He opened his mouth, but no sound escaped. Then, all of a sudden, the words tumbled out like water over a mill wheel.
“Papa! Grimalkin is not ailing. I have been making hair pencils from his coat. Uncle Phineas told me that real painters use hair pencils made from camel’s hair. But camels live far away on a desert. I had to use Grimalkin’s hair instead.”
Benjamin stopped for breath. Joseph and Samuel seemed to be closing in on him. Thomas’ and John’s knees were boring into his back.
After a long while he dared to look up.
Papa’s face was like a sky that promises thunder and suddenly clears. His brow clouded. Then all at once he broke into a slow smile.
“ ‘Necessity can sharpen the wits even of children,’ ” he said. “To make use of the gifts at hand is workmanlike. From now on, however, thee will leave Grimalkin’s coat untouched.”
Benjamin’s mouth opened in amazement. Papa, he concluded, was a wonderful man.
Chapter 11
A BOX FROM PHILADELPHIA
By spring Benjamin noticed that Grimalkin’s fur was coming in thick and sleek again.
I can bear to give up painting with color to save Grimalkin’s fur, he thought to himself one April afternoon when he was driving the cows home. Though spring paints a high green, he sighed, and I long to do the same.
Grimalkin frisked on ahead. Every now and then he stopped to jump straight up in the air for no reason at all—unless he, too, knew that it was spring.
Benjamin had tied a bell around Grimalkin’s neck to warn the birds. His tiny bell tinkled now above the deeper tones made by the clappers in the cowbells. Together they played a kind of peaceful tune.
Benjamin was so busy with his thoughts that he did not hear a journeyman approaching. He looked up suddenly, and there the stranger was, reining in his horse, waiting for Benjamin to lead the cattle across the narrow, rutted road.
The stranger cupped his hand to his mouth.
“Could this be Benjamin West and Grimalkin?” he called out.
“Why, yes!” replied Benjamin, his eyes round with wonder. “How’s thee know?”
The man laughed. “Your Uncle Phineas Pennington paints a good portrait—with words,” he said. “I’ve just stopped at Door-Latch Inn. Left a present there for a lad of the name of Benjamin West and a small remembrance for a cat of the name of Grimalkin.”
Usually Benjamin liked to linger in the steamy warmth of the barn. But tonight he had no time. Those presents from the city. What could they be? Some wondrous surprise from the warehouses on the water front? From England? From Spain? From Africa?
He lifted Grimalkin to his shoulder and raced for the inn. “Presents for us?” he asked breathlessly as he burst into the kitchen.
“Aye!” cried Sarah and Hannah and Mary and Elizabeth in chorus. Then they all began talking at once.
“It rattles like trinkets.”
“No, it’s too heavy for trinkets.”
“Uncle Phineas sent it.”
“Uncle Phineas favors thee and Grimalkin.”
“I’ll help thee open it.”
“No. I’ll help.”
“Peace!” called Mamma above the din. “Here, son. Set the box carefully on the table board. Now, then, we can all watch thee open it.”
There was a sudden flurry and Grimalkin had leaped up on the table, full of curiosity.
Benjamin lifted the package with trembling hands. He undid the stout hemp cord. He laid back the folds of paper. He lifted the lid. And there, looking out at him, was a real picture. A picture that he himself had not painted!
There were trees in the picture, so lifelike their leaves seemed to stir. There was a waterfall, too, so white and churning that it seemed to Benjamin he could feel the spray on his face.
He took the picture out of its box and read the name in the corner. “Grevling,” he said.
“Look!” cried Mary. “There’s another picture.”
“And another, and another, and still another,” said Mamma quietly.
A moment ago Benjamin had never seen a real picture. Now he held six of them. For his very own.
“Oh! Oh!” cried Mary again. “Underneath the pictures are some canvas and two boxes! Here, let me hold the pictures. See what’s in the boxes.”
Benjamin handed the pictures and the pieces of canvas to Mary. He lifted the cover of the smaller box very cautiously, and then burst into laughter.
“What is it? What is it?” shrieked the girls.
“A bunch of catmint for Grimalkin.”
“But the other box! Open it quickly.”
Benjamin stood very still. The blood throbbed in his head.
“It’s a paintbox,” he said in awe. He lifted it out and ran his fingers over the shiny black tin box, the little oblong bricks of color, all in a row, the tiny glass bottle for water, and last of all the hair pencils. There were fat ones and thin ones, and middle-sized ones.
Grimalkin had to see, too. He left his catmint and came over to pat the colors very gently as if they were petals of a flower. He smelled of the brushes.
“Ho!” laughed Benjamin. “These do not feel like brushes made from a cat’s fur. They must be camel’s hair. Why, they are! They are! It says so!”
• • •
Benjamin was too excited for sleep that night. Every time he drowsed off, he would waken with a jolt. Then his fingers would reach out from under the quilt to treasure the little tin paintbox on the bench beside his bed.
“It’s true!” he would whisper to Grimalkin who lay curled at his back. Then, satisfied that all was well, both the boy and the cat would doze off again.
The next morning after breakfast Benjamin appeared to be setting off for school.
But when he had gone around the house, he entered the front door, raced up the stairway used by the guests, gathered his presents from Uncle Phineas, and climbed up the ladderlike steps to the garret.
Grimalkin whisked ahead of him, an inky shadow in the gloom of the garret.
Quietly Benjamin closed the trapdoor. Then he opened the windows in the gable ends, and threw wide the shutters.
Sunlight came dancing in. It touched off the strings of herbs swinging from the rafters. It picked out the letters that said Welcome on the old wooden sea chest.
Benjamin laughed. “How nice of thee, Grandpa Pearson, to bid me welcome to use thy sea chest!”
He opened the lid, resting it against the low, slanting roof. Then he stood the pictures from Uncle Phineas inside the lid.
“I wish I had done these!” he sighed, studying first one and then another.
He opened the little tin paintbox, and in a moment was lost in the adventure of creating a picture.
He forgot about school as if it had never been. He was growing trees and building waterfalls—with a paintbrush!
Grimalkin, too, was busy with his own affairs. There was an old round knapsack standing in a dark corner of the garret. It was made of some woolly stuff, and it had eyelets around the top through which straps were laced.
Little gray mice had discovered two empty eyelets just large enough to admit a mouse. Grimalkin spent hours watching for tiny sharp-nosed faces to peek ou
t of the eyelets.
When Benjamin’s fingers grew cold, he would box with Grimalkin. Or he would swing on the wooden pins that held the rafters in place.
The hours flew. Often he caught himself humming like a teakettle. Happiness seemed to bubble up inside him whenever he painted.
For three whole days—except for mealtimes—Benjamin and Grimalkin lived in the garret. They were never late for meals. Grimalkin’s appetite was more dependable than a sundial. Promptly at mealtime he would cuff Benjamin on the ankle and give him no peace until he laid down his brush.
And just as Mamma was dipping up the gravy or ladling porridge into bowls, Benjamin and Grimalkin would be there.
On the afternoon of the third day, Benjamin was startled to hear the blasting voice of Master Snevely.
“Thy son!” the voice trumpeted. “Is he ailing?”
Benjamin strained his ears, but could hear no answer.
“For three days,” the voice boomed upward, “his seat has been vacant.”
Again the house was muffled in stillness.
Benjamin held his breath. At last the rat-a-tat of hoofbeats growing fainter and fainter drifted up to him.
With a sigh of relief he went on painting the foliage of a hickory tree.
Suddenly there were light footsteps on the ladder. Then the trapdoor creaked open. A starched white cap showed above the opening, then a pair of troubled blue eyes.
“Mamma!” gasped Benjamin. “What have I done? I have not even thought about school.”
Mamma’s lips thinned into a firm line as she mounted the last few steps and walked the length of the garret. Her eyes seemed to throw off sparks.
“Benjamin!” she said sharply. “It pains me . . .” And then she stopped short as she caught sight of the picture. Benjamin had not copied Grevling. But he had learned some of his secrets.
He had learned how to make water ripple in the wind and how to make the sun touch off the underside of leaves.
“Put down thy brush,” she said softly. “Another stroke might spoil it.”
Chapter 12
MAKE A MERCHANT OF HIM
Benjamin West!” commanded Schoolmaster Snevely the following morning. “Stand before thy schoolfellows.”
It was only a few steps to Master Snevely’s desk, but to Benjamin it seemed hours away. His legs felt stiff and old.
“Make haste! Now then. Face about.”
The room grew silent.
“For three days,” the schoolmaster said as he shook three bony fingers in Benjamin’s face, “for three days thy schoolfellows mourned thee as dreadful ill. Instead, hidden in the garret, thee painted with bold, gaudy colors.”
Benjamin could feel his schoolfellows’ eyes on him. They seemed to be boring little holes through him. The only comforting sound was made by Grimalkin scratching in the wood box outside the door.
“For punishment thee will remain after school, cutting and mending the goose-quill pens.”
“Aye, sir. I shall stay this very night.”
Master Snevely’s eyes narrowed. “This night,” he replied with a sniff, “and every night until the last quarter of the year.”
“Why, that is five months!” said Benjamin half aloud.
“It is, indeed. And a light punishment for wasting time on needless things.”
• • •
Spring and summer passed. By the time autumn came in, the very sight of a goose sickened Benjamin. All he could think of was, Here is the creature who provides my punishment. He was glad when early one morning Grimalkin hissed right back at a gander and flew at him until the courtyard was a blizzard of feathers.
That same evening, as Benjamin worked over his pens, the schoolmaster broke his rule of silence.
“Lad,” he asked, “how does thee feel about geese by now? Speak truly.”
Benjamin looked up in surprise. “Grimalkin and I are of one mind about them,” he said quickly. “We can’t abide their hissing and honking.”
Master Snevely made a noise in his throat that strangely resembled a chuckle. “My feeling is the same,” he announced. “I have been eating nothing but goose and gander for the past fortnight. A bolt of lightning struck the flock owned by my landlady. Since then I breakfast on goose. I dine on goose. I sup on goose. Sometimes the goose is masked in gravy. Sometimes it peers out from underneath turnips. Sometimes it lurks in a pudding-pie. But always it is there!”
Then the schoolmaster’s eyes lighted with an idea. “I have a mind,” he said, “to sup at Door-Latch Inn tonight. The talk of journeymen and the smell of good cooking may whet my appetite.”
• • •
If Mamma and the girls had overheard Master Snevely, they could not have prepared a tastier supper.
There was bean porridge with thick chunks of salt pork. There were hot brown bread with fresh butter, and pod peas. And for dessert Mamma had made apple fancy and hot chocolate, a rare treat even for Door-Latch Inn.
Thirty, in all, sat down to eat. And to Benjamin’s delight, Uncle Phineas was among them, making everyone feel at ease.
Even Master Snevely tapped his foot with pleasure when Uncle Phineas chanted:
“I eat my peas with honey,
I’ve done it all my life.
It makes the peas taste funny,
But it keeps them on my knife.”
Finally Uncle Phineas loosened his leather girdle and turned to Papa.
“What would thee say to my taking Benjamin to Philadelphia for a fortnight?”
Benjamin held his breath until his chest hurt. His eyes darted like arrows from Papa’s face to Mamma’s, then to Master Snevely’s. He was unmindful of everyone else in the room.
Papa stroked his beard, thinking of all the reasons why Benjamin should not go. “School. Chores,” he said. “Chores. School.”
“What does thee think?” he asked of the schoolmaster.
Benjamin shuddered.
“The boy,” said Master Snevely, shaking his head gravely, “is not so quick in his sums as I would have him, but of late he has been diligent. He has cut enough goose-quill pens to last out my days as a master. A journey may teach him the importance of sums. I am favorable to the plan.”
Benjamin’s eyes opened wide in astonishment.
“Mamma?” questioned Papa.
“I want to say ‘yes,’ ” said Mamma, smoothing her apron. “And I want to say ‘no.’ A whole day’s journey from home is a long way for our little wren.”
Papa flinched. Pet names annoyed him. Little wren indeed! He turned to Uncle Phineas.
“Mamma is right,” he said. “The answer is ‘yes.’ Take him along, Phineas. He may forget his notions about painting. Make a merchant of him. Aye, make a merchant of him.”
Suddenly Benjamin’s happiness faded. What of Grimalkin? A trip without Grimalkin would be only half a trip.
Chapter 13
AN OLD BLACK COAT
Papa,” Benjamin questioned as they stood side by side at the wash bench next morning, “could I take—”
“As touching Grimalkin,” Papa interrupted, “do not worry. I will caution Mamma and the girls to see to his happiness.”
Breakfast had no flavor that morning. No matter how much milk Benjamin poured over his porridge, it seemed to lodge in his throat. He was glad when the meal was over and he could slip out of doors. He watched the travelers load their wagons and set off together in a long pack train. As they turned out of the yard, Benjamin ran alongside the driver. “Should thee someday see a lad of the name of Jacob Ditzler . . .” he said breathlessly and then stopped in embarrassment.
The driver slowed down.
“And what if we do?” he said, not unkindly.
“Please . . . please to tell him that Grimalkin is well and I am going to Philadelphia this day.”
The man nodded gravely, and the women and children stared after Benjamin, making him feel quite important.
He strode back toward the courtyard where Uncle Phineas was str
apping their knapsacks to his big pacer’s saddle, while all of the family looked on.
Benjamin felt a gentle hand on his shoulder. It was Mamma holding out an old black coat that once had belonged to brother Samuel.
“The north wind blows raw and sharp for autumn,” she said anxiously. “Samuel’s coat worn over thy own coat will help to keep thee warm.”
Benjamin frowned. He did not want to go to Philadelphia wearing two coats! And just when he was about to explain how warm he was, he swallowed his words. He looked at Samuel’s coat as if he had never really seen it before. His eyes brightened. How big and roomy is Samuel’s coat! he said to himself. Why, it would hold . . . a cat . . . extremely well.
He took the coat with a polite thank-you, then ran toward the inn, slipping his arms into the sleeves as he ran. “I just now remembered something in my room,” he explained.
He looked back over his shoulder and smiled to see Grimalkin bounding after him.
A few moments later he stood breathless at the upping block.
“I declare!” exclaimed Papa. “Thee looks as stuffed as a pudding bag in Samuel’s coat.”
Benjamin laughed nervously. Grimalkin was a strong, active cat. He was not used to being buttoned inside a coat, and every time he squirmed he either tickled Benjamin’s ribs or sent his claws into Benjamin’s flesh. To cover the wriggling motions about his waist, Benjamin folded his arms and scratched himself lightly, trying his best to quiet Grimalkin.
“Phineas,” said Papa, “Mamma and I have made out a list of things we are needing.”
Benjamin suddenly looked down in horror. Grimalkin’s pink nose peeked out of a buttonhole which he had left open as a porthole.
He glanced around quickly to see if anyone had noticed, but everyone was listening to Papa.
Why was it, Benjamin asked himself, that home always looked so good just when he was about to leave it! He had felt the very same way on his first day of school, and on the first day he rode to Miller Clinkenbeard’s.