Our First Boots

Ie have seen many days of joy, but we remember no such exhilarations as that felt by us on the day when we mounted our first pair of boots. To appreciate such an era in life, we must needs have been brought up in the country. Boys in town come to this crisis before they can appreciate the height and depth of such an acquisition. The boot period is the dividing line between babyhood and boyhood. Before the boots, one Is trampled upon by comrades, and stuck with pins, and we walk with an air of apology for the fact that we were born at all. Robust school - fellows strike us across the cheek, and when we turn toward them, they cry, ‘’Who are you looking at? “or what Is worse than any possible insult, we have somebody chuck US under the chin, and call us “Bub.” Before the crisis of boots, the country boy carries no handkerchief. This keeps him in a state of constant humiliation. Whatever crisis may come in the boy’s history — no handkerchief. This is the very unpopular period of snuffles.

But at last the age of boots dawns upon a boy. Henceforth, instead of always having to get out of the way, he will make others get out of his way. He will sometimes get the Scripture lesson confused, and when smitten on the right cheek, will turn and give it to his opponent on the left cheek also. Indeed, we do not think there is any regulation, human or divine, demanding that a boy submit to the school-bully. I think we should teach our boy to avoid all quarrel and strife; but, nevertheless, to take care of himself. We remember with deep satisfaction how that, after Jim Johnson had knocked our hat in the mud, and spit in our face, and torn our new coat, we felt called upon to vindicate the majesty of our new boots. That, however, was before we had any idea of ever becoming a minister. But when the time spoken of In a boy’s life comes, look out how you call him “Bub.” He parts his hair on the side, has the end of his white handkerchief sticking out at the top of his side-pocket as if it were accidentally arranged so, has a dignified and manly mode of expectoration, and walks down the road with long strides, as much as to say: “Clear the track for my boots!”

We have seen imposing men, but none have so thoroughly impressed us as the shoemaker, who, with waxy hand, delivered into our possession our first pedal adornments. As he put the awl through the leather, and then inserted the two bristles into the hole, and drew them through it, and then, bending over the lapstone, grasped the threads with hard grip, and brought them up with a jerk that made the shop shake, we said to ourself: “Here is gracefulness for you, and power!”

It was Sabbath-day when we broke them in. Oh! the rapture of that moment when we lay hold the straps at one end, and, with our big brother pushing at the other, the boot went on! We fear that we got but little advantage that day from the services. All the pulpit admonition about worldliness and pride struck the toe of our boots, and fell back. We trampled under our feet all good counsels. We have to repent that, while some trust in horses and some in chariots, we put too much stress upon leather. Though our purchase was so tight in the instep that, as soon as we got to the woods, we went limping on our way — what boots it? We felt that in such a cause it was noble to suffer.

For some reason, boots are not what they used to be. You pay a big price, and you might walk all day without hearing once from them; but the original pair of which I tell, spake out for themselves. No one doubted whether you had been to church after you had once walked up the aisle in company with such leather. It was the pure eloquence of calfskin.

We have seen hunting- boots, and fishingboots, and jack -boots, American boots, and French boots; but we despair of finding any thing to equal our first pair, which had the brightest gloss, the finest heels, and the merriest squeak. Alas! they are gone! And so is the artist who fashioned them. He has laid down his awl. Moons shall wax for him no more. He has done forever with pegs. But we shall always remember how he looked one Saturday afternoon, when, the sunflowers in the yard, and the cat on the window-sill, he set upon his counter our first pair of boots. For his sake, may there be peace to all departed shoemakers! May they go straight to St. Crispin, that Roman artist in leather, remarkable for the fact that when he declared that a pair of shoes should be done by Saturday night, he always kept his promise.