MEMORIES OF MISCHIEF. 
283 
the corner of “ Ben Jonson's Fields.” He was a retired 
sea captain, and spent his whole time in the culture of 
his garden. As we passed his garden-wall every day in 
little parties to and from school, we were always attracted 
by a large pear-tree which loomed above the wall, and 
which in autumn was always loaded with large baking- 
pears. On the occasion of our expedition we had formed 
a conspiracy to attack this pear-tree; and although the 
pears were yet far from ripe, and hence as hard as bul¬ 
lets, the enterprize was considered one of the finest we 
had ever engaged in; for, to tell the truth, our pride 
had been wounded by the boastings of a country lad 
who came into our class, and whose whole conversation 
consisted of recitals of former orchard-robbings. We 
planned to play at “ Nickey Night, strike a light,” in 
the adjoining field, at dusk; and while one party kept 
up the noise of the game to lull suspicion, a small 
detachment was to scale the wall and secure the booty. 
The evening came, and at last the hour. Myself and a 
dark, determined boy, were chosen to scale the wall— 
three others, who had promised to aid us, having lost 
their courage and bolted. Choosing a spot where the 
bricks were loose, we at last gained the top of the wall, 
and looked down in the moonlight on the old gentle¬ 
man's garden. We paused a moment, and then down we 
both dropped. We stole along the garden, treading on 
strawberrv-beds, and breaking the flower-laden branches 
of the rose-bushes. There were grapes in one place, 
nectarines in another; the walls all round were hung 
with unripe fruit, and presented stronger temptations 
than the chcsen pear-tree. We were treading in the 
